Quarantine streaming has been a weird dance. Yes, we have more time. But Twitter, a pandemic, and underlying anxieties about what the future holds can do a number on the brain. This is my attempt to write about what we’ve watched in our time since It All Began.

Spaceship Earth (Hulu) 

The best thing this documentary does is give you a picture as expansive as space itself. I only knew beforehand the vague details, that this was about a crazy experiment done in a desert in 1991, in which 8 researchers committed to self-sustainability within a biodome. What I did not expect to learn is how this expensive, deeply ambitious project wasn’t the beginning but rather the culmination of many years of mind-expanding experimentation. When you meet all the members who made it happen, you see that it really all began way back in the ’60s, when a charismatic man (yes, you’ll wonder if it’s a cult) brought together a group of free-thinking artists. They started off with their own theater, The Theatre of All Possibilities. From there, they understood the best way for them to learn and change the world was by taking matters into their own hands. They partnered with the billionaire heir of a Texas oil dynasty, who gave them the necessary money to dream bigger. 

If you’re not convinced this group can pull something like Biosphere 2 off, just know they once built their own boat, the Heraclitus, in the docklands of Oakland, learning and building as they went, creating a ship that, 45 years later, still sails around the world conducting scientific and cultural projects and experiments. The idea that they could build something sturdy enough to brave six oceans and sail over 270,000 nautical miles over the years is just…it’s as inspiring as it is brain-breaking. 

The history of the John Allen-led group is so rich and fascinating that the actual Biosphere 2 experiment almost feels anticlimactic. Director Matt Wolf deeply understands that the problem was never really with the idea or the aim – it was always going to be with the people involved. At some point, tensions would develop in the crew sealed in with each other. At some point, dangerous situations would occur that would strain things further. At some point, the higher-ups would make decisions that badly angered those doing the real work. And at some point, unfortunately but not completely unexpectedly, a dark figure would stride into all of this and destroy every bit of scientific evidence that had been painfully collected.

If that last sentence made you stand up, it should. Even more when you find out this person was behind some of the more devastating policies and decisions in our country’s recent history. Spaceship Earth, in the end, is a fascinating look at the power of dreams and the all-too-present danger of them being shot mercilessly, callously down. 

The Last Dance (ESPN/Netflix) – 

I knew Michael Jordan as a cultural icon before I knew him as a basketball player. His career started the year I was born, and I never quite caught up to him – beyond accepting the universe’s general given he’s the best basketball player of all time – until he dismantled my precious John-Stockton-and-Karl-Malone-led Utah Jazz in the NBA Finals two years in a row. I did, however, grow up with LeBron James. I still remember his first Sports Illustrated cover as I thumbed through the issue at the kitchen table. It seemed preposterous for someone to be anointed that early, and to be asked if he’d ever meet the bar of being Like Mike. Since then, LeBron has gone on to have quite the outstanding, long-lasting career, one that regularly, in the midst of his prime, asked others who they got: MJ or LeBron. 

For the longest time, I only had one true dog in the fight: the King himself. Countless times I have dropped everything I’m doing just to catch bits of his games, especially in his Miami and later Cleveland years. Every time we thought he was washed, he found another gear. Even more, he embraced the community, goodwill, and politics in a way MJ never quite did. I could accept the argument that Michael was the fiercer player and LeBron the more complete. But still: those in MJ’s camp never waivered, and those in LeBron’s camp often moved back and forth. I wanted to better understand just what made everyone want to be Like Mike. 

Enter The Last Dance. Director Jason Heller and his team did a pretty incredible job at poring through thousands and thousands of hours of footage to distill it down to these ten episodes. The way they combine music with what’s on the screen makes it one of the purer audio/visual delights out there, nearly long-form videos for a band you’d happily follow across the country. By the end, I felt like I much better understood what made Michael Jordan so great, what made the Bulls the dynasty they were, and just how infuriating it was the way management broke that team up. 

But there’s one catch. 

As fun as it is to see everyone pitch in with their interviews, it can’t be overlooked who one of the key producers is: Michael Jordan. While there are definitely a few parts that are more critical of Jordan, they’re often followed by explanations that cast him in a better light. Jordan is in full control of the narrative. By the end, what should seem like a man at peace instead feels like a man still chasing a ghost. The difference is that the Last Dance gives us a hugely entertaining chance to chase along with him. 

