by Joyless Staff
Writing about film is often an exercise in self-restraint: for the sake of objective analysis, we're taught to be impartial and to seek cohesion and quality craftsmanship, applauding movies in which the whole is sometimes greater than the sum of its parts. But there's no denying that cinema is an art form given to euphoric moments and jolts of briefly-sustained adrenaline, exuding a joy and creativity that no pseudo-objective analyst could dare refuse. With this in mind—and with a few more weeks until we unveil our Best Films of 2015 lists (thanks mostly to the January Twin Cities releases of Anomalisa and The Revenant)—we'd like to highlight the greatest movie moments of 2015. Some of the following scenes are of a high quality that define the movie as a whole; others might be glimmers of greatness within films that are not deserving of such brilliance. In any case, the following 15 scenes (listed alphabetically by film title) make these movies worth the price of admission (or an Amazon rental) alone. (WARNING: some spoilers may be found below.)
The first ten minutes of Bridge of Spies
The nearly-wordless prologue of Bridge of Spies had me thinking that this would be Steven Spielberg's best movie, a late-period masterpiece that coasts along on its political subversion and peerless visceral precision. Sadly Spielberg's latest can't quite sustain this impeccable craftsmanship (its we-are-the-world sentimentalism becomes a little overbearing), but that doesn't stop the opening scene from being among the director's finest moments.
In a flawlessly-recreated 1950s Manhattan--complete with period advertisements, costumes that might have been bought at Woolworth's, and subway stations that are believable down to the cigarette butts on the concrete floors (Spielberg's crew deserves heaps of praise)—the Feds track down a seemingly ordinary man. Their target, Rudolf Abel (Mark Rylance), does appear to be a Soviet spy; when we first meet him, he's splitting apart a quarter to retrieve a nearly microscopic scrap of paper left underneath a park bench. Without a line of dialogue or intrusive musical score, we follow Rudolf down bustling streets and through crowded train cars as bullish FBI agents pursue him, recalling Hitchcock's famous adage that we want to see onscreen characters get away with the crime, even if we think they're guilty. Bringing to mind the stellar opening of Samuel Fuller's Pickup on South Street (1953), Spielberg ratchets up the tension and creates a mood of pervasive dread; threats could be coming from anywhere, be it Soviet spies on our own streets our Communist witch-hunters spitting in the face of democracy. Bridge of Spies starts to weaken as the dialogue becomes more cliched and its pluralism more simplistic, but I could have watched this scene for several hours more; like the best opening scenes, it wields a vice-grip on your attention and immediately transports you to another time and place.
–Matt Levine
The nearly-wordless prologue of Bridge of Spies had me thinking that this would be Steven Spielberg's best movie, a late-period masterpiece that coasts along on its political subversion and peerless visceral precision. Sadly Spielberg's latest can't quite sustain this impeccable craftsmanship (its we-are-the-world sentimentalism becomes a little overbearing), but that doesn't stop the opening scene from being among the director's finest moments.
In a flawlessly-recreated 1950s Manhattan--complete with period advertisements, costumes that might have been bought at Woolworth's, and subway stations that are believable down to the cigarette butts on the concrete floors (Spielberg's crew deserves heaps of praise)—the Feds track down a seemingly ordinary man. Their target, Rudolf Abel (Mark Rylance), does appear to be a Soviet spy; when we first meet him, he's splitting apart a quarter to retrieve a nearly microscopic scrap of paper left underneath a park bench. Without a line of dialogue or intrusive musical score, we follow Rudolf down bustling streets and through crowded train cars as bullish FBI agents pursue him, recalling Hitchcock's famous adage that we want to see onscreen characters get away with the crime, even if we think they're guilty. Bringing to mind the stellar opening of Samuel Fuller's Pickup on South Street (1953), Spielberg ratchets up the tension and creates a mood of pervasive dread; threats could be coming from anywhere, be it Soviet spies on our own streets our Communist witch-hunters spitting in the face of democracy. Bridge of Spies starts to weaken as the dialogue becomes more cliched and its pluralism more simplistic, but I could have watched this scene for several hours more; like the best opening scenes, it wields a vice-grip on your attention and immediately transports you to another time and place.
–Matt Levine
Epiphanies of love in Brooklyn, Carol, and Heart of a Dog
In an early scene in Carol, four characters sit in a projection booth while Sunset Boulevard plays. Only Dannie, who’s already seen it six times, pays much attention to the film. He says he’s “charting the correlation between what the characters say and how they really feel.” If he’d been charting the films of 2015, he’d have found a pattern of weak correlations that set the stage for moments in the final act when characters’ words and feelings align with sudden terrific force. In Carol, that moment comes in the form of an “I love you,” as every other sound drops away and the camera pulls in slowly on the face of a woman who’s trying to be cool-headed and tidy in her overtures but finally has no other recourse but the truth. Brooklyn arrives at a similar moment in which Eilis must declare her love, but her struggle is against the lure of home, against the semblance of a life she so easily falls into back in Ireland after painstakingly building a life in New York. So her declaration of intent is for her mother’s ears, and requires no emotional restraint once it begins. She’s free to weep. And in Heart of a Dog, Laurie Anderson narrates many things but conceals the exact nature of her grieving until the year’s most essential end credits sequence: as Lou Reed sings “Turning Time Around,” Anderson dedicates her film to his magnificent spirit and a photograph shows him in close-up kissing the film’s ostensible subject, the rat terrier Lolabelle.
