'Jockey' Sundance Review: A Look at the Last Leg of One's Life
In Jockey, riding a horse is where you're the freest. It's when you're off of the horse where the real struggles come, where you must confront the larger issues in life, such as the decline of your physical health and perhaps even the shortcomings of your own life.
These are the realities that the film's writer/director, Clint Bentley, knows well, having grown up in the world of horse racing, as a young boy, watching his father live as a jockey. It's with this reverential love and respect for his late father's life–a hard one–that makes his feature film debut, Jockey, such a deeply personal accomplishment.
Rather than center the film around the adrenaline-pumping moments in the saddle, Bentley focuses his directorial debut around the life of a jockey lived outside of racing–a tough one lived on the backside of the race-grounds which the career demands (think The Wrestler here). This is the life that Jackson (Clifton Collins Jr.) leads, a once-winning jockey whose prime is now behind him, who now struggles to keep up with the pack as he enters the twilight of his career. It's when Jackson attempts to get in shape for one last championship run that he is met with new debilitations, forcing him to recognize that the demands of the job may outpace what he's able to give.
Reflecting on one's physical limitations is also a ripe time to come to terms one's personal life, which is what Jockey does, and where it feels like it becomes a second film–that of a father/son movie. When rookie Gabriel (Moises Arias) arrives and approaches Jackson–bearing a striking physical resemblance to him–the two begin to foster a bond, in which Jackson begins mentoring him while he attempts to make his own final training run.
The connection created by Clifton Collins Jr. and Moises Arias here is sincere, and Clint Bentley captures it with tenderness. Family is a central theme to Jockey, that of the one we are given and the one that we make. In another noteworthy recognition to the film, Molly Parker also joins the story as Ruth, Jackson's horse trainer, providing another layer of makeshift family dynamic.
A decision that Clint Bentley makes that gives Jockey its heartfelt effect is by blending the actors into a very raw environment in which they act opposite non-actors–real jockeys who share their life's stories, adding incredbile realism to this world (Chloé Zhao's The Rider comes to mind here). Scenes of debilitated jockeys sharing their stories in support group settings offer a continuous discovery, more than a pre-written script could. And moments like these–which Jockey has throughout–allows you to buy into this world so totally and completely.
Of final note here, is that the overall beauty that Clint Bentley captures gives the film the cinematic touch that it needs to transcend. While the life of a jockey, lived in a trailer is totally unglamorous, stunning camerawork by Adolpho Veloso captures beautiful moments of early sunrises and dusk sunsets in brilliant pink and blue golden hour hues. And when the film does see its jockeys racing, the ethereal music composed by The National's Dessner Brothers takes on a heavenly, spiritual nirvana–a moment when everything else falls away.
If you're looking for a meditative film about mortality and entering the twilight of one's life, as well as if you want to see a more intimate look at the world of horse racing, then Jockey is for you. The film makes one of its deepest statements when Ruth offers Jackson the sage advice that "You have to tell a horse when it's time to quit." And although that day in which we'll inevitably have to quit comes for all of us, Jockey shows that an indomitable spirit never will.
'One For The Road' Sundance Review: A Gorgeously Travelled Journey
One For The Road begins with a familiar setup: two friends embark on a road trip so that one, cancer-stricken, can make amends with people from his past. Director Baz Poonpiriya takes this starting point and breathes dazzling cinematic life into it, making One For The Road so much more than just a buddy road film but rather a joyful, sorrowful, romantic, and nostalgic meditation on life, love, and loss.
When NYC bartender and ladies man Boss (Tor Thanapob) receives a call from old friend Aood (Ice Natara) with news that he is dying, Boss agrees to meet him in their Thailand hometown so that he can join Aood as he visits ex-girlfriends to make amends for past behavior. This road trip, in which Aood pops cassettes into the car with exes' names on them while deleting their contacts from his phone after each visit, spans One For The Road's first act. As the pair continue on their chaptered present-day visits, the film intercuts with flashbacks of their previous New York City friendship–which includes Boss' former love Prim (Violette Wautier). This all builds to the reveal that Aood has one last secret he intends to disclose to Boss, which threatens to destroy their friendship as his life nears its end.
