Adams Family Values: An Interview with the Creators of “Hellbender”

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Walter Chaw interviews Hellbender creators
John Adams, Lulu Adams, Zelda Adams, and Toby Poser


Of all the movies I saw last year, two viscerally exhilarated me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end for the power of their craft and the empowerment of their messages. The first was Steven Spielberg’s West Side Story, the finest spectacle film I’ve seen in I can’t remember how long–a smart updating of a well-travelled text by one of the few unquestioned masters of the medium. The other was Hellbender, the seventh film by a family of wanderers–and artists–who decided at some point to buy a rickety old RV, drive it across the U.S., and make a very particular brand of home movie to document their nights and days. Hellbender is so alive with the rapture of living that it almost pulsates; watching it is a tactile experience, and its celebration of women and coming into power feels effortless. It’s not unlike the idea of “blood harmony”–when it happens, it’s supernatural. Hellbender is the truth. So when I was offered the chance to interview filmmakers Toby Poser and John Adams and their daughters Lulu and Zelda Adams over Zoom one snowy afternoon, I was beside myself. It’s fun to catch phenoms right before they take off into the stratosphere.

I’ll Find You (2022)

Illfindyou

*/****
starring Adelaide Clemens, Leo Suter, Ursula Parker, Stellan Skarsgård
screenplay by David S. Ward and Bozenna Intrator
directed by Martha Coolidge

by Walter Chaw Martha Coolidge’s I’ll Find You, in distribution limbo since 2019, is a lushly-filmed but dramatically inert WWII period romance about a trio of starcrossed lovers and musicians, separated by war and reunited by amour. Coolidge does her best with the material, but movies that employ flashbacks to when the characters are children exchanging doe-eyed stares are a little doomed from the start, even when they’re not also saddled with having to somehow use the Holocaust as a plot device that inconveniences our lovers for a while like a pesky ex-boyfriend or a dream job that requires a move across the country. Alain Resnais pulled it off (“it” being love in a time of war) in Hiroshima Mon Amour, and Philip Kaufman similarly succeeded with The Unbearable Lightness of Being, but this is deep and shark-infested water, the moral and practical perils of which I’ll Find You never fully reckons. Take the scene where hero tenor Robert (Leo Suter) searches for lost love Rachel (Adelaide Clemens) at recently-liberated Bergen-Belsen, where Robert shuffles disconsolately past a “Warning: Typhus” sign that serves as a jolting reminder of the housing of human beings like cattle in what feels essentially like a zombified but expensive Jane Austen adaptation. I’ll Find You sands all the edges off, which is fine some of the time but never okay when it comes to genocide. Coolidge is a spirited director, the driving force behind all-time classics like the thornier-than-you-remember Valley Girl and the deceptively jagged Rambling Rose, contorted here to helm what is essentially a Rob Reiner vehicle.

Hellbender (2022) – Shudder

Hellbender

****/****
starring Zelda Adams, Toby Poser, Lulu Adams, John Adams
written and directed by Toby Poser & Zelda Adams & John Adams

by Walter Chaw Hellbender is rare and wild, alive with joy, bristling with the energy of its invention. Even though its story of a young woman coming of age and discovering her power is familiar (some would say overly so), the approach the film takes is bracingly unpredictable. I’ve never seen a movie quite like it, straddling the line between experimental and conventional while managing to be free somehow of anything like arrogance or pretension. This isn’t an affectation forced upon an audience, it’s a reflection of what appears to be a genuinely unique point of view. John Waters made movies like this; so does David Lynch. Hellbender falls somewhere between them while being beholden to neither. I haven’t felt like this very often watching anything. The creators are the Adams family: father John Adams, mother Toby Poser, and their daughters, Zelda and Lulu Adams. Between them, they split multiple duties before and behind the camera. They pulled up their roots at some point a few years ago to travel across the country from their home base in the Catskills, telling stories through shooting movies and learning the technical aspects of their craft as they went along. This is the seventh film created under their “Wonder Wheel” production banner, and it’s a work of art that’s very much like a masterpiece.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022) – Netflix