The Speed Cubers (Netflix)

Every time a rather bloated film sinks into the streaming ocean, an argument goes around about just how necessary the length is. Some will argue the extra time nails down necessary character development. Some will argue it’s just narrative fat in need of more muscle. Inevitably, the conversation leads to someone piping up about just how nice it is to see a full, satisfying story told in 90 minutes.

Well, what if I told you there existed a hugely satisfying, deeply emotional story in just half that time, a meager 40 minutes? It’s called The Speed Cubers and its essential viewing. We get a glimpse of the longtime Rubik’s Cube-solving champion, Feliks Zemdegs, a jovial young Australian. We then get a glimpse of his emerging rival, Max Park. The narrative path leads us on a collision course that will center around the 2019 cube-solving World Championships in Feliks’ own backyard of Melbourne, Australia. It may sound like a predictable little sports documentary. I can assure you it is most definitely not. The joy is in the details. As beautifully told a story as I’ve seen all year.

Hannah Gadsby’s Douglas (Netflix)

Gadsby’s 2019 special, Nanette, was meant to be the final note in her stand-up career. She explained how comedy had really kept her from growing past her trauma, threw in some amazing bits of art history that dispelled the dangerous myth of the tortured genius, and took a well-deserved bow. That was supposed to be it. But as it made a plethora of Best-Of lists that year and sent Gadsby’s popularity skyrocketing, it became obvious she was going to have to find another way to do the stand-up comedy she swore she was done with. 

I find Douglas to not only be a fantastic follow-up but to be on-par with Nanette. She is just as truthful and bracingly honest. She is also just as masterful with form, illustrating to the audience beforehand the exact structure of her show and all the minefields she’ll be walking around and into, and the way the audience catches onto all of this as she indeed climbs the aforementioned structure is a thing of beauty. She peppers in some art history again, this time taking aim at the ridiculous artistic aims of the patriarchy as well as cracking on the names of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (trust me – it’s worth the watch).

She wraps all of these observations and stories up in an artfully designed bow about what it means to be Hannah Gadsby, a lesbian stand-up comedian with autism. What’s so beautiful about this bow she wraps for us is how deeply empathetic it is to herself. We know it took her a long time to work towards self-acceptance. And as you see her grow more detailed about her own life and feelings, it becomes even more relatable. Who hasn’t felt like a pufferfish, blowing up whenever we’ve been slighted or a certain button was pushed? You’ve never quite seen the world explained the way Hannah Gadsby does and we are so fortunate to have her share it with us.

The thing about a hand offered out of pity and a hand offered to help is that they look exactly the same to the receiver. In both cases, a hand is being thrust towards them, awaiting their response. The difference comes in how they perceive themselves. Do they feel worthy of genuine support or do they believe people only reach out because they feel bad for them? Paul Downs Colaizzo’s Brittany Runs A Marathon illustrates this question beautifully. 

Often in movies when we see someone reject an offer of help, it results in the offerer upset they weren’t received better and then it just further escalates from there. It’s a movie trying to create conflict, but it often feels manufactured. As if the writer wrote the whole movie and went “Shit, I do not have enough conflict in this act to force the movie into the ending I badly want!”. What makes Brittany so special is that every person around her is offering their assistance and she rejects every one of them at some point in the movie, convinced it’s all out of pity, and every single one of them absorbs the blow. They don’t lash out. They don’t storm out and slam the door. They simply absorb her sharp edges, recognizing they were once like her, and hope she’ll come around. They’re not bummed that she didn’t take their offer; they’re bummed she didn’t find herself worthy of it. It’s a subtle distinction that makes a lot world of difference. And it makes this movie far more deeply empathetic than you’d ever expect. 

Early in the movie, Brittany (Jillian Bell) runs into Seth (Micah Stock) in the middle of a 2-mile run as they’re both dying on a steep hill. He tells her he’s running because he choked in a potato sack race and couldn’t stand his young son’s disappointment. So he signed up for a 5k race 6 weeks later. “Why are you doing that to yourself,” Brittany asks, “you’ll lose. “

“You don’t do it to win it,” Seth says, breathless. “You do it to finish it.” 

