Author: Benjamin Rosenstock

I think consumers of pop culture like me are naturally inclined to love rankings. Top 10 movies of the year! Top 10 summer TV shows! Rankings allow us to discover new things and retrospectively reevaluate art we may have already experienced. Reading movie rankings at the end of the year is one of the irresistible pleasures of being a regular moviegoer and criticism reader.

But they can be a real pain in the ass to create yourself, and that’s due to one problem in particular: it’s so unclear what it means to like a movie.

A year ago, I decided to maintain a list of movie rankings for each year. At the end of 2014, I’d struggled to look at the 57 movies I’d seen and simply rank all of them; it’d be much easier, I figured, to gradually add to the ranking each time I watched a new movie in 2015. And it did start off okay! The first two movies I saw in 2015, “Kingsman: The Secret Service” and “The DUFF,” had an obvious quality gap; I loved the former and thought the latter was okay, so in my preliminary ranking, “Kingsman” was #1 and “The DUFF” was #2.

I found, though, that as the year went on, it became much harder. I ran into the same problem that I ran into in 2014, namely that it’s really hard to determine overall quality. It’s the same reason reducing a movie to a simple grade is so hard. It’s why I’ve come to appreciate websites whose reviews lack star or letter ratings.

What makes you “like” or “love” a movie? I’ve found almost invariably that most of the movies that are regularly considered the ‘best’ of the year are movies with which I don’t have a huge emotional connection. I was totally engaged throughout “Spotlight,” for example, and there were moments where I was horrified and moments where I felt triumphant. If it does go on to win Best Picture at the Oscars, I’ll be totally onboard, because I know intellectually that it did everything so well.

But then I watched “Spy,” “Trainwreck,” and “What We Do in the Shadows,” three great comedies that made me laugh constantly throughout. Are they all as technically accomplished as “Spotlight?” No, and of course none of them have subject matter as important as “Spotlight.” But if “Kingsman: The Secret Service” made me ache with laughter and stunned me with its ridiculously over-the-top, colorful, exhilarating action sequences, is it really that bad that I ranked that above “Spotlight,” “Carol,” “Brooklyn,” “The Hateful Eight,” and most of the other big Oscar nominees?

This especially becomes a problem when I consider movies that I didn’t really like, but which showed a clear creativity and ambition. “The Gift,” though very acclaimed, felt shapeless and confusing. In my review, I called it “admirable in its unconventionality but jarring in ways that negate its intelligent ideas,” and I stand by that. “The Gift” had an abundance of fascinating ideas that made me want to see more from writer-director Joel Edgerton, especially compared to a cliché, forgettable movie like “The DUFF” or even “Trainwreck.” And yet “Trainwreck” was my #11 movie compared to #44 “The Gift,” and even the predictable “The DUFF” managed to pass “The Gift.”

So ‘liking’ something is such an ambiguous term. If you judge quality on originality and innovation, some of your least favorite movies of the year might be some of the best, but if you judge it on the strength of emotional reaction alone, some of your favorite movies might be the worst. I tend to rely on what the movie provokes in me emotionally, so I end up with the suspense of “Sicario” and the tear-jerking “Brooklyn” high above the slightly clinical, understated “Carol,” though there was a lot I loved about that movie.

Same goes for “Clouds of Sils Maria,” which has a duo of great performances and so many thought-provoking ideas but failed to elicit more than vague interest for me. Having heard about the plot beforehand, I thought the movie would resemble Bergman’s “Persona” or Aronofsky’s “Black Swan,” two movies that had the emotional punch of psychological horror. Instead, though, it was more patient and exploratory in its themes. It felt like a movie adaptation of a classic work of literature; I’m sure somebody could write a whole book analyzing the movie, but I would’ve traded that for a bit more of an emotional connection.

I wasn’t wholly uninvolved while watching the movie—I’d still give it a solid B. Aside from the thematic exploration, it was fascinating just to watch Maria (Juliette Binoche) and Valentine (a subtle and great Kristen Stewart) converse. There were some really enjoyable scenes of the two bonding. I especially like the conversation at the bar about superheroes; the silly fantasy movie they were watching was way too on-the-nose and unrealistic, sure, but the conversation has a lot of smart things to say about big-budget fantasy blockbusters versus the high-brow psychologically based theatre that Maria dedicates her life to. I couldn’t help but cheer when Valentine defended teen actress Jo-Ann (Chloë Moretz). There’s something nuanced and interesting about the conversation—Maria is clearly a bit condescending in the way she dismisses the teen fantasy genre, and in the way she laughs off Valentine’s defending of Jo-Ann, but it never escalates into an all-out fight, only a healthy debate. You can see how comfortable the characters are with each other, and their unique dynamic kept me intrigued the whole time. Besides, Jo-Ann is an interesting character in her own right, though her subplots don’t quite fit in perfectly with everything else going on.

I guess part of my slight disengagement came from my confusion; though I knew there was so much buried commentary in the movie about identity and art’s relationship with reality, I wasn’t sure what the main conclusion to draw was. The final outcome of Valentine imitating the end of the Maloja Snake (the play she’s helping Maria rehearse for) is the logical endpoint for the character based on the theme of life imitating art, but I thought the conclusion would be a bit more tragic and disturbing instead of haunting in an understated way. Then again, maybe the movie’s ideas would be buried in melodrama if it became truly horrifying.

All of this is to say that I had no idea where to place “Clouds of Sils Maria” on my list. It currently sits at #31, which feels so wrong when you compare it to #27 “Unfriended,” #26 “Ant-Man,” and, again, “Kingsman” and “Trainwreck.” And yet each of those movies entertained me more, and elicited more immediate emotions from me. Their ideas aren’t as sophisticated, their writing isn’t as meaningful, and their characters aren’t nearly as complex. But I liked them more.

