Tag: TIFF 22

‘The Woman King’ redefines the historical epic | TIFF review
Set in 1820s West Africa, The Woman King follows an all-female group of warriors as they prepare to face the rising threat from a rival kingdom.

In some ways, The Woman King is a quintessential historical action epic—think Ben-Hur or Glory. It’s immersive with its impeccable sets and costumes recreating 1820s Africa, engrossing with its storytelling, and captivating with its action. It’s the kind of big studio blockbuster we don’t often see anymore. But in other ways, it’s unlike anything else in the genre—and a watershed moment for action movies—because of how its story centers on the experience and plights of black women without focusing on their relation to whiteness and men—Top Gun: Maverick, eat your heart out. Of course, those elements are there. But director Gina Prince-Bythewood moves them to the periphery. Instead, her heroines, led by General Nanisca (Viola Davis who disappears into the role), are front and center.

At the same time, Prince-Bythewood directs The Woman King as a full-throated historical action epic that is simply weightier because her protagonists aren’t the typical ones you’d see in a studio blockbuster.

However, she doesn’t treat them any differently in the same way she didn’t treat the queer characters in her underrated fantasy action The Old Guard any differently than straight heroes—#JoeandNicky4Ever. There’s no better example than the movie’s sensational opening scene. In the dead of night, a group of male soldiers is relaxing around a campfire when the Agojie, a group of sword-wielding female warriors from the West African kingdom of Dahomey, rise from the brush—and oiled for the gods—with Nanisca at the center. It’s the kind of cheer-worthy entrance that heroes of their caliber deserve and Prince-Bythewood knows it.

What follows is one of the most impressive action setpieces of the year as the Agojie tear through the group of men viciously but gracefully. And just like the warriors, it is captured on camera with the same grace—there’s a sense of space and geography that makes the scene almost feel like a choreographed dance. The women are there to save women taken from their kingdom by the Oyo Empire, who intends to sell their captives to white colonialists. General Nanisca, along with her two closest comrades Izogie (Lashana Lynch) and Amenza (Shelia Atim), returns to the kingdom as revered as warriors should be. While their enemies chide King Ghezo (John Boyega) for using women as his main line of defense, he knows what they are capable of.

The movie then transforms into a classic hero’s journey as we’re introduced to Nawi (Thuso Mbedu), an orphan whose adoptive parents gift her to the king after her disobedience becomes too much to handle. But instead of being forced into grueling training with the Agojie, she willingly accepts the opportunity to become a warrior—igniting a running theme of finding one’s agency. The movie spends much of its second act as a Shakespearean drama as tensions continue to rise between Dahomey and the Oyo, Nawi struggles through training, and Nanisca faces a trauma from her past as the king prepares to make her his successor. However, the movie doesn’t become any less thrilling. The stakes are never lessened, if anything the introduction of each character’s arc raises them.

Prince-Bythewood knows the key to good action is good character development. Each member of the Agojie is etched in such beautiful detail that you can clearly see how their past—and the world they live in—informs their present.

Take for example Amenza’s careful counseling of Nansica as various threads from her past come back to haunt her. Her measured response—and consultation with mystical nuts—never feels false because the relationship between the pair is well-defined. You can easily understand why they’ve been confidants for so long. The same goes for the way they fight—it feels in control. Like they’re listening to each other’s bodies only in the way that sisters forged in battle can.

Multiple story threads involving slavery, colonialization, and sexual assault weave themselves together into an ignition wire that is ignited into a stellar third act that works because of all the groundwork set in place—and in one case, literally. The brutal action feels dangerous because we are made to care deeply for these women. Every single one of them. Even those whose names we don’t get to learn. That is The Woman King’s most impressive achievement among its many technical and social achievements.

Don’t get me wrong, though. The Woman King is exactly what moviegoers are expecting of it.

Nail-biting action, engrossing political intrigue, awe-inspiring heroics, even a muscled-in romantic subplot—the folly of many of its predecessors. But because of the simple fact that it takes place in a location, time, and with faces we don’t often get to see as heroes, it feels completely fresh. The same way it felt when Black Panther broke the glass ceiling for superhero movies or Crazy Rich Asians for romantic comedies. The beats we know and love are there. But Prince-Bythewood gives them a new rhythm. The Agojie deserve to have their stories told as epically as Maximus Gladiator or Achilles in Troy. And Viola Davis, Lashana Lynch, Sheila Atim, and Thuso Mbedu are up to the task—and then some.