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**½/****
starring Elsie Fisher, Mark Burnham, Moe Dunford, Alice Krige
screenplay by Chris Thomas Devlin
directed by David Blue Garcia

by Walter Chaw David Blue Garcia’s re-quel Texas Chainsaw Massacre could’ve been a masterpiece with a minor tonal shift from deadly self-serious to wryly self-knowing. As it stands, it falls into the same Stanley Kramer pit as the Candyman reboot, where lectures take the place of plot–and infant cardboard pedagogues take the place of legible characters. Texas Chainsaw Massacre is the kind of graceless screed, in other words, that is everything its worst detractors accuse the original of being, making defending progressive messages in films like this difficult, if not impossible. Horror films in general–and Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, in particular–are rich in subtext. Horror as a genre is primal (all of the Old Testament is an anthology of vile horror stories), and, as such, it’s the first one to respond when toxins are introduced into our cultural ecosystem. Horror, for lack of a better descriptor, is potentially useful as both diagnosis of what’s wrong with us and prognostication of the consequences, should we allow the poison in our systems to run its course. What’s not helpful, however, are films that eschew subtext in favour of soapbox. If you empty the basement, your basement is empty. And if you enter into a thing with the idea that you’re about to force people to get smarter, you’d better be sure that you’re smarter than anyone who might want to watch your thing. Very few artists ever get away with being didactic.

Dream House: An Interview with Albert Birney & Kentucker Audley

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Walter Chaw interviews Strawberry Mansion creators
Albert Birney and Kentucker Audley

Strawberry Mansion is fascinating stuff: a film that runs the danger of being distracting for its quirkiness but is, in point of fact, a mature piece about investing in love with the full knowledge of how love is heartbreak. It isn't, in other words, odd for the sake of odd, but rather odd for the specific purpose of communicating a point of view, a creative ethos. It's…is the word "artisanal?" If it's not, it's like that. There's a lot of same going around (same as it always was, as it happens), but here's a new thing, and if you don't support it, then more new things don't happen. There's hope with a film like this, because it points to someone brave enough to make it and then a few more someones willing to find a way to get it into theatres and onto streaming services.

Kimi (2022)

Kimi

***½/****
starring Zoë Kravitz, Rita Wilson, Derek DelGaudio, Robin Givens
written by David Koepp
directed by Steven Soderbergh

by Walter Chaw Steven Soderbergh’s Kimi is an escapist paranoia fantasy that has as its most unlikely conceit not any of its dire depictions of a techno-surveillance state, but that it’s possible for wealthy white men to see anything like consequences for their actions–actions up to, and including, murder. It may be Soderbergh and screenwriter David Koepp’s cleverest sting in a clever film, this notion that at a time when satire feels impossible because reality is so obscene, the greatest stretch of the imagination is the promise of meaningful accountability for the 1%. You could call it Pollyannaism or toxic positivity (and I confess my first response to how this movie ends was irritation), but I’ve come to realize how that speaks more to my disappointment with the world than with the story Kimi is trying to tell. This isn’t Night Moves or The Parallax View (or, more to the point, The Conversation or Blow Out), it’s a fable about how trauma can be overcome, justice can be won, and the bad guys don’t necessarily have to win every time. It could even be about how the future is minority and female and work-from-home. Or, thanks to one superb sequence, Kimi could be about a rejection of our desperate longing for superhuman intervention. Maybe it’s each of those things at once. All a revolution takes is enough individuals, flawed as they are, broken as they may be, deciding they’re mad as hell and aren’t going to take it anymore. All it would take is cutting through the noise and the moral cannibalism and finally painting a target on our common tormentors.

Moonfall (2022)

Moonfall

***/****
starring Halle Berry, Patrick Wilson, John Bradley, Donald Sutherland
screenplay by Roland Emmerich & Harald Kloser & Spenser Cohen
directed by Roland Emmerich

by Walter Chaw Between The Day After Tomorrow and the new Moonfall, Roland Emmerich has become our unlikely climate disaster Tierisius: Oedipus’s blind seer, dispensing fair warning to a population not paying any attention. In the earlier film, global warming causes a new Ice Age and an exodus of American refugees looking for sanctuary in Mexico, while Moonfall sees the entire west coast flooded and essentially everyone at sea level in the United States trying to get to Colorado. Both ideas are ripe with satiric irony, animated with a sense of gallows humour about how extraordinarily shortsighted American leadership is in the face of obvious signs and portents. Oh, and science, of course, which should have been enough once the evidence of our own eyes somehow proved inadequate. Even Moonfall‘s ultimate revelation–something about AI and space arks and a running gag about Elon Musk–speaks brilliantly, however intentionally, to our primate desire to conflate the hoarding of generational wealth with genius, when all the wealthy really want to do is escape the rapidly-changing planet they’ve strip-mined for its resources. All that, plus a broad redux of H.G. Wells’s The First Men In the Moon, and, kids, we got ourselves the smart and unpretentious version of Don’t Look Up.