–Geoffrey Stueven
In an early scene in Carol, four characters sit in a projection booth while Sunset Boulevard plays. Only Dannie, who’s already seen it six times, pays much attention to the film. He says he’s “charting the correlation between what the characters say and how they really feel.” If he’d been charting the films of 2015, he’d have found a pattern of weak correlations that set the stage for moments in the final act when characters’ words and feelings align with sudden terrific force. In Carol, that moment comes in the form of an “I love you,” as every other sound drops away and the camera pulls in slowly on the face of a woman who’s trying to be cool-headed and tidy in her overtures but finally has no other recourse but the truth. Brooklyn arrives at a similar moment in which Eilis must declare her love, but her struggle is against the lure of home, against the semblance of a life she so easily falls into back in Ireland after painstakingly building a life in New York. So her declaration of intent is for her mother’s ears, and requires no emotional restraint once it begins. She’s free to weep. And in Heart of a Dog, Laurie Anderson narrates many things but conceals the exact nature of her grieving until the year’s most essential end credits sequence: as Lou Reed sings “Turning Time Around,” Anderson dedicates her film to his magnificent spirit and a photograph shows him in close-up kissing the film’s ostensible subject, the rat terrier Lolabelle.
–Geoffrey Stueven
Creed's ascension...
Picking one scene from a film as iconic as Creed is a challenge, which is why this list features two such moments. With a franchise reboot as robust as this one, it’s also hard to avoid talking about the original material. The first four Rocky movies are all exceptional, populist hits that were hugely influential. (My high school fight song, for instance, was Rocky III’s "Eye of the Tiger.") Who can forget Stallone running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art at the climax of the training montage?
Creed does directly reference that scene, with Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) and Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) climbing those steps, but this film’s own training montage is even more stunning and emotionally powerful. Not only does Jordan transform his body spectacularly but director Ryan Coogler manages to reinvent the training sequence as a grittier, more honest take on Philadelphia. In its climax, Adonis runs through the streets of a working-class Philly neighborhood, followed by teenagers on motorcycles and ATVs, popping wheelies and generally celebrating a new kind of underdog hero for the city of brotherly love. The swelling music and handheld camera follow this new hero and usher in a more realist Rocky story while Jordan brings an intensity and authenticity that’s hard to overstate. For a franchise that arguably ended the Cold War (could Reagan really have told Gorbachev to “tear down this wall!” if Rocky didn’t defeat Ivan Drago in the ring first?), a reboot as compelling as Creed is more than we could have hoped for. This climactic training montage is the height of Creed’s ascension.
–Jeremy Meckler
Picking one scene from a film as iconic as Creed is a challenge, which is why this list features two such moments. With a franchise reboot as robust as this one, it’s also hard to avoid talking about the original material. The first four Rocky movies are all exceptional, populist hits that were hugely influential. (My high school fight song, for instance, was Rocky III’s "Eye of the Tiger.") Who can forget Stallone running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art at the climax of the training montage?
Creed does directly reference that scene, with Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) and Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) climbing those steps, but this film’s own training montage is even more stunning and emotionally powerful. Not only does Jordan transform his body spectacularly but director Ryan Coogler manages to reinvent the training sequence as a grittier, more honest take on Philadelphia. In its climax, Adonis runs through the streets of a working-class Philly neighborhood, followed by teenagers on motorcycles and ATVs, popping wheelies and generally celebrating a new kind of underdog hero for the city of brotherly love. The swelling music and handheld camera follow this new hero and usher in a more realist Rocky story while Jordan brings an intensity and authenticity that’s hard to overstate. For a franchise that arguably ended the Cold War (could Reagan really have told Gorbachev to “tear down this wall!” if Rocky didn’t defeat Ivan Drago in the ring first?), a reboot as compelling as Creed is more than we could have hoped for. This climactic training montage is the height of Creed’s ascension.
–Jeremy Meckler
...downfall, and resurrection
In the Rocky universe, the athlete whose name appears in the film’s title doesn’t always have to win the big fight, but what’s required is a proof of determination that only ten rounds in the ring can satisfy. Creed offers its proof with a simple yet ingenious construction, a 1-2-3 punch: 1. The fighter’s body falling to the mat in slow motion, all the life gone out of it. 2. A series of flashbacks to the life of Creed, all his promises and sacrifices, the weight of his relationships. 3. The same body, suddenly spring-loaded, returning to its feet. It’s the year’s greatest resurrection, but not a miracle. Creed delivers the athlete in its title to the pantheon by finding the place where a life and a body intertwine. The moment might untangle you, leave you levitating.
–Geoffrey Stueven
In the Rocky universe, the athlete whose name appears in the film’s title doesn’t always have to win the big fight, but what’s required is a proof of determination that only ten rounds in the ring can satisfy. Creed offers its proof with a simple yet ingenious construction, a 1-2-3 punch: 1. The fighter’s body falling to the mat in slow motion, all the life gone out of it. 2. A series of flashbacks to the life of Creed, all his promises and sacrifices, the weight of his relationships. 3. The same body, suddenly spring-loaded, returning to its feet. It’s the year’s greatest resurrection, but not a miracle. Creed delivers the athlete in its title to the pantheon by finding the place where a life and a body intertwine. The moment might untangle you, leave you levitating.