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Hey! I’m Karl. You can find me on Twitter and Letterboxd. I’m also a Tomatometer-approved critic.

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September 15, 2022
In ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’ war has never looked worse and never looked better | TIFF review

All Quiet on the Western Front, the second adaptation of the novel of the same name, follows a group of young soldiers that learn the hard way that war is hell

All Quiet on the Western Front will be released on Netflix on October 28th.

For whatever reason (schadenfreude? To stare the harshest reality straight in the eye? A fascination with large machines?), for as long as humans have been making movies, they have been making them about war. The first ever Best Picture winner at the Oscars was Wings, a 1928 silent war film about a pair of fighter pilots. The highest-grossing film ever (adjusted for inflation) is Gone with the Wind, set against the backdrop of the Civil War. And Oscar history is littered with wartime films from classics like World War II-set Casablanca and The Bridge on the River Kwai (focused on a British POW camp) to more recent entries like Holocaust tragedy Schindler’s List and Iraq War-set The Hurt Locker. But one story has been a staple in the war film canon since the very beginning: the 1930 Best Picture winner All Quiet on the Western Front.

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The film is based on the German novel by Erich Maria Remarque, which follows a young, naive soldier named Paul through events of the First World War. Remarque’s novel, inspired by his experience fighting in the trenches, paints a horrifying, monotonous, and ultimately pointless picture of war. Paul is dispatched to complete various futile tasks on the front, watching his comrades die agonizing deaths with little rhyme or reason. As opposed to the prevalent view of war at the time—honorable, glorifying, heroic—the novel took a definitive anti-war stance. It enraged many readers (especially in Germany where the book was banned during the Nazi era) while delivering harsh truths to a population fueled by propaganda, and with relatively few ways to understand what war actually looked like.

Now post-Vietnam War, post-Cold War, and post-Iraq War, the anti-war sentiments of All Quiet seem commonplace and even quaint.

The fact that you were probably assigned the book in a high school English class and that the original film is in black-and-white contribute to the misconception that this is a run-of-the-mill war epic. At the time of the film’s release, however, merely two year’s after the book’s publication in German, and one-year post-English translation (nearly a decade before World War II), All Quiet was revolutionary.

Nearly a century after the American film, a German remake, which debuted at the Toronto International Film Festival, feels as timely as ever. In a period of growing nationalism and increased violence, the message of war’s futility and human toll feels like a necessary reminder. Like the novel and the 1930 film, this new adaptation from German director Edward Berger, isn’t terribly concerned with a streamlined plot (because war itself rarely has one). Rather it’s more of a mish-mash of grizzly, muddy, bloody moments covered in rats, in piss, in shrapnel, in severed limbs, and in the ever-present toxic masculinity.

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While the new film strays from the book in many regards (especially in its eleventh-hour battle sequence), it does stay true to the novel in premise and theme.

A group of impetuous young German schoolboys, led by Paul (newcomer Felix Kammerer) enlist in giddy excitement, trotting off to certain death while singing upbeat tunes and daydreaming about the glory, wealth, and women who will await their return. A masterful opening sequence that follows the garments of previous German casualties, their uniforms stripped from mangled bodies, stitched up, scrubbed, and handed to the euphoric new recruits, shalacks the film with ominous foreboding from its first scene. The crew is then whittled away one by one in a series of battles, wartime mishaps, and body horrors, cementing for viewers that there is no glory in war.

While there may be no glory in war, there is most certainly glory in war movies. Berger’s vision, expertly shot by cinematographer James Friend, is as breathtakingly gorgeous as it is brutal. The haunting, misty vistas (set against an eerie piano score from Volker Bertelmann) are Nat Geo in spooky season. Even as the runtime approaches the 2.5-hour mark, Berger is concocting new ways to artfully depict how goddamn horrible war is. Scenes of tank warfare, of hand-to-hand combat in a bomb crater, and of flamethrower deaths will be branded into my mind for eternity. The film, distributed by Netflix, looks EXPENSIVE, and the practical effects go a long way, much as they did with almost Best Picture winner 1917. However, unlike Sam Mendes’s one-shot masterpiece or Mel Gibson’s Hacksaw Ridge, which presents war as at least somewhat heroic, All Quiet’s beauty is 100% in service of showing how disgusting war is.

