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Time

Linklater is known to move around time. Boyhood was shot over a span of 12 years, with the same cast. On the other hand, Dazed and Confused takes place over a single day and night, capturing a brief yet memorable moment in the lives of those kids. The Before Trilogy is no different. Shot over a period of 18 years, with each film released exactly 9 years apart, time is almost the third character here. Across the trilogy, time shapes who they are, how they think, how they love and we get to see life work on them and the toll these years take.

In Before Sunrise, time feels fragile and urgent, like its constantly slipping away. The film unfolds over the course of a single night in Vienna. Truly believing this limited window is all they have, Jesse and Céline talk as if trying to fit a lifetime of connection over a single night. They simply drift through the city, exchanging stories while its clear they’re head over heels for each other. Their love here feels idealistic and spontaneous, all feelings that come with young love. Truly nothing could take that moment away from them. With that however, comes a tiny bit of arrogance which allows them to go their own ways without exchanging any information.

9 years later, in Before Sunset, time returns in a more contemplative way. As Jesse and Céline walk the streets of Paris, their conversations carry layers hinting at the time they’ve spent apart since that night in Vienna and the toll its had on both of them. They seem to be doing well but only underneath a layer of longing that they’ve both long had to carry. While the air around them seems gentler, its clear it comes with some aching. The feelings they once shared aren’t lost here, they just take on a different shape. With this time however, comes maturity, allowing them to realise they were never meant to go separate ways. The same maturity that allows Jesse to miss that flight.

Before Midnight is a deep, cold plunge into reality after the romance of the first two films. Jesse and Céline, now married with kids of their own have conversations that carry the weight of shared years, filled with inside jokes and unresolved resentment. The romance is still present but exists in responsibilities and the emotional history they’ve shared. The time they’ve spent together and the toll its taken is evident here as love no longer seems to be the dreamy, hazy poem they shared. It takes effort and now needs a constant reminder of the feelings they share. In a way, its proof their love is real as it stands the test of time.

Across the trilogy, its clear love isn’t a magical moment frozen in time. It shifts and stretches and maybe even fractures as time moves on. It takes on different forms as people learn to love differently through different stages of life. Watching Jesse and Céline age on screen, going from ideal, dreamy characters to eventually having their flaws exposed feels less like fiction and more like watching the slow passage of time. Maybe time really was the third protagonist here.

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Moments

For the longest time, Hollywood had us all fooled. Movies depicted romance with grand gestures and passionate declarations— Harry’s confession on new year’s eve in When Harry Met Sally, Noah’s passionate “it wasn’t over” reunion from The Notebook or the sweeping romantic imagery of Titanic. While these movies are good in their own way, they rely on spectacle. But that’s now how romance works in the real world. It’s mostly in tiny glances and awkward smiles, something the Before Trilogy captures so well.

In Before Sunrise, these moments arrive constantly. You know what you’re in for as the iconic listening booth scene starts. It’s filled with the nervous energy of two people newly in love, the type that had me smiling ear to ear, and yelling “kiss already!” at the screen. Another moment is when they sit at a restaurant and pretend to call their friends back home just to indirectly confess to each other. Even when they finally do kiss, Jesse isn’t confident about asking her. He rambles and Céline eventually picks up on it. Their conversations too carry this gentle intimacy as they lie in the park with no effort to say anything profound, they seem happy to simply be with each other.

Before Sunset has it’s moments too, although in a different tone. There’s no sweeping Hollywood-esque reunion. There’s a brief moment I particularly love from this one. When Jesse and Céline are sitting across each other at the cafe and she lights up a cigarette, Jesse quickly glances at the cigarette on her lips before asking for a drag. He’s got the demeanour of a man who quit the habit reluctantly, maybe at the ask of a significant other. The cigarette almost seems to represent the love they once shared as Jesse quickly asks if he can have one. At that moment, he’s got the look of a man who suddenly remembers what it was like to be 23 and in love with the women sitting across from him. It’s so subtle yet honest. Apart from that, there’s them almost touching in the car, exchanging glances while walking up the stairs, a very private moment as Céline plays the guitar for Jesse and them listening to Nina Simone.