But what does ‘like’ even mean, anyway?

There were two movies that came out this year that both got the same Rotten Tomatoes score: 62% of critics gave them positive reviews (Metacritic gave them scores of 59 and 60). Now, technically 62% counts as positive on Rotten Tomatoes, and they’d be labeled as ‘mixed’ on Metacritic, so I shouldn’t say no one liked the movies. Still, there’s a significant enough gap between the movies’ quality (in my opinion, of course) and their critical reception that there’s something worth thinking about.

Let’s start with “Unfriended,” my favorite horror movie of 2015 (keeping in mind I haven’t seen the extremely acclaimed “It Follows” yet), better than “Krampus,” “The Visit,” “The Gift,” and even “Goodnight Mommy.” Almost all of those movies lacked a little in their first halves, choosing to very slowly build up creepiness and wait until the climax to really unleash the violence. The problem is that so much of this buildup is predictable. In “The Visit,” for example, the scary grandma and grandpa do a lot of weird things in the first half, but nothing explicitly violent happens until pretty late on. As a result, I was just bored for a lot of the movie. “Unfriended,” though, unleashes the violence early, and from that moment on, the movie is just so fun.

I want to address some of the complaints I’ve seen about the movie, and some that I anticipated. First: the characters are unlikable. Well, sure. Of course they are. Maybe there’s some truly great version of “Unfriended” out there that manages to make the characters likable despite playing a hand in the suicide of a teenage girl, but no, this is very much the kind of horror movie where the characters being unlikable is the point. And I think that’s the right call. This isn’t the kind of story where you should be really deeply emotionally engaged in the inner moral struggles of the characters. This is the kind of movie where you should be having fun watching them die in horrifying ways, and “Unfriended” certainly provides that. Besides, there’s a certain catharsis earned from watching these terrible people get killed. I mean, who doesn’t want to see some guy they hate shove his own arm in a blender, then use the blender blades to slice his own throat?

Another complaint: the movie isn’t scary. This one is kind of subjective. I’ve read a lot of reviews saying that the movie is genuinely scary, but a lot of people don’t think it is. Personally, I wasn’t really scared while watching it, but I hardly ever get scared watching horror movies, so that was to be expected. With most horror movies I’m hoping to be horrified and shocked by what I’m watching, not truly terrified to go to sleep afterward. So I didn’t mind the lack of real scares.

But the biggest reason a lack of scares isn’t a problem is that the whole movie is so compelling and exciting anyway! It uses the Skype format to brilliant effect, unfolding as if the whole movie is one long take in real time. It’s such a unique and great idea, and I’d call it borderline pioneering except Skype will probably be dated in a few years (unlike, for example, the legendary found footage influence of “The Blair Witch Project”). Still, what does it matter if the movie dates itself? If you’re watching it at this moment in time, the movie is frightening in the familiarity of its details. Skype’s layout is well-known, but the movie also uses so many other subtle computer references smartly. I was particularly impressed with the movie’s sly approach to doling out exposition: main character Blaire (Shelley Hennig) watches the video of Laura’s suicide on LiveLeak, so we get to see it instead of the movie abruptly flashing back. Even cleverer is the instance when Blaire types out a message to her boyfriend Mitch (Moses Jacob Storm) and then backspaces, both mirroring her guilt and giving us the information we need to know. I also like the way the movie uses Chatroulette when Blaire is desperately trying to connect to someone who can alert the police. All this social media is so familiar to us that the movie feels extremely authentic, real, and smart, even when the characters are stupid and the threat is supernatural.

And those little smart touches don’t stop coming, especially when it comes to Blaire’s Spotify playlist serving as the movie’s soundtrack. That produces some of the biggest laughs of the movie, like when Laura takes over Blaire’s computer and plays “How You Lie, Lie, Lie” while the characters are refusing to accept blame. There’s also a great moment of comic relief—a different kind of comedy than laughs earned from over-the-top violence—when something starts beeping and Blaire is terrified until she realizes it’s just her alarm clock, reminding her to rest up for her test in school tomorrow. She and Mitch both laugh at the ridiculousness of considering school in the midst of the mayhem and murder, and it’s one of the few moments of the movie when the characters are self-aware.

Honestly, the only real flaw I can find in the movie is in the last ten seconds. The perfect ending was right there: Laura reveals that she knows Blaire recorded the ‘Leaky Laura’ video, Blaire gets bombarded with hate mail, and Laura’s spirit disappears, leaving Blaire alone and guilty…then Blaire closes her laptop and, of her own volition, kills herself. Instead, Laura’s spirit comes back and kills Blaire, cementing “Unfriended” as a great horror movie, but not one that can transcend its appearance and become truly meaningful or tragic.

Still, being a greatly entertaining and horrifying horror movie is at least worth a positive rating, at least a B+. So I’m not quite sure why people have disliked “Unfriended.” Maybe the lack of scares seriously bothers people, though the whole movie is fast-paced and thrilling, so I can’t imagine being super bored during it. Maybe the unlikable characters bother people, though that’s inherent to the plot.

But I think at least a portion of the audience (including critics) dismissed the movie off the bat. They dislike the movie because they feel like it’s the kind of movie they should dislike. After all, the trailer is pretty shitty, making it look like most other mainstream horror movies today, filled with two-dimensional unlikable characters, cheap jump scares, and unintentional hilarity. And for those people, watching the movie and seeing these stupid and cruel main characters (complete with frequently stilted dialogue, though that fits their personalities to a tee) only confirms their preconceived notions they got from the trailer.

