Horror, as a genre, has somewhat defined 2024 as a movie year. It seems every month some new thriller has come along, and every other week some new trailer drops for an upcoming horror film due to be released in a month or so. For all the handwringing people love to do about the lack of original filmmaking being pushed by mainstream Hollywood studios (handwringing from which I’ve not historically been exempt), the horror genre has been pumping out both franchise I.P. and strikingly original work left and right for the better part of a decade now. In fact, this year marks the 10th anniversary of the original poster child for the “elevated horror” canon: Jennifer Kent’s iconic psychological trauma film, The Babadook. (Luckily, in 2024, the term “elevated horror” has gone all but extinct.) In 2024 alone, Abigail, Longlegs, Alien: Romulus, Strange Darling, Cuckoo, Trap, Blink Twice, Immaculate, and MaXXXine all received large-scale theatrical releases, and only two of those films come from pre-existing material. However, while most of these aforementioned works may at least adequately represent 2024’s killer craze, almost none have felt as though they could truly define it, until now.
 
When horror enthusiasts look back on 2024, two films will ultimately stand as the most definitive of the movie year. The first is Longlegs, directed by Osgood Perkins, which drips in atmosphere and soaks in dread until its final images have long seeped into viewers’ collective memories. (A full review is forthcoming.) The other will be director Coralie Fargeat’s searing body horror takedown of beauty standards and female performance expectations, The Substance. The film follows Demi Moore as Elisabeth Sparkle, a once-lauded fitness media sensation who becomes increasingly obsolete in the eyes of the company for one very pointed reason: she’s aging out of their preferred business model, and out of collective audience memory. When the sleazy, slimy studio executive in charge (Dennis Quaid) decides to let her go without a second thought in the pursuit of someone “younger and hotter,” Elisabeth takes matters into her own hands, electing to try The Substance, a liquid compound that unlocks the DNA of its user, resulting in a younger, “hotter” of Elisabeth named Sue (Margaret Qualley). The only real catch? Both Elisabeth and Sue can only exist outside of each other for exactly seven days at a time, and must always remember that they are still one entity. As each begins to resent the other, the balance starts to spiral out of control, and Elisabeth/Sue are forced to confront the consequences of resisting the ultimate truth: you can’t escape from yourself.
 
When a movie has as much to say about its themes as The Substance does, it’s typically praised for the ways in which it can do so subtly, without making a big show of what the filmmaker’s thesis is, or being too obvious in its commentary. Not so with this one. In fact, so aggressive is director Coralie Fargeat’s messaging in The Substance that no one would ever mistake its loudness as anything but the very point it’s trying to make. What begins as a mere examination of beauty standards and the burden society places on women to age perfectly rather than gracefully (much less realistically) soon transforms into an all-out rage fit against the very idea of those standards, holding responsible the overtly patriarchal system holding the keys to the kingdom where the decisions get made about what those standards are. It’s an all-out scream, meant to be guttural, inescapable, a bracing attack on the self-loathing that society beats into women from a young age so that it sticks around as they get older that’s as boisterous and gross as the men within the film are allowed to be without a second thought.
 
This very idea is manifest in Demi Moore’s career-best performance, which simmers with a boiling grudge against the very system that makes women stars and then tells them to change everything about themselves in order to stay one. There’s a clear injection of personal experience into the character of Elisabeth from her end, as the character examines herself in the mirror, looking at by any measure an objectively beautiful, normal body, and can only seem to resent its aging process due to what Dennis Quaid’s “Harvey” (in a delightfully skeezy turn by the once venerated actor) and the system around her has beaten into her head. By contrast, her younger self, which Margaret Qualley has a ton of fun playing up to 11, is only resentful of her other body, which she fears and actively attempts to avoid returning to, once more due to the system’s treatment of how women age. The film takes advantage of every opportunity to remind the viewer exactly what it’s trying to say, often in manners even the toughest of body horror fans may find shockingly audacious.
 
