Glamour puss extraordinaire Marlene Dietrich gets a chance to poke gentle fun at her icy, remote goddess persona in The Flame of New Orleans. We’re a long way from the sustained romantic luxury and exotic stylization found in the Josef von Sternberg films here, and Dietrich actually exhibits personality here rather than function as another prop in the elaborate tableau. It’s just a shame that the rest of the film isn’t up to her level. Roland Young is stuffy, Bruce Cabot is a pleasant surprise in the Clark Gable-esque role, Anne Revere gets a chance to play high society instead of frumpy matron, Theresa Harris finds perfect synchronicity with Dietrich as her maid/co-conspirator, but it’s all in service towards a script that starts with a hooky narration and never expands beyond that initial impression. The Flame of New Orleans is a lightweight affair, an amiable obscurity buried within the Dietrich myth that’s fun to discover in a career box set or retrospective wedged in-between towering greats like The Shanghai Express and Witness for the Prosecution.
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Ah, exotica, that most bizarre of subgenre of American jazz popular in the late 50s through the mid-60s that was an aural ersatz approximation of world music through an atomic prism. It didn’t actually sound anything like real music from a Hawaiian luau or the folk sounds of the Amazon, nor did it resemble anything out of the Andes or African tribal drums. Exotica was a pure fantasy creation that sounded right at home in the clean, rounded futuristic spaces viewed on The Jetsons.
Exotica relied upon a combination of rhythms (bongos, conga, bamboo sticks, vibes) alongside found sounds (jungle cat roars, primate shrieks, and bird calls most prominently) to give the vaguest sense of travelogue and safari-like adventures. The whole thing is infinitely preposterous, and then you add in the relative lack of singing in favor of siren-like vocal ululations and chants to make the entire thing sound like the soundtrack of a whacky sci-fi adventure.
Does this sound like a good time to you? Well, it should. Exotica remains a camp delight for those seeking it out. Lucky for you that Ultra-Lounge, Vol 1: Mondo Exotica exists to find a thorough sampling of the various types of exotica all in one place.
Martin Denny, the biggest purveyor of the sound who dubbed it “pure fantasy,” gets the largest amount of selections with six (“Swamp Fire,” “Hypotique,” “Misirlou,” “Jungle Madness,” “The Girlfriend of the Whirling Dervish,” “Quiet Village”), and this is as it should be. You’ll essentially get another Denny song every third track. “Swamp Fire” sets the tone right out the gate, and if your first impression is something along the lines of “what the hell is this?” then you’re not alone. Exotica takes a while to wrap your brain around as it sounds carbon-dated to its era and delightfully space age.
If Denny’s strange lounge music populated with animal shrieks doesn’t make you think of the swinging sixties, then surely 80 Drums Around the World’s “Caravan” will do it. There is a breakdown in “Caravan” that wouldn’t sound out of place as the backdrop to a bunch of go-go dancing bikini girls on the beach. It’s charming in just how obtuse and kitsch it is.
Les Baxter, the godfather of the sound, gets four choices and they display how instrumental he was in laying the foundations. His songs sound less ornate and bizarre than others, compare his “Atlantis,” a dreamy little instrumental, Bas Sheva’s guttural moans and chants on “Lust” and you’ll hear how his ideas only grow once taken up by other artists. Baxter was clearly doing lounge music to everyone else’s dreamscapes of galactic frontiers and surf riders.
Another major player in the genre was Yma Sumac, a Peruvian singer blessed with a ridiculously large vocal range that she puts on full display on both of the choices here. “Babalu” gets transformed far away from its standardized form, you know it most readily from Ricky Ricardo’s persistent playing of it on I Love Lucy, and into something that sounds like a campy Amazonian Moon Queen’s band would play. While “Wimoweh” closes out the album, and it’s the closest that Ultra-Lounge, Vol 1: Mondo Exotica gets to a song played straight. Sumac still lets her backup singers deliver the chorus lines while she hits notes in the highest parts of her range and does a few runs. Sumac’s two songs are daffy and elegant, kitsch and sophisticated at the exact same time.
