Understands that movie magic isn’t merely that which you watch—it’s something you feel.
Some movies entertain us. Others remind us of why we fell in love with movies int he first place–Minions & Monsters is the latter. The Minions franchise has always revolved around a simple premise: these delightfully chaotic yellow creatures are forever searching for the next great master to serve. It is a formula that has produced plenty of laughs over the years, but Minions & Monsters wisely recognizes that every successful franchise eventually reaches a point where it must grow beyond its original concept. This film does exactly that.
Rather than centering its story on finding another larger-than-life villain, Minions & Monsters becomes something far more personal. It is about loving something so deeply that it becomes an extension of who you are. In this case, that something is the movies themselves.
Following the Minions through the history of Hollywood, the film functions simultaneously as a celebration of cinema, a playful history lesson, and a heartfelt story about pursuing dreams despite setbacks. Along the way, audiences are reminded of an era when movies were events rather than simply another form of “content” competing for our attention.
The filmmakers understand that cinema has always been more than projected images on a screen. Movies preserve dreams. They inspire careers. They connect generations. They remind us that imagination has value.
That affection radiates from nearly every frame.
The film’s greatest strength is its sincerity. It never treats its love of Hollywood as irony or nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. Instead, it celebrates the people who built the industry and the enduring magic of storytelling itself. Watching the Minions stumble through different periods of filmmaking becomes less a parade of references and more a reminder of why the medium has endured for more than a century.
There is also an unmistakably classical quality to the storytelling. The narrative is clean, purposeful, and emotionally satisfying. Rather than chasing endless subplots or frantic spectacle, the film remains focused on its characters and their journey. It understands a lesson that many contemporary blockbusters have forgotten: audiences become invested in stories because they care about the people experiencing them.
Perhaps that is why Minions & Monsters feels so refreshing.
It channels the optimism and emotional earnestness of the great Hollywood studio era. One can almost imagine producers like Darryl F. Zanuck or David O. Selznick smiling at the film’s belief that stories—and the people who tell them—matter. More importantly, the movie reminds us that cinema is not merely something we watch. It is something we feel.
That is a surprisingly profound message for an animated comedy featuring yellow, gibberish-speaking creatures. Yet somehow, it works.
Minions & Monsters is highly entertaining, frequently funny, and filled with genuine heart. More than that, it serves as a joyful celebration of the movies themselves—a reminder that behind every projector beam lies the possibility of wonder. And in an era when so much of the entertainment industry speaks of algorithms, franchises, and content, that’s a message well worth celebrating.
Ryan is the morning host on WLRH Public Radio in Huntsville, AL and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can enjoy the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
A triumphant return to classical Hollywood storytelling.
There is something refreshingly old-fashioned about Project Hail Mary. Not old in the sense of dated, but old in the sense of dependable—like a well-built machine designed to do exactly what it promises. It embraces the kind of classical Hollywood storytelling that has quietly fallen out of favor in an era increasingly defined by irony, cynicism, and ideological sorting. This is a film that wants to entertain first, inspire second, and lecture not at all. And in today’s cinematic climate, that alone feels almost radical.
Based on the Andy Weir novel, science teacher Dr. Ryland Grace (Ryan Gosling) wakes up on a spaceship with no recollection of who he is or how he got there. As his memory slowly returns, he soon discovers he must solve the riddle behind a mysterious substance that’s causing the sun to die out. As details of the mission unravel, he calls on his scientific training and sheer ingenuity–but he may not have to do it alone.
Project Hail Mary functions simultaneously as a robust science-fiction adventure and a genuinely compelling motion picture about responsibility, sacrifice, and cooperation. It understands that spectacle is most meaningful when tethered to character, and that the audience’s emotional investment—not the complexity of the plot—is what ultimately determines whether a story lands.
And while I am quite high on this film, it isn’t without its shortcomings–particularly when it comes to plotting and pacing. But, in its defense, where plot mechanics falter, the emotive and performative dimensions cary the load. To be sure, the screenplay is not airtight. There are moments where the finer points of the science become a little vague, and occasional plot turns feel more convenient than convincing. The narrative relies on a few leaps of logic that may cause scientifically minded viewers to raise an eyebrow. And structurally, the pacing occasionally sags—particularly in the flashback sequences, which linger longer than necessary and could easily have been trimmed by twenty minutes without sacrificing clarity.
