Director: Jia Zhangke
Runtime: 131 minutes
There's about 40 minutes worth of a good movie in Jia Zhangke's Mountains May Depart. Sadly, it's trapped between 80 minutes of unsuccessful material that ranges from amateurish to downright dreadful. By the time the film's two hours draw to a close (with an admittedly lovely closing shot), the only thing that emerges as worthwhile is the performance from lead actress Tao Zhao.
That said, you wouldn't know based on the film's opening scenes. Jia's film is split into three distinct sections (1999/2000, then 2014, and finally 2025) and his opener isn't terribly convincing. Tao, the eventual main character (Tao), starts off as an oblivious Pollyanna who quickly slides from endearing to grating. You almost want to smack her, but then her first suitor, the aggressively capitalist Zhang Jinsheng (Yi Zhang) starts boorishly interrupting like "The Great Gatsby"'s Tom Buchanan. On the opposite end of the tolerability spectrum is coal mine worker Liangzi (Jing Dong Liang), the first act's only convincing character.
With the tripartite structure looming over the whole enterprise, Act 1 is tasked with breezing through a love triangle that never convinces. The cup of dramatic irony runneth over, and everything is so clear as day to the viewer that what transpires on screen is tedious. Worse, Jia is unable to get his actors to push beyond their initial traits. Liangzi quickly gets pushed aside for the sake of set up, leaving us with a wide-eyed naif and her jerk-wad beau for company. When the first section ends, a title card appears, and you'd be forgiven for using this fake-out as an excuse to bolt from the theater.
But if you decide to stay, at least you'll get to take in the lovely middle section, which does a near-miraculous 180 in terms of quality. Though it opens on Liangzi and his medical woes, the focus finds its way back to Tao, and Tao Zhao suddenly makes leaps in quality. In part two, Jia gifts the viewer with a protagonist full of genuine emotional conflict, mostly stemming from her marital woes. As age creeps up on Tao, as well as those around her, a sense of emotional urgency finally appears, and the central performance soars. Finally, after almost an hour of waiting, Tao's hype from Cannes seems justified. There are individual scenes - like one between a mother and son on a train - that speak volumes in their carefully chosen words. If Act 1 was Jia operating on autopilot, Act 2 showcases the director throwing himself into his material.
After such a transcendent mid-section, Mountains seems prepared to move on to better things in its conclusion. Yet this is where the film gets horribly yanked back down to earth. The story switches locations (Melbourne) and languages (English), and neither of this shifts do any good. The leap into the near future returns to the amateurish clutter of the opening, only with even worse writing. The emotional struggles that arise in the final act range from groan-inducing (a standard "I'm not following your dream, dad!" arc) to borderline creepy.
The introduction of so much new territory wouldn't be such a hurdle were it not for the drastic drop off in the quality of the acting. Moments that should hit hard generate uncomfortable laughter, and this isn't helped by the writing (Actual dialogue: "It's like Google Translate is your real son!"). The poignancy of the final scene, a callback to a recurring musical motif, is but a bandaid on a gaping wound that demands more intensive treatment.
Grade: C/C-
Director: Todd Haynes
Runtime: 118 minutes
As restrained and repressed as its time period and characters, Todd Haynes' Carol still has a beating heart at its center. You might just have to work a little harder than necessary to get to it. At times emotionally reserved to a fault, this adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's "The Price of Salt" thaws out just in time to deliver an understated wallop of an ending that catapults it from the ranks of the 'good,' and into the realm of the almost-great.
Not counting his HBO miniseries remake of Mildred Pierce, Mr. Haynes hasn't released a narrative feature since his Bob Dylan fantasia I'm Not There, so to see him reemerge with such a beautifully controlled work might take a little getting used to. The director has returned to the relative time period of his excellent Far From Heaven, albeit from a drastically different angle. Far From Heaven sought to emulate the rich melodramas of Douglas Sirk, while Carol - despite its scenes of wealthy people in pretty clothes - brings to mind Inside Llewyn Davis. This is not the picture perfect vision of post-war America, but rather a grittier vision that further deconstructs the societal norms of the day.
