Well, here we are.
Putting together a Best Films of 2020 list has been a decidedly bizarre process. It’s hard to ignore that 2020 has been a very different year for the film industry. Movie theaters are on the brink of bankruptcy, and so many films which were supposed to define cinema in 2020 have been delayed. Landmark events like film festivals and awards ceremonies have all been pushed back or made digital, with good reason. So, as we consider film in 2020 there is a certain degree of uncertainty. I don’t think film as a medium is going anywhere, but I do think the way we watch films will be irrevocably affected by the pandemic.
On a more optimistic note, film was one of the best parts of 2020. And not just in terms of films released this year—the medium of film might have been appreciated in 2020 more than ever. I don’t have statistical evidence to back this up but I don’t know anyone who didn’t rely on film in some way. I probably watched more movies in 2020 than I have in any other year (and that’s saying something). And as with any year, the films released in 2020 had a lot of good to offer. My list comes a little bit late this year thanks to some late releases, but I’m incredibly pleased with it. There are as always some indie oddballs, some underrated gems, some Oscar contenders, and everything in between.
But
before we get into this list, I do have to make one note: one of my absolute
favorite films of the year won’t be appearing on this list. By all assessments
the extraordinary Bacurau should be in my top 3…except that I already
put it on my list last year. I honestly don’t know how this happened, but I saw
an early screening of it and thought it had been officially released last year.
My mistake. But rather than write about it again, it’ll just get an asterisk
and remain, in my mind at least, a 2019 film. Still, everybody should see this increasingly timely, revolutionary film!
And so with that out of the way, we’ll start with my #30 pick!
#30: Scare Me (dir. Josh Ruben)
#29: Cuties (dir. Maïmouna Doucouré)
There was no more unjustly maligned film this year than Cuties. After Netflix’s promotional material for the film featured its 11-year-old stars in revealing clothing, there was a massive campaign in the United States to ban the film, with claims that it was child pornography. Politicians from both parties (mostly Republicans, but some Democrats as well, including former Presidential candidate Tulsi Gabbard) called for the film to be taken off the service, and there were even attempts to force the distributors to testify in front of Congress. As the hashtag “Cancel Netflix” started trending, one thing became immediately clear: not a single person who was so outraged over the film had actually seen it. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll point out that Josh Hawley and Ted Cruz were the most vocal critics of the film, so this is the sort of bullshit this film was dealing with.
It’s sad because if its harshest critics actually bothered to watch Cuties, they would probably find they agree with almost everything it’s saying. Maïmouna Doucouré’s film is a coming-of-age story about a Muslim girl living in France who rebels against her restrictive upbringing when she joins a dance group formed by her new friends. The most objectionable scenes in the film are not scandalous (despite ludicrous claims by some talking heads, there is no child nudity and no children perform sex acts and I don’t know where anyone got this idea) and are, in fact, a realistic depiction of how children act. Doucouré clearly understands the way children behave and think, and the film is both charming in its depiction of pre-adolescent life, and astute in its criticism of the hypersexualization of media marketed towards kids. Her handling of more sexual subject matter is incredibly responsible and purposeful. If you’re hesitant to watch Cuties I urge you to give it a chance. It will surprise you, and I imagine it might win you over completely.
#28: Survival Skills (dir. Quinn Armstrong)
Survival Skills features one of the more original concepts for a movie in this or any year. The film presents itself as a police training video from the 1980s, where a hypothetical idealistic police officer Jim (Vayu O’Donnell) learns proper police procedure. But when, in the video, Jim investigates a domestic violence case, he becomes consumed by it and cannot easily move on to the other topics the video’s narrator (Stacy Keach) wants to cover. The film is a satirical wonder—every detail is perfectly in line with an awful 80s training video (right down to the VHS glitches)—and if the film had leaned solely into its comedic potential it already would have been fantastic. In one standout moment, the narrator decides to give Jim a wife, who appears out of nowhere and smilingly declares “I make my own jam!” But, as the premise might suggest, Survival Skills ultimately goes in a more serious direction, and the film provides some incisive commentary on the inadequacy of the police in difficult cases, either because of indifference or inability. As Jim, O’Donnell is a like a sentient Ken doll, a robotically nice proto-human who cannot understand the imperfect world and profession he finds himself in. It’s an intriguing and dynamic performance, in one of the oddest films of the year. Survival Skills can be clunky at times, and I wonder if it needed to be feature length, but it certainly stands out, and for ambition alone merits a spot on my list.
