The titular orange billboards don’t leave the town of Ebbing, Missouri. The black lettering pleading “How come, Chief Willoughby?” against a piercing blue midwestern sky. It is a shout into America for justice.
In a shout for justice there is power. We’ve seen this especially throughout the course of 2017— the power of women flooding the National Mall after Trump’s inauguration, these same women leading the #MeToo movement and becoming Time magazine’s People of the Year: The Silence Breakers. The power of counter-protesters bombarding white supremacists in Charlottesville. The power of art itself calling attention to injustice in America (Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN. and Jordan Peele’s Get Out were the most buzzed-about pieces of music and film this year, respectively). We shout when we see injustice; Mildred (Frances McDormand), then, is shouting at a neglectful police force when she erects her first billboard in her small town of Ebbing, Missouri, to bring attention to the untouched abduction, rape, and murder case of her daughter. The billboard is solemn and damning: RAPED WHILE DYING. Three words on a billboard, this wooden staple of roadside Americana, punches in its brevity the state of our nation with as much breathless commentary as a tweet. Simple, enough, and seen by everybody. That’s America for you. Naturally, when Mildred reveals her billboards, the town is shaken up, mostly on the account of Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson), who is the only member of the force singled out. The controversy lies in the fact that Willoughby is a genuinely good man who is dying of pancreatic cancer as he fathers his two little girls. Why is Mildred so insistent on calling him out specifically? “It’s better to get him on the case before he croaks, right?” There is a tendency in American people to turn everything into a spectacle for our own entertainment. Hence, the residents of Ebbing, Missouri are geared up for a showdown between their resident crazy woman scorned and their good cop. But it’s not that simple. Of course it’s not that simple. No life is simple when it’s filled with unspeakable pain, as both Mildred and Willoughby’s are. This is the greatest strength of Three Billboards— its ability to find empathy and compassion underneath the leather-tough exteriors of McDormand’s and Harrelson’s characters. We find that compassion and hold it out for the characters. The characters find that compassion and hold it out for each other. There comes an understanding in this and a reaffirmation of human kindness. It’s truly beautiful and, for that, it deserves the acclaim that it’s been getting. Perhaps that’s what makes it all the more infuriating when other characters of Three Billboards don’t get the same nuanced treatment that Mildred and Willoughby are given. There is a commanding presence of a character in Officer Jason Dixon (played by Sam Rockwell, whose performance won the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama), a violently racist and homophobic cop who, (after some events that would spoil the movie if I revealed them), changes the error of his ways. This character’s redemption arc has certainly rubbed audiences the wrong way, as the passivity of Dixon’s redemption almost makes his bigotry excusable and not a big deal. I want to say very quickly that I think there is something hopeful about the fact that Dixon can change at all. In a climate wherein bigotry has become mainstream, I think Dixon’s redemption is refreshing. It gives me hope to see that one can reform and live his life according to his resolutions. Great works of art are full of deeply flawed characters. But here’s the thing: It’s strongly implied that Dixon has abused his authority as a cop in the past by torturing a black person. That’s no small thing— it’s a very real matter. In a movie so centered on empathy and compassion, shouldn’t we get to hear the voices of the person who was tortured and the black community around him? We don’t, and it’s more than frustrating; it’s inconsiderate and inconsistent. If Three Billboards is about the empathy and compassion that lies in beaten-down people, it neglects to give its black characters the same treatment. We get to see Mildred’s struggle as a mourning mother and abused wife. We get to see Willoughby’s own body oppressing him in his cancer diagnosis. Three Billboards brilliantly uses characterization to get to the root of a compassion between Mildred and Willoughby, but there is hardly a meaningful conversation between a black character and Dixon— or just about any white character. In a movie full of complex characterization, there is very little in Dixon and none in the people he’s brutalized. I really liked most of Three Billboards. I thought most of it was incredibly witty, poignant, and brilliantly acted through and through. The encompassing themes were lovely. Several moments took my breath away. Had it not tackled more than it was willing to treat well, I think it could be a perfect film. The controversy exploding around this movie, however, is undoubtedly warranted. Regarding the issue of race, screenwriter Mark McDonagh just about does what Get Out warns against— instead of treating black people like complex human beings, they are objectified and used as pawns for the progression of their white counterparts. I think McDonagh wanted to make impactful points about racial injustice in America, but it falls so flat. Not only is the remainder of this movie far better than these scenes, but…we got Get Out this year, guys, and we’re going to get so much more. We’re getting a conversation in the media that hasn’t gone this far before. And now, during Hollywood’s award season, a staple of glitzy Americana, these daring and unafraid films punch in their brevity the state of our nation with as much breathless commentary as a tweet. Simple, enough, and seen by everybody. That’s America for you. For more information on the backlash of Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri, read Nate Jones's piece for Vulture "Oscars 2018: Your Guide to the 'Three Billboards' Backlash.'
