Ranking the Best Picture nominees

It seems that as the race to crown this year's Academy Award-winning film for Best Picture comes to its inevitable conclusion this evening, most people are debating among three films with the greatest likelihood of taking the top prize. What's most startling, perhaps, is any attempt to prioritize these particular films. One is a technically groundbreaking space opera, another a meticulously recreated look at our shameful past destined to be taught in schools around the country. The third is a scenery-chomping whirlwind of virtuoso acting and bad 70s fashion.

On the surface, these films would seem to prioritize themselves simply based on perceived importance, and indeed, if "12 Years a Slave" walks away the winner tonight, it will be a worthy choice but also the safest choice, as the Academy has a record of crowning films it deems "important" and almost never selects science fiction or comedy. It's one of the things I like the least about the Oscars - this assumption that movies that look and feel "important" are worth more than those that take us away from our own lives and problems or expertly navigate lighter topics.

I've seen all nine of the films nominated this year, and my ballot is filled out for this evening. I got so backlogged in watching films these past few months - some 25 movies in the past eight weeks, according to my estimation - that writing the kind of thoughtful reviews I aspire to for each of them was simply not an achievable task. So what I thought I would do is rank the nine Best Picture nominees in order, not in terms of how I suspect they will finish in the voting, but based on my own personal judgments of the films. I want to try to keep my reasons brief here, but I'll also throw in a little analysis, too.

So here's my rankings of the Best Picture nominees, interestingly enough beginning with the shortest of the nine and ending with the longest, and going from the most excitingly fresh and groundbreaking to the most familiar (though still exciting). Included next to each title is my original grade for each film. As you can see, I liked a lot of movies this year, and despite the fact that I would have liked to see a few other films make the list ("Blue Jasmine," "Fruitvale Station"), the nominees this year feel worthy.

1. "Gravity" (A+)
The list is growing of people who are seeing "Gravity" and saying that it feels slight or that it's not really about anything or that it's all tech and no soul. As the list grows, so too does the list of people I have to respectfully disagree with, because to me, all of the technological wizardry of the film - and yes, that's in every frame - acts in service of a story with deep humanity and profound spirituality, rather than overshadowing it.

Alfonso Cuaron's seemingly untethered camera not only helps to get us the closest most of us will ever get (or want to get) to what space is really like, but it symbolizes the spiritual homelessness of Sandra Bullock's Ryan Stone, an astronaut stranded in space with nothing to look forward to returning to Earth for except the possibility of her own rebirth. It's the year's most brilliant film not only because of how the production values serve the story, but because of how the film's brief running time and sparse script give viewers the opportunity to experience insane levels of dramatic and visual intensity as well as time to contemplate their own belief in themselves.

2. "Her" (A+)
People who don't like "Her" are stuck on the weirdness of the film's central plot conceit - that in the very near future, a man like Joaquin Phoenix's lonely Theodore would develop romantic feelings for the operating system that controls his smart phone or computer. And if that's all the film was really about, then I would be inclined to agree that "Her" is too odd and too creepy to be enjoyed. But I think people who dismiss the movie for those reasons are missing what I feel is the film's true purpose.

To me, "Her" is not a romantic comedy between a nerdy loner and his personal device. I believe that Spike Jones' haunting vision of the very-near future is, instead, a ringing of the death knell signaling the demise of interpersonal communication in a world where people text each other while sitting across the table from one another, one where society's greatest fear evolves from the fear of public speaking in the formal sense of presenting to an audience of many to a more primal and immediate version of glossophobia that finds us even more terrified of speaking to an audience of one.

One of the most brilliant aspects of the film, in fact, gets buried in the analysis of the film's odd romance; did anyone else notice that Theodore's job is to write letters for other people? They are fairly innocuous letters, too. It's a sad, lonely future where people can no longer express themselves if there's a chance that the person on the receiving end of that expression is made of flesh and blood. And while all of this sounds horribly depressing, it's Phoenix's fully human portrayal and Jones' observant script that turn the film into a movie that is also often sweet. So disarmingly so, in fact, that you start to like this man and his computer as a couple, thereby bringing the analysis of the film full-circle and back to the idea of how bizarre the whole concept was to begin with. I think, though, that we're wigged out by it not because it's creepy, but because it's so entirely possible.

3. "Nebraska" (A)
Alexander Payne is my go-to guy for grounded verite with lovingly comical edges, and he's firmly at the top of the list of directors whose films I look forward to.  Shot in gorgeous black and white, a decision that reflects the normalcy of the lives of the characters who inhabit its story, "Nebraska" sneaks up on you like no other film nominated here. The center of the story is Woody Grant, an elderly alcoholic from Montana trying to convince his family that a trip to Nebraska to retrieve a supposed sweepstakes prize received via a piece of junk mail is a worthy trip.

But for me, "Nebraska" is really the story of his family - and in particular his son David (Will Forte) - trying so desperately to afford a man who's suffered a string of disappointments in his life even the slightest shred of dignity near the end of it, a Herculean act of selflessness and love interrupted by real-world frustrations that most frequently surface in the form of barbs slung Woody's way via the acid-laced sarcasm of his weary wife, Kate.

"Nebraska" reminds us that life is truly about the journey, not the destination. Bruce Dern, June Squibb, Will Forte and Bob Odenkirk are all tremendous as the core of a family dealing with the anything but coincidental appearance of distant relatives and former friends who believe there's suddenly a substantial amount of money to borrow.

4. "Philomena" (A)
"Philomena" and "12 Years a Slave" are probably the most traditional kinds of films in terms of what is typically perceived as an Oscar-winner. But I found myself pleasantly surprised by the warm humor and effective pathos of this real-life story of an Irish woman who gives birth as a teenager and watches her son given away against her will to an American family for adoption, thereafter taking a vow of silence on the issue for 50 years, until a down-on-his-luck reporter looking for a subject for an attention-grabbing human interest story is placed in her path.

This is sincere, irony-free film making with an affecting script by co-star Steve Coogan and an unforgettable performance by Dame Judi Dench to add to her already lengthy list of unforgettable performances. It's a film that is modestly critical of the Catholic church without ever really offending it and a reminder for those in the journalism profession like myself that every human being has a story to tell that is worth hearing.

5. "12 Years a Slave" (A)
I'm sure you're wondering how I could place the most "important" movie of 2013 squarely in the middle of this year's nominees, especially when the film is the most likely to walk away with the prize. The answer, though, is actually fairly simple. More than that, I can give you multiple answers. For starters, you should take note that I very much liked most of the films on this list, giving "12 Years" the same rating as two films above this and the one following. To some extent, there's a bit of a tie atop my rankings. But I placed Steve McQueen's brutal slavery saga here almost solely based on re-watchability. And the fact is, I don't see myself wanting to fill up a few lazy hours on a day off with another viewing of this film, however masterful, powerful and affecting it is - because it is all of those things and more. I keep a list of movies that are "so powerful that I'm not sure I'd want to watch them again," and this movie certainly goes on that list for me.