But here is the crucial distinction:
The film earns its emotional beats. And when a movie earns those beats, audiences are willing to forgive a surprising number of narrative imperfections.
At the center of Project Hail Mary lies one of the most unexpectedly affecting friendships in recent science fiction: the bond between Dr. Ryland Grace and the alien known as Rocky. What begins as a pragmatic partnership evolves into something deeper—something recognizably human, despite the interspecies divide. Their relationship is built not on ideology, identity, or tribal affiliation, but on mutual trust and shared purpose. That simplicity is precisely what gives it power. Their friendship resonates because it taps into a fundamental truth about storytelling. Ultimately, it underscores that meaningful connection is more compelling than conflict.
As I survey contemporary movies, in a cinematic landscape that often frames difference as division, Project Hail Mary instead frames difference as collaboration. It suggests that survival, both literal and cultural, depends less on asserting dominance and more on extending cooperation. And that message lands without a trace of sanctimony.
Perhaps the film’s most striking quality is its tone.
At a time when many contemporary movies lean into cynicism—often dividing characters into moral camps or ideological tribes—Project Hail Mary takes a different path. It offers a story built on cooperation, empathy, and shared responsibility. It reminds us that our actions ripple outward. That survival is collective. That progress requires partnership. And that, sometimes the most heroic act is simply choosing to help someone else. In an industry increasingly drawn to provocation and polarization, this film dares to be earnest. And that sincerity is its greatest strength.
Ryan Gosling’s Dr. Grace embodies one of Hollywood’s most enduring archetypes: the reluctant hero. He is not fearless. He is not morally pristine. He is not even particularly eager to save the world. He’s simply a man confronted with responsibility—and forced to rise to meet it. That arc feels deeply relatable because it reflects the way real courage often works. Heroism is rarely the absence of fear; it is the decision to act despite it. The film understands this intuitively, allowing Grace’s transformation to unfold gradually rather than through grand speeches or sudden epiphanies. In doing so, it restores dignity to the idea of ordinary people doing extraordinary things.
On a purely technical level, Project Hail Mary is an impressive achievement. The visual effects are sophisticated without becoming overwhelming. The production design conveys scale without sacrificing intimacy. The sound design—particularly in the depiction of Rocky’s communication—demonstrates a level of creativity that enhances rather than distracts from the narrative. Most importantly, the film uses technology in service of storytelling rather than spectacle for its own sake. That discipline is increasingly rare.
For my fellow Star Trek fans out there, this film reminded me of one of the best episodes of The Next Generation, and that is the Darmok episode where in we get the overcoming of language barriers to form collaboration between Captain Picard and an alien creature (a Tamarian) that only communicates in metaphor. It’s a powerful episode (watch it). And of course we get the memorable quote (and one for which I have a t-shirt) “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra.” Perhaps we could say, for this movie, “Darmok and Grace at Tau Ceti.”
Project Hail Mary may stumble occasionally in its plotting and pacing, but its emotional core remains remarkably strong. It is a film that trusts audiences to care about characters, to invest in relationships, and to believe—however briefly—that cooperation is still possible. It is not a perfect movie; but it is a deeply satisfying one.
And in a world of cynical storytelling, that feels like a small miracle–a Hail Mary.
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media and host of the show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
Celebrating the 75th anniversary of All About Eve and the 30th anniversary of its descendent Showgirls.
“Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a [gripping read].” All About Eve is celebrating 75 years of cinematic excellence, and its audacious descendant Showgirls is marking 30 years of—well—let’s call it a complicated legacy (but I like to think of it as a misunderstood masterpiece). Whether you’re among those who believe Showgirls was simply ahead of its time or still see it as a camp disaster, one thing is undeniable: without All About Eve, it likely wouldn’t exist at all. For 75 years, All About Eve endures as both a pinnacle of Hollywood storytelling and a cautionary tale about the intoxicating—and corrosive—nature of ambition. Its exploration of fame, manipulation, and the cyclical hunger of show business feels as sharp and relevant today as it did in 1950, resonating in an era where social media stardom and viral fame echo the same relentless pursuit of the spotlight.
Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s Oscar-winning classic, based on Mary Orr’s short story The Wisdom of Eve, has captivated audiences for 75 years with its seamless blend of timeless entertainment and biting critique. More than just a backstage melodrama, All About Eve dissects the intoxicating allure—and devastating cost—of stardom and ambition with wit as sharp as a perfectly aimed dagger. Its dialogue remains some of the most quotable in film history, its characters as vivid today as they were in 1950, and its observations about the ruthlessness of fame feel eerily prescient in our age of viral sensations and manufactured celebrity.
Since its release, All About Eve has inspired countless films and remains a cornerstone of Hollywood storytelling. But what does it mean to you? What makes it special or stand out after all these years? Perhaps you regard it simply as an iconic classic; or perhaps you find in it something more personal—an echo of ambition, vulnerability, or the razor’s edge of success. From its sparkling, acidic dialogue to some of the most quoted lines in cinema including the immortal “Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night,” Margo Channing’s spirit lives on. So much for her fear of being replaced by “the next bright young thing;” she is as alive today as she ever was. Serving as both a love letter to and critique of the theater and the entertainment industry, Mankiewicz’s film exposed the timeless cost of ambition and the ruthless cycles of celebrity—lessons that still resonate in an era obsessed with youth and virality. Arriving at the twilight of Hollywood’s Golden Age, this masterpiece continues to epitomize the glamorous yet perilous dance between artistry and stardom. Beyond its historical and industrial significance, it endures because it connects—visually, emotionally, and thematically—with anyone who has ever feared obsolescence or dared to reach too high.
Part of what still fascinates audiences is the film’s layered structure and the magnetic performances at its heart. Bette Davis’ Margo Channing is so perfectly pitched that viewers often forget they are watching a performance at all–there is a lot of Davis in Channing much in the same way there was a lot of Gloria Swanson in Norma. Neither legendary actress was their respective screen personas, but there were parallels that empowered genuine, sincere deliveries. Mankiewicz wove aspects of Davis’ own persona—her wit, her commanding presence, her refusal to fade quietly—into Margo’s characterization, yet Davis was both exactly Margo and not her at all. Much in the same way Gloria was both Norma and not at all–at the same time, as both iconic films were released in 1950. Davis seized the role as a triumphant reinvention, turning what could have been a caricature of the “aging diva” into a fully realized, vulnerable, and dangerously sharp woman. Like Margo, Davis had weathered the changing tides of the industry. But in true Bette Davis fashion, rather than retreat into the past, Davis embraced this role as an opportunity to reassert her dominance in the art form she loved.
If you’re looking for a real-life “Margo Channing,” aside from the real-life individuals on which Mary Orr based her original short story published in Cosmopolitan magazine, you’ll find shades of her in many stars of the era who feared being replaced by someone younger and hungrier, yet few carried that fear with the same poise and theatricality as Davis. Her performance reminds us that the ghosts of obsolescence do not have to haunt you if you learn to wield them as power instead of surrendering to them. Davis did exactly that, continuing to reinvent herself on stage, screen, and television for decades to come. All About Eve endures not because it is frozen in the amber of classic cinema, but because it still speaks—cuttingly, wittily, and poignantly—to the ever-revolving stage of fame and the cost of staying in the spotlight.
Who, then, were the real-life figures that inspired Mary Orr’s original story? While Orr never definitively identified the proud theatrical star and the manipulative upstart who became the templates for Margo (originally “Margola”) and Eve, her own comments—and those of her contemporaries—point to a blend of influences. Viennese actress Elisabeth Bergner and Broadway legend Tallulah Bankhead are often cited as inspirations for Margo, while actress Irene Worth and a “terrible woman” (Bergner’s own words) named Ruth Maxine Hirsch—who performed under the stage name Martina Lawrence—are believed to have shaped the character of Eve: the fan-turned-assistant-turned-understudy-turned-star. Though no single pair of women can be pinpointed as the Margo and Eve, the fact that these characters emerged from a patchwork of real events and personalities only deepens the story’s enduring intrigue.