By Before Midnight, the small moments mostly reflect the time they’ve shared together. The long face as Jesse watches his son leave, the teasing in the car, Jesse stealing an apple from their kid and the glances filled with disagreement at the diner table. Even the infamous argument is filled with moments like these. Jokes turn into wounds, insecurities surface and they shift between anger, defensiveness, affection and exhaustion. It’s a look at how love exists inside parenting and compromise, and the messy yet comfortable rhythm shared by two people who’ve been together for a long time.

Tiny moments like these are why its easy to be invested in the lives of these characters. Jesse and Céline feel like real people and that’s down to Linklater writing them that way. Hawke and Delphy are great too and it’s easy to forget they’re just actors on screen. While films with grand, sweeping moments allow me to engage in the fantasy, this trilogy makes me believe in it. Linklater knows how to ground his characters in moments that resonate on a purely realistic level, making the fairy tale romance seem not perfect, but plausible.

Conclusion

I think I’ve barely scratched the surface of what makes this trilogy so special. There’s so much wit and wisdom in the dialogue and we get two leads with such natural chemistry that it feels almost engineered. I think my affection for these films goes deeper though, to places I can’t explain. How do I explain Jesse rambling before their first kiss or writing an entire book hoping to see Céline again? Or Céline nearly touching Jesse when he talks about how life has been poor to him or dancing to Nina Simone. They don’t convey any deeper meaning. Or maybe they do. Still, they feel real and are comforting for reasons beyond my understanding. What I do know is that, I love this trilogy simply because it makes me believe people like Jesse and Céline really do exist, and the fairy tale is indeed, real. Maybe that’s better than the usual ‘and they lived happily ever after’ tale we’re used to.

While I love everything about his music, the visuals play an equally important part in keeping me obsessed. Tame Impala’s music videos feel dreamlike. They’re surreal little films that are hypnotic and are always extremely well made, satisfying the cinephile and the Kevin Parker fan in me. So let me take you on a trip through the hazy, cinematic Tame Impala universe. Here are a few music videos that stand out.

Let It Happen

Currents

Directed by David Wilson

Starting off with probably my favourite song of all time, the music video for Let It Happen plays out almost like a short psychological thriller. The kind you’d find yourself rewatching multiple times just to catch everything you missed, I know I have. The video follows a man stuck in a loop of anxiety, confusion and exhaustion while he constantly switches between real life and a dream life scenario. One moment he’s sprinting through the airport and the next he’s spiralling down dream sequences that blur the line between reality and hallucinations.

Let It Happen is all about well, just that. Its about giving up control and trusting the free fall. The video captures this almost perfectly. The airport in itself becomes a metaphor for transition while the man running could suggest resistance. His repeated collapses hint at burnout, physical and emotional. All this, along with the disoriented crowds around him reflect how overwhelming life can be when you’re trying to fight everything at once.

There’s this surreal mid-air sequence, my favourite part of the video, that represents the exact moment he stops resisting. He literally lets go and gives in to the chaos. What looks like a fall, suddenly seems like flight. The glitchy loops and repeated scenes reinforce this idea too, almost like life hurling everything it can at him until he finally decides to accept it. Even the shift in colour palettes from cold, lifeless blue in the airport to the warmer, dreamlike tones during the fall signal a transition from fear to surrender. When you watch it with this in mind, the video goes from simply being a trippy fever dream to a visual map of anxiety turning into release. My only complaint is how short the video is, being only a little longer than four minutes while the song is nearly eight minutes long. We need the full eight minutes!

The Less I Know The Better

The Slow Rush

Directed by Canada (creative collective)

Kevin Parker’s most Lynchian music video tells a visually rich story of love and the jealousy that comes with it, with vivid colours, symbolism and that iconic gorilla. It perfectly captures what it feels like to be young and in love. The video follows a kid trapped in the middle of heartbreak, watching the girl he wants drift towards someone else, that someone being a gorilla named Trevor. Everything here is exaggerated in that dramatic, dreamy way only high school crushes feel. Its messy, hormonal, colourful and very painful.