#27: Blow the Man Down (dir. Bridget Savage Cole and Danielle Krudy)
Blow the Man Down understandably received a lot of comparisons to The Coen Brothers’ oeuvre upon its release. It has all the hallmarks of a typical Coens production: spontaneous murders with unusual weapons, giant bags of money, quirky heroes and villains, a small town rooted in Americana, etc. But while the comparisons are apt, and hopefully convince people to see this lovely film, Bridget Savage Cole and Danielle Krudy have a style all their own which sets it apart from the slew of Coenesque films of years past. Set in a small fishing town in Maine, Blow the Man Down follows two sisters (Sophie Lowe and Morgan Saylor) who get in over their heads while attempting to cover up a crime. The story is a bit predictable as far as crime dramas go, but the whodunnit and whydunit of it all is never really the point. It’s all about atmosphere. One of the film’s most defining touches is a singing fisherman (David Coffin) who frequently shows up, unrelated to the action unfolding on the screen. His presence lends a sense of lore to the film, and a certain unlikely coziness found in the best mystery stories. And this was all BEFORE the sea shanty Tik Tok boom. While watching Blow the Man Down, you can almost smell the salty sea air. Throw in a standout performance by Margo Martindale as brothel owner Enid Nora Devlin, and you truly have a winner.
#26: Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (dir. George C. Wolfe)
It’s a tricky thing to adapt a stage play for the screen. The limited settings and smaller cast sizes can sometimes feel odd, and it’s hard to overcome a feeling that the writing wasn’t meant for the screen. George C. Wolfe’s adaptation of August Wilson’s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom doesn’t exactly overcome this challenge, but it works by skirting the challenge and embracing the theatricality of the project. And, of course, the project is buoyed by some truly outstanding performances. The film primarily takes place over one afternoon, when legendary blues singer Ma Rainey records an album with her band despite the band fighting amongst themselves and against the industry at large. Everyone here is excellent. Stage veterans Colman Domingo, Michael Potts, and Glynn Turman, are all wonderful as the older members of Ma Rainey’s band, each one balancing weariness and wisdom in turns. Chadwick Boseman notably gives his final performance as the headstrong trumpeter Levee Green, and it happens to be the strongest performance of his career. But the standout is Ma Rainey herself, played by Viola Davis. Davis has consistently proven herself as one of the most commanding actors working today, and Ma Rainey is the type of role she can truly knock out of the park. Whether on stage or screen, it’s a thrill to see such capable performers tackle August Wilson’s work, and hopefully this adaptation can bring this fantastic play to a larger audience.
#25: To the Ends of the Earth (dir. Kiyoshi Kurosawa)
Kiyoshi Kurosawa is best known as a master of horror. His films Cure and Pulse are amongst the most terrifying that I’ve ever seen. Still, it’s always exciting when Kurosawa steps away from that genre. Even when his projects don't veer into horror territory, Kurosawa’s impeccable understanding of stakes and discomfort is always present. And it's for these reasons that To the Ends of the Earth is his best film in years. To the Ends of the Earth follows Yoko (Atsuko Maeda) a travel reporter on a tour through Uzbekistan. As she records multiple segments, Yoko’s becomes increasingly dissatisfied with the way she’s treated by her ethically ambiguous producer, and her actual aspirations in life become clearer to both herself and the audience. Kurosawa excels at restraint—the drama arises from a sense that something is always about to happen, even if it never does. I’m making it sound far less interesting than it is, but that’s because To the Ends of the Earth is in many ways indescribable. It’s filled with delicious little surprises—many tragic, all beautiful. The one guarantee with To the Ends of the Earth is that you never know exactly where it’s going. But it’s a lovely trip all the same.