Body horror, as a subgenre, is one I admittedly don’t have a lot of experience covering, but work of this quality is simply undeniable even if one has never seen a body horror film in their lifetime. The makeup work alone, were the Academy not practically allergic to the horror genre at this point, would be leading the awards season conversation in any just world. There are sequences featured in this film that make the elevator scene from The Shining look tame by comparison, as grotesque manifestations of female self-hatred are borne out of men’s needs for women to look and stay as perfect as they possibly can because the performances that cater to men’s desires are those that get rewarded. The physical craft of the film, from the makeup to the effects, to the score, to the sound design, is as loud as the themes found within, and yet never misses a step, such is the skill of a writer/director like Fargeat at the helm.
 
Even as the year has gone on, so many horror films have come and gone that have felt as though they simply wouldn’t leave a lasting impact on the genre, despite how fun or well-crafted they’ve been. But when I think about The Substance, when I consider all it has to offer to the body horror subgenre, and the risks it takes in casting off subtlety or gracefulness in favor of something bolder, meaner, more commanding, I’m left with the impression that it genuinely could fundamentally change the subgenre in some ways. Love it or hate it, there’s no denying its sheer power, and that power is something horror fans will be talking about for a long time to come.
 
I’m giving “The Substance” a 9.3/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

The U.S. prison system, though as ubiquitous to the American landscape as banks and baseball fields, suburbs and city centers, remains a touchy subject in many conversational circles. Centuries after the ratification of the 13th amendment in December of 1865, which continues to allow slavery be used as punishment for a crime, it can be easily understood that much of that system has become corrupted (just look at all the Black men still incarcerated for non-violent marijuana possession charges in states where its sale has since become legal); now, even those prisons which are not generally seen as corrupt are built with a specific design, not to rehabilitate or punish, but to beat or sap out of inmates the very things that make them human beings. Hell, even those facilities for which this design is not an explicit goal is not an explicit goal, by the way they are designed and run, manage to do this anyway. One such of these facilities is Sing Sing, a maximum security prison located in Ossining, New York, along the eastern bank of the Hudson River. According to Britannica, it is “one of the oldest penal institutions in the United States…especially notable for its harsh conditions in the 19th and 20th centuries.”
 
It is within the walls of Sing Sing that we find Divine G (Colman Domingo), incarcerated for a crime he did not commit, who finds purpose by writing for, acting in, and helping to run a small theatre troupe called RTA (inspired by the real-life Rehabilitation Through the Arts program) inside the prison. As the group is gearing up for their next production, a wary outsider called Divine Eye (Clarence Maclin) elects to join, and the troupe decides to stage their first original comedy – a time-traveling musical featuring Hamlet, cowboys, and Freddy Kreuger. What follows is a beautifully-told and profoundly moving story about humanity, the resilience of the spirit, and the transformative power of art.
 
There are a lot of great prison-set films that focus on the humanity of those most of society has already cast out as inhuman, Sing Sing only being the latest of them, but what sets this film apart from those, and indeed from any other film released this year, is how delicate and unassuming it is in its approach to this idea. There’s never a line of dialogue or showy moment to demonstrate the film’s larger point – that art is as essential to retaining humanity as humanity is to understanding art – but there is always an emphasis on the film’s refusal to see these inmates of Sing Sing as anything less than human artists, which is juxtaposed against an understanding of the oppressive structures within which this point can become easily lost. Most of the film is set within the rooms of Sing Sing prison, its cast constantly surrounded by walls, but even when the characters are outside, the camera never shoots them in close-up. The image is always wide, so that we continually see the walls that surround them even then, both literally and figuratively. During a clemency hearing, Divine G’s invitations to speak are met with skepticism and apathy, even interrupted by those interviewing him, who have not spent time with him as we do over the film’s one hour and forty-seven minutes; to us, however, he is not just another inmate, he is a playwright, and actor, and friend – his is the first face we see, and it’s in the film’s refusal to treat him as less than those things, to insist upon his innate humanity as it does with all its other characters, where director Greg Kwedar (who co-wrote the film’s beautiful script alongside Clint Bentley), finds the sensitive heart.
 
That heart is also supported by a beautiful score from Bryce Dessner, which is constant but never overbearing, always there to lift up the action but never overstepping so far as to direct its flow. In fact, the single issue I had with the film on the whole (and it’s really not even that big of an issue, all things considered), is that the film’s final moments are closed with a song, rather than pure sound or score. It’s the only time in the film that I felt a moment had a hint of manufacture, and it’s a testament to Dressner’s score that not one second of the film apart from that feels as though the music is driving how the audience is meant to feel at any given moment.
 