–Geoffrey Stueven
Girlhood's rendition of "Diamonds"
The number of great scenes in Céline Sciamma’s masterpiece Girlhood would take up most of this article, but most arresting perhaps is the lip-synching scene at its very center. Four girls, including our heroine Marieme (Karidja Touré), have saved up (or stolen) enough money to rent a hotel room in their country's capital, buy some booze, and have a party. Drapes drawn against a Paris that has little place for these daughters of African immigrants, and wearing dresses with the security buttons still attached (a brilliant way to communicate they were shoplifted), our “gang of girls” (as the film is titled in French) dances and lip-synchs, clumsily and beautifully, against despair to Rihanna's “Diamonds.” “So shine bright / tonight / you and I / We're beautiful / like diamonds in the sky.” Here, though, the lyrics are meant for one another and not a male love interest, and the song emerges as both an anthem to their strength and beauty and a heartbreaking reflection of their own broken dreams.
–Peter Schilling Jr.
The number of great scenes in Céline Sciamma’s masterpiece Girlhood would take up most of this article, but most arresting perhaps is the lip-synching scene at its very center. Four girls, including our heroine Marieme (Karidja Touré), have saved up (or stolen) enough money to rent a hotel room in their country's capital, buy some booze, and have a party. Drapes drawn against a Paris that has little place for these daughters of African immigrants, and wearing dresses with the security buttons still attached (a brilliant way to communicate they were shoplifted), our “gang of girls” (as the film is titled in French) dances and lip-synchs, clumsily and beautifully, against despair to Rihanna's “Diamonds.” “So shine bright / tonight / you and I / We're beautiful / like diamonds in the sky.” Here, though, the lyrics are meant for one another and not a male love interest, and the song emerges as both an anthem to their strength and beauty and a heartbreaking reflection of their own broken dreams.
–Peter Schilling Jr.
It Follows' opening scene
The resurrection of high-art horror is nowhere on display more than in It Follows, which could have been directed by St. John Carpenter himself. The conceit, although flawed, allows the film to delve into some moderately profound territory, but more than that, the carefully crafted setting and gorgeous cinematography create an unforgettably creepy locale—this is a suburban Detroit that we have never seen before, uncannily similar to the setting of things like Freaks and Geeks but at the same time unsettling and anachronistic. Director David Robert Mitchell shows his considerable talent at creating suspense and tension, as the thing that follows constantly threatens to pop up in the far reaches of the camera’s wide framing.
The height of this tension comes in the film’s introductory shot. The title’s “It” is an unnamed supernatural force that constantly and slowly stalks its intended prey, but it is invisible to those who aren’t being followed. In the opening, the camera takes the perspective of an outsider, so this being is invisible to us even as a well-dressed teenage girl runs in circles, evading it in a suburban cul-de-sac. The camera turns to follow her well-choreographed escape as we, like the parents and neighbors in this town, are introduced to a fear we cannot quite understand. It’s a powerful hook, drawing us into the mysterious threat of whatever it is, but it’s also a gorgeous scene that reminds you that scary movies don’t have to look like Paranormal Activity.
–Jeremy Meckler
The resurrection of high-art horror is nowhere on display more than in It Follows, which could have been directed by St. John Carpenter himself. The conceit, although flawed, allows the film to delve into some moderately profound territory, but more than that, the carefully crafted setting and gorgeous cinematography create an unforgettably creepy locale—this is a suburban Detroit that we have never seen before, uncannily similar to the setting of things like Freaks and Geeks but at the same time unsettling and anachronistic. Director David Robert Mitchell shows his considerable talent at creating suspense and tension, as the thing that follows constantly threatens to pop up in the far reaches of the camera’s wide framing.
The height of this tension comes in the film’s introductory shot. The title’s “It” is an unnamed supernatural force that constantly and slowly stalks its intended prey, but it is invisible to those who aren’t being followed. In the opening, the camera takes the perspective of an outsider, so this being is invisible to us even as a well-dressed teenage girl runs in circles, evading it in a suburban cul-de-sac. The camera turns to follow her well-choreographed escape as we, like the parents and neighbors in this town, are introduced to a fear we cannot quite understand. It’s a powerful hook, drawing us into the mysterious threat of whatever it is, but it’s also a gorgeous scene that reminds you that scary movies don’t have to look like Paranormal Activity.
–Jeremy Meckler
A visit to Mamie Claire in Mistress America
Mistress America, Noah Baumbach’s newest film to document the misguided dreams of the privileged, can easily be distilled into one scene: the confrontation at Mamie Claire’s house. Greta Gerwig plays Brooke, who is soon to become the step-sister to Tracy, a college freshmen who hasn’t found her place on campus yet. Brooke offers Tracy adventure and hope, despite the fact that her life is actually a mess. Tracy has the clarity to see the cracks in Brooke’s rose-colored glasses, but loves her nonetheless. Tracy, Brooke, their sort-of-friend Tony, and Tony’s girlfriend Nicolette leave the island of Manhattan for Greenwich, Connecticut, where Brooke’s archnemesis and former friend Mamie Claire resides. After winning the support of Mamie Claire’s neighbor, Harold, the whole troupe storms into her house, only to interrupt a heady and incredibly suburban female book club. A lot of plot points come to a head at Mamie Claire’s and the dialogue bounces between characters as if they were highly skilled tennis players. The script is snappy, frequently feeling as if a playwright wrote the film. Gerwig’s acting also benefits from this high velocity: she is at her funniest and most ridiculous as she pleads with Mamie Claire to buy into her business idea for a new restaurant in Williamsburg. The whole scene is entirely ludicrous and over the top, creating the only appropriate climax for a thoroughly absurd and hilarious film.