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The 2022 German submission for the Academy Awards, All Quiet is almost guaranteed an Oscar nomination in the Best International Feature category. And as we’ve seen with Drive My Car, Flee, Another Round, Cold War, Roma, and of course Parasite, the increasingly international Academy is not afraid to nominate non-US films in other categories. Cinematography, Score, Sound, Film Editing, Makeup (those yellow teeth!), and even Picture seem within reach, especially since this year seems without an international juggernaut frontrunner to this point. It should be mentioned that Daniel Brühl appears here in a supporting role (as he seems contractually obligated to appear in any movie involving Nazis) relegated to a series of non-battle scenes that add more bleakness to the story.

Despite premiering late in the TIFF lineup and being over two hours long, I was engrossed the entire time in this beautiful horror.

With a Netflix debut at the end of October, All Quiet on the Western Front has the potential for plenty of eyeballs as awards season heats up. It’s one of the most artfully rendered and least “oorah”-shouting war films in recent history—I’m looking at you, Top Gun: Maverick. And while the Germans may have suffered a painful loss in World War I, they have a cinematic triumph here.

Hey! I’m Matt. You can find me on Twitter here. I’m also a staff writer at Buzzfeed.

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September 27, 2022
Queer military drama ‘The Inspection’ asks and tells | TIFF review
A homeless young gay man enlists in the Marines as a way out of his struggle in The Inspection. As he goes through boot camp, he grapples with his masculinity and queerness.

The Inspection is a deeply personal look into a queer Black man’s experience in Marine boot camp and how his struggles lead him to a deeper understanding of his identity. Writer-director Elegance Bratton never lingers on his characters’ misery. Instead, he focuses on their hope and strength. The result is a deeply felt and emotional but ultimately uplifting and entertaining character study of masculinity, queerness, and love. Anchored by an electrifying Oscar-worthy performance from Jeremy Pope, The Inspection is an electrifying introduction to a new voice.

Among the many emotional scenes in The Inspection, a standout shows Ellis French (Jeremy Pope) comforting Ismail (Eman Esfandi), a fellow Marine recruit, when he breaks down in the bathroom in the midst of boot camp. Ismail, a practicing Muslim, sinks into the embrace of French, who is gay. As Ismail cries about wanting to be home, French stares out into the distance with tears slowly filling his eyes. Two people from two different worlds bonding over their shared trauma as outsiders in a world that is not built for them.

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When we first meet French, he’s staying in a homeless shelter in Trenton, New Jersey. And even then, we can see how writer-director Elegance Bratton is setting this story apart from others of its ilk. Throughout the movie, he never lingers on French’s misery. Rather, he focuses on his hope and strength. As he journeys into New York City to see his estranged mother (Gabrielle Union), we see him say goodbye to his group of friends—an split second insight into how queer friendship gets us through adveristy. We see it again as an elder gay man in the homeless shelter gives him advice “from an old queen to a young one.”

That energy continues even when we learn that French’s mother strongly disapproves of his sexuality. We see this in actions instead of words—she covers her couch in newspaper before he sits, crucifixes hang on the walls of her small apartment. However, he’s not here to make amends. He’s here to tell her he’s made the decision to become a marine. There’s an odd glimmer of hope in his voice—but as we learn later, it wasn’t exactly a choice. “I’ve been taking care of myself since I was 16,” he tells Laurence Harvey (Raúl Castillo), a sergeant sympathetic to French’s struggles.

When he arrives at boot camp in South Carolina, he’s greeted with a barrage of questions from the commander of the unit Leland Law (a towering Bokeem Woodbine) including whether or not they are or have been gay—as if it’s something that can just go away. From there, the movie turns into a Full Metal Jacket retelling set in the “don’t ask, don’t tell” era as the members of the unit are subjected to intense physical, mental, and emotional training—or is it abuse?

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While much of it is difficult to watch—Woodbine’s domineering performance easily strikes fear into your heart—the story never makes the pain a focus.

Rather it’s meant to move the plot forward and characters along in their journey. When French’s queerness is exposed while in the group shower in a gorgeously directed neon-splashed sequence that perfectly captures the sensation of suppressed queer desire, the result is a beating from Harvey (McCaul Lombardi) and a group of recruits at the behest of Commander Law. But even in that brutal moment, Bratton somehow finds the humanity in the sequence—the conflict in Castro’s (Aaron Dominguez) face is a focus of the sequence.

The movie continues to alternate between those trying moments and moments of victory. While Law—and the actual law of the land—dictate that French can’t be open with his sexuality, he also proves to his fellow recruits that not only is he more than his queerness but that he is more because of it. In a cheer inducing moment, French in preparation for his final evaluation paints the war paint on his face to look more like makeup on a drag queen than that of a soldier, to which Law chides, “French, only you could manage to f*g up war paint.” The audience went wild.

