TopherAllen1112

My favorite film of the year is one I'm biased to choose.

Let me tell you about my bias. If I go to a new film directed by one of my favorite directors, I go in having a great amount of trust. I mean, I feel safe. What I know, given to me by my trust, allows all other expectations to wait for me elsewhere while I truly live in-the-moment for the duration of the experience. I'm not always sitting down for a piece of entertainment, although one can always hope, as this should be the least of expectations. I'm not always hoping to enjoy what I'm about to watch, though. But when I sit down for a David Fincher movie, who is the finest director working today, there is no safety (this is "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" director). Where I trust him...is knowing that nobody else could do it better.

My bias here...with "Mank"...has me very conflicted. Not only is it masterful movie making, but the story elements touch on politics and religion in such a manner that the writing feels like it's speaking just to me (these are, after all, two fascinating topics to the writer you're now reading). And not only that, but he's doing so in a charming classic-styled way that you'd see in movies like "Sunset Boulevard" (which is also about "old Hollywood"), which is to say not only are you being told stories in a lovingly entertaining way, but it's as if an old friend is using his grand dialect that friends of his describe as an art form. Gary Oldman fills this position splendidly as Mank himself surely did.

Now...is "Mank" that great? Or...am I just biased?

Is "Citizen Kane" required viewing? Citizen "Mank" serves not as a prequel, but more as a spiritual remake to the RKO Pictures classic. Let me offer some brutal honesty, here: I don't care about "casual audiences." Movies should be made for movie lovers (music seems made for specific fans as well), and I have little patience for people who choose to "Netflix n chill" (okay, I'm guilty here) or, worse, just put a movie on as a preventative measure against feeling lonely without background noise. Gotta say, on that note, "Mank" would be a pretty lovely radio show.

These times, they are a-changin'. I'm talkin' new Hollywood. I'm talkin' "old" Hollywood. "Mank" is a fast-talking charmer of the sort you would find commonplace in a good "classics" section organized by Netflix IF Netflix ever put such a worthy effort into showing their viewers real movies (Turner Classic Movies does a better job on HBO Max, and it's still pitiful). It's a sad world they've created when a David Fincher movie can't stay in the top 10 list on Netflix (it dropped off after day one) seemingly because of a lack of color.

Simply put, David Fincher (no stranger to biopics, he's the director of "The Social Network," and if I may call it a biopic, "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button") saw the future when he imagined the power of Netflix. The entertainment giant backed him for a political satire called "House of Cards," making content produced by Netflix a force to be reckoned with. Now, they're almost killing themselves with such an overwhelming output that their own movies are easily lost in the shuffle (and is it just me, or does everything, even a 3 1/2 hour Scorsese picture, feel "made-for-tv?"). David Fincher (who also directed "Se7en" and "Zodiac") came back with another show for Netflix that he enjoyed directing called "Mindhunter," which is another brilliant concept, endlessly fascinating, but a Season 3 isn't even promised or guaranteed. Contracts no longer exist for it.

Now, with a big middle finger to Hollywood itself, Fincher is using his late father's script (surely a passion project) to show how easily Hollywood was and can be changed with his first-ever straight-to-the-small-screen film, "Mank." (His last effort was the anti-love story about two narcissists who get stuck in marriage by politics, "Gone Girl") This one, like his Netflix shows, is also centered by politics.

Set in the aftermath of the depression, the brutality of the affects is background for this picture. Hollywood writers, however, are making great money for people to spend their very hard-earned nickels and quarters on. The transition to "talkies" has been made, after all, so "anyone who can put three words together" is being called upon. Our main character, Mank, a screenwriter for the movies (he claims to be washed-up, no longer talented enough to do better than movies), has insight into the propaganda that became a common practice for Hollywood directors (and even more so for foreign film people, especially in Germany where their people would believe anything that was repeated enough, not unlike our red-hat-wearing fellow citizens these past four years). The propaganda of the day is vital to the style of picture "Citizen Kane" became, which is the film Orson Welles hired Mank to write about the real-life newspaper tycoon, William Hearst (not exactly a man who would gag on a silver spoon). "Citizen Kane" became famous for the multi-perspectives and fancy camera work mixed with quick-cuts and invisible special effects all working together to create some of the greatest story-telling techniques ever that would revolutionize Hollywood...but what also invests people into the world of "Citizen Kane" is the believable "newsreel"-style footage that begins the 1941 picture that is known to be "perfect," a very rare label appropriate for anything on film. Newsreel footage, shown here to be inspired by real "fake news." Remember, Orson Welles was no stranger to using realism to sell his product. This is the same man who made headlines for a science-fiction radio play ("War of the Worlds") that literally frightened listeners into believing aliens had invaded Earth (I'm unclear if this was literally literal, but I have seen the headlines, whether they were "fake news" or not).

