With 2018 Halfway Over, Here Are the Best Films of the Year So Far

2018 may be turning out to be a miserable year on just about every front, but at least it’s been a good one for cinema. Now that we’ve passed the halfway point for this annus horribilis, it’s worth taking a look at the films that have stood out so far. With one notable exception, this list only includes pictures that have received a theatrical release in the first six months of the year. There are several outstanding movies from Cannes and Sundance that will come out later this year — titles like Alice Rohrwacher’s Lazzaro Felice and Josephine Decker’s Madeline’s Madeline and Gaspar Noé’s Climax, to cite just three examples — and those have not been included. Here, in rough order starting with the best, are my favorite films of the year so far.

The Rider (Chloé Zhao)

“ ‘You’re on big old Gus again. Loping across the prairie, feel the wind on your face, chasing them cows out of the trees. You excited? You bet, brother.’ A horseman says this to another near the end of Chloé Zhao’s The Rider, the dreamy vision full of both hope and melancholy. For the young cowboys at the heart of Zhao’s film, mounting a horse and galloping across a field represents more than just freedom — it becomes a communion with the past and the future, allowing these riders to imagine and inhabit their best selves. And there’s the rub: The movie’s about what happens when you can’t ride anymore. These lines are spoken in an antiseptic hospital room, by one broken boy to another.” — from my review

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You Were Never Really Here (Lynne Ramsay)

“As depicted by Ramsay’s frenetic, staccato editing style, Joe does not think in linear fashion. His mind is a tangle of memories and flash-forwards and what-ifs, all rendered in short, sharp, shock cuts.… Standing on a train platform or drinking from a water fountain, he sees young women looking at him through dead or wounded eyes. Are they just pointedly posed bystanders, accusing specters from his past, or ghosts of failures yet to come?” — from my review

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Did You Wonder Who Fired the Gun? (Travis Wilkerson)

“ ‘Trust me when I tell you that this isn’t another white savior story. This is a white nightmare story,’ Wilkerson proclaims right at the opening, and he’s not lying. Working his way through home movies, documentary footage, photographs, interviews, narration, and text, he tells us about his great-grandfather, S.E. Branch, shooting and killing in 1946 a black man by the name of Bill Spann who had come into Branch’s small store.… This is also a movie about haunted places, and Wilkerson’s specters reconnect us with one of the sources of Americans’ fascination with ghost stories — the sense that beneath our feet and behind our walls lurks a history filled with horror, hate, and slaughter, and that, if conjured the right way, it might all return some day.” — from my review

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First Reformed (Paul Schrader)

“My first reaction was how few scripts I read are really the work of a writer. When you read Paul Schrader’s script, he’s given voice to something that’s on the tip of all of our tongues. The movie is giving voice to this anxiety I think I was feeling inside but didn’t have any way to articulate. And this character made it manifest.… You’re really aware while you’re watching it that the architecture has been carefully built. No shot seems like it could’ve possibly gone on a second longer or cut a second sooner. It’s made with a razor blade.” — from Lara Zarum’s interview with Ethan Hawke

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The Green Fog (Guy Maddin, Evan Johnson, and Galen Johnson)

“[A] delirious reconstruction of Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo, created out of hundreds of clips from movies and shows shot in the Bay Area that were very much not Vertigo.… Maddin has made a career out of mining the latent tensions of mainstream cinema, often by pushing the styles and attitudes of classical filmmaking to absurdist extremes. This time, playing with existing footage, he and his collaborators do something similar, but the effect is more subtle, and in its own way more expansive. We watch clips and clips of men communing across restaurant tables, with all the dialogue parts removed, and the silent, tense exchanges start to gain a sexual charge — as if every form of human interaction has suddenly been reduced to a series of secret impulses and desires. Lust, repression, voyeurism, and narcissism all turn out to be part of the same spectrum: Men watch women from cars, in restaurants, across rooms, on screens — just as Jimmy Stewart watched Kim Novak in Hitchcock’s original, and as we do whenever we watch Vertigo. But they also watch other men. And sometimes they watch themselves.” — from my review

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Leave No Trace (Debra Granik)

“America is convulsing, and this story is bringing up these hard-hitter ideas. What do we need to be happy? Can we be happy with less? There are obvious references to Walden, and in an era that’s busting out so violently, it felt like a real treat to be able to contemplate [Henry David] Thoreau for a minute, an American who thought differently a long time ago. There used to be nonconforming Americans who were seeking out something else. I want to be spending time in that world for a minute. I want to be immersed.” — from April Wolfe’s interview with Granik (You can read my review here.)