–Eliza Summerlin
Mistress America, Noah Baumbach’s newest film to document the misguided dreams of the privileged, can easily be distilled into one scene: the confrontation at Mamie Claire’s house. Greta Gerwig plays Brooke, who is soon to become the step-sister to Tracy, a college freshmen who hasn’t found her place on campus yet. Brooke offers Tracy adventure and hope, despite the fact that her life is actually a mess. Tracy has the clarity to see the cracks in Brooke’s rose-colored glasses, but loves her nonetheless. Tracy, Brooke, their sort-of-friend Tony, and Tony’s girlfriend Nicolette leave the island of Manhattan for Greenwich, Connecticut, where Brooke’s archnemesis and former friend Mamie Claire resides. After winning the support of Mamie Claire’s neighbor, Harold, the whole troupe storms into her house, only to interrupt a heady and incredibly suburban female book club. A lot of plot points come to a head at Mamie Claire’s and the dialogue bounces between characters as if they were highly skilled tennis players. The script is snappy, frequently feeling as if a playwright wrote the film. Gerwig’s acting also benefits from this high velocity: she is at her funniest and most ridiculous as she pleads with Mamie Claire to buy into her business idea for a new restaurant in Williamsburg. The whole scene is entirely ludicrous and over the top, creating the only appropriate climax for a thoroughly absurd and hilarious film.
–Eliza Summerlin
The final scene of Phoenix
World War II has been, and probably always will be, a wellspring of source material for movies, from fact to fiction, farce to frightening. And while most end up in a towering dustbin of forgettable work, recent years have produced strokes of genius reflected by a second generation—Aleksandr Sokurov’s The Sun, Yael Hersonski’s A Film Unfinished, and Pawel Pawlikoski’s Ida--each able to look at these events from a fresh perspective. Add Christian Petzold’s Phoenix to that list. Taking place in the very early months after the Allies' victory in Berlin, Phoenix casts a harsh allegorical light on postwar perception and survival. In one corner, you have Nelly (hauntingly played by Nina Hoss), a disfigured concentration camp survivor yearning to reclaim her former life as a chanteuse. In the other corner is Johnny (Ronald Zehrfeld), Nelly’s husband, who escaped the war unscathed except for empty pockets. Nelly is unwilling to move on, and her only hope is to reunite with Johnny, despite the fact that he’s certain she is dead and that he likely turned her in to the Nazis in the first place. The painful scenario that unfolds plays off Johnny’s latent and unsympathetic guilt and Nelly’s psychological burden of victimization—an ordeal that is as implausible as it is agonizing. Petzold builds up an emotional cache, layer by layer, for 90 minutes, leading to a finale that exposes an immediate rush of pain, heartbreak, dejection, and release that hits like a sucker punch. This scene may be emblematic, but it leaves you literally stunned as the credits role.
(I would highly recommend people NOT watch the clip below if they haven’t seen the movie and they plan on seeing it. That being said, if people have seen it, it’s worth revisiting.)
–Kathie Smith
World War II has been, and probably always will be, a wellspring of source material for movies, from fact to fiction, farce to frightening. And while most end up in a towering dustbin of forgettable work, recent years have produced strokes of genius reflected by a second generation—Aleksandr Sokurov’s The Sun, Yael Hersonski’s A Film Unfinished, and Pawel Pawlikoski’s Ida--each able to look at these events from a fresh perspective. Add Christian Petzold’s Phoenix to that list. Taking place in the very early months after the Allies' victory in Berlin, Phoenix casts a harsh allegorical light on postwar perception and survival. In one corner, you have Nelly (hauntingly played by Nina Hoss), a disfigured concentration camp survivor yearning to reclaim her former life as a chanteuse. In the other corner is Johnny (Ronald Zehrfeld), Nelly’s husband, who escaped the war unscathed except for empty pockets. Nelly is unwilling to move on, and her only hope is to reunite with Johnny, despite the fact that he’s certain she is dead and that he likely turned her in to the Nazis in the first place. The painful scenario that unfolds plays off Johnny’s latent and unsympathetic guilt and Nelly’s psychological burden of victimization—an ordeal that is as implausible as it is agonizing. Petzold builds up an emotional cache, layer by layer, for 90 minutes, leading to a finale that exposes an immediate rush of pain, heartbreak, dejection, and release that hits like a sucker punch. This scene may be emblematic, but it leaves you literally stunned as the credits role.
(I would highly recommend people NOT watch the clip below if they haven’t seen the movie and they plan on seeing it. That being said, if people have seen it, it’s worth revisiting.)
–Kathie Smith
The flag scene in Redskin (1929)
For aficionados of silent cinema, there is no better place to satisfy your needs than the Heights Theater’s Silent Sunday Nights series. For years, owner Tom Letness has spent considerable money bringing to the Twin Cities masterpieces of the silent era, usually restored 35mm prints from the Library of Congress or UCLA. Last year I saw a screening of the 1929 film Redskin.
Considering the treatment onscreen of Native Americans (at the time and today, sadly), it is fairly shocking that Redskin, directed by Victor Schertzinger, is as sympathetic to the Navajo and Pueblo tribes as any film I’ve seen. This is the story of a young Navajo boy named Wing Foot (played by child actor Philip Anderson, and later as an adult by Richard Dix), who is taken from his family to be educated at a white boarding school. There, Wing Foot disobeys, as he wants to remain true to his family’s tribal past.