This is all evident in the Christmas-y color scheme, using rich reds and greens that are still made to look a little worn and desaturated. When young shop girl Therese (Rooney Mara) shows up for work at a pricey department store, even the showroom looks a little dingy (not to mention the staff cafeteria). It's not exactly gloomy, but rather that the artifice of everything in the store (as well as the artifice of the 1950s concept of a homogenized society) is made clear as day to Therese and the viewer. Sharing in that vision, despite belonging to the upper class, is Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett), who saunters into the store one December morning to buy a gift for her daughter. Out of a crowd of faces of parents and children, Therese and Carol's gazes meet, and very slowly, the dance begins.
Ostensibly a story of forbidden love, Phyllis Nagy's script refuses to fall into the trap of radically altering the source material for the sake of a more conventional tale. This is a story about isolated souls finding a connection against the odds and in violation of every social more. Carol never becomes a psychological thriller, but Haynes is gifted at emphasizing small gestures in order to convey the utter seriousness of Therese and Carol's burgeoning relationship, as well as the risks of exposure. Quick glances and touches on the shoulder are stand ins for traditional romantic gestures, even when the two women are in private. It's a romantic game of cat and mouse, only with both players working together to avoid the crushing weight of "traditional values."
And, as much as my admiration for the film has grown since I saw it, it's all to easy to understand why many will find Carol a little too distant for its own good. Haynes' pacing never drags, but it does move at a steady, stately rate, without too much variation for the first half or so. Carol is all about the wind up to a purposefully muted release, and for some it will be too little and too late. But even as I can see where detractors are coming from, I continue to find little details that stand out. Carol's story is not complicated, but it is complex, and the film practically demands a second viewing just to absorb every little move involved in Therese and Carol's covert courtship.
Keeping the whole enterprise going, even when Haynes himself seems a bit unsure about how to best move it all along, are the two beautiful performances from the leads. Mara has a much more passive role, but her quietness is an asset that the film needs. She is our window into the more obvious drama of Carol's domestic woes, and she reacts accordingly.
Meanwhile Blanchett, the actor to Mara's reactor, is nothing short of sublime in the titular role. It's a role that the actress could have done on autopilot, but instead, Blanchett invests every look and touch and vocal flutter with a lifetime of experience. Therese is still finding and shaping herself, while Carol has known for years what she truly wants and what it will cost to have it. Without ever reaching for a big moment, Blanchett captures the character's turmoil with heartbreaking restraint and intelligence. Arriving just two years after her towering work in Blue Jasmine, Carol once again asserts the otherworldly Australian as one of the leading performers of her generation.
And even though I may have some quibbles with some of Haynes' lulls in the narrative, his overall work here is excellent. Working with a talented group of collaborators, he's created a beautiful, yet realistic-looking film every bit as refined and textured as one of Carol's pricey fur coats. Costumes, production design, and photography are all superb, without getting in the way of the film's slowly blooming emotional center. Carol favors the exploration of a human bond over the sexier details, so even when the one proper sex scene arrives, it feels not only justified, but intimate and tender.
Yet even the consummation of Therese and Carol's affair pales in comparison to the magic trick that Haynes pulls off in the closing chapters. Carol goes in a few surprising directions, with certain events arriving in ways that don't initially appear satisfying. But the careful windup finally comes together when Haynes and Nagy take both leads through their respective low points, yet allow room for hope. There is sadness and regret in Carol, but by the end, it hardly comes off as a cinematic depressive. All of those furtive, smoldering glances and gentle touches on the hand lead to one final, wordless exchange that is nothing short of heart-stopping in its beauty, and a perfect ending to the year's most delicate, albeit chilly, romance.
Grade: B+
Director: Yorgos Lanthimos
Runtime: 118 minutes
Without any notable visual flourishes, The Lobster does what so many films set in the near (or far) future fail to do even with massive budgets: create an instantly convincing, wholly immersive world. Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos (Dogtooth), making his English language debut, has outdone himself with his break from his homeland and native tongue. Absurd, strange, blackly funny, and even oddly touching, The Lobster will most certainly be an acquired taste. Those who can get on Lanthimos' wavelength, however, are in for one hell of a treat as the film makes the rounds at festivals ahead of its currently TBD American release next year.
The end of a relationship, especially one that lasts for more than a decade, is always painful. But there isn't much time to wallow in newfound loneliness in the world of The Lobster, as we quickly learn from following newly single David (Colin Farrell, heavily de-glammed). In accordance with current government laws (setting is undefined, though signs point to French Canadian territory), David is carted off to a sleek countryside resort, where he will be given 45 days to find a new mate. If he fails, he will be turned into an animal, albeit one of his choosing (in David's case: the film's titular crustacean).
