Austin Film Festival 2019

AFF 2019: The Unending Pursuit of Justice

March 26, 2020 by be5355

by Arvind Ashok

The protagonists in each of the three films I saw at this year’s Austin Film Festival — Scott Z. Burns’ The Report, Mitko Panov’s The Witness, and Daniel Destin Cretton’s Just Mercy — capture an earnest and dogged pursuit of justice, a compelling characteristic in a time where depictions of honest, moral public servants in media like The West Wing and All the President’s Men seem dated and in need of an update.

In The Witness, Vince Harrington, a young and idealistic Hague employee, ventures to Macedonia to find the reclusive and aging Nikola Radin, who is needed as a witness to convict a notorious war criminal. His journey is marred by a hostile government intent on not letting Radin testify. Then there’s the problem of Radin himself, who the film portrays as living in an isolated area with his young adult daughter.

Many individual elements of the film are sufficient to spark intrigue, but it suffers from tonal and thematic disjunctions that dull its impact. The film establishes a charming mentor-mentee rapport between Harrington and a senior judge at the Hague, leading one to believe that the film will focus on Harrington changing her ready-to-give-up attitude by finding Radin and proving the value of legal institutions. However, the film quickly throws this relationship away and turns into a middling action movie, complete with two companions the government assigns to Harrington that oscillate between idiotic and vaguely threating. Then, as Harrington tears off on his own to find Radin and escape with him and his daughter (a character who receives minimal development), the film shifts again, turning into an array of top shots and extreme long shots of a melancholic natural landscape. The characters frequently appear in silhouettes as they journey through the woods, especially as they rest in a cave. Panov, in these shots, seems to want the film to be a quiet and reflective journey about what bringing justice to war criminal entails.

As darkness and wilderness consume the frame, the film evokes a sense of how survivalist conditions — in war and in nature — work to decay moral reasoning and promote a loss of self. However, this theme never fully develops, and it’s unclear if there’s a coherent message about justice Harrington or the audience can gain from his experience.

Unlike the mixed messages The Witness sends on its lead’s persistent idealism, The Report leans into it full force. Adam Driver — a hot commodity at the moment, appearing in Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story and Star Wars — delivers a superb performance as Daniel Jones, an employee of Senator Diane Feinstein tasked with compiling a report on the torture carried out post 9/11 by the Bush Administration. Driver channels the steely resolve of Dustin Hoffman’s Carl Bernstein and dials it up with a domineering physicality and impassioned arguments against the effectiveness of torture.

As a rare Driver skeptic, I found him phenomenal in this role. So much of the movie is him arguing with Senator Feinstein and various CIA-adjacent operatives, and yet it never fails to be riveting because of how convincingly the film portrays Jones as a man working with seemingly the entire government as an obstacle.

The film provides nothing too visually engaging, but the direction is functional; Each of the film’s conversations — and there are many — play as a power struggle anchored by close-ups of Driver’s sullen and determined face. In Senate hearings, we look up at the Senators elevated in their chairs. The hero, it is implied, is oversight and accountability peering down. The settings remain sparse and maintain a government meeting-room sterility, which evokes a sense of paranoia and secrecy throughout the film. Much of the film takes place in enclosures, especially the windowless CIA room where Jones is left for many years to comb through records of “enhanced interrogation” on a computer. Jones is frequently boxed in visually by the furtive spaces he inhabits (no doubt a representation of the constricting arm of the CIA seeking to protect its reputation), but paper, the thing he retorts “helps us keep track of laws” after being told by a CIA employee that paper tends to lead to trouble, is his ally and shield.

Another simple but effective visual element is the film’s use of light, which shines especially brightly on one of the film’s authority figures in a key moment, reminding them of their responsibility to “shed light on” the harm caused by past mistakes.