That feeling is determined by the outstanding performances from Kwedar’s ensemble of actors (including Sound of Metal’s Paul Raci as the play’s director), many of whom were formerly incarcerated at Sing Sing themselves – some even participants in the RTA program – but the standouts of which are Sean San José, Clarence ‘Divine Eye’ Maclin, and Colman Domingo. (The first two played themselves.) While José does get one great scene, though, it’s Maclin and Domingo in particular that are electric here, the former an immediate star whose participation in the film is not simply a testament to his acting ability given this is his first time acting in any film, but also to the film’s commitment to seeing the humanity in its characters. It’s not an especially showy performance, but it is perhaps the most lived-in of the year to date. The showier role – far from a pejorative in this context – belongs to Colman Domingo in the lead as Divine G. If last year’s Oscar race was any indication, Domingo simply needed a better script to get his performance to the front of the line for a win in the Best Actor category, and while the rest of awards season is sure to and while the rest of awards season is sure to bring out some heavy hitters, Sing Sing might just be exactly the right script for him at exactly the right time. It is through his eyes that we experience the journey of the film, and there’s nary a false note in his entire repertoire of choices.
 
That’s really the best part about Sing Sing; it insists upon the choices made not because they make the most sense cinematically, or even artistically, but because every choice re-emphasizes how profound the human ability to make choices is. All art is is choices, and there can be no true art without an emphasis on true humanity. There have been a number of great films released this year, even films with which I feel a particular kinship, that examine the human experience in a uniquely meaningful way (hello, other A24 movie I Saw the TV Glow), but Sing Sing is the first and only film so far that I would genuinely argue is an important watch for anyone and everyone who has a chance to see it. If we are to continue incarcerating human beings at the rate the United States enjoys, the very least we can do is attempt to see their humanity, manifest through artistic struggle, and hopefully, the walls of the oppressive structures that attempt to rob inmates of both of those things will eventually, finally crumble.
 
I’m giving “Sing Sing” a 9.8/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

Based on or inspired by the insane true story (it’s not immediately clear which), Strange Darling is the sophomore effort of writer and director JT Mollner, and stars Willa Fitzgerald as The Lady, a young woman for whom her own safety is top priority, who takes a chance on meeting a swell-seeming guy for a one night stand. At first, things appear amicable, but nothing is what it seems when this twisted get-together spirals out of control in a flash, and The Lady is forced to do whatever it takes to survive as she is ruthlessly pursued by The Demon (Kyle Gallner) across multiple states in one of the most deadly serial killer murder sprees in U.S. history. Shot entirely on 35mm film by producer and director of photography Giovanni Ribisi, and told in 6 distinct chapters in non-linear fashion, the film also stars Ed Begley Jr., Barbara Hershey, Steven Michael Quezada, Madisen Beaty, Bianca A. Santos, and Denise Grayson.
 
If I were to give readers one piece of advice when it comes to a film like this, apart from going in as blind as humanly possible, it would be to let go of the idea that one can figure this movie out before the next chapter begins. Given all the unexpected turns it has to offer, there’s little to discuss without spoiling, so if this review feels a tad vague, it is a deliberate choice. Whatever kind of serial killer movie one thinks this is at the start, or even further into it, well, it’s not that movie. That’s not to say that it doesn’t eventually find a more straightforward path as far as narrative is concerned, but the surprises in store for those whose grip on the “predictability” of movies like this is loosened are far and away some of the best any thriller this year has had to offer. As the cat-and-mouse chase between The Lady and The Demon plays out, it’s never clear where exactly the turns will come, or just where they’ll lead. As much as the film is lovingly informed by and pays tribute to the grindhouse horrors and slashers of old, it remains entirely undefinable by their usual tenets, comfortably sitting alongside them while forging a path all its own. In most films like it, the structural whiplash of flipping between chapters in non-linear fashion may seem like a crutch used to keep the narrative interesting without offering any real justification or depth, but for Strange Darling, that whiplash is not only a welcome tool used to piece the puzzle together, but the very mechanism by which the viewer learns that the film is, in fact, a puzzle.
 