Another movie that likely served only to confirm many preconceived notions this year was “Magic Mike XXL.” To many, the first movie, “Magic Mike,” was a surprise, a fairly serious “Boogie Nights”-esque drama that dealt with the corruption in the male entertainment industry. Protagonist Adam (Alex Pettyfer) may find the prospect of stripping both financially and sexually rewarding, but with those perks comes the potential for drug addiction, and Adam’s new life of excess becomes sickening as the movie goes on. “Magic Mike XXL,” on the other hand, is exactly what “Magic Mike” isn’t, undoing the expectation-subverting of the first movie and indulging audiences who wanted nothing more than an entertaining stripper comedy with writhing, toned male bodies.

To many people, the idea of this new movie, less daring and more focused on dumb, sexy fun, seemed like a big step back. AV Club commenter beema commented on the review, “I heard an interview with Joe Magnelillioinienieoo where he basically said that this sequel was focused on the ‘fun’ aspects, because they got all the requisite serious/emotional stuff out of the way in the first one in order to have it appeal to discerning critics and the indie scene. The implication was now they are unburdened from having to make a compelling movie and can just do a stupid summer male stripper movie. Which made me go ‘oh, so this is just some boring schlock. Got it.’”

Regardless of what Joe Manganiello may or may not have said in the interview, this comment essentially shows what audiences were expecting based on the trailer and based on the overall premise of the movie, with Mike joining back up with his stripper friends to go on one last road trip of debauchery. That’s what I figured the movie would be, especially when it got mixed reviews, and when I saw that Steven Soderbergh was only sticking on as cinematographer, not director. But this movie is so much more than that.

The argument can be made that “Magic Mike XXL” eschews the nuance, drama, and suspense of the first movie. I would agree that this one is much less suspenseful, as there really isn’t any main conflict. It’s very much a lazy road trip comedy, with occasional heart-to-hearts and summery lounging sessions between the dancing set pieces. The movie’s unqualified praise of the male entertainment industry, the idea that it’s a system that seriously improves the world, is slightly questionable after the last movie exposed all the horrors that can come with seemingly innocent fun and games. It’s strange to think about these two movies as having the same characters occupying the same universe. In fact, I suspect that many critics who did dismiss “Magic Mike XXL” did it because they failed to grapple with that bizarre duality. This movie does seem reductive, in that sense, asking far fewer serious questions about the industry than its predecessor.

But “Magic Mike XXL” doesn’t fail to find something to say. It replaces the industry corruption and exploration of addiction in the previous movie with a kind of feminist treatise, an ode to female desire and female self-respect. The lesson that women are worthy of respect, the lesson that men should ask for consent and ask women what they want, isn’t inherently a complex one. But it’s one that, sadly, so few men understand, even today. So in the scene when Mike and the boys convince Nancy (Andie MacDowell) and her friends that they’re beautiful and deserve the best, I couldn’t help but be surprised. I couldn’t help but smile goofily as Ken (Matt Bomer) called Nancy’s friend beautiful and advised her not to take herself for granted, to take a stand against her unappreciative husband.

As Film Crit Hulk said, about 96% of the tickets sold were to women, but men should really watch this movie. Of course, the feminist message is what men really need to hear, but it’s also a really enjoyable movie for guys even outside of the message. After all, what is this movie if not a bro bonding sex comedy? There are so many scenes of guys just hanging out and shooting the shit and saying they love one another. I especially enjoy the scene with Ken and Andre (Donald Glover, who I wish had a bigger role beyond the scene of him singing to the girl) talking in the front of the car, discussing career prospects and why they enjoy being male entertainers. In a way, the scene is superfluous to the plot of the story, but it effectively works as a calm pause before the climax, a moment for the characters to reassess their priorities and passions.

Oh, also, there’s the scene of Big Dick Richie (Joe Manganiello) dancing and performing a striptease in the gas station to “I Want It That Way” in an effort to make the cashier smile. It’s one of my favorite scenes of the year, I think, especially because it cuts to show Mike and the boys happily cheering him on, another warm and fuzzy moment of bro bonding. I was just smiling the entire time, and when the girl eventually does smile, I was so happy.

I do have some problems with “Magic Mike XXL.” As Tasha Robinson pointed out in her article about “Magic Mike XXL” for the Dissolve, in reality, would every woman be as entirely ecstatic to take part in the simulated sex scenes that occur onstage at the big stripper convention? Also, as much as I love the scene with Nancy and her friends, I couldn’t help but think, Do we really need this whole movie to just be men explaining to women why they deserve respect? (I was really not expecting my complaint with this movie to be that it was ‘too preachy.’) Luckily, there are some female characters who seize their own agency and show that they know they deserve respect, most notably Rome (Jada Pinkett Smith), but there’s a certain note of condescension in the idea of needing men to tell women they’re pretty. Even aside from the slight weakening of the film’s progressive message in its constant focus on men empowering women, the main characters consistently being in the right isn’t the best option narratively. The male main characters are basically flawless. They’re sex gods, but respectful, charismatic, funny sex gods, and movies shouldn’t make all their main characters gods.

“Magic Mike XXL” isn’t concerned with these potential issues; this is a movie where no woman ever doubts a man’s intentions, where no woman ever really feels uncomfortable being thrown around, and every man’s excessive dancing and sex simulation is meant to indicate his desire to make a woman happy, not to prove his masculinity. Still, I can’t fault the movie too much for being too tidy and optimistic about gender roles. Like the racially themed episode of “Scandal,” “The Lawn Chair,” it might be reductive and too fantastical. But maybe we need to see a fantasy world, a world where the white cop who shot the black kid doesn’t get let off the hook, a world where every man is not only gorgeous and talented, but kind and respectful to women. It might be a little reductive, but it’s not any less progressive. Maybe this is the kind of world we should aspire to.