#24: The Vast of Night (dir. Andrew Patterson)
“Nostalgia”
is very trendy these days. With more big budget projects than ever trying to
rely on the feeling to attract viewers, I’m hardly the only one who feels like
“Nostalgia” is getting pretty over-saturated. But then a film like The Vast
of Night comes along that completely justifies why nostalgia projects are
so popular in the first place. Set in the 1950’s, The Vast of Night is
presented as if it’s an episode of an Outer Limits-esque TV Show
(complete with a title sequence and a zoom-in on an old-timey television set).
The framing device is brilliant—at once laying the groundwork for a distinct
but familiar setting, and justifying the film’s low budget and limited setting.
The rest of the film is equally creative. It follows Fay (Sierra McCormick) and
Everett (Jake Horowitz), two high school-age radio aficionados who happen upon
a strange audio signal and start to investigate it. From there, they head down
a mysterious path to uncover secrets of our world and beyond. The creativity on
display from director Andrew Patterson (who co-wrote the script with Craig W.
Sanger) is staggering, with some fantastic sound design and excellent
cinematography. Given the framing device, I don’t know if Patterson is planning
for more installments of The Vast of Night. I certainly hope so. It’s no
wonder The Vast of Night became one of 2020’s most acclaimed indie
darlings, and the potential for this to be a promising franchise is, well, vast.
#23: Sea Fever (dir. Neasa Hardiman)
Sea Fever would have been an excellent horror film if it had been released in any month in any year. But as a film released in April in 2020, it stands out as particularly extraordinary. The film takes place almost entirely on a fishing trawler, and the only characters are the ship’s 7-person crew. After an encounter with a mysterious squidlike creature, marine biologist Siobhan (Hermione Corfield) fears that one of her fellow crew members might be infected with a mysterious disease. While the crew tries to make it to shore to get medical attention, Siobhan brings up a harsh truth. If they cannot control the infection and prevent it from spreading to the rest of the crew, they risk bringing the infection onto the land, dooming all of humanity. For obvious reasons, this is a film that hit REALLY CLOSE TO HOME. But the relevance of the film’s themes is not the reason it’s on my list. It’s on my list because it is an excellent horror film, filled with suspense, interesting visuals, and strong ensemble performances. Irish director and writer Neasa Hardiman has a well-crafted monster flick on her hands, which gives away just enough information so that we’re intrigued but never lost. And, if anything, the COVID-19 pandemic might have turned Sea Fever into a feel-good film. Sure, a lot of people die (it’s a horror film about a disease outbreak, after all) but at least everyone seems to be taking the easily transmittable disease seriously. Now if only they had worn face masks, Sea Fever would have been truly prophetic.
#22: I’m No Longer Here (dir. Fernando Frías de la Parra)
Mexico’s
submission to the Oscars this year is I’m No Longer Here, a small film
whose profile was raised after rave reviews from directors like Guillermo del Toro
and Alfonso Cuarón. The film follows a teen named Ulises, a member of a
counter-culture movement in Mexico who is forced to flee for his life to
Queens. The most immediately noticeable gift that I’m No Longer Here
offers audiences is an education on Cumbia, a music and dance tradition born
out of American Indian traditions. Watching Ulises dance is as beautiful an
expression of freedom as I’ve ever seen on film. Actor Juan Daniel Garcia
Treviño is a revelation here; he plays Ulises as stoic and reserved in daily
life, yet wonderfully expressive in his movements. Conversely, when Ulises is
hiding in Queens, we feel the pain of restriction, and the grief of being away
from his culture and his music. I’m No Longer Here succeeds because it
takes many familiar tropes and turns them on their head. The plot could have
been a generic gang movie. But in the hands of writer/director Fernando Frías
de la Parra it becomes a poetic glimpse into a story that is all too
infrequently told. It's destined to become a future classic, and marks de la Parra as an excellent addition to the ever-expanding roster of Mexican auteurs.
