“It’s my job.”

Chinonye Chukwu’s 2019 film Clemency, starring Alfre Woodard, examines the way this sentiment can be twisted to justify horrific behavior and unjust systems. Woodard plays Bernadine Williams, a prison warden who carries out executions. The film begins with a botched execution and follows Bernadine as she moves towards the next one, a highly public case where the man (Aldis Hodge) in question is largely thought to be innocent. As Bernadine faces public and private scrutiny, she continues to figuratively wash her hands of the issue- after all, she’s just doing her job.

It’s fascinating to compare Clemency to another 2019 movie, Just Mercy. There are plenty of differences between them of course- Clemency is fiction, Just Mercy is based on a true story and on the life of still-living attorney and advocate Bryan Stevenson. Clemency takes place in the present, Just Mercy in the past. Just Mercy speaks explicitly on race and interrogates a “justice” system that imprisons black men at a disproportionately high rate. Clemency, which stars a black woman as a warden and a black man as a prisoner, is full of interesting implications, but never explicitly talks about race. Yet they are both about the prison industrial complex, and specifically, capital punishment. Just Mercy is focused on the prisoner- in this case, wrongfully accused Walter McMillian- and his relentless, righteous lawyer Stevenson. In Just Mercy, little time is spent thinking about those working on the side of the system. Particularly since the film is about race and how racism played into McMillians’ wrongful conviction in 1980’s Alabama, there seems to be a clear right and wrong. The prosecutors, the prison guards- all presented as clear-cut representatives of a broken system, who are therefore complicit. 

But we are all complicit in all sorts of injustice. There is corruption and sin in every industry, no matter how seemingly neutral or even moral your job or workplace is. Most of us end up playing a game about the degree of separation; how close am I to the injustice? Surely if, say, I work at a retail store where I know the clothes we make use child labor overseas, I can take comfort in the fact that there is enough separation between me and the CEO or the foreman in the factory allowing that to happen. I’m alleviated of guilt.

Right?

The frustration and helplessness as we come to grips with the reality that everything we touch is stained and contaminated can feel overwhelming, so we dull ourselves to it. We turn a blind eye, we cope, we disassociate, we tell ourselves stories. And it is true, we can’t fix everything. But instead of allowing that to turn us towards lament, we turn to paralysis or detachment. 

Just Mercy is a great movie (and an even better book). But Clemency, the more understated spiritual sibling to Just Mercy, is a critical companion piece to getting a fuller and more nuanced understanding of the justice system and our state-sanctioned executions. Clemency is focused on the other side, those prosecutors and guards, as well as those people’s loved ones, who serve as instruments of the state. It suggests that those who work in the prison system have a form of PTSD and suffer alongside the prisoners in being a part of a system that dehumanizes everyone involved, a system that seems too big and unwieldy to ever fix. The film departs upon the viewer a wariness, a weight that you feel alongside Bernadine. From the nauseating first sequence to the chilling final one, the movie plunges you into the quickly dulling psyche and spirit of Woodard’s Bernadine as she desperately tries to cope and detach from her escalating guilt and ambivalence. 

Alfre Woodard carries the entire film effortlessly. She conveys a multitude of emotions with just a glance or a sigh. She strikes an intimidating figure, making it clear how Bernadine got to the position of warden, but she always leaves a vulnerable underbelly for the audience to see. Woodard is also able to establish, without the script ever drawing direct attention to it, that Bernadine is experiencing clear signs of trauma- nightmares, detachment, hypervigilance and sensitivity, avoidance, numbness. You can see her choosing to deaden her spirit, moment by moment, rather than fully comprehend all of the implications of what her job requires. In the final sequence, we see that spirit leave her altogether. 

“It’s my job” has been a justification for all sorts of horrific evil. But instead of self-righteous indignation towards Bernadine and the work she does, Clemency takes an observational, non-judgmental eye and instead focuses on the effect the work has on her soul. Clemency rises above feeling like an “issue” movie, yet whether it intends to or not, it offers a critical perspective needed for advocacy and greater awareness of the issue of capital punishment and criminal justice reform.  

– Madeleine D. 

P.S- 

I’m from Oklahoma, where we lead the country with the highest incarceration rate and rank #3 in executions. We also have the highest rate of female incarceration, which just keeps growing. If you’re interested in learning more about programs that offer support and counsel to female inmates, I highly recommend reading about the work of (and consider donating to) the following two Tulsa-based nonprofits. I’ve had the pleasure of getting to meet with some of the leadership of both nonprofits and see some of their operations, and I admire the outcome-driven, strategic work they are doing. 