It’s just enough of a mindset shift for Brittany that she soon after signs up for the same 5k. Brittany and Seth run together and again they’re dying as a group of young kids pass them. “We’re going backwards”, she says. But they persist. As they get to the finish line, Seth runs into the arms of his husband, holding their son. Brittany looks around her. Everyone has someone. Everyone but her. She then spends most of the movie accepting and then pushing back against people, as if she lets her guard down just enough before reminding herself she’s not good enough. It leads her to push away so many people she has to fall into an old crutch of moving in with her sister. After a particularly bad blowup in which Brittany attacks a woman she feels threatened by, her brother-in-law (Lil Rel Howery) lofts it to her: “It was never about the marathon”, he says. 

Late in the movie, Brittany finally does run this New York marathon. But she’s doing it alone. As she hits Mile 22, she comes down with a disastrous pain she’s convinced she can’t surmount. She wants to continue, but she’s slowly being persuaded by the medic to give up. It all looks like it’s over, like the movie will stretch into some kind of “You don’t have to run a whole marathon to be successful!” message until she hears a familiar scream. It’s her neighbor, Catherine (Michaela Watkins). Then further down is another scream. It’s Seth. And then it’s her brother-in-law. It’s everyone who offered a hand she once bit – sometimes more than once – and all they want for her is not just to finish the race, but to believe she is worthy enough to have friends who would wait until she got to the last 4 miles of the most punishing race she’s ever ran.

In the closing moments of the film, Brittany kisses a man she previously pushed away and goes for a run. But this time, as she strides down the street, you can see it all in her relaxed yet determined face: this isn’t about a marathon anymore; this is about self-acceptance and running because she genuinely enjoys it. It’s a face that’s ready for the next challenge because she feels worthy and has embraced a net that will catch her should she fall. 

There’s a lot of streaming out there. It’s not just that there’s Netflix, Hulu, HBO, Amazon Prime, Disney+, and many others. And it’s not just that they each have vast libraries, both with licensed and original programming. There’s also the matter of just about every movie you can think of being available to rent or purchase, all at your fingertips. These times of quarantine have shown us just how many entertainment choices we have within our home. And sometimes it can be pretty exhausting. 

This has happened to me many times before, even in the pre-streaming days, where the options are so plentiful and widespread that it all starts to bleed into one, long, every-scrolling title. The abundance of choice taxes the brain. And then the desire to watch something, anything really, sinks. From there, TV shows sound better. Shorter, punchier, and maybe even something you’ve seen many times before. 

All it takes, though, is for something really original to burst through the noise. What’s equally interesting is how both these films are, like all art, remixes of what came before. What makes them stand out is that they’re willing to take chances. They’re willing to take a perfectly serviceable, entertaining story and throw some mad brushes at it, either taking you out of it or endearing you further. 

It would appear you’ve seen something like Alice Wu’s The Half Of It before. There are the familiar elements of the burgeoning high school love triangle, when Ellie (Leah Lewis) agrees to help David write love letters to a girl she maybe likes herself. You may have even seen Roxanne (with Steve Martin) – itself a play on Cyrano de Bergerac and also filmed in a small Pacific Northwest town. But Wu introduces a thematic element in her story that’s stuck with me ever since: the idea that most people are satisfied with good paintings, but that the difference between a good and a great painting is simply 5 bold strokes. At the heart of that fact is a central question: are you willing to ruin a perfectly good painting for the chance at greatness?

Wu guides us through a number of delightful conversations and inconveniences, learning about this trio of characters and their unexpected depth. Wu isn’t interested in playing with a cookie-cutter except as a form to experiment within. She draws your attention to the shapes as she sneaks in unique flavors and ingredients. Then slowly but surely, it dawns on you that this was never meant to be a love triangle at all; it was meant to be a collision of three stuck-in-neutral teens who stared greatness in the eye and decided not to blink. They learned to stay true to themselves, with messy yet perfect endings. It’s a delightful inversion of what we’ve come to expect. 

Enda Loughman and Mike Ahern’s Extra Ordinary has a premise that’s designed beautifully. You take a character like Rose (Maeve Higgins), the daughter of a former paranormal doctor who, through tragic circumstances, is intent on keeping that part of her past behind her. Then you collide her with Martin Martin (Barry Ward), a single father struggling with his teenage daughter and the literal ghost of his ex-wife haunting their house and daily rituals. Martin, further pushed by his daughter, is desperate for a solution, which leads him to Rose. Throw in a wild-card satan-worshipping one-hit-wonder played by Will Forte and you have quite the batch to work with. 

This is a movie full of great lines and gags, but it never loses sight of its characters, as wild and crazy as they may get. The story builds and builds, and even as you may see what’s coming, you have most certainly not seen a final act showdown quite like this one brandishes. It’s a movie full of bold strokes that somehow all work due to the conviction of its filmmakers and the actors who inhabit the story. 