But it’s not just the structured edit of the film that makes it such an impressively strong second effort for Wallner; in navigating the jigsaw pattern by which the film takes shape, the audience is also treated to two of the most exciting performances of the year to date between Fitzgerald’s Lady and Gallner’s Demon. The two characters could be perceived as one-note, arch ideas at first, the former for the risks women endure in public life, the latter for the literal manifestation of those risks, but Wallner is careful not to pigeonhole his actors, allowing Fitzgerald in particular to really strut her stuff through a range of different modes. To say anything further would be to spoil a film wherein even the lighter plot points I find myself dancing around so as not to ruin the experience, but suffice it so say, if awards bodies took horror performances more seriously, Fitzgerald’s work here, at the very least, merits a mention in the conversation.
 
Much of this film’s uniqueness may be attributed to the way the film is shot by actor Giovanni Ribisi, who also produced the film, and whose choice to shoot on 35mm feels purposeful rather than entirely stylistic, though style the film does employ to great effect. There’s something about the grainy textural look of the movie that offers a more robust sense of the danger all around our protagonist, much in the way that one can just tell something is off in older horror hits like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or films of the more unexpectedly brutal variety like Deliverance. Strange Darling is a far cry from either of those films narratively or even thematically, but tonally, the three share a distinct vibe of things being just a bit too eerie and stomach-churning, courtesy of an aesthetic that I can only describe as “grimy.” Perhaps the film itself is not exactly the most grotesque of its kind, but it fits well within that camp nonetheless.
 
Movies like Strange Darling come around so rarely, catapulting new voices in the world of cinema like those of JT Mollner to dynamic new heights with startling energy and exciting vigor; catching one this early, before Mollner becomes a household name, feels akin to discovering a great band right after their debut album. I can honestly say I haven’t seen a film like it in a very long time, and I doubt there will be another so uniquely positioned in this calendar year. Needless to say, I would encourage all readers, especially those that are fans of grindhouse horror and thrillers, to take a chance on seeing the film as soon as they are possible able. It feels like the beginning of a truly special era for Wallner and Co., and is bound to be one of this year’s great hidden gems.
 
I’m giving “Strange Darling” a 7.6/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

With their debut feature, We’re All Going to the World’s Fair, director Jane Schoenbrun burst onto the scene as a voice with a particular talent for examining gender dysphoria through coming-of-age horror, utilizing found footage and screen recordings a la Unfriended and Searching to explore how online spaces may exacerbate or further complicate the uncertainty of youth and our innate desire as human beings to belong to something…or somewhere. Hoping to pull off the hat trick a second time, Schoenbrun now has set their sights on the world of late-night 90s television in an effort to relay the experience of queer dysphoria primarily through the lens of trans identity using old-school, analog psychedelia as a means of telling their story. The central premise revolves around the relationship between Owen (Justice Smith) and Maddy (Brigette Lundy-Paine), who meet on an election night at the local high school. The two bond over their shared love for a late-night show called “The Pink Opaque,” which somewhat mirrors real-life hits like Goosebumps or Are You Afraid of the Dark? Over the next several years, both Owen and Maddy begin to feel that something about their lives isn’t quite right; stuck or suppressed, they know that whatever experiences they share through The Pink Opaque feel more real than reality itself – could it be more than just a tv show?
 
The plotting of this movie may occasionally feel static, the characters within not fully drawn while their respective personal journeys stretch too thin for comfort, but further examination of these elements’ relationship to the film’s themes reveal their deliberacy in being crafted this way. I Saw the TV Glow is not merely concerned with the idea of trans identity, but the with the journey of its inherent and often terrifying uncertainty, prior to its embrace or rejection by the individual wrestling with it. It is in this way that we come to connect with Owen as a character; because he doesn’t know who he is, we also don’t, and any queer individual will instantly recognize just what that feels like – to not really know if the real you is just a bug in the system, an idea that requires suppression because the truth is a terrifying antithesis to the reality you know. When we first meet Owen, he is a husk, a shell merely watching life play out on a tv screen; we witness his journey from boy to man between cut-ins of him sitting at a fire, recollecting what it was like to have lived as himself at all, attempting to examine his own repression, recalling how Maddy’s presence in his life has altered it in a way that terrifies him.
 