Like almost all his other music videos, there’s a ton of hidden messages woven into the usual visual weirdness here. The gorilla, or Trevor, is everything the kid feels like he’s not. Trevor exudes confidence, strength, physicality and raw energy. Every time he appears, the world becomes more surreal because that’s how jealousy feels when you’re spiralling. The girl too constantly shifts between real and dreamlike versions of herself, almost mirroring how we idealise people we’re obsessed with (would not recommend). She’s part human, part fantasy, sometimes literally glowing. The bright, saturated colours is exactly what heartbreak feels like at that age, larger than life and almost cartoonish.

The dreamy, sensual scenes aren’t just sexy aesthetics, they represent how memory and imagination can blur when you’re longing for someone you can’t have. Whenever things get too real, the video slips back into surreal imagery as if the kid is escaping into his head again. The whole thing feels like a visual diary of a crush imploding in real time. Its dramatic, confusing and heightened. Complimenting the song itself, the video turns heartbreak into a vibrant, cinematic experience that’s impossible to look away from.

Loser

Deadbeat

Directed by Sam Kristofski

Like the name of the song suggests, the music video for Loser follows a man, played by Joe Keery, who looks like he truly has hit rock bottom. The song leans into raw honesty, the kind we haven’t heard much from Tame Impala’s previous projects and the video follows this thematically by stripping down things visually. The settings feel ordinary with dimly lit streets and a very regular looking supermarket. Its not the psychedelic overload that we’re used to from Kevin Parker but instead a portrait of someone simply just aimlessly drifting.

Shifting away from the usual fever dream-ish videos, the music video for Loser feels pretty straightforward. It never does shy away from showing us how much of a loser he really is. He gets dumped, steals a lighter, drinks a beer on the sidewalk, picks up a half smoked cigarette from the street, gets judged by a kid for it, yet manages to shrug it all off for a moment of happiness at the very end. It really is how a spiral feels, but also how we manage to keep going. The many miracles of the indomitable human spirit.

There’s a moment in the video towards the end, where Kevin Parker appears as Joe. What seems to simply be a funny look at this down on his luck guy’s day, suddenly turns into a self portrait in a second. For an artist whose entire discography has been based around insecurity and self sabotage, it makes sense. Or maybe its simply a nod to the its just one guy joke. Although if someone as cool as Kevin feels this way, there truly is no hope for the rest of us out there. With Joe Keery, or Djo, citing Tame Impala as an inspiration for his own music, it does feel like a full circle moment.

Cause I’m A Man

Currents

Directed by Weirdcore

On the surface, the music video for Cause I’m A Man is just another trippy visualiser featuring 3D characters surfing through weird digital spaces. Underneath the surreal visuals though is a song that sounds like a confession. Its a man admitting he gets insecure, messes up and is overall a mess. Who isn’t? This idea is supported by messages scattered throughout a very trippy music video.

Throughout the video, these animated faces drift between confidence and embarrassment, strength and fragility. One moment the face looks calm and composed, and the next it’s drooping, glitching, or literally falling apart at the edges. Its almost like someone trying to keep it together but failing and hoping nobody notices. There’s a scene where the face stretches and warps as if it’s overwhelmed by the pressure of saying the “right” thing, and another where it blinks slowly, almost ashamed, while bright, surreal patterns swirl in the background. It perfectly mirrors that feeling of wanting to appear steady while everything underneath feels shaky. Even the smooth, shiny textures of the characters add to the insecurity. They look almost like plastic versions of men, overly polished on the outside but clearly unstable inside. And because the visuals never quite settle, you’re always aware of how fragile the image of “the man” is here. Weirdcore portrays masculinity as soft and bendable, sensitive enough to distort under pressure. The entire thing becomes this strangely beautiful confession that men crack a little and it makes it okay to feel that way. It’s one of those Tame Impala visuals that says a lot without a narrative. Just the faces alone, constantly shifting between forms, tell you everything about the insecurities the song is wrestling with. It feels honest under the surface of trippy visuals.

