Good Boys follows a certain familiar formula to the letter, a crude coming of age comedy about a group of youths caught up in quirky hijinks as they attempt to attend a party. The formula is tweaked just enough, tracing the same ground but with tweens in place of the usual teenagers. Adhering to this formula can still work; Booksmart is one of the year’s best films, surprisingly poignant while managing the same level of absurd humor. Good Boys, unfortunately, wastes too much time exploring the same joke over and over again.

For the team behind Good Boys, it’s apparent that nothing is funnier than kids failing to understand the purpose of an object. This joke is repeated throughout with little variation; they discover a new sex toy and obliviously use it for some unintended purpose. It’s funny enough the first time but it wears thin by the end of the first act and continues until the final shot of the movie – a final shot which also happens to appear in the trailers. Crude humor can be fun, but the setup and punchline is always the same.

Throughout, I had difficulty believing Max, Lucas, and Thor as anything beyond caricatures. They speak with a certain flow that I can only believe as adult writers attempting to imitate children without ever speaking with any. Do preteens actually proudly refer to themselves as ‘tweens’ to differentiate themselves from children? That word always read to me as a marketing term more than anything else. Likewise, I don’t remember viewing the gap between 5th and 6th grade as some huge gap that proved my maturity. It’s a trope I’ve seen in shows like South Park, but that’s also a work that exaggerates those differences; Good Boys seems convinced that it is partly grounded in these matters. Enough small lines ring falsely enough that I couldn’t ever take these characters seriously.

Similarly, Thor’s parents seem to just leave sex toys lying around to be easily accessed. I can believe that, sure, but then I can’t really believe these kids are so ignorant that not one realizes the purpose of these toys. Not one of these boys has snuck a copy of Grand Theft Auto under their parent’s noses, or stayed up late to watch Adult Swim or South Park? I was their age when I watched my friends beat people up with sex toys in San Andreas – and I was one of those kids who didn’t say bad words out loud until the end of high school. This information has only become more accessible for these technologically connected kids. Even without knowing the specific purpose, they should at least have enough intuition to be discomforted.

In other words, the central premise of this movie is built around an idea of ‘tweens’ being far more ignorant than they are. The conflict is kicked off by an action that legitimately makes no sense at all, as the boys use a drone to spy on a neighbor simply to learn how to kiss. These neighbors even call them out for not just googling ‘kissing.’ They had literally already watched a porn video at this point, how am I supposed to believe their next step is to pull out a drone they know they shouldn’t touch? At least come up with some stupid excuse like the internet going down.

Despite all of this disconnect, I still had a reasonable enough amount of fun with this movie, especially when it escaped the trap of sex toy jokes. Both sets of college kids offer good bits to play off of; the trio treating Hannah and Lily as drug fiends is riotous, especially as it leads to a chase sequence, while a scene as the boys are coerced into visiting a frat house is one of the funniest this year.

It also does a fair enough job exploring some emotional depths as the boys fight with each other and are confronted with the fact that many young friendships are based more in convenience than actual similarity, though that is naturally saddled by the disconnect from these characters. The film never gets too caught up in these emotions, having fun with montages that suggest some grand change that is immediately undercut. It’s not much, but this film is so much better when it steps outside of prop gags.

To counter all these writing flaws, the three young leads actually do a great job pulling off their individual characters. They’re given a sometimes weak script but deliver their lines with perfect timing. It’s a strange case where the performances are more believable than the roles, which makes it easy to overlook the idiot ball being tossed around so recklessly.

Good Boys is a bit too familiar and much of the new ground it attempts to tread is brought down by the filmmakers not quite pinning down the age of their characters – their ignorance suggests characters far younger while several of their actions would be more fitting for teenagers. Writing convincing child characters is a difficult job, and Good Boys struggles like so many others before it. Despite this, the actual production is convincing enough that this can be an enjoyable experience for anyone looking for some crude fun – you just have to accept the characters are kind of amorphous so they can fit into a bunch of disparate scenes.

And, who knows, maybe the fact I watched Robot Chicken and played Grand Theft Auto when I was in sixth grade is some horrifying sign I had a broken childhood and my disconnect is entirely unique.

3 Stars Out of 5

Lulu Wang’s The Farewell offers up an immediately gripping premise and executes it flawlessly, tackling a heavy topic with both grace and levity. Young Chinese-American Billi, already struggling with accepting the fact that she has been rejected for a Fellowship, is devastated to learn that her grandmother back in China is dying of cancer and is baffled when she learns that her family intends to never tell Grandma Nai Nai. Instead, they are planning a fake wedding as an excuse to bring the family together so she can be blissfully ignorant in her final months. Billi is conflicted, stuck between worlds on so many levels.