It is also in this way that Schoenbrun pleads with their audience to recognize the dangers of suppressing one’s true identity as a queer individual (in this film specifically, a trans individual); the melancholy that accompanies it leaves one in eternal night, a forever death that eventually subsumes all else, even as no one else can see it happening until it’s too late. To quote the film itself, “the longer you wait, the closer you get to suffocating.” Working at both a movie theater and the ironically-named “Fun Palace” where the only light sources are entirely artificial, Owen suffocates under the guise of living life how it “should” be lived; one of the quotes playing in the background film on display states that “machines now walk the Earth,” as Owen does. In refusing to let go of the life with which he is familiar, he becomes nothing more than a robot, a believer in the idea that even as he suppresses his true self, love will save him from the melancholy that plagues him, even as the viewer knows it won’t; it can’t – only though embracing his identity can it ever be conquered.
 
But as much as the film is a warning against the suppression of identity, it’s also a call to those people who feel this dysphoria to embrace the truth, even if it’s terrifying to confront one’s true self; “there is still time,” written in chalk on a suburb street, reminds us that though time moves quickly, one can be free of the “midnight realm” and defeat “Mr. Melancholy” through true self-actualization. As Owen walks down the hallways of his school during act one, the first sign he sees states “to thine own self be true,” the last “without courage no other virtues matter.” There is, of course, other signage on the walls, including one just down the hall from the last, but for Owen’s walk, these are not coincidental placements. Immediately after he turns down a different hallway, he is bathed in the light of the trans flag colors as they make up the stained glass in the windows. In the opening section of the film, prior to the title card coming on screen, Owen can be seen participating in a group activity with a gymnasium parachute which also features the colors of the trans flag; he is the only one to get up and walk around underneath it, in direct contrast to the previous idea of his being a husk stuck in “reality.” I feel here than Schoenbrun is asking their audience to walk around as themselves for a while, just to know what it looks like – at the very least, it’s better than being stuck in a world where suffocation and melancholy are the alternatives.
 
While the success of I Saw the TV Glow as a film is sure to vary from person to person, there is something entirely undeniable about its being; there’s no doubt this film comes from a very personal place, as it sees queer youth – specifically trans youth – through a lens that only a queer person really can. In one act two bar scene, the band Sloppy Jane performs their song “Claw Machine,” which features the lyric “I paint the ceiling black, so I don’t notice when my eyes are open.” If you have ever struggled as a queer person with your identity, you understand this lyric better than anyone. The confrontation of one’s true self is a terrifying thing; it can be so easy to just paint the ceiling black so one doesn’t even notice it anymore. Schoenbrun’s film is both an understanding of that temptation, and a plea not to follow it, with all the style and vision a story such as this would require. Queer cinema, horror cinema, and queer horror cinema have shown audiences a lot of ways to interpret identity dysphoria, but rarely has it been this clearly rendered. It’s an almost impossible feeling to apply language to, but suffice it to say, to bear witness to something that allows one to feel seen in this specific way – I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.
 
I’m giving “I Saw the TV Glow” a 9.8/10.
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

​The Friendly Film Fan Discusses A24’s Feature Adaptation of the Early 2010s YouTube Shorts.

Late in the year 2010 – October 16, to be exact – one video creator named Dean Fleischer-Camp uploaded to YouTube (and Vimeo) a short mockumentary-style film about a little mollusk shell named Marcel, who wore Tennis Shoes and was voiced by comic and future genre star Jenny Slate. Marcel used toenails as skis, wore lentils as hats, and drug around a piece of lint on string to have as a pet, with future openness towards having a dog join the family. The short, running 3 minutes and 22 seconds in total, quickly became a viral hit, and now sits at 32 million views. In fact, it was such a success that a second 4-minute short featuring the character was made and released one year later, with a third to follow three years after that. The two sequels didn’t quite garner as much attention as the original, however, dropping from 32 million to a rough final estimate of 11 million views for the immediate sequel, with the trilogy closer bowing out at a mere 4.6 million. Since October of 2014, Marcel the Shell has not appeared on any screens or in any other works apart from those shorts, until director Dean Fleischer-Camp dropped a feature-length adaptation/sequel to the shorts at the Telluride Film Festival in September of 2021. Its script was written by Fleischer-Camp, Jenny Slate, and Nick Paley, who all worked on the story with Elisabeth Holm. And perhaps most importantly, it was a hit. The feature was then quickly snatched up by indie powerhouse studio A24 and given a summer 2022 release, limited starting June 24, and gradually expanding in more markets until its nationwide release, which is due on July 15 of this year. Whether or not the box office will reflect people’s general nostalgia or interest in the property is anybody’s guess, but for movie fans, and especially for families, Marcel the Shell with Shoes On is likely to be one of their favorite summer experiences.
 