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The Death of Stalin (Armando Iannucci)

“It’s all so simultaneously fucking horrible and hilarious that any question of whether it’s OK to laugh at this stuff — which, sadly, is the kind of question that gets asked these days — becomes moot. As Stanley Kubrick did with Dr. Strangelove, Iannucci has built a satire not by twisting the truth but by nudging reality just a few inches further in the direction it was already going. It should not be incumbent on people of good sense to hold their laughter in the face of such absurd evil. If anything, laughter should be a requirement — because only in well-observed ridicule can we sometimes find a power strong enough to put such monsters in their places.” — from my review (You can read Lara Zarum’s interview with Iannucci here.)

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Where Is Kyra? (Andrew Dosunmu)

“There has always been an air of loneliness about Michelle Pfeiffer onscreen. Even in her glamorous, gorgeous movie-star heyday, she often played women who were somewhat removed from the world.… I hadn’t fully realized this until I saw Andrew Dosunmu’s marvelous, shattering Where Is Kyra?, in which the actress is often the sole figure onscreen, playing a New York woman sliding deeper into poverty and despair. Although the film might seem a departure for her — and at least in terms of budget, it certainly is — watching it, I felt that Dosunmu had connected to something elemental within Pfeiffer, that solitude that brought subtle dimension to her earlier, more famous roles. This is the kind of part, and the kind of performance, that makes you see an actor’s entire career in a new light. And it’s probably the best she’s ever been.” — from my review (You can read my interview with Dosunmu here.)

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Three Identical Strangers (Tim Wardle)

[No quote included because you really should see this movie without knowing anything about it. Thank me later.]

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The Party (Sally Potter)

“Today, there seems to be such a quest for absolute moral certainty and clarity. We see people as either misogynist or they’re not, either racist or they’re not, and so on and so on, and there’s been a great retreat from nuance and complexity — from the fact that most people are a mix and full of uncertainty. I wanted to explore that idea of the gap between what people think they are and how they actually behave in a crisis situation. But most importantly, I wanted to do it all in the service of laughter, the cathartic power of laughter.” — from my interview with Potter (You can read April Wolfe’s review here.)

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Tully (Jason Reitman)

“[Diablo] Cody often employs a third-act surprise, but with Tully she reveals a downright Shyamalanian capacity for alienating an audience with a major plot twist. She presents it as a challenge for viewers to treat the story of a woman re-evaluating her life with the same seriousness as they would a mathematician tackling an unsolvable equation — and it works. Tully encapsulates the psychological process of maturity with pithy humor and vertiginous insight.” — from Serena Donadoni’s review

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Game Night (John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein)

“Mark Perez has written one of the tightest comedy scripts to make it to the big screen in ages. Game Night, directed by John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein, wastes not a single second of dialogue, gives killer lines to every member of its all-star ensemble, delivers genuinely tense action sequences, and even goes for broke with style. Do we finally have an American counterpart to Britain’s Edgar Wright–Simon Pegg team?” — from April Wolfe’s review

The Workers Cup (Adam Sobel)

“The unnerving paradox at the heart of The Workers Cup extends to the viewer as well. On the one hand, I felt myself rooting for the GCC team, as the film eases its way into something resembling a sports movie; on the other hand, we see the system in which GCC operates. Sobel lets these conflicting feelings hang in the air, offering no pat conclusions, or convenient corporate bogeymen. By refusing to resolve or reconcile these contradictions, he ensures that we’ll keep thinking about them.” — from my review

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Nancy (Christina Choe)

“[Andrea] Riseborough’s great accomplishment is anchoring the comic dimension of her character with an undercurrent of gentle melancholy. I say ‘anchoring’ because the sadness both sells and tempers the comedy, turning her from a potential object of ridicule (or pity) into an object of fascination. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Nancy’s submerged anxiety. Riseborough manages a preternatural stillness while letting her eyes dart around with almost surreal speed — during one close-up I could have sworn that the film had jump-cut to a different close-up, but no, that was just the speed with which she’d managed to shift expressions.” — from my review

Paddington 2 (Paul King)