Still She Rises– Provides comprehensive legal representation to indigent women in the criminal and civil legal system.

Women in Recovery – Intensive outpatient alternative for eligible women facing long prison sentences for non-violent drug-related offenses. The 18-month program focuses on each client’s holistic needs, including rehabilitation, therapy, legal counsel, family reunification, and job training/workplace readiness.

Happy Father’s Day! This holiday is special to madeleinelovesmovies because, as you may have figured out, this is actually a joint venture between a daughter and father! My dad shared his love of movies with me and taught me how to watch them discerningly, and now we continue to share this love through seeing films, debating them, and writing and editing these reviews. To celebrate, here is a spotlight on four small, under-the-radar movies I haven’t reviewed before about complex fathers.

Infinitely Polar Bear

Infinitely Polar Bear stars Mark Ruffalo as Cam, a father with bipolar disorder taking care of his two daughters when his wife (Zoe Saldana) goes away to attend graduate school. The film is semi-autobiographical for director Maya Forbes (The Polka King), based on her father and her experiences growing up. 

This is a tough film to watch at times. There is a lot of second-hand embarrassment that comes from Cam’s manic episodes that play out in public and humiliate his daughters. There are emotionally wrought moments, and if you have a parent that struggles with a mental illness, the film will especially hit home. Sometimes it feels a little simplistic, like Forbes is too close to the material to push against Cam’s more irresponsible moments that nearly endanger his children. I imagine the reality was a lot more difficult than Infinitely Polar Bear admits. But this isn’t enough to deter what is overall a wonderfully acted and compelling film that ultimately argues, convincingly, that being present is more important than being perfect, and that there is a lot of grace for parents who try.

Captain Fantastic

Captain Fantastic tells the story of Ben (Viggo Mortensen), a father of six who has been raising his children in the wilderness as a form of extreme-homeschooling. When his wife dies, Ben is forced to take his family out of isolation and emerge into a society that they might not be ready for. 

Captain Fantastic is quirky, but despite the occasional weak point in the script, mostly steers clear of indie cliches. Mortensen holds the film together through his performance as Ben, a fiercely dedicated father but an arrogant, prideful, and boastful man who has to be brought down from his pedestal by his children. He wrestles with making difficult choices for his family, and when to compromise his values for his kids. While the film isn’t traditionally “faith-based” or Christian (the main characters actually make fun of Christians a few times), the questions wrestled with here are those of what many Christians who strive to “be in the world but not of it” face. It will certainly ring true for all parents who must navigate a rapidly changing culture they don’t always understand, in what feels like an increasingly hostile world for their children. But Captain Fantastic assures you that, no matter what, a parent’s love will help the kids be alright. 

The Parts You Lose

The Parts You Lose is a cautionary tale about what will happen if a child doesn’t have a good father. In this case, the lack of love between him and his father is what drives young Wesley (newcomer Danny Murphy) to bond with the fugitive criminal (a particularly grizzly Aaron Paul) he’s hiding in his shed. 

Wesley is deaf, something his father Ronnie (Scoot McNairy) refuses to acknowledge. While it’s clear Wesley responds better to sign language, Roonie insists on Wesley reading his lips. Ronnie is a rough man; bitter and often absent from his family. It’s basically an act of rebellion against his father’s inattention that Wesley rescues the injured criminal and nurses him back to health. 

Paul’s unnamed criminal is not a good man, but his meager offering of attention and semi-paternal affirmation is enough for Wesley, who quickly becomes attached to him despite the unavoidable. As Wesley struggles between these two fathers, it becomes clear that no matter which influence prevails, Wesley will never fail to be disappointed. 

The Parts You Lose is a bleak, moody, slow burn, but never unengaging. The movie puts Paul’s natural chemistry with kids to good use and he and Murphy’s scenes are a delight. Most impressively, the movie sticks the landing, which is always difficult for any film, but especially for small character dramas. A good ending is surprising, yet inevitable, and I felt like this movie nailed that. It’s sad as hell, but properly haunting. 