All About Eve endures as timeless because at its core, it is less about a particular moment in Broadway’s Golden Age and more about ambition, ego, and the ruthless pursuit of relevance—dynamics that still fuel the entertainment industry today. Strip away the mink coats, rotary phones, and cigarette smoke, and the story of a hungry ingénue inserting herself into the life of an aging star could just as easily unfold in the Instagram era, where image management and backstage maneuvering are just as cutthroat. The barbed wit of Mankiewicz’s script remains startlingly fresh. Its sass, frankness, and playful cruelty dance along the liminal space between youth and experience, sincerity and manipulation, still lands with a sting. With only a few cosmetic updates, All About Eve could be set in present-day Hollywood, Broadway, or even influencer culture, and it would be no less thoughtful, provocative, or entertaining.
The themes of All About Eve find a striking mirror in today’s social media and influencer culture, where the pursuit of fame and relevance plays out in real time before millions. Just as Eve Harrington ingratiates herself into Margo Channing’s circle to climb the theatrical ladder, influencers often build careers by aligning with established figures—sometimes with genuine admiration, other times with calculated opportunism. The tension between youth and experience, central to the film, is equally present online, where younger creators often supplant veterans by capturing fleeting trends, while older figures wrestle with maintaining relevance in an environment that prizes novelty.
Whether set in the past, present, or in projections of the future, explorations of image versus reality resonate powerfully, including in today’s digital landscape wherein curated personas can mask ambition, manipulation, and insecurity. Even the razor-sharp verbal sparring of All About Eve has its equivalent in the witty clapbacks, subtweets, and public callouts that fuel today’s digital drama. In both cases, the stage—whether Broadway or Instagram—is a battleground where applause, followers, and validation dictate survival.
This enduring clash between performance and reality underscores how stories of ambition and rivalry are continually reimagined across eras and mediums. From the lights of Broadway to the doom scrolling of Instagram, the hunger for validation and the willingness to deceive—or be deceived—remains constant. It’s no surprise, then, that later films would tap into similar veins of that which run through All About Eve, though with radically different tones and settings.
Over the decades, Paul Verhoeven’s notorious Vegas fever dream Showgirls has been labeled everything from a misunderstood masterpiece to one of the worst movies ever made. What was initially dismissed by critics as vulgar excess has since been reappraised by some as a biting, if over-the-top, satire of the entertainment industry’s exploitation of women, ambition, and sexuality. Its brash depiction of the climb from obscurity to stardom mirrors that of All About Eve, though filtered through neon lights, gratuitous spectacle, and camp sensibilities. That tension—between tawdry sensationalism and incisive critique—is precisely what keeps Showgirls alive in the cultural imagination, ensuring its legacy as both a cautionary tale and a cult phenomenon.
Showgirls operates as a satire of entertainment culture and the performers who are both consumed by and complicit in its machinery. Where Eve Harrington’s quiet scheming exposes the ruthless politics of the theater, Nomi Malone’s raw ambition lays bare the transactional underbelly of Las Vegas spectacle. Both films hinge on the same unsettling truth: in an industry where visibility is power, identity itself becomes a performance. What distinguishes Showgirls is how it weaponizes vulgarity and excess as a form of critique. Its glitter, nudity, and violence were long dismissed as gratuitous, yet in hindsight these elements function as deliberate provocations; it can be read as an aesthetic that is designed to mirror the gaudiness and cruelty of the world it depicts. Seen today, the film feels strangely ahead of its time, anticipating the rise of influencer and social media culture where personas are manufactured, scandals are commodified, and fame can be won or lost overnight. Reconsidered in this light, Verhoeven’s so-called disaster reveals itself as a smart, if abrasive, cultural text: one that understands spectacle not as decoration, but as the very language of modern celebrity.
At its core, Showgirls dramatizes the hollow cost of chasing celebrity. Nomi’s relentless climb through Las Vegas’s entertainment machine is marked by betrayal, objectification, and the constant demand to reinvent herself in service of spectacle. Each rung of success—dancing at the Stardust, becoming the star attraction—promises fulfillment, yet delivers only greater alienation. Verhoeven underscores how ambition, when tethered exclusively to validation and visibility, erodes one’s sense of self until little remains beyond the performance itself. By the film’s conclusion, Nomi is left with the trappings of stardom but no genuine connection, no lasting satisfaction, no identity untouched by the corrosive gaze of the industry.