The Half of It and Extra Ordinary are two of the most original movies I’ve seen in all of 2020. That may seem like it’s grading it on a curve, considering our current cinema situation. But when you match it up against the endlessly-scrolling reel of streaming options, it rings true. They became the signal within the noise. These filmmakers taking such bold strokes with their own movies makes me want to take bolder strokes as a film viewer. And be all the richer for it. 

Escape is a funky word these days. Up until just a month or so ago, we considered art to be our escape from our day-to-day lives. Sometimes it was an escape from a job we struggled with, an escape into something more creative and revitalizing. Sometimes it was an escape into a safer, kinder world where the good choices mattered. Sometimes it was even an escape into a world of frights and scary ideas because we wanted to feel something, anything in a safe way. We looked to art often to escape towards what we felt lacking. 

But that was a pre-pandemic world. It’s a different world now in which all of us are home, and not just home because we want to be but because we have to be. Everything joyful has a tinge of melancholy to it because it existed in pre-pandemic times. Political jokes have more bite because politics lately have had a rising death toll. Humor about doofuses is not nearly as funny when there are doofuses regularly in denial of our reality, only prolonging the situation. And even space adventures feel a bit sad because, well, we may feel like the virus is Earth’s way of breaking up with us. Even everyone’s favorite escapist art, the batshit crazy Netflix documentary Tiger King, leaves a weird taste in your mouth because these are the very kinds of people making decisions about our lives. 

So where’s the escape? And where, when you’re always home, is home? 

Ladies and gentlemen, I present: Strictly Ballroom. 

The more I think about it, the more I realize how perfect Baz Luhrmann’s 1992 debut film is for our times. Anyone who’s seen a Luhrmann film – be it Romeo + Juliet, Moulin Rouge, The Great Gatsby – knows his love for over-the-top flair and hyperkinetic style. You can definitely see the seeds of this in his maiden voyage. But there’s an extremely telling choice that Luhrmann makes: he gives us a home our main characters escape to. 

Home can be a literal place. But home can also be a feeling. A sense of security. At least once a week I think about Ladislao Loera’s story at an Austin Testify show in which he talked about finding home amidst chaos. He was dealing with the declining illness of his partner. The world frequently felt like it was spinning. But they both also loved dancing. And the most important thing he remembered about dancing is that no matter how many times you spin, you stay on track by locking eyes with your partner. When you look at them, directly and intently, the world stops spinning. You are home. 

Early on, we see that Scott (Paul Mercurio) is different. He’s a dancer determined to dance his own steps in a competition that rewards uniformity. His partner breaks up with him because what he does is not strictly ballroom. It’s his own kind of jazz. His own kind of escape. From there, his desire to do his own thing runs headlong into Fran (Tara Morice), a misfit of a dancer looking for a true partner. Scott tells her, “We’re telling a story. The rumba is the dance of love. Look at me like you’re in love.” But Fran doesn’t need to be told. She’s already there, deeply at home. 

Luhrmann makes a very telling choice in that everyone outside of Scott and Fran is filmed with a fleeting, near-claustrophobic camera. We’re shoved right in the oily, sweaty faces of the always-melting ruling class, the judges who insist things must be done a certain way. Luhrmann lights their faces from below, creating looks as ghastly as they are iconic. 

But when he focuses on Scott and Fran, the background literally fades to deep blacks and blues. Their faces are perfectly lit, in all their detail and uniqueness. We can truly breathe and have a chance to see who they are. And we can see how much they see in each other. We can see, in their gaze, the first boards being nailed up and the carpet laid out. We’re seeing a story built, step by unique, freely-chosen step. We’re seeing them build a home. 

By the end, Luhrmann finally gives the remaining cast a chance to be seen in a softer, more flattering light, at a distance that allows them to be human, when they submit to the fact there’s more to dancing than what’s strictly ballroom. There’s the partner, the gaze. There’s the steps and the flow. There’s the knowing there’s no one else you’d rather be moving with.

There’s home. 

Strictly Ballroom is currently streaming on Netflix.

My favorite part of Frozen II arrives about fifty minutes into the movie. It involves imaginary singing reindeer. It’s a bit catchy. And it means absolutely nothing. It’s a small part of this unfortunately misguided film and yet it’s the most telling piece of all. The best songs in the Frozen franchise tell us what the characters are feeling and flow powerfully with the story being told. But “Lost in the Woods’’ isn’t just a song for Kristoff. This might as well be a song from the filmmakers to the audience. 