One For The Road is an incredibly wide-ranging and liberated film, in both emotional range and narrative. Poonpiriya is such a confident and expressive filmmaker; when the film is joyful and going for a joke, it's completely silly and when it's sad, it down-shifts into a somber, melancholic manner. And while these shifts in emotional exploration do feel discohesive, the leaps in the film's narrative exploration keep it from being a flat-out flawless film. But there's so much richness and abundance and ideas Poonpiriya is expressing–which are also so well-executed–that we get swept up in it regardless.
The most obvious wow-factor is the mesmerizing cinematography (which, is probably to be expected for a film produced by the legendary cinematic master Wong Kar-wai). Poonpiriya's vision is exacted by cinematographer Phaklao Jiraungkoonkun. The film dazzles with vibrant colors, gorgeous widescreen compositions, and fluid movements that capture sequences of lusciously made cocktails and stunning locations, including the coast of Thailand and New York City.
One For The Road should be celebrated for its beautiful vision, as it's one of the most gorgeous films I've seen in some time. While the film would arguably be better if it were more focused on a single identity, the fact that Poonpiriya so easily and confidently shifts genre and moods to fit the nature of the moment was a move that I find I enjoy. There's so much cinematic richness here that I found myself won over, especially in the film's final act, which is the most emotionally resonant and affecting.
This is a gorgeous memory film that captures life events so naturally and beautifully. It's a meditative look at our mortality and saying goodbye to the ones we love. Let yourself be swept up in this film, where intricately crafted cocktails, beautifully harmonious colors, and incredible camerawork will leave you drunk in love.
'Derek DelGaudio's In & Of Itself' Review: Understanding Our Illusions
What better way to convey that the beliefs we hold around the perceptions that we construct–whether of the outside world or our very identities–are nothing more than illusions, than by combining emotional storytelling with sleight of hand trickery? That's the winning combination that makes up the equal parts inventive and compelling new film from Derek DelGaudio, in Derek DelGaudio's In & Of Itself, an enlightening existential experience that uses showmanship to sell self-help. It's an experience that I will remember today, tomorrow, and likely for the rest of my life.
Performed over 552 times in a small NYC black box theater, the film (now available to watch on Hulu) is an assembly of multiple shows in which Derek DelGaudio dazzles audiences in broad and intimate fashion through mythology, personal storytelling, and sleight of hand.
By interspersing magic through parables and personal stories, it's kind of like if your therapist were to quite literally pull a rabbit out of their hat to show you that what you think you know, you really don't.
The main idea that Derek DelGaudio brings forth is that our identities, and the roles we play in life, are constructions often limiting to who we really are. He presents chaptered mythological stories – that of "The Rulatista" entering into Russian roulette, the story of the dog and the wolf, and the elephant that we never perceive in whole, but only in its parts – that add a sense of timeless lore and weight to the event.
But he also gets deeper, talking about the personal stories that made him the way he was – a tough upbringing as a single child with a single parent.
DelGaudio the performer plays his emotions and scripting close to his three-piece suit's vest, limiting his emotional range to carefully constructed in which he retains full control. He is an unassuming performer, which he uses to be more "human" than "showman".
Executive produced by Stephen Colbert and directed by Frank Oz (Yoda!), In & Of Itself is carefully balanced between a one-man show that ebbs and flows with measured laughs, solemn listening, and then bursts of amazement which makes for an intimate experience.
As someone with an interest in theater, self-help, and magic, I unapologetically loved Derek DelGaudio's In & Of Itself and would recommend this to anyone I know. Once we better understand illusions, who knows what the future has in store for whoever we choose to become.