Culture clash rests at the heart of this movie, with both sides offering up compelling arguments. What results is one of the most bittersweet experiences I have had with cinema. Every joyful moment Nai Nai experiences highlights the tragedy for the rest of the family. People break down in tears and are forced to mask their devastation as bliss to avoid suspicions. The film never tries to answer whether one option is better than the other, instead supplying reasons for Billi to go along with her family despite her disagreements. There’s no solid answer for grieving.

The emotional weight is flawlessly captured by Anna Franquesa Solano’s cinematography. The central figures are commonly framed with an expansive background, only a small piece of the full picture. Several shots are neatly arranged to feature the entire family, grandma crowded at the center while the younger cousin is often captured playing with electronics a few steps back.

Wang plays as much in the sonic landscape. The score is loaded with melancholic vocal pieces and striking strings. The music is allowed to overtake the scene at key moments, evoking emotions that can’t be expressed with diegetic sound.

The editing and transitions are key in balancing the humor and drama of the piece, bubbling turmoil cut down with mundane shots of Nai Nai going about her day. The Farewell draws out several of its shots, making great use of deep space to lessen the need for cutting as several characters manage to carry a conversation within the frame. The Farewell only cuts when it is required, capturing the aesthetics of the slow cinema movement without ever feeling slow itself. Between her visual composition and tackling of family dynamics, Lulu Wang has really captured what makes Hirokazu Kore-eda’s works so compelling.

The dire concept is balanced with Nai Nai’s charm. Free of the knowledge of her death, she’s happy to act as her usual self. The way she speaks to Billi seems a bit callous until it’s clear Billi is happy to go along. Nai Nai is granted a certain bluntness in how she speaks with others, which helps raise the tension (and comedy) when she’s so quick to point out that everyone looks sad.

This is an ensemble piece and the performances are largely phenomenal. Awkwafina captures the air of a young woman lost with a sense of aimlessness, seemingly the black sheep in her family. The quiet tension in her gaze as she reluctantly plays along says so much. Nai Nai can only be as charming as her actress, and Zhao Shuzhen does wonders. Even the less central figures get their moments to shine, such as Diana Lin as Billi’s mother who can’t hide the distance she feels with the family she married into. Chen Han and Aoi Mizuhara are given little dialogue as the ‘engaged’ couple, but both say so much with that silence. Chen Han spends most of the film bawling his eyes out, as if being so central in the sham gives him the most freedom to express emotionally what he can’t say with words. Aoi’s Aiko appears dazed, unable to communicate with almost anyone due to a language barrier and likely overwhelmed with the scenario.

If this is not the best movie of 2019, it will only be because this year will have graced us with two true masterpieces. Matching a powerful theme with stellar artistry and a wonderful cast, The Farewell is a prime example of how to do drama properly. It’s not as simple as telling a compelling story, but reinforcing it from every angle. The concept, theme, technique, performances, everything works in perfect harmony to craft an emotionally riveting experience. Though this is not a long film, every image and every moment is so densely packed that it offers an endless supply to ponder over. To be brought into another’s view of the world and learn so much while also being thoroughly engaged, The Farewell is a perfect example of why movies are a perfect art form for capturing emotional truths that can’t be expressed in words.

5 Stars Out of 5

Richard Linklater’s latest work follows Bernadette Fox, a neurotic architect pushed to the breaking point when her daughter Bee suggests they go on a family trip to Antarctica over winter break. She spars with a nosy neighbor and hoards pills while ranting about her anxieties to an unseen personal assistant over email. All attempts to help form her husband Elgin are soundly ignored.

Everything about Where’d You Go, Bernadette suggests this should be a quirky experience. Antarctic trips, a bizarre estate, snobby rival parents, and a singular lead are all the right ingredients, yet every artistic choice seems designed to reduce these elements to the slightly mundane. Bernadette borders on lifeless, squandering its eccentricities while likewise failing to settle on a clear message – all of which is amplified when the film attempts to throw in some shocking turns that really don’t go anywhere.

Cate Blanchett is the one high note of this film as Bernadette; she fully embodies this character with a wonderful display of introversion and sometimes raving hysteria. She has a commanding presence that dominates the screen – which would be more compelling if the other actors didn’t appear to merely fold over while in her presence. Billy Crudup feels especially underwhelming as Elgin, his eyes darting around like an embarrassed teenager during at least one key conflict. Several of his lines feel rushed or wooden, and I wonder how many takes they shot to settle on what ended up in the final product. Kristen Wiig and Zoe Chao are cast as stereotypical gossip moms, a cliche that offers little room for nuance in their performances. It’s difficult to take the larger-than-life Bernadette seriously when everyone that surrounds her feels so underdeveloped. Who wouldn’t turn into a neurotic mess while surrounded by these bland cutouts?

