The more movies I watch, the greater my appreciation for films that reach a pinnacle of what the medium can achieve, even with noticeable weaknesses. These flawed masterpieces are a rare phenomenon, so count me surprised to see two examples – Queer and The Brutalist – a day apart from each other at TIFF this year.
The films have widely different aims. Queer is a languorous, trippy chamber piece drama centered on one lonely person. The Brutalist is an epic, propulsive immigrant story tackling various American thematic elements, from capitalism to art, racism to xenophobia. However, each movie has parallel strengths and weaknesses. Both films have extraordinary acting and technical underpinnings, underscored by visionary directors. Yet each film’s ambition bumps into unsatisfying final acts that wrap up their stories on a sour note.
Queer generates a sense of place that’s unlike any other movie I’ve seen, effectively Edward Hopper on acid. Most of the story takes place in 1950s Mexico City, but the setting has a slippery, hard to pin down aesthetic that splits the difference between realism and fantasy to land on some trippy, hyperreal midpoint. Several elements, like the outfits and acting mannerisms, are grounded and period-appropriate, but they are smashed against an overly saturated color grading with a production design and lighting setup that doesn’t disguise an artificial set. The mix of new and old, natural and hyperreal, extends to the soundscape with an anachronistic soundtrack (e.g., Prince, New Order) and a Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross score that mixes woodwinds with synths, creating an enveloping sense of longing. Watching a well dressed, drunk William Lee (Daniel Craig) stumble down the street as Nirvana’s “Come as You Are” blares in the background is quite the experience.
The Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) plays over 200 films across 18 theaters for eleven days. Such dizzying variety provides countless options for film lovers, but unless you happen to be a high-tier TIFF member or are otherwise very lucky, there’s a strong chance at least one from your wishlist is “off sale,” meaning there aren’t any tickets currently available.
But don’t give up; there’s a chance you’ll be able to get tickets later for that movie mid-festival, even on the day of the screening. If you check periodically on Ticketmaster, new inventory can free up alongside reasonably priced resale tickets. Alternatively, you can try rushing a screening, queueing up at a special rush line for a chance to buy tickets based on any remaining empty seats in the cinema around showtime.
As someone who’s attended TIFF for multiple years, I’ve had a reasonably decent success rate acquiring tickets through rushing and last minute Ticketmaster buys. Both methods form the majority of what I watch at TIFF each year. Certain strategies can dramatically increase your odds of success.
Watching Apple gate their movies so heavily behind their streaming service is a bummer. Reports suggest Apple Original Films is abandoning wide theatrical distribution in favor of negligible theatrical qualifying runs before appearing on Apple TV+. If closing the door on theaters wasn’t enough, Apple has never released Blu-rays for any of their films, and most aren’t available for rental or even digital purchase. Relegated away from most common distribution platforms to a sixth place streaming service, far fewer people will ever watch Apple-financed films.
Some might question if that’s a real loss given Apple’s iffy track record across critical pans and financial flops like Argylle and Ghosted. But I give credit to Apple as a financier behind top tier talent crafting original stories. It’s a strategy once commonplace in the early 2000s and earlier, but an anomaly in today’s four quadrant IP landscape.
Limited series are taking over television. From Baby Reindeer to Shogun, Mr. and Mrs. Smith to Ripley, miniseries, anthologies, and other self-contained story arcs over a few hours are crowding out our TV watching attention. Even more traditional multi-season TV series feel more like limited series because they have longer gaps between seasons, chase more seasonal storylines or temporary supporting characters, and get canceled earlier in their run.
At a glance, the limited series format provides advantages compared to feature length films and traditional multi-season shows. A longer runtime gives room for deeper characterization and more complex plotting than a movie, yet the show remains short enough to ensure its initial concept doesn’t overstay its welcome.
But in practice, many limited series I’ve watched lately struggle to use their runtime well, downgrading what might be a great show to merely good. Most have had unmemorable characters and aimless side plots that feel padded out to hit the runtime of a six to ten episode arc. What could have been an engaging two hour movie sprawls on for an ungainly six or more hours.
The Fall Guy is a throwback, the rare high budget summer movie based on a quasi-original story, leaning on two likable stars to carry a PG-13 mixture of action, comedy, and romance. Helmed by a director who’s proven himself at the box office, it’s about as appealing a draw as you’re going to get that’s not based on four-quadrant-friendly IP.
But The Fall Guy is a flop. The movie made $28 million opening weekend and $110 million worldwide gross after its first two weeks, the slowest start to the summer movie season in fifteen years. With a reported $130 million budget, it’s a likely loss on Universal’s balance sheets.
Cue extensive online discourse regarding The Fall Guy’s stumbles: Ryan Gosling can’t open a movie. Universal should have released the movie in the spring with less competition. The budget was excessive. But the path to success for The Fall Guy, like most movies, was already narrow; for the last decade, the theatrical experience has gotten worse while home viewing has gotten better, and the studios have trained an audience that mega event franchise IP are the only movies worth leaving home for.