“Unfriended” and “Magic Mike XXL” certainly have nothing alike in terms of genre, but what they do have in common is a tendency to be viewed by critics as what they appear, not what they actually are. Both movies have relationships to the past that they must overcome—“Unfriended” has the same tone as many mainstream horror movies, with terrible and annoying main characters, and “Magic Mike XXL” is naturally compared to its predecessor, seeming shallow on the surface. It’s at least partly this relationship to the past that has hurt critical reception for these two films. But when you look at them as their own entities, with no set expectations and an open mind, they’re more than able to overcome those challenges and become fun, worthy creations of their own.

I’ve always had very particular beliefs about what makes a romance movie work. The problem with many romantic arcs, both in movies and on TV, is that the characters are given no time to breathe, to authentically develop their chemistry and learn why they are in love with each other. My favorite romances tend to feature lots of dialogue, lots of cutesy flirting and just normal conversation. My favorite romance movie ever is “Before Sunrise,” a movie completely turned over to one long conversation. I want to see the characters get to know each other. I don’t want the show to just assume we’re invested in the romance because we’re supposed to be.

But “Carol” violates most of my notions of what a romance should be, and it’s still a great romance film. There isn’t much dialogue; Carol and Therese’s connection isn’t completely obvious based on what they say to each other. Most of my favorite romance movies are rom-coms, because when the characters are funny—especially with each other—it becomes so much easier to be invested in them. But “Carol” is very low on laughs, not quite dour, but serious.

Everything plays out with little visual and auditory hints. A hand brushing another, lingering briefly before dropping. Many, many long stares, full of unspeakable passion. All the sound in the room being sucked away, only silence and another woman’s face, smiling in slow motion. As A.O. Scott said, it’s “a symphony of angles and glances, of colors and shadows.”

Film critic Ignatiy Vishnevetsky, when talking about “Carol,” said that it’s easier for him to intellectually appreciate director Todd Haynes’s movies than to really love them, really feel for the characters. I can empathize with this point of view; while I really enjoyed “Carol,” I’m not sure I’d say I love it. It never really reaches the emotional highs for me that “Brooklyn” did this year, for example. There is a certain muted quality to it that created a slight distance for me—I never really came close to crying, for example. I got the sense that this was a movie concerned more with immersive details than go-for-broke melodramatic tear-jerking moments. In fact, I suspect it might be more affecting upon a second watch, when you can really sink into the immersive scenes even more. Still, I think it’s way too far to call the film ‘cold’ or ‘clinical,’ two words I’ve seen thrown around a bit.

Because “Carol” is so restrained, though, it results in some really powerful moments once the characters really express their feelings. In a movie with little dialogue that blatantly states the character’s feelings, Carol’s early musing that Therese is “flung from space” is surprisingly honest, concisely illustrating the awe and surprise Carol feels at this strange, beautiful new woman in her life.

And the visual aesthetic makes it possible for the few truly affecting scenes to sneak up on you and hit you hard. The grainy film fits with the period setting perfectly, and it seems to suit whatever emotion the characters are feeling; when Therese is sad, the shimmering film feels unstable, almost suggesting the blur of tears, but when she feels happy and horny and enamored, the lights seem to glow warm and the grain seems to simulate the dizzy fervor of falling in love. The escalation of Therese and Carol’s sexual tension is tangible; by the time they’re trying on makeup together, it’s almost unbearable.

It must be said that much of the success of the movie, aside from Haynes’s perfect direction, lies in the performances of Rooney Mara and Cate Blanchett. Blanchett has proven her talent countless times by now, but it really is difficult to see anyone else in the role. She just brings this instant captivatingly seductive quality to the screen. Mara, too, is amazing—she probably won’t get as much attention (I hate the idea that they’re campaigning for a Supporting Actress nomination for the Oscars), but she’s so perfect at achieving this very specific kind of balance. On the one hand, she’s kind of the inactive protagonist character—not a bland role, per se, but the one with less of a dominating, flashy personality. She’s awkward and embarrassed and still figuring out herself. She pulls the role off great with adorable little touches. The whole scene in at lunch, you can see Therese so nervous and desperate to impress Carol, and Mara’s expressions are perfect. She balances that more traditional role, though, with a very specific kind of attractiveness that naturally appeals to Carol; Mara’s face has this mysterious elfin quality that recalls that same alien image mentioned earlier (maybe the same reason she was chosen for “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “Side Effects”).

In the hands of Blanchett and Mara, the inevitable sex scene feels truly cathartic, erotic and dreamlike in a way that feels different from most movies, even with Blanchett’s lack of nudity and the relatively short length. It’s magical from the very beginning, when Carol slowly unravels her robe while standing behind Therese, another moment that seems huge just because of how understated the film is. And the sex scene itself has a quality of relief to it, charged with passion and sexiness but layered over with that same silky, warm, borderline-surreal quality that the grainy film has helped create throughout the movie. The upside-down shots of them kissing only underscore that feeling.

Finally, there’s the last sequence, when the narrative returns to its starting point: Therese and Carol eating dinner together. At first, I was a little skeptical of the use of a framing device in this type of understated romantic drama, but I began to appreciate it once I realized its use. The first time we saw the scene, it didn’t seem like a very critical scene; Therese and Carol were eating dinner together, then Carol left early so Therese could hang out with her friends. You could tell there were some conflicted feelings going on, but it didn’t feel crucial. Now we watch again, with Therese and Carol seeing each other for the first time in a long time, and we see how far the dynamics have shifted. Carol is the vulnerable one here, obliviously asking Therese to move in with her despite all that has changed between them. And Therese, though this clearly means a lot to her, is hardened to it all. Carol was such an enigmatic figure of power at the beginning, instantly commanding the attention of both Therese and the audience, but now, Therese stares right back at her, full of hurt but more confident, resolved to do what’s best for herself.