'Derek DelGaudio's In & Of Itself' is now available to watch on Hulu.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_62BeXxd_jo&ab_channel=Hulu
'Some Kind of Heaven' Review: Fantasy in a Retirement Community
Fulfillment, satisfaction, completion, contentment, peace. It's what we're all striving to achieve in our lives. Yet life is hard, and we don't always stay on this track. Our flaws and insecurities, measured against our boundless imaginations, can make for a hard reality to adjust to if we're not content with where we're at in life. Especially living in present-day America, where reality has been proven to be whatever personal construction we make it to be, as Some Kind of Heaven shows.
And as we make it into the twilight of our lives, our shortcomings become even more magnified. So, wouldn't a place that offered aging seniors the opportunities to pursue those fantasies be a good thing?
A new documentary, directed by Lance Oppenheim and executive produced by Darren Aronofsky and The New York Times, shows retired living at The Villages, America's largest retirement community. This magical oasis offers its local community an unlimited number of recreational activities to do and, with that, an infinite amount of people you can be.
Home to 130,000 residents, the Florida-set retirement community is shown as a place where the aged have escaped to live out their final years, experiencing the fountain of youth (which is what The Villages founder Harold S. Schwartz advertised to baby boomers).
Oppenheim crafts Some Kind of Heaven into a wonderfully off-kilter experience, in which the dreamy surrealism of The Villages is seen as being in a magical trance.
Some of the gray-haired are clearly okay with having a good time, living out their hedonistic pleasures of "nightclubbing" and meeting new singles. But others, who Oppenheim centers the film around, see the falsehood in the proscenium and grapple with the darkness that lingers at bay.
The characters who Oppenheim follows are strong and distinct: there's married couple Reggi & Ann, who are trying to maintain a marriage under Reggi's cratering mental state (tai chi and drugs assisting). There's Dennis Dean, a van-living man seeking to get close enough into The Villages to find stability (and a sugar mama); and Barbara Lochiatto, a widowed woman looking to step back into romantic life.
Oppenheim crafts Some Kind of Heaven into a wonderfully off-kilter experience, in which the dreamy surrealism of The Villages is seen as being in a magical trance. Captured in 4:3 aspect ratio, the cinematography by David Bloen captures the oddity in the manufactured synchronicity. And it very much captures the illusion of fantasy making our darkness.
Some Kind of Heaven is a must-watch. Its sharp observations make for a documentary that plays like a comedy and a dark drama. And underneath it all is a film about identity.
I'm reminded by a quote from Shantideva: "All the suffering there is in this world arises from wishing our self to be happy." There may be something to that, here. But if all that's too much for you, I know a place where you can go to make all your life's troubles disappear.
Distributed by Magnolia Pictures, available on-demand this Friday, January 15, 2021.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmRnGHrjl1w&ab_channel=MagnoliaPictures%26MagnetReleasing
'Sound of Metal' Reflection: Could I Accept A "New Me" After Tragedy?
I'm lucky to be able to say that I haven't experienced a debilitating event that has changed my current way of living. And to be able to say that during a raging international pandemic, is a truly humbling thing.
This isn't to say that a tragedy of that type won't befall me in my lifetime. In fact, knowing what I have now makes me consider the opposite: what a loss would make me feel, and how hard the blow would be.
If I ever do lose a part of myself–which I've lived with and known my entire life–how would I respond?
I wonder about these thoughts now, as the new film Sound of Metal (available to stream on Amazon Prime this Friday) explores this in an explosive and visceral way.
In Sound of Metal, Riz Ahmed plays Ruben, a heavy metal drummer who loses his hearing while on tour. And with that, he's threatened to lose himself. At first, Ruben reacts how anyone would if they had to make sense of this new nightmare: confused, scared, and dismissive until ultimately realizing that he must either confront his new life's reality or live in denial.
Read our 'Sound of Metal' review here.
To complicate things further, Ruben's girlfriend (Olivia Cooke) is the guitarist and vocalist of their two-piece band.
So then, we now see the full scope of Ruben's actual, and perceived loss: if he loses his hearing, he believes, he'll lose his band; and in effect, lose her.
Under such saddening circumstances, how would I react?
Would I be able to accept the circumstances of my new life and the loss that comes with it?