Unfolding with a level of deadpan that would make Wes Anderson envious, The Lobster's chief strength, among many, is how maintains its tricky tone over the course of two taut hours. From a pacing standpoint, this is easily the most polished of Lanthimos' films, which prevents one from falling out of touch with the uncompromising idiosyncrasies. The Lobster's second half breaks the narrative out of a delightfully repetitive cycle, yet manages to maintain and build upon the successes of the beginning. Just when you think that Lanthimos is getting too lost in his own vision, Yorgos Mavropsaridis' editing keeps things moving with laser-cutter precision, all without disrupting the deliberate flow of the story. All other technical aspects are similarly excellent, especially the green and beige-hued photography of Thimios Bakatakis and the discordant soundtrack that mixes pop songs with jolting string pieces.
Lanthimos reigns all of this in beautifully from the director's chair, with plenty of crisply-assembled passages composed of stealthily compelling shots with little or no camera movement. For as much time as the film spends at the singles' resort/internment camp, Lanthimos always finds new visual alleys to drag one further down the rabbit hole. Even the most mundane hotel hallway comes loaded with bizarro uncertainty in the world of The Lobster, which prides itself on subverting the ordinary by underlining it with hints of ludicrous, yet somehow plausible, extremism. In Woody Allen's Crimes & Misdemeanors, Alan Alda's character quoted Larry Gelbart's, "if it bends, it's funny; if it breaks it's not funny" remark, and that manifesto is certainly true here. Lanthimos bends The Lobster to its absolute further, keeping it on the precipice of breaking without ever going too far.
Yet for all of The Lobster's understated work in the arts/tech departments, Lanthimos' script ultimately holds the key to the aforementioned control of tone. The Lobster could have easily become a one-note joke, but Lanthimos and co-writer Efthymis Filippou dole out the bizarro details of the film's setting in carefully constructed vignettes that gradually coalesce into a spectacular whole. Some are strange, some are disturbing, and some are gut-bustingly funny in their deliberate emotional vacancy. Few scenes capture the whole of The Lobster quite like the one wherein the hotel manager (a pitch-perfect Olivia Colman) and her husband try to serenade the horde of single folk with listless performances of romantic songs and robotic dance moves.
And as much as I lit up every time Colman appeared, the rest of the cast are all a treat to watch as well. Farrell continues to excel when given darker, off beat material, and while 'David' doesn't allow him the range of In Bruges, it demonstrates his skill as a versatile actor who should never have been propped up as a traditional leading man. Other hotel residents are marvelously filled out by the likes of Ben Whishaw, John C. Reilly, Extras's Ashley Jensen, and frequent Lanthimos collaborator Angeliki Papoulia (as an ice cold "hunter" who delivers the film's darkest joke). Later arrivals like Lea Seydoux and Rachel Weisz (the latter of whom narrates the film throughout) are welcome presences as well.
However, these characters are ultimately pawns in Lanthimos' oddball experiment. In some ways, he's taking a page from the Coen brothers, playing a narrative god with a merciless combination of dark humor and irony. But even when the ambiguous ending arrives (he's a fan of those), Lanthimos refuses to let his detachment from his characters slip into cruelty. The characters may do horrible things (or have horrible reactions), but in the film's later stages Lanthimos subtly shifts into empathy without puncturing the carefully crafted tone and losing all thematic control. Like another film set to play at AFI Fest (Todd Haynes' Carol), The Lobster possesses an unwavering dedication to a strict code of tone and atmosphere that will strike many as redundant and exhausting. Yet for others, the relentless unwillingness to make major changes will become its main selling point, highlighting, for better or for worse, the purposeful vision at the helm.
Grade: A
Director: Hou Hsiao-Hsien
Runtime: 107 minutes
There's nothing quite like The Assassin in the filmography of Taiwanese veteran Hou Hsiao-Hsien, and hopefully there won't be any more. Yes, Hou's film (his first in seven years) ponderous and protracted tale is awe-inspiringly beautiful. But the director's attempt to create a refined wuxia tale is so painfully restrained that everything feels thoroughly vacuum-packed. Any given still frame from The Assassin is a visual masterwork, but god at what cost?