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Oh, senior year, thy soul resideth in pink-and-red senior prom ensembles. I wasn't sure what to expect of my high school experience. People kept telling me high school was going to be the greatest time of my life while others told me it would be the most miserable. I came to the conclusion that it was going to be a mixture of the two, and, regardless of whether it’d be predominantly good or bad, I was under the impression it would make an awesome movie. I don't think I was misguided in that expectation, as some of my favorite movies were high school movies. I was waiting for the sweet romance of …Say Anything, or the surreal, late-night weirdness of Sixteen Candles, or that one perfect car ride, like in The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I was waiting for these big, defined scenes to show themselves in my life, but they never really seemed to. Of the oeuvre of teen movies I’d seen, I just about related most to Napoleon Dynamite, a movie where almost nothing happens. Some people do remember their high school years with that great cinematic quality, and I in no way mean to invalidate that feeling for those readers who do. It just wasn’t what I experienced. I graduated high school disillusioned, wondering if I had done something wrong. If John Hughes couldn’t make a movie out of my high school life, how meaningful could my life have been? I believed that, since my life’s experiences never quite their way into the canon of teen classics, I had lived a kind of invalid high school truth. But, now that I’ve seen Lady Bird, I’m beginning to toy with the notion that maybe it was that cinematic ideal itself, not my own life, that was incomplete. I didn’t realize that I was entrusting the wrong director with my quiet high school life, and I didn’t realize that seeing my ordinary life could be so rewarding. John Hughes may not have been able to make my life’s movie. But maybe Greta Gerwig could. ***Lady Bird has been getting the kind of awards boost normally reserved for remarkable films. And while Lady Bird is more than remarkable in quality, it’s unremarkable in its premise. It is a story of the buildup of little events that make a high schooler’s life— first love, phases of friendship, the significance of a favorite song, finding yourself. And that’s just it— Lady Bird doesn’t romanticize or mythologize high school. Unlike, say, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Lady Bird does not introduce us to a sort of high school urban legend; and unlike some of the more recent teen movie staples (see Juno), Lady Bird does not go out of its way to hit you with quirkiness. Everything feels grounded and real.
Realest of all is the protagonist herself, a seventeen-year-old girl who is close to independence but unable yet to reach it, close to a definite identity but unable to pin it down, close to experiencing life’s grandeur but only able to experience it within the confines of her town. She calls herself Lady Bird. Her real name is Christine McPherson. She wishes she lived in the beautiful blue house on the other side of town. She lives in a fairly small lower-middle-class home with her mom, dad, adopted brother Miguel and his girlfriend. Christine’s stabs at independence and dreams of a bigger, grander life don’t always line up with the reality of her family’s situation. Her parents haven’t been able to provide the kind of life she dreams about. Her mother, who takes it upon herself to make sure Christine avoids the sting of disappointment, is often careless with her words in a misguided effort to lower her daughter’s expectations. Later in the movie, Christine learns that her father has been battling depression for many years and that he has just lost his job. There comes a point in a child’s life where the assumed mythology surrounding her parents fades away. With this, she learns about the humanity of her parents. Parents get sad, depressed. Parents make mistakes. Parents say the wrong things. But with this unmasking of the "infallible" parent comes an even bigger realization of the unconditional love a parent holds for a child, a kind of unconditional love that shines through in hardship and in facing reality together. One scene in particular epitomizes this for me. Christine and her parents are gathered in their living room. Her mother brings up the ways Lady Bird has been unwittingly hurting her father’s feelings— Christine tells her friends that she’s from “the wrong side of the tracks” and makes her father drop her off a block before where she’s supposed to go. Mr. McPherson, quietly distraught, responds with something along the lines of “oh, honey, you weren’t supposed to tell her all that.” There is so much power in this one scene: it reveals the insecurity Christine’s parents carry with them, insecurity that returns again when Mrs McPherson demands Christine