Captain Underpants: The First Epic Movie (2017)

Directed by: David Soren Written by: Nicholas Stoller

Captain_Underpants_The_First_Epic_Movie_posterIf you’re an English speaking kid not named Melvin Sneedly chances are you giggled about the name of the planet Uranus at some point. It may be something you’re not proud of now: it’s “low humor” as the villains in Captain Underpants so readily point out, but for kids in roughly the 5-9 age range, it’s wit at its finest. This kind of humor is at the heart of Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants series, book which also charm their readers with parodies of the super hero-genre, soft dystopianism, breaking the fourth wall, and puns of varying quality (a favourite of mine comes from the fifth epic novel, Wrath of the Wicked Wedgie Woman in which George or Harold reassures a rabbi they will not cause trouble at their teachers wedding by saying “Silly Rabbi, tricks are for kids.” (that it is possible that Dav Pilkey decided to make Ms. Ribble and/or Mr. Krupp Jewish solely for the purpose of making that joke only makes it better). Perhaps most importantly, the individual books (and the twelve part series) are long enough to allow for the Captain Underpants universe to be quite developed while concise enough to make for light reading.


Kids movies often have to make a decision as to whether they will be a near-exact recreation of their source material (eg the Harry Potter films) or a very loose adaptation (eg Stuart Little). Captain Underpants finds itself on a somewhat odd place in the middle of this spectrum. The characters are exact three-dimensional recreations of Pilkey’s cartoons and their personalities are fairly consistent with what the book offers. The plot, takes somewhat creative liberties however. While the film’s title suggests Captain Underpants may have franchise-style ambitions, “may” is clearly the key word their, as the screenwriters, reasonably, must have decided that each individual book in the series does not contain quite enough content to be a standalone film. The movie instead broadly covers the first four books of the series: it includes the Captain’s origin stories from books one and three, a secondary villain from book two and a primary villain from book four (undoubtedly the villain from those books with the most personality).


The story follows 4th graders George Beard (Kevin Hart) and Harold Hutchins (Thomas Middleditch) as they try and avoid getting in trouble with their draconian principle Mr. Krupp (Ed Helms), while maintaining their two joie-de-vivres: pranking school officials and co-producing Captain Underpants comics. The comics tell the story of a superhero who is faster than a speeding waistband, more powerful than boxer shorts and able to leap tall buildings without getting a wedgie. Also featured are hyper nerd Melvin Sneedley (Jordan Peele), evil genius Professor Poopypants (Nick Kroll) and Edith, a cafeteria-lady-in-love (Kristen Schaal).


The film is very strong at the beginning as it brings the novels’ characters to life in great cartoon fashion. Melvin looks charmingly ridiculous when recreated with CGI animation. Krupp’s mechanically sinister smiles are exactly in line with the books’ tone. Nonetheless, there are holes in the film’s execution that suggests there is something about Captain Underpants that cannot be lifted off the page. A mild example of this is when George and Harold interrupt a fight scene to show off their makeshift flip-book action sequences, a fourth-wall breaking tactic that advances plots more naturally in book form, A more pressing example of this is in how the film portrays students other than George and Harold. The film wholeheartedly commits to the idea that George and Harold are liberators of their school’s oppressed students and that their teachers are deeply flawed human beings. This interpretation is not inconsistent with the books per se, and no doubt, Pilkey, marginalized by his teachers due to his ADHD and dyslexia is highly sympathetic to George and Harold. Nonetheless, I feel the film goes a bit too far in its portrayal of George and Harold as unequivocal heroes. Part of the giggly-thrill I got from reading these books as a kid was in knowing that George and Harold were trouble makers, and I felt some of that charm was lost in the film (especially with its somewhat moralistic ending). Furthermore, in the books there is a possibility that George and Harold’s perspective is unreliable, and that the other students don’t mind the teachers nearly as much as the two heroes do. Given that the Captain Underpants books champion imagination, it would not even be a slight against George and Harold to understand their imaginings of their teachers as villains as exaggerated.

That said, I have some reservation about my disappointment. Writing for Slate Jessica Roake defended Captain Underpants as a series of books that kids could see as truly their own. If it takes that sense of ownership for kids to embrace reading, than why should adults knock it? I thus acknowledge that it is not truly my place to rate how good a piece of Captain Underpants media is. If a kid out there is reading things, I hope you find my friendly criticism to be in the spirit of the series and all things pre-shrunk and cottony!