The film’s depiction of torture, however, grows tiresome. The inexperienced psychologists responsible for selling enhanced interrogation are portrayed as macho, greedy goons, and while the characterization may be true, the film wastes far too much time flashing back to them selling and executing torture techniques. An inevitable comparison point here is Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty, an acclaimed but controversial film that The Report directly calls out for advancing a false narrative about the utility of torture in killing Osama Bin Laden. Unlike Bigelow’s film, The Report isn’t concerned with lingering on the guilt and pain associated with the act of torture. It plays loud metal music over the torture scenes, meant to mirror the loud music detainees were subjected to, but this only helps depersonalize the affair. Despite Zero Dark Thirty’s allegedly pro-torture stance, the handheld camera in its torture scenes and the ways in which the viewer is forced to identify with the torturer taking prolonged looks at the victim invite a reckoning with the moral costs associated. In The Report, no such self-reflection is invited: anonymized victims are merely subjected to cruel acts, and we move on. The differences in depictions of torture is emblematic of the differences in the two films, which should no doubt be viewed as companion pieces featuring similarly uncompromising protagonists working towards very different goals. The Report has a clear idea of who the good guys and bad guys are, and is so intent on proving it that it never lets us see too much of its character’s interiority. Zero Dark Thirty, meanwhile, probes Maya’s internal state thoroughly but skimps on facts. Despite perhaps being more concerned with telling a political story than being morally testing cinema, The Report accomplishes the tasks of education and entertainment very well, providing a main character that is downright inspiring in his fiery quest to see the truth be told.

*Just Mercy* (dir. Destin Daniel Cretton)

Just Mercy features esteemed lawyer Bryan Stevenson on a similar quest for truth played by Michael B. Jordan, who phones in much of his performance. The emotional beats of the story are familiar but powerful: Stevenson arrives in Alabama to help Walter McMillan, a wrongfully convicted man brilliantly played by Jamie Foxx, get off death row.

Despite the generic feel of both the script and the direction, the moving nature of the actual story grounds the success of the film. The evidence behind McMillan’s conviction is so obviously terrible that one would accuse the film of a lack of nuance if were purely fictional, but since it isn’t, a pervasive sense of injustice abounds throughout. The scenes inside the prison housing McMillan and other death row prisoners are particularly affecting, as the film often shows them in close-ups, obscured from full visibility to each other and the audience by prison walls. Despite being filled with platitudes like “we can change this world for the better,” Just Mercy manages to be worthwhile just based on the emotions etched into Jamie Foxx’s face during these scenes alone.

AFF 2019: Modern and Classic Cinema

March 26, 2020 by be5355

by Will Shute

I’ve never been to a film festival before the 2019 Austin Film Festival. Based on what I’ve heard about film festivals, I think I got the full experience. I saw more than my share of movies in a single week. In order, I saw Cows with No Name, half of A Portrait of a Lady on Fire (until the projector broke and they stopped the screening), The Two Popes, A Hidden Life, Treasure Trouble, Waves, and Marriage Story. While I really liked The Two Popes and what I saw of A Portrait of a Lady on Fire, the two movies I left with the strongest impressions of were hands down Waves and Marriage Story. Both movies handle different concepts of family from two varied perspectives and styles. While both movies are about a fracturing of a family, and the attempts to keep them together, Waves is more focused on the drama of the event that causes the fracturing, while Marriage Story’s fracturing event takes place off screen before the movie even starts. Stylistically the two could not be more different, while Waves bathes (pun intended) in modernity, Marriage Story is more classical in form.

For the lack of any other way to say it, Waves is probably the most movie I’ve seen in a movie in a while. This movie moves at a mile a minute, with constant, never ending engagement and sensation. While never boring, Waves proves utterly exhausting by its conclusion. The film’s frequent and unique edits, abstract color imagery, intense usage of music from beginning to end, and unexpected story beats works in making Waves feel like a unique experience from beginning to end, all making it feel particularly modern. This modern presentation represents the contemporary age that the youthful characters inhabit, making them blend seamlessly into each other.

The sound design in Waves is spectacularly motivated, something that many films overlook. There are moments where a sound will begin, which the film effortlessly justifies the sound diegetically. There is a moment where a song starts playing, and then the background track of the song is revealed to actually be the sound of MRI machine that a character enters in the next scene, which is also then used as a background track for another song in the next scene. This demonstrates the connected nature of these events in the story through the discordant sound of the MRI machine.

Another less “showy” example of this is a scene in a car where two characters are arguing, and as they are arguing you start hearing an annoying beeping sound, which gets louder as the lead ignores it until he gets frustrated with it and puts on his seatbelt. The attention to the blending of diegetic and nondiegetic sound design and motivation of the sound both emotionally and logically in its presentation was something I found enthralling.