I don't buy into the notion that "12 Years a Slave" is "torture porn," or a film made so that white audience could take pride in subjecting themselves to a few hours of cathartic white guilt. I've read words to that effect and am highly offended for my African American friends, some of whom say they have never seen an onscreen depiction of their difficult past so effectively rendered as it was here. And besides, this film was deftly directed by McQueen, a man who knows the power of a lingering shot as well as the power of the edit. There is no question that the moment when the mesmerizing Chiwitel Ejiofor is shown hanging from a tree in the foreground while plantation life continues - seemingly unaffected - behind him is the most chilling and cringe-worthy moment on film this year. And the performances, most memorably led by the gut-punching work of Oscar-nominated Lupita Nyong'o are stellar.

"12 Years a Slave" was not a "perfect" movie to me, though I would be far less critical of adding it to my Best Picture shelf than I was of last year's "Argo." But if I'm being perfectly honest, watching the movie feels a lot like eating your vegetables. They're good for you, and you need to eat them, but there are other things that taste better. That's the subject matter, of course. But it's also how I felt. Not that any of the movies I ranked higher will be taught in schools like "Schindler's List" for decades to come, as this one most certainly will.

6. "Captain Phillips" (A)
I believe that a botched ending can ruin a whole movie. The brilliance of "Captain Phillips" was an ending that actually elevated the entire film. For two hours, director Paul Greengrass gives you basically everything you expect, given his style as a director, the intense action synonymous with his work, and the well-known real-life story and now famous outcome of the ocean freighter boarded by Somali pirates in 2009. The film ratchets up in intensity on cue and Tom Hanks is the everyman you want him to be. The editing brilliantly shapes effective performances out of the band of amateurs Greengrass surrounds Hanks with, like the Oscar-nominated Barkhad Abdi, even as it accompanies the movie's pounding soundtrack to speed up the pace.

But in the film's final half-hour, Greengrass' nail-biter improves and improves with each passing minute, making it not only every bit as stress-inducing as "Gravity" but as emotionally impactful as anything I've seen this year. Perhaps the greatest coup of all is that in the film's final minutes, Hanks gives a performance that tops his storied career - and he wasn't even nominated for his efforts.

7. "Dallas Buyers Club" (B)
Taken as a whole, "Dallas Buyers Club" is as solid as a very good HBO original movie, which is no insult, but also an honest critique about a movie that is much more about acting and story than it ever is about a director's choices. But oh, those actors. Matthew McConaughey's brave work as a homophobic man diagnosed with AIDS in 1985 stands with Tom Hanks' work in "Philadelphia" as a physical on-screen embodiment of the disease at a time when effective treatments were fleeting and ignorance was rampant. And as Rayon, a fictional foil created to intensify the drama of the real-life Ron Woodroof, actor-turned-rocker-turned-back-to-actor Jared Leto is equally tough and sympathetic as a transvestite who partners with Woodroof to distribute then-experimental drugs to people (mostly men) living with AIDS.

Most of the tea leaves are predicting that both men will walk home tonight with golden statues in their hands, and I wouldn't have a bad word to say about either choice. One performance signals that a long-languishing romantic comedy actor is ready for the second act of his career. The other is equally a portrait of someone who might never been taken seriously in the past who must now be respected. The story is a little paint-by-numbers, but it's a story that burns itself into your brain.

8. "American Hustle" (B-)
To me, this was the most overrated film of the year, so lopsided in execution that this year's best performance ensemble on screen almost fully buries the film's plot as it cuts from one delightfully scenery-chomping interchange to the next. Christian Bale and Amy Adams are at the top of their games. Bradley Cooper erases doubts that last year's Oscar nomination for "Silver Linings Playbook" was no joke by following it up here with another, again at the hands of director/writer David O. Russell. And Jennifer Lawrence, who won Best Actress last year for the aforementioned "Playbook," is so damned good here that I honestly felt a pang of sadness whenever her character wasn't on the screen.

My biggest problem with "American Hustle" is that if you ask me what the movie was about, (the film is loosely based on a real-life scandal from the 70s), all I can recall are specific scenes and moments - exchanges between different combinations of actors that were darkly hilarious and/or emotionally riveting. But I felt no lasting impact with regards to the story as a whole, making "American Hustle" the kind of movie I tend to designate as a "brilliant mess." Any of the acting performances nominated would be worthy of their prizes, and indeed, the film joins a very short list of films nominated in all four acting categories. But aside from the costumes and production design, I can't think of any other awards the movie truly deserves. I certainly don't think it's Best Picture material.

9. "The Wolf of Wall Street" (C)
The hot debate is whether or not "The Wolf of Wall Street" is a successful or failed satire in terms of its depiction of the real-life Jordan Belfort, a coke-fueled stock broker who seemed to go up and up and up with few downs that money couldn't fix. I thought it was the latter, failing in that its protagonist never appeared to second-guess himself and his increasingly despicable practices.

But more than that, the film is B-grade Scorsese. Though it's constantly exciting to watch and Leonardo DiCaprio arguably gives the greatest performance of his career, the film makes its point quickly and then makes the same point over and over and over again - for three hours. The examples of Belfort's ostentatious lifestyle and limitless greed are fast established in one of the most consistently hilarious films of Martin Scorsese's storied career. But the film also devolves regularly to the edges of pornography and the story wanders around and repeats itself. In its worst moments, "The Wolf of Wall Street" feels like a cinematic circle jerk, an inside joke between the director, his new favorite leading man, and their band of frat brothers. And I don't see Scorsese doing anything here that he hasn't already done (and done better) in films like "Casino" and "Goodfellas."

Its production is so lavish and its tone so exuberant that I can't for the life of me see how anyone could watch the movie and see a condemnation of anything.  To me, its pure romanticism, and it glorifies Belfort's lifestyle with example after example, never taking the story to another place. But perhaps what's most maddening of all about the film is the fact that it is so damned entertaining and funny so frequently, that I can't simply dismiss it as a terrible film. Maybe the movie's lasting legacy is that it stands as proof of the auteur theory that the worst movies by an auteur director are still better than the best movies by others.

So that's how I see it. Feel free to post your reactions and comments. And now it's time for me to give my final predictions a final look before I settle in for what I hope is a great show. I'm not putting any money down this year, so I expect a lower number of correct responses as I take a few risks, just for the fun of it. I'll be weighing in, no doubt, on my Facebook page and on my Twitter, @Carlson451.

Dallas Buyers Club (2013)

B

While reflecting on some of the films I've seen so far this year, I've noticed an interesting trend, though I'd be naive to think that it's genuinely a "trend" and most certainly, it's nothing new. But I've been thinking about how many of this year's quality films succeed largely based on their ability to allow the masses to deeply comprehend what it's like to live the life of someone that most of us will never experience.

Call it the year of empathy building.

Four films spring instantly to mind. "Gravity," with its spare plot, left enough breathing room for us to contemplate true isolation and the stresses on an astronaut like no other film about space that preceded it. "12 Years a Slave" seems to be gaining stature as the greatest-ever filmed look at the ground-level atrocities of slavery, and I've spoken to a few African-American friends who have told me that though the stories of their families' past and their generational connections to slavery were always discussed and respected, this is the film that cracked open that experience on an emotional level.