Reflections on the 90th Academy Awards


Frances McDormand winning a human shaped award in some year other than 2018

I’ve listed this post as an essay, but it’s more of a listacle. By listacle standards it’s an essay. I hope you appreciate this commentary even as it horrifyingly lacks an introduction and a conclusion. Without further ado, here are my quips with the Academy.

Time to Split the best Animation Category

I watched the Oscars at a public viewing event. As Coco was given the award for best animated picture the person sitting next to me complained. “How?” he asked, “Could Loving Vincent not win? It’s an OIL PAINTED MOVIE!” Those comments rang both true and false for me. They rang true in that painting a movie surely made for the year’s biggest achievement in animation. They rang false in that acknowledging the fact that Loving Vincent was, literally speaking, the year’s best animation is (to quote Leonard Cohen speaking on the subject of Bob Dylan’s Nobel prize) like “pinning a medal on Everest for being the tallest mountain.”

My personal inclination is that the Oscar for best animated picture should go to a kids movie. After all, it’s the one award that most kids will have heard of an entry in, and therefore, the only one which they will likely have a rooting interest for. In that sense I agree that Coco was a better choice than Loving Vincent. To have given the award to Loving Vincent, would be to have given the middle finger to kids. On the other hand to name a Pixar film the year’s best kids movie is also like pinning that medal on Everest.

Clearly we need more good kids movies (or the Oscars needs to do a better job of finding them). On the other hand, it does feel like a shame that notable animated works like Loving Vincent and Anomalisa (a 2016 nominee) have to compete in a category where I, and apparently many voters, feel they have no real place. The Oscars should make a quick and long overdue fix and simply separate the category into best family movie and best animation: problem solved!

Get Your Cause Speech Right

Even with time limits removed, this year’s Oscar speeches were still generally given in traditionally short fashion: rife with thank yous meaningless to most viewers. Of course it is also not unheard of for Oscar winners to use their platform to make a shout out for a social cause of the day that is often related to their film. While I would never be one to tell celebrities to “shut up and act,” the inherent brevity of the Oscar speech often gives these statements a damningly superficial affect. I think this was particularly true in the case of Coco producer Darla K Anderson’s speech in which she plainly stated that the film was made with the intent of representing non-white characters and culture. While it is indeed important to celebrate and promote representation in filmmaking, Anderson’s choice to represent the film solely as a work of representation made the project seem like a mere charity project rather than a multi-faceted, award-worthy film.

Frances McDormand, by contrast, came a bit closer to figuring out how best to politicize an Oscar speech. Rather than taking on a big subject (such as representation) and failing to present it with nuanced judgement, she was to the point, specific, and narrow. She championed “inclusion riders”: the idea that actors (with clout) can use their contract negotiations as a platform from which to negotiate on behalf of woman and minority actors other than themselves. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say actors should only talk about subjects that fit into 30 second speeches (I’m for all flavors of progressive provocativeness), plans of action beat vague rhetoric in most situations.

Is the Academy Afraid of Great Documentaries?

Perhaps that heading is a bit provocative, as the issue here is not so much about quality but character. Greta Gerwig and Laura Dern presented the best documentary category by describing documentarians as truth tellers, implicitly championing them and other kinds of journalists in the age of Trump. If that is the view the Oscars have of the role of documentaries I can understand why they did not award the playful, unlikely-friendship-centred Faces and Places. Then again, the film that did win (which, to be fair, I haven’t seen) Icarus seems to have been propelled to the top on American Olympic patriotism; I hardly see the notion that Russia systematically cheats as sports as a pressing issue of the day. As far as I’m concerned, Faces Places was simultaneously an exploration of various French proletarian stories, a quirky adventure movie, and an homage to the life of une legende de cinema nouvelle vague. If that’s not a “best documentary,” I don’t know what is.

Faces Places’ snub reminded me of the loss of The Act of Killing back in 2014. The_Act_of_Killing_(2012_film)That loss felt more absurd given that Joshua Oppenheimer’s documentary was in fact about a pressing issue (it lost to a film about the experience of being a career backup singer). Like Faces and Places, however, The Act of Killing, did not simply teach but also told a story. While nominally about the brutal anti-communist killings of the Indonesian coup in 1965 and the murderous-machismo culture that stemmed from them, the film goes on to examine the personalities of individual killers and how they explore, and in some cases come to regret, their relationship to violence and power through the arts.