The dip in quality anytime other characters are alone on screen is palpable. What I’m imagining were intended to be heartfelt moments between father and daughter as they search for a missing mother instead carry all the weight of an after school special. Their poor acting is paired with a nauseatingly saccharine score, the type of light music you could imagine a church pianist chiming in with during opening prayer to signal that something important is being said.

What doesn’t help these late discussions is that the film juxtaposes their search with scenes of Bernadette doing just fine on her own. It’s difficult to care about Elgin and Bee’s panic when we know they have no need. This ending is especially difficult because the opposite also wouldn’t have worked – the film is too centered around Bernadette that it couldn’t simply cut her presence out for the final act.

Even the visual elements feel unbalanced. Shots of nature and the house lend an air of gravity, yet the actual scenes between characters have such basic presentation. With the aforementioned score, the film teeters dangerously close to feeling like a soap opera – made worse when combined with the half-hearted attempts at quirk.

It’s honestly hard to understand how a movie with all these disparate elements falls so flat. The secondary actors aren’t incapable – they have plenty of better performances to prove otherwise. Director Richard Linklater has made three films that feature regularly in my all-time top 100, so it seems similarly unlikely that the blame falls squarely on his shoulders. His best works have a meditative quality, so it makes sense that he would have connected with the deeply troubled Bernadette. Yet he stumbles anytime he has to get out of that character’s head, which is particularly surprising considering his best work consists of finding meaning in the smallest of moments.

Where’d You Go, Bernadette is an unsure, tonal mess buoyed by a strong Cate Blanchett. It’s the type of work that feels just off in nearly every category. It can be fun in its moments, but any grander purpose is muted by odd choices, some of which are so questionable I legitimately had to stifle laughter near the climax due to how poorly it managed emotional weight.

2 Stars Out of 5

The Art of Self-Defense has been one of the tougher films for me to crack. There’s something insidious about its presentation, a dizzying dive into toxic masculinity that pushes so hard into black comedy that it borders on surreal horror. In 2019 and most of cinema it seems entirely singular – but there is one specific classic that it mimics so closely that it feels imitative.

Accountant Casey Davies joins a karate dojo after being assaulted by a gang of bikers. What starts as a mere riff on his social awkwardness as he gets in over his head transforms into something else entirely as the dojo master, a white man who goes only by Sensei, takes him on as a pet project. Casey soon begins to define himself entirely by his place within the structure of this karate system. Jesse Eisenberg is in fine form as Casey, though he’s not exactly breaking new territory as an emasculated nerd.

What sells The Art of Self-Defense is how matter-of-factly it sells the absurdity. The characters operate within a certain brand of nightmare logic but go about their actions plainly. Violence runs rampant with little to no consequences. The whole experience is as if we’re watching modern people role play a martial arts film, engaging in battles of honor and masculinity after a day at the office. It’s altogether uncanny; the presentation suggests a familiar world yet the narrative is so alienating.

On its own, The Art of Self-Defense could have been a truly mesmerizing work. However, I figured out exactly what it was doing with nearly all of its plot beats well before anything really happened – not necessarily because it was playing its hand too openly but because of how obviously it was playing from the same book as that other film.

The Art of Self-Defense is Fight Club for a generation that can now immediately summarize all the concepts at play with the phrase ‘toxic masculinity.’ The flaw of Self-Defense is that it speaks in that language. We are always put on the outside of Casey’s story – these figures are meant to be ridiculed from their first appearance.

Fight Club worked because it recognized how inescapable these ideas are in certain men. It resonated due to how intimately it captured the experience of a man lost to that system, to the point that some fail to recognize it as a critique since it so perfectly captures their own experience with masculine expectations. With The Art of Self-Defense, it’s all too easy to view oneself as above any of the characters. They exist solely to be mocked.

Ultimately, I’m not certain what this film is actually saying. It goes through the motions of black comedy so well that I almost mistook the atmosphere for meaningful social commentary. Obviously, toxic masculinity is a real issue – perhaps the flaw is Imogen Poots as Anna, who is a wonderful character on her own but her presence blurs the message. Anna is as caught up in the system and, though the film makes sure to highlight some mistreatment on account of her gender, she seems just as devoted to all the same toxic behaviors as the rest.

I’m breaking the film down this way not because I think it is a bad film but quite the opposite – this is a work that borders on greatness and I feel the need to explain why it doesn’t quite land. Its atmospheric mastery created one of the most spellbinding experiences I’ve had at the movies this year, and the screenplay is comparably uproarious. This movie hits far harder than I expected.

As such, I would easily recommend The Art of Self-Defense. If you can get past the gripes I had, I can easily imagine this being among some people’s favorite films for the year. Riley Stearns certainly appears to be a director to keep our eyes on.

3.5 Stars Out of 5