All the Moons (2020) – Shudder

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Ilargi Guztiak
****/****

starring Haizea Carneros, Josean Bengoetxea, Itziar Ituño, Zorion Eguileor
written by Igor Legarreta, Jon Sagalá
directed by Igor Legarreta

by Walter Chaw The Catholic Church has an outsized influence in the events of the last couple of centuries. They have increasingly occupied the role of collective boogeyman in the West as we start to reckon with the consequences of Manifest Destiny, the Age of Exploration, and the attempts to eradicate indigenous peoples in the name of a wrathful God too small to allow other faiths. The mission project in the West, the Residential schools designed to separate children from their cultures in the name of a monoculture arrayed around a cannibalistic blood cult steeped in atrocities committed under the banner of their notion of Heaven. The Magdalene laundries in Europe, the sexual abuse scandals so rampant they’re less scandals than functions of a diseased system that shelters monsters, shuffling them around to unsuspecting diocese to avoid coming clean about the extent of their callow predation. The church has aligned itself with the “pro-life” movement in the United States, a fanatical and radicalized cult invested in the oppression of women and sexuality. Heavily politicized, they suckle at the public teat and continue a baked-in tradition of profiting greatly from the fear and loathing of the very poor, the very desperate, the very stupid. Every new revelation is met with obfuscation, denial, and obstruction instead of a willingness to shine light into the corners of their unresolvable, bestial intolerance and sinfulness. Throughout history, the Catholic Church, as an organization, has proved emblematic of absolute power corrupting absolutely. It’s become a synecdoche for abuse. Of course, this makes it a fertile plot where fulsome gardens of horror can grow.

Becoming: An Interview with Mark Pellington

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Mark Pellington's body of work deserves serious reconsideration. It describes the arc of a serious artist, someone tapped into a collective threnody, a manifest weltschmerz expressed increasingly through techniques that move him away from traditional narratives into exclusive realms of movement and music. Schooled in rhetoric, Pellington made his mark as one of the early pioneers of MTV and music video, helming clips for artists as varied as U2 and Anthrax. His video for Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" is seen as a landmark for the form in terms of its expressiveness and willingness to venture into dark places (child abuse, bullying, suicide). Pellington was inspired at that moment by the recent loss of his father to dementia–an experience he hopes to turn into a movie someday–and it's that throughline of grief, as it moves through stages of rage, denial, and addiction, that informs the work of his lifetime. Each unimaginable loss feeds Pellington's next project. I'm in awe of his transparency and courage.

The Worst Person in the World (2021)

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Verdens verste menneske
***½/****
starring starring Renate Reinsve, Anders Danielsen Lie, Herbert Nordrum
written by Eskil Vogt, Joachim Trier
directed by Joachim Trier

by Walter Chaw Joachim Trier has had his ear, unerring, pressed against the pulse of sweet melancholia and regret from the very beginning. He followed his first feature, Reprise, a downbeat essay of aspiring writers on the cusp of validation or immolation, with Oslo, August 31st, a jarring and indelible chronicle of one day in the life of a junkie trying for a second chance, maybe too late. Trier’s English-language debut, Louder than Bombs, was about how a father and son remember their dead wife/mother differently, while his Thelma was a supernaturally-tinged coming-of-age film and my favourite movie of that year. Now comes this intense character study of the anxious generation, The Worst Person in the World. These films share an interest in people at a crossroads and forced to evolve. If I have a beef with Trier, it’s that his endings of late have tended towards, if not tidiness exactly, at least a neatness not befitting his characters and their messy lives. It’s less a failing of his than a failing of mine. I think what they do, though, these endings that feel like endings, is push his films a little away from realism and a little towards fable. The Worst Person in the World, accordingly, is a film through which it appears that Trier–32 at the time of Reprise, 47 now–is wrestling with what it means to be 30 in 2021 after providing such immediate and raw social landscapes in his early work. I wonder if fable is the only way to properly contextualize the young as we push into and past middle age. Maybe it would feel unseemly to pretend otherwise.