I am a hypocrite in that on principle I don’t like the idea of awards (I’m a participation trophy loving millennial, get over it conservatives), but also enjoy talking about and watching the Oscars. I can reconcile this tension, partially, by citing the approach of Youtuber nerdwriter1, who says he doesn’t care about who wins, but sees the list of nominations as a chance to celebrate a year in filmmaking. In that sense I think its important to acknowledge some of the nominations that could have been.

As I discussed previously, I found Downsizing to be on the of most-bizarrely mis-rated films of the year, and was disappointed to see its costar Hong Chau not nominated for best supporting actress. The way Chau’s character is written, puts her at risk of being seen as a joke by racist audiences: she has a heavy Vietnamese accent, is headstrong and is just a tad vulgar. Chau, however, brings the character to life as an anarchic jolt in Downsizing’s dark story, turning what is at that point a visual-based film into a compelling adventure.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer also went unacknowledged at the Oscars, which is a shame given that it was the pinnacle film in a year of what I call “thorough horror.” It’s distinct use of deadpan acting should have garnerned nominations for writer/director Yorgos Lanthimos and supporting actor and spaghetti eater Barry Keoghan.

Finally, if I had to pick a film of the year, it’s The Florida Project. The film got one nomination for supporting actor Willem Dafoe, a nomination that while deserved feels like an insult to the film’s approach of largely casting amateur actors. While I can understand not nominating Brooklyn Prince for best actress on the grounds that it might be unethical to put a seven year old through the stress of being nominated, I’m disappointed that her co-star Bria Vinaite was not nominated in her place. Vinaite took on similar challenges to Saoirse Ronan who was nominated for her role in Lady Bird, playing a young woman who is playful, but regularly plagued with sadness. The difference of course, is that Vinaite’s character, Halley, has to take on this spectrum of moods within far more painful circumstances, and with less avenue for self expression than Lady Bird has.

I would also, of course, have liked the film to have been nominated for best picture. If you want to know why you can read my review, or check out this great argument by nerdwriter1 who I quoted earlier in this entry.




Loving Vincent (2017)

Written by: Dorota Kobiela, Hugh Welchman and Jacek Dehnel. Directed by: Kobiela and Welchman 

Loving_Vincent            Let me begin by saying that Loving Vincent is a work one should see independent of one’s opinion of its narrative merits. Those who have heard of it previously surely know why. It describes itself (presumably accurately) as the world’s first oil-painted movie. The project consists of 65 000 frames and was painted by a team of 115 painters. In short, it is an animation miracle.

That said, I hope my first paragraph does not sell the film’s narrative short. The movie takes place following Van Gogh’s death and tells the story of Armand Roulin, a young man, and subject of one of Van Gogh’s portraits. Roulin is sent by his postmaster father (also the subject of a Van Gogh painting) to deliver a final letter from Vincent to his brother Theo. As Roulin’s task grows more complicated, his journey turns into a mystery, one where he questions whether Van Gogh in fact committed suicide or whether he was murdered.

The film is arguably sold short by its title. It is not a predictable, gushy tale of people feeling guilty and learning to love a mentally ill man and his work too late. Rather it is a work that maintains a constant air of mystery. Roulin’s journey to understand Van Gogh ultimately sheds a light on how he does not and perhaps cannot understand Vicent. Perhaps, the film implies, this is because Roulin is not himself an artists, but a more typical hot-headed male hero-figure. An alternative explanation is that the film intentionally limits itself with its medium. Characters move slowly through their viscous, post-impressionist surroundings, surroundings that limit their abilities to express themselves. Therefore, even as the film is a post Van-Gogh work, it ultimately only retells the story that Van Gogh, through his work, had already made public.

While the film is meant to resemble a Van Gogh painting, its artists did not attempt to create facsimiles. Rather, actors were cast in the roles of Van Gogh’s painted subjects, and the film’s painters painted over digital renditions of their faces. Roulin’s features, for instance, are firmer then they are in Van Gogh’s original depiction of him, giving him an air of toughness (in contrast to the sadness Van Gogh may have seen in the then teenage boy, whom the film’s creator’s imply he did not know well).

In essence, viewers should go to Loving Vincent to appreciate its visual singularity, and in doing so can enjoy a decently compelling story. While the animation pace may take some time to get use to, the film makes for a pleasant celebration of a beloved historical figure.