to clean up her room— “we don’t want people to think we’re trashy.” It also reveals how easily impacted parents are by their children despite how children assume that there’s a kind of shield that protects adults from the remarks of their inferiors. Perhaps most profoundly, however, we see the quiet struggle parents face when they provide for their children, a kind of quiet struggle that doesn’t surface in many teen movies. Mr McPherson never told Christine that her remarks hurt him because he loved her too much and didn’t want to worry her. Mrs McPherson tells Christine how she hurt her father because she loves Christine too much to keep her in the dark. We see not a mom and a dad pretending to be perfect; rather, we see three fallible human beings interacting, aware of their familial roles, trying to find the line of understanding that will get them through the next phase of their lives. Of all the scenes in the movie, this was the one that made me cry— a lot— in the theater. I said previously that I felt like Greta Gerwig was the only artist who truly captures what my high school experience was like, and I’m sure it applies to many others as well. So much of my high school experience revolved around my life with my parents, with whom I’m incredibly close. Like Christine, I went out with friends, I participated in the school play, I stressed and prepared for my future, I went to prom with my closest friends. But at the heart of it all was my parents, our vicarious joys and struggles, our lazy nights together. With Christine herself, this is also the heart of her experience; and while she doesn’t always understand her parents (particularly her mother) she realizes as her dependence on them comes to a close just how much she loves them. I think this might be the most bittersweet part of growing up, and Lady Bird expresses it perfectly, all the way up to one phone call at the end of the movie. We're not sure what Christine is going to do with the rest of her life. We're not sure how she's going to explore brand new opportunities without parents present all the time to rebel against or try to please. We know she's going to make mistakes. We know she's going to be human. We also know that she will be guided by the unconditional love her parents have shown her. I’m in college now. I’m only about a half hour from my parents, but I’m living on my own and trying to carve out my own life, just like Christine. I feel like, more than ever, I can look at my parents at eye-level, unmasked and human, and also see the full extent of their love for me. And it blows me away, just like it blows Christine away. It's a kind of understanding that exceeds the best prom night, exceeds graduation, exceeds a romantically forlorn boy, boombox exalted. So thank you, Greta Gerwig, for calling attention to my own beautiful high school movie. You win every award in my book. And if you’re reading this, Mom and Dad, I love you more than words can say. I am happy that I can appreciate you not just as the parents in my life, but as two friends who made my high school experience perfect. You continue to make my experience perfect every single day. Well, happy new year, guys! As I catch up with awards season movies, I’ve decided for the time being to simply write a post about my new years resolutions. While I do have resolutions regarding health, spirituality, and school, I’ve also made resolutions regarding my film-watching habits. Listed below are mine. What are some of yours? Sound off in the comments! 1. Last year I watched 97 movies for the first time. I want to watch 100 this year, but hopefully I’ll have watched many more than that. 2. Since my knowledge of film is so American and Eurocentric, I want to expand it by exploring more South American, African, Middle Eastern, and Asian film. 3. It’s important to me to watch more movies directed by women. 4. I want to watch more movies directed by American people of color. (Regarding 2, 3, and 4, here is an excellent article from The Guardian that relates to the idea of redefining what we see as the general "canon" of film staples, which over time has been compiled by white male film theorists and comprised of films by white men) 5. There are still bodies of work by renowned directors that I haven’t even touched. I have not seen a single film by Fredrico Fellini, John Carpenter, David Cronenberg, David Fincher, Ernst Lubitsch, Edgar Wright, P.T. Anderson, John Ford, Spike Lee, or Spike Jonze.
6. And I still haven’t seen Casablanca. I should probably do that. I am keeping a running list of movies I have seen for the first time in 2018. It'll be on a different page and will constantly be updating. Check to see how it grows, hold me accountable for my resolutions, and suggest movies for me to see! Until then, happy new years and see you at the movies! Love, Madelyn |
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