I was not a fan, however, of the constantly shifting aspect ratio. In general, I don’t enjoy when a director uses aspect ratio shifting as a gimmick, as this device has become increasingly common in modern films as they reflect on the medium of film. While after some mental adjustments I didn’t mind the aspect ratio changes in the first half, most all of the aspect ratio changes in the second half felt a lot less motivated and just started annoying me. Still, Waves is a very tender, personal film that really left an impact on me.

On the other side formally from the modernity of Waves exists Marriage Story. Just to set the stage, Marriage Story is a fantastic movie, probably one of the better scripts I’ve seen this year, with every detail of the characters blending together into what just feels like a cohesive portrait of two flawed and yet understandable people. This focus on the realistically small minute details of these characters is benefitted through the much more classical form of film. Very few times does Marriage Story call attention to its own form, and nowhere near how Waves does.

Marriage Story formally has nods to theatre stylistically. There are several scenes that end with the subjects in the foreground’s lights going off and then the background lights dimming down, much as in theater productions. This connects with a stylistic choice of the subtle difference of how writer/director Noah Baumbach presents the two locations of the film: New York and Los Angeles. New York is seen as a colder place, with more theatrical elements being used to tell the story with little to no camera movements, while Los Angeles is warmer and presented with more camera movements, and cinematic moments.

The jewel of Marriage Story is, hands down, the writing, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the writing in this film. The movie starts by being adorable and funny, and Immediately establishes why you should care about the characters, and then sets up what the conflict is and relishes in it. From the wonderfully handled conflicts to a shockingly powerful musical performance, the movie always seems to be working in favor of itself and its goals—something I consider a rare feat.

I saw such a wide variety of films at this festival, from a documentary about family drama, to a family drama during Nazi occupation, to a family drama about growing up, and a family drama about divorce. Waves and Marriage Story left me with so much to think about in the separation of their forms. The different approaches to similar themes and ideas really represent what each film was working towards accomplishing, which they both did. Waves was the most engaging and emotionally draining film I saw at the festival, with emotions and active participation being a key part of my enjoyment of it, while Marriage Story hasn’t been able to leave my active consciousness since I’ve seen it, with some lines and moments haunting me ever since. These two vastly different viewing experiences defined my festival experience. I’m very thankful for the opportunities to see these at the festival, which has been a highlight of my time at this school.

AFF 2019: Forgiveness on Film

March 26, 2020 by be5355

by Sindhu Raju

I enjoyed four films during Austin Film Festival: Macabre, Waves, The Truth, and Honey Boy, ranked in that order not in their liking, but rather in their viewing. It was through this film-filled experience that I got a glimpse of what film viewing is like outside of my typical Avengers binge or rom-com watch party. It is with an analytical, more patient lens that I bring to my reviews of these four films.

The theme I found most intrinsic to this selection of four films is forgiveness: specifically, how do we forgive, or should we even forgive? Excepting Macabre, the other three features each take a piece of the forgiveness timeline: initial response, acclimation, and acceptance. Waves, in its jarring response to the son’s deed, enforces how the family reacts in their assumed duty to forgive kin. The mantra behind their forgiveness is that the power of love overcomes hate – words spoken by a preacher in the film. Next, we see forgiveness as acclimation with the star of Honey Boy, as he grapples with continuously forgiving his acerbic father’s treatment and the entering and reentering loops of dislike and love towards this chilling figure. The last of this trio, The Truth, explores how a daughter grapples with forgiving several of her mother’s behaviors: sugarcoating their relationship in her autobiography, allegedly, supposedly, or ambiguously causing the death of a rival actress (it was never clear), and not being emotionally available. This trio of films encapsulate the stages of forgiveness, specifically within the muddy, murky relationships of family.

Macabre, a film unlike the aforementioned three, was not my favorite movie of the four I saw. The film is not a tale of forgiveness, but rather a story in which a character moves far away from empathy, and it did not address a direct family. Macabre stuck out to me because it was the most “festival” of the films I saw that week. It was the most out there, the most unexpected, and had the greatest antithesis to the trio – it was a film not about forgiveness, but of how the protagonist journeyed away from consideration to bloodlust.