The Long Night (2022)

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*/****
starring Scout Taylor-Compton, Nolan Gerard Funk, Kevin Ragsdale, Deborah Kara Unger
written by Robert Sheppe, Mark Young
directed by Rich Ragsdale

by Walter Chaw Rich Ragsdale’s The Long Night is relentlessly familiar–which is too bad, because it features an excellent score by Sherri Chung, and DP Pierluigi Malavasi does yeoman’s night-work and a mean drone shot. Their aptitude–indeed, elegance–is wholly at odds with the picture’s smirky script (by Robert Sheppe and Mark Young) and solid wall of daft shoutiness. Star Scout Taylor-Compton spends so much of the picture shrieking, even before the bad things start happening in earnest, that the frequency of her hoarse emissions can be either the foundation for the world’s newest and deadliest drinking game, or maybe merely The Long Night‘s most exhausting running joke. It’s hard to say what this film wanted to be about, if it ever wanted to be about more than getting made–my obvious guess being all the supernatural doings as a metaphor for a disintegrating relationship. But if that’s the case, that particular trope has been worn to a nub, and if you’re not going to provide insight or approach it in a novel way, going through the motions really works the ol’ patience muscle.

Far from the Madding Cloud: An Interview with Iuli Gerbase

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I first caught Iuli Gerbase's fantastic debut The Pink Cloud as part of last year's virtual Sundance and came away from it feeling like I'd seen perhaps the definitive film of the pandemic. But it wasn't a pandemic movie, per se. It was written in 2017 and shot in 2019, meaning its story of two people negotiating isolation is engaged in unpacking a different kind of virulence. The script was completed post-Trump but pre-Bolsonaro, so this Brazilian film isn't even exactly a political metaphor, although it could certainly be read that way. While it's good, publicity-wise, for The Pink Cloud to seem a work of prescience, it's bad in that the picture's prescience detracts from the thorniness of its broader sociological themes. Given time, its embedded subtext concerning a patriarchal system reinforcing traditional gender roles should emerge as the novelty of it as the world's grimmest Magic 8-ball recedes.

Scream (2022)

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***½/****
starring Melissa Berrera, Mason Gooding, Jenna Ortega, Neve Campbell
written by James Vanderbilt & Guy Busick
directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett

by Walter Chaw Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven’s Scream cycle, in terms of its influence on modern film, constitutes the most important metatext of the last 25 years in that it’s not only self-referential, it’s curious about how self-reference can be an essential ontological tool as opposed to a mere existential exercise. They’re better movies, in this respect, than The Matrix and its sequels, and, at least in terms of their popularity, they’re more important than even Charlie Kaufman’s extraordinary but limited-appeal body of work. The Scream saga, for lack of a better word, matters. Not for nothing does Scream 3, despite being the weakest installment of the original four and the only one of those that didn’t involve Williamson in any significant way, take place mainly on a simulacrum of hero Sidney’s childhood home and neighbourhood, recreated inside a soundstage like the to-scale streets of Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York. If the first film is a watershed, the second is perhaps the series’ masterpiece: a phenomenal bit of pop philosophy that sees Sidney (Neve Campbell) as a Cassandra figure, literally forced onto the stage with a pack of masked murderers to re-enact her trauma from and into eternity. It’s her role in these Passion Plays to be preyed upon–and through her suffering, the “rules” of engagement between women coming of sexual age and men wanting to possess and punish them for that are forged. She has become an archetype, a thing that is representative of a fundamental truth, and the movies understand that. When she makes her entrance in the new Scream (hereafter Scream 5), standing up in a hospital waiting area to greet a young woman initiated into the abattoir, it is framed and shot as though we are all in the presence of a divine visitation.