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Bratton, making his feature film directorial debut, based the story on his own life as a gay Marine recruit. And that personal angle to the story is apparent throughout.

Through the breezy 104-minute runtime, he focuses on specific moments of his journey. The ones that when put together as a tapestry become a fully formed view of the man he becomes at the end of the movie. A man defiant in his queerness, even when it all seems against him. At times, that makes The Inspection seem formulaic. However, I see it as complete. It’s a movie from the perspective of a person that has figured it out. That has inspected his own life to find how his traumas have formed him.

In that way, The Inspection is a love letter to Bratton’s experience. That’s why despite his mother’s journey throughout the movie, which finds her at a very similar place to the start, the movie is dedicated to her. That’s the action of a person that is healing.

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Hey! I’m Karl. You can find me on Twitter and Letterboxd. I’m also a Tomatometer-approved critic.

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September 9, 2022
‘Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe’ is YA movie goals | TIFF review
Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe follows two teen boys growing up in Texas in the 1980s as they uncover their identities through their friendship

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe is what a young adult coming out story should be. Instead of creating a false idealistic world, director Aitch Alberto plants the movie firmly in something realistic, which makes the very personal journey each of the character’s makes all the more poignant. Max Pelayo and Reese Gonzales have perfect chemistry as Aristotle and Dante and make them feel lived in. Effortlessly charming and emotionally satisfying, Aristotle and Dante makes a grab for the heart and doesn’t let go. I also didn’t want it to.

Notably, the 2012 young adult novel Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Sáenz was written and released before the United States Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage. It’s important to point out because queer media released before comes from a different perspective. A scrappier perspective. One where queer people had a mindset to to protect—and fight. For that reason, watching the movie of the same (very long) title feels like a breath of fresh air among the Love, Simon’s and Heartstoppers of the world.

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Not that there is anything specifically wrong with either of those projects. They just live in an idealistic version of the queer experience. One where the glass ceiling has been shattered. Aristotle and Dante, on the other hand, takes steps to ground you in a time and place. That time and place: 1987 in El Paso, Texas. Specifically, summer. The hazy, warm cinematography by Akis Konstantakopoulos draws you into a sleepy daze as we meet Aristotle “Ari” Mendoza (Max Pelayo), a Mexican-American high schooler facing down the summer before his junior year the way he usually spends it: alone. That is until he meets Dante Quintana (Reese Gonzales), a fellow teen whose effervescent personality nearly makes him glow in the sun. At least that’s how Ari sees him when he first sees Dante at the pool.

After Dante offers Ari swimming lessons, the pair become fast friends. It’s largely because Dante is in many ways a foil to Ari. He’s aggressively himself—flamboyant, open, excitable. On the other hand, Ari is trapped in his own silence—something that he chides his father (Eugenio Derbez) about. Dante comes from a wealthier family while Ari poorer. Dante’s parents Sam (Kevin Alejandro) and Soledad (Eva Longoria) are very open and expressive while Ari’s parents Jamie and Liliana (Verónica Falcón) are more subdued—reminiscent of the repression of feelings that many immigrant families display. However, Dante helps bring the real Ari out of himself. He helps him become interested in himself.

After a summer of days by the pool, camping trips, and more than one Dante rant about some book or painting, fates separate the two. Something that helps further separate Aristotle and Dante from other young adult stories. It allows the pair time to discover themselves on their own. Ari begins to find his place in his high school and solve the mystery of his parents—this generational trauma storyline is a bit underbaked and I would have loved to spend more time on it. We also see him gaining confidence in himself without Dante by his side. Many people observe that he’s beginning to look like a man. Something that further interrogates why that is a statement to be had.

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As the movie quickly moves through a year, we hear through letters Dante’s journey to understanding his sexuality. He tells Ari how he came to the conclusion after dating a girl and realizing that he was fantasizing about a boy instead. Gonzales is able to communicate his struggle and trepidation about coming out with his voiceover, which Pelayo reacts to with silent emotion. It’s what makes Aristotle and Dante such a successful book-to-movie adaptation. Director Aitch Alberto is okay to live in those introspective silences—something particularly important for a repressed character like Aristotle.

Coming out stories are difficult to pull off because they’re such singular experiences that differ from person to person. They’re largely an internal dialogue that we have to have (or not have) with ourselves. Yet, at this point, it feels like we’ve seen so many of the same versions. In that way, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe feels like a breath of fresh air—or a clear sky full of stars (with no light pollution). Most obviously because of the focus on two Latino characters—groundbreaking for a genre that is very white-washed. But more importantly because it doesn’t try to pretend that it’s a perfect experience. What it does say is that there is magic to be had—and that you can hold the universe in the palm of your hand.