Set in 7th century China, The Assassin's opening title cards establishes a world of warring dynasties and fragile alliances. And it's in the Weibo province that we meet Yinniang (Shu Qi), a formidable assassin sent on a mission to kill the man to whom she was once betrothed. Throw in some palace intrigue surrounding the ex and his wife, and you've got a fairly canvas to work with. And I do mean canvas, because from the opening shots, Hou makes it clear that his images, above all else, will captivate.
But just as quickly as The Assassin announces its dedication to its imagery, it also gives away its dire lack of pacing. Hou has always been a practitioner of "slow cinema," and there's nothing wrong with that. However, as Hou defiantly refrains from melodrama, he overcorrects by a staggering margin. As beautiful as Hou's compositions are (and some are absolutely incredible), most are perilously in need of a heavy trim. 'Glacial' doesn't even begin to describe the pace, which mistakes long shots of minimal activity for atmosphere. The least Hou could have done for the audience would have been to get meta and include a scene of someone actually watching paint dry.
That would likely be preferable to the vacant performances Hou extracts from his cast. For all I know, these could be some of the best actors in the world, but you'd have no way of knowing based on how little the film actually explores them. The actors spend more time posing that crafting characters. This isn't exactly helpful, especially given the film's habit of turning the straight-forward story into a series of tenuously fragments. Did I grasp the story of The Assassin? Yes, even as I fought to stay alert. The more pressing question is, why didn't I care?
Because the great squawking albatross around The Assassin's neck is that, for all of its exquisite craftsmanship, it never delivers a real point for its existence. The themes are boilerplate, the aforementioned characters little more than sentient mannequins, and the grip on the atmosphere so limp that it all deflates within the first 20 minutes. It's appropriate that Hou repeatedly shoots scenes through layers of silk curtains: pull the fluttering fabric away, and you'll find nothing of substance on which to linger.
Grade: C
Director: Lenny Abrahamson
Runtime: 118 minutes
Rooting an entire movie in the perspective of a 5 year old is one hell of a risk, which is why director Lenny Abrahamson and his collaborators deserve countless hosannas. Last appearing with the oddball music dramedy Frank, Abrahamson has taken a gigantic leap forward with Room, working off of Emma Donoghue's adaptation of her own novel. Both a tense psychological drama and a moving mother/son, Room finds Abrahamson graduating to a whole new level as a director.
Like most kids, 5 year old Jack (Jacob Tremblay) loves when his birthday rolls around. He eats cake, gets extra attention from his mom, and gets to feel like the center of the universe. But the center of Jack's universe is terrifyingly small. All of his life, Ma (Brie Larson) has told him that Room - a soundproofed shack with only a skylight for light - is the entire world. Outside of Room is space, and then beyond that is heaven. Dogs and cats and other people, the ones the pair see on their TV, don't really exist. Ma's behavior would sound disturbing and cult-ish were it not for the fact that her placement in Room was anything but voluntary. Her lessons about the worlds outside of Room may be lies, but they are lies told out of love, in order to keep the awful truth at bay. There isn't much in Room, but at least mother and son have each other while cramped inside their four walls.
Even with a first half set almost entirely in a single space, Abrahamson shows remarkable dexterity behind the camera. Working with cinematographer Danny Cohen, he turns Room into a visually dynamic space. The camera moves and swings, and at times captures space at angles that make everything appear much bigger. The Room may not be big to us (or to Ma), but it's literally the entire world to Jacob, and Abrahamson and Cohen do a striking job of conveying this notion. The grim reality remains at the fringes, but is only palpable when Ma is significantly present in a shot.
Young Mr. Tremblay is effortlessly believable in his role, neither grating nor overly coached. He never hits a false note, and Abrahamson ought to be commended for guiding the young actor through some tricky material. Having the film so strictly grounded in his mindset pays off in spades. Jack is allowed to be both our window into Room's world, while also functioning as a protagonist with agency. W.C. Fields is famously quoted as saying, "Never work with children or animals," but Tremblay makes a compelling case as evidence to the contrary.
Meanwhile, Larson adds another wrenching performance to her resume as Ma. She plays the character's complexities with great restraint, keeping one on edge as to what her next move will be. Ma loves Jack, but she's also an adult who has had her life irrevocably altered, even if a day comes when she can escape from Room. Despite a few disappearances during the story, Room is just as much about Ma's shattered psyche as it is about Jack's experiences with the world (both the one he knows, and beyond). Room is about emotional imprisonment, but it spends just as much time dealing with recovery from trauma, which is hardly an easy journey.