Fun fact: There’s a second music video for Cause I’m A Man directed by Dan Dipaola and Megan McShane with the band members (the live band, it still is just one guy) replaced by puppets!

Wrapping Up

Writing about Tame Impala’s music videos reminded me why I fell in love with his work in the first place. Yes, he makes insanely good music. Everybody knew this. But the visuals compliment his music so well. The love he has for his craft oozes out from everything he touches. From the surreal anxiety spiral of Currents, to the self aware melancholic house of Deadbeat, and everything in between, every video feels like a window into some corner of Kevin Parker’s mind. The visuals always deepen the music instead of distracting from it, making the songs feel bigger, richer, and strangely more personal. Its like a little trip Kevin Parker takes us on through how he feels. While they can be broken down and analysed further, the beauty of these music videos is that they work simply as trippy visuals too. So if you want to just watch something fun with his music, that works as well.

In the end, these videos work so well because they’re snapshots of different eras, reflections of the themes, and reminders of how much care goes into every corner of the Tame Impala universe. No matter what album you look at, Kevin Parker provides a complete audio-visual experience, like the insanely talented artist he is.

On the other hand, we had the quip heavy banter of the post-Endgame MCU, where humour, more often than not, undercut emotional weight that otherwise would’ve made an audience sit with a movie. I grew up with the MCU. While not without flaws, it was a fun ride up until Endgame. Think Robert Downey Jr. as Iron Man, Chris Evans as Captain America, Chadwick Boseman as Black Panther. They were icons, and I could never wait to see the next chapter of these heroes’ lives. This is what made the post-Endgame state of the MCU so painful to watch. I could no longer recognise the franchise I grew up with, and I think Quantumania and Love and Thunder were when I decided there was no saving it.

As a superhero movie fan, I was used to tones of either darkness or irony, neither of which I found myself a fan of. However, I’ve found myself overcoming superhero fatigue as of late, thanks to James Gunn. He truly has done wonders for both franchises: the MCU with Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 and the DCU with his most recent endeavour, Superman. While it may be too soon to tell, I think an argument can be made for him being one of the best superhero movie directors out there. The Guardians movies are some of my favourites from the MCU, and Superman was such a breath of fresh air after Snyder’s obsession with tragic heroes. Gunn blends emotional complexity with sincerity in what may just be a return to the Golden Age of heroes filled with hope.

Superman

Henry Cavill was, by all accounts, a wonderful choice to play Superman. That was easily my favourite casting decision of the Snyder era, and it’s such a shame it ended the way it did. Cavill had the physical presence and the acting ability to capture Clark Kent’s humility and Superman’s nobility. Despite this, the character was affected by scripts that frequently leaned too far into alienation or godhood. Cavill shone through rare moments of sincerity, like saving a child from a burning oil rig in Man of Steel, but the overarching vision too often painted him as a tragic, conflicted outsider rather than the inspirational figure the character was meant to be. Now, with David Corenswet stepping into the cape, the character finally inspires rather than intimidate. Following Cavill was never going to be easy, but Corenswet carries a natural warmth and earnestness in his screen presence, qualities essential in portraying Superman as the beacon of hope he was always meant to be. You can tell he cares about the character, which always translates into brilliant on-screen performances, like Andrew Garfield with Spider-Man (another brilliant casting decision ruined by terrible writing that I’m still mad about). The real difference-maker, however, is the man behind the camera.