I recently watched Frances Ford Coppola’s Godfather Part II and Apocalypse Now on the big screen. Like many other directors of his era, he charted his path through auteur runs: multiple movies in a row with wide distribution and a personal artistic vision. No extended detours into TV. No five plus year gaps between films. No anonymous paycheck gigs. Coppola’s output from 1972 to 1979 – The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, The Conversation, Apocalypse Now – was arguably the greatest auteur run ever. Such directorial stretches used to be commonplace but are rare today, especially for younger directors. It’s a trend that, left unchecked, can threaten film’s cultural relevance.
But before getting too pessimistic about the situation, I did some research. I looked at Sight and Sound’s 2022 critics poll alongside the most popular movies on Letterboxd for a more populist take. From these sources, I hand picked at least forty directors who each had at least one reasonable auteur run: three or no movies in wide release (e.g., available across your average American cineplex or widely popular for rental or streaming) with no gaps greater than five years and no obvious mercenary gigs.
Every decade, many influential directors have had auteur runs at their critical and financial peak. In the 50s and 60s, there was Hitchcock, Kurosawa, Kubrick, Wilder, Fellini, and Goddard. The 70s brought New Hollywood in with Coppola, Scorsese, Altman, Friedkin, and Lucas. The 80s were defined by filmmakers as varied as Spielberg, De Palma, Stone, Carpenter, Cameron, Zemeckis, and Lynch. For the 90s we had Tarantino, Soderbergh, Lee, Linklater, Fincher, the Coen brothers, and Paul Thomas Anderson. I’d argue the 2000s saw a meaningful dip, but we still saw talent like Bigelow, Anderson, Wan, McDonaugh, and Iñárritu break out.
To become a better film watcher, go beyond collecting favorites. Ask yourself why some of your favorite movies are the way they are. Favorites are idiosyncratic, personal, and influenced by forces beyond what’s on the screen. The more you understand your tastes, the better you’ll be able to find movies to watch in the future. And just as life can influence how we appreciate film, looking back on what we enjoyed can help us reflect on our lives.
This is an opinion borne out in my personal best of 2023. Four out of my top five pointedly reject the traditional “Hollywood narrative” approach to genre.
Killers of the Flower Moon is an epic western that explores systematic racism and unbridled capitalism without redemption, hero, or savior. The Zone of Interest is a Holocaust movie that engages with its horrors sonically but not visually. It “humanizes” the banal desires of its Nazi protagonists, which makes their actions all the more chilling. Past Lives is a romance that rejects an easy love triangle for a more mature vision where one can lose a soul mate and still live a fulfilling life. Anatomy of a Fall is a courtroom drama that avoids dramatic swings, explosive climaxes, and tidy resolutions.
Of the many films I’ve seen this year, nothing has shaken me the way Killers of the Flower Moon has. Director Martin Scorsese subverts film archetypes and genre conventions to deliver a bleak, indelible story on evil and capitalism rooted in America’s past.
(Spoilers ahead for Killers, which you should watch.)
Most of Killers centers on WWI vet Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio), his uncle William Hale (Robert De Niro), and other white settlers as they scheme against the Osage in 1920s Oklahoma. The Indigenous tribe became wealthy from oil rights. Hale and his crew lie, steal, and murder Osage to secure their wealth.
Most of the screen time is from the white characters’ perspective, which I found occasionally frustrating. With his gullibility and unquestioning criminal mindset, DiCaprio as Burkhart is a less compelling character to watch than the supporting players around him. Lily Gladstone, who plays Ernest’s wife, Mollie, delivers a quietly devastating, pitch-perfect performance but disappears from large stretches of the film. One could point to Scorsese’s long history with gangster crime stories and playing into his comfort zone.
The 2015 comedy-drama Mississippi Grind – the movie’s release alongside the build up and aftermath of its principal cast and crew – tells you everything you need to know about the dire state of today’s big budget movies. Grind is an underseen road trip, buddy comedy, and character study of two struggling gamblers played by Ryan Reynolds and Ben Mendelsohn.
Everything about Reynolds, Mendelsohn, and the film’s directors, Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck, before their intersection on Grind chart a familiar path for budding Hollywood talent.
Reynolds had a traditional leading man trajectory. He started his career in Canadian soap operas before decamping to Hollywood and landing supporting parts in a few studio comedies. Success led him into other genres (Blade Trinity) and a few breakthrough leading roles in bigger budget fare like Green Lantern and the rom-com The Proposal. By 2010, he was rich, famous, and a movie star. Around this time, he mixed in some more eclectic work with small indie directors, including Atom Egoyan (The Captive) and Persopolis director Marjane Satrapi (The Voices).
I learned a lot at TIFF 23, ending the festival with a more informed strategy for approaching future years. The sheer time on the ground helped; it was my first year as a volunteer and my first as a more devoted attendee, bumping up from three screenings in 2022 to eighteen this year.
You may be reading this and have never been to any film festival, but you’re considering watching a movie or two at TIFF 24. Or you’ve been doing this for many years and will happily pre-pay for thirty-plus films, sight unseen. Regardless of experience or interest, I have advice to make the most of your time at the festival.