Justin Schaffer

“People see what they want to see. They never ask who you really are.” Sean Baker has a history of creating films that explore the nuanced lives of sex workers. His latest film, Anora, winner of the Palme d’Or at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, continues with that trend. The film centers on Ani (Mikey Madison), a young sex worker in New York who marries the son of a wealthy Russian oligarch. Marketed as “a modern-day Cinderella story,” I don’t feel that Anora delivers on that comparison. Cinderella’s tale is one of hope, kindness, and transformation, yet this film devolves into a silly, tedious buddy comedy. While Anora does carry a constant tension reminiscent of Uncut Gems, it lacks the underbelly grit that made the New York of Uncut Gems feel lived-in and immersive. Anora‘s depiction of New York feels like a facade, despite Baker’s use of real-life workers in real-world settings. Additionally, the flawed protagonist in Uncut Gems had layered motivations you couldn’t help but root for despite his shortcomings, but Anora struggles to evoke the same connection. Because the wealthy Russian family can pay their way out of harm, this diminishes the stakes and any sense of consequence. The supporting characters are unlikable and undermine the gravity of the film’s subject matter. A story involving sex work should have an empathetic, thoughtful lens. But here, it feels dismissive rather than insightful. While Baker’s commitment to telling stories from this specific community is appreciated, Anora ultimately feels shallow and disjointed, its characters applying more slapstick than lipstick.

While I’m not typically drawn to superheroes, I’ve always been fascinated by the Batman universe. I think it’s because Batman is a superhero without superhuman powers, instead relying on intellect and technology to combat crime. I’m also attracted to this world because Gotham feels gritty and grounded, rooted in real-life cities like Manhattan and Pittsburgh (my hometown, where The Dark Knight Rises was shot). The Penguin, a spin-off of the film The Batman (2022), is a limited series exploring the rise of the popular villain in Gotham's criminal underworld. Colin Farrell (The Banshees of Inisherin) and Cristin Milioti (How I Met Your Mother) lead the cast, but it’s Farrell’s performance and physical transformation into the Penguin that steal the show. One of the show’s biggest accomplishments is that it stands on its own. Even if the Batman universe were removed, it would remain a solid story with well-realized characters navigating trauma, class, wealth, and desire. Although the series is just beginning, the first episode hints at a promising gangster noir, exploring the dark journey of a man driven to do anything for power in Gotham City.

In middle school, my nickname was "Opie." It sounds cool at first—until you realize it’s short for Ethiopian. The thing is, I grew up in Butler, PA, home of the Bantam Jeep, a 98% white population, and the recent Trump assassination attempt. As a tan-skinned kid, I stood out. When I tried to correct the bullies by telling them I wasn’t Ethiopian but Thai, they demanded I speak Taiwanese to prove it. When I tried to correct them again, well… I decided to find solace and safety in things like emo and pop-punk music, skateboarding, and art. I loved—and still love—bands like Hellogoodbye and The Starting Line. My AIM screen name was “hiddencinema,” I discovered synthesizers through Motion City Soundtrack, blacked out the pink tag on my stepsister’s hand-me-down Keds with a Sharpie, spent summers getting skate “clips” with the few friends I had, agonized over my MySpace Top 8, and made plenty of cringe-worthy decisions just to look cool in front of my crushes. So when I saw Dìdi, a film about an impressionable 13-year-old Taiwanese American in 2008 who went through nearly the same experiences—even down to the music and clothes—it hit me. I’ve never felt so seen by a film before. It’s about feeling torn between your Asian identity and being "just half," deciding whether to go by your given name or embrace a nickname, and the awkwardness, loneliness, and sense of being an outcast and a phony while also discovering who you really are. In Dìdi, Chris, or "Wang Wang," learns how to skate, flirt, and love his family. But ultimately, he discovers it’s much harder to pretend to be something you’re not and far more rewarding to embrace who you truly are. This film reminded me that twenty years later, I’m still learning to embrace myself—and it reminded me to love those who accept me, even if they don’t understand me.