James Gunn understands the character. The story of Superman is a reflection of the goodness in humanity. He’s an alien who, despite being an outsider, was raised by a couple on a farm in Kansas. Shaped by love from the Kents, guided by empathy, and taught to always see the good in people, Superman represents the best of us. Gunn has always spoken openly about wanting to return to that version of the character. On the red carpet for Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3, Gunn had this to say when asked about what he’s looking for in his Clark Kent: “The next Superman has to be someone who has all the humanity that Superman has but he's also an alien.” He also said, "It's gotta be somebody who has the kindness and the compassion that Superman has and be somebody who you want to give a hug.” It’s clear Gunn knew the character right away, and this understanding is crucial. With it, he allows Corenswet to bring back Superman to his Golden Age roots, not as a distant god who struggles to come in touch with his human side, but as a man who shows us the very best in ourselves. Gunn’s Superman isn’t meant to brood over humanity; he’s meant to stand beside it. He’s defined by his choice to embrace compassion in a world that makes it difficult to do so. He even saves a squirrel mid-fight! That’s my Superman. By writing the character around hope rather than alienation, Gunn is giving Corenswet room to flourish while restoring Superman to his rightful place as a symbol of optimism. In today’s cultural moment, this may be exactly the Superman people need to see.

The music is an integral part of this character shift. John Murphy and David Fleming’s score pays homage to John Williams’ iconic theme while weaving in fresh motifs. A scene where Superman lifts up a collapsing bridge subtly echoes the Williams theme, reminding us that hope isn’t nostalgia but continuity. Needle drops like Sophie Madeleine’s “Bring Me Sunshine,” which plays ironically during Superman’s imprisonment, humanise him. He may be otherworldly, but Gunn never fails to remember that he is one of us (More on Gunn’s use of soundtracks below).

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3

When James Gunn first brought the Guardians of the Galaxy to the big screen in 2014, they weren’t a well-known group. Gunn took this ragtag, obscure team of misfits and turned them into household staples in the Marvel community, and he did this through character development. The Guardians trilogy is some of the MCU’s best in my opinion, and it’s because of Gunn infusing these characters with heart, humour, vulnerability, and a deeply profound sense of found family. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 is the culmination of that heartfelt journey and is easily Gunn’s most emotional and sincere work in the MCU. Rather than relying on the quip based humour that has defined the MCU in recent times, Gunn allows the story to breathe. The humour, while present, never undercuts the seriousness of these characters.

When Rocket’s horrifying backstory is revealed, his time as an experiment, his bond with Lylla, and his overall journey of finding himself is played out with complete sincerity. The film never tries to over-explain or soften the blow with a quick punchline. It leans into the pain, making Rocket, this character almost nobody knew about before Gunn’s trilogy, and his story of survival and growth profoundly moving. Many other moments reinforce this balance. Quill’s farewell to Gamora, who’s now a stranger to the team, is bittersweet. In the final montage where the Guardians go their separate ways, Gunn simply lets the goodbyes linger, resisting melodrama and perfectly allowing the emotions of nearly a decade to wash over these characters and the audience. A personal favourite has to be when Groot says, “I love you guys,” which means we as an audience can finally understand him. It symbolises how far these characters have come and how well written, multi-dimensional characters can really stick with you, something Gunn seems to have mastered.

By refusing to undercut sincerity, Gunn makes his work stand out from other recent MCU projects. As well written as his characters are, it’s clear he trusts his audience to sit with the heavier emotions that are bound to come with these larger than life characters. The result is superhero movies that feel less like another entry in a larger franchise and more like films that can stand tall on their own. There are way too many characters apart from the Guardians who could use some of this treatment. One of them is Thor, who is one of the MCU’s most tragic characters post-Endgame, but has been reduced to comic relief. Firing Gunn may have been the nail in the coffin for the MCU, but if it means more DCU movies like Superman, I’m not going to be complaining.

Bringing Comic Panels to Life

James Gunn is a visual storyteller. Superhero films often struggle with visual identity. Either they’re drenched in washed out greys, like much of Snyder’s DC, or smothered in flat, overly lit CGI like most recent MCU entries. Gunn, however, makes his movies feel like comic book panels brought to life. His worlds are vibrant, textured, and bursting with personality, but always in service of the character and the story. He embraces the use of colour as a storytelling tool, reminding us that these stories come from a medium defined by striking, larger than life imagery. This is immediately apparent in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3. A scene that comes to mind is when the Guardians are donning those ridiculously bright, neon coloured spacesuits. It may look goofy, but it’s also joyful and straight out of a comic book panel. Gunn leans into that absurdity, turning what could have been a generic outer space sequence into something unforgettable and uniquely his. His use of framing often mimics comic book panels too, whether it’s the slow motion hallway fight where the Guardians work in unison, or the symmetrical shot of Rocket finally stepping into his role as captain. These work as more than just action sequences; they’re visual homages to the heightened reality of the source material.