The third film in my "empathy series" is the one I'm talking about here, "Dallas Buyers Club," which chronicles the struggle in the mid-1980s for those diagnosed with HIV/AIDS to navigate both the fledgling drug treatment bureaucracy and the fear-filled ignorance of an unenlightened public. The forth film, a sort of contemporary counterpart in some ways to "Dallas Buyers Club," is the excellent "Fruitvale Station," a film that anyone who is not black needs to watch to better understand just how the residue of racial injustice is still stuck on our fingers.

In my estimation, it's a great year when so many films have the real potential to generate true empathy in audiences. Perhaps this is even one of the measuring sticks we could use to define what makes a movie great. Alfred Hitchcock famous explained that a full quarter of the camera shots in his films were through the eyes of a character to draw the audience into the film as if they were a part of them. This year, the narratives themselves are, on some level, accomplishing the same thing.

"Dallas Buyers Club," if nothing else, will shock you into anger and sadness, thanks most of all to two brave and fantastic performances. Matthew McConaughey's shocking physical transformation and gut-level commitment to the role of real-life electrician Ron Woodroof is the cinematic yang to the yin of Tom Hanks' performance in Philadelphia. It is a primal performance, a fantastic achievement in a career so noticeably on the rise that McConaughey has to be a sure bet for an Oscar nomination in a year packed with fantastic leading male performances.

Of equal note here is the work of Jared Leto as Rayon, a drag queen with AIDS who strikes up a partnership with Woodroof to help distribute medications to treat the disease that have not been approved by the FDA. Perhaps best remembered for the TV series "My So-Called Life," Leto quietly accumulated a few solid performances but in recent years has put his most public efforts into his band 30 Seconds To Mars. This performance, however - if the award season tea leaves are any true indication - is starting to feel like a coronation. And Leto pulls off the feat of breathing a genuine humanity into the kind of character that would otherwise shock and scare the filmgoers of middle America.

The plot of "Dallas Buyers Club" - based on real events - is probably the reason why the film works as well as it does. This is no "gay film." In fact, though I'm sure that gay audiences have and will continue to support the movie with their ticket purchases and comments about the film, there is no doubt that this movie has got to be about as enjoyable for them to watch as "12 Years a Slave" or "Fruitvale Station" is to a black person in America. This is raw pain: angering, frustrating, defeating - so maddening that you wonder why you're spending you time watching because there isn't anything "enjoyable" about it, and catharsis shouldn't hurt this deeply.

Ron Woodroof is straight. In fact, he's downright homophobic, almost to the point of being a caricature of every homophobic, red state-living, beer-guzzling man in America. It's 1985, and the film opens with McConaughey's Woodroof banging two country girls backstage at a rodeo, just to make it clear to us from the get-go that this man ain't no pussy. So when the already-thin Woodroof suffers a few freak medical mishaps and is told he has HIV, he responds with an acid-spewing tirade of anti-gay slurs and indignant denials and retreats to his trailer to drink, do blow, and watch his buddy bang two local girls (or hookers?) while he watches from the couch.

Woodroof refuses to accept the doctors' diagnosis of 30 days left to live, but eventually faces it as he must, struggling all the while to comprehend how he could have contracted a gay man's disease as his friends start to learn of his situation and abandon him. He begs the benevolent Dr. Eve Saks (Jennifer Garner) to allow him to participate in a study to test out AZT, a new drug to combat HIV. He quickly becomes as infuriated as any of us would be that someone with such a finite timeline on Earth would run a 50 percent chance of being given a placebo instead of the actual drug, just because that's how studies are conducted if drugs are to receive FDA approval. He starts looking for another way to score the potentially dangerous drugs, knowing that he has nothing at all at this point to lose.

The chance encounter that alters the course of the rest of Woodroof's life occurs during one particular hospitalization when he discovers that he is sharing a room with Rayon (Leto), a drag queen who reveals that he is taking part in a drug study and sharing his medication with a friend for a high payout. After suffering through Woodroof's obligatory homophobic tirade, Rayon and Woodroof strike up a partnership to expand Rayon's scheme into something bigger. Before long, Woodroof is making trips to Mexico to purchase cases of unapproved drugs and supplements to sell to men suffering with HIV and AIDS at home. Through his research and the help of a clever but disbarred doctor now living in Mexico and operating out of a ramshackle clinic, Woodroof comes to see AZT as a poison and a threat to improving the health of people living with AIDS.

Woodroof and Rayon rent hotel rooms and begin a "buyers club," modeled on groups that have sprung up in other major cities. The concept is that people pay a monthly fee and then have access to the drugs that they need, which allows those who run the clubs to avoid - on a technicality - the status of being someone who is selling unapproved drugs illegally. Their patrons are buying "club memberships." A central conflict of the film is Woodroof's constant run-ins with Dr. Saks' supervisor, Dr. Sevard (Denis O'Hare) and the authorities both local and federal, particularly those from the slow-moving FDA.

As expected, "Dallas Buyers Club" makes the Food and Drug Administration into a one-dimensional villain, an institutional bureaucracy of a government enforcing ridiculous policies that cost lives and wield power over groups of people they don't like. And frankly, when you come to empathize with what it might have been like to have HIV in the mid-to-late 1980s, it seems unlikely that there would be any other reasonable way to view the FDA. This insight provides viewers with the film's emotional motor, which is an underlying sense of anger and injustice at the least and, for some viewers, most likely a full-blown sense of rage.

We also get a moment similar to the one in "Philadelphia" where the straight man comes to respect - at least on some level - the gay man, though I must say that it's no less powerful or satisfying here just because you can see it coming. In fact, it's genuinely emotional here, in large part because the two men - for as profoundly different as they are - share the same disease. Some of the film's best moments come when the straight Woodroof is given the same public treatment as a gay man.

Where "Dallas Buyers Club" suffers a bit for me is in its direction, and Jean-Marc Vallee does not have an extensive filmography to suggest a rich history or clear style as a film maker. This film levels out on the same emotional plane for long periods of time. It relies heavily on cut transitions and jarring visual jumps. For lack of a better way to put it, it just feels like a movie that is working because of its performances and the nature of the true story being told, not because there is anything artistic being done by the production team to elevate the story to another level.

I feel confident that McConaughey and Leto will spend a lot of time in tuxedos in the coming weeks because "Dallas Buyers Club" is one of those award-bait actor's showcases. Many of Meryl Streep's nominations, for instance, come from average films. When the performance of the actor elevates the film to a higher level, a nomination is much more likely. There is no doubt that this film is elevated to another level by these two men. Aside from them, "Dallas Buyers Club" feels like a solid TV movie that would air on HBO.

For as much as "Dallas Buyers Club" is a film meant to help us understand what it would have been like to have HIV/AIDS during a time when no one understood the disease or its victims, I think the film generates a second topic of discussion that is equally challenging and perhaps even more far-reaching, which is the debate over to what extent our governmental, legal and medical systems should allow the terminally ill to control what they put into their bodies. It's a fierce debate that certainly resonates today, and watching the struggles of a man in the '80s, a reminder that the wheels of certain government agencies turn at a snail's pace.