In 2017, I went through a broken engagement, got a DUI, and turned 30 surrounded by people I didn’t care to be surrounded by. It was then that I made the conscious decision to audit my circle and find an environment of creative, inspiring, and motivating people. I achieved this by injecting myself into the Denver art community, going to as many art shows as possible, meeting local artists, and reinventing myself by answering the question, “Are you an artist?” with “Yes.” What I learned is that when you pretend to be the person you want to be, eventually you don’t have to pretend anymore. That audit, reinvention, and act of courage resulted in a personal journey of discovery, acceptance, expression, and healing. This brings me to the upcoming film, Sing Sing, which is based on the real-life Rehabilitation Through the Arts program at the Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison in New York. The film stars recent Oscar-winner Colman Domingo as Divine G, a man wrongfully imprisoned, who finds purpose through participating in a theater group with other incarcerated men. The group overcomes struggle and tragedy, banding together to perform an original production. The result is a performance that showcases the transformative power of art and resilience, offering them a chance to feel human again, even in inhumane conditions. The biggest surprise is that the cast is primarily comprised of real-life formerly incarcerated actors. Knowing these actors were real alumni of the rehab program was already touching, but seeing the end-credits clips of their original performances from the program was utterly heartwarming. Art is important. Art is empowering. Art is healing.

Ghostlight, the latest film from writer Kelly O'Sullivan and director Alex Thompson, is the follow-up to their debut, Saint Frances — which I highly recommend, especially if you’re a Lady Bird fan from the Midwest. Ghostlight tells the story of a construction worker who unexpectedly finds himself performing in a community theater production of Romeo & Juliet. The familiar play and its tragedies are used to mirror similar themes in Ghostlight. This creatively blurs the lines between life and art making some of the film’s scenes even more profound as they’re true to the film’s play and its protagonist. The cast delivers believable performances, bringing depth and relatability to their roles — a task made easier since the three leads are a real-life family. This small cast performing a small production in a small town makes the film feel close, both in location and emotion. Ghostlight is a warm and tender reminder of how art can reflect and illuminate our lives, leading us toward understanding, connection, and the importance of being earnest.

Yorgos Lanthimos' Poor Things was one of my favorite films of 2023. It balanced absurdity with humor, the joy of curiosity, and the cost of love. Emma Stone's remarkable performance anchored the film with a captivating portrayal that added depth to its bizarre and mesmerizing world. In his follow-up, Kinds of Kindness, Lanthimos crafts three loosely intertwined stories. The first story follows a man seeking to escape his predetermined path. The second focuses on a cop who questions his wife's demeanor after her return from a supposed drowning. The third tells of a woman searching for an extraordinary individual prophesied to become a renowned spiritual guide. Much like Poor Things, Kinds of Kindness also contains absurdity, humor, and the lengths one would go to for love. However, in the latter, because it uses a triptych device, the narrative thread feels disjointed as each story ends before any character can grow. The most distinct trait of a film that will remove me from immersion is its dialogue. If characters take turns speaking while frequently calling each other by name, I’m immediately removed from the film as that comes off as rigid and rudimentary. And Kinds of Kindness falls into that trap. Its dialogue and structure push the limits of coherence and believability, much like Darren Aronofsky’s Mother! which tests the boundaries of absurdity, shock, and metaphor to see what it can get away with. My interpretation of Kinds of Kindness is that it explores the idea that people often do bad things in an attempt to achieve something good. While characters strive to be kind for love or acceptance, many are hurt along the way. Lanthimos seems to suggest that the path to kindness is fraught with missteps and unintended consequences. I appreciate that Lanthimos’ distinctive style continues to provoke and intrigue, and I’m thrilled that studios are giving him the resources to continue creating unique works, but films of this kind, kind of leave me feeling Punk’d.

In 2003, writer/director Jeff Nichols found a photobook on his brother’s coffee table (his brother being Ben from the band Lucero). The book, The Bikeriders, published by photographer Danny Lyon in the 1960s, chronicled the real-life Chicago Outlaws Motorcycle Club. Moved by its images and accompanying text, Nichols decided to make a film about it. The film, however, is a fictionalized version about a group called the Vandals, though many of the characters are based on those in the book. Using photographer Lyon as the framing device, the film depicts interviews with numerous members of the biker gang, with an abundance of voiceover from one of the members’ romantic interests. However, the narrative quickly splits to focus on three other members of the crew. Because of this, there’s a bit of drifting from person to person and place to place, with occasional text overlays to orient us to where and when we are. Due to the nature of using this voiceover interview approach, we’re told what to care about, but we never see why we should care about it. Therefore, there’s no emotional resonance to any of the events, motivations, or particularly the relationships in the film. Often, the characters appear one-dimensional, with low stakes and no growth. Lately, I’ve been feeling a little lost and lonely. Lost in the sense of not having a strong anchor in my life. And lonely, not due to a lack of social activities, but a lack of connection. This has resulted in being overwhelmed by the plethora of possibilities on my journey to discover new communities to belong to. I’ve recognized that there are a lot of correlations between my current state and this film’s shortcomings. Formulating a fictitious story from a series of photographs offered too much possibility for Nichols. The story sprawls and sputters into a conventional tale akin to any mafia film you’ve seen before. The decision to spotlight a few characters slightly instead of one completely meant there was no anchor, no direction, and no connection. And without those, it feels a little lost.