This visual philosophy carries into Superman. Rather than grounding the characters and their surroundings, Gunn embraces their bright and flashy comic book roots. Metropolis is defined by its bright skies and rich primary colours that complement Superman’s iconic suit. Where Guardians bursts with cosmic colours, Superman roots itself in a bright Americana palette. The skies over Smallville are impossibly blue. Even Superman’s suit reflects where Gunn wants to go with his version of the character. Compared to Cavill’s, it’s lighter, more colourful, and Corenswet even has the trunks on the outside. By embracing vibrant colours, imaginative set designs, and dynamic framing, Gunn’s movies look like they leapt straight from a page. It’s proof that sincerity and spectacle can coexist, and that sometimes the best way to make a comic book movie is to have it look like one.

Gunn’s use of Soundtracks

Music has always been one of Gunn’s greatest tools. In both the Guardians trilogy and Superman, he uses soundtracks as a narrative spine and not just garnish. The “Awesome Mix” in Guardians took classic songs we already love and tied them into character emotion. Quill’s Walkman wasn’t just a cool, quirky thing for him to carry around, it was his last tie to his mother. By Vol. 3, we see the soundtrack evolve with these characters. Radiohead’s “Creep” perfectly frames Rocket’s pain. “Dog Days Are Over” closes out the trilogy with perfect joy and will always be one of my favourite moments in the MCU.

In Superman, the approach shifts, but the central idea remains the same. John Murphy’s score is a respectful nod to John Williams’ soaring theme while crafting new motifs that belong to Corenswet’s Superman. Needle drops serve to almost punctuate the film. This is seen in the popular scene where Lois and Mister Terrific infiltrate Luthor’s base while Noah & The Whale’s “5 Years Time” plays. Best believe I had the widest smile on my face during that scene. Clark’s conversation with Lois about fear, belonging, and the weight of expectation is supported by a beautiful score by Murphy that doesn’t soar but goes quiet. These choices by Gunn humanise Superman, taking away the mythic status around him and proving he truly is one of us. Gunn has even gone as far as curating playlists on Spotify for his characters from Superman. It’s not just scoring a film, it’s character work.

Wrapping Up

James Gunn’s work represents more than just a stylistic change in superhero movies, it’s a philosophical one. By keeping the focus on hope, sincerity, and humanity, Gunn reminds us of the genre’s roots in the Golden Age of comics, when heroes were symbols of light in uncertain times. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 showed how sincerity could thrive in a landscape drowning in irony, and Superman now cements that lesson. Ultimately, Gunn’s approach is a reminder of why audiences fell in love with superheroes in the first place. These stories were never just about battles or powers, but about ideals, about seeing the best of ourselves reflected on the page and on the screen. By rejecting both the cynicism of brooding heroes and the emptiness of forced comedy, Gunn has charted a new course for the genre. If the last decade was defined by shadows and shallow laughs, the next may well be defined by light, hope, and sincerity. In that light, heroes like Superman and the Guardians remind us that hope, no matter how unfashionable it may seem, is the one power that never goes out of style. Superheroes never had to brood or be awkwardly funny to be compelling. Sometimes, the most radical thing a superhero can do is smile, believe, and inspire us to do the same.

What makes it work?