While there’s not much in the filmmaking itself to surprise, subvert, or challenge audiences in terms of sheer creativity, this new feature-length adaptation of Marcel the Shell with Shoes On is every bit as fun and funny as the shorts on which it is based. Jenny Slate once again excels as the titular character, her voice absolutely perfect for the sort of high-tone childlike comedy aspect of the film, but more than capable of selling its lower moments as well. And, of course, the mockumentary-style format is perfect for telling this sort of story in just this sort of way. As Marcel moves around the home, one can feel the ingenuity that went into crafting not just the character’s personality, but the ways in which his actions reflect that. (He’s also just as adorable as ever, so there’s that.) These are all things that worked before, and they work just as well – if not better – here.
 
What’s different this time around, what with the longer runtime and more room to breathe, is that the film is also full of aching, tugging, occasionally wrenching heart. The emotional undercurrent of Marcel’s journey to find his long-lost family after two years of separation sings with heft and gravity. There’s a pathos here about shell communities and how they came to be, and within that pathos lies an intimate story not only about Marcel seeking his literal family, but about filmmaker Dean Fleischer-Camp coming to grips with what’s become of his own. A24 has always been pretty good about using creative and outlandish stories to tell personal tales of grief, love, loss, pain, and all sorts of other things, but in Marcel, those personal tales are the driving force of the entire film. Marcel the Shell with Shoes On isn’t so much about the adventure aspect as it is about the reflection upon it – how long it can take, how impatient one can become, how frustrating it can be to feel so far from the goal line. Too few adventure films explore just how tiresome for their protagonists the adventure can really be, the toll it can take on whatever hope one began with, eventually leaving one resigned and burnt out. But that’s the thing about indie adventure stories, isn’t it? Whatever resignation the character feels, there is always hope that remains, and Marcel understands this without calling overt attention to it.
 
The one thing that can be said about Marcel in terms of having any flaws at all is that its technical presentation doesn’t do a lot to stand out from the shorts on which it’s based. In fact, the entire movie can sometimes feel as if it was constructed specifically for an online space, unlike another YouTube/comic sensation – Bo Burnham – whose movie Eighth Grade (also an A24 film) tackles the culture of the internet without ever feeling as if it may have been constructed via the internet. To that end, the filmmaking itself could have used a little more heft in terms of the ways in which some scenes are shot, but in keeping with the style of its source material, it does ground the viewer in a familiar setting, so it’s a drawback easily forgiven, and unlikely to bother anyone not actively attentive to those kinds of things.
 
In the end, there’s not a whole lot to say about Marcel’s latest adventure that hasn’t already been said and no corner of his world left unexplored by interested parties. Marcel the Shell with Shoes On may not be as poetic as Moonlight or as creative as Everything Everywhere All at Once, but it is every bit as worthy and reverent of the A24 logo in its opening credits as those are. (And truthfully, what movie can say the same thing about either of those other two?) This summer is chock full of huge releases from a lot of major players in the studio system, but it may be A24 who walks away the victor of the indie scene in 2022, what with that second mentioned film and this. Whatever the case, viewers would remiss to miss this one in the wake of the other three major releases this weekend. Sure, Marcel likely won’t blow your mind, but it’s more than worth whatever time you have to give it. What a lovely, heartwarming experience.
 
I’m giving “Marcel the Shell with Shoes On” an 8.2/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan

Cooper Raiff is moving up on independent film scene. On the one hand, many film aficionados consider him to be the next great auteur filmmaker, a true millennial’s version of a Richard Linklater with the writing sensibilities of Mike Mills. On the other hand, although many others do admit to admiring his efforts and seeing the work he does as beneficial to the scope of American popular movie culture, they also think the 25-year-old may be a little in over his head with his sophomore effort. Cha Cha Real Smooth, an AppleTV+ movie and bona fide Sundance sensation which sold to the service for $15 million in January, finds the Shithouse director operating at a larger level than with his debut (also a Sundance hit), operating with a higher budget and a more comprehensive story, if not a holistic one.
 