Six By Sondheim (2013)

A-

Stephen Sondheim is one of my heroes. That has to be said right off the bat. The list of artists who have challenged me the most intellectually and moved me the most emotionally is an exclusive one, a personal sort of artistic Mount Rushmore that also includes Orson Welles, Woody Allen and John Irving. 

I don't have the time and space, much less the words, to effectively communicate how inspired I've been by Sondheim's use of language, how moved I've been by his gift for melody, or how threatened I've felt during any attempt to master a performance of one of his songs. As an artist, he's just at the peak of everything I could aspire to be. 

So in the moments during "Six by Sondheim," a new documentary focusing primarily on Sondheim's creative process, when he comes across as somewhat aloof, I remained enamored. I think we tend to forgive true geniuses of their occasional lapses in social graces and strays from humility. After all, they're just operating on an entirely different level. 

I was pleased that Sondheim's longtime collaborator James Lapine took up the task of attempting to piece together something out of four decades of Sondheim interviews to create this film. After all, Lapine understands as well as anyone how Sondheim works and wisely highlights the symbolism of Sondheim's belief that putting a show together is like assembling a puzzle. 

As Sondheim himself has famously said: "Art, in itself, is an attempt to bring order out of chaos." 

Lapine brings order out of this particular chaos by whittling down Sondheim's massive canon to six key songs, which he uses as a loose frame upon which to hang snippets of interviews and stories from Sondheim about everything from how to write a lyric to his career journey to anecdotes about particular collaborators. The songs chosen are perhaps relatively obvious but nonetheless effective. They are: "Something's Coming," "Opening Doors," "Send in the Clowns," "I'm Still Here," "Being Alive" and "Sunday." 

My biggest complaint about "Six by Sondheim" is that it's not long enough for fans like me. Its 86 minutes fly by and leave fans wanting more stories, more insights, more performances. What about "Children Will Listen"? How can you skip "Sweeney Todd"? 

But upon further reflection, what makes "Six by Sondheim" such a great documentary is in Lapine's ability to represent the core foundation of Stephen Sondheim in such a tight and organized manner. He simply grabs for some of the larger pieces of the Sondheim puzzle and uses them to illuminate some of the most vital factors that explain the man's artistry. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe less is more. And in choosing this method, I suspect that even viewers who do not know Sondheim well or don't obsess over him like so many of us theatre geeks do could watch this film and truly feel like they've taken an incredible dive into the nature of creating art. Through Lapine's inspired structure, we experience everything from where the author's personal life enters in to his lyrics to the dreaded (and cliche) which comes first...the lyrics or the music debate. 

To accent the documentary's structure, Lapine inserts nearly complete performances of each of the songs, mixing together vintage footage of original performances (as with "Something's Coming" and "Being Alive") with newly-staged clips shot by other filmmakers (like Todd Haynes' bizzare take on "I'm Still Here," reimagined as song performed by a man to an audience of women - and my least favorite part of this film). For "Send in the Clowns," arguably Sondheim's most famous individual song, Lapine even throws in a mashup of some of the many diverse artists who have covered the song over the past 40 years, an effective way of demonstrating the song's lasting power. 

Looking beyond the documentary film making itself, I find my respect for Stephen Sondheim ever deepening. It's hard for me to dislike a man who calls teaching "the sacred profession" and uses puzzle imagery to explain everything from putting on a show to life itself in a way that no one other than Orson Welles could do in "Citizen Kane." There were some ideas about Sondheim I knew about already from my time spent reading about him and studying him, and still some fresh surprises, particularly in how he uses an idea for a song title to guide his work, or how he approaches songwriting from the position of being an actor, rather than being autobiographical. (In fact, "Opening Doors" is included here because Sondheim says it is his only fully autobiographical song.) 

A lack of knowledge of Stephen Sondheim will likely keep many away from even being aware of the existence of "Six by Sondheim," which is currently airing on HBO and available on demand. And I'm saddened that the film was not shortlisted to compete for the Academy Award, though I don't know whether or not it was submitted. What I do know is that if you are someone who values art and music and ideas in your life - if you're someone like me who cannot go a day without a song or the passion music brings in terms of deepening our plights as human beings - you should seek out "Six by Sondheim" and be inspired by this man's ability to explain the necessity of art in our lives.  

Frozen (2013)

B+

They're calling it the greatest Disney animated musical since "The Lion King." I had to look up that list to see if I agreed. Do you know that Disney and its affiliated studios (like Pixar) have released over 50 feature-length animated films since 1994? Is "Frozen" really THAT good?

I filtered through the list of Disney releases and first eliminated the Pixar films, because most of them were made prior to the studio formally merging with Disney, and because those films are not traditionally-made animated features in that they are digitally produced and the music is incidental, rather than integral to the story in Disney's time-honored musical format. Then, I got rid of the non-musicals, straight-to-video releases and sequels, films made in partnership with other studios, and the amazing Miyazaki films distributed by Disney. And for the record, I just eliminated a half dozen films that are better than "Frozen."

Here's what you're left with: "Pocahontas" (1995), "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" (1996), "Hercules" (1997), "Mulan" (1998), "Tarzan" (1999), "The Emperor's New Groove" (2000), "Brother Bear" (2003), "Home on the Range" (2004), "The Princess and the Frog" (2009), and "Tangled" (2010). 

Some of the best songs from the Disney musical canon were still coming from that '90s output, even if those films were inconsistent when compared to the studio's early '90s renaissance. "Go the Distance," "Reflection," "I'll Make a Man out of You" and most of Phil Collins' Oscar-winning "Tarzan" score are still memorable today. From the list of 2000s films, my favorite until now has to be "Tangled," a surprisingly charming addition to the stack that saw composer Alan Menken back to his fine form and accomplished the as-yet unfinished task of pilfering one of the last remaining princesses in children's literature (Rapunzel) and forever turning her into a Disney creation. 

I'm a huge Disney fan, so I apologize for this extended introduction to "Frozen," which I've apparently repurposed as a sort of history lesson. And so to get on with it, I'll answer my original question. For me, "Frozen" is the second-best Disney musical since "The Lion King," stubborn as I will remain to decrease in any way my devotion to "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," a film I know is not perfect but one that made me weep and feel deeply, a film that met me where I was as a recent college graduate and is admittedly elevated in stature in my mind due as much to circumstance as to quality. 

After that, however, comes "Frozen," a visual feast that manages to be simple and complex at the same time and, though focused on the lives of not one but two princesses, captivate a van full of 8-year-old boys just as easily as girls. And I did the field work to prove that last statement, having taken my son and his friends to see the film as a part of his birthday party, which is also why I apologize for anything I miss in this review because I was frequently focused on them. 