After a harrowing scene involving Wing Foot being stripped of his Navajo clothes (and put into a school uniform) and his hair hacked short, we get to one of the most charged scenes I’ve ever seen in American cinema, in any era. Resistant to the ways of the white school, Wing Foot is brought outside with the other children to salute the American flag, blowing in the wind. But Wing Foot refuses, as his loyalty is to the Navajo nation. The director of the school, enraged, drags the poor boy off-screen—actually heightening our image of the abuse—and whips the boy, who returns, barely able to walk, eyes glazed over, as he slowly salutes the flag. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more electric critique of the values of white men in America than this one, in a film nearly 90 years old.
–Peter Schilling Jr.
For aficionados of silent cinema, there is no better place to satisfy your needs than the Heights Theater’s Silent Sunday Nights series. For years, owner Tom Letness has spent considerable money bringing to the Twin Cities masterpieces of the silent era, usually restored 35mm prints from the Library of Congress or UCLA. Last year I saw a screening of the 1929 film Redskin.
Considering the treatment onscreen of Native Americans (at the time and today, sadly), it is fairly shocking that Redskin, directed by Victor Schertzinger, is as sympathetic to the Navajo and Pueblo tribes as any film I’ve seen. This is the story of a young Navajo boy named Wing Foot (played by child actor Philip Anderson, and later as an adult by Richard Dix), who is taken from his family to be educated at a white boarding school. There, Wing Foot disobeys, as he wants to remain true to his family’s tribal past.
After a harrowing scene involving Wing Foot being stripped of his Navajo clothes (and put into a school uniform) and his hair hacked short, we get to one of the most charged scenes I’ve ever seen in American cinema, in any era. Resistant to the ways of the white school, Wing Foot is brought outside with the other children to salute the American flag, blowing in the wind. But Wing Foot refuses, as his loyalty is to the Navajo nation. The director of the school, enraged, drags the poor boy off-screen—actually heightening our image of the abuse—and whips the boy, who returns, barely able to walk, eyes glazed over, as he slowly salutes the flag. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more electric critique of the values of white men in America than this one, in a film nearly 90 years old.
–Peter Schilling Jr.
Jack's escape in Room
Room is a movie that excels in the very talented hands of the two leads, Brie Larson and young Jacob Tremblay. Director Lenny Abrahamson guides the story itself—a tragedy ripped from the headlines with a complex yet, for all intents and purposes, happy resolution—with unadorned candor, and cinematographer Danny Cohen skillfully handles the physical confines of “room” as well as the expanses of the world so that the camera, for better or worse, nearly disappears. The sparks you are left with are Larson, a desperate but headstrong mother; Tremblay, her innocent son who is matured by nurture but atrophied by nature; and editor Nathan Nugent, able to stitch the emotional and narrative waves in post-production. All three ignite for a 20-minute sequence of storytelling perfection.
Room is divided into halves: before and after. The centerpiece is the escape, the keystone that holds the movie’s two bookends together. In the first half, Larson and Tremblay’s characters are built with patience, allowing us to understand the patterns, the dangers, and the emotional fortitude and frailty of this isolated mother and son. And then the opportunity arrives—an erratic plan for escape erupts, fails, shifts, and happens so quickly it nearly takes your breath away. And while you are catching your breath, you are comprehending the characters' vulnerability, reading the impossibility of their strategy and absorbing the palpable fear written on the actors’ faces (the image of Tremblay’s face peering out at his mother as he is being carried out of the room in a rolled up carpet still makes my heart sink). Leaving white knuckles in its wake, the most thrilling scene of the year comes buried in a based-on-a-true-story indie drama.
–Kathie Smith
Room is a movie that excels in the very talented hands of the two leads, Brie Larson and young Jacob Tremblay. Director Lenny Abrahamson guides the story itself—a tragedy ripped from the headlines with a complex yet, for all intents and purposes, happy resolution—with unadorned candor, and cinematographer Danny Cohen skillfully handles the physical confines of “room” as well as the expanses of the world so that the camera, for better or worse, nearly disappears. The sparks you are left with are Larson, a desperate but headstrong mother; Tremblay, her innocent son who is matured by nurture but atrophied by nature; and editor Nathan Nugent, able to stitch the emotional and narrative waves in post-production. All three ignite for a 20-minute sequence of storytelling perfection.
Room is divided into halves: before and after. The centerpiece is the escape, the keystone that holds the movie’s two bookends together. In the first half, Larson and Tremblay’s characters are built with patience, allowing us to understand the patterns, the dangers, and the emotional fortitude and frailty of this isolated mother and son. And then the opportunity arrives—an erratic plan for escape erupts, fails, shifts, and happens so quickly it nearly takes your breath away. And while you are catching your breath, you are comprehending the characters' vulnerability, reading the impossibility of their strategy and absorbing the palpable fear written on the actors’ faces (the image of Tremblay’s face peering out at his mother as he is being carried out of the room in a rolled up carpet still makes my heart sink). Leaving white knuckles in its wake, the most thrilling scene of the year comes buried in a based-on-a-true-story indie drama.