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September 13, 2022
‘Empire of Light’ is more than a movie about movies | TIFF movie review

Set on the moody southern coast of England in the 1980s, Empire of Light follows a lonely movie theater worker who finds herself in a whirlwind romance.

There is something otherworldly about sitting in a movie theater. The artistry. The magic. That indescribable feeling we get when the lights begin to dim, and we go somewhere we’ve never been before. We’re not just entertained, but somehow reborn together. Those dazzling images on a huge silver screen. The sound that we can feel. Somehow, heartbreak feels good in a place like this (and I believe I’m the first person to ever describe the theater this way). Sam Mendes’s ninth feature film Empire of Light, which debuted at Telluride before crossing the border to the Toronto International Film Festival, bottles up this sentiment expressed so eloquently by Nicole Kidman in her AMC ads.

Mendes—best known for American Beauty, Skyfall, and 1 9 17—solutes cinema as he follows a group of employees working at a movie theater on the southern coast of 1980s Britain. At the center is Hilary Small (Olivia Colman) a middle-aged concessions counter worker who struggles to find happiness selling popcorn, sweeping out theaters, and regularly jerking off her boss (Colin Firth). As the film progresses we learn that Hilary has previously suffered under bouts of depression and mania. Nevertheless, she returns to her job at the Empire, no matter how mundane, as the one constant in her life.

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Eventually, however, Hilary’s existence—and the entire atmosphere of the Empire—are brightened by the arrival of a new ticket-taker called Stephen, played by the charming Michael Ward (who you may recognize from Steve McQueen’s Lovers Rock). Stephen is brimming with joie de vivre, and the entire staff is instantly smitten. He strikes up an unlikely friendship/romance with Hilary, he gets chummy with punk-rocker-turned-candy-girl Janine (Hannah Onslow), and even manages to endear himself to the curmudgeonly projectionist Norman (Toby Jones, who is as brilliant as always).

Hilary and Stephen are two lonely misunderstood souls.

She because of her age and mental health issues and he as a black man living in a predominately white community. They begin to fall in love, sneaking away to the abandoned second floor of the theater to hook up during shifts. While on the surface this romance may seem unlikely (and some have called it out as unrealistic), anyone who has ever felt adrift and isolated can relate to the yearning for connection and the unexpected places we often find it.

As the film swirls into its second act, their idyllic relationship is confronted by outside forces. Hilary’s mental health, the racial tensions of the UK and the rise of the skinhead movement, and confrontations with other employees of the theater all drag the pair back to a harsher reality than exists in their private alcoves. In a Lost in Translation sort of way, however, Empire of Light celebrates their starcrossed romance and the different kinds of relationships that we find comfort in.

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In the least shocking news to come out of the fall festivals, Olivia Colman is breathtaking as Hilary, delivering a performance that probes new directions for her.

Come Oscar nomination morning, she will undoubtedly be looking at her fourth nomination in five years. Michael Ward, while given a role that’s not quite as showy, exudes confidence and charm. You can so easily see why Hilary instantly falls for him, and he is every bit as deserving of an Oscar nomination—although his may be an uphill battle this season.

Mendes, who proved in 1917 that he knows how to harness the full breadth of the filmmaking craft to create a singular world, has done so again. Cinematographer Roger Deakins showcases his abilities as he breathtakingly captures the rundown Empire Theater. And theater itself, with its dilapidated second floor, is a triumph of set design. All those elements are elevated by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’s melancholic score. I’ve been constantly refreshing Spotify since the movie’s TIFF premiere in hopes that the piece played over Hilary’s euphoric movie-watching experience in the film’s final act has been released.

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Some have called out the screenplay as the singular weak spot in this barrage of masterclass craftsmanship, but I’d argue that the loose threads contribute to the melancholy vignette quality of the film.

This is not an overly finessed studio film, but one that does make some surprising and uncomfortable moves—and the conclusion is more satisfying for it. While it is certainly a “filmmaker loves films” movie that will appeal to the Academy, I do not think it is as pandering or commercial as the likes of Belfast, King Richard, or CODA. It’s a story of loneliness and the places we go (the beach, the cinema, romance, friendship) to find solace.