"Next time is next time. Now is now." Upon seeing a man wake up, perform his morning routine, and begin his day with a can of Boss coffee from a vending machine, I was immediately transported to Tokyo. This was also my routine each day during my visit to Japan. The man is Hirayama, an aging toilet cleaner in Tokyo who leads a meager and ordinary life. Beyond his structured rituals, he takes photos, savors music on cassette tapes, and immerses himself in books. Each day with Hirayama reveals how he takes pride in his work, makes time for a lunch break in the park, finds joy in everyday moments, and lives simply, speaking only when necessary. This intimate intentionality makes us feel like we’re there with him, fostering an immediate interest in his feelings. "To be an artist, you don't have to compose music or paint or be in the movies or write books. It's just a way of living. It has to do with paying attention, remembering, filtering what you see and answering back, participating in life." — Viggo Mortensen While Hirayama doesn’t make music, draw, or write, paying attention is his way of living. It’s how he communicates with the world and those around him, even if he doesn’t communicate much at all. Therefore, he’s an artist. Like Hirayama, I am also a noticer and excel in paying attention, filtering, and remembering. But unlike Hirayama, I don’t naturally find peace and perfection in the everyday. That’s an art I’m still practicing.

Glen Powell is officially a movie star. That’s it, that’s the review. Having worked alongside Tom Cruise in ‘Top Gun: Maverick’, Sydney Sweeney in ‘Anyone But You’, and Zoey Deutch in ‘Set It Up’, Powell finally gets the spotlight in ‘Hit Man’. Written and directed by Richard Linklater (‘Before Trilogy’, ‘School of Rock’, ‘Dazed and Confused’), ‘Hit Man’ is very loosely based on the 2001 Texas Monthly true-life article about Gary Johnson, a professor who moonlighted as a fake hit man for law enforcement. With that kind of setup, one would expect a suspenseful action-adventure flick, but ‘Hit Man’ is anything but. At its heart, ‘Hit Man’ is a romantic comedy — it has the meet-cute, aha moment, montage, grand gesture, cheesy lines, and is sexy as hell. And like a rom-com, to embrace it you have to suspend belief. While the chemistry between Powell and co-star Adria Arjona (‘Morbius’, ‘Andor’) is electric, the rag-tag group of police contractors, the slew of disguises, and the whole slapstick-ness of it all are quite farfetched. Yet, with its slick script and charming lead performance, you can’t help but root for them the whole time, even if it’s all just a little too silly. ‘Hit Man’ further proves Linklater as a well-rounded director and welcomes Powell as Hollywood’s next leading man and I can’t wait for him in ‘Twisters’. While it’s not completely funny, ‘Hit Man’ is completely fun.

After the screen went black in the theater, through their devastated sobbing, I heard the guest sitting behind me say, “I’m feeling emotions right now that psychology doesn’t even have the words for.” And I realized that sometimes, it’s more important for a film to be affecting than entertaining. Like many other A24 releases, Jane Schoenbrun’s ‘I Saw the TV Glow’ is lo-fi with elements of horror, ambiguity, stunning visuals, and a vibey soundtrack. It’s a time machine back to 1996 small-town suburbia — an homage to a time when television was appointment viewing and weekend nights were spent inside. And if you were an adolescent then, it was a time when Nickelodeon was your closest companion. For me, ‘I Saw the TV Glow’ was reminiscent of my memories of being bullied for being a nerd, yelled at by adults for my mumbling, desperate to find a sense of belonging, and finding an escape from it all in shows like ‘Are You Afraid of the Dark?’, ‘Clarissa Explains It All’, and ‘Boy Meets World’. It also reminded me of my fear of closeness, and how in the third grade I pulled the sleeves of my turtleneck down past my palms as a barrier to prevent me from directly touching my crush as we held hands under a playground parachute. But even if this film reminds me of my own stories, this film wasn’t made for me. ‘I Saw the TV Glow’ is a metaphor for anxiety, escapism, obsession, and identity. But it is also proof that even in isolation, a common interest can provide common ground for closeness. Experience matters, representation matters, people matter, and illuminating human stories is important because everyone deserves the chance to glow.