–Kathie Smith
Juarez border crossing in Sicario
Denis Villeneuve's Sicario was one of the most exhausting movie experiences of the year, rippling with tension and dread from its opening minutes in Arizona to its closing coda in Mexico. While its best scene is not necessarily its most suspenseful, it's critical to appreciating the reality of the situation in which protagonist Kate Macer (Emily Blunt) finds herself. Coming within the first 45 minutes or so of the film, the confrontation at the border in Juarez lays the foundation for what’s to come in two important ways (it's also best experienced in context, after having sensed the danger in Juarez and hearing Johann Johannsson's menacing score).
First, it confirms Kate’s fears that she is in way over her head, and the special task force she’s been asked to join is acting outside the bounds of any jurisdiction she can identify. At the same time, it proves that the mysterious Alejandro (Benicio del Toro) is the boss of this operation, or at least one of them. It’s a test of the naïveté of viewers to be surprised by anything that happens after this scene. This is an extrajudicial war hidden in plain sight, and anything is possible.
Secondly, the scene demonstrates why Kate was hand-picked to be part of this team, while also hinting that her recruiter (Josh Brolin) may have gotten more than he bargained for. Kate is green but she’s not gullible. She follows orders but she thinks for herself. She keeps a cool head despite her panic and is obviously very handy with her weapon. Taken together, she is the kind of person who could ultimately lead this team, or destroy it.
–Daniel Getahun
Denis Villeneuve's Sicario was one of the most exhausting movie experiences of the year, rippling with tension and dread from its opening minutes in Arizona to its closing coda in Mexico. While its best scene is not necessarily its most suspenseful, it's critical to appreciating the reality of the situation in which protagonist Kate Macer (Emily Blunt) finds herself. Coming within the first 45 minutes or so of the film, the confrontation at the border in Juarez lays the foundation for what’s to come in two important ways (it's also best experienced in context, after having sensed the danger in Juarez and hearing Johann Johannsson's menacing score).
First, it confirms Kate’s fears that she is in way over her head, and the special task force she’s been asked to join is acting outside the bounds of any jurisdiction she can identify. At the same time, it proves that the mysterious Alejandro (Benicio del Toro) is the boss of this operation, or at least one of them. It’s a test of the naïveté of viewers to be surprised by anything that happens after this scene. This is an extrajudicial war hidden in plain sight, and anything is possible.
Secondly, the scene demonstrates why Kate was hand-picked to be part of this team, while also hinting that her recruiter (Josh Brolin) may have gotten more than he bargained for. Kate is green but she’s not gullible. She follows orders but she thinks for herself. She keeps a cool head despite her panic and is obviously very handy with her weapon. Taken together, she is the kind of person who could ultimately lead this team, or destroy it.
–Daniel Getahun
Spectre's opening scene
Sam Mendes’ second Bond movie opens with a shot that can really only be compared to one other in film history—the opening of Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil. Like Spectre’s opener, Touch of Evil’s is a 3-minute-plus crane shot that meanders through a Mexican town following protagonist and extra alike as it floats, godlike, above, around, and through a group about to witness a car bomb explosion. Like nearly all of Welles’ films, Touch of Evil was hacked apart by a studio that didn’t understand his work, and part of what was lost in translation was the innovative sound work. As detailed in his extensive memo to Universal Studios, Welles hoped to create a soundtrack composed of the music coming out of each storefront on the street, melding together and shifting as the camera continues to roam through that street.
While Welles’ vision was never fulfilled, Sam Mendes successfully visualizes that goal in Spectre. The camera drifts through a Dia de los Muertos parade, following a masked Bond through a hotel lobby, in and out of an elevator, down a hall, into a hotel room, out the window, and across the rooftops, gliding up into the air over the Mexico City streets before the first cut. And throughout this marvelously choreographed shot, the sounds of the parade—music and revelers—echo sonorously into every space, cramped and tinny in the elevator, distant in the hall, and overwhelming in the street. The whole thing is one of the most marvelous sequences in contemporary cinematic history, putting to shame the schmaltzy conceit of 2014’s Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance). While Birdman’s long take constraints lead to interesting moments, it is for the most part conventional, simply drifting from medium shot to medium shot. Spectre’s opener is innovative, beautiful, and ambitious, with the camera never pausing or lingering for more than a second or two. Both Mendes and cinematographer Hoyte von Hoytema deserve serious acclaim for this accomplishment, even if the rest of the film is consistently underwhelming.
–Jeremy Meckler
Sam Mendes’ second Bond movie opens with a shot that can really only be compared to one other in film history—the opening of Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil. Like Spectre’s opener, Touch of Evil’s is a 3-minute-plus crane shot that meanders through a Mexican town following protagonist and extra alike as it floats, godlike, above, around, and through a group about to witness a car bomb explosion. Like nearly all of Welles’ films, Touch of Evil was hacked apart by a studio that didn’t understand his work, and part of what was lost in translation was the innovative sound work. As detailed in his extensive memo to Universal Studios, Welles hoped to create a soundtrack composed of the music coming out of each storefront on the street, melding together and shifting as the camera continues to roam through that street.
While Welles’ vision was never fulfilled, Sam Mendes successfully visualizes that goal in Spectre. The camera drifts through a Dia de los Muertos parade, following a masked Bond through a hotel lobby, in and out of an elevator, down a hall, into a hotel room, out the window, and across the rooftops, gliding up into the air over the Mexico City streets before the first cut. And throughout this marvelously choreographed shot, the sounds of the parade—music and revelers—echo sonorously into every space, cramped and tinny in the elevator, distant in the hall, and overwhelming in the street. The whole thing is one of the most marvelous sequences in contemporary cinematic history, putting to shame the schmaltzy conceit of 2014’s Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance). While Birdman’s long take constraints lead to interesting moments, it is for the most part conventional, simply drifting from medium shot to medium shot. Spectre’s opener is innovative, beautiful, and ambitious, with the camera never pausing or lingering for more than a second or two. Both Mendes and cinematographer Hoyte von Hoytema deserve serious acclaim for this accomplishment, even if the rest of the film is consistently underwhelming.