Adopt A Highway

For our last pick, and the second film in the subgenre “convicts with parental instincts,” we have the lovely Adopt a Highway. Here at madeleinelovesmovies, we are big fans of all of these leading men, but Ethan Hawke has a special place in our hearts (watch First Reformed!!!) and Adopt A Highway simply reassures us of that fact. Hawke gives a soulful portrait of Russell, a man who spent 21 years in prison for possession of marijuana and emerges back into the world as a thoroughly institutionalized man. He struggles to reintegrate into society, assert his own identity, and make connections- that is, until he finds a baby named Ella in a dumpster outside of his work. 

Adopt A Highway is not Raising Arizona, in tone or plot. Instead, it follows Russell’s road to restoration as he makes his way through his new world. His time with Ella is sweet but- spoiler alert- is not the main focus of the film. Rather, what he learns from his time taking care of Ella sticks with him as he journeys to resolve his own father’s death. Baby Ella shocks Russell into action, making him aware of his own self-worth and potential to care for others. It’s a tender journey that shows what fatherhood- in its many forms- can positively awaken within a man.

-Madeleine D.

*Spoilers for El Camino, Breaking Bad, and Old Yeller

Imagine a new world with me for a moment: I’m Vince Gilligan. I’ve spent the last six years being asked by fans what happened to Jesse Pinkman at the end of Breaking Bad. I can’t sleep well at night knowing that the fate of this beloved character that I tortured for years is still up in the air. I convince Netflix to give me a couple million dollars, and I write El Camino. I set it five years in the future, and tell a lovely and painless story of how Jesse Pinkman moved to Alaska, became an artisan carpenter, adopted a dog, bonded with his neighbors, is crushing it in therapy, and is now a big-brother mentor at the local elementary school. Aaron Paul wins five Oscars for it. How is that even possible? It just is. 

But alas, I am not Vince Gilligan, and instead, El Camino starts mere seconds after where Breaking Bad left off, with Jesse driving into the night after escaping the Brotherhood’s compound. The movie covers roughly the three days afterward as Jesse gets the money he needs to start his new life in Alaska. 

The largest criticism leveled against El Camino were accusations that it is superfluous. Jesse ends Breaking Bad driving to an unknown future, and that’s exactly how El Camino ends, too. Nothing in El Camino changes or informs us of anything new about Breaking Bad. So the accusation that it is superfluous is true- if you’re thinking purely in terms of plot. But plot and story are different things. The plot of The Lord of the Rings is getting the ring to Mordor, and everything after is technically superfluous. But the story of The Lord of the Rings is that of Frodo Baggins (and company) leaving the Shire to do an extraordinary task and the personal sacrifice it takes, which makes it impossible for Frodo to return to things the way they were. It’s that story that makes the long ending of Return of the King necessary. 

The plot of Breaking Bad may be over, but the story of Jesse Pinkman is not. Jesse’s ending in “Felina” completes the plot, but it doesn’t complete Jesse’s arc, because “Felina” ends with Walt freeing him from the Nazis, and that’s Walt taking action, not Jesse. Instead, Jesse’s arc has to be about him taking action to free himself, which is exactly what El Camino does.

The vice of Jesse Pinkman throughout Breaking Bad, more than his addictions or recklessness, is his malleability. He’s a sponge to outside influences, always looking to others to help him find a sense of direction and identity. His loyalty to these influences- Jane, Mike, Gus, and of course, Walt, form mental imprisonments that lead to his physical imprisonment. El Camino is about liberating Jesse from both.

Part of the way the film explores Jesse’s liberation and reclamation of personal agency is by building upon a connection that formed in the latter half of season 5, which is the comparison of Jesse to a dog. The title of episode 12, “Rabid Dog,” is in reference to Jesse and is when the connection is made explicit. Jesse has become a loose cannon to Walt’s operation, and Saul Goodman suggests to Walt that he should see this as “an Old Yeller type situation” where he might need to put Jesse down, like a rabid dog. Walt stalls, but eventually hires Jack’s gang to do the deed.

The connection isn’t random; Jesse has always been a bit like Walt’s dog, tragically loyal and always there to be kicked around whenever Walt is angry. In El Camino, this connection is taken to its extreme, particularly in the flashback scenes of captivity with Jesse’s interactions with his primary captor Todd (a fantastically creepy Jesse Plemons). Now literally in a cage and on a chain leash on a dog cable run, Jesse has been dehumanized more than ever. Little actions from Todd- licking his hands and smoothing down Jesse’s hair, spraying Jesse with a water hose to clean him off, patting Jesse on the head as he sits crouched over in the car, his condescending words of positive reinforcement- all go to show that, as Plemons says in The Road to El Camino: Behind the Scenes of El Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie, “I think Jesse’s part [Todd’s] pet, and [Todd] thinks that what he’s doing is best for [Jesse], even if Jesse doesn’t realize it.” This is a sentiment similar to what Breaking Bad writer Gennifer Hutchison says of Walt, that “Walt does care about Jesse. The great thing about Walt is he kind of believes his own lies. He really does think he’s doing what’s best for Jesse.” In El Camino we finally see Jesse breaking free of these captors and regaining his humanity. Finally, it’s Jesse who is doing what is best for Jesse. 