It starts off innocently, with Kristoff singing “You had to go, and of course it’s always fine/ I probably could catch up with you tomorrow”. This may be the most accurate line in the whole movie. Because of course, Disney will never complain about the $1.5 billion it made at the box office with this sequel. And since it dropped it on Disney+, you, the fortunate subscriber, could pick it back up and watch it tomorrow or any other time. It suggests a casual relationship with its audience. So far, so sweet. 

Then it hits with “But is this what it feels like to be growing apart?/When did I become the one who’s always chasing your heart?” You may not realize this, but the first Frozen came out in 2013, a whole SEVEN YEARS AGO. That’s a long time. And especially when your biggest fans were young girls (and boys) who, in the interim, probably moved on to more mature things like Tik Tok and Snapchat filters or maybe even college, that’s quite the jump. What passed for enjoyable in 2013 may not ring as true in 2020, althought nostalgia is a powerful drug. Maybe Olaf isn’t as cute; maybe he’s just an annoying snowman who spits out random facts about farting turtles and water having memory. 

The most telling line, however, is this: “Up till now the next step was a question of how/I never thought it was a question of whether”. There’s no point in getting into what these lines mean to Kristoff because nothing the movie shows support it. But from a filmmaker perspective, they could very well be referring to something every creative project runs into: the moment of being lost in the woods. Sometimes we call it being ‘lost in the dark’. Sometimes we call it ‘the point of no return’. But it all feels the same. That dark, murky, icky moment where nothing seems to be working and where you look up, sweaty and confused, wondering just how the hell you got there. You see, maybe the Frozen II team spent years chasing a good story and how to put it together. But at some point along the way they had to ask, ‘Was this even a good idea to begin with?’ 

Trust the Brain Trust 

Anyone who’s worked on any creative project conveniently forgets the more arduous steps of the process whenever they’ve completed something. That’s how we keep making things, after all. There’s the excitement. Then the doubting. Then the complete WTF am I actually doing. A lot of people freeze up and stop there. But they forget that it’s a necessary part of the process. No matter what you do, you’re always going to hit that middle portion where you’re lost in the woods. The key thing is to not give up. To not act out of fear. But to ride it out. To push through. To listen to others and get a new perspective. To then look ahead and say, ‘Onward’. 

Pixar has had an unparalleled span of success since its first film in 1995 with Toy Story. But what made them so successful wasn’t the technology or the innovation or their beloved characters. It started further behind the scenes. It started with the Brain Trust. When it looked like Toy Story 2 was going to be a straight-to-DVD disaster, the Brain Trust pulled it from the brink. When director Andrew Stanton pitched his idea of Wall-E starting the first 1/3 of the movie with no dialogue, it was the Brain Trust the helped him work through his doubts. The Brain Trust, originally five storytelling experts within the company (John Lasseter, Andrew Stanton, Pete Docter, Lee Unkrich, and Joe Ranft) blossomed to a team of 20 for Pete Docter’s masterpiece Inside Out. Ed Catmull, one of the Pixar co-founders, wrote in his book, Creativity, Inc.: 

“Pixar films are not good at first, and our job is to make them so—to go, as I say, ‘from suck to not-suck,’”Catmull writes. “Creativity has to start somewhere, and we are true believers in the power of bracing, candid feedback and the iterative process–reworking, reworking, and reworking again, until a flawed story finds its through line or a hollow character finds its soul.”

I highlight that last part because it shows the biggest difference between Frozen II and Pixar’s latest, Onward. I couldn’t really tell you the through-line of Frozen II. There are things they do and places they go, but it has so little meaning. The real story it’s seemingly trying to tell is withheld from us until the very end. All the characters make bewildering decisions based on things we don’t know. Once full-dimensional characters like Elsa and Anna unfortunately become empty plot pawns. By the third or fourth time Anna and Elsa argued about whether to head different ways or not, I gave up on them. When Olaf dies (spoiler: he survives! because, of course!) a fairly random inconsequential death, disappearing into bits in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of Bing Bong’s actually devastating death in Inside Out (spoiler: he did not survive), that’s when I knew this film had no interest in taking chances. It didn’t seek out candid feedback to reconfigure what wasn’t working. It wanted everyone to be happy and everyone to look pretty and maybe even weirdly make a swing at colonialism and reparations without upsetting too many people – all in pursuit of a story that wasn’t actually one to begin with. It was just all plot with no meaning. 