–Jeremy Meckler
N.W.A. performs "Fuck tha Police" in Straight Outta Compton
Straight Outta Compton is a seriously flawed movie—it often seems more like a superhero origin story than a believable portrait of flawed artists—but there are moments in F. Gary Gray's musical drama that are legitimately cathartic. Foremost among them is N.W.A.'s performance of their seminal protest song "Fuck tha Police" in Detroit, which in 1989 resulted in gunshots fired in a crowded concert hall, the rap group forcibly pulled offstage by the Detroit PD, and an arena full of angry fans venting their frustration against the cops, quickly escalating to flying glass bottles and raised police batons.
This scene is something of a turning point in the movie: the group has started to come apart at the seams (thanks mostly to their warring egos) and public outrage against N.W.A. has reached its boiling point, stoked by the group's vulgar, violent lyrics. They've been told explicitly to avoid playing "Fuck Tha Police" at the Detroit concert, lest the Detroit PD be forced to "control" the concertgoers. But as waves of applause come storming in—and with memories of their persecution by the LA police fresh in their minds—Ice Cube doesn't hesitate in shouting out the familiar lyrics. "Police think / they have the authority to kill a minority / Fuck that shit, 'cause I ain't the one / For a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun." The concert hall descends into chaos moments later—as in 1989, it's impossible to tell if the gunshots are started by someone in the audience or a police officer hoping to cause a riot. In any case, the images of bandana'ed protestors being attacked by cops with riot gear and tear-gas guns are as unsettling for 2015 audiences as for rap fans in 1989; indeed, it's easy to imagine this one scene as the impetus for making the film in 2015 in the first place.
The exoneration of two Cleveland police officers a year after they murdered 12-year-old Tamir Rice only reminds us how infuriated we should be as American citizens, and how little catharsis the American media has offered in responding to or criticizing our epidemic of police brutality. Outside the realm of provocative music videos like this one, Straight Outta Compton is one of the few pieces of American imagery that has offered even momentary catharsis—a feeling that the power still lies with us, just waiting to be reclaimed.
–Matt Levine
Straight Outta Compton is a seriously flawed movie—it often seems more like a superhero origin story than a believable portrait of flawed artists—but there are moments in F. Gary Gray's musical drama that are legitimately cathartic. Foremost among them is N.W.A.'s performance of their seminal protest song "Fuck tha Police" in Detroit, which in 1989 resulted in gunshots fired in a crowded concert hall, the rap group forcibly pulled offstage by the Detroit PD, and an arena full of angry fans venting their frustration against the cops, quickly escalating to flying glass bottles and raised police batons.
This scene is something of a turning point in the movie: the group has started to come apart at the seams (thanks mostly to their warring egos) and public outrage against N.W.A. has reached its boiling point, stoked by the group's vulgar, violent lyrics. They've been told explicitly to avoid playing "Fuck Tha Police" at the Detroit concert, lest the Detroit PD be forced to "control" the concertgoers. But as waves of applause come storming in—and with memories of their persecution by the LA police fresh in their minds—Ice Cube doesn't hesitate in shouting out the familiar lyrics. "Police think / they have the authority to kill a minority / Fuck that shit, 'cause I ain't the one / For a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun." The concert hall descends into chaos moments later—as in 1989, it's impossible to tell if the gunshots are started by someone in the audience or a police officer hoping to cause a riot. In any case, the images of bandana'ed protestors being attacked by cops with riot gear and tear-gas guns are as unsettling for 2015 audiences as for rap fans in 1989; indeed, it's easy to imagine this one scene as the impetus for making the film in 2015 in the first place.
The exoneration of two Cleveland police officers a year after they murdered 12-year-old Tamir Rice only reminds us how infuriated we should be as American citizens, and how little catharsis the American media has offered in responding to or criticizing our epidemic of police brutality. Outside the realm of provocative music videos like this one, Straight Outta Compton is one of the few pieces of American imagery that has offered even momentary catharsis—a feeling that the power still lies with us, just waiting to be reclaimed.
–Matt Levine
Football is forbidden in Timbuktu
In Abderrahmane Sissako's powerful Timbuktu, a jihadist Islam terrorist group takes over the titular Malian city, imposing Sharia law in what was formerly one of northern Africa's most cosmopolitan and richly diverse cities. The number of poignant, bittersweet scenes early on are too numerous to list, as Timbuktu's residents go about living their lives only to find that even this simplest of freedoms has been wrenched away from them by power-hungry zealots.
Before Sissako's tone becomes explicitly outraged in the latter half of the film, one scene in particular epitomizes the movie's ardent humanism. The men of the town have met in a dusty field to play soccer, only to find out that this sport has been banned by the extremist occupiers, its tenets of leisure and camaraderie seen as unreligious. But the people of Timbuktu won't allow such craven strictures to get in their way. Deprived of an actual ball, they decide to play the game anyway, all of them running in tandem towards a particular part of the field as though they can all visualize this phantom ball, a symbol of their refusal to give up hope. A plaintive musical score stirs on the soundtrack as we witness them play their game, the one tiny way they can disobey these tyrants without fearing punishment by execution. Sissako allows his film a brief scene of unabashed romanticism, a belief that our strength and unity as human beings can triumph over the deluded political decisions of weak men.