All of this is conveyed through a truly captivating performance by Aaron Paul, whose work here is certainly cut out for him. He’s returning to a beloved character six years later, which alone brings plenty of skepticism. He has to play Jesse in five different time periods, and he has to overcome the sizable age difference between him and the character (Paul’s age works towards conveying that Jesse has been aged by his experiences, but can be distracting in flashbacks.) He has to track Jesse’s constant ups and downs, progresses and regresses, put well by Donna Bowman for the AV Club, “Gilligan’s camera won’t let us look away from [Jesse]: painfully infantilized by Todd in flashback, flinching and broken at Badger’s house, desperate in Todd’s apartment, regressing to petty defiance at the vacuum shop, and wearily dominant at Kandy Welding.”

Most impressively, Paul portrays Jesse as he is processing this deluge trauma in real-time, while also trying to fight it off, knowing that, as Brian Tallerico says for RogerEbert.com, “he does not have the luxury of time to grieve or heal [yet]… capturing the push-and-pull of trauma and need within Jesse.” Jesse has been in survival mode for so long that he can barely remember who he is outside of those basic instincts, making the moments where we see glimpses of “old Jesse,” precious glimmers of hope. Through the extensive flashbacks, Paul is able to weave together the different versions of Jesse to remind us of the person who is still there beneath the feral survivor. 

The only thing about El Camino that gives me pause is the climactic shoot-out. So much of Jesse’s character has been about his guilt over the violence he’s caused, and his quest to leave this violence behind him. To have the climax of the movie require Jesse to kill two men feels… wrong?

On the one hand, Breaking Bad has always been a western, and El Camino leans heavily into the genre’s tropes and aesthetics. I think incorporating the genre conventions are fun, and a shootout is classic Western. Also, Jesse doesn’t go into the situation with the intention of violence, and the duel is mutually agreed upon. It’s an “honorable” killing, as moral an act of violence ever gets in the world of Breaking Bad. And, as a cherry on top, the man Jesse duels is the man who built the rig-system that kept Jesse captive, so there’s a sense of righteous retribution. 

But. On the other hand, the rule of threes means that this shoot-out scene is thematically connected to two previous scenes in El Camino. The first is a flashback with Todd, when Jesse gets his hands on a gun while he and Todd are out in the desert burying the housekeeper. The second is when Jesse hands himself over to the fake cops, rather than kill them. As James Poniewozik says for the New York Times, Jesse “gets a ‘Coward of the County’ Western arc, twice surrendering his gun to bad men who break his will, then finally winning his freedom in a shootout. The beaten cur gets his mojo back by pulling the trigger. Walt would be proud.” The progression of these scenes, of Jesse suffering greatly twice before for not pulling the trigger, and gaining his freedom in the third, sends the message that Jesse had to enact violence. Pulling the trigger is part of his liberation. It was necessary, part of his character growth. In a way, it also implies that Jesse surrendering the gun twice earlier was a sign of weakness.

I hate this implication. What has always been most powerful about Jesse is his aversion to violence and his conscience. In the Breaking Bad ending, Jesse doesn’t kill Walt because Jesse has always been better than Walt. He doesn’t run from the consequences of his actions. He accepts them and endures them. Jesse isn’t like Walt, that’s why we love him, and his final actions in El Camino shouldn’t be about becoming more like Walt or doing something that Walt would approve of. 

So.. sorry Vince, the climax doesn’t do it for me. But that’s hardly enough for me to disregard the rest of the movie, which otherwise is the perfect mix of soul-crushing sadness and hopefulness that we’ve come to expect from the Gilligan-verse, and is a fitting ending for Jesse. But if, say, we’re looking at an El Camino Dos: A Breaking Bad Movie Sequel, Vince, I have the perfect pitch for you. 

-Madeleine D.

Wow, after all of that Marvel propaganda, it’s time to talk about some real cinema! 