Mondo Exotica keeps its track listing firmly on the side of the more digestible and accessible pieces of exotica, and it’s an inspired hour of strange, weird sounds. It becomes nearly narcotic in just how obtuse it all is. The Ultra-Lounge series was clearly off to a good start with this set that wisely alternates between the biggest players (Denny, Baxter, Sumac) and lesser-known choices (the Out-Islanders, 80 Drums Around the World, Tak Shindo). The whole collection emerges as a piece of essential listening for your next intergalactic beach party and cookout on Venus.
DOWNLOAD: Yma Sumac’s “Babalu,” the Out-Islanders’ “Moon Mist,” Martin Denny’s “Quiet Village”
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A confusing, charming mess of a takeoff on The Little Mermaid, Lu Over the Wall is several different films vying for attention, all of them various degrees of good. If you could, just for a minute, imagine what would happen if a Miyazaki film was rammed through a Looney Tunes filter, and I’m talking about a Bob Clampett/Tex Avery brand of free associative lunacy here, with a dash of rock and roll movie and coming-of-age story as garnishes. Picture this, and you’ll come very close to approximating the chaotic reverie that is Lu Over the Wall.
The problem isn’t that director Masaaki Yuasa is lacking in ideas, but that he’s got too many of them buffeting against each other at any given time. We must absorb the mermaid mythology that the film deploys, and keep various characters straight, including their personal tragedies and relations to one another. It becomes a Sisyphean task, and the quicker you learn to let go coherence and embrace the chaos the better your enjoyment will be.
Lu Over the Wall spits in the face of logic and just proceeds to entertain us with vibrancy, slapstick, pleasingly kooky pop/rock, and the sight of mer-dogs. Here, mermaids closely resemble vampires in their inability to make direct contact with sunlight and turn you into one of their ranks through a fang-filled bite. Lu also doesn’t look like any mermaid I’ve ever seen previously. Her head resembles a jellyfish attached to the body of a koi, and she grows legs and starts dancing whenever she hears music. Her love for music and dance proves infectious as she causes mass breakouts of what looks like an Irish jig in the small fishing village’s denizens.
Look, none of this makes any sense, and your mileage will inevitably vary on how interested you are in watching the closest approximation of a Bob Clampett Studio Ghibli cartoon. Me? I tuned right into its crazy wavelength shortly after its quiet introductory scenes gave way towards Lu manipulating the water around her into gigantic cube shapes that took flight. And that’s not even counting the sight of an enormous humanoid shark wearing a suit and smoking a pipe wandering the streets! Lu Over the Wall isn’t anywhere near perfect, but it’s a damn entertaining and original run through a well-worn mythology. That counts for something.
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Pop music so intrinsically tied to its era shouldn’t remain this breezy and fun. Yet here we are with Duran Duran’s Greatest, a nineteen song retrospective of their Top 40-minded alternative-pop hits and strongest minor singles. What remains crystal clear is that they mined the same territory that Roxy Music and Bryan Ferry blazed, but they did it with aspirations of pop dominance, music video blockbusters, and arena-ready ear worms.
Greatest cuts off at 1998, leaving behind some of the later albums like Red Carpet Massacre and Paper Gods, but it offers more than enough sonic pleasures and bang-for-your-buck expertly chosen songs than any other compilation album. It’s the sound of the Reagan years written in frothy baubles about girls, exotic locales, girls, James Bond, and girls, possibly on film. What’s most interesting is how if you remove the sunny production values and layers of synths from the mix, then you’re left with songs that could easily transform into aggressive early-punk classics.