In this way, Showgirls finds an unlikely kinship with All About Eve. Where Margo Channing wrestles with the costs of aging in an industry that worships youth, Nomi embodies the illusion that ascension itself will satisfy the hunger for recognition. Both films reveal the same truth: the spotlight is never enough. Whether in the refined milieu of Broadway or the gaudy spectacle of Vegas, ambition without grounding in humanity becomes corrosive, leaving its pursuers hollow even in triumph. It’s that shared cynicism—and tragic insight—that makes Showgirls more than the vulgar provocation it was dismissed as, and positions it as a worthy, if wildly flamboyant, descendant of Mankiewicz’s classic.
Seventy-five years after its release, All About Eve still cuts to the heart of what it means to seek validation under the bright lights, and thirty years on, Showgirls shows us that the hunger has only grown more voracious, more theatrical, and perhaps more desperate. Both films, in their vastly different registers, remind us that the pursuit of fame is never simply about talent or opportunity—it is about the sacrifices made along the way, and the hollow victories waiting at the top. If All About Eve gave us the blueprint for understanding the price of ambition, Showgirls showed us what happens when that price is paid in full. And as long as there are stages to stand on—whether Broadway, Las Vegas, Hollywood, or TikTok—the lessons of both films will remain hauntingly, and uncomfortably, relevant.
For the companion radio/podcast episode to this article, check out my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media. You can listen through Apple, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. Links provided below or, in your podcast service, search WKGC Public Media.
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
Whoa, that’s a lot of movie. Damien Chazelle’s decadent film of bombastic proportions is simultaneously mesmerizing and repulsive, coherent and incoherent, thoughtful and thoughtless. Suffice it to say, it’s interesting to behold. This overstuffed fever dream collage of 1920s and 1930s Hollywood is trying to tell so many stories, that it winds up not telling any of them effectively enough. There are competing A-stories (outside/action plots), each vying for to be the story about which the audience empathizes with the most. To dramatize these ideas, Chazelle assembles a mise-en-scene that’s ostensibly a combination of Singin’ in the Rain, Boogie Nights, Sunset Boulevard, and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, with a little Caligula and Wolf of Wall Street thrown in to provocative proportions. Ultimately, what we have here is more of an exercise in montage–the assembly of a motion picture–more so than we have a clearly defined narrative. Undoubtedly, this will become a film that is shown in film studies classes in the future, and will be used for close reading discussions, much like I show Boogie Nights in my American Cinema class. There is a prolific amount of imagery to analyze, as the film follows four different Hollywood stories that all intersect one another. Just for whom was the film created? Certainly not general audiences. It is likely going to be most appreciated by Chazelle himself and with some critics and scholars (tho, not this scholar nor the majority of the critics with whom I screened this film).
Decadence, depravity, and outrageous excess lead to the rise and fall of several ambitious dreamers in 1920s Hollywood.
One thing is clear, Chazelle’s intention was to craft a boisterous love letter to the allure and power of cinema whilst negatively critiquing the Hollywood system that creates and destroys careers on a whim. Furthermore, the film seeks to provide thoughtful commentary (just how thoughtful? that is for you to decide) on the superficial, fleeting nature of fame and celebrity. Where the film excels is in the both the performative dimension and Chazelle’s direction. Unfortunately, Chazelle’s screenplay is all over the place.
While audiences may not remember the four individual story threads that make up the outside/action plot, audiences will definitely remember the prologue and final scene. Chazelle certainly captures the unbridled decadence that is probably not unlike the level of debauchery that ran rampant after the great movie people migration from Europe (mostly Germany and France) and eastern U.S. (avoiding Edison’s motion picture patent policing) after the first World War. It was certainly the wild west with a seemingly unending source of money (coupled with massive debt). To borrow from Outback’s former slogan no rules, just right, that describes the atmosphere of the greater Los Angeles area. No order, only chaos. Which is not unlike this film–lots of chaotic images and plot points.
