When I think of 2017, of the hurt that this year has, this longing,
and most of all, this seething anger that has seemed in infiltrate every
aspect of out lives this year, this futility that we are becoming more
and more accustomed to, this right here is the film that is necessary to
come to mind. This is truly a film of the moment.
Filled with characters that are so assured, so certain, yet simultaneously and instantly lost in what they are doing. Few things have spoken so clearly to the murky waters that is life today as an angry, grieving mother, an assured, steadfast sheriff, an incompetent and unworthy deputy. All of these characters, as well as the supporting cast, are uncommonly staunch in there ways, unrealistically set in their goals and their beliefs. They all try so very hard to appear strong, to appear believable, to appear right. Yet these facades fall, slip away so easily under the tiniest bit of scrutiny, and we see it. We see their failings, their frailties. We see that they are as lost as we are.
But it is in these moments of weakness, these moments of true frailty that the film really shines, for it doesn't gloat, it doesn't glare at them; it offers hope. It is in these moments, though few and far between, that we truly see what we all seek; forgiveness, repentance, welcoming. Home. We are lost, and these characters are too, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and this film does not let us forget that.
In fact, in it's final moments, it hints at it. No, it does not give us this freedom, does not lead us into the light, we do not go gently. That's not how this works. That's not how life works. There is no simplicity. But the light is still there, and in the final few lines we can see those characters, exposed, awkward and rewarded for it, debating that light. Evading it? Maybe. But knowing it's there is a harder battle than one would like to admit at times.
This right here is the film of the year. Not just because of the anger. Not just because of the futile, impotent rage that infuses the frame. No, it's the kindness. It's the care that this film has, for it's characters, for it's world, and for us.
Filled with characters that are so assured, so certain, yet simultaneously and instantly lost in what they are doing. Few things have spoken so clearly to the murky waters that is life today as an angry, grieving mother, an assured, steadfast sheriff, an incompetent and unworthy deputy. All of these characters, as well as the supporting cast, are uncommonly staunch in there ways, unrealistically set in their goals and their beliefs. They all try so very hard to appear strong, to appear believable, to appear right. Yet these facades fall, slip away so easily under the tiniest bit of scrutiny, and we see it. We see their failings, their frailties. We see that they are as lost as we are.
But it is in these moments of weakness, these moments of true frailty that the film really shines, for it doesn't gloat, it doesn't glare at them; it offers hope. It is in these moments, though few and far between, that we truly see what we all seek; forgiveness, repentance, welcoming. Home. We are lost, and these characters are too, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and this film does not let us forget that.
In fact, in it's final moments, it hints at it. No, it does not give us this freedom, does not lead us into the light, we do not go gently. That's not how this works. That's not how life works. There is no simplicity. But the light is still there, and in the final few lines we can see those characters, exposed, awkward and rewarded for it, debating that light. Evading it? Maybe. But knowing it's there is a harder battle than one would like to admit at times.
This right here is the film of the year. Not just because of the anger. Not just because of the futile, impotent rage that infuses the frame. No, it's the kindness. It's the care that this film has, for it's characters, for it's world, and for us.
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