If I described Waves in one word it would by sensory, or perhaps, synesthesia. I was quite impressed by the creativity in which Trey Edward Shults, the director, communicated intensity to the audience. For example, the beginning sequence of the film involved constant sound, an almost whirlpool-like nausea of camera movements, and saturated colors to instill the main character’s inner chaos. This telling through the senses – specifically sound and sight – was a key takeaway for me.

Shults’ directorial choice to inundate the first half of the film with frontality, focusing in on the to-be one to be forgiven, inspired me to watch and interpret the director’s intent beyond what is plainly shown on the screen. Movies like these that push a viewer to not sit passive but to rather interpret the symbols, Easter eggs, and clues, are what I have come to enjoy through this class. As for the thesis of the film, it was very clearly stated through the pastor – love shall overpower hatred – restated in the conversation between father and daughter. That is how we justify forgiveness. I would most certainly recommend this film if not only for its gripping, raw storyline, then for its artful technique.

Honey Boy argues that we should forgive family because they are our reality. In the movie, normalized, absurd actions between father and son such as juggling socks or comparing urine sounds shock the audience into realizing that they are a stranger to the protagonist’s world: what makes perfect sense to him does not feel sound to us. Thus, we see forgiveness as a necessity to his world, acclimation as a tool for survival. Although I did not feel such a deep theme resonating throughout the film, I would still recommend it given its strong character performance and raw depiction given by Shia LaBoeuf.

In the final film of this family trio, The Truth, we see how memories and past feelings can be rewritten to make room for forgiveness. For example, even though we see Lumir reconnect with various grievances from her mother – her emotional unavailability, her possible hand in another actresses’ death, the faulty mother-daughter relationship described in her autobiography – the movie ends on a rather positive note: an attempt at emotional connection between the mother and daughter. By ending the film on such a whimsical interaction, the director (Hirokazu Kore-eda, of Shoplifters fame) keys us into a common thread in many familial relationships: the necessity to let bygones be bygones to move forward, and the rewriting of past memories, if not emotions, to move past one another’s faults. As far as my recommendation goes, I would tell those who haven’t seen Shoplifters to go and watch that instead. And to those who have seen that marvelous film, I would advise them to stick to it.

In looking at Macabre, we see how an individual (a detective) transforms from trying to understand a murderer, to not showing any potential for forgiveness at the end, and ultimately ruthlessly killing the force he was once trying to empathize with. A line that guided my interpretation of the movie was delivered from the head officer to our protagonist: “catch him, then understand him.” At first our protagonist rejects the request, but at the film’s end we see him shoot the murderer, fulfilling this prophecy.

The transformation of the main character is what I think truly sets Macabre apart from the rest. Up until this point, our protagonist was constantly trying to understand the murderer he was chasing after rather than shooting first. Although the killer would brutally and bloodily display the victims, our detective repeatedly declared that the motive must be justly understood. Ultimately, it came down to the murderer’s targeting of the detective’s most loved ones in the community – first his acting mother and then ultimately the mother of his child, that set the detective on a panicked rampage to find the killer. I find this examination in a change of values, or maybe more specifically a reconditioning of morals to fit one’s emotions rather than one’s rationality, that interests me more than the groundings of the other films.

However, Macabre’s film techniques are lacking, and they seem rather overdone or forced. For example, the film continuously had shots that focused solely on the imposing mountains, frankly to invite a sense of imposing power and fear, but the continuous referral felt repetitious. In comparison to films such as Happy as Lazzaro that more artfully gave the natural landscape character, Macabre overplayed this element. Additionally, although the film did successfully fulfill its namesake – with macabre visuals of blood, and intestinal remakes of victims, as well as marvelous imagery of sudden deaths – I found much of this to be extreme and not helpful in furthering the greater strength of the film, which I considered to be the moral confusion of the protagonist.

I would recommend Macabre only to those movie-goers who enjoy a challenge. To those film lovers who will watch film purely for the sake of its interpretation, Macabre and its ambiguous nuance might be perfect for those craving uncertainty.

AFF 2019: Showing the Human Behind the Criminal Act

March 26, 2020 by be5355

by Danielle Nwosa

Last Week at Ed’s, Just Mercy, and Waves are films I saw at the 26^th annual Austin Film Festival. Though they are seemingly unrelated at the surface, they all share the desire humanizing people who have committed crimes, a theme most prominent in Waves. These films feature diverse voices and ideas, but at their core they seek to depict honest stories about the human experience, regardless of an individual’s status as good, evil, guilty, innocent, or somewhere in between.

