Buzz Blog

Rebuilding *** [Premieres]
Sometimes a Sundance film premieres into a moment a filmmaker couldn’t possibly have anticipated—and thus there’s an added resonance to tale about people trying to put their lives back together after their homes are destroyed by a devastating wildfire. In Max Walker-Silverman’s feature, those homes are in rural Colorado, with the focus on cattle rancher Dusty Fraser (Josh O’Connor) as he tries to figure out what comes next after his entire ranch is lost. Much like Walker-Silverman’s debut feature, 2022’s A Love Song, this is a tale about laconic folks trying to find the language to let the people in their lives know what they need, and O’Connor turns inward effectively as the divorced dad navigates his relationship with his daughter, who seems on the verge of turning into someone too much like her dad in never being willing to ask for help. The story also spends time on the makeshift community that emerges from displaced families in a FEMA-created trailer park, and Walker-Silverman perhaps telegraphs too obviously the arc of Dusty’s evolution from a guy who says of his fellow refugees “they’re not real neighbors anyway.” Still, it works as quiet, sturdy filmmaking about quiet, sturdy people, with a thematic undercurrent that offers a different way of looking at what we can learn to value when so much of what we thought was important is taken from us.

Predators ***1/2 [U.S. Documentary]
It’s a risky proposition any time a filmmaker decides to take their subject and make it about themselves, but director David Osit does so in a way that’s unexpectedly devastating. Apart from that choice, he’s still taking on a fascinating subject as he explores the legacy of Dateline NBC’s To Catch a Predator program, in which the producers and host Chris Hansen set up sting operations for people trying to connect with children online for sexual exploitation. Osit grapples with the uncomfortable reality that these shows turned the public humiliation of these prospective predators into entertainment, tacitly justified by the idea that these monsters deserved nothing less (even when some individual cases resulted in extreme and hard-to-justify consequences), as well as vigilante YouTubers taking up Hansen’s mantle with more apparent interest in dropping a catch-phrase and racking up subscribers than in protecting the public. But things get even messier when Osit shares his own reasons for making this movie, and connects it to whether these programs were ever successful at helping people understand the mind of a pederast. The first time we get a look at Osit’s face—after a brilliant table-turning of To Catch a Predator’s own format and structure—it’s a haunting moment of placing us all in the position of a viewer hoping that a terrible mystery might actually be solved by a different kind of exploitation.

If I Had Legs I’d Kick You ***1/2 [Premieres]
“Mommy is stretchable,” says the disembodied voice of a young child, talking about her mother, Linda (Rose Byrne)—and writer/director Mary Bronstein’s darkly comic psychodrama feels like an exploration of exactly how far she can stretch before she snaps. Linda’s life is a whirlwind of colliding crises: dealing with her daughter’s mysterious gastrointestinal illness without any help from her husband; living out of a hotel room after the roof of their apartment caves in; coping with the drama in the lives of her patients as a therapist. Linda’s career provides a unique framework for a story that isn’t necessarily groundbreaking in looking at the challenges of motherhood through the lens of horror, in that we can tell she understands intellectually all the coping mechanisms she should employ—“putting on your own oxygen mask first,” avoiding self-blame, etc.—but still needs to self-medicate in order to function. Byrne’s performance makes the most of all her skills, as both dramatic and comedic actor, finding the places where every parent falls short and taking them to pitches that often inspires cringes. But the neatest filmmaking trick involves the way Bronstein opts to portray Linda’s daughter—or more specifically, not portray her, keeping the child’s face hidden in a way that captures how Linda’s own problems make it impossible for her to see her daughter as a person, rather than just one more problem to be solved.

Coexistence, My Ass! ***1/2 [World Documentary]
I’m not sure director Amber Fares or her subject, comedian Noam Shuster Eliassi, would see it quite this way, but it’s hard not to look at this profile as a portrait of the death of idealism. It tracks Shuster Eliassi over several years, describing her childhood with leftist Israeli parents in a utopian Arab/Israeli community called Oasis of Peace, and her subsequent journey from U.N. diplomat to entertainer—including the development of the one-woman show that gives the film its name—where she thought her message about the need for Israeli/Palestinian equality might actually reach more people. Shuster Eliassi herself is an engaging presence, and it’s fascinating watching her engage in the “code-switching” necessary in her performances depending on whether her audience is primarily Arab vs. primary Jewish. But eventually the events reach October 2023 and the Hamas attack/subsequent Israeli assault on Gaza, with all of the tragic loss of life and the hardening of feelings among both previously more left-leaning Israelis and the Arab friends Shuster Eliassi has known all her life. As her country leans further into genocidal fascism, Shuster Eliassi has to confront what “coexistence” really means when it can only be on the terms of an oppressor, and how to find humor while realizing your greatest hope might be hopeless.

