If ever our eyes lock here in the streets of New York, or if you catch me passing by someone’s baby (or a dog), there's a good chance you’re catching me mid grimace-smile—the curious contortion of my resting bitch when I an attempt to turn into something friendly. You’ve likely caught this on others also experiencing any cognitive dissonance or caught between reactions. It was off the table in Toronto though, where its good people were in overtly good spirits—or I was, rushing off to the movies everyday.
Most of what I watched was middling to good, nothing was unexceptional. Maybe because I’ve been saving the standout films for the New York Film Festival, which begins in a few weeks (tix on sale today). The nYFF lineup readily locks into my heart and mind—Misericordia, April, The Shrouds, Hard Truths, On Becoming a Guinea Fowl, and Hong Sang-soo x2 are some titles that played both festivals.
I’m also excited for the hippopotamus movie Pepe, Carson Lund’s baseball film Eephus, the 41-minute Carax, and Jimmy, Yashaddai Owen’s reimagining of James Baldwin’s time in Paris. And I’m totally going to rewatch The Brutalist in its 70mm glory.
Consider these your recs for the fall, which begs me ask—would a complete list/calendar of movies worth watching throughout the rest of the year be helpful? Let me know. ❥
Sean Baker’s ANORA was master class in argumentative chaos. A New Year’s eve screwball comedy and obvious Oscar contender. A simple story told very well, where my biggest criticism is the hype. That and the surfeit of “faggot” jokes...
In OH, CANADA Paul Schrader’s Late style and a seemingly bigger budget begets a rushed homage to Banks’s book that is as just as self indulgent as the book. But while the source material was a tortuous self identity, here it is a more sentimental look at the past. A rebuttal to documentary film where everything hinges on a Jacob Elordi’s jockstrap, a sort of rosebud. Best suited for only the Schrader’s staunchest fans.
THE QUIET ONES was a finely-tuned Danish heist movie with an extremely chiseled culprit.
HARVEST is a gorgeous, capacious, and timely myth—community, colonialism— in the “fight against modernity” vein that beholds more than just Malickian beauty.
Jason Schwartzman steals the show QUEER, a huge dud, even for Luca fans.
Best actress of the festival goes to Deragh Campbell, who does great work in MEASURES FOR A FUNERAL and MATT AND MARA, which might be my favorite of the festival.
I could not stand BABYGIRL and am reserving my opinions on this and the above for a longer essay.
I wrote briefly on NIGHTBITCH, THE LAST SHOWGIRL, THE SUBSTANCE and the trend aging actresses on film for Cultured.
Neo Sora’s visually striking, poignant coming of age HAPPYEND inconceivably melds genuine tenderness of coming age with the threat of future tech and the authoritarian state. As endearing as it is political.
Consider CAUGHT BY THE TIDES as proof that Jia Zhangke would make the perfect concert film or postmodern musical.
I spent much of the festival attending events surrounding this movie and wrote up this piece in Cultured about Jia and his protege, the Filipino director Rafael Manuel.
Eddie Huang arm-wrestles Proud Boys founder Gavin McInnes in VICE IS BROKE. I get the feeling Taiwanese American chef’s documentary is just the tip of the iceberg. Here’s to hoping more people come out and that Eddie gets restitution somehow.
Elizabeth Lo’s documentary MISTRESS DISPELLER is a fascinating look at a someone in the titular profession, hired to break apart a cheating husband and his paramour. She skillfully insinuate themselves into the couples' lives to gain trust and offer advice, blending the roles of best friend and therapist. Set against a backdrop of Puccini, French pop, and cups of tea, it coaxes out a sense of quiet ennui that runs to the cold and fast brashness of China’s capitalism.
Tim Robinson stars in FRIENDSHIP, an absurdist take on I Love You Man and a cavalcade of non-sequiturs that makes his genius and humor palatable to the uninitiated without losing respect of his most loyal fans. The funniest fucking thing I’ve seen in a long time, and just picked up by A24.
YOUNG WERTHER is perfectly breezy update on Goethe’s dark and stormy novel plays like literary indie sleaze.
I discovered that Henry Golding can’t carry a movie while watching DANIELLA FOREVER. The Colossal director Nacho Vigalondo once again once again chronicles toxic masculinity and channels inner rage into imaginative world building. Not a fan!