We're far enough into our Disney film history to point out that "Frozen" sticks firmly to the studio's time-tested tropes. It's up to the viewer to decide whether it's good or bad that virtually every plot element, character type and storytelling device is recycled from a previous work. Clearly, Disney is working harder to recapture the magic of "The Little Mermaid" and "Aladdin" than even Michael Jackson did in his efforts to top "Thriller." 

Sometimes the easiest way to explain the plot of a Disney film is to draw references from its time-tested past, so here's a plot summary for the Disney-literate:

The story is loosely based on a classic fairy tale ("Snow White," "Cinderella," "The Little Mermaid," "The Princess and the Frog," "Tangled"), Hans Christian Andersen's "The Snow Queen." Anna and Elsa are sisters, toddler best friends ("The Fox and the Hound"),  princesses being raised in a castle in Arendalle, where their father is king ("The Lion King"). The king and queen have growing concerns that one of their daughters, Anna, has the freakish power of freezing anything she touches or even feels anxiety toward. She's like an emo Scandinavian Midas with ice for gold. They decide that it wouldn't be too psychologically damaging to their much more naive and plain daughter Anna if they separate the two girls, like forever ("Cinderella"). There have been a few mishaps, including that one time Elsa damn near killed her sister and some magical trolls had to heal her ("Gnomeo & Juliet"? I'm reaching here...) And besides, you can't be too careful when it comes to keeping your children tucked away from the dangers of the world ("Dumbo," "Bambi," "The Little Mermaid," "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," "Finding Nemo," "Tangled"). Ah, sheltering children via parenting by fear...quite possibly Disney's longest standing tradition.

So Anna grows more and more resentful of her situation, yet never clever enough to understand it. She just wants to build a snowman (like they did in "Beauty and the Beast," and P.S.: Anna is basically Belle). It's a shame Facetime hasn't been invented yet, because they sing lovely duets separated by a huge, locked door (still stuck on "Beauty and the Beast," now with a touch of "Brave"). And Elsa heaves and sighs, locked in her bedroom ("Tangled," "Brave") until the untimely death of her parents ("Bambi," "The Lion King") forces her to assume the thrown as queen of Arendalle. 

Elsa is, like, mad crabby about being queen because she feels she's best left alone (um...Beast in "Beauty and the Beast"?) and plus, her sister is the object of a boy's affections and she's not ("Cinderella"). That boy, Hans, breaks from Disney tradition and skips the climactic pursuit of a princess and proposes in the film's opening reel. Anna accepts because she is naive to the ways of the world and the nature of true love, which she will later discover was in her all along (every Disney movie with a girl in it). Walt Disney's casket flies across the ice (just kidding on that one...). Elsa soon takes off into the snowy mountains to live alone in her self-constructed ice castle, not realizing that she's placed all of Arendalle in a deep freeze. She sings an incredible song about her conflicting contentment/ennui in isolation ("Snow White," "The Little Mermaid" "Pocahontas," "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," "Mulan").

Still confused as to what exactly is up with her sister, Anna sets out on a journey to find her, reason with her, and request some global warming. Along the way, she picks up a dumb but useful companion named Kristoff, his big-hearted sidekick, the reindeer Sven, and a wacky, talking snowman with limited courage named Olaf. Wait...is this "The Wizard of Oz"? While on their journey, Anna comes to understand some things about her sister and her fiance. And to keep us from getting bored, the talking inanimate object sings a hilariously entertaining, showstopping number ("Beauty and the Beast," "Hercules") and the magical creatures made of stone get a nifty song as well ("The Hunchback of Notre Dame"). 

Because this is a Disney movie, the final minutes of the film burst into compassion and love and shit-tons of glitter. But I won't spoil that here because - in all seriousness - there are actually a few surprise twists I didn't see coming. And if you can't tell from this plot summary, there isn't much that you can't see coming. 

Two key factors elevate "Frozen" to near-greatness. The first is that in spite of its adherence to just about every previously-used Disney tactic, the film manages to bring something fresh to the table - genuinely complicated relationships. The naive Anna's ditzy whirlwind of a romance with Hanz does not develop in the typical Disney way, and the relationship between Anna and Elsa is refreshingly far more central to the film's story than any romantic entanglements. 

The other reason why "Frozen" is so special is because its music is a return to the glories of films past. Both "The Princess and the Frog" and "Tangled" had a few good songs apiece, but "Frozen" is filled with memorable moments, thanks to the work of Robert and Kristen Anderson Lopez. For the Broadway illiterate, Robert Lopez wrote the songs for both "Avenue Q" and "The Book of Mormon," two of the most exciting shows of the past decade on the Great White Way. They are also, interestingly enough, two of the most profane and irreverent, but Lopez and his wife capture only the sweetness of his Broadway work here, perfectly marrying it to the Disney style but with some ear-catchingly modern lyrics (like, when's the last time you heard a princess question whether or not her excitement could just be gas?) 

The film follows the classic Disney musical traditions, opening with a choral number and providing everything from the main character's aria of self-conflict to the goofy sidekick's crowd-pleasing highlight to the obligatory love duet. But placed in the wind pipes of Broadway vets like the dazzling Idina Menzel and the now-hot Josh Gad (in addition to the woefully underused Jonathan Groff and the surprisingly good Kristin Bell), the songs combine the very familiar with the slightly fresh in exactly the same manner as the film's story, resulting in a work that, well, just works. "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" is a sincere tear-jerker. "For the First Time in Forever" falls squarely in the tradition of "West Side Story"'s "Something's Coming," that formulaic but successful early-in-the-story song that sets up the conflict. "In Summer" is memorably goofy. And "Let It Go" is a soaring anthem of empowerment. You are almost begging on the inside as you first hear it that, come early March, you will be a witness to Idina Menzel being flown to the rafters of the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles above Jack Nicholson and George Clooney, wearing an epic dress with a train that reaches all the way to the stage from the theatre's ceiling ("Wicked"). 

It's pretty clear that Disney has made it a goal with most of its recent films to evolve the decidedly non-feminist portrayals of its princesses. It's a cause they took up with "Mulan" but really poured their hearts into with "Tangled" and "Brave," and now "Frozen" stands as perhaps its most successful attempt to combine the classic Disney princess sweetness and merchandising potential with a more contemporary view of female empowerment. Those of us with little kids of our own now are, of course, the ones to blame for all of this. Somehow we were the ones to suddenly notice that Disney princesses are shockingly naive and dependent on magic for guidance. We don't want our little girls to have to rely on a kiss to save them! Oh, and "Pocahontas" is mad-racist! 

Now, for as much as I've used my space here to mock "Frozen," please know that I thoroughly enjoyed it, but was also objective enough to understand its flaws, which extend beyond its devotion to stealing bits from every Disney feature that's come before it. There was something disingenuous to me about the film's attempt to be both old-fashioned and fresh at the same time. There were moments when the two princess approach made it decidedly unclear as to where our allegiances should lie. And for as gorgeous as the animation was when it came to landscaping and sidekick creatures, what the hell is going on with Disney's choices in terms of animating people? Can't they refer back to their glory years for visual cues the way they do for everything else? Why are their eyes so big? Why do we want everything to purposefully look so digital? 