Despite the eventual appearance of the outside world, Room remains anchored in Tremblay and Larson's beautiful performances. Under Abrahamson's watch, their story never gets lost even as the scope of the narrative widens. Room puts the bonds of mother and child through the wringer, but always with tasteful distance. Abrahamson and Donoghue present some harsh realities and harsh questions, but their concern for their characters mirrors Ma's treatment Jack: sometimes it's abrasive, but it ultimately comes from a place of profoundly moving love that refuses to be shaken.
Grade: A-
Director: Guillermo Del Toro
Runtime: 119 minutes
In an early flashback in Crimson Peak, a ghost whispers to young Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska) that she should beware of the titular location. A similar warning should be given out to those going to see Guillermo Del Toro's latest film under the wrong impression. If you want to be either scared witless or grossed out by blood and gore, look elsewhere. But if you want to see a film that gorgeously translates the themes and tropes of gothic romance to the screen - albeit with flashes of the supernatural and R-rated content - look no further. Mr. Del Toro courted mainstream appeal with his last film, the glorified machines vs. monsters B-movie Pacific Rim. Let his newest endeavor, despite being made in English and through the studio system, sees the Mexican auteur returning to his roots, with sumptuous and haunting results.
The first ghost appears only moments into Crimson Peak, and past that point, you'd be forgiven for thinking you were in the wrong theater. The amber-tinted images the capture the hushed romance of Edith and the mysterious Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston) feel more in line with The Age of Innocence than anything remotely connected to the horror or supernatural thriller dramas. Despite the increased appearance of ghouls and ghosts later, the romance portion of the film is where Mr. Del Toro's attention really lies. Wasikowska's Edith is an aspiring novelist, and in one scene she is met with confusion from an editor who tries to pigeonhole her short story as a "ghost story." "I like to think of it as a story with a ghost in it," is her reply, and the line doubles as Del Toro's mission statement for Crimson Peak as well.
It's fitting that Wasikowska plays the story's hero, seeing as she's already proven her worth playing the eponymous role of Jane Eyre, subject of one of the most revered Gothic romances in literature. In this new venture, Wasikowska and Del Toro have created a protagonist who remains fiercely independent and inquisitive, even as her situation deteriorates. The reasons for Edith's eventual endangerment are best left unclear, but - quite obviously - they stem from the presence of Thomas and his standoffish sister Lucille (Jessica Chastain).
Del Toro has melded a variety of influences (Jane Eyre, Hammer horror films, Rebecca) that could have proven unwieldy. But even when the influences are obvious or expected, the delivery is fresh when filtered through the director's vision. Del Toro, working with a wide range of new technical collaborators, has put his visual stamp on every inch of Crimson Peak, and it's often ravishing to behold. Even if the mix of genres fails to fully convince, you can always get lost in the immaculately designed sets. In typical Del Toro fashion, Crimson Peak's settings, clothes, and even people, are simultaneously gorgeous and grotesque.
Equally impressive is how elegantly Del Toro and co. keep the story moving. The director's English-language films, to date, have all been his weakest from a pacing standpoint. Crimson Peak, thankfully, bucks that trend. Enough time is given to Edith and Thomas' courtship to make it convincing, yet the film is never bogged down by the period details. There are moments of visual wonderment, but they are often captured through smoothly edited passages and informative camera movements that never allow Crimson Peak's atmosphere to stagnate.
Fantastic sets are one thing, you may ask, but what about the people inhabiting those densely designed settings? Crimson Peak's characters are largely meant to evoke other iconic roles, meaning they lack a true specificity. But that doesn't stop the cast from have a grand time vamping it up, all while staying sincere. Wasikowska does the wan intelligence bit superbly, keeping Edith sharp(e) even when she (and the audience) are left in the dark. Personally, Hiddleston is the biggest surprise of the cast. As somehow who has repeatedly left indifferent by his work, I was delighted by how well he captured Thomas' Byronic facade. The role could have called for nothing more than a handsome face, but the actor does some splendid work opposite his co-stars. And speaking of co-stars, he has two excellent ones in Wasikowska and Chastain. The latter is ultimately the film's MVP, despite a misleading one-note approach at the outset. Lucille's raven hair, like her psyche, comes unraveled over the course of the story, and to watch Chastain (affecting a mostly solid British accent) play such an overtly creepy (and later menacing) character is another testament to her range.