Same goes for Lily James, who can’t match Riz Ahmed in RELAY, a paranoid thriller that admirably films in real nyc locations (The Town Hall, dirty ol LES) and holds you closely in suspense, but too desperately aspires to be the 70s movies it admires (The Conversation, the Pakula trilogy).
Fat-paced cuts, whiplasing one liners pervade ICK, a chaotic, damning critique of society’s political apathy, which music-video auteur Joseph Kahn shapes brilliantly and sardonically with mess of emo punk songs. His deployment of a Plain White Tees song is both brutal and hilarious. (PSA: Watch Bodied asap!!)
Barry Keoghan also pokes fun at some iconic tunes in Andrea Arnold’s frantic BIRD, which mines much of the same territory as Fish Tank and American Honey. It is the second movie I saw after Friendship that involved a drug toad.
SHELL, Max Minghella’s lightly campy second, feature nods to De Palma, creature features, and even the erotic thriller—with Kate Hudson falling into the cadence of this glamorous femme fatale who is equal parts chummy and menacing to Elizabeth Olsen.
I found the THE GIRL WITH THE NEEDLE a bit too portentous as it tries to counter the unrelenting bleakness with beautiful images, and wallows in the miseries a little too winkingly. Nonetheless, a harsh truth about what happens when women's bodies are patrolled.
As I settled into the dark theater for my final film on Friday, I was ecstatic to hear Marc Maron's voice in THE ORDER, which is to paraphrase a friend, a dad movie par excellence.
First meal of the trip Florette (h/t to Shannon)
The start i’m told to tomato season up north. They were served with big buds of basil and labneh, a nice respite from the usual mozz.
Manilla clams with nduja butter were the a combination I didn’t know I needed. All the more tantalizing with fried curry leaves on top. There was almost one for every mollusk.
The pork chop “al pastor” was bathed in a beautiful adobo sauce, carrying the smoke of tortilla ash. But the meat was past tender and difficult to cut, which the staff made up for by pouring extra cava. It did not suit me the next day.
One dessert—a spelt chocolate tart—done really well.
The fried momos at Loga’s Corner hold no scent of fry oil. The thick doughy coats are more substantial than what’s inside, and I like it that way. Hot and sticky and every so often you get crunch of cumin. Thank you Kelly, for the rec. Extending the pleasures and trying not to burn my tongue, I read and write between bites until I chased away by the bellows of a louder talker seated behind me. I hope his trauma bonding was productive.
Apricot crostatas for breakfast at Forno Cultura, the SheWolf Bakery of Toronto except with physical storefronts. One morning I even ran into David, the curator and writer, who told me about it in the first place.
MUBI dinner and drinks this year at 416 Snack Bar. Abstained from having martinis with everyone because I had to see the Brutalist (and I don’t drink gin). I snagged tun handrolls, pork buns, cubes of general tso tofu, all handheld and were much better than any bar food has a right to be.
I met Saram who writes
at Gateau Ghost. Unsweetened black sesame latte, a first in my book. For sugar: the honey butter toast, a brick of laminated dough that tastes deliciously like a swollen palmier.On Brandon’s advice: Bernhardt’s, the place to be on a Thursday night and I suspect every night.
Triple cabbage salad, shredded green, fried napa, red in between, dressed in curry vinaigrette and cilantro sprigs.
Perfect rotisserie chicken. The buns threw me off. I refuse to assemble my own sandwich and eaten separately they were just as delicious. The fries are of the wedge variety—my only complaint.
For dessert: blueberry-vanilla swirl sundae with crisped cornflakes dotted with poppy seeds.
Bar Vendetta. Puttanesca with smoked green zebra tomatoes. A scoop of peanut butter gelato and blueberry sorbet, my attempt at PBNJ.
My biggest takeaway was that most places are eager to serve half portions for solo diners; and that these halves are more generous than a whole one at your average nyc restaurant. I wish I knew to ask for the off-menu ravioli. h/t Charlotte of
.Thank you to everyone who suggested somewhere to eat. I couldn’t go everywhere, but have everything saved. See you next year Toronto.
Which of Luca G.'s movies is Queer most comparable to? I read somewhere that it shares DNA with A Bigger Splash, which I saw for the first time this year and loved.
Deeply intrigued by the black sesame latte as I also don’t think I’ve ever had unsweetened black sesame either? can’t wait for the babygirl write up lolol