Perhaps as someone with a degree in English (I was salivating at theseveral full poem readings in the film) and a cinephile, I am an impartial judge. But I found Empire of Light to be extremely poignant—and was lowkey weeping for the last thirty minutes. It was my favorite film of the festival. As a little closeted gay boy growing up in an extremely conservative environment, I have vivid memories of going to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button alone in theaters to find succor, and Empire of Light taps into that exact feeling. Nowhere has heartbreak ever felt better.

Hey! I’m Matt. You can find me on Twitter here. I’m also a staff writer at Buzzfeed.

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September 19, 2022
Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin kill in ‘Moving On’ | TIFF movie review

Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin play a pair of old friends in Moving On preparing to murder their third best friend’s husband following her death. It’s a comedy, by the way.

If there was ever a duo readymade to murder a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot, it would be Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda. (If I had to add a third to the mix, it would be Dolly Parton, but I digress.) The 9 to 5 co-stars—who have been friends for decades, helmed Netflix’s Emmy-nominated sitcom Grace and Frankie, and faced off against Megyn Kelly regarding plastic surgery—are back together on the big screen in Moving On. The comedy, which premiered at the 2022 Toronto International Film Festival last week, reunites director Paul Weitz with Tomlin, who received a Golden Globe nom for Grandma

The movie follows Claire (Fonda) and Evvie (Tomlin), two parts of a trio of estranged college besties who reunite at the funeral of their third BFF, Joyce. Of course things immediately take a turn for the worse when Claire informs Joyce’s grieving husband Howard (Malcolm McDowell) that she has come to do more than mourn–she has come to murder him (DUN DUN DUN). When Evvie arrives (stumbling onto the stage from behind a curtain halfway through the eulogy), she agrees to assist Claire on her homicidal mission.

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From the initial premise (“two old brawds try to whack their bestie’s evil hubby”), a whole slew of Grace and Frankie-esque hijinks follow.

They try to buy a gun. When that doesn’t work, they try to nab one from a semi-senile resident in Evvie’s assisted living facility. Claire accosts Howard about the reasons she has for murdering him. Evvie interrupts the wake to unveil a few secrets about Joyce’s life that the family has tried to forget. And with every tender moment, such as Claire reconnecting with her ex-husband Ralph (Richard Roundtree), there are ridiculous ones like Evvie, whose driver’s license has been revoked, causing mass havoc via automobile to Los Angelinos.

If you are thinking to yourself, “Well that just sounds like the movie version of Grace and Frankie” you would not be wrong. But tell me, who among us doesn’t want a 90-minute, large-screen version of that show? This is sort of like the Downton Abbey movie if they just changed the names of Lady Mary and the Dowager Countess to Lady Claudette and her grandmother Maude—charming, delightful, and a lovely way to spend the afternoon.

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While often light and frother, about halfway through the film reveals the pair’s motive for murder spins atop a much deeper and more serious issue.

And while the duo still spend time bribing people with bacon and shouting at homophobic strangers, both Tomlin and Fonda are given the room to stretch their dramatic acting chops. With one Tony, two Oscars, and eight Emmys between them, Fonda and Tomlin can certainly deliver in a drama just as well as a comedy, and the balance here in Paul Weitz’s script is calibrated perfectly.

Ultimately Moving On is a tale of the friendship and nostalgia shared between two women whose memories of youth are too strong for time (and evil men) to keep them apart. While tragedies in their personal lives may have driven a wedge between them, the weight of their experiences in college and those formative post-grad years where we stumble about the real world like clutzy baby deer, cannot be dismissed.

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Tomlin and Fonda, who are 83 and 84 respectively, are certainly not as spry as they once were, and there is a certain melancholy attached to watching two formidable actors move more slowly and handle objects with less precision than they once did. And while the characters are embracing who they once were, they are also grappling with the fact that they are losing skills (driving, playing the violin) that they once took for granted. As a viewer, you can’t help but preemptively mourn the days when these two beacons are gone. Luckily they have left behind a treasure trove of—dare I use the word—content for us to savor.

Moving On is not groundbreaking cinema, but it doesn’t need to be. Honestly, it’s the better for it.

Moving On feels like reconnecting with old friends to reminisce about your best, funniest memories. It’s spending 90 minutes with two living legends who can deliver quippy one-liners and dramatic monologues with ease. There’s no better way to enjoy an afternoon than at the theater with these two, and I can’t wait to do it again.

Moving On premiered at the 2022 Toronto International Film Festival. It is currently seeking distribution.

Hey! I’m Matt. You can find me on Twitter here. I’m also a staff writer at Buzzfeed.

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September 18, 2022