The charms of Cha Cha are simple, almost deceptively so if one’s eye isn’t trained to spot just what makes the movie so damn likeable, but nonetheless effective. Cooper Raiff’s charisma as lead character Andrew is simply undeniable as he navigates his character’s life post-college, wondering if he’ll go anywhere he actually wants to go or do anything that’s meaningful to him. He wanders around from space to space, never holding back anything in thought or practice, often to the warmth of others but occasionally to his own detriment. Early on in the film, he plans to follow his ex-girlfriend out to where she lives so he can be with her, despite not really seeming all that passionate about it. His post-school life, like many others’, has turned him into a wanderer with no real sense of what his purpose is, so he seeks it in other people, most evidently in his relationship to his younger brother. Conversely, Dakota Johnson’s Domino, a down-spirited mom with an autistic daughter, who seems to be holding so much inside with her husband absent on a case in Chicago, knows exactly what and who is most meaningful to her, and is at the point in her life where going where she wants would mean having to give part of her life up that she’s worked so hard to build and to foster as a purposeful thing. Spontaneity isn’t really in her vocabulary, nor is freedom from obligation. When the two meet at a bar mitzvah, the unlikely friendship they form feels as though the need between the two of them could blossom into something more meaningful for both, but Cha Cha isn’t especially interested in romancing you. Instead, it hopes to explore how love is far from as simple as falling into it, as much as one might want to. Wants can only take a human being so far before needs get in the way, and having the two collide for even a brief time is far more special than only ever having one or the other. Rather than being solely about finding purpose, the film also finds the beauty in releasing oneself of it.
 
As Andrew takes on a job as a party starter for the bar mitzvahs he attends (bar mitzvahs that Domino and her daughter also happen to be at, mostly), he takes on a second task, watching Lola – that’s Domino’s daughter – so that Domino can go out, be away, experience freedom not from obligations or responsibilities, but from purpose. Domino’s entire purpose to this point has been raising Lola, caring for Lola, ensuring Lola’s safety and happiness, so much so that she never seemed to think about doing the same things for herself. As Andrew and Lola (played by scene-stealer Vanessa Burghardt) become closer over time in one of the film’s sweetest subplots, Andrew too begins to feel closer to Domino, but that closeness isn’t reciprocated in quite the way Andrew may wish it to be, though Domino certainly isn’t averse to the closeness Andrew so clearly wants. But if Domino is the purpose Andrew seeks, it’s born of passion. Andrew being the escape from purpose that Domino needs and come to accept is born of love. This is what makes Cha Cha so special, beyond it simply being a more technically proficient film than Shithouse (it’s smoother, it feels more complete, the writing is that little bit better, etc.).
 
To understand the dichotomy between passion and love is not so much a challenge in practice as it is a tough thing to translate in storytelling. Writing that conflict with nuance so that no one seems the villain or the hero is such a difficult thing to do in moviemaking, especially when absent parties to the film’s main conflict – such as Domino’s husband – could so easily be made the villains or the ones our protagonist must overcome. The only thing there is to overcome in Andrew or Domino’s lives is their individual unwillingness to accept what they need unless they can get it from each other, and Cooper Raiff’s thoroughly nuanced script seems to understand near-perfectly that what each of them truly need is to pursue those needs of their own accord, not simply vicariously through other people.
 
Cha Cha Real Smooth may not be the strongest film of the year thus far or even the best thing AppleTV+ has ever put out, but it is proof positive that the service knows exactly what it’s doing when it comes to acquisitions and that Cooper Raiff – however one feels about this film as a follow-up to Shithouse – is certainly heading in the right direction as a filmmaker. Directionally, the film does sometimes get away from him a little bit, but the writing and performances bring it all back by the end. He has all the talent he needs to eventually become one of the indie greats, and the more tools he has at his disposal, the better. It’s fairly rare to see someone so in the spirit of Linklater continue to be more than simply a pale imitation of the Dazed and Confused scribe, and Raiff’s personal spin on the stories he tells is a record I want to keep on listening to for a little while longer.
 
I’m giving “Cha Cha Real Smooth” an 8.9/10
 
- The Friendly Film Fan