Passing (2021, Rebecca Hall)

Passing is a genre-buster, which heavily contrasts the very strict mores the film’s subjects live within. The film is an occasional Southern Gothic (set in 1920s Harlem), occasional character study Hitchcock homage. Harlem Renaissance society lady Tessa Thompson has a peculiar day when shopping for her son’s birthday; the sometimes very shitty white folks just assume she’s white. So, on a whim, she goes to a hoity-toity hotel to get out of the heat.

We have none of Thompson’s backstory or context at this point. Instead, director Hall guardedly introduces her to the film, then follows her, the camera as hesitant as Thompson in her whim. Once she gets to the hotel, however, things get real when she’s people-watching, and one of the people starts watching her back. When this other person approaches her, Thompson’s fear of being found out pervades the film, breaking her collected demeanor (which only happens a few times in the film and always echoes beautifully).

Except this person is Ruth Negga, and she knows Thompson, and Thompson knows her. But Thompson knows Negga as a fellow Black girl, not a vaguely Southern white lady with her husband (Alexander Skarsgård) in a ritzy New York hotel.

Negga’s thrilled to see an old friend, even as Thompson gets increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. Their impromptu reunion culminates with Skarsgård revealing himself to be an avowed white supremacist; we watch as Thompson experiences the awkward, problematic situation become grotesque. Understandably, she gets out of there as soon as possible, heading home to normality.

Normality is doctor husband André Holland, two sons (Ethan Barrett and Justus Davis Graham), a housekeeper (Ashley Ware Jenkins), and loads of charity work for the Negro League. The first act is set against Thompson preparing a charity ball. But, eventually, Negga will get herself invited, effectively inserting herself into Thompson’s life and home.

It’s Harlem Renaissance, so white people are touring north of the Park, meaning Negga can be seen without raising too much suspicion. After all, regular white tourist Bill Camp, who’s Thompson’s closest thing to an actual friend, is always around. In the second act, Thompson’s tea party for Camp will be another significant moment in the film and for Thompson.

While Thompson and Negga’s rekindled friendship only goes so far, with Negga less interested in society goings-on than taking Thompson’s roles in her home. Negga befriends housekeeper Jenkins, who Thompson treats curtly. Then, when the boys need someone to play with them in the afternoons, Negga joins them. The first act establishes Negga and Skarsgård have a daughter, and motherhood is on her mind, but pretty soon, it seems like she’s more interested in playing mom to Thompson’s kids, not her own. The motherhood theme is one of the film’s most subtle, but it does a lot of heavy lifting throughout.

The biggest change with Negga’s presence is Holland, however. He goes from thinking of her life as a curiosity to be ridiculed to being her most ardent supporter. Perhaps too ardent a supporter, especially as Thompson becomes more and more bewildered by Negga’s ability to exist in a state of constant deception.

The second half of the film becomes a psychological thriller without the thrills, instead focusing tightly on Thompson’s experiences and observations of her changing life. Holland wants their sons to be aware of white supremacist murders, while Thompson intends to keep them as sheltered as possible. Their fears and frustrations run underneath the surface, informing performances and events. It’s delicate, nimble work.

Because the film sticks to Thompson, Holland remains something of an enigma throughout, as does their marriage. The first act introduces them formed; there’s the perfect, party-throwing, party-going society couple, which Thompson contrasts with Negga’s mysterious, duplicitous, dangerous marriage. The film takes its time revealing more about Thompson and Holland’s marriage, relying on conversations and moods—and Camp and Thompson’s friendship—to fill in.

The third act is a pitch-perfect synthesis.

Passing is black and white, era-appropriate Academy ratio, beautifully photographed by Eduard Grau, with picture-perfect composition from Hall. It’s an urban fairy tale turned nightmare. Great patient, often lyrical cutting from Sabine Hoffman and a lovely, sometimes diegetic, sometimes not, sometimes maybe not score from Devonté Hynes.