Yet Duran Duran remains the most iconic band of the New Romantic movement, taking the crown from contemporaries like Culture Club, Eurythmics, and Adam Ant, and that’s a group with equally strong catalogues of music. This is the sound of MTV’s emerging power to make or break music acts, and songs like “Hungry Like the Wolf” immediately conjure up their equally well-known music videos. Duran Duran were just smart enough, and frankly uniformly attractive enough, to marry their strong song writing skills to glossy images of beautiful models, jet-set glamour, and their own artful pouting in smart outfits. It’s thrilling stuff.
But Greatest does live up to its title, and reminds us that they wouldn’t have achieved such lofty heights if the material wasn’t up to snuff. Any band would kill for a “Rio,” “Come Undone,” “A View to Kill” (one of the few Bond themes to emerge as a gargantuan hit), or “Is There Something I Should Know?” That’s just a sampling of Duran Duran’s material on parade here. There’s artier, smarter choices in guitar riffs or lyrical refrains here than their hunky lads that ate models for breakfast image would project. They were paying close attention to Roxy Music’s teachings after all.
And if you wonder if this material really does deserve your attention, then think about newer bands like the Killers so clearly pilfer from their songs. Hell, think of how an album like Rio hasn’t gained a pound since 1982. Now imagine only the nuggets from roughly twenty years of hits and experimentations assembled for your pleasure. It’s a hard bargain to turn down.
The only knock against Greatest is its chronological disarray. We hop around between eras and sounds like the band is performing a concert instead of presenting the crown jewels of their singles. Yet one could argue that lesser-known or largely ignored songs like “Electric Barbarella” and “All She Wants Is” now get equal prominence with the likes of “The Reflex” or “Notorious.” Yes, chronological order would be better, but Greatest is still an essential collection of the brightest from one of the 80s biggest and best acts.
DOWNLOAD: “Girls on Film,” “Hungry Like the Wolf,” “Electric Barbarella”
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There’s plenty of bigger, badder collections of Etta James’ genre-bending blues growl out there, but if all you want is the cream of the crop from Miss Peaches then this collection is what you’re looking for. Her Best gathers up the essential moments from her Chess Records period, her most fertile, dynamic, and impactful era, into twenty songs of grit, bluesy turmoil, and triumph.
It all begins and ends with that voice. A thing that tremendous elasticity and power, at once capable of tenderly caressing as in the opening swoon of “At Last” as it is of storming in biblical might as in the climax of “Two Sides to Every Story.” James was never one for merely showing off her vocal dynamics just for the hell of it, no, she wanted to communicate the emotional truth of whatever she was singing.
She can bounce back and forth between guttural, nearly obscene carnality on some songs then do a completely believable turnaround on her finessed readings of ballads. Her instrument is one that defies easy classification. Is she blues, jazz, pop, soul, gospel, or rock? To answer to that question is yes, she’s all of it. She often makes the backup singers supporting her sound like automatons merely going through the motions in comparison to the emotional exorcism she’s giving.
Much of the first half of Her Best is occupied by selections from At Last! Not a surprising choice as that remains a definitive album and her greatest recording to date. “A Sunday Kind of Love,” “All I Could Do Is Cry,” and the yearning duet with Harvey Fuqua, “If I Can’t Have You,” haven’t lost their ability to grab hold of you after all these decades. Her Best is a great starting point, but make sure you go back and listen to all of At Last!
But it’s after the well-known recordings that the surprises pop-up, including a live cover of Jimmy Reed’s “Baby, What Do You Want Me to Do” that bursts with energy. The template for her career was set with her first album, but the permutations of it are quite pleasing. After all, James’ shocking touches of vulnerability and innocence make a song like “Pushover” just as believable as the inviting “Tell Mama” or the rapturous “Something’s Got a Hold on Me.”
For Chess’ 50th anniversary, they released several of these collections: Bo Diddley, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, just to name a few. It’s a reminder that James is just as essential and as much of a powerhouse artist as any of those guys. The opening notes of “At Last” have toppled many a strong singer, and if that isn’t enough to knock you out, Her Best has nineteen more reasons for that argument.