The prologue to Babylon is truly a spectacle that words simply cannot capture accurately. That’s not to say that all of the creative decisions were plot or character-driven–I’ve said it before–that even provocative imagery can be used to further the plot or character; and therefore, that which would otherwise be evaluated as gratuitous, is actually purposeful. However, much of what goes on in the opening scenes is simply gratuitous for the sake of shocking the audience–for an extended period of runtime. I am reminded of the opening to Boogie Nights, and how at first glance it may seem gratuitous, but actually the opening scene is needed for plot and character development. It’s not so much shocking as it is crafted for a strategic purpose.
While elements of the prologue are justifiable, in the relationship to plot and character, there are many moments that are no more than prolific debauchery simply because Chazelle could. Now, what I did find most interesting–and to the point that I greatly appreciate the prologue–is that much of the deplorable chaos is underscored by the score from Fritz Lang’s masterpiece Metropolis in the Babylon scene with MechaMaria. Something Chazelle wove into the scene for the film scholars in the crowd.
Jumping to the end of the film, there is a–what amounts to a–clip show featuring iconic films from the 100+ years of cinema history we have. I get it, Chazelle is communicating to audiences that being part of filmmaking means that you’re part of something bigger than yourself, something that will live on decades and (by extension) centuries after you pass away. It’s this artform that will continually be rediscovered and influence people and cultures (good, bad, or indifferent). While it’s clearly designed to be an emotionally moving moment in the film, as indicated by the tears in the character in that scene, it comes off as lazy, derivative montage that does little more than remind the audience of better films for the rather long sequence of imagery. Instead of being a deeply, moving scene, it’s rather vapid.
The four competing A-stories depict four different (but not too dissimilar in substance) Hollywood stories. (1) an A-list star that feels the pain as he watches his star fade with changing times (2) An up and comer that is thrust into the spotlight for a brief time, just to continue to fall due to tragic flaws and a talent that simply didn’t transition to talkies (3) an immensely talented individual subject to the prejudices of the general public and Hollywood executives and (4) and an animal wrangler turned studio executive by being in the right place at the right time, but even that level of fame and success is not invincible to human error and poor judgment. Any one of these stories would have made for a great A-story, with others falling in line thereafter. But each one of them feels like it’s vying for the main outside/action story. This is where Chazelle should have worked with a screenwriter that could have taken his concepts and ideas, and fashioned them into a much better structured and plotted narrative.
Perhaps it’s a film ahead of its time, or perhaps, it truly is the Heavens Gate of 2022. Maybe it will see success on down the road like Boogie Nights and Showgirls has, but only time will tell. Presently, it’s a wild, bloated film that lacks basic storytelling.
Ryan teaches Film Studies and Screenwriting at the University of Tampa and is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Interested in Ryan making a guest appearance on your podcast or contributing to your website? Send him a DM on Twitter. If you’re ever in Tampa or Orlando, feel free to catch a movie with him.
An intimate portrait of an ultimately underwhelming quasi autobiographical story. Steven Spielberg’s The Fabelmans looks gorgeous and delivers a performative dimension with heart, but the story, largely inspired by his own life, struggles to capture the magic in which it so eagerly wants to wrap audiences. Tony Kushner’s screenplay, with story by Spielberg, starts and finishes well; however, the middle (or development stage) lacks focus and stakes, and even ventures into needless satire. If audiences are seeking a film about the transformative power of filmmaking and following one’s passion–despite the odds–then they will be better off with the Italian cinematic masterpiece Cinema Paradiso. This film is best experienced on the big screen because of the beautifully crafted cinematography, so if you plan to see it, do not wait for it to hit Peacock or Amazon Prime to view at home. Clearly this is the most personal motion picture from the king of the box office form the late mid 1970s to mid 1990s, but hopefully now that he has made his fictionalized autobiographical picture, he will get back to thrilling and entertaining audiences with pictures that are talked about decades later.
Young Sammy Fabelman (Gabriel LaBelle) falls in love with movies after his parents take him to see The Greatest Show on Earth. Armed with a camera, Sammy starts to make his own films at home, much to the delight of his supportive mother. But a dark family secret threatens his idyllic family.