#21: Nomadland (dir. Chloé Zhao)
With so many normal Oscar bait films postponed a year to hopefully allow for open movie theaters, it is likely that the Academy will have to take a closer look at films they otherwise would have ignored. Case in point, the current frontrunner for Best Picture appears to be an incredibly unlikely pick: Nomadland. Nomadland is a remarkably honest and touching look at American poverty which avoids the pitfalls that make so many similar films feel exploitative. The film follows Fern (Frances McDormand, on a path to a potential third Oscar win), who makes the choice to live in a van and travel the country, after losing both her husband and her livelihood. The film is written and directed by Chloé Zhao, a rising star in the industry (who’s helming the Marvel film Eternals, set to come out next year), and I think this is her strongest film to date. Nomadland very much exists in the same realm as her previous films (Songs My Brother Taught Me and The Rider). All three films are introspective, and have a clear goal at presenting classic Americana through a new and more sensitive lens. But I think that Nomadland is a natural evolution for Zhao and her favorite cinematic themes. The most notable difference is the inclusion of McDormand and Oscar-nominee David Strathairn. In her previous films, Zhao used a cast of first-time actors, and here too most of the people seen on screen are actual nomads who have not acted before (Charlene Swankie is a standout). But having the presence of McDormand and Strathairn is a gift. It invites us into the world instead of just depicting it, and McDormand’s strong central performance makes for a more compelling narrative arc than Zhao’s previous character studies. McDormand has for a long time been critically adored for her ability to portray strength on screen. Fern is the latest in a long line of incredible McDormand protagonists, and she speaks to the resilience of people, of America, and—at a time of industry uncertainty—of film itself.
#20: The Climb (dir. Michael Angelo Covino)
Despite hearing only great things about The Climb, its very premise made me resistant to it. A touching reflection on a toxic male friendship across several years is a movie I feel like I’ve seen before, and haven’t particularly liked. But by the end of the first scene (a marvel, and essentially a recreation of the short film The Climb was based on) I was completely won over. Said first scene is a lengthy shot of friends Mike and Kyle (played by screenwriters Michael Angelo Covino and Kyle Marvin) on an uphill bike ride when Mike reveals that he’s been sleeping with Kyle’s fiancée. In minutes, you understand exactly who these characters are and what the dynamic of their friendship is. As the film goes on, we see more landmarks in their friendship, ones which test with increasing urgency why Kyle continues to spend time around Mike. But, against all odds, you do strangely root for the two to remain together. There’s a certain sense of inevitability which pervades The Climb, and it’s a true testament to Covino and Marvin that we care about these characters to the extent that we do. It’s a film that has to be seen to be truly understood, and one with a touching undercurrent despite its awkward and rough exterior.
#19: The Wolf House (dir. Cristóbal León and Joaquín Cociña)
This
year, the Oscar for Best Animated Feature Film will surely come down to Soul
vs. Wolfwalkers. And while it’s not the worst matchup in Oscars
history, I’m sad that no attention will even be paid to The Wolf House,
which is one of the most impressive feats of animation I’ve ever seen. To say
that The Wolf House is filmed entirely in stop motion is accurate, but
doesn’t really explain what this film is. This iteration of stop motion incorporates every
technique imaginable, from giant murals to paper mache sculptures. The effect
is mesmerizing and wholly unique. And the story itself is a similar melding of
styles, taking influence from Chilean fairy tales, true stories of refugees
fleeing from Nazis, and haunted house folklore. A lyrical animated poem, there
are images in The Wolf House which are absolutely unforgettable.