As someone who loves music and plays guitar and piano, I'm sure I'd react in similar shock and heartbreak, as Ruben does.
But this also gets me thinking of the teachings that I've learned and picked up along the way from studying Buddhism, and what its practices could offer to me–or anyone undergoing traumatic change–at that time.
Don't worry.
I'm first reminded of this quote from the Dalai Lama (A Policy of Kindness):
If you have fear of some pain or suffering, you should examine whether there is anything you can do about it. If you can, there is no need to worry about it; if you cannot do anything, then there is also no need to worry.
I certainly don't want to trivialize anyone's intense and real loss by merely reducing a solution down to offering a simple platitude, along the lines of "Don't worry, be happy."
Devastation and loss is something that should be mourned–it allows us to recognize and celebrate the importance it had on our lives.
But remembering that whether we can, or can't, control something in our lives, means that to spend our time passively worrying about anything, is unhelpful.
Suffering, and non-attachment.
I also think of what it means to suffer.
And I'm reminded of this adage:
"Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional."
Suffering, then, is an ongoing, sustained action that we do, after a moment in which the pain has occurred.
Buddhism teaches that all forms of suffering come from the attachments we develop– we hold on to suffering.
So then, why do we sustain and prolong our suffering?
If pain is experienced in the immediate, why do we ruminate over suffering long after it's occurred?
Perhaps because replaying that suffering, paradoxically, feels good. Because even though it makes us grieve, it orients us in safety, stability, and victimization.
I know that I can best prepare for change–even just the inevitable change of growing older–by trying to practice non-attachment every day, starting today.
Impermanence, and gratitude.
It's a scary thing, though, to think about not having any attachments in your life.
I like being attached to my family, my friends, and myself. Understandably, we do these things to keep us safe, and psychologically sane.
But once we accept that nothing is ever really permanent–that we are "new" in every moment–this allows us to also appreciate everything we have, while we have it.
And when we lose it, we're able to adjust to our new "now," without longing for the past of what we once knew.
Like an Etch A Sketch wiped anew, we must begin again, as-is.
However, if I were truly living in the present, without attachments, then who would I even be?
What would constitute my "self"?
The illusion of a "self."
If the identities that we create are just the summations of our past histories, made into this moment, what does that say about who we really are, versus who we perceive ourselves to be?
Would it be possible to be open to new experiences, and to grow, and evolve, if we choose to remain stuck in the past?
When he loses his hearing, Ruben's identity is shaken, too. Beyond losing the ability to play the drums, he doesn't accept that he is now a part of the deaf community, which he still sees as "other" than him.
I'd probably hurt more too, because of how drastically my conception of "me" would be shaken.
Not having attachments may make me think I had nothing. But maybe if I took the leap, and detached myself emotionally from everything, I would allow myself to live more authentically, and respond more honestly to my immediate moments without past judgments.
Kintsugi.
In these final thoughts, I'm also reminded of Kintsugi.
Kintsugi, the Japanese art of breaking (traditionally) vases and fusing them back together so as to show the beauty in a re-fortified piece, shows the strength and possibility of healing.
Nerdwriter's video essay on Kintsugi: The Art of Embracing Damage encapsulates this perfectly, and is well worth a watch.
In Sound of Metal, Ruben, after an attempted surgical operation, struggles with embracing his deafness, failing to see that he would in fact be stronger, not weaker, if he did.
Acceptance.
Ultimately, Sound of Metal does set out to show that we can seek salvation and rebuild rather than wallow in self-pity and destruction.
Instead of just a downward spiral into self-imploding defeat, Ruben's journey in accepting himself as someone who loses something dear to him is incredibly brave and incredibly realized cinematically.
In this way, Sound of Metal isn't so much the insatiable Whiplash as it is closer to the meditative, painterly The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.
Sound of Metal shows acceptance perfectly when Ruben's deaf teacher Joe (Paul Raci) says to him that he wishes that he could see him live peacefully, sitting alone, quiet, on a park bench.
Notice how the film opens–with the thrashing of drums–and how it ends–with Ruben ultimately sitting on a park bench in silence, at peace.