Mother! (2017)

Written and directed by: Darren Aronofsky

Mother!2017There are indie films that challenge you to take pleasure in raw sound effects, awkward human interactions and mundanely beautiful settings. There are big budget action films replete with explosions and chaos. Darren Aronofsky’s Mother! is an overwhelming blend of both. The film has earned praise and scorn alike, yet if viewed in a vacuum one can appreciate it as a work that unites audiences: its subtlety and melodrama are so smoothly connected that viewers who come to see one level of intensity can leave having appreciated another.


Mother! admittedly did not win me over right away. The film makes use of handheld cameras, and “Mother” (Jennifer Lawrence)’s constant walks up spiral staircases can be dizzying. The initial appearance of Mother’s husband, “Him” (Javier Bardem) is also off-putting. The character seems under-acted: he is calm compared to the regularly anxious Mother, and normal compared to the quirky houseguests they soon come to deal with. Him does not come across as a mild-mannered person, but as someone out-of-step with the realism of the piece: like a rookie-actor reading lines. Bardem, of course, is no rookie. Without giving away too much, it should be said that his disconcerting performance is in fact praiseworthy, for his character indeed has a different relationship to realism than that of his fellow characters.


The indie-realist side of Mother! is essential to its disjointed, narrative structure. The film is slow to develop a clear plot trajectory. I ts story develops as, slowly at first, various strangers show up and decide to reside at Mother and Him’s house. The first guest (Ed Harris) is a somewhat peculiar, dying man. He is later joined by his wife (Michelle Pfeiffer), who’s eccentricness is far more obnoxious and threatening than Harris’. Were the film to end after the seemingly final confrontation between Mother, Him and this couple, it would be a passable, stand alone work. Pfeiffer is a compelling antagonist, and her lack-of-boundaries in contrast to Mother’s decency foreshadows the drama that follows.


It is after Pfeiffer’s departure, however, that the film becomes truly compelling. Mother!’s story proceeds to explore issues from celebrity, to artistry, to late capitalism and borders, becoming more and more disturbing as it proceeds. While it is certainly not pleasant to watch, the film’s strength is that it never reaches a point where it runs out of ideas: there is always a new twist, always a new tragedy. Kristen Wiig, for example, is introduced as a striking recurring character as the film nears its conclusion, illustrating the film’s tireless plotline.


Mother!’s grandiosity has led some critics to write it off as pretentious and self-centred, with some claiming that it is Aronofsky’s arrogant attempt to portray the challenge of a writer (Bardem) working with his muse (Lawrence). This critique misses the obvious fact, that Mother! is, for the most part, Mother’s story, not Him’s. While Bardem’s character ultimately has power over Lawrence’s, it is of a god-like nature: he exists on a different level, and his morality operates on a different time scale. Him’s divine status is what shapes Bardem’s portrayal of him as a distant figure: sure he is powerful, but his power is precisely what means the story is not his, but that of his wife.


Mother! is an imaginative work, but is effective because it appeals to audiences on a baser level. I left the cinema mouth agape: how did it have the audacity to go in that direction, I asked myself? If gore and handheld cameras do not put you off, worry not about the pretentiousness and give Mother! a try.

The Florida Project (2017)

Written and directed by: Sean Baker

The_Florida_ProjectLook at the poster for Sean Baker’s The Florida Project. Above a rainbow you’ll see a tagline in small white font: “find your kingdom.” Baker has a knack for producing dark comedies, and in the case of The Florida Project, he’s produced a rainbow-colored dark comedy. The tagline thus serves as an important invitation: an invitation to see the film through the awestruck eyes of its child stars, rather than to simply lament in its misery.


The film tells the story of Moonee (Brooklyn Prince) a 6-year-old girl who lives in a motel with her young mother Halley (Bria Vinaite). Moonee is immersed in a small community of her friends: Scooty, Dicky and Jancey (Christopher Rivera, Aiden Malick and Valeria Cotto) who accompany her on adventures. Moonee’s main interests seem to be mischief and breakfast food. Her mischievous-side leads her to have regular run ins with the motels’ sometimes fatherly, sometimes pragmatic and opaque manager Bobby (Willem Dafoe), and to cause trouble for her mother.