What will keep me coming back to "Frozen," though, will be the same thing that brings me back to all of the other Disney films I love: the heartwarming sidekick character and the endlessly singable songs. And, of course, the simple wisdom of a Disney classic, which in this case was actually first communicated by Madonna in her song with the same title as this film: "you're frozen/when your heart's not open." 

12 Years a Slave (2013)

A 

There's a moment in the brutal film "12 Years a Slave" that I can't get out of my head. After defending himself against the harassment of a jealous overseer (played by Paul Dano), an enslaved Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor) has retaliated but ultimately fails and is soon left hanging from a tree branch as the overseer and two companions pull the rope taught. Though Northrup is quick to receive a reprieve from his almost certain death when the overseer is reprimanded for the attempted hanging, Northrup is left to dangle mercilessly from the tree for what feels like an eternity. Director Steve McQueen cuts between close-up shots of his feet, caked in mud and positioned in ballet-like points in an attempt to relieve the pressure, and wide shots of him hanging while slaves carry on about their business behind him. The adult slaves tend to their chores; the young ones play in a field. None concern themselves with the activity in the foreground of the shot. If they had, they'd be hanging, too.

This moment took my breath away. It was so simply executed and so undeniably profound, and the message it communicated was so resonant, painful and direct. I wanted to pause the film and reflect, even though the frame remains on screen for an uncomfortably long amount of time already. But "12 Years a Slave" is as relentless as the life of its main character, a real-life free black man from New York who is tricked into captivity and then sold into slavery in the antebellum South and separated from his family for over a decade.

We want so badly as film-goers to use words like "great" and "enjoyable" interchangeably, but movies like "12 Years a Slave" remind us of the simple folly in that endeavor. Some films, as the learned know, exist to confront us, to make us squirm. And yet while there is almost nothing "enjoyable" about "12 Years a Slave," its "greatness" is present frequently and in many forms.

At the time of its publication in 1855, Solomon Northrup's slave narrative "Twelve Years a Slave" was overshadowed by Harriet Beecher Stowe's fictional narrative, "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Northrup was born free in New York, where he lived with his wife and two children. While his family is away on a trip, Northrup is approached by two circus promoters who offer him a well-paying job to showcase his formidable violin playing skills in a travelling circus. Northrup accepts, figuring the short-term job will give him something to do and bring in some income while his family is away.

When the men arrive in Washington D.C., Northrup is drugged and shackled in a slave pen, then quickly sold into slavery. He quickly learns that his attempts to reason with the men buying and selling slaves will potentially bring more harm upon him than good, and soon decides to withhold the information that he is a free man who is educated and can read. His carpentry skills afford Northrup a lifestyle that is at times a step above that of more unskilled slaves, but he endures unspeakable cruelties nonetheless, cruelties that run the gamut from his own hanging (as already mentioned) to his being forced to whip one of his fellow slaves himself. It is not until Northrup's path crosses with that of an abolitionist from Canada (played in a brief but impactful performance by Brad Pitt) that the wheels are finally put into motion to free him and return him to his family.

Many films have successfully documented aspects of the horrors of American slavery during the 19th Century, but I suspect that "12 Years a Slave" will now be considered the gold standard. Like Steven Spielberg's "Amistad," this film conveys the awful conditions in which the slaves must live, and the brutality with which they are treated. And it not only matches but surpasses the level of violence and hatred illustrated in movies as wide ranging as the miniseries "Roots" to "Django Unchained."

But perhaps what makes "12 Years a Slave" so painful and potent is its overall lack of forced sentimentality. This is what was, period. McQueen tries to downplay the typical film making tricks. Hans Zimmer's score threatens to interfere in spots but is checked in others. Overly flashy camera work from cinematographer Sean Bobbitt is dismissed in favor of emphasizing very simple and shockingly effective frame compositions, such as the previously mentioned hanging scene. McQueen's visuals linger on the screen, often at the expense of the film's momentum (a slight but relevant quibble I had with the film) and always at the expense of the audience's ability to find any level of comfort while viewing. To say I squirmed in my seat is an understatement.

As a director, McQueen continues to hone his craft here, and though I don't know his work well yet, it's clear that one noticeable element - however trivial  it might seem - is that he frequently relies on the nude human form as an integral part of his art. And as he did with his last film, "Shame," he uses nudity explicitly and without any hint of erotic charge. It is clear that he requires his actors to lay themselves bare in every sense of the word, and that he'll ask audiences to receive it, however discomforting.

It's also clear that McQueen understands violence and does not want to see it sentimentalized or downplayed. Yet for as painful as the scenes of violence against the slaves were - and they were really, really bad - I might not have been more affected than in a simple moment where Ejiofor is left to stare directly into the camera, McQueen holding the frame for much longer than the audience can tolerate. Because Ejiofor is so brilliantly understated in his sure-to-be-Oscar-nominated performance, the moment screams at the audience through its deafening silence. "How could you let this happen? To me? To us?" It is pure cinematic conviction. And "12 Years a Slave" elevates itself within its genre by generating its power more from its quiet moments than from its violent ones.

Perhaps the most shocking surprise of "12 Years a Slave" is the diversity of its cast, as McQueen pulls together a group more diverse than any director short of Woody Allen can assemble and, like Allen, draws out spectacular performances from them all without a moment untrue to the film's tone and intention. Of course I was aware of the presence of Michael Fassbender, who starred in "Shame," and is fast becoming the director's muse. Fassbender plays Northrup's second slave owner, and his presence is haunting. But equally effective is Benedict Cumberbatch, always in his element in period work, as the first slave owner. Both are excellent and well-cast.

What I didn't expect, though, was the stellar work in smaller roles by a surprising array of diverse performers. Oscar nominees Brad Pitt, Paul Giamatti and Quvenzhane Wallis leave lasting impressions, as does Sarah Paulson as Fassbender's chilly wife. And yes, that's "Saturday Night Live" star Taran Killam, of all people, in a small and serious role as one of the men who delivers Northrup into slavery. Somehow, McQueen is able to include moments for both legendary dramatic film actress Alfre Woodard and nutball television star Garret Dillahunt (of "Raising Hope").

"12 Years a Slave" is sometimes stiff in its historical presentation, and frequently paced very slowly. In a few moments, its tone goes a little wacky, such as in the kidnapping scene, which feels a little light.

But its acting performances help to elevate the film to greatness. The film has two truly unbelievable performances in the work of Nigerian-born Chiwetel Ejiofor and Lupita Nyong'o as a slave named Patsey who will be forced into service as her white owner's mistress and endure the most savage whipping I have ever witnessed on a movie screen short of the one in "The Last Temptation of Christ." Though both actors have names that are difficult to pronounce, entertainment journalists had better start practicing their names, because both will be everywhere in the coming weeks, I suspect.

As I reflect on the experience of watching "12 Years a Slave," I find myself comparing it to "Gravity," the last film I saw in a theatre and one that I went wild for. I suspect that these two films are the front-runners for this year's Best Picture Oscar, and in most ways, they could not be more different. One friend of mine even commented that the very attempt to draw comparisons between the two is essentially ludicrous. And yet that's what award voters are forced to do, year in and year out.