Disturbing and intoxicating in equal measure, The Wolf House is one of
2020’s greatest visual triumphs. It's not just a film, it's a true work of art, and a glorious one at that.
#18: Amulet (dir. Romola Garai)
I still remember when it seemed like every new horror movie relied heavily on jump scares and gore, and have been so happy to see a bit of a horror renaissance over the past decade. Horror films not only seem to be gaining more consistent critical acclaim than they used to, but I’m finding that more and more horror filmmakers are leaning into artistry as opposed to gimmicks, and fully utilizing the storytelling tools that only horror can really take advantage of. Amulet is the epitome of this. Actress Romola Garai steps into the director’s chair and has crafted a really stunning debut feature. It tells the story of Tomaz (Alec Secareanu), an ex-soldier who takes a job doing house upkeep for a mysterious woman named Magda (Carla Juri). It is immediately clear that Magda doesn’t really want him there, and as time goes on he starts to realize that this house and the family residing inside it contain some dark and sinister secrets. To say more would be to say too much, but Amulet features a feast of delights for any horror film fanatic. For one thing, it's stunning, with some of the wildest imagery of the year especially in the film’s latter half. Amulet’s style of horror is atmospheric and psychological, and Garai knows how to pace the film exceedingly well, allowing her to unveil a truly spectacular and supernatural ending. Plus, Imelda Staunton gives a standout performance as a nun who might not be a real nun (slight spoilers, I guess, but you don’t cast Dolores Umbridge in that role for nothing). It might not have gotten the most attention this year, but fans of horror shouldn’t let Amulet pass them by.
#17: Bull (dir. Annie Silverstein)
Stop me if you’ve heard this one: an earnest but troublemaking kid accidentally befriends a grumpy old person and along the way they each learn things about themselves. It’s one of the most common tropes in film, and has been recreated to varying levels of success time and time again. But, when it’s done well, it can be really satisfying to see. And it is done very well in Annie Silverstein’s Bull. The unlikely friendship formed in Bull between aging bullfighter Abe (Rob Morgan) and delinquent teen Kris (Amber Havard) was one of the best on-screen duos of 2020, thanks in no small part to the wonderful performances of these two actors. Havard is a promising new talent, and gives a performance that feels far more down-to-earth than most “precocious teens” on screen. And Morgan continues to be one of my favorite actors working today in his heartbreaking portrayal of Abe. Bull is one of those films where you forget it’s a film while you’re watching it—so natural and assured is Silverstein’s direction. In a year where quiet contemporary Westerns have been on the rise—with films like Nomadland and First Cow picking a lot of awards buzz—I fear Bull might have been lost in the shuffle. I truly hope this charming and beautifully subtle film can get some more attention.
#16: La Llorona (dir. Jayro Bustamante)
Guatemala’s submission to the Oscars this year is La Llorona, a powerful reimagining of classic folklore, and my favorite horror film of the year. As the title suggests, La Llorona is inspired by the legend of La Llorona, a ghost in Latin American culture who walks by the water mourning her children. It’s hardly the first time this legend has been put to screen (most recently, in 2019 when The Curse of La Llorona entered the Conjuring Universe in what was sadly a really dreadful movie). But Jayro Bustamante’s interpretation of the legend is thrilling and imaginative, and like the best horror movies, uses the supernatural to comment on human emotions and issues. In this case, those affected by the appearances of La Llorona are the family of a brutal dictator (Julio Diaz) who committed genocide against native Mayans while in power. It becomes clear that the titular weeping woman is hardly the only ghost in La Llorona—the presence of an entire lost group of people is felt in every frame. La Llorona is distinctly a horror film, filled with eerie and beautiful imagery, but it’s also not that interested in actually being scary. Instead, it uses its sense of dread to make a different kind of impact. It’s a film where we root for the ghosts, at once feeling the sense of their haunting and understanding their motivations. The result is a high stakes fairy tale that is eerie and unforgettable—the latest in a line of cinematic ghost stories with a message which will stand the test of time.