DOWNLOAD: “Something’s Got a Hold on Me,” “Fool That I Am,” “Tell Mama”
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You want a single disc assortment of Smokey Robinson and the Miracles’ combination of tear-stained love songs and straight-up party starters? Then seek out The Ultimate Collection, a compilation of twenty-five songs covering all the biggest hits, some lesser known greats, and a smattering of smartly chosen rarities. The Ultimate Collection was a series of seventeen albums covering the biggest, best of Motown’s enviable staple of artists, but Smokey Robinson and the Miracles’ entry may tower above the others with its sheer artistic dominance.
The Ultimate Collection also makes one hell of an argument, backed up with plenty of evidence, for Smokey Robinson as one of the great writers of the rock era. He’s a man who belongs in the same breath as canonized Lennon/McCartney, Brian Wilson, and the acknowledge might of the Brill Building writers. Not that Smokey is hurting for deserved acclaim or praise for his artistry, legacy, and enduring works, but his placement needs a higher look. He could make a lovelorn lyric sing, flip, or dance depending on the moment.
Going to a Go-Go, the greatest studio album the group released, gets a deserving five selections, all of them classics (“The Tracks of My Tears,” “Ooo Baby Baby,” “Choosey Beggar,” “Going to a Go-Go,” “My Girl Has Gone”). It’d be easy to just list these five songs off as both reason enough to seek this out and throw in a few randomly chosen selections like “The Tears of a Clown” or “I Second That Emotion,” but that would be a disservice to so many of the other jewels just waiting to make you boogey or cry along.
It would be too easy to just write at great length about these songs and that particular album. It’s one of the greatest ever released, and a personal favorite of mine. In order to give more shine to songs not off of Going to a Go-Go, I’m going to highlight other choices for the standout tracks. There’s more than enough gorgeous, lush music to choose from that not recommending “The Tracks of My Tears” or “Ooo Baby Baby” won’t feel like some kind of slight.
One of the oldest songs here is “Way Over There,” one of the first proper Motown releases and produced by Berry Gordy, is a glimpse of the genius to come. Robinson’s vocals are impassioned with his voice frequently breaking into a pleasing rasp or swooping into a desperate falsetto. Claudette Robinson answers his pleas with a honey-sweet “come to me, baby,” and “Way Over There” is the first genius pop song from a man who would go on to write dozens and dozens more for himself and numerous others.
But it’s not all silver-tongued romanticism from the Miracles. Anyone who’s watched their set during The TAMI Show knows that they could throw a scorching party. “Mickey’s Monkey” is a comical little ditty that still boogies. The handclaps, call-and-response vocals, and the demands to do “the Monkey” dance mark it as an essential piece of early-60s dance anthems.
This portion of the Miracles output gets lesser audio time, but that makes sense. After all, Robinson was at his best when playing debonair romantic. The heart wrenching nature of “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me” and “We’ve Come Too Far to End It Now” finds Robinson sobbing and the Miracles acting as a chorus of misery. These are the hits that made his legacy, and it makes sense that the tear-stained ballads and flirty love songs get the biggest chunk of time here. A better title for this would be Essential Listening.
DOWNLOAD: “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me,” “Mickey’s Monkey,” “We’ve Come Too Far to End It Now”
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They were created by music impresario Malcolm McLauren, he who also created the Sex Pistols and managed/advised groups like the Slits and New York Dolls, crafted Bow Wow Wow in 1980 after several members of the Ants left Adam Ant behind. He found a then-teenaged Annabella Lwin singing at a dry cleaners she worked at part-time and auditioned her as the group’s lead singer. The rest is New Wave history. Well, minor history. Bow Wow Wow had a few hits, but they’re mostly known for their cover of the Strangeloves’ garage rock classic “I Want Candy.”