For me, "Gravity" gets the edge because of its groundbreaking technical work and potent spirituality. Both films physically affected me like few movies I can remember. In both cases, my body was exhausted and tense from the experience of having been a spectator. But I could see myself watching "Gravity" again. I'm not sure how many times I'd want to see "12 Years a Slave." Like Spielberg's "Schindler's List," this is a film that belongs on a shelf as one of the most powerfully rendered cinematic documents of our collective history as a people. It's the kind of movie that belongs in educational curriculums and should be viewed by all.

But "12 Years a Slave" is not an enjoyable movie to watch. Of course, it has no right in the world to be an enjoyable view. Its brilliance is that it justifiably scars the audience, helping us to see just why this whole slavery thing just doesn't go away, even after all of these years since it was abolished. You watch "12 Years a Slave," and you get it, no matter whether or not you got it before. No matter what color you are. And for that alone, you know you've witnessed a blustering and blunt masterpiece of a movie.

Room 237 (2012/13)

B

For 13 years now, I have been teaching a film studies course at one of the high schools in my town. and a comment I've made to students during that time that has been repeated frequently enough so as to have developed into a mantra, which is that "most of you are passive viewers of film. You treat them like carnival rides or things that just happen to you or wash over you, and then they are done. When you leave this class, you are going to be active viewers of film. Whether you like a movie or not, you're going to learn to ask and answer the question 'why?'"

The biggest compliment I feel I've ever been paid as a film teacher is when a student returns to visit years later and says, "Mr. Carlson, you ruined the way I watch movies." I take great pride in teaching high school kids to think critically about how film makers control the way we as an audience think and feel by manipulating what we call the "elements of composition," which include camera work, lighting, editing and sound, among other aspects.

So for me to say that Rodney Ascher's documentary "Room 237" is almost too much for even me to handle is telling.

I had been looking forward to seeing this film for a long time, excited to watch a feature-length dissection of Stanley Kubrick's classic horror film, "The Shining," a movie I have taught at least 20 times by now. And I can't tell you how many times throughout the movie's 102 minute running time I had one of the following rotating reactions:
1. "I can't believe I didn't notice that! I've seen the movie 30 times! I feel so stupid!"
2. "Whoa. Mind blown with the Nabokov/Hitler/"Jesus Christ Superstar"/T.S. Eliot/insert reference here reference."
3. Echoing the response I often get from my students when I dissect a film in class: "Okay, that's a little bit insane. You're trying a little bit too hard now."

Say what you want about "Room 237," unless you want to say that it isn't interesting. Too much? Yes. Ridiculous? Frequently. Intellect-expanding? Oh, yes. But damn, this is fascinating stuff. The documentary is really more of a video diary of sorts, assembling five film geeks (and there's no phrase that's more appropriate here) theorizing about what they have found to be the true and typically deeply hidden meaning of "The Shining."

The theorists range from college professors to journalists, and just as each theory grows more ridiculous than the last, each fan of the film, through voiceover, stakes his or her claim (mostly his, of course...film geeks, remember?) by talking over slowly forwarded images from the film and bringing in historical references and outside sources. Is it possible, for example, that the Calumet baking soda can on a kitchen pantry shelf behind Halloran is a reference to Native Americans? The argument is that Kubrick was so meticulous about every single thing that went into every frame of his films that he would have been conscious of how the label was facing. Frankly, I'm willing to buy that.

How, then, can I explain what appear to be continuity errors regarding the color of Jack Torrence's typewriter changing and a chair against the wall in those scenes appearing and disappearing? After getting over my shock in having those errors proved to me - because in years of watching the film, I noticed neither - I was challenged with trying to accept that Kubrick, as meticulous as I've mentioned, could have either missed those mistakes or allowed them to happen. Which means they had to be intentional. And if so, why? Mind, blown.

I thought the giddy height of over-analysis was occurring when a segment of the film brought in the use of an animated map to prove how the floor plan of the Overlook Hotel contained implausibilities, like a window in the office that couldn't possibly have a view of the outdoors. But then came the most deliriously ridiculous idea of all, when near the end of the film, someone decided to loop the film so that we'd watch from the opening frame forward and from the closing frame in reverse simultaneously. No doubt the very suggestion arrived in someone's marijuana-induced haze, likely brought to you from the same guys who first decided to set the needle on Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" at the start of "The Wizard of Oz" to watch what happens. And I'll be damned if -despite the insanity of the very thought of it - I wasn't captivated by what I was seeing. I had dry mouth, in fact, from my mouth being agape for so long.

"The Shining" was a veiled commentary about the atrocities of the Holocaust. "The Shining" was a statement about the genocide of Native Americans. "The Shining" was simply filled with deeply buried inside jokes because a genius film maker was bored. All of these theories and more are put forth in "Room 237," a reference, of course, to the infamous room to which the supernaturally gifted child Danny Torrence is eventually led and in which Jack has an encounter with a mysterious woman.

Oh, and that room is a metaphor for the Apollo moon landing, which, by the way, Kubrick was hired to fake for the government, the film his way of confessing to what he had pulled off.

Are you interested yet?

If you love movies, you have to allow yourself the opportunity to take in "Room 237." Because while the film is obviously a dissection of an undeniably great film, it's even more a love letter to loving movies themselves. Sure, you will shake your head and most certainly laugh at the zealous commitment of a chosen few who clearly seem to have too much free time on their hands. And you will dismiss much of what you hear as bunk. But I am certain you will also pick up a detail or two that you are wiling to believe.

Best of all, you will be reminded that the intentions of the artist are only important at the moment in which the art is created, because all that matters after that is the history and perspective we bring to our consumption of that art. What a wondrous thing our senses are; all of them vital to our being and each one purely subjective. Yes, even our sense of sight. "Room 237" serves as a reminder that we can look at the same thing but see things completely differently. It's one of the reasons why I love film so much and hope to develop in students a fire for seeing for themselves instead of just waiting for me to force an interpretation on them.

I don't see how I can get away with NOT showing "Room 237" from now on after I teach "The Shining" in my film class. The film is the ultimate in film criticism, and the best example I can think of to support what I tell my students almost every day, which is that everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, but you have to be able to provide evidence to support that opinion if you want to be respected. Even with evidence, much of "Room 237" is outrageous. But if nothing else, showing the film to my students is going to make me look a lot less crazy.

Bridegroom (2013)

B+

This isn't going to be a conventional film review.

I'm not in a place where I feel like I want to dwell on anything about the documentary "Bridegroom" that is negative, so I'll start by getting my criticisms out of the way first.

For a documentary film, this love story of a young gay couple and how one man copes with the unexpected loss of his partner and is subsequently denied the right to attend his funeral is almost absolute in its one-sidedness, a definite no-no in my book for a documentary film.

...but that's because the makers of the film reached out to the family of the late Tom Bridegroom and they refused to participate, shutting us out of the opportunity to understand their perspective, whether or not we wanted to, just like they shut out their son's partner.