And then Carol says, “I love you.”

It’s possibly the most powerful moment in the whole film, what all this was building towards. What struck me the most, though, weren’t the words, though they were clearly essential to the scene, essential the sense of catharsis after two hours of searching for the words and failing. What struck me the most was the moment that lingered after. Silence. It stretches on, maybe only a couple seconds, but it feels like infinity. I wish I could re-watch the scene, because I might be remembering something that wasn’t there, but everything felt like it was shimmering—once again, everything else disappears but Carol, the only sound this kind of entrancing, subtle vibration.

And then the man from the opening scene calls, “Therese?” And you know it’s coming, because you remember that first scene, but it still feels like everything is suddenly vaporized and gone, like you’re lying in a bed with your eyes closed and listening to your iPod playing your favorite song and filling you up from every angle of the universe, and then someone yanks your earphones out. Startling. Shattering.

The scenes that follow maintain that power. Therese goes to a party, but she’s distracted. And then, of course, she goes to meet Carol, like she must. She crosses the room towards Carol’s table, and once again there’s that woozy dreamlike feeling. The camera is showing you Therese’s point of view, like the very first time she looked across the department store and saw Carol. You’re moving through the restaurant as if in a daze, with people all around you but all equally insignificant. Your vision is blurred, focused only on the one thing that you need on the other side, and you feel both like you’re moving far too fast, approaching this terrifying and beautiful thing at an alarming rate, and like you’re moving through molasses, never able to get there quick enough.

But then Carol raises her head, just an inch, only just enough to catch your eye. She looks up at you, and her eyes slowly, slowly, slowly crinkle, her lips slowly, slowly, slowly curl into a smile.

It’s subtle. It’s restrained. It’s a little withholding. But it’s beautiful. It’s “Carol.”

I was surprised to find that the remastering in the latter two original Star Wars movies didn’t bother me nearly as much as “A New Hope.” There might be a few reasons for this; for one, these two movies clearly had a much bigger budget than the first one, so the visual effects are noticeably better, meaning the changes don’t feel as dramatic when it comes to explosion effects. Also, “The Empire Strikes Back” has barely any changes. Still, “Return of the Jedi” does have a lot of changes, more significant than any of the other movies, so it should’ve bothered me far more than “A New Hope.” I think that by this point, though, I’d gotten used to expecting changes, so it didn’t annoy me as much.

There are some changes that do bother me, though. The abominable snowman-esque wampa at the beginning of “The Empire Strikes Back” is effective, but I was surprised to find upon researching the changes that the monster originally isn’t shown. That’s so much more effective for building suspense! Why did George Lucas need to add in multiple full shots of the monster eating? Also, there’s the infamous “Jedi Rocks” scene from “Return of the Jedi,” which is honestly ridiculous. Jabba the Hutt’s music works fine with those few shots of the people dancing, but that one alien just approaching the camera and singing directly to it is so inappropriate for the scene, so weirdly over-the-top. In the same vein as showing the wampa, I dislike how the remastered edition fully shows the sarlacc’s mouth and tentacles as it pulls people to their death. It’s so much more disturbing as a carnivorous hole in the ground.

There’s also the annoying added dialogue of Darth Vader saying, “No…NO!!!” as he suddenly attacks the Emperor and throws him to his death. Why is that necessary? It’s very hokey, and his change of heart would be so much more badass and affecting if he hadn’t said anything, just silently made the choice to switch to the light side. I don’t mind the added shots of Naboo and Coruscant and all those other planets celebrating the defeat of the Empire at the end, but I’m not a huge fan of the new music; I like that Ewok music. As for the infamous replacing of Sebastian Shaw with Hayden Christensen, I don’t mind it much. It’s silly and unnecessary, but it doesn’t actively annoy me like it annoys some people.

As for the actual movies, they’re both very enjoyable and fast-paced. “The Empire Strikes Back” is known as the best one, and I can understand why. It’s a big step up in effects. It introduces many of the iconic characters, like Lando Calrissian and, of course, Yoda (I was surprised by how much I liked Yoda; he might be a wise old man, but he’s not extremely peaceful like Dumbledore. He’s pretty harsh with Luke, actually, and is initially reluctant to train him. I also didn’t mind the ugly puppet as much as I thought I would). There are lots of iconic lines, like when Leia tells Han she loves him and he says, “I know.” If I had one complaint, it’d be that Luke and Han really don’t get much time to know each other in these movies; their plots are separate almost the entire movie, and it might’ve been interesting to see more of their dynamic, since they’re kind of the two main characters. Still, the way their stories eventually weave together is smart and effective as Luke finally arrives in Cloud City to save Han and Leia.

Some of the moments in these movies are just naturally not going to hit as hard because I know how everything happens. Watching Luke find out Darth Vader was his father, I was conscious of Mark Hamill’s slightly silly scream instead of really feeling his pain and shock. It all happens more abruptly than you expect upon rewatch, like how Vader suddenly just says “I am your father,” not some dramatic, “LUKE…I AM YOUR FATHER.” Similarly, though I like the climactic fight in “Return of the Jedi” a lot, the final moment between Luke and Vader as Vader finally takes off his mask didn’t really profoundly affect me emotionally. I can’t tell you exactly why, because on paper, it’s really emotional and powerful. Maybe, again, it’s just because I know what happens, and so much of the story has entered pop culture that it’s hard to really feel as a story on its own.