The Meyerowitz Stories is a delicate balancing act. It’s neither a heavy drama nor a comedy. Baumbach keeps it grounded for the time we spend with these beautifully crafted characters, imitating real life. It’s funny without being jokey and non-manipulative with its heavier emotions. We see Danny (Adam Sandler) doing all he can to avoid the mistakes of his father while trying to raise his daughter. Tiny moments like them on the piano together or how he secretly hopes she never moves out are heartwarming while also being proof that he wishes to be nothing like his prideful old man. We see Matthew (Ben Stiller) run after a tourist to get his father’s coat back, desperate for his approval, because he feels like the family outcast. We see Harold (Dustin Hoffman) praise both his sons, but only to the other, perfectly portraying the prideful yet self-conscious father. It’s tiny moments like these with which Baumbach achieves what feels like the most realistic characters I’ve seen on screen. The way almost every character tries to connect with each other is in a way so beautifully charming, but also so painfully real. They make small talk, they mostly don’t listen, they talk over each other, and they somehow understand each other through this. As messy as it was to watch, this is how real families sound. Cinema, better than any other medium, can capture the true nature of conversation, and this film does so brilliantly. Baumbach doesn’t simply coast by with wit here, but instead uses the brilliant ensemble working with him to craft one of the most genuine and effective narratives I’ve seen recently. I felt a wide range of very painfully grounded emotions watching this that I didn’t know I could feel at all.

Adam Sandler : wasted potential?

Adam Sandler amazes yet frustrates me. He proves once again that there’s an immaculate actor in him, capable of so much more than the trashy comedies he’s known for. He’s almost unrecognisable here because of the care he puts into portraying Danny. This is arguably his best work, definitely his best since Punch-Drunk Love. While I cared for every character on screen, Sandler’s portrayal of Danny as an overlooked yet affectionate son and as a proud father won me over. I cared for Danny. Watching his life finally look like it’s about to change for the better when he runs into Loretta (Rebecca Miller) again, and he’s off to Los Angeles to be with his brother and rekindle his relationship with him, makes you feel excited for him. He then goes back to his dad (Dustin Hoffman), who demands he stay to look after him, and you think, Oh man, he really needs to get out of here. He finally does snap and does what he wants to after what seems like forever, and you catch yourself feeling ecstatic for this character you didn’t know existed until two hours ago. It’s no secret that Sandler has what it takes to portray powerfully written, emotional characters on screen. I only wish he did it more; oh well. It wouldn’t have been a Sandler performance if it wasn’t for one of his signature crashouts though, and we get one at the very first scene of the movie. This is also Sandler and Stiller’s first time working together since Happy Gilmore in 1996. This takes away absolutely nothing from their on screen chemistry though and made me realise that we’ve missed out on 21 years of what could’ve been amazing collaborations.

What doesn’t work (nitpicking)

As amazing as this movie is, and as well as the cast is used, there is one character who is a little overlooked. I must credit Baumbach for self-awareness, though, as he puts the words Jean’s Story in parentheses, acknowledging that she’s being marginalised. It takes nothing away from the movie, but I thought it was an odd choice to create this beautiful on-screen family with three siblings, only to focus almost entirely on just two. Jean (Elizabeth Marvel), the third sibling, is basically defined by a monologue about her childhood experience with sexual harassment, a horrifying anecdote that ultimately serves as a comedic revenge set-piece for the two brothers, and later gets brushed aside. It’s frustrating because Elizabeth Marvel is great as the character. This was the only part of the movie that left me wanting more than what Baumbach puts out. I could watch an entire movie around Jean, there’s definitely a few interesting stories there.

Wrapping up

The Meyerowitz Stories is an instant favourite of mine. I’m surprised I was able to elaborate on my feelings about it, because it did initially leave me at a loss for words. I’ve learned about life and cinema from this film more than any other in a long time. As corny as it sounds, watching this gives meaning to life and the people around me. A good film can change you and I believe this one did. Life imitates art, but here, art feels like it’s simply holding up a mirror to life. By the time the credits rolled, I realised I’d run through a surprising range of emotions, from bittersweet, heartwarming laughs to other heavier ones, hitting close enough to sting a little. I can see myself coming back to this movie quite often, and that, in my opinion, is the mark of a truly great film.

My rating: 84/100

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