3-Paragraph Movie Rants

Christopher Nolan’s "Inception" would make for a fantastic premise in the video game industry—perhaps even an MMORPG, for all I know about that world. Honestly, I might even play that game. However, as a movie, it's pretentious, convoluted, and completely lacking in emotional involvement. It's frustrating to see actresses as gifted as Marion Cotillard caught up in the hollow spectacle of endless machine gun fire and zero-gravity fistfights.

Perhaps the reason the characters repeatedly say, "We have to go deeper," is because Nolan subconsciously realizes that his characters, storyline, and even concept lack depth. Think about the last dream you had—was it straight out of "Mission: Impossible", or was it a strange blend of people you know, emotions you feel, and a bunch of odd, arbitrary details? As Freud postulated, dreams often reflect repressed, intense needs—sex, trauma, emotional yearning, or any number of psychological conflicts. A train barreling down a city street? Maybe, but that barely registers as a **2 out of 10** on the dream weirdness scale. *Inception* could have used more "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and "Everything Everywhere All at Once," and less "John Wick" and "The Town."

By the time the top is spinning at the end, I still respected Nolan's ambition, even though "Inception" fails to resonate beyond the level of a shallow, popcorn-munching action flick. In 2023, "Oppenheimer" benefited from heightened emotional stakes—and from the notable absence of rotating hallways.

At the core of Bennett Miller's excellent "Capote" is a cruel irony: the same book that made Truman Capote's dreams of success, fame, and fortune come true also destroyed him. Following "In Cold Blood," the talented author never finished another book and descended into isolation, despair, and alcoholism, ultimately dying too young.

In this uncommonly patient, quiet, and thoughtful film, the real heavy lifting is done by the late, ingenious Philip Seymour Hoffman, who follows the title character's relentless ambition far past the point of no return. Capote became infatuated with a murderer because his own childhood was fraught with abuse. Just as Perry Smith acted out with horrific violence, Capote acted out by manipulating and exploiting Perry for his story: "He's a gold mine," he cynically tells his friend Harper Lee, played wonderfully by Kathryn Keener. But even as Capote takes advantage, he finds himself deeply in love with his victim, which means that the execution of Perry—a necessity for Capote to finish his book—is also excruciating for him because his caring for Perry runs so deep.

In the end, Capote visits the prisoners one last time, just hours before their deaths, and he breaks down (a moment not in the script). Speaking in a director's commentary, Seymour Hoffman reflected on this harrowing scene: "A lot of people have complicated interpretations of this moment, but for me, it was just pure, unbridled grief, because they are going to die." The film concludes with the appropriately paradoxical statement: "More tears are shed for answered prayers than unanswered ones." Well, that would depend on the prayer.

*Million Dollar Baby* works because of its patient and thoughtful character development, which unfolds seamlessly between intense, fast-paced fights. The emotional investment in the characters and their relationships pays off in full when Maggie steps into the ring, risking everything. It's almost like buying Apple stock at $16.50 and selling at $250—except instead of financial gain, the audience earns the cathartic, gut-wrenching payoffs of violent yet deeply strategic boxing matches, each one a pivotal moment in the narrative.

It goes without saying—but I'll say it anyway—the acting is flawless. Every major performer has constructed their character with precision, and when the cameras roll, they are completely present and connected to one another. Hilary Swank’s commitment is nothing short of extraordinary; she gained over 20 pounds of muscle for the role, spending every break on set chugging egg whites. Clint Eastwood directed the film with remarkable efficiency, completing it in just a few weeks, yet his storytelling is imbued with such care and heart that it becomes a spellbinding cinematic journey. It avoids melodrama without feeling distant, striking a perfect balance between performances, camerawork, dialogue, music, and the kinetic, athletic energy of the fight scenes.

More than 20 years have passed since its release, and while many boxing films have come and gone, none have matched the sheer exhilaration of *Million Dollar Baby*. Eastwood never saw it as merely a boxing movie—he called it "a father-daughter love story." When Frankie Dunn has an emotionally charged conversation with his priest near the film’s end, the priest warns him, "Forget about God, or heaven and hell. If you do this thing, you'll be lost. You'll never find yourself again." By the time the credits roll, we understand: some love is so strong that a person will become a ghost just to deliver on tender loyalty.

It's understandable that some people hesitate to give Gandhi a chance, given its three-hour runtime and near six-decade span. Sure, the actor playing Gandhi must be convincing and the production values are top-notch, but isn't this just a predictable affair that worships a beloved historical figure? What makes Gandhi special—and one of my favorite movies—is that it does not depict him as superhuman or perfectly moral. He is sometimes hurtful, hypocritical, excessively ascetic, and irrationally masochistic. He even nearly starves himself to death in front of his loved ones to punish himself for a crime he had no part in committing. And yet, the changes he brought about, particularly in India's fight for independence from England, were miraculous and ingeniously engineered.

Some of the film’s most powerful moments include the famous march to the sea to make salt, Gandhi's challenge to a murderer to find redemption by raising an orphan of a different religion, and the early scene where he is beaten senseless for burning the registration passes in South Africa. This sprawling biopic is indeed a history lesson, but it never loses sight of the emotions and relationships of its central characters. Ben Kingsley delivers a sensational performance, showcasing one of the most incredible evolutions of identity ever captured on film. The Gandhi thrown off the train at the beginning is unrecognizable compared to the septuagenarian in impoverished robes who ultimately meets his tragic fate.

When three bullets rip through his body, he utters, "Oh, God!"—and I can't help but wonder if this is a thank you for a life he felt privileged to have lived. The film suggests that, while deeply flawed, he was still an extraordinary force for change. His story, beautifully brought to life by Richard Attenborough, reminds us that greatness is not about perfection but about perseverance, vision, and the courage to act. And so many are privileged by the progress he made while he was among us.

Directing a movie with a perfect beginning is a challenge, as it sets an impossibly high bar for the rest of the film. The opening sequence of Up, featuring young Carl and Ellie, followed by the breathtaking montage of their life together, is a masterclass in visual storytelling. There’s no need for supernatural elements or fantasy—it’s just two ordinary people sharing an extraordinary love, conveyed with elegance and without a single word of dialogue. Unfortunately, after this stunning and heartbreaking first act, the movie takes a sharp turn. Carl ascends into the sky, and what was once a poignant, deeply human story transforms into something entirely different, with a new genre, a new tone, and a vastly altered sense of reality.

This shift in reality introduces talking dogs, a dinosaur-like bird, and a centenarian villain who somehow maintains the agility for a sword fight—not to mention a house floating via an improbable number of balloons. While elements like Dug the dog are amusing, they feel like threads of a completely different film than the quiet, intimate world established in the opening scenes. The latter half of Up leans into predictable adventure tropes: a clichéd villain, whimsical side characters, and a formulaic final confrontation. None of these elements match the emotional depth or originality of the first act, making the rest of the film feel more like a generic animated adventure than a continuation of the profound story it began with.

So, what can be learned from Up's failure to reach its full potential? Perhaps the filmmakers didn't fully grasp the magic of the opening sequence and saw it merely as backstory to "get out of the way" before launching into a fantastical journey. But once Carl takes flight, his emotional arc becomes simplified to "Grumpy man becomes happy again." And really, what curmudgeon wouldn’t be cheered up by a golden retriever who can string together clauses and conjunctions? "I was hiding under your porch because I love you" confesses the the pooch, and perhaps that's where the real movie was hiding ever since Carl ascended into mediocrity.