There’s still so much to like in these movies, though. I really like the icy planet of Hoth in “The Empire Strikes Back” and the forest climate of “Return of the Jedi.” I really like the opening of “Return of the Jedi,” when Luke saves Han and Leia from Jabba (especially the fact that Leia is the one who kills Jabba!!!). I love how Leia and Han’s romance progresses, especially with her line to Han in the last movie when he tells her he loves her and she shoots back, “I know.” I like how Chewbacca, R2-D2, and C-3PO are used in both movies. I love how Luke, so whiny and inexperienced in the first movie, progressively becomes more and more badass. When he’s force-grabbing his lightsaber at the beginning of “The Empire Strikes Back,” or flying around and taking down those AT-AT Walkers, he’s a certifiable badass. Maybe it’s a bit premature since he hasn’t even trained with Yoda yet, but it doesn’t matter. Star Wars is very much the kind of franchise where you can wave away logic (the Force in general is pretty undefined) in favor of, well, cool shit.

“Return of the Jedi” is known as by far the worst of the original trilogy. At first, I didn’t really get this. The heist-like rescue scenes at Jabba’s palace might be completely unrelated to the main plot of the movie—if you think about it, Jabba isn’t related to Vader and the Empire at all—but they’re so fun that they don’t just feel like dealing with business before the real plot kicks into gear. And the forest moon of Endor is pretty cool; seeing all that green vegetation is refreshing after the all-white and all-brown worlds we’ve been used to. And that first Endor battle scene, with Luke and Leia flying through the forest and watching stormtroopers crash into trees, is so dynamic and fun.

In terms of flaws, one of the small problems is that the Emperor isn’t a super satisfying villain. Darth Vader is so effective because he has an emotional tie to Luke. He’s a tragic figure, a Jedi turned to the dark side. The Emperor, on the other hand, is a pure figure of evil, completely dark, the puppet master controlling Vader. He’s cool, and Ian McDiarmid as the Emperor is great, always spouting stuff about the dark side and encouraging Luke to join. It’s an interesting conflict, even though it’s clear Luke is never really in danger of joining his father. On his own, the Emperor is cool, but the fact that he suddenly becomes the main villain kind of telegraphs that Vader is going to have a change of heart. This isn’t a huge problem, but it takes away a little bit from a wholly surprising and fascinating ending. At least Vader still dies, so it’s not overly happy or anything.

The only real problem, though, is an obvious one: the Ewoks. When the Ewoks first showed up in that scene with Leia and helped her out, I thought they were cute and inoffensive. I wondered why people hated them; it’s not like they were the major driving force of the story, right? It’s not like their narrative would threaten to overtake the main characters’, would it? Then they became an increasingly large part of the narrative. There’s the needless digression of them capturing the main characters. I like that it’s a moment of lightness, and it’s clever that Luke would force-levitate C-3PO to make him seem like the god the Ewoks fear, but it all goes on with too long. And they become even more important later on. Look, I don’t really mind the plausibility of them defeating the stormtroopers. I can accept Lucas’s half-baked Vietnam metaphor, with the technologically inferior natives beating the superior invaders. I can buy that the Ewoks would have some ingenious tricks to take the Empire by surprise.

It’s not an issue of plausibility; it’s an issue of what’s good for the story. The Ewoks are basically the ultimate case of deus ex machina. Part of what’s so engaging and appealing of the Luke-Han-Leia trio (with Chewie, C-3PO, R2-D2, and Lando helping out) is that you feel like it’s just them against a massive Empire. Even with some remaining Rebel pilots, how could they hope to destroy multiple Death Stars and end the tyrannical Empire? But the Ewoks—these random aliens who, like the Emperor, don’t really play a role until the third movie—are basically the ones who save the day. Han and Leia barely do anything at the end, and they’re some of the best characters!

The final battle sequence is a bit strange—while really serious character conflict is happening with Luke, Vader, and the Emperor, the battles outside are light, fun, and almost comedic. Some of the ways the Ewoks defeat stormtroopers are practically slapstick. I like that the battle is fun, but the Ewoks’ dominance makes it feel even more silly and inconsequential, as opposed to the sky battles with Lando.

As an individual film, “Return of the Jedi” may have a lot of flaws that bring its quality to a lower level than “A New Hope” or “The Empire Strikes Back.” But as the conclusion of a legendary film series that permeates pop culture, it’s satisfying. It’s easy to forget that these films have very real issues when their influence is so prevalent, but all of those issues have contributed to the full legend of Star Wars that exists today, Ewoks and all.

When everyone talks about “127 Hours,” the conversation inevitably turns to the famously gruesome way Aron Ralston (James Franco) escapes from the rock that traps his arm: he amputates his own arm with a pocketknife. It’s understandable that that’s what dominates the conversation about the movie, but that’s ignoring so much else that’s great about the movie.

For viewers who already know how Aron escapes, like I did, there’s a degree to which much of the movie feels like it’s biding its time, putting off the inevitable moment when Aron will cut off his own arm. I knew it was coming, and there were a couple moments, especially in the beginning, where I was very aware of how the happy moments—Aron swimming and laughing and having fun with Kristi (Kate Mara) and Megan (Amber Tamblyn), listening to songs like “Never Hear Surf Music Again”—were obviously there to contrast with the sudden catastrophe that follows. At the time, those happy moments felt a little cheap.