Ruben didn't realize it, but what he thought was his outlet and release–noise–was really just chaos in his life. His deafness, and beyond that, acceptance, is now a gift that makes him stronger.
I think of the Zen story of the farmer, whose cryptic adage of "maybe so, maybe not" to perceived tragedies and gifts in his life could never really be seen as either.
For we always see the short game, and not the long game.
So Sound of Metal makes me think that the next time I am confronted with a personal struggle, I'll try to think of it as either a gift or an opportunity to embrace change.
And in those moments while I wait, I'll sit and listen to the ever-present silence.
'My Octopus Teacher' Review: Chasing Our Lost Connection To Nature
For some of us, the dizziness of these times has us feeling disconnected from our natural world. Perhaps that's why, in a need to escape from life on land, audiences are diving into the new documentary My Octopus Teacher (now streaming on Netflix).
My Octopus Teacher follows South African documentarian Craig Foster. After spending a career photographing wildlife and seemingly losing touch with the modern world, he leaves it all behind and takes up a new hobby: diving off of the South African coast. In the process, he discovers the presence of a female octopus–who he pursues and documents each day. Over time, she encourages him to think of life's bigger questions and lessons.
Comprised of just one character (well, two, if you count a certain tentacled co-star), we follow Craig singularly, which makes for an incredibly personal, diary-like experience. His solemnly spoken interviews are intercut with footage of him swimming alongside an ever-growing octopus (footage that he shot himself). All things combined, it's a very soothing watch: his peaceful and easily meditative speech makes for a calming narration of his underwater adventures.
Through Craig's journey, I was certainly able to feel a reconnection to nature (and I work on computers all day long). Even though the experience is a second-hand one, seeing Craig's footage is really quite transporting. Although he dives with a snorkel (meaning he's without an air tank, and therefore is unable to explore the ocean's deepest depths), his coastal dives capture a brilliantly colorful aquatic world that is amazing to behold. You won't need a scuba suit or diving license in order to be taken away to a whole other world.
I find it quite funny that during the most technologically-advanced time in history, we're turning for answers from silent ocean-dwellers (although its intelligence may rival our own–octopi have a brain in each of its eight tentacles!). My Octopus Teacher rings so powerfully at a time when some of our highest elected officials reveal a remorseless hypocrisy in the human spirit, that we re-direct our efforts to find answers to life's questions with one of life's most prehistoric creatures. But, be warned: like any nature documentary, you should prepare to see nature showing its less heartwarming side, in which the circle of life should be experienced without attachment.
I'm actually not sure what My Octopus Teacher left behind, in terms of the greatest lesson that Craig–or I–learned. But perhaps that's something that can only be answered by each one of us that watches it, as long as we look to take the plunge for the chance at finding peace with an eight-legged friend.
85 min. 'My Octopus Teacher' is now streaming on Netflix.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3s0LTDhqe5A&ab_channel=Netflix
This Delightfully Absurd Take on the Buddy Comedy is a Must-See
I didn't know what type of film I was getting myself into when queueing up The Climb, the newest release from Sony Pictures Classics. Judging by the key art, I thought it was going to be a buddy-comedy about cyclist friends who exchange witty, occasionally profound musings about life captured along lovely vistas.
In the best way possible, The Climb is not that film. It's arguably the funniest, and one of my very favorite, films of the year.
The title of the film doesn't exactly relay what this movie is about, although it is accurate in what happens: two buddies move through adult life in a Sisyphean manner. It's a deadpan buddy comedy that dips into the surreal and absurd, with real filmmaking finesse.
The Climb tells the story of these two friends–Kyle (Kyle Marvin) and Michael (Michael Angelo Covino)–whose relationship can at best be described as toxic. They undermine each other's lives in fully conscious ways. As the film opens, Kyle gets engaged and Michael confesses to having slept with his fianceé. Some time and another engagement later, the friends find themselves in similar territory.
More so than 'The Climb' being a hilarious film, and one of my favorite new releases of the year, it's also the arrival of a new comedic duo that I can't wait to see what they do next.