Dune (2021) – 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray + Digital Code

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Dune Part One
****/**** Image A Sound A+ Extras B

starring Timothée Chalamet, Rebecca Ferguson, Oscar Isaac, Javier Bardem
screenplay by Jon Spaihts and Denis Villeneuve and Eric Roth, based on the novel by Frank Herbert
directed by Denis Villeneuve

by Walter Chaw I couldn’t get through the Lord of the Rings trilogy when I was a kid, but I devoured Frank Herbert’s Dune in a fever and read it again immediately. I have a tactile memory of it. Mostly, I was haunted by the frequent use of passages from the diaries, histories, and philosophies of one Princess Irulan, inserted throughout the text to give the book’s story a sense of lost time, immense. I wouldn’t experience this feeling reading something again until years later when I finally got into Proust, this thing where you read it in the present, but the text is irretrievably past. You’ve arrived at the dock, but the ferry, impossibly beautiful and decked out with incomprehensible pleasures and mysteries, has left, and it’s not coming back. Princess Irulan opens the book by warning us not to be deceived by its hero, Paul, having spent the first fourteen years of his life on a planet called “Caladan”–that his story is inextricable from the fate of a place called “Arrakis.” It reminds me of the many epitaphs for T.E. Lawrence. Herbert told his son that he left multiple threads unresolved in Dune so its readers would want to revisit it–return obsessively to it to follow different paths, suggestions, prophecies. I think it’s why I’ve read four or five of the subsequent Dune novels only once and retained so little of the stories they tell and the answers they provide. It’s like Arthur C. Clarke’s sequels to his 2001: A Space Odyssey novelization: I don’t actually want to know what’s inside the Monolith.

The 355 (2022)

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½*/****
starring Diane Kruger, Penélope Cruz, Jessica Chastain, Lupita Nyong’o
screenplay by Theresa Rebeck and Simon Kinberg
directed by Simon Kinberg

by Walter Chaw There’s a moment early on in Simon Kinberg’s execrable The 355 where Lupita Nyong’o, playing cyber-security expert Khadijah, is walking on a pier swarming with commercial fishermen, tailing a bad guy by holding her phone up like she’s looking at her phone camera while it’s recording him. After the third or fourth time they’ve locked eyes, she declares, with total seriousness, that she’s been “made.” No fucking shit you were made. If Lupita Nyong’o were walking along holding up a phone and staring at me from six feet away, I like to think I’d notice. Later, the reason given for Colombian psychologist Graciela (Penélope Cruz) tagging along on a very dangerous mission is that some dead guy’s phone has been locked with her fingerprint. Because I’m able to remember that Khadijah is a cyber-security expert, and given that Graciela’s fingerprint-bearing finger is sitting right there, I’m wondering why someone else’s fingerprint couldn’t be assigned to the phone. I’m also wondering where Sebastian Stan’s CIA agent Nick found a crisp white T-shirt that doesn’t stain when you spill coffee on it. That’s some NASA shit, probably the technology everyone should actually be fighting over. Then there’s the conversation where Graciela’s son, over the phone, asks for “Duvalins,” and Graciela responds, “Yes, I will bring you your favourite candy,” which…okay, level with me–which one of them needed to know that Duvalins is candy? The first thing is a problem with direction; the next a script issue; the next, direction again; and the last another script issue. Meaning that while there might be enough blame to go around, I’m gonna put the bulk of it on co-writer/director Kinberg.

A Hero (2021)

A Hero

Ghahreman
**½/****
starring Amir Jadidi, Mohsen Tanabandeh, Fereshteh Sadrorafaii, Sarina Farhadi
written and directed by Asghar Farhadi

by Walter Chaw A Hero is Asghar Farhadi's Iranian Neorealist version of Stephen Frears's gaudy American prestige flick Hero, in which a man lauded as one type of person is secretly another type of person, thus calling to the stand society's process for determining object choice and assigning value. Not a new conceit, in other words. Here, it's given Farhadi's "miserablist parade" approach, whereby the exhausted didacticism of the premise is meted out with the punishing drip-drip of water torture. Freed for 48 hours from a debtor's prison, Rahim (Amir Jadidi) has a clandestine–because of divorce or something–meeting with his girlfriend, Farkhondeh (Sahar Goldust), who produces a handbag she's found abandoned that's full of gold coins. Problem solved, yes? No. Exchange rates being what they are in this global economy, the gold isn't quite enough to cover Rahim's obligations, and so he hatches a plan to make a big show out of giving the money back, the better to capitalize on his freshly-minted Good Samaritan persona. It works until it stops working, as these things do.

“The 50 Best Films of 2021” by Walter Chaw

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by Walter Chaw Writing these annual wrap-ups feels to me a little like this passage from Anne Sexton’s “45 Mercy Street”:

I walk, I walk
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead

The annual best-of ritual is frustrating because one can never see all the great films in a year–but it’s the kind of frustration that feels aspirational for a change in this, our time of social and environmental apocalypse. I’m thrilled to talk about things that are good for a change and the movies in 2021 were very good indeed. So good that while I feel like I could have made a list 100 strong, I know there are still more gems from this year left to see.