“The contemporary blockbuster talks a good game about compassion and mercy, but it still mostly panders to our bloodlust and rage. One reason to go to the movies is to unwind, sure, but we also want to indulge in fantasy and wish fulfillment, often about getting even — and woe unto the movie that denies us such simple, petty pleasures. Which is why in today’s studio firmament — even among that softer genre of family-friendly fare — the Paddington films stand out. Both 2015’s Paddington and now its sequel, Paddington 2, embody a kind of extreme empathy. They have their moments of spectacle — laugh-out-loud sight gags and genuinely exciting set pieces — but they’re also dominated by an overwhelming sense of kindness. They make us yearn to be better humans rather than badder badasses, and in today’s world, that feels downright radical.” — from my review

And since I have no fucking clue when — or if — this film will ever get a theatrical release…

The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (Terry Gilliam)

“The very real possibility — maybe even the probability — of catastrophic failure clearly excites Gilliam; he makes almost no concessions to what is expected of him, or what might please contemporary audiences. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote bears the hallmarks of this director at his broadest, nuttiest, and most extreme, with unhinged performances, overt symbolism, and a cacophonous story that has the logic of a thousand dreams happening simultaneously. It is an uncompromising work that will make many viewers frustrated and even furious. I adored pretty much every single glorious, gorgeous goddamn minute of it.” — from my review


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“Where Is Kyra?” Director Andrew Dosunmu on Filming New York and Working With Michelle Pfeiffer

Nobody shoots New York like Andrew Dosunmu. Though born in Lagos, Nigeria, the photographer-turned-filmmaker has become, over the course of his last three features, one of the city’s most idiosyncratic and essential chroniclers — peering into corners rarely seen, through a visual style that brings both mystery and beauty to his subjects. In Restless City (2011), a Senegalese immigrant with dreams of becoming a musician fell in love with a sex worker and infuriated his smuggler-pimp boss — but the film was shot with a dreamy grandeur that elevated the broad-strokes story to the level of myth. In the domestic drama Mother of George (2013), the eye-poppingly colorful clothes and decor of Brooklyn’s Yoruba community conveyed a sense of both community and, gradually, otherworldly entrapment. Dosunmu’s latest, Where Is Kyra?, doesn’t necessarily have the surface vibrancy of Mother of George, but it’s just as visually sophisticated — a stylized, nightmarish portrait of poverty and aging in New York, with a career-best performance from Michelle Pfeiffer. (Read my review here.) I recently spoke to Dosunmu about his work, his approach to image and sound, and where he finds his inspirations.

You worked as a photographer for many years before becoming a filmmaker, and all your movies are visually striking; they depict New York in ways I’ve never seen before. When you’re planning the look of a film, is it an intuitive thing for you, or do you sit down and try to figure out how you will do things differently?

To be honest with you, it’s very intuitive. Yes, I am a photographer, and I have my camera with me all the time. I live in the city, and I’m always photographing the city. And New York is such a fascinating city. It’s a city that attracts and welcomes so many characters, but it can also be very cold and unwelcoming sometimes. The city is very vibrant and energetic, but it can quickly spit you out if you’re weak and not vibrant. And I really wanted to see different parts of New York being documented rather than what we’re used to. In movies, it’s always the obvious locations. But in Mother of George, it was a part of Brooklyn we don’t see, and in Where Is Kyra?, it’s different parts of Brooklyn and Queens.

When did you first move to New York?

Year-wise, I never get this right. It was 25 or 27 years ago. My siblings are Americans, and they were here. As a teenager, I moved between the states and Nigeria. When I moved to New York, it was really about photography. You know, you look at a magazine — like Details, or Interview — as a teenager, and you’re like, “New York is the place where everything happens. I want to go there!” [Laughs] “Everything cool is in New York. The rappers are in New York. Let me go to New York. I want to make music videos and take images, and that’s where they’re at.” Really that simple.

Where Is Kyra? feels like one of the more honest films I’ve seen about growing older in New York.

For me, the idea hinges on the diminishing of human value. That is visible in American society. Sadly, women of a certain age become dispensable, when they no longer fit into this category of being desirable or whatever it is, you know. The elderly become invisible to us in a city like New York. If you are somewhere else, you know, life intermingles, but in New York, the elderly become invisible — we don’t interact with them. We don’t want to stand behind them in a queue in the bank. We kind of walk around them on the subway. And this invisibility is something that I really wanted to touch on.