Once I got a feeling for the rhythm of the movie, though, I got really into it. It has that intoxicating, engaging feeling that survival movies can have—you feel the hunger, the thirst, the desperation of the main character. Late in the movie, as Aron lapses into hallucination and remembers people from his past—his mother and father sitting on the couch, his sister playing piano, his coworker, his ex-girlfriend Rana lightly stroking his chest or lying in bed staring at him—all you want is for Aron to make it out alive and make it back to everyone he loves. You feel isolated with him. And I was struck by how well writer-director Danny Boyle wove the encounter with Kristi and Megan back into the narrative. At one point, Aron forgets about his family, forgets about Rana and his friends, and just replays the videos of him swimming with Kristi and Megan. He misses them. He misses these two women, who he barely knows, because they represent, even more immediately than his loved ones, the life he’s missing out on. Aron imagines himself at the party they invited him to, observing people lounging around with red solo cups and grabbing beers, and he wants nothing more than this picture of normalcy. It’s one of the strongest dream sequences/hallucinations of the movie.

Let’s talk about those sequences a little more, though. One movie that’s really interesting to compare “127 Hours” to is “All is Lost,” a movie I adore, in which there’s no dialogue aside from a few muttered swears from Robert Redford’s character. From what I remember, the movie doesn’t feature any flashbacks or hallucinations. There are no gimmicks to deepen our knowledge of the character, like adding a superfluous tragic backstory (I’m looking at you, “Gravity”) or soliloquizing (again, looking at you, “Gravity”). “All is Lost” taught me a lot about movies; it showed me that you can identify with a character just by watching them, without hearing a word they say, without knowing a thing about their past. It showed me that cheap visual tricks are unnecessary. Simply watching Redford’s character (listed only as “Our Man” in the credits) try to survive, with an understated direction free of embellishment, is enough.

“127 Hours” takes a much different approach. Boyle does fill the movie with directorial embellishments. In the first scene, the camera trucks through cabinets as Aron grabs supplies for his hike. Unnecessary Dutch angles populate the early goings of the story. I’m of two minds when it comes to this; on the one hand, some of these stylistic tricks are undeniably cool, like the shot from the inside of Aron’s water bottle as he drains it. Still, even though I know Boyle is a super experienced director, there’s something vaguely amateurish about seeing a director completely overload a film with style, like the random 180 degree shot and showy long takes in “Me and Earl and the Dying Girl.” Again, I’m not sure where I stand on this, because the stylistic stuff is genuinely cool to see. I just worry that the only reason I like it is because I’m a beginning film student, enamored with cool stuff like that, even when it doesn’t serve a purpose.

Anyways, for the purposes of the discussion, let’s ignore the ‘arbitrary’ stylistic choices and focus on the ones that are supposed to serve an explicit purpose. While JC Chandor decided to take one route with “All is Lost”—a bare-bones, understated narrative—Danny Boyle goes in the opposite direction, including all the things Chandor left out: soliloquys to the camera, hallucinations revealing interior desires and fears, and glimpses of the protagonist’s past.

For the most part, this really works well for Boyle’s intentions. Aron’s dialogue really allows us to get to know a lot about him. We see him as a charismatic and flirty guy helping Kristi and Megan out at the beginning, and we later see his sense of humor become dark as he pretends he’s on a gameshow, speaking as several different characters to the camera. Boyle actually uses a laugh track in this scene to show us Aron’s imagining of the show, a neat trick. Also, the way the camera jumps around a lot, exploring practically every angle of Aron’s precarious position, keeps the whole thing feeling fresh. I never got bored of the setting itself. And, as I mentioned above, some of those hallucinations and dreams depict Aron’s desperation beautifully. I love the montage of people drinking, stylishly depicting Aron’s thirst.

Still, a part of me can’t help but wish I could see a version of this movie in Chandor’s style. When Aron breaks his radius and ulna bones, there are explosions of sound like thunder to depict how horribly painful it is. And when he finally cuts his arm off, it happens in a stylish montage of escalating splashes of blood and gore, with the camera jumping around to show it from every angle. All this stuff is really effective at putting us in Aron’s headspace; he’s practically delirious at this point, and this all feels nightmarish and horrifying. That said, couldn’t the breaking of bones have been just as effective if we heard them as they actually sound: maybe a slight snapping, like a twig? Isn’t the expression on James Franco’s face enough (and I’ll say that Franco was pretty amazing in this; I would’ve given him the Oscar over Colin Firth)? And couldn’t Aron cutting his own arm off have been even more disturbing if we just saw it exactly as it happened, with him stubbornly cutting until the blood began spurting and he slowly descended into a bloody mess?

The hallucinations, too, become a little much at points. I liked seeing Aron remembering Rana, but the hallucination of the thunderstorm, which frees Aron and allows him to escape and drive to Rana’s home, goes on too long, is too obviously a hallucination, and would feel like a bait-and-switch if it wasn’t so obvious. There’s a slight lag in the movie between the first time Aron tries to cut into his arm—only resulting in a couple vaguely red lines and no real cuts—and the time when he actually commits to it. Entering the dreamscape is certainly effective at showing Aron’s state of mind, but there’s only so much surreal imagery you can take before you become a little impatient.

This all sounds pretty negative, but let me say that most of this didn’t really bother me; it was a vague concern at worst, and it just got me thinking about the benefits and detriments of copious stylishness, especially in contrast to “All is Lost.” Ultimately, these tricks mostly accomplished what they set out to do. While Chandor’s understated direction is ideal to depict the simple tale of an anonymous man’s isolation at sea, Boyle’s dynamic direction is smart to place us directly in Aron’s head and show us what he’s thinking and feeling.