I could argue that the film is shockingly naive and simple in its depiction of a relationship being so free of conflict and tense, honest negotiations that it borders on the airbrushed depictions in romantic comedies. Because every relationship has its challenges, and even a rom-com has an obligatory fight scene.

...but then, this is a relationship between two gay men, so the challenge with the relationship is so inherently external that it's no wonder that these two men forged such an internal cohesiveness. Why should they fight inside their home when they could open their front door and witness the fight coming to them?

And certainly, I could make a case for the fact that television writer Linda Bloodworth-Thomason ("Evening Shade," "Designing Women") is not able to accomplish much in the way of sophistication in terms of how she presents the story told in this film.

...but this film is aiming for your heart, not your head. For the time of rationalizing is over, and the film's message of love being louder than any other external or internal forces is its ultimate goal. And there's also the fact that this film exists in the first place because of the generosity of private citizens who thought it deserved to be more than just a 10-minute YouTube video.

I managed to see "Bridegroom" without ever having seen the viral video posted on YouTube by the film's surviving subject, Shane Bitney Crone, called "It Could Happen To You." While writing this review, I finally checked out that video (which I've linked here) and discovered that over four million people had already viewed it. In some respects, the 10-minute video posting by Crone has even more impact than the film itself, as the documentary expands on what is tightly and powerfully presented in a much shorter, more compressed clip. Clearly the video had a powerful impact, because over six thousand people donated money to a Kickstarter fund used to finance the full-length documentary film.

The feature-length documentary, like the original YouTube clip, tells the story of two young men. Shane Bitney Crone grows up in rural Montana, which is not a place to be gay. And so, in spite of support from his family, Shane grows up to be passive and reclusive, exhausted by the daily hardships he faces. He escapes to Los Angeles as soon as he graduates, and is eventually introduced to Tom Bridegroom, who would become his domestic partner, co-home owner, and co-business owner for six years.

Bridegroom shared Crone's small-town, not-so-gay-friendly upbringing, having been raised in Indiana and then attending a military academy before college. But unlike Shane, Tom is unabashedly confident and magnetically attracts people toward him, the center of attention where Shane strives to be anything but. And the biggest contrast between the two men is the one that delivers the story's deepest pain. Tom's family does not support his lifestyle and not only will not accept his partner but accuses Shane of corrupting their son. And when at the age of 29 Tom dies in an accidental four-story fall from a rooftop while taking photographs of a friend, his family quickly and methodically blocks Shane out from everything from the funeral arrangements to even being mentioned at the memorial service at all. And because marriage is not yet legal in California, Shane doesn't even have the right to see Tom's body at the hospital. Nor does he have the right to stop Tom's mother from taking things from their house. Nor does he have the right to fight the family's request that he stay away from the funeral, or the leverage to report the threat of violence against his own life if he should attempt to attend.

In light of how the story turned out, "Bridegroom" is completely one-sided, with interviews of every member of Shane's immediate family and video footage of his six years spent with Tom. And while the film is deeply sad, Crone and Bloodworth-Thomason manage to steer it clear from being so heavily drenched in ethos that it neglects logos. Which is a fancy way for saying that it is just emotional enough to make any sane viewer realize that something is wrong with this world.

The time for a film like "Bridegroom" is most certainly now. Fourteen states have legalized gay marriage, while five additional states offer some form of civil union privileges.

I happen to live in one of those five states with civil union privileges, Illinois, one of 35 states in which gay marriage is banned by either constitutional amendment, state law, or both. Just a few months ago, Illinois came rather close to changing that fact, but ultimately, failed. And I was struck by one interviewee in "Bridegroom" who spoke about how it's no human being's wish when he or she is little to grow up and be in a domestic partnership. We dream of marrying.

When I got married in 1997, I asked a gay man to stand next to me at the altar as my best man. I was fully comfortable in that decision because he was my oldest, dearest and closest friend. But it is with some shame that I admit that the thought crossed my mind on numerous occasions that if the situation was reversed and I was asked to be his best man, I wouldn't know if I could do it. This is not the forum for a religious debate, but I spent many years rationalizing, and what I had decided was that I supported my friend being gay, and I supported his relationships, and I even supported the rights of gay couples to have the same legal guarantees that straight couples have. In fact, I found anything less than that civic equality to be downright senseless. "Bridegroom," in fact, confirms my worst fears of how a world without those rights is daily denying loving, decent people from their rights.

But "marriage" was, to me, was purely a church thing. And I just didn't see any scriptural evidence to support the concept that a marriage was designed to be anything other than between a man and a woman. To be clear, I have never, ever been a homophobe. I have never been unsupportive of people being who they are. I have never bought into the notion that being gay is something you can choose or wish away. I have loved and cherished and supported my gay friends. I've had more fun in gay bars than in straight bars and I've matched my gay friends in quoting movie lines from "Soapdish" and "Steel Magnolias." And I sobbed so heavily the first time I saw "Brokeback Mountain" that I thought I was going to crack in half.

Yet for whatever reason, I felt strongly that being a couple was a secular thing and being married was only an institution of the church. 

Times have changed since then. A few conservatives are coming around to discover, I believe, that support of gay marriage might just be in line with Republican values, not in opposition to it. If the Republican party is the party of less government interference (though that is surely debatable today), then GOP supporters like Clint Eastwood certainly speak for what I believe is fast becoming the new normal when he said, in 2011, that we should "give everybody the chance to have the life they want. Let's spend a little more time leaving everybody else alone." And since I never felt that the union of a gay couple was ever any threat to my own marriage, it's time for me to express my agreement with Eastwood's statement. I should probably go even further than that, but it's a start.

I still don't see any scriptural evidence to support that marriage can be between two people of the same sex. I also cannot find anything in scripture to support that Jesus was anti-anyone. And I have always been raised to believe that Jesus was the perfect earthy embodiment and manifestation of the purest form of love itself. 

Marriage IS a sacrament of the church. But it's not like I never believed that there weren't gay people who went to church and believed the same things that I do. So this is me saying that I still don't have it all figured out, but I have figured out that I am finished with any scenario that provides a fork in the road where heterosexuals go in one direction and homosexuals must go down the other. And regardless of any lingering questions I might have, that includes marriage.

Please understand that "Bridegroom" was not some sort of conversion experience for me. I'm merely using it as an opportunity to put some cards on the table that I've kept close to the vest for too long because I know some very wonderful and amazing people who deserve at least that from me. "Bridegroom" is a blessing to viewers who are skeptical about whether or not true love can come to everyone, and Shane Bitney Crone and Tom Bridegroom were an inspirational couple. And maybe, if I'm very lucky and deemed worthy enough, I will one day be invited as a guest to a wedding here in Illinois to witness one of my gay friends accomplish what Shane and Tom were robbed of.

I think I'm prepared to accept the fact that my review of this film is going to upset some of my friends and even some of my family. And to those of you I might be offending, let me be clear that I don't love you any less. But I'll bet you haven't watched "Bridegroom."

I have. Love is louder.