I’m startled by the use of darkness in this film. At moments it feels like the screen is about to go pitch-black — as if Kyra is about to be wiped off the face of the earth.

Shadows and dark corners kind of heighten despair, and we wanted that mood. But Brad [Young, the cinematographer] and I also wanted to create [a sense of] the walls closing in, and any sunshine in her life fleeing. The fact that she tries to stay in all the time, because she knows what she’s going to see when she gets outside. She’s unemployable. Everywhere she goes, or every job she applies for, she doesn’t seem to get it. I really wanted to use the camera and all the elements of filmmaking to heighten all this desperation.

You also use sound in interesting ways, in all your films. You often build a contrast between what we’re hearing and what we’re seeing.

I like this idea of frequencies. If you’re walking or driving through New York, it almost feels like you’re changing radio stations. One minute it’s the siren of an ambulance; the next minute it’s music coming out of a store, or the subway running, or children coming from school, or someone screaming at someone else. It’s just a melange of sounds that I find interesting. Your ear is so in tune because it’s a city on the move. Whether you’re hearing a car crash or other loud sounds, you hear it before you visually connect to it, and I really wanted to do that with my films as well.

At the same time, what happens when you are so caught up in your own world — like in Kyra, where she’s not even in connection with the city? The sound of the city is the only thing that she reacts to, not the people, because she’s so in her own world. The traffic or the humming of the car — that’s what wakes her up. Like when you’re so delirious and walking down the street and you get to the crossing and suddenly a taxi loudly awakens you to reality. With Kyra, that’s what I tried to do. When she becomes that character [Kyra dresses up as her own deceased mother, in an attempt to keep getting her pension checks], all you hear is the sound of her walking stick — because that’s what she’s so focused on, trying to not be seen.

I thought it was a real stroke of genius to cast Michelle Pfeiffer. What does she bring to a part like this?

I’ve always found Michelle to be both a great beauty and a dynamic, versatile actor. But at the same time I thought she was often cast as “a beauty,” and I wanted to do something that really brings what she’s capable of doing as an actress. I wanted the audience to be able to connect to this person.

Michelle is such a household name that we go into the theater trying to see Michelle Pfeiffer, but all of a sudden Michelle Pfeiffer becomes this person, becomes Kyra, and it resonates with the audience. Because it’s somebody we’ve seen so many times in so many films, and the audience just gets caught up in it, looking for Michelle Pfeiffer, and in that process they begin to go on the journey with that character.

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Did you have to convince her to do it?

Not much, actually. I was very lucky because she saw Mother of George and she really liked it, and she really wanted to be on board. It was easy to convince her to do it. But obviously, it’s such a low budget, and she’s never done an independent film of this small scale. And it’s a union film, shot in New York in eighteen days. We can’t go past certain hours. There’s none of those overtime, long into-the-night shoots, you know. And I think that itself created the kind of film we were able to make, because we knew we didn’t have her for that long, we knew we didn’t have that many days, so we had to be very creative. How do we get everything across in such a small amount of time?

She fits into your aesthetic in a way, too. There are moments when you actually give us something that feels like portraiture, where the actor or the character will just look straight at the camera. You’ll hold on their stillness, but it doesn’t feel posed or artificial or anything like that; it feels like a moment that’s just been extended. You did that in Restless City, and Mother of George, but when you did it in Where Is Kyra?, suddenly I thought, “Oh my god, it’s Michelle Pfeiffer!” Like this familiar figure had suddenly entered your world.

Absolutely. I’ve always wanted to make a film with well-known actors that had to come into my world. Because some directors get bigger actors and all of a sudden the films all end up being kind of the same. This sense of portraiture — I’m very, very influenced by photography obviously. When you look at a Walker Evans painting, or a Dorothea Lange, or August Sanders, you know all about the persons that they are photographing. You look at the WPA photographers during the Depression era, and there’s a picture of this woman with her kids, and you look into this woman’s eyes, and there’s so much that gets revealed. Just like great paintings — you see a great portrait and you want to know that person. So, often my films start with portraits. Whether it is Adenike in Mother of George, or Djibril in Restless City…often I see a picture and I’m like, “Well, what’s the story of that person before that picture and after that picture?” It’s the genesis of what I do. You begin to look into the eyes of these characters and imagine what their life is, the kind of shirts or dress they’re wearing, the way their hands are posed.… It tells so much, how that person wants to be seen.