I think my favorite sequence, though, is the ending one. After a disturbing montage of arm-cutting, everything abruptly ends and suddenly Aron is standing at a distance from the rock, with his arm and body free. Franco’s expression here, his disbelief, is just perfect. Then he stumbles through the boulders and, eventually, steps into the sunlight, letting out a laugh of ecstasy. The sight of him slurping up water from a dirty pond is wonderful, and I didn’t even care that it looked super filthy. And then there’s the final scene, as Aron, on the verge of collapse, spots a family walking through a screen of yellow fog. He calls out to them, muted at first, then loud. They approach. He gulps down water. Another group comes. He gulps down more water. And then that helicopter lands, and he staggers to safety. It’s more simple, more cathartic, more beautiful than a hallucinatory montage could ever be.

When people ask me if I’ve seen the original Star Wars trilogy, I always say yes, because I did when I was pretty young. But I realized recently that I don’t really remember much of it—Star Wars is such a force in pop culture that I can’t remember what I actually remember from watching the movies and what I’ve just internalized from hearing about them so much. So I decided, in preparation for watching “Star Wars: The Force Awakens,” to rewatch the first trilogy.

I’m excited to talk about “A New Hope,” but it first needs to be acknowledged that I watched the 2011 remastered edition, which is a mixed bag. The whole movie is touched up to look better in graphic quality, and the effects are better, particularly some really cool explosions (I couldn’t tell how many of those were remastered, despite looking at online videos about it—some of the more colorful explosions might’ve actually been the original ones). Still, is it necessary to correct everything? In 1977, when the movie first came out, it won the Oscar for best visual effects. In a way, it takes away from that accomplishment to ‘update’ the movie with 2011 effects.

By far the most egregious changes, though, are the addition or changing of scenes. Everyone talks about the “Han shoots first” controversy, and yeah, it’s pretty silly that they would change a scene to have Greedo shooting at Han and him dodging it prior to shooting back. To begin with, Han shooting first fits with his ‘rogue outlaw’ type of personality. Even ignoring that, though, Greedo had his gun pointed at Han the whole time, so shooting is pretty justified in the first place. At least it all happens so fast in the 2011 version that you can’t really tell.

There are many scenes that are extended, like an interaction with Luke and his old rebel pilot friend. None of these are particularly terrible, but they add to the runtime, and there are lags in the story, so I would’ve rather had it without them. The most annoying changes are with the graphics that look so obviously different from everything else. That Jabba scene was pretty unnecessary (I believe it was originally a deleted scene in the 1977 version) in the first place, since Jabba is introduced later, and it’s unnecessary table-setting for the next movie. It mostly just looks bad, though, too computer-animated and silly. Same goes for the unnecessary aliens added in the background of certain scenes that are just distracting.

So yeah, the remastered edition is mostly silly, and I kind of would’ve rather seen the original, but it’s really not that important. I got the essence of the movie.

Anyways, now we can talk about the actual movie! Let’s start with the beginning. I love how the movie begins with R2-D2 and C-3PO and just follows them around for a while—I’d always kind of assumed it’d start with a boring exploration of Luke Skywalker’s home life, but his first appearance happens when the droids meet him, oddly enough. I just like how the movie immediately throws you into its world without explanation (well, besides the scrolling expositional narration, which is cool in and of itself). I also completely forgot how cool of a character Princess Leia is—she’s kind of the leader of the rebels! Luke might be the ostensible protagonist, but a lot of the plot hinges around Leia, as evidenced by her name being the only name in that opening narration.

It’s also interesting to see how each element of the Star Wars mythology is rolled out over the course of the three movies. In this one, for example, there’s no Yoda, or Jabba the Hutt (treating that one scene as a deleted scene), or Ewoks. “A New Hope” is a pretty contained story. Luke stumbles upon some droids, who lead him to Obi-Wan, who trains him and makes a deal with Han and Chewbacca to basically save Leia. They get the Death Star architectural plans and blow it up. It’s pretty simple; there are plenty of opportunities for future world-building, but most of it is just hinted at. There are cool hints, like when Obi-Wan tells Luke about how his father fought in the clone wars, and how Darth Vader trained under Obi-Wan before turning to the dark side. The prequels may have turned out poorly, but it’s really cool, in theory, to explore that backstory.

It’s pretty great just watching the relationships developing between these characters. Han Solo is by far the most interesting character, the necessary sarcastic skeptic critically missing from the prequels, and he and Leia have a great antagonistic relationship that hints at flirtation. Even Luke, who can be pretty damn whiny and boring sometimes compared to the others, has some good moments—whenever the characters are all happy together, I become way more attached to them. I particularly like the scene when they just barely escape death from being crushed by walls, and they’re all laughing and cheering. I also really like how each character is so different, each representing a completely different galactic milieu. Luke is a poor farm boy with latent mystical powers. Han is a self-absorbed money-hungry lone wolf. Leia is a rebel princess. Obi-Wan is a wise old Jedi Knight. Chewbacca is, well, an animal! They’re all from such different backgrounds, and watching them come together is seeing an intersection of vastly different cultures.

I think I was a little afraid I’d be underwhelmed by Star Wars. After all, it was made in 1977, and I’m naturally not going to be as affected by it as kids at the time. So yeah, it didn’t fill me with an evangelical zeal. I wouldn’t even say that I loved this movie; I’d say I really liked it. But it still holds up. I think part of the reason younger people won’t appreciate the movie as much—aside from the dated visual effects—is that so much of Star Wars has been ingrained in pop culture that everyone takes it for granted. Like, I can’t imagine seeing this movie when it first came out, seeing all those amazing costumes that would become iconic. R2-D2, the Darth Vader mask with the breathing, the Stormtroopers, the whole concept of the Force, the lightsaber…these are all references that people get even if they haven’t seen the movies. But if you imagine yourself in the 70’s, this must’ve all been revolutionary.

I’m so excited to keep exploring this world.