After starting with a literal spotlight on Negga, Passing soon becomes Thompson’s film. The whole production hinges on her performance; both are a success. Thompson’s fantastic. For a while, her performance is reactionary—to meeting Negga again, to seeing how others react to Negga—but in the second act, Thompson stops getting fresh stimuli, and her performance essays internal experience, particularly of her status as a society wife and mother. The third act’s a mix of both styles, revealing even more about the character as events unfold. Thompson’s good in the first act, but it really does seem like Passing’s going to be Negga’s movie; then, starting from the inactive position, Thompson dominates the frame. So good.

Holland’s excellent, Negga’s really good, Camp’s really good, Skarsgård’s distressingly perfect in his part.

Great production design from Nora Mendis and costumes by Marci Rodgers.

Passing is spectacular. Hall, Thompson, and company do an outstanding job.

It’s so good I can’t even be sad Gbenga Akinnagbe isn’t in it more. I mean, I’m sad he isn’t in it more, but he doesn’t need to be in it more.

Godzilla vs. Kong (2021, Adam Wingard)

Kong vs. Godzilla is a rather bad film. Director Wingard is bad at every single thing the film tasks him with. Kong expert Rebecca Hall and adopted daughter Kaylee Hottle going to the Hollow Earth with pseudo-scientist burn-out Alexander Skarsgård? Terrible. Teens Millie Bobby Brown and Julian Dennison teaming up with kaiju conspiracy podcaster Brian Tyree Henry? Somehow worse. Giant CGI ape fighting giant CGI lizard? Even worse.

Wingard directs the giant monster fight worse than if he were doing a pro-wrestling homage. Wingard does have some homage in vs., just never good. Like when Kong jumps Die Hard-style or knocks his shoulder back in like Lethal Weapon. Or when there’s a Twister reference. The movie’s a smorgasbord of unoriginality, tied together with bad acting—Skarsgård is godawful, but the rest of the main cast is tolerable (Hottle is probably even good under the circumstances and it’s clear Dennison needs to fire his agent and get a better one). The main supporting cast—actually, just the supporting cast, there are only like ten people in the movie, the rest are collateral damage. But gazillionare inventor Demián Bichir? He’s real bad. Eiza González as his merciless daughter? She’s worse.

If Wingard had a sense of humor and tried to do vs. campy, it might work. Even with the terrible acting. But he doesn’t have a sense of humor. However, he’s not overly serious because serious suggests some kind of thoughtful and there’s no thought in the direction. As bad as some of the acting gets and it gets painfully, absurdly bad, Wingard’s clearly responsible for at least twenty-five percent of it. The script’s really bad too, so maybe twenty percent to the script, which means the cast is only like half responsible for their lousy performances.

And some get it worse than others. Like Brown and Henry. The movie’s giving them some very bad material. There’s not really anyway to make gold out of it.

The CGI is good. Nothing Wingard does with the good CGI is good, but the CGI is good. Outside being an eighties action hero, Kong has some personality (he’s pals with Hottle). Godzilla gets none. It’s hilarious they’ve got Godzilla first in the title this time because Godzilla is a very special guest star.

Luckily, Godzilla vs. Kong doesn’t start strong and have a stumble. It starts low and sort of flops around in the mud without ever getting on firm land. In fact, considering the affordable-to-license sixties songs they accompany Kong with because apparently composer Tom Holkenborg can’t handle a full score, it kind of improves. The songs are terrible. Holkenborg at least tries. There are a few moments when Holkenborg manages to find wisps of potential in whatever Wingard’s going. The wisps wisp away, but still. There are a couple almost good narrative beats thanks to Holkenborg.

No one else involved achieves anywhere near as much.

There’s a lot of bad ideas in Godzilla vs. Kong, a lot of silly ideas and a lot of bad ones (not to mention ones they ripped off from Toho’s post-2000s Godzilla movies—and Kong doesn’t get a creator credit, which isn’t cool). But with all obvious ability in the CGI—minus the shots where they have to match with whatever cinematographer Ben Seresin’s shooting with a lot of glare to hide the composite—it should’ve had some spectacle.

It’s not so bad the giant monkey fighting the giant lizard isn’t the most visually engaging material in the movie. But if the acting and writing and directing of the “plot” weren’t so paltry, the kaiju fight would definitely take backseat. Wingard’s fight scenes for the monsters are so bad, only him being worse at the rest makes them better in comparison.

Godzilla vs. Kong is the pits.