Making an animated movie is really, really hard work. These things take forever to make. They go through tons of rewriting processes before they ever commit actual art to celluloid. It’s laborious and exhausting and many, many moving parts. I just wish, in the 7 years it took for this sequel to arrive that they bothered to really run this story by their own kind of Brain Trust before committing. They all live under the Mouse House! They could have helped each other out somehow. But I suspect Disney Animation acted the way we do when we suspect our idea isn’t quite there – we shield it from others and commit as hard as possible. There are some things to enjoy about this sequel – a weirdly fiery yet completely adorable salamander and some gorgeous visual imagery – but has no meaning embedded within it.

It’s rather telling that in 2019, Disney released two big-budget sequels to popular films with leading female characters in Frozen II and Rise of the Skywalker and completely, utterly stranded them. Both films end with our heroines staring into the sunset. It’s meant to be hopeful. But with ROTS, we see Rey – who’s spent the last three Star Wars looking for a family – left alone with a tiny robot while all her friends celebrate on another planet. And with Frozen II, we see Elsa riding her magical ice horse headlong into the sun towards a castle where she can be…alone? If the first Frozen was about the power of sisterhood, I guess Disney wanted to show sisterhood could still exist no matter how far apart you randomly choose to live. 

A Step in the Right Direction

Whenever you’re lost in the woods or deep in the weeds or at a point of no return, there’s a word that works very well that we creatives all like to use: onward. So of course! There’s another movie that’s hit Disney+ today that has a pair of siblings who go on a quest. It’s called Onward. And just about everything Frozen II does bewilderingly wrong, Onward does passionately right. Frozen II has no clear conflicts, wants, or needs. Onward has two brothers with a clear desire to see their father again. Every single step of the journey is informed by that desire, and their wants give way to their needs – Ian’s desperate need to be recognized and liked for who he is, and Barley’s desperate need to be believed in despite how much of a screwup people think he is. There’s the conflict of time – they’re running out of it. There’s the conflict of believing in each other. And there’s even the conflict on which path to take that’s defined by Ian’s desire to keep things safe and predictable and Barley’s desire to veer off the beaten path and take the unexpected route. 

Several times throughout Frozen II, characters break into tears. They’re feeling so emotional! And yet not once did I ever feel a single thing. Because nothing made sense in this movie. Nothing was clear. Conflict was not established. I cannot feel any describable thing for a couple’s upcoming engagement if the biggest conflict in their poorly-informed relationship is bad timing. I cannot feel catharsis for Elsa or Anna if they’re not even acting like actual, feeling human beings.

But Onward? I felt a deep ache in my chest nearly the entire time. I understood how badly Ian and Barley wanted to see their father. I understood just how every breakdown and inconvenience threatened to deprive them of that one thing they wanted the most. And big, wet, warm tears slid down my face in the final minutes when everything beautifully revealed itself. The way Scanlon and his crew take the ending you think you’re gonna get and pull the rug out under you for something far richer is just a beaming testament to the power of well-crafted movies. Producer Emma Rogers mentioned how, even four years out from the film’s release, they had their ending figured out. They knew it all along. And it was simply a matter of rearranging the story to best support that ending. 

Bridging the Gap

But here’s the thing: there are few movies I can think of better suited to our new reality. Social distancing is a real thing. And part of that social distancing is that we can spend an awful lot of time thinking about the people we want to be spending more time with while forgetting the good fortune of those who are currently there alongside us. The way Onward turns into this realization, from the quiet, building desperation of the impossible to the satisfying, goddamn emotional beauty of the truth, well: it’s the first movie I’ve literally cried at in a good ten years or so. Literal, warm, streaking tears. I haven’t felt like this since 2015’s Inside Out, where you can just feel those story geniuses at Pixar having cracked the code of maximum emotional manipulation. But it’s never cheap; it’s always earned. They build their story from the core outwards, and nowhere is that more true than with Onward. At times, there’s a lot of noise around the core, things that don’t quite work and such. But the story of brothers Ian and Barley is going to sit with you for a while. 

It’s going to remind us in this time of separation and distancing just how close we truly are to the people we sometimes take for granted. It’s a lesson we all could use. And it’s right there, ready for us to view from the safety and comfort of our own home.