Herman J. Mankiewicz, or "Mank," is the writer behind the show, a credit that also went to the infamous Orson Welles for the sole Academy Award the film won (Academy voters were apparently unaware of the legacy the picture would have). Welles, who directed "Kane" and hired Mank to write it. "Mank," as told by Jack Fincher (again, David's father), seeks to deny Welles this credit, rejecting any chance for a "love letter" to the film or Hollywood (Welles was decidedly anti-Hollywood anyway, described here as an "outsider"), but more like a warning not to believe everything we see and hear (always good advice, but be wary of people who tell you not to believe ANYthing you see and hear). In one atmospheric scene of the Fincher film, we're on a beach listening to radio. An interviewee is declaring her stance on exactly why she's voting Republican in the next election, complete with a story of her own victimhood. Our main character and his lovely date then suddenly recognize the voice of said Republican voter (no doubt she could now be considered a method actor as it seems unlikely she would actually be voting for the "socialist" on the Democrat ticket). She's an actress, not just a voter, and nothing of the sort she claimed to be. "I'd recognize that voice anywhere," says Mank, listening to the sorry voice of America that is as fake as the character she's playing.

Upton Sinclair (surprisingly played by...Bill Nye?) loses the election in 1934, believing the "phony newsreels" to be the fatal blows to his campaign. Mank, a fan, blames FDR, reminding us of the "hero" that would soon come to the rescue (a man who actually forced corporations and churches into anti-socialist efforts, bringing us to the divided states of America we see today, which is sadly not an irrelevant fact pertaining to this film...especially considering corporations have nearly destroyed today's Hollywood...and thanks to this virus, we're getting an advanced look at what could become of movie theaters).

The film is presented in a glorious 4K version, and a color version doesn't even exist. This is meant to not only show the 1930s, but feel like a film from the era, too. The soundtrack is complete with the sounds of film scratches and audio flaws, and the picture itself is marked-up with what characters in "Fight Club" (another Fincher picture) called "cigarette burns." "Mank" will be remembered as one of Fincher's less accessible films (people are avoiding this not only because of a lack of color, but it is quite the "talkie"), made for writers more than cinephiles (which I wish were given more attention, although "old Hollywood" is given screen time even though it feels like less than a cameo). I kept waiting for visual sequences a la David Fincher prior, almost forgetting that the style of the film itself was presenting to me a visual feast. Every frame of a Fincher picture a painting. Each is carefully crafted (he normally certainly pays his dues to the auteur of "pure cinema," Alfred Hitchcock), and yet it's not unusual for his scripts to keep our eyes glued to the screen. It is written for political junkies as well, sure, but ultimately this is a story about story. Story itself is used to tell about story itself. Where do stories come from? That's THE question this flick answers using one of the best movies of all time.

Just don't ask about "Rosebud."

Working with children takes a special kind of patience. Pixar has sought to inspire countless children through their many adventures, almost always asking even the adults in the audience philosophical questions about our identities. Driven to normalize our emotions through toys, cars, and monsters, and even emotions themselves, Pixar's new film, "Soul," begins, literally, with: "Let's try something else."