Hal & Harper *** (in person, episodes 1-4); *** (full series) [Episodic]
The naked emotionalism that writer/director Cooper Raiff displayed in his first two features—Shithead and Cha Cha Real Smooth—is once again on full display in this 4.5-hour mini-series. And it mostly works, even if it feels like it practically demands to be binged. It’s the story of a California family—father Michael (Mark Ruffalo), 24-year-old Harper (Lili Reinhart) and college senior Hal (Raiff)—joined in not entirely healthy ways by their mutual experience of Michael’s wife dying when Harper and Hal were young. Raiff employs a clever device where he and Reinhart in flashbacks play the 15-years-younger versions of themselves to suggest how they’ve frozen in those roles—Hal in a state of arrested childhood, Harper forced to grow up to soon and therefore smoking and reading One Hundred Years of Solitude at the age of 9. It does feel less effective when focusing on Michael’s ongoing wounds, and how they’re affecting his relationship with his new girlfriend (Betty Gilpin) and the impending birth of another child; Ruffalo’s presence evokes a remake of You Can Count on Me where the dad survived, and thus drew focus away from the sibling relationship. The running time gets filled with a lot of other relationships as well, verging on over-stuffed—though there’s a stellar montage in episode 5 tracking the beginning of Harper’s relationship with her long-term girlfriend—but Raiff still isn’t afraid to throw his heart wide open in capturing how three people become so good at caring for one another together that they’re incapable of caring for themselves individually.

Sunfish and Other Stories on Green Lake **1/2 [U.S. Dramatic]
In theory, cinematic short-story collections are a great idea, and there should be more of them—but even with a short story, there should be clarity regarding its thematic focus. Writer/director Sierra Falconer sets four concise tales at a lake in Northern Michigan: 14-year-old Lou (Maren Heary) being left for a stay with her grandparents; a violin student (Jim Kaplan) facing pressure at an upscale music camp; a single mom (Karsen Liotta) helping a fisherman (Dominic Bogart) catch “the big one;” and two sisters (Emily Hall and Tenley Kellogg) helping their dad run a lakeside bed-and-breakfast on the weekend before eldest heads off to culinary school. There’s a lovely out-of-time quality to the setting—none of the young people has a cell phone—and each of the stories boasts at least one genuinely memorable image or idea, including Falconer’s wise decision to have one potentially on-the-nose bit of dialogue by Lou shot from a distance, with the sound dialed down. None of the stories that follows Lou’s, however, manages to land with the same tone-poem effectiveness, the third story feels like it needs to be much longer, and the last one feels like it can’t decide whether to be a coming-of-age sorta-romance or a tale of sisterly devotion. Quick-sketch character studies with great low-key performances are an under-explored option for independent cinema; the trick is figuring out how quick each sketch really needs to be.

Third Act **** [U.S. Documentary]
Tadashi Nakamura's deeply moving documentary captures the life and enduring legacy of his father, Robert A. Nakamura, often called the “godfather of Asian American media.” From Robert’s childhood experiences in the Manzanar internment camp to his groundbreaking filmmaking and activism, the documentary weaves history, family and art into an intimate portrayal of one man’s fight for self-worth in a post-war, racist America. Robert’s diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease becomes a central thread in the story, allowing Tad to reflect on themes of art, fatherhood and the weight of legacy. The documentary contrasts Robert’s earlier work, such as Hito Hata: Raise the Banner (1980), with Tad’s evolving perspective as a filmmaker and father. Their intertwined journeys provide a heartfelt exploration of how identity and artistic expression can shape—and sometimes heal—generations. This film is much more than a tribute; it’s an introspection on resilience, forgiveness and the profound influence of family. With its striking relevance to today’s conversations about race and identity in America, Third Act offers a nuanced and emotional look at the Asian American experience, inviting everyone to reflect on what legacy truly means and how an intensely negative experience can be seen as powerful after later reflection. (Aimee L. Cook)