Living just outside of Disneyworld, Moonee is able to lead her friends through a series of quasi-palatial structures: a restaurant/store with a giant orange on top, another store decorated with a giant wizard’s head, and an ice cream-shaped-ice-cream-stand where she can get “free” ice cream. The motel itself is called the magic castle and despite being a rundown “dump,” it still stuns with its faux-turrets and light-purple color. To some degree, these visuals signify Moonee’s childhood naivety. She does not know she lives in poverty because in her head she lives in a castle. That said, the film is clearly one that prides itself in its visuals. Its intent is clearly for audiences to both feel sorry for Moonee and to take genuine pleasure in enjoying her kingdom which stuns despite its desolate, highway location.


Moonee is not the only one who lives in a fantasy world. Her mother Halley also savours the reckless freedom she can find, despite constantly being under pressure to put money together. Many of the perks of Moonee’s kingdom are in fact, put in place by Halley, who facilitates various ways for Moonee to get free breakfast and explore her community. The film emphasizes Halley’s similarty to Moonee, by contrasting Halley with her with her friend Ashley (Mela Murder), a fellow motel-dwelling-young-mother who shows more concern about her kid, Scooty’s, behaviour.Halley is precariously (to put it mildly) employed, and has a penchant for vulgarity that makes it hard for her to win sympathizers.


Unlike Moonee’s story, which permits audiences to separate the beautiful from the tragic, Halley’s story is more thoroughly disheartening. Halley regularly gets herself into trouble as a result of her rebellious, profanity laden speech. While at first Halley’s expletives seem like more adult-versions of Moonee’s gleeful cries of “biatch,” the film eventually makes it apparent that Halley’s vernacular is a deep part of her existence. As Halley’s story becomes more tragic, audiences are forced to struggle with the notion that while Halley could seemingly improve her standing with others by cutting down on the swears, it may in fact be impossible for Halley to speak any other way.


It is the complex nature of Halley’s “wild” behaviour that shapes the tragic side of The Florida Project. Halley’s struggles stem from the fact that the traits that make her a bad mom and good mom are highly inseparable: she feeds her child by stealing, she teaches her child bad manners to protect her from equally obnoxious adults, etc.


Aside from Dafoe, The Florida Project relies on a cast of rookie actors. This use of unknown voices is part of director Sean Baker’s broader vision of telling untold stories. The Florida Project tells the unknown story of impoverished-motel-dwellers, and through Halley it provocatively explores the causes of cycles of poverty. Despite these sombre ambitions, however, the film also tells the (semi-)unknown story of a child’s imagination. In doing so it masterfully presents a product rooted in gritty, tragic realism that in its own way finds its fairy tale happily ever after.

It: Chapter One (2017)

Directed by: Andy Muschietti, Written by:  Chase Palmer, Carey Fukunaga, Gary Dauberman

Disclaimer: This review treats “It” as a standalone work. I acknowledge that it is an adaptation of a novel by an iconic writer, and recognize that this film’s overall merits cannot be weighed without considering the parameters set by the original text.  


It_(2017)_poster            For the time being at least, It is a cultural phenomenon. James Corden featured It’s primary antagonist, Pennywise the dancing clown, in a humorous sketch, The Beaverton has used it to skewer anti-PC demagogue Jordan Peterson, and Pennywise costumes are now on sale for Halloween. In a way this is surprising. “It” is not exactly an original name for a horror film (particularly with recent, more dynamic uses of the title in mind), and a scary clown is not exactly an original monster (anything that’s interesting about Pennywise is presented in a way that is three-fold more interesting by various iterations of the Joker).

As I began to watch the film, I thus worried it would be banal by horror standards. The story wastes no time in introducing its titular clown and does nothing to conceal his dark side (if he even has a non-dark side). Instead, it turns quickly to graphic violence. As the film progresses we learn a bit more about Pennywise (ie he is not just a murderous clown, but a multi-faceted monster), but not enough to make him a particularly memorable personality or psychologically captivating villain.

It’s my belief that horror films, whether they be “high-brow” or “low-brow” are particularly likely to be good watches, as almost by definition they contain suspense and plot twists. This means they hit that ever present standard for good storytelling: unpredictability. Pennywise, for the most part, does not help It check the unpredictability box. Luckily, however, there is a lot more to It than its most advertised personality.

TV series Stranger Things, can partially credit its popularity to its invocation of nostalgia for 1980s culture and classic sci-fi/horror tropes. While I found the ultimate subtlety of (the first season of) Stranger Things made it underwhelming, It’s over-the-top repackaging Stranger Things’ qualities proved successful. One not-too-subtle overlap between the two works is cast member Finn Wolfhard. While Wolfhard was seemingly given thick glasses in It for the soul purpose of clarifying that he is not in fact Mike from stranger things, his character, Richie, is more Lucas (Mike’s sometimes hot-headed, best friend), than Mike, albeit with a magnified personality. Everything about Richie signifies “best-friend” rather than protagonist, yet the character is nonetheless one of the film’s most memorable personas: the writing of the role is perhaps It’s greatest strength.