Life isn't going so well for Joe Gardner. He's doing his best, but he is actually self-centered. Sure, he works with kids, but he's just using his job as a teacher for part-time work to keep himself stable while he pursues a professional gig as the keys of a quartet. The opening scene allows us this insight, taking us on another character-driven Pixar adventure. Masterful first acts are somehow so enlightening that we can get to know a Pixar character within minutes. Pete Doctor is especially skilled in this area, as we all know. He's also the director of "Up," which gave us perhaps the greatest prologue in film history, told in minutes, Carl and Ellie's life story. We see their hopes and dreams and obstacles and tragedies.

Enough is shown to us about Joe to really feel satisfied and even excited when he gets the opportunity to sit at the piano for a new band. Very subtle spoilers follow...

...Joe soon finds himself without skin. He's blue and he glows, and he's not on Earth anymore. He's not in heaven, either. Or H-E-double-hockey-sticks. This isn't "Dante's Purgatorio," it's Disney's! (Okay, Pixar's) He's in a place where everybody is missing something. The something is known only as a "spark," which Joe assumes is, perhaps/maybe, our PURPOSE. Now, Joe's not actually missing HIS spark, but he finds someone else who is and is determined to show this someone else, known only as "22," (I can hardly believe there have been 22 Pixar movies before "Soul") that they are about to find their spark (self-centered Joe insists anybody can find their purpose through music, just like him).

First, we enter a great room, full of Pixar "easter eggs" like the lamp from the logo and the Pizza Planet truck that's been hidden in their movies ever since the first "Toy Story." Then, we're showed the museum of Joe's own life. From exhibits showing him eating pie in a restaurant alone to a statue of Joe waiting for his laundry, the theme seems to be summed up in a word: Mundane. He degradingly offers his opinion of himself with a harsher term: pointless.

All the more reason to find a point...a purpose...a spark...to life itself.

This is the story of "Soul." The plot takes a turn into "the zone," a place where we can learn a lot about our lives. Joe, however, seems to know it all (and he will be proven wrong later). There is potential to become obsessed (paradoxically sacrificing experience for ambition)...and now we have reason to fear this state of madness...for we see "lost souls" hard at work fearing their existence, a place where we go seemingly just to cope with the feeling that we are never...enough. The darkness represents this scarcity. The shadowy figures highlight our inadequacy.

Here, we get an "untethered soul" reference, alluding to the possibilities of new-age experiences for our Earthly bodies. Here, I wonder if sugared-up kids wouldn't squirm in their seats a little bit as our main character is asked to calm down. He sees himself in the hospital after listening to the environment his Earth body is in. He can even smell the hand sanitizer, reminding us all that we're still in the year 2020.

"Soul" becomes a character-driven race to discover what life is all about. In the end, we learn that it's not about the destination, it's about the journey. Joe has every opportunity and doesn't ask for much. But he is so self-centered (not an immoral guy at all, but a bit short-sighted, which might be why he wears glasses) that he is always focused on where he needs to go, rather than on embracing where he is. He certainly has access to "the zone," where he can experience what is known as "flow," and he can do this with music (at one point, he's so anxious that he feels like he can't focus on anything without a piano in front of him).

"Flow" is living in the moment. It's being in "the zone." It's experiencing something, an activity like eating or playing or exercising, to the extent that you forget about time. It's not uncommon to be catching up with an old friend and intimately listening to stories about their life in between ranting about your own and completely forgetting you two had planned to do something else entirely. "Soul" is a film that allows us this experience, which I believe is the purpose of movies. It's more like we're catching up with new friends.

Beautifully paced, this Pixar adventure structures the story with a plot that takes us back and forth from Earth to the world of our souls and sprinkles in hilarity with wholesome humanity. I might have a few favorite scenes (the barbershop scene is arguably even stronger than the following example), but one that stands out shows us the anxiety (caring-too-much) of Joe and the depression (carelessness) of "22" arguing in an apartment. Banging on his door is a student of Joe's who decides music just isn't for her. Joe doesn't have time to think about someone else, but "22" can relate to her frustration of having to learn new things. Learning sucks! But then, the student practices something she's learned and impresses herself enough to keep practicing. A little inspiration goes a long way.

Sometimes all we need...perhaps/maybe...is a little more experience.

