I’ve seen more new movies in 2016 than during any single year of my life—and there are still 12 more days to go. Selective consumer that I am, I have enjoyed nearly all my filmgoing experiences to date, and have had enormous difficulty cramming the best of the best into a traditional top-10 list.
As I continue reflecting on all the wonderful moments the cinema offered in an otherwise wretched year for the human race, I offer some fleeting impressions of my final four—a quartet of films that burrowed deep under my skin and never really found their way out. Four singular conceptions that—in radically divergent form—satisfied (or nearly satisfied) Roger Ebert’s definition of a truly great film: “It takes us, shakes us, and makes us think in new ways about the world around us. It gives us the impression of having touched life itself.”
“You can pick from the menu. Or I can give you the chef’s special.” So says Kevin, the chef, to his childhood friend, Chiron. Now in their late 20s, the two men haven’t seen each other for more than a decade. In all probability, they would’ve remained strangers for the rest of their lives, except that Kevin recently phoned Chiron in the middle of the night to ask what he’s been doing with himself. And now Chiron has driven 700 miles from Atlanta to Miami—materializing in Kevin’s diner, unannounced—to provide him some semblance of an answer.
Why? Because, for all their time apart, he and Kevin share a secret that can never be reconciled until they are in the same room at the same time. Their history—forged in one rapturous, terrifying moment many years ago—is at once totally alien to the society they inhabit, yet absolutely essential to understanding who either of them truly is.
The circumstances of their upbringing—namely, being poor and black in America—have prevented them from facing this complicated truth head-on, and so they have both chosen to suppress it—albeit in strikingly different ways.
And yet, on this night, in this diner—as Kevin prepares the chef’s special—there is suddenly the prospect of a reckoning—an echo of John Adams’s plea to Thomas Jefferson, “You and I ought not to die before we have explained ourselves to each other”—and with it, the possibility of love, happiness and inner peace.
O.J.: MADE IN AMERICA
In the greatest legal circus of the 1990s—The People of California v. O.J. Simpson—Mark Fuhrman was supposed to be the prosecution’s star witness. He was the LAPD detective who found the pair of black gloves linking O.J. Simpson to the murder of his wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and Ronald Goldman. One glove was recovered at Nicole’s house, the other at O.J.’s. Both were splattered with the DNA of all three individuals, as were the driveways of both homes and the innards of O.J.’s white Ford Bronco.
In short, it was a slam dunk: With a veritable orgy of both direct and circumstantial evidence, it was obvious to any fair-minded person that Simpson—an NFL hall of famer, actor and all-around celebrity—had committed double homicide. Game, set, match.
And then Fuhrman took the witness stand, and everything fell apart.
To the defense team’s delight and the prosecution’s unending chagrin, Fuhrman turned out to be a scumbag: A crooked, racist maniac with a long, proud history of brutality against LA’s black community. Having bragged about his bigotry and deceitfulness on tape, he became Exhibit A in the defense’s theory that the O.J. evidence may have been planted—a narrative of institutional racism that jibed perfectly with the actual history of the LAPD, to say nothing of the nation as a whole, then and now.
In Ezra Edelman’s documentary, prosecutor Marcia Clark muses, “The only reason I know [Fuhrman] didn’t plant the evidence is because [he] couldn’t have. Otherwise, I’m with them.” Therein lies one answer to how a clearly guilty man could be acquitted by a jury of his peers: Because after 400 years of white people in America getting away with murder, maybe it was time—if only just this once—for a black person to do the same.
Michèle Leblanc has been having a very strange week. Her son is moving into an apartment he can’t afford with a fiancé he doesn’t love who’s carrying a child that (probably) isn’t his. At work, her underlings are fomenting a rebellion against her take-no-prisoners managerial style. Elsewhere, her sort-of divorced mother is carrying on with a lover half her age, while Michèle herself is fooling around with her best friend’s husband and—for good measure—growing very flirty with her married next-door neighbor, Patrick.
Oh yeah: And on Thursday afternoon, a mysterious man in a ski mask entered her apartment, wrestled her to the ground, savagely raped her and left.
By all outward appearances, that last item was the least-distressing moment of Michèle’s week. Apart from a quick doctor’s visit, she doesn’t bother telling anyone about having been assaulted until dinner on Saturday evening—and even then, she hastens to add, “I feel stupid for bringing it up.” When her flabbergasted dining companions ask why she hasn’t called the police, she shrugs, “It’s over—it doesn’t need talking about anymore.”
Is she in denial? A closet masochist? Just plain nuts?
As Rick Blaine would say: It’s a combination of all three.
Played by Isabelle Huppert, Michèle is shown, in the fullness of time, to be a woman ruthlessly in pursuit of her own happiness—a process that, in her case, has a curious tendency to rob everyone else of theirs. Like a wilier version of Selina Meyer in Veep, she is a fundamentally rotten specimen—a textbook sociopath who derives all earthly pleasure from making others squirm—yet somehow emerges as a compelling, magnetic—perhaps even heroic—femme fatale, prepared to turn any setback—up to and including sexual assault—to her advantage and assume control of her own destiny. What a nasty woman.
It’s the morning of Thanksgiving. The house is bouncing with activity, inhabited by at least half a dozen adults, another half-dozen twentysomethings, one newborn and an indeterminate number of dogs. All is well—if a bit chaotic—and then Krisha walks in.
Who is Krisha? In one sense, she is the person for whom the phrase, “There’s one in every family,” was coined. She is the sole dinner guest who seems out of sync with everyone else around the table: The one you don’t engage in direct conversation, for fear of what she might say, do or drink. A reigning expat from the Island of Misfit Toys.
But no more: She’s here now. She’s sobered up (allegedly). She wants to help out with the cooking and reacquaint herself with her kin and be an all-around better person.
And everyone present is thrilled to hear this. They miss her, they know what an unholy wreck she had become, and they’re willing to give her every chance to earn her way back into the fold.
Except…not really. Yeah, sure, if she’s serious about turning over a new leaf, then she has their unwavering love and support and blah blah blah.
In truth, Krisha’s family knows her better than she knows herself, and it all boils down to one unshakable fact: There is no real hope for her in the end. She has burned too many bridges—neglected too many responsibilities—to start over again from scratch. Whatever forgiveness she wants for her sins—indeed, for her entire history to be cast into the sea of God’s forgetfulness—she cannot summon the strength to concede what can be neither forgotten nor forgiven. When push comes to shove, she would just as well have another drink.
Trey Edward Shults’s film, drawn from his own life experiences, is a testament to the notion that life doesn’t always offer redemption. It is altogether fitting that it would be based on real events and be released in 2016, since its portrait of a woman teetering on the edge of the abyss is a perfect metaphor for the blazed, desperate nation that produced her.