They were a novelty, sure, but they performed their surf-punk ditties with a world beat swagger. Lwin was never much of a singer, but what she lacked in technique she made up for in push power and a certain ability to alternate between camp princess and girlish squeal. Look at how she does a mean punk sneer on debut single “C30, C60, C90, Go” then practically sticks her tongue in both cheeks at the same time to deliver the brazen “Louis Quatorze” later on. In-between the boys pound away at a furious pace that only pauses long enough for Lwin to encourage us to join the “Mile High Club.” Wait, isn’t she underage here?
Adolescent sexual fantasies are kept to a minimum, but there’s lots of big hooks, bit beats, and aggressive posing to keep things from being too icky. We Are the 80s distills a brief career down to the essentials and clocks in at a brisk 44 minutes. Not too bad for a band that only lasted three years and whose best albums was already a compilation, 1982’s I Want Candy.
DOWNLOAD: “C30, C60, C90, Go”
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Before he was part of Patti Smith’s seminal punk group, Lenny Kaye assembled Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era, 1965 – 1968 for Elektra Records. Kaye was a music writer and producer at the time, and his vision for Nuggets was a series of eight installments focusing on different regions of the US, but the label wanted something more manageable. Nuggets’ first saw life as a double-album in 1972, then ballooned out to a four-disc box set in the late 90s before this twenty-track distillation was released in 2000.
Nuggets from Nuggets is true to the aims and spirits of the original double-album with twenty of the best known hits, obscurities, cult hits, and novelties from the four-disc version repeated here. If you all you need is a single-disc of 60s garage rock, psychedelic rock, and proto-punk, then Nuggets from Nuggets is an ideal choice. Personally, I just recreated the track list as an iTunes playlist from the four-disc behemoth as a time and space saver, but I can’t say enough great things about the four-disc box.
Back to this collection, you won’t find a single weak link here. “I Want Candy,” “Louie, Louie,” “Incense and Peppermints,” “Nobody But Me,” and “Time Won’t Let Me” are just a randomly chosen sample of the songs on here. This thing rocks just as hard as anything coming out of CBGBs or the English punk scenes just a few years later, and not just because it’s a foundational text for that movement. No, these garage rock classics zip by with energy, nerve, and gusto to spare. The kind of assured and lunatic songwriting and playing that can only come from people purposefully trying to expand rock beyond the British Invasion and into something else.
My only complaint, and this goes back to the box set as well, is the absence of ? and the Mysterians’ “96 Tears.” That’s a rock classic if there ever was one and its omission stings a bit, but in its place we get plenty of snarling, bratty, brash tunes that make up for it. The full-scale Nuggets is punk’s equivalent to the Anthology of American Folk Music, and this distilled version plays out like a Wikipedia entry for the genre. That’s not an insult. Pop this in, crank up the volume, and smell the carbon monoxide wafting out of the speakers.
DOWNLOAD: The 13th Floor Elevators – “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” The Electric Prunes – “I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night),” Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs – “Wooly Bully”
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Look, just because Get Out is a dark satire about white supremacy doesn’t mean that it should be classified as a “comedy.” You hear my Golden Globes voters? Sure, there’s comedic elements, but there’s also too many psychological torments, scenes of abstract and real horrors, and a reckoning with America’s racial politics that reaches all the way back to the days of slavery in its scope. All of this is to say that Get Out was one of the great discoveries of 2017, and it came from the unlikeliest of sources, veteran sketch comedy artist Jordan Peele.
Peele has given himself an extraordinary task for his debut feature film, an essay of American racial tensions that must deftly float between escalating terror, psychological unease, motor-mouthed comedy, and twisted satire. He not only manages to balance all of those various pieces, but he makes for a coherent, entertaining work that has me excited for what his next film will be. Get Out is a confident debut, the likes of which announce an actor as a legitimate director with a distinct perspective and artistry to spare.
We meet Chris (Daniel Kaluuya in a star making performance) as he’s planning on spending the weekend meeting the family of his girlfriend, Rose (Allison Williams, what an unnerving film debut). Despite living in upstate New York, these affluent white liberals live in a house that teeters uncomfortably towards a plantation. You get the immediate sense that things are “off” long before you meet the family’s black servants who operate more like androids than anything recognizably human.