Your films have a strong sense of offscreen space as well. Sometimes you’ll fragment the image — you’ll focus on a pair of hands or shoot somebody off to the side, so we can’t see them. When working with small budgets and not much time, a lot of people might just shoot everything straight on and hope for the best in the editing room. But I imagine it takes some conviction to say, “OK, we’re gonna shoot this scene but we won’t see the actor’s face,” or “We won’t see what you’re doing — just your foot, or your hand.”  

I really want to make films about the world of the character. What can I tell about a person by going into their bedroom, or going into their living room, and seeing what they have there? The picture on the wall, the books on the table, the sofa, the slippers on the side — that says so much about people. And I try to incorporate that, so when I frame, it’s really about that. I look at each frame as a painting. If one walks into the edit room and there’s a freeze frame on the screen, I want you to get a sense of the world I’m talking about. And you can’t necessarily get that from just shooting the actors.

That must also pose some challenges when you’re dealing with narrative and dialogue. A film like Restless City could be very melodramatic if you wanted it to be. Mother of George also. But your treatment of narrative is understated.

I know the kind of film I want to make. Think about Hal Ashby films from the Seventies or any of those filmmakers. The question becomes, “Why do you make films?” For me, the film actually begins when you step out of the theater. It becomes something that you might not necessarily grasp at that moment, but after you come out of the theater, or days after, thinking about the film. Like in great photography, or great paintings — you go to a museum, you see a great painting, you’re arrested by it, you end up thinking about it, and you want to see it again. The next time you see it you discover something else. You see that there’s a cat under the table or next to the sofa that you never noticed before, or something like that. That intrigues me very much.

Danai Gurira in “Mother of George”

Was filmmaking always something you aspired to, or did you come to it gradually?

I came to it gradually. I grew up in West Africa, in Nigeria, where art is always around. You live it, from ceremonies of the deities to everyday living. Your names are based on the world of art. And your life is immersed in visual art. It’s a part of your daily living — you know, the altars in your grandparents’ living room [laughs]. But I didn’t know anybody that was a filmmaker, personally. I liked images and wanted to create this world. It was always about, “What can I do?” That’s why I became a photographer. Photography was almost like a scrapbook for filmmaking for me. I knew I couldn’t make films because film was a collective effort and it takes a team to make films, but I knew if I had my camera I could depict or capture those things I would love to make a film about one day. So, photography became my journal, really — my script, in a way.

You’ve worked with cinematographer Bradford Young on several films, and he’s become a rather recognizable name at this point. But you’re also clearly someone with a strong visual sensibility. What’s your working relationship like with him?

Brad and I have worked more than a decade now together, so we’re kind of in sync. I think he brings the best out of me. It’s great to work with someone where we can reference things and we can talk about it and we can challenge ourselves about it.

We met probably about a decade ago. I was shooting for little magazines, and Brad knew my work. We had mutual friends, people that we were very influenced by, people like Arthur Jafa or Malik Sayeed. I sort of PA’d for Arthur Jafa, and Brad knew him too. You know how things work; it just happens. “Let’s do something together.” He knew my pictures, so he knew what sort of sensibility I had. And he was a student of Haile Gerima at Howard, and I was a big fan of Haile Gerima.… It’s like jazz, I guess. Everybody blows and, you’re kind of like, “I dig what you’re doing. OK, we could do something with that.” [Laughs].

Now, I say that it’s like we’re in a band together, and I’m the bass player, he’s the drummer. We definitely push each other a lot in the sense of trying to do better. “OK, we have done that before, so let’s try something else.” How can we, as filmmakers, be better, get better, challenge ourselves? It can be scary to do what you don’t know. But challenging yourself is where you discover, and that discovery process is what’s so beautiful about being an artist. That’s how we work together.

Cinematographer Bradford Young and Dosunmu on the set of “Where Is Kyra?”

You’ve mentioned photographers and filmmakers you admire. Who are some of your other influences?

I’m very influenced by literature. But also filmmakers, from Djibril Diop Mambéty, the Senegalese filmmaker, to [Luchino] Visconti. The experimentation of Mambéty to the lushness of Visconti.