And Joe's best experience comes at the end, when he's alone again, with his piano. No spoilers, but the scene would be a beautiful addition to the museum of Joe's life we saw earlier. Jon Batiste (from The Late Show with Stephen Colbert) gets to work magic with his beautifully animated fingers on the keys. Jazz is a style of music that thrives on improvisation, truly living in the moment and experiencing flow. Jazz grounds our story.

The montage that plays under the score merely shows images of Joe's life, perhaps/maybe even rejecting character development as the scenes refuse to contribute story, but my cheeks still became cold as tears touched the chilly air in my apartment. These moments offer little of the anxious Joe we know. All we really see is flow. (And we're also given some beautiful animation of leaves blowing outside, a train moving away from us, and aerial images of New York City).

They mean to trigger our own memories, these "mundane" moments of life. Ones where we can still feel how the wind felt as we watched the clouds. We can still summon the emotions we felt while watching someone perform something they're passionate about. We can still feel the warm wet cloth our mother used to wash our arm when we were too young to do it ourselves. Our father showed us how to use the record player, took us to the jazz club where we first fell in love with music, and had us play piano for him perhaps/maybe for the last time...memories that will last us a life time . These aren't your memories (or mine), but take a minute to recall any memories that first pop into your mind from your own life. Those moments are yours because you were living in the moment. That's "flow" from your own life.

The movie offers meditation. Flow. It asks us not to be who we are...like toys, cars, or monsters, or even emotions themselves...but to actually live our lives. Then, it asks us what we're going to do with our lives. And the answer is that we'll embrace uncertainty (perhaps/maybe)...and live every minute of it.