Richie is part of a friend group of what ultimately turns out to be seven kids. Each of these kids is given at least somewhat of a backstory, and while not all of them are well developed, the ambition of introducing and bringing them all together is another of It’s strong points. It should be noted, however, that the film seems to rely on (an albeit somewhat self aware form of) tokenization. Only one of the seven kids is not-white, and although he has a very compelling backstory, he is absent for much of the middle of the film. Only one of the seven kids is a girl, and she serves as a love interest for two of the film’s male characters. Whether this should be read as a rebuke or excessive-reinforcement of the traditional imagining of a token-female-character as a love interest for geeky, male heroes is a question I imagine, that cannot easily or unambiguously be answered.

So in essence, It is a good horror film due to the flawed but still compelling portrayal of its seven young heroes. That seems like a bit of a weird way to sing the praises of a horror film. Luckily, It, like all good horror movies, situates its characters in a mysterious, terrifying universe, even if that mystery and terror is not entirely the creation of its central villain. The film also features archetypal bullies and (all degrees of) bad parenting. Perhaps another good way of selling It, is noting that it duplicates (without resembling) much of what’s effective about Harry Potter. It is a story of kids engaging in unlikely heroics against a magical villain, in the face of worse-than-Malfoy-esque bullying and adult incompetence and cruelty.

I’ve heard It described as more gross than scary. For the most part that is an apt description, as the film’s villain’s lack of subtlety limits the amount of nail-biting one will do in the lead up to his attacks. While viewers should be aware of potentially triggering content in the film (strong allusion to sexual violence against a minor), non-horror fans should not be put off from seeing It. If you are interested in ambitious narratives, and enjoy tales of rag-tag friend groups, seeing all 2 hours and 15 minutes of It is absolutely worth your while.


The Cow (1969)

Written by: Gholam-Hossen Saedi, Directed by: Dariush Mehrjui 

TheCow1969CoverMy latest trek to the video store led me to stumble upon a work called The Cow. There was something instantly endearing about it: it’s simple, yet striking box art, and it’s comedic premise (which I will not elaborate on here). Upon doing further research I found out the work is considered one of the great pieces of Iranian cinema. At the time of its creation, the film was blocked by (the then monarchic) Iranian government, the reason supposedly being that Iran was eager to present itself as a modern country, and a black and white film about village peasants did not exactly fit that image. The film’s subsequent international success, and Iran’s subsequent change of governments, however, changed it’s fate, helping to establish director Darius Mehrjui as a leading figure in Iranian cinema.

Mehrjui described Italian neo-realism as a key influenced of his, emphasizing the principle that filmmakers should try and create a reality specific to their characters, rather than aspire to meet some more “objective” conception of reality. The idea of this, is that directors who take this approach end up creating a work with a universalist feel to anyway. Viewers who enjoy the works of Isaac Bashevis Singer or Fiddler on the Roof will find familiar strong points in The Cow. Perhaps “village films/literature” should be recognized as a genre in their own right. The kind of village seen in The Cow is defined by an everybody-knows-everybody dynamic. This in turn makes the quirks and struggles of individual villagers a collective problem.

The film’s central character, Hassan, has moderate similarities to Fiddler on the Roof’s Tevye, a striking combination of affectionateness and gruffness, and of course, a close relationship with a cow. While Hassan does not burst into song or engage in long polemics with God, in one key way he is far quirkier than Tevye. It is the meeting of Hassan’s quirk and the film’s village dynamic that makes the work so effective. In another kind of film, Hassan’s behaviour might make him repellent to others, or at least the but of jokes. The Cow, however, is notable in that Hassan’s neighbours treat him to active compassion. The cliché goes that it takes a village to raise a child. In this word a village raises a man, while as much possible, not infantilizing him.

Perhaps this review has been devoid of specifics. The Cow, not unlike A Ghost Story is a film with an excellent premise, but with little else in its favour that doesn’t factor into the synopsis. I therefore recommend The Cow as in important, at times endearing piece of cinematic history, but if you can, don’t read the blurb before viewing.