While The Fabelmans attempts to inspire audiences through its central character of Sammy’s journey, audiences may find it difficult to connect with a central character from an upper middle, if not, upper class family that experiences fewer obstacles to the pursuance of art than does a typical working class individual. Why is this important? Because the film focuses on Sammy’s struggles (primarily during his teenage years). While Sammy certainly experiences emotional and psychological struggles, it’s difficult for audiences to connect with a central character that has far fewer financial and time obstacles than most people experience when pursuing passions. It’s far easier to pursue art as a career when sufficient financial backing is present. It’s characters that have to scrimp, save, and balance making a living while pursuing art (or other less conventional passions) that impact audiences most.
Michelle Williams (Mitzy, Sammy’s mom) delivers an outstanding performance! Moreover, Gabrielle LaBelle (Sammy), and the rest of the cast all display exceptional chemistry and dimension. There is a surprising cameo at the end of the film that is the icing on the cake of this exemplary cast. From the cast to the characters themselves, audiences will be impressed by the authenticity of the Fabelman family. Unfortunately, that same authenticity is not reflected in all the ancillary characters. Even in Spielberg’s big blockbuster films like Jaws, ET, and Jurassic Park, the cast is always excellent! That’s likely because each of the characters feels like an everyman, someone that could be you or someone in your life.
A closer look at the plot reveals a lack of a substantive goal(s) for Sammy. Fortunately, his mother Mitzy has a goal, but I won’t get into spoilers. Kushner’s screenplay neglects to provide Sammy’s outside/action story with high stakes. He’s never at risk of losing anything–personally–anyway. Therefore, he’s always in a safe position. One may be able to attempt an argument on losing his family, but that is more relational than an actual goal to achieve or fail to achieve. Dealing with life or a day in the life of are NOT plots nor goals. Aside from remaining alive, there is nothing measurable to gain or lose. For example, his goal could be to complete a particular picture or to land a job with a studio, but neither are that to which all the scenes point. Much like with many other movies and films as of late, this one isn’t written well. Lots of ideas, some of which are refreshing, but not woven together in a compelling narrative.
In terms of the relationship between Sammy and his camera, and Sammy and his family, I appreciate the film’s commentary on how a true artist experiences great pressure from family and friends as they work on their art. It can mean, making self-centered decisions that support the creation of art versus being emotionally or physically available to family and friends. Furthermore, the film teaches us that the camera itself never lies–it captures that which is placed in front of it–but it’s the editing (or montage) process that can selectively tell a particular story from the collection of raw footage. Sometimes the camera shows us things that we are afraid to confront otherwise.
Undoubtedly, there will be critics and general audiences that praise the film for being Spielberg’s most personal. And it is–but–therein lies part of the problem with the storytelling. A filmmaker directing a film that is ostensibly about their life demonstrates a huge ego trip. It also means everything that is dramatized is highly subjective, giving way to feelings weighing greater than facts. When a motion picture is biographical in nature (even when it’s a fictionalized account), audiences want to know how it really happened.
The middle of the film, specifically when Sammy’s Jewish family is relocated from their beloved Arizona to northern California, is plagued with caricatures of both school bullies and Christians. Due to the subjective nature of this narrative, one cannot help but wonder if the bullies were exaggerated and if the ridiculous level of cult-like fanaticism of his Christian girlfriend were misrepresented and mischaracterized for dramatic purposes. If Spielberg and Kushner were making fun of any other faith group, it would be seen as disrespectful. But they will get a pass because in Hollywood, it’s perfectly acceptable to make fun of members of the Christian community–but–completely unacceptable to stereotype or satire any other faith group or subset of the general population. If it’s evaluated as in poor taste to treat other groups with disrespect, then it should be viewed the same way here. Spielberg and Kushner could have found more tasteful ways to highlight the religious conflict in Sammy and his girlfriend’s relationship, and methods that were good-natured teasing or fun, but it was clearly more of an importance to show the girlfriend as a fanatic.
The opening sequences and scenes paired with the final scene of the film are thoughtfully crafted to transport audiences to a world of awe and wonder, and for those scenes, I applaud the film. Unfortunately, the film gets bogged down with a convoluted mess of ideas in the middle that do not add to the experience of the film, or send constructive messages to the audience.
Ryan teaches Film Studies and Screenwriting at the University of Tampa and is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Interested in Ryan making a guest appearance on your podcast or contributing to your website? Send him a DM on Twitter. If you’re ever in Tampa or Orlando, feel free to catch a movie with him.
R.L. Terry ReelView 
