I’m Still Here (Walter Salles, 2024). Walter Salles’s docudrama about life under the military dictatorship in nineteen-seventies Brazil is a tough sit for any U.S. residents who are paying proper attention to the news these days. The Paiva family seems to have a contented life that includes a houseful of happy kids and a lovely home by the beach. The patriarch, Rubens (Selton Mello), spends some of his spare time with colleagues discussing strategies for pushing back against the despotic regime. Then, Rubens is disappeared by the government. Much of the rest of the film is about the efforts of his wife, Eunice (Fernanda Torres), to hold the household together as resources dwindle at to get some sort of justice for Rubens. Although there’s great power in scenes that depict the ruling power’s dehumanizing cruelty, the most resonant moments in the film are those that show the ways that life goes on, full of all the same mundane occurrences, as a citizenry’s basic liberties are under siege. I’m Still Here is very affecting, even if it has one narrative coda too many. The patience Salles brings to the storytelling adds up into a powerful, believable portrait of a family tested by unbearable circumstances.

Nickel Boys (RaMell Ross, 2024). Colson Whitehead’s 2019 novel, The Nickel Boys, is an emotional powerhouse that probably could have made for a strong film in a conventional adaptation. The experimental documentary Hale County This Morning, This Evening established decisively that conventional isn’t really what director RaMell Ross does. For his narrative feature debut, Ross takes Whitehead’s story of boys suffering at a Florida reform school in the nineteen-sixties and largely renders it using visuals that depict the action with point-of-view shots of the characters. He effectively asks the viewer to reside within these terrorized boys’ experiences rather than simply see them dramatized. It’s a daring approach that sometimes recalls the memory hazes conjured up by Terrence Malick. When the approach works, Nickel Boys is absolutely astounding, cutting to the core of deep feeling like few other films. Ross has an incredibly inventive visual sense, and cinematographer Jomo Fray crafts a look for the film that is a consistent marvel. I do think, however, there are portions of the film when the first-person storytelling has the opposite effect; it makes what’s happening on screen distant and overly abstract. Imperfection is forgivable for filmmaking this bold.

The Brutalist (Brady Corbet, 2024). The Brutalist looks and sounds amazing, and there’s no doubt it’s the creation of a filmmaker giving it his absolute all. Director Brady Corbet clearly has some affinity for the lead character he created with his longtime romantic partner, Mona Fastvold. László Tóth (Adrien Brody) is a brilliant, uncompromising architect who is a survivor of the Holocaust. Shortly after World War II, László travels to the U.S., where he toils at small, unsatisfying jobs until fate brings him into the circle of a wealthy industrialist (Guy Pearce) who becomes his benefactor. The scope of Corbet’s creative vision is staggering. The film’s plot spans decades and is awash is big, sweeping emotions and angry statements about the intermingling of art and commerce. The excess of it all sometimes gets in the way, though. Corbet wants to say so much that the film tips towards pushy overstatement, and it starts to feel like he’s actually not saying much at all. That problematic intensity extends to the performances. Ever last actor on screen would benefit from dialing it down about ten to twenty percent. I can’t deny that The Brutalist is impressive. But I also think it’s so enraptured by in its own aspirational glory that it winds up strangely soulless.