Little Women

More than any previous adaptation, this Little Women has meta-textual interaction with the source material. Telling the story out of order and cutting between the adult and younger versions of the March sisters work mightily in some areas (Beth’s death has never been more devastating) but not as effective in others. Some characters suffer from this structure, such as Timothee Chalamet’s Laurie, who unlike Christian Bale’s version doesn’t get to build up into a confidant and friend of the March family. But it also helps characters like Amy, who is given her due and more time to justify her point of view and actions. 

Some of the ideas writer-director Greta Gerwig puts forth and the way she speaks to how the novel has been received and critiqued didn’t agree with me, but I admire how she elevates the art of adaptation. I’d rather have a story that had a unique perspective rather than just dutiful, stuck-to-the-original material. 

But what hasn’t been changed from the source material to this adaptation is the coziness or the timelessness factor. The story still rings true for women today and celebrates female narratives. The movie portrays sisterhood and women’s socialization with astounding accuracy. It also shows how women, who throughout time have been confined to the home, have made these domestic spheres into feminine sanctuaries, and the beauty in that. This adaption pays special focus to the bewilderment Mr. Brook, Laurie, and his grandfather have at experiencing for the first time a peek into this world, which probably will ring true to many men (including men like my father, who has a house full of girls). It’s charming, though, with no malice on either side. 

While this film does depict sorrow and struggle and pain, it’s ultimately a celebration, and that makes it not only a perfect holiday movie, but it’s also, in part, what helps it be one of the best movies of the year: beautifully made and carefully crafted at every level. 

Dark Waters

True advocacy in the world, the work activists do, is long. It’s time consuming. It’s often detail-oriented and tedious. It’s not sexy. For every great march or momentous legislative win there are hours upon hours of unrecognized labor (often underpaid or not paid at all). Behind every win is a million disappointments and setbacks. 

Movies about advocacy and justice often win awards, but they win not for their realism but instead because they are perfectly engineered to boil down years of work into two hours, giving audiences a concentrated dose of inspiration that has plenty of spectacle and triumph. They’re a cliche, but they win. They make us feel good and keep up optimistic. 

Dark Waters, the newest film by director Todd Haynes, starring Mark Ruffalo (who also produced) and Anne Hathaway, is adamantly none of those things. It’s the anti-Oscar movie. Dark Waters tells the real-life story of corporate defense lawyer Rob Bilott, who discovers that the DuPont company is poisoning water in West Virginia and becomes a whistleblower. The film, which takes place over seven years, gets into the nitty-gritty details of the case it’s following, and shows the true, grueling nature of legal work. It doesn’t have a victorious ending, or big bravado speeches. It stubbornly refuses to fall into any of those tropes, and that’s probably why it hasn’t been nominated for any awards, including for Ruffalo, who gives probably the most humble performance of the year. 

It’s hard to recommend this film. It’s a downer. It feels long. Ruffalo and Hathaway give great performances, but their roles require them to be unlikeable and stripped of their natural charisma. The film, from simply a visual standpoint, is ugly. The movie wears on you. But… that’s kind of the point. By the end of it, you’ll feel defeated, like Bilott. You’ll feel like his wife and family, who have had to sacrifice an attentive dad. You’ll feel the wariness of knowing the corporations who make all of the products you use daily could be poisoning you, and you might never know it. And even if you did- what would you even do about it?

The Two Popes

I didn’t expect to enjoy The Two Popes. Afterall, I’m not Catholic, and don’t know much about either Pope Benedict or Pope Francis. What could this film have for me?

I’m here to tell you that The Two Popes is a marvelous film, for anyone. It is worth seeing for the performances by Anthony Hopkins and Jonathan Pryce and the sharp screenplay alone. But, there are two other elements I found that truly set this film apart. 

1. Despite not being Catholic, I found plenty of similarities between the conversations of the Popes to conversations happening not only in my own church denomination but also in American politics. 

Pope Benedict represents a conservative interpretation of the faith. Pope Francis represents a more liberal one, both theologically and socially. This opposition extends into mercy vs. the law, personal responsibility vs. corporate responsibility, individual change vs social justice. None of these ideas should be binaries, but in both the evangelical protestant church and in American politics, crossing the aisle and creating bridges across what has become divided stances becomes more and more difficult. 

The Two Popes brings us a beautiful picture of what it looks like to actually engage someone on a human level, and only then being able to confront the differences between one another. You can’t always change someone’s mind, but sometimes you can. And sometimes you’ll find your own beliefs changed as well. But you must first engage as people. That applies even to Popes. 