Lawrence and Meg Kasdan’s film Last Week at Ed’s was a relatively short but moving documentary about the final days of Ed’s Coffee Shop in West Hollywood, a beloved spot for inexpensive food and great company. The cinematic techniques employed by the Kasdans are simple but sufficient, allowing the viewer to focus on the true story of this documentary. Most shots are either an establishing shot of the outside of the diner or handheld footage on the inside. Over the course of the film, the viewer quickly becomes attached to Ada Blumstein, who took over the diner after her parents passed, and her dedication to her customers.

*Last Week at Ed’s* (dir. Lawrence and Meg Kasdan)

We also become acquainted with the diner’s regulars, who come from all walks of life but find unity in their love for Ed’s and the community they’ve built there. We learn that a number of them were recovering addicts, and have found great comfort in the support provided by Ada and her parents over the years. As she lovingly speaks about some of the diner’s many casts of characters, the shot alternates from an “interview style,” medium-close shot of Ada to footage of her interacting with said customers on a regular day. Through this aspect of the documentary, the viewer is able to meet people and learn about their life stories without judgement. In the past, Ada has even gone as far as to allow them to host their AA meetings or support groups in the diner after they closed for the day. Last Week at Ed’s allowed former drug and alcohol addicts, that could easily be looked down on by society because of their struggles with substance abuse, to be depicted simply as people trying their best. The viewer feels their heartbreak as they say goodbye to Ada and Ed’s on the day of its closing, because we too have developed an emotional connection to the diner, its customers, and all that it represents.

Just Mercy (directed by Destin Daniel Cretton) is a feature film based on the true story of Walter “Johnny D.” McMillian (Jamie Foxx), who was wrongly convicted of murder and sentenced to death in 1988, and his lawyer Bryan Stevenson (Michael B. Jordan). In the film, Jordan portrays Stevenson’s dedication to serving as a voice for the voiceless and commitment to criminal justice. While the film is centered on the story of McMillian, we also get to know some of his fellow inmates that Stevenson is also representing. One of whom is Herbert Richardson (Rob Morgan), a war veteran on death row. Richardson was sentenced to the death penalty after he created a bomb that killed a young girl. His heinous crime suggest that he is the least deserving of mercy. However, the film portrays his chronic PTSD and close relationship with McMillian in a manner that conveys there is more to the man than his crime. Richardson’s storyline culminates in his execution by the electric chair, a horrific death that is harrowingly depicted.

The film’s formal decisions were not particularly memorable in comparison to the story of the McMillian and Stevenson. However, in the scene depicting Richardson’s death, Cretton effectively uses sound to draw the viewer into an event few witness in person. The hopeful, old church hymn Richardson selects as his execution music hemorrhages into the shots of him being prepared for his execution, praying with Stevenson before he is taken to the electric chair, and during his procession to the execution room. Moreover, the clamorous noise of the inmates running their metal cups along the bars of their cell doors to remind Richardson that they are with him echoes into the execution room and heightens the emotion of this tense moment. His life and death stay with viewers for the rest of the film as we find ourselves rooting for Stevenson and McMillian in their pursuit of justice. After experiencing one wrongful death by execution, another is painfully unbearable. Although Richardson was a convicted criminal with the suit to match, Just Mercy allows the viewer to sympathize with his situation.

The anchor film in this exploration of the reoccurring theme of humanizing criminals is Trey Edward Shults’ Waves. The film is a beautiful depiction of a modern-day, Black family navigating life, love, and its unexpected challenges. Waves is uniquely structured in two parts with the first focusing on the family’s older son Tyler (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) and the second on their younger daughter Emily (Taylor Russell). Starting in the beginning of the film, the camera takes on a distinct presence through its 360 degree revolution around Tyler in his everyday life, from being out with his girlfriend to training with his high school’s weightlifting team. The sound of loud, unintelligible music also hemorrhages in and out of the opening scenes. The camera movement and use of sound here form the visual vernacular of the film, and are successful in allowing the viewer to step into the character’s world and see things as they do. This point was emphasized by Shults in the film’s talk back after its AFF screening, and is further depicted in the difference between the rowdy and electric first half about Tyler versus the slower, more reflective second half about Emily.