And yet what The Climb shows is that they have a bond so unquestioned, like toddlers, that their terrible behavior is seen as earnest and sorrowful. And it's exacted with meta-awareness, adding to their deadpan, dopey charisma, which makes their low-wattage reaction and reconciling of life events hilarious. To make matters funnier, this pares with moments where the film glides into the absurd, where impromptu musical sequences surprised me with such delight. As the film went on (it's broken up into chapters), I continued to enjoy this movie, and couldn't wait to recommend it to my friends.
And while The Climb stars two dim-witted dudes, it's also a movie made with real cinematic skills, pulled off behind the camera by the very dudes in front of it. Michael Angelo Covino and Kyle Marvin also wrote and produced the film, with the former getting director credit.
While The Climb is my exact type of comedy–deadpan and dipping into the surreal–it's also a comedy that has real cinematic skills: most of the film is comprised of incredibly directed single-take sequences of slowly unfolding scenes (that give off a measured pace and sense of calm that runs counter to the unexpected comedy that arises).
More so than The Climb being just a hilarious film and one of my favorite releases of the year, it's also the arrival of a new comedic duo that I can't wait to see what they do next.
98 min. 'The Climb' is rated R for language, sexual content, some nudity, and brief drug use. Now playing in theaters.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mr4MKhV5QVw&ab_channel=SonyPicturesClassics
If Nothing Else, Bill Murray is Still Magical, in 'On the Rocks'
Laura (Rashida Jones) is a mother of two, struggling to keep a busy home together while balancing a stagnating writing career in bustling New York City. When Laura begins to suspect her husband (Marlon Wayans) of straying from their marriage, her playboy father (Bill Murray) whisks her away from her monotonous life to pursue her husband's whereabouts amidst the city, making for quirky bonding moments and chances to reconcile their own troubled past.
Directed by Sofia Coppola, On the Rocks (available to stream on Apple TV+ now) is familiar filmic ground: a dry, understated comedy about someone's woes that are presumably not so different from the writer-director's own (and yes, very much entrenched within upper/middle-class living). It's a lovely, lighthearted buddy-comedy of sorts, and hanging out with the ever-endearing Rashida Jones and Bill Murray–whose chemistry together is natural, fun, and intoxicating–makes for an effortlessly entertaining time.
The film deals with significant and adult themes, such as faithfulness in marriage, the questioning of monogamy, and self-acceptance, which Laura and her father ping-pong back and forth over in witty conversation. The back-and-forth here is dialed in by an incredibly charismatic Bill Murray as Felix, who makes the film the sophisticated and dry comedy that it chooses to be (it's the third time Murray and Coppola have worked together on a feature project after 2003's Lost in Translation and 2015's A Very Murray Christmas).
Sofia Coppola's previous work shows what a skilled eye she has for capturing beautiful images, making each of her movies a treat for the eyes. In On the Rocks, it's pleasurable to be swept up in every lush part of New York City's socialite scene. But luscious locations and cinematography are one thing, and meeting that with real character developments is another: since Coppola resigns Laura as a weak and submissive character from the very start, giving very little along the way to make for a full character realization, unfortunately, the characters end up being more like props in this beautiful-looking postcard of a film.
In further Coppola signature, On the Rocks (perhaps) also not so subtly mirrors the writer-director's personal life experiences, in which a daughter must reconcile with her ever-charismatic, towering legend of a father (whose own infamous infidelities have been well documented). Casting Rashida Jones as Laura (the Sofia-surrogate of sorts) is an earnest desire for Coppola to explore issues of her familial relationship. But it's also a film that keeps things at a sophisticated surface-level, making me wonder if a more stirring, substantial, and significant work was just one more shot away from experiencing.
If On the Rocks were a drink, it'd be served neat, and straight up. And while it's pleasantly fine, I'd like to see the version that allows itself to be a little more shaken. And ya know what? Make it a double.
Distributed by A24, On the Rocks is now streaming on Apple TV+.