#15: A Sun (dir. Chung Mong-hong)
Crime dramas often feature a set of familiar and overused tropes: elaborate plans, violent attacks, revealed secrets, and macho guys saying things that sound cool. But what sets A Sun apart is that it is mostly unconcerned with these elements we’ve seen before. It takes a generic crime drama and shifts the perspective entirely. A Sun almost feels like the aftermath of a completely different film, where the supporting characters become the main ones, and the repercussions that usually go undiscussed are the impetus for the drama. The film is focused on the Chen family after son Ho (Wu Chien-ho) is jailed for his part in a violent attack. Ho’s parents Wen (Chen Yi-wen) and Qin (Samantha Ko) are in various stages of denial about their son and the state of their lives, while Ho’s brother Hao (Greg Hsu) is trying to maintain civility against all odds. As secrets are kept and uncovered, the family unit continues to unravel to devastating effect. A Sun is one of those films that sneaks up on you—I hadn’t realized just how invested I was in the lives of these characters until at least halfway through the movie. But you care about them deeply, even as the decisions made by the characters grow increasingly messy. In subverting what you expect from a traditional crime drama, A Sun ends up being endlessly more compelling. And it’s all told in style, thanks to great cinematography and a wonderful and intriguing score. While it was largely ignored during its immediate release, it has started picking up considerable buzz as Taiwan’s submission to the Oscars. Here’s hoping that if it makes the Academy’s shortlist for Best International Film, more people take a look at A Sun. It’s guaranteed to surprise you.
#14: The 40-Year-Old Version (dir. Radha Blank)
One of the best debut films of 2020 has to be The 40-Year-Old Version. Not only is it a strong film on its own, but it announces writer, director, and star Radha Blank as a fresh and bold new voice in film. Few first-time filmmakers have a perspective and voice that feels so fully realized right out of the gate, especially when they are wearing so many different hats at once. But Radha Blank’s funny and compelling film is proof that inexperience is meaningless when a true artist has something they want to say. The film stars Blank as a fictionalized version of herself. Movie Radha is a playwright who, dissatisfied with the state of her career, considers a new career as a rapper. As an on-screen presence, Blank is a tour de force, and someone you can’t help but watch. As a director, she’s similarly strong, and her choice to have the film almost entirely in black and white is evocative of another era, one symbolic of the complacent ideals Radha is trying to escape from and move past. But it is as a writer where Blank shines brightest. This script is incredibly incisive, offering biting satire of the NYC theater scene that is hilarious but leaves a distinct mark. Blank knows how to be bold while seeming unassuming, so that The 40-Year-Old Version lingers in your mind long after viewing. She also has a knack for creating characters, and allows her entire ensemble to shine. The 40-Year-Old Version is filled with meaty roles, and even characters with just a few minutes of screentime are unforgettable, with standouts being André Ward as an egotistical director, Welker White as an oblivious colleague with thoughts on soy milk, and Jacob Ming-Trent as a no-nonsense homeless man. I have no doubts that Radha Blank will succeed in whatever field she chooses to pursue, be it music, the stage, or the screen. But we can only hope that The 40-Year-Old Version is the first of many films she’ll make. It’s clear she has a lot more to say.
#13: Crip Camp: A Disability Revolution (dir. Nicole Newnham and James LeBrecht)
Full disclosure: James LeBrecht is not only a talented filmmaker, he’s also a close family friend of mine. He’s my mother’s writing partner and I’ve always grown up knowing him as my “Uncle Jimmy.” I considered whether I should include it in my end of year roundup for this reason, but ultimately I do think I can judge Crip Camp on its own merits, and it’s too strong a film to exclude.