The three central characters are tasked with charting a psychological game that is constantly shifting gears, and Del Toro does a marvelous job of subverting audience expectations. Crimson Peak's eventual payoff is not immediately impressive when compared to, say, The Sixth Sense. But it is a rewarding all the same. Del Toro's script prepares to go big, but then pulls the rug out from under the viewer in favor of a twist that plays more on ideas than plot developments or supernatural gotcha moments. Ghosts may be real in the world of Crimson Peak, but they, like Thomas and Lucille, a far from what they seem. The film's opening warning specifies what Edith should beware at Crimson Peak. It never specified whom...
Grade: B+/A-
Director: Ridley Scott
Runtime: 141 minutes
For a movie about terrifying circumstances, Ridley Scott's The Martian has something you wouldn't normally expect: a sincere, deeply-entrenched air of optimism. Without straining too hard for 'feel-good' moments, Scott's adaptation of Andy Weir's best-selling novel is an exhilarating adventure because it refuses to get bogged down in existential crises. Seeing as how many of Scott's films are laced with either fatalism or downright nihilism, there is something truly invigorating in seeing the 77 year old make a movie that is basically a love letter to human ingenuity.
Set several decades in the future, The Martian wastes no time in dropping us off on the Red Planet and getting the ball rolling. Hardly a few minutes have gone by before a high-spirited NASA team is forced to abandon their mission and set course for Earth. But in the chaos of their escape (the cause of which is a colossal Martian storm), astronaut Mark Watney (Matt Damon) is struck by debris, and left for dead. Which, of course, he isn't.
There are so many points in the first act of Drew Goddard's screenplay that look like gateways to despair. Will we anguish with the NASA crew over their inability to rescue their colleague before take off? Will Mark Watney spend his final days on Mars pondering the meaning of life millions of miles away from home? The answer to both prompts is a resounding and triumphant 'No.' From the moment Watney drags himself back to base camp, he's on the go, thinking of what he has to do to survive long enough for the next NASA mission to reach Mars.
Scott - along with editor Pietro Scalia and cinematographer Dariusz Wolski - plunges headfirst into Watney's enthusiasm, to the film's great benefit. For a director who has long been regarded as a visual craftsman, he has scaled back rather marvelously. This is not a pretty or lush film, even with all of the sleek sets. It's an immersive, get-your-hands dirty endeavor that, like Mark Watney, likes to simply get the job done. The film may lack obvious moments of cinematic innovation or poetry, but it still thrills as an expertly calibrated and engagingly old-fashioned crowdpleaser.
Better yet, it's a crowdpleaser with actual smarts. The Martian is a tribute to human perseverance, but it's also a gushing ode to the unifying power of scientific progress. Characters throw around plenty of technical talk, but the smooth editing and dynamic performances (even the smallest roles are filled by actors who seem thrilled to be involved) erase the possibility of the film turning into a NASA training video.
First and foremost, The Martian would not work as well as it does without Damon's performance. Mark Watney can be a bit of a smart ass, but Damon keeps the character grounded, and nails all of Goddard's one-liners and off-the-cuff remarks. Even when facing life or death odds, the characters in The Martian still have room for laughter. Damon's co-stars all bring their charisma, ranging from Jessica Chastain's guilt-ridden commander to Kristen Wiig as NASA's prickly head of PR.
Yet none of these characters are especially well-rounded, and that includes Mark. And yet The Martian proves to be such rousing entertainment because it balances a cast of one-note characters with a smart sense of its story's stakes. There isn't too much to write about any of the individuals on screen, but we can sense their intelligence, their drive, and their desire to succeed and survive. Scott's latest cinematic foray into space hasn't produced another Ellen Ripley, and that's perfectly fine. What matters is that he's assembled a cast of charismatic actors who make for solid stand-ins for humanity as a whole. The Martian may start as Mark Watney's story, but it ends as joyous statement of what humanity is capable of when the lines between individuals and entire communities vanish in the name of survival. The dangers of space are terrifying, but The Martian reminds us that in the face of overwhelming odds, sometimes the perfect antidote is just a touch of optimism.
Grade: B+