Maybe the Mauritanian Sissako doesn't intend to pay homage to the mimes-playing-tennis ending of Antonioni's Blow-Up (1966), but this scene from Timbuktu plays like a more politicized version of Antonioni's arthouse conundrum: the only difference is, for Blow-Up's mod, disillusioned Britons, playing an invisible sport is just a sign of their apathy, the collapse of all meaning and language in their lives; for the people of Timbuktu, on the other hand, that nonexistent soccer ball represents everything they've lost, and everything they continue to fight for.
–Matt Levine
In Abderrahmane Sissako's powerful Timbuktu, a jihadist Islam terrorist group takes over the titular Malian city, imposing Sharia law in what was formerly one of northern Africa's most cosmopolitan and richly diverse cities. The number of poignant, bittersweet scenes early on are too numerous to list, as Timbuktu's residents go about living their lives only to find that even this simplest of freedoms has been wrenched away from them by power-hungry zealots.
Before Sissako's tone becomes explicitly outraged in the latter half of the film, one scene in particular epitomizes the movie's ardent humanism. The men of the town have met in a dusty field to play soccer, only to find out that this sport has been banned by the extremist occupiers, its tenets of leisure and camaraderie seen as unreligious. But the people of Timbuktu won't allow such craven strictures to get in their way. Deprived of an actual ball, they decide to play the game anyway, all of them running in tandem towards a particular part of the field as though they can all visualize this phantom ball, a symbol of their refusal to give up hope. A plaintive musical score stirs on the soundtrack as we witness them play their game, the one tiny way they can disobey these tyrants without fearing punishment by execution. Sissako allows his film a brief scene of unabashed romanticism, a belief that our strength and unity as human beings can triumph over the deluded political decisions of weak men.
Maybe the Mauritanian Sissako doesn't intend to pay homage to the mimes-playing-tennis ending of Antonioni's Blow-Up (1966), but this scene from Timbuktu plays like a more politicized version of Antonioni's arthouse conundrum: the only difference is, for Blow-Up's mod, disillusioned Britons, playing an invisible sport is just a sign of their apathy, the collapse of all meaning and language in their lives; for the people of Timbuktu, on the other hand, that nonexistent soccer ball represents everything they've lost, and everything they continue to fight for.
–Matt Levine
Wild Tales' survival of the pettiest
Like many anthology films, the Spanish-Argentinian Wild Tales is somewhat uneven; this misanthropic sextet of stories ranges from the brilliantly incisive to the tepidly nasty. Story number three, "The Strongest," might not be its cleverest or its most well-made segment, but it's definitely the movie's most wildly entertaining portrait of human depravity. On a dusty road in rural Argentina, a clearly wealthy man in a souped-up sports car tries to pass a gruff-looking mechanic in a beat-up pickup truck, only to have a spiteful little game of cat-and-mouse as they battle for position. The wealthy man finally drives on, thinking that will be that, only to get a flat tire a few miles down the road. Moments later, who should join him but the pissed-off truck driver, eager to take out his frustration on the man's gleaming sedan (or, preferably, on the man himself).
This story's upper vs. lower class blood feud isn't especially complex, but as a pared-down, viciously funny exaggeration of men's virile antagonism, it's jaw-droppingly over-the-top. These men are simply cartoonish neanderthals; what begins as a case of road rage escalates into a titanic clash involving defecation, strangling-by-seatbelt, life-or-death slapping contests, and (of course) explosions. If Wile E. Coyote was a brusque motorist and the Roadrunner was an arrogant jackass in an Audi, this is the epic battle we'd see. Ending with a perfectly morbid punchline, "The Strongest" abides by the same principle as many of the greatest movie scenes: the entire time you're watching it, you won't believe your eyes.
–Matt Levine
Like many anthology films, the Spanish-Argentinian Wild Tales is somewhat uneven; this misanthropic sextet of stories ranges from the brilliantly incisive to the tepidly nasty. Story number three, "The Strongest," might not be its cleverest or its most well-made segment, but it's definitely the movie's most wildly entertaining portrait of human depravity. On a dusty road in rural Argentina, a clearly wealthy man in a souped-up sports car tries to pass a gruff-looking mechanic in a beat-up pickup truck, only to have a spiteful little game of cat-and-mouse as they battle for position. The wealthy man finally drives on, thinking that will be that, only to get a flat tire a few miles down the road. Moments later, who should join him but the pissed-off truck driver, eager to take out his frustration on the man's gleaming sedan (or, preferably, on the man himself).
This story's upper vs. lower class blood feud isn't especially complex, but as a pared-down, viciously funny exaggeration of men's virile antagonism, it's jaw-droppingly over-the-top. These men are simply cartoonish neanderthals; what begins as a case of road rage escalates into a titanic clash involving defecation, strangling-by-seatbelt, life-or-death slapping contests, and (of course) explosions. If Wile E. Coyote was a brusque motorist and the Roadrunner was an arrogant jackass in an Audi, this is the epic battle we'd see. Ending with a perfectly morbid punchline, "The Strongest" abides by the same principle as many of the greatest movie scenes: the entire time you're watching it, you won't believe your eyes.
–Matt Levine
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