Through Tyler’s storyline in Waves, we see a young man lose everything that defines him and young love that end in disaster. The unfortunate situation that leads to Tyler’s unintentional, egregious murder of Alexis (Alexa Demie) and their unborn child is difficult to watch and his subsequent guilty sentence to life in prison shatters his family. Because the film’s climax is preceded by the viewer watching a sweet love grow tumultuous and a successful family facing strain, we don’t see Tyler as the monster the rest of his community believes him to be. From the close-up on Tyler in a red wash of color as he is speeding in his father’s truck before the incident to the long shot of him sitting alone in the prison cafeteria after his sentence, we witness his fleeting rise and fall. Waves allows us to experience the entirety of Tyler’s story in a world where only its tragic ending would be plastered in the news. Thus, Tyler’s humanity is addressed despite our society’s quick tendency to label him as unforgivable. In the second part, we are also able to watch Emily endure her journey to coming to terms with what happened and forgiving herself and her brother.

Waves also touches on this theme of humanizing criminality in other aspects of the narrative. During Alexis’ struggle to decide whether or not to keep the baby, they visit an abortion clinic and are forced to face a group of accusatory protestors. In the moments before she enters the clinic, Alexis is considered a murderer by the protestors, but the viewer has seen what led to this decision and the fallout that occurs when she decides not to go through with the abortion. Later on, we learn that Emily’s boyfriend Luke (Lucas Hedges) has an estranged, abusive father diagnosed with cancer. Prior to visiting him, Luke expresses no sympathy for his father’s condition but once he sees him on his deathbed, he has to confront his conflict between who is father was and is. Luke is then able to forgive him for their damaged relationship and receive closure after he dies.

Waves stands out in its ability to effectively dive into the complex and messy relationships of a family under acute stress as they grapple with a new normal and find healing and hope for the future.

AFF 2019: Not to Be Unpleasant, but Let’s Talk about Toxic Masculinity

March 26, 2020 by be5355

*Not to be Unpleasant, but we need to have a serious talk* (dir. Giorgos Georgopoulos)

by Amanda Hua

Though it may not seem this way at first, Not to be Unpleasant, but we need to have a serious talk is not the most comfortable film to watch. Directed by Giorgos Georgopoulos and co-written by Georgopoulos and Maria Fakinou, the film introduces us to Aris, who hooks up with girls, drives a big Jeep, and wears a suit to work. He is a man who does manly things. Aris, played unflappably by Omiros Poulakis, seems inoffensive, and one might be lulled into thinking that the film will be a breezy, lighthearted watch about some romantic pursuits gone astray. One might even feel a bit of concern for Aris when he receives a phone call, summoning him to the hospital.

We find out quickly that Aris has a sexually transmitted disease which does not affect him but will spontaneously kill any woman he has had sex with in the past four years. And thus begins Aris’ journey to remember and track down his former lovers in order to notify them, always relying on his faithful Jeep Wrangler to get him from girl to girl. As each woman is folded into the story, we feel more and more unsettled. Not to be Unpleasant, but we need to have a serious talk is a film about a man’s journey, but at its heart the film speaks on responsibility and the harsh consequences of toxic masculinity.

As Aris takes us on a tour of his past lovers, we meet a wide array of women. The first is a maid, and the next is the CEO of a cosmetics company. One woman is an employee working underneath Aris, and yet another is the daughter of his boss. One of the last women we meet is a woman living with her son out of the city. Aris’ callousness progressively becomes more apparent as we see how each of these women is uniquely vulnerable and how Aris has carelessly played with their lives.

An especially appalling moment in the film occurs when we discover that Anka, the daughter of Aris’ boss, is a young teenage girl. She is scarcely more than a child. Even the women who are in “powerful” positions, such as Eugenia, the CEO, are implicitly destabilized in the mise-en-scène. At one point in the film, Aris observes Eugenia from outside of her home, gazing at her through a large glass wall made up of multiple panes. The resulting effect is that she is caged in and powerless. Even before the women knew about their imminent deaths, their lives had already been derailed by this man who had walked into their lives, taken what he wanted, and then walked out without a second thought. It is astonishing how Aris has managed to leave so much wreckage in his wake without ever being held accountable.