The Tragedy of Macbeth (2021)

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***½/****
starring Denzel Washington, Frances McDormand, Bertie Carvel, Brendan Gleeson
written for the screen and directed by Joel Coen

by Walter Chaw The Tragedy of Macbeth is a middle-aged lament of the childless, a haunted interpretation of Shakespeare that underscores my belief that the Coen Brothers–in this case, just Joel–are/is among our finest literary critics. Their O Brother, Where Art Thou? unpacks The Odyssey as a collection of regional tales and songs; their adaptations of No Country for Old Men and True Grit demonstrate a deep understanding of not merely the specific works being adapted, but Cormac McCarthy’s and Charles Portis’s entire bodies of work as well. The Big Lebowski, needless to say, is a brilliant and essential take on Chandler’s The Big Sleep. That their planned adaptation of James Dickey’s To the White Sea with Brad Pitt hasn’t happened yet and doesn’t look like it ever will is a genuine tragedy. (The relative failure of their Ladykillers remake suggests this skill may be limited to the transmutation between mediums.) For his solo debut, Joel Coen has taken a German Expressionistic approach, leaning heavily into long shadows and aestheticism that feels like mourning. The film falls somewhere between the mysticism of Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood and Orson Welles’s incantatory 1948 Macbeth, though it’s less wild and windswept than either, reminding in this way of how steeped in superstition and the supernatural was Shakespeare–and how raw, even stripped down, the Scottish Play seems in comparison to the Bard’s other histories.

The Matrix Resurrections (2021)

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½*/****
starring Keanu Reeves, Carrie-Anne Moss, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, Neil Patrick Harris
screenplay by Lana Wachowski & David Mitchell & Aleksandar Hemon
directed by Lana Wachowski

by Walter Chaw I guess I wouldn’t mind that The Matrix: Resurrections (hereafter Matrix 4) is so stupid if it didn’t spend so much of its bloat trying to explain itself. Just let it go. If you’re riding with the same plot as Space Jam: A New Legacy, own it–run with it, for fuck’s sake. Exposition is always a delicate if necessary evil, but here it’s particularly undignified. It’s Glen from Raising Arizona explaining his Polack jokes. The plot of Matrix 4 is essentially that conversation with the guy who’s way too stoned who has this great idea for a Matrix sequel. “Okay, okay, see, Neo is–haha–NEO is Mr. Anderson again and–haha, check it–he’s like this programmer dude, real boring piece of shit, and he made a game back in 1999 called ‘The Matrix’, and yo, yo, yo, wait, wait… What if Trinity was The One, too?” You’ve heard of the concept of “raising all boats”? Well, an hour of deadening exposition devoted to explaining a plot this contrived, this smug and half-cocked, this simultaneously convoluted and simplistic, sinks the boat–sinks all fucking boats. Good poker players have confidence and chill; not only does Lana Wachowski have a real bad tell, she gives speeches about what she’s holding. “Hi, I’m Lana, creator of The Matrix, and I’m drawing on an inside straight.” Small wonder Lilly refused to participate in this boondoggle, leaving Lana to recruit their Cloud Atlas partner-in-crime David Mitchell as one of her co-writers. That either of these people kept their names on this is evidence of an almost majestic, feline confidence.

The Agony and the Ecstasy: An Interview with Lauren Hadaway

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World-weary and wise and sharp as the crack of a pistol, Lauren Hadaway, after years as a top-shelf ADR artist, set a goal for herself to become a director. During the downtime between looping sessions on Justice League in 2017, she started writing the script for what would become The Novice, a semi-autobiographical film about a driven young woman joining her college crew team and finding in it an Everest she must scale just because it's there. Just because, nay, especially because, it's hard. The resulting film is as sharp and as driven as its creator, every frame composed not just beautifully but to tell a visual story of the protagonist's interiors. It's clear almost immediately that, more than a sports story, The Novice is about finding purpose through ritualized pain–and maybe a little bit or more about Hadaway overcoming self-doubt and enduring an unprecedented global event to see this project through to completion.

I began our interview by asking her about the process of coming through a difficult time.