The opening of Mother of George felt like something out of Visconti. If Visconti had landed among the Yoruba community in Brooklyn, that’s kind of how he would have shot it, right?

Exactly [laughs]. And Death in Venice when you think about Kyra, you know? But also, experimental photographers like William Klein. I just love what this guy did. Those documentaries like The Little Richard Story or Eldridge Cleaver, Black Panther. But definitely photography would be that thing, you know — that single frame that influences everything before and after, I find fascinating. I see a Malick Sidibé picture of kids hanging on the river Niger in their shorts and I think, “Wow, what’s that like before? What would that afternoon be like?” That’s where the curiosity begins for me.


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Michelle Pfeiffer Gives the Performance of Her Life in “Where Is Kyra?”

There has always been an air of loneliness about Michelle Pfeiffer onscreen. Even in her glamorous, gorgeous movie-star heyday, she often played women who were somewhat removed from the world. Catwoman, after all, was a cat lady; Countess Ellen Olenska in The Age of Innocence an outcast; Married to the Mob’s Angela de Marco a widow out of step with the mafia housewives surrounding her. It wasn’t so much unapproachability, or aloofness that she conveyed, but a reserve that suggested — even in some of her comedies — melancholy, pain, dreams deferred.

I hadn’t fully realized this until I saw Andrew Dosunmu’s marvelous, shattering Where Is Kyra?, in which the actress is often the sole figure onscreen, playing a New York woman sliding deeper into poverty and despair. Although the film might seem a departure for her — and at least in terms of budget, it certainly is — watching it, I felt that Dosunmu had connected to something elemental within Pfeiffer, that solitude that brought subtle dimension to her earlier, more famous roles. This is the kind of part, and the kind of performance, that makes you see an actor’s entire career in a new light. And it’s probably the best she’s ever been.

When we first meet Pfeiffer’s Kyra, she’s living in a small, cluttered apartment caring for her elderly, ailing mother. She already seems like she’s at the end of her rope…and then Mom dies. Unable to find any work — she’s either too old, too late, or too poor to get the gigs — Kyra descends further into desperation. She strikes a tensely romantic relationship with a nursing home attendant (played by Kiefer Sutherland) who himself is trying to stay on the straight and narrow after screwing up his life. He’s poor, too, but at least he has money for beer and food, and he likes spending it on her. Is she with him because she needs help, or does she really care for him? The reasons aren’t clear to us — and they’re probably not clear to Kyra either.

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The story turns on what might have been just a quirky plot point in another movie: When Mom’s pension checks keep coming even after her death, Kyra begins dressing as the dead woman to try and cash them at the bank. This is not, however, the story of a grifter or a welfare cheat. It’s instead about the things we do to survive in extreme circumstances, and Dosunmu’s grim gaze never wavers from Kyra’s predicament. The director and cinematographer Bradford Young sheathe Kyra in oppressive darkness, and they hold on her for extended periods, even when other characters are speaking or acting. Close-ups often show her half-concealed in the gloom, emerging from pitch-black corners of the screen. No lamp gives off enough light, no street scene is bright enough. A pall has descended over this woman’s life. Rarely on film has the sheer debilitating exhaustion of poverty been conveyed so clearly.

Dosunmu — whose last film was the sublime Mother of George (written, like Kyra, by Darci Picoult) — is an electrifying filmmaker, a former photographer with a striking sense of composition as well as a willingness to experiment with image, audio, and narrative. He brings rhythmic rumblings to the soundtrack, walls of noise that drift in and out, a disorienting symphony of subways, street noise, chatter, and silence. Kyra is both of this world and outside it — part of a landscape of poverty and sadness that’s ever present, but also often invisible.

The whole movie is built on such contrasts. The director is fond of static, off-balance compositions with very shallow focus, but he also likes to point his camera directly into his actress’s face, one of the great visages of modern cinema. Pfeiffer is beautiful, but when we look at Kyra what we see is fatigue, anger, loneliness, hopelessness. The way Dosunmu shoots her, she appears somehow both fragile and unchanging: It wouldn’t take much to turn Kyra herself into a blur, to erase her from the screen completely, but the broader sorrow that she represents will never go away. Where is Kyra? She’s in the midst of disappearing, but she’s also everywhere.

Where Is Kyra?
Directed by Andrew Dosunmu
Great Point Media
Opens April 6, Quad Cinema


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