As Georgopoulos takes us through Aris’ exploitative relationships with his former lovers, the director further explores toxic masculinity by weaving the idea of showmanship into several scenes. Eugenia judges a male bodybuilder competition, and Zoe runs a dog show for German Shepherds. Aris himself is a salesman. These moments in the film reflect the performative need for men in our society to put on a front. They flaunt and show off, like contenders in a bodybuilding competition or dog show, trying to sell themselves as strong and powerful. The showmanship intermingles with Aris’ womanizing tendencies to define masculinity. Sex and strength seem to be the ideals of manliness. Sincerity and vulnerability, on the other hand, detract from this, which we see in the many shots of Aris’ carefully composed face and stoic demeanor.

Another star of the film is Aris’ Jeep Wrangler. The film begins with a shot of Aris standing on the right side of his car. He is not centered in the frame. Rather than Aris being the focus of the shot, he and his Jeep are given equal weight. Later on, Georgopoulos films Aris at a close shot distance while he sits in the driver’s seat. Aris spends a large proportion of his screen-time in this position as he drives from woman to woman or stares through his windshield at someone, and the frontality of the image visualizes the male gaze. Aris is always sitting in the driver’s seat, in control of the car.

In the second act of Burning, Lee Chong-dong’s film that similarly portrays characters damaged by toxic masculinity, we also find male characters frequently in the driver’s seat of their car, stalking and observing others. The car empowers these characters in a way, enabling them to do what they want. For Aris, his car represents mobility and agency, which the women in his life lack. Often, Aris drives the women around in his car. When one woman dies, she falls from a building and lands on a car, her body shattered by the impact, and the image of the woman’s broken body sprawled on top of the car communicates, without words, the film’s point about the danger posed to women by toxic masculinity.

The film shifts during a scene in which he talks to a past lover and a massive balloon resembling a clownfish floats next to his head, reminiscent of the llama scene in Lucrecia Martel’s Zama. The balloon ridicules the situation and Aris, a man who is painfully unaware of his own blunders and insensitivity. Soon afterward, Aris’ car window is struck with a shotgun, and his Jeep is finally broken. This is the point where his demeanor begins to change, and in the last few moments of the film, vulnerability and accountability faintly emerge in Aris.

It is at the end of the film when we meet Yuki, played by Mari Yamamoto, who is the last woman that Aris needs to track down. Her presence holds weight and we see how it has been threaded throughout the film, despite her character’s brief screen time. We sense that she is different. When she leaves Aris, she walks towards her own car, revealing her agency and mobility that the other women lacked. In the film’s concluding moments, Aris is portrayed in a long shot from a very high angle, undermining the control and power he had for so much of the film. Finally, Aris stands to the right of his car again, but now, his car is broken, and something about him is broken as well.

I had the privilege of watching Not to be Unpleasant, but we need to have a serious talk at the Austin Film Festival this year, where this film really stood out. An important role of films is to hand a microphone to and shine a spotlight on people we don’t normally hear from or see. These are the marginalized and the minorities, and it’s incredible that so many films screened at the Austin Film Festival highlight these groups. A black man on death row as well as a young, inexperienced black lawyer are placed at the center of Destin Daniel Cretton’s Just Mercy. Yellow Rose, a film directed and co-written by Diane Paragas, tells the story of an undocumented Filipina girl and her deported mother. Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life is about a conscientious objector who was ostracized for refusing to swear allegiance to Hitler, and whose actions and heroism are known by few. These films put forth the message that there is importance and worth in the lives of people who might exist out of sight and out of mind for many of us. They teach us compassion and understanding, and they remedy the years of ignorance and lack of representation.

Not to be Unpleasant, but we need to have a serious talk, on the other hand, is a film focused on a white, privileged man who does not seem capable of accepting full responsibility for the harm he inflicts on other people. Other characters in the film are literally dropping dead around him. Why would we want to shine more of a spotlight on people who are represented by characters like Aris? I think that films like Georgopoulos’ hold people like Aris accountable. The spotlight is not given to Aris to empower him, but rather to emphasize the collateral damage that results from his actions. While the focus is on Aris, the women are given names and stories. As the story progresses, the women are given more emphasis, while Aris is undermined. And as Aris is destabilized and broken down, we begin to see more of his humanity, peeking out through the cracks in his facade of brutal masculinity.

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