I couldn't spoil the movie even if I tried. It felt like a return to church. Typically, a congregation is there for each other, elevated by the shared experience in transcendent possibility granted us by similar material that ignites the imagination. Of course, every member of this "congregation" entered into the said "shared experience" during 2020, a year doomed to become an adjective. And let me tell you: This experience was a real 2020. As the lights lowered, so did my facemask, but only for a sip of my brew or to capitalize on stolen fries (thanks, girlfriend). Others in the theater did the same thing, although they were slightly more liberal than I was with removing material that seemingly protects the air we breathe. The Flix Brewhouse Pre-Show consisted of scenes from past Christopher Nolan flicks such as "Inception" and "Memento," two films that define his canon (like "Dunkirk," time itself is used to serve the story). Also, we were enlightened, via video-special, about the painstaking protocol that the movie-theater staff have had to endure since Covid-19 became the Covid-20 that we know today. Did I feel safe? Well, I didn't come to the theater to see a horror movie, even though fear is generally absent even if I were. Safety first, I get it. That's how I "sell," too. The movie begins with a bang, literally. The sounds of guns in a theater (in only one case were they unwelcomed in a Nolan film, and that was in 2012 during a showing of Christopher Nolan's "The Dark Knight Rises," which makes this first scene a little extra-intense because men enter an actual theater with machine guns) are extra-loud as if the audience is taken to a shooting range on a Michael Mann set (the same director Nolan imitated for the first scene of "The Dark Knight"). I'm once again transported into that transcendent possibility. The music is amazing. The action is intense. The scene demands attention. Keep in mind, this is my first film-going experience in over half a year, and hadn't realized how much I've been longing for just a LOUD experience, but I am no stranger to watching films that are new to me. So the "transcendent possibility," to me, remains a possibility, I'm afraid... ...Only...a possibility. The shark is in your face in scene two. A Spielbergian discount trick, a new filmmaker won't have the money to show the shark throughout the whole film, so the pop-shot, literally the shark popping its head out of the water, is an intense moment. The shark's fin is teased only in scene 1, but as we go to scene 2, everything is explained (and the only interesting thing about the scene is the idea itself, which would have been just as well explained by, you know, watching the actual movie). Well, an explanation is given, anyway. Nothing is really "explained." Here's the rundown, though...There is new technology. New to us (in the present), yet probably better understood in the future (when it is invented). This technology enables us to know the future by reliving the past. Doing so, re-experiencing the past, requires us to mirror the events as we (in the present) are inverted (into the past), literally moving backwards. To explain visually, you are driving a car whilst "inverted" (meaning: re-experiencing a past event), you will appear driving a vehicle backwards to those experiencing time going forward. Confusing? Not sure the science is clear, here. This is no "Interstellar." The entire show, I felt ready to punch myself for the sake of the film not knocking any sense into me. Cue: The Jerry Seinfeld stand-up bit where he's in a darkened theater, whispering endless questions throughout a movie (because he's confused) "Who's that guy? What does he want? Why is she with him? Why is he like that? Why does she stay with him if he's like that? Why did they ever have a kid together? Why did she kill him?" "Ohhhhhh...well, it's good that she killed him, then." Sitting in my seat, I literally became the meme: "MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!" But that's been me this entire year, this 2020 that we've gotten ourselves into. "Tenet," a palindromic title being more suggestive than meaningful (at least to the confused audience member that I was), seems meant NOT for us in the present. This film is NOT meant to be viewed only once. This film is made for our future selves (if you're asking me). To watch the film almost requires a class to understand, although the story is pretty simple: A woman stays with her abusive husband for the sake of being with her child. Yet, the child, a major character (in a twist that still doesn't make sense to me), is essentially a MacGuffin (an object used for the story, but used only for character motivation, not a part of the real story). What does this have to do with time travel? What does Time Travel have to do with the story? Well, it's necessary to save the world. WHAT? Oh yeah, the villain (the husband) wants to blow up the world. So we need all these unnamed characters, essentially uninteresting versions of James Bond (there is...NO room for character development here). What I really feel, having only seen it as my present self (although with reflection time as my future self, presently)...is this film falls victim to a filmmaker's number one fear: Being pretentious. What I believe is that, with "Memento" and all the cinematic tricks that make it great (each progressive scene takes place prior to the previous one chronologically)...and "Inception," another high-concept film that also borders on pretentious filmmaking..."Tenet" seems merely the next logical step. It's as if Christopher Nolan asked himself "How have I yet to play with time?" I'd even go so far as to say that Nolan is aware of his pretentiousness. Enter the token Michael Caine character, there for our protagonist (literally only called "The Protagonist" in this movie) to mistreat a server by trying to act like a rich snob only to be called out because he doesn't look rich enough. This was the film's one of maybe two attempts at humor. No time for that. The trick itself has been done in countless movies. A scene is filmed and played backwards in the film. Usually this trick is done to mask the fact that the scene couldn't otherwise be pulled off. Usually, this trick is done without the audience realizing it. Here, though, in "Tenet," the audience is supposed to marvel at the filmmaking with plenty of "Ooohs" and "Ahhhhs," and Nolan doesn't have to worry about the audience asking "Would this movie work if it wasn't filmed this way?" That's what happens with "Memento." That's what happens with "Dunkirk," too (although, I'd argue that a complimentary film to "Dunkirk," "1917," could NOT have worked any other way than how the director made it). Every other Christopher Nolan film works gloriously (and it'd be worth it to watch them re-edited into chronological order). Here, "Tenet" could not be filmed another way because the filmmaking is the story (the "reverse-film-effect" IS central to the plot). And Nolan gets himself into trouble here. See, the movie is many movies. We have a dysfunctional family plot. We have a heist movie. We have a war film again, too (more reminiscent of "Full Metal Jacket," as Nolan is a Kubrick-lover, but this is NO Kubrick film). And we have a futuristic time-travel movie (without feeling like a science-fiction film almost at all). And we have the reverse-film-effect concept in itself (when you blow up in an exploding car, you freeze with hypothermia), which is the "new technology" that the film wastes no time having to explain, although it does so in the only way possible, through analogy. Through idea. Through concept. Through show and tell. Well, tell and show. And the audience must buy this rather than think about it. It feels like Nolan thought about it, but this is why I really must label this movie pretentious. Don't take my word for it, though. The movie made me feel stupid, which is a natural side-effect of a pretentious film. Maybe you'll be in for the car chases and the explosions without questioning the rest of it. But for a movie that provides so many answers, one wonders the questions that are being asked. Or is it the other way around?