2. The Two Popes also captures something I very rarely have seen in film. If last year’s criminally overlooked film First Reformed understood the inevitable tragedy of being a minister, then The Two Popes understands the inherent comedy of being one. 

The concept of being a pastor/reverend/minister/priest- whether a humble youth pastor or a Pope, is somewhat ridiculous if you think about it (wait, hear me out- as a second-generation PK I say it with love). 

We suppose that the God of the universe has created an institution for his people, his beloved sinners, which will be led by other sinners. If you’re a pastor, you’re trying to guide others in all the ways you still sin yourself. You want to lead by example, but your example is littered with failures. You try to be truthful about your struggles, but you can’t be too truthful or people get uncomfortable and nervous. If you are a good pastor and in it long enough, you will see dozens of people fall and betray everything you thought you had taught them, and you will betray your own deepest held convictions dozens of times (a week) and yet you must continue admonishing and extending grace and forgiveness.

Isn’t it preposterous? Absurd? Contradictory, yet commonplace, yet rare? And yet it still remains almost untouched by cinema. 

The Two Popes is a serious drama, but moments of levity come from embracing the contradictions of being considered sacred while also being human. The two popes eat pizza in the Sistine Chapel. They watch football. They joke and laugh because they are human. They dance. Then they forgive one another. Neither knows exactly what they are doing, but when they are able to extend grace, they’re closer to God then they’ve ever been. 

Films that take religion seriously (and aren’t marketed as “inspirational films”) are fairly rare, and the conversations of doubt, forgiveness, and church bureaucracy in this film were deeply moving, thoughtful, and rang true. It’s one of the most well-written movies of the year, and I believe, a must-see.

1917

1917 is a spectacular technical achievement that really can only be seen to be believed. The “one-shot war movie” pitch is executed perfectly. It’s exciting to watch cinematography be pushed to its very edge, right in front of you.

But what is there to 1917 outside of the one-shot gimmick? What does it have to say and reveal about war?

A friend who saw the film with me said that in a political time where many are hungry to start wars at seemingly a whim (*ahem* WW3 with Iran *ahem*) a war movie like 1917 is always timely and important to remind us of the truth of war: it is hell. It is not glorious. It should be avoided at all costs. 

But the warfare of WWI shown in 1917 is radically different from how war looks today, and this period of warfare had already been covered extensively in film. Any relevance and timeliness is rendered mute. This war is so removed from modern warfare that it is easy to categorize it as the past, with little to teach us today that has not already been taught. 

Because of this, 1917, outside of the cinematography, has no new things to add to the already extensive war-movie genre, on a storytelling or aesthetic sense. It’s not that it doesn’t deserve to have been made. I’m glad there’s a movie that demands to be seen on the big screen- those are becoming rarer. 

Yet it’s impossible to talk about this film outside of the knowledge that it’s currently a frontrunner for best picture, and so I have to remark that I sure don’t think it should. The best picture award is not awarded to the crew who wins the suffering-olympics. It’s about the best overall film, ideally one that captures its particular year’s zeitgeist, which 1917 does not do in any respects. 

Knives Out

Knives Out isn’t quite the ensemble murder mystery it was advertised to be, but it’s got great surprises in store nonetheless. The main twist is that you learn who the murderer is right away, and are poised to root for them as they try to get away with their plan. The movie is atmospheric and fun, and the whole cast seems like they’re having a good time playing this deliciously spoiled family. 

There is an overt political message to the film that casts the Thrombey clan as emblematic white Americans who believe they earned everything they’ve got and who like legal immigrants who keep their heads down and work hard, but don’t like any immigrants that either challenge that persona or make them feel threatened in any way. I enjoyed the creativity in which this message was incorporated throughout the film, and loved the perfectly meta-casting of Chris Evans, the literal Captain America, as the embodiment of the worst of socially-accepted white nationalism. 

But outside of this political message is a spiritual one, one that was pointed out to me by my pastor, Ricky Jones. That is of true innocence unveiling fake righteousness. Marta’s innocence lays bare the fake righteousness of the Thrombeys. Her simple truthfulness confronts their deceit. This immigrant may remind us of another visitor, an immigrant to our world, whose complete holiness and innocence illuminated the sins of those around him and put their hypocrisy into the light. 

-Madeleine D. 

Next week: Top Ten of 2019