If Crip Camp was nothing more than a history lesson on the disability rights movement in the U.S. then it would already be a worthwhile watch. It’s an important part of history, but one that is never taught in school and which most people know almost nothing about. And Crip Camp doesn’t just tell a thorough history of the movement, but it tells it incredibly well. But Crip Camp is so much more. The camp of the title refers to Camp Jened—a summer camp for teens with disabilities which LeBrecht attended. As described in the film, Camp Jened was a place that these campers could be themselves, and exist in a place where they were not seen as different or incapable. The film makes a compelling argument that it was connections formed at this camp which contributed to the disability right movement. Footage from the camp from 1971 paints a wonderful picture of life in this space, and presents people with disabilities in a context not typically seen in film. It also adds a personal touch to Crip Camp which makes it so wonderful. It’s not just educating its audience about a piece of American history, Crip Camp allows people with disabilities to tell their own stories. The legal breakthroughs are coupled with personal moments and anecdotes in a compelling and revolutionary way. Crip Camp is a must-see, and the rare documentary which entertains as much as it educates.
#12: Saint Frances (dir. Alex Thompson)
One of the more refreshing trends in film is the number of contemporary dark comedies that deal frankly with issues of pregnancy and abortion. Films like Obvious Child and Private Life have managed to thrive without feeling repetitive because these issues are so personal and varied. The latest entry into this ever-expanding category is Saint Frances, written by and starring Kelly O’Sullivan. Even with no big names attached, Saint Frances got a lot of buzz right out of SXSW, and it’s easy to see why. The script follows a woman named Bridget (O’Sullivan) who starts a new job as a nanny for a six-year old (Ramona Edith Williams). While looking after this child—and confronting the very idea of having a child in her life—Bridget deals with complications with getting an abortion for an unwanted pregnancy, and general fears about being in her mid-30’s. Alex Thompson’s direction is strong, but it is ultimately clear that this is O’Sullivan’s vision through and through. Her voice as a writer is strong, and it’s clear through her performance that she wrote the role for herself. It’s an insightful, funny, and incredibly charming film, which effortlessly succeeds at being heartwarming. It’s a smart film, made with a lot of care and consideration, and the story and characters never get lost within the film’s message. In an interview, O’Sullivan said of her film’s subject matter that, “I’m excited to continue to see stories where maybe abortion isn’t the main plot point—where it’s an event, not the event.” After seeing, Saint Frances, I hope that O’Sullivan and other filmmakers like her will continue this promising trend.
#11: Minari (dir. Lee Isaac Chung)
The Hollywood Foreign Press Association recently faced heavy criticism for its decision to classify Minari as a foreign language film, thus disqualifying it from a Best Picture run at the Golden Globes. The decision would be baffling for any film (and showcases again how outdated the Golden Globes are), but it’s particularly odd for a film like Minari, which is not only an excellent film, but is a film which is distinctly American. Lee Isaac Chung’s semi-autobiographical film follows the Yi family, who immigrate from Korea to Arkansas to live on a farm. The film observes the family’s failures and triumphs, and the ways that their new home changes and affects each family member. The film is primarily told from the perspective of David (Alan Kim), the young son who serves as a stand-in for Chung, and like the best films about children, the film has an easy sense of wonder to it. We observe David’s parents (Steven Yeun and Han Ye-ri) the way he does—all the while picking up on more than they probably imagine. Meanwhile, the setting of Arkansas farmland is presented as both an opportunity (as David’s father Jacob views it) and a threat to everything once held dear (as his mother Monica views it). Minari manages to present the oft-cited immigrant experience in a refreshing way—one without judgment and with an excess of humanity. It’s not a coincidence that the film is named after minari, a resilient edible plant that the Yi family brings over from Korea to grow. It offers an obvious yet elegant metaphor: despite hardships, the Yi family will find a way to survive on this soil. At a time of political turmoil in the United States, where much of the country is grappling with its troubled history and legacy, it’s refreshing to see a film that is so optimistic about “The American Dream,” without feeling ignorant or patronizing.
And now, for my top 10 films of the year, check out Part 2!
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