If your hackles are raised in these opening moments, then you’re clearly clued into Get Out’s wavelength. The air is rich with racial anxiety and tension, no matter how much Rose’s parents (Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener) proclaim their liberal bona fides, be it their belief that they’d vote for Obama for a third term or praise for Tiger Woods. They believe what they’re selling, but they’re clearly uncomfortable with any form of blackness that can’t be held at a distance or commodified, controlled, or used for their benefit.
One of Peele’s best inventions is a gathering at the family home that initially plays like a gathering of the moneyed elites having fancy sandwiches and tea, but quickly takes on darker intonations. Chris is deluged with a series of interactions that range from commentary based purely in stereotypes to the merely inane to the straight-up patronizing. The entire sequence feels like it comes from a very real place, and Peele manages to make it both hilarious and unnerving in equal measure. This gathering is soon revealed as an auction for Chris’ body and Get Out’s flirtations with slave imagery comes to fruition. It’s a powerful gut-punch and bait-and-switch.
The full extent of the duplicity and villainy of Rose and her family is slowly doled out until it all comes bursting through in the third act. Get Out is careful to unravel its central conceit until this moment, and it manages to do so with the slow drip-drip-drip of escalating unease and tension. It’s a brainy concept for a horror film, white liberals auction off black bodies so that elderly white people can transplant themselves into them as a way of prolonging life or stealing their gifts, and also manages to make a tea spoon’s tinging against the cup into a terrifying sound on par with the alien screech Donald Sutherland unleashes in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
Each plot twist must orbit around Chris, and Daniel Kaluuya’s performance is a wonder. He was rightly nominated for a slew of best actor awards for his work here. Whether it’s his tear-filled stare at a television screen, a heady mixture of abject terror and mind-bending disbelief, or the frustrated smile of yet another patronizing comment, Kaluuya’s reactive performance is a masterful bit of an actor in complete control. His best work may be a quick glimpse of betrayal and heartbreak as he realizes Rose lured him here like a lamb to slaughter. Get Out’s entire conceit needed a strong leading role to ensure it worked in addition to a confident directorial presence. Peele nailed it.
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Mudbound is the sight of a filmmaker evoking the power and fury of William Faulkner’s prose. Not only in the ways that the land itself becomes a harsh character, both unmovable by the sorrows of its characters and unrelenting in its unending withholding, but in its intense examination of generational and racial conflicts. These differing fractions both within the familial units and outside of it swirl around each other, bumping into each other before the big explosive climax. Mudbound is the Southern Gothic style operating at its artistic zenith.
Economic devastation is built into the framework of southern living in certain quarters, most especially in the literature which alternates between the poverty stricken and wealthy families going to rot. Mudbound includes both in a white family that finds itself on the harsh terrain typically reserved for black sharecroppers through poor financial choices, and a black family that’s inherited the land post-Reconstruction. We step into an already volatile situation long before the cantankerous, openly racist grandfather (Jonathan Banks) seeks to entrench a social order through violent means.
Mudbound’s expansive narrative is told through the interior monologues of several characters, and equal time is presented to both the white and black families giving a full-range of voices and experiences to poverty and racism. Henry McAllen (Jason Clarke) uprooted his family from Memphis to a parcel of land out in the country, only to find that he was swindled and is forced to live in the same area as the black sharecroppers. He takes this as a humiliating blow, and frequently speaks of how cruel the land is to him and his life.
In contrast, there’s Hap Jackson (Rob Morgan), patriarch of the black family that becomes the, well, not quite friends, but find themselves tied up with the McAllens. Hap finds pride and joy in working the land that his ancestors tilled and harvested in bondage because it is now his own. He takes his sense of ownership and pride as proof that things have improved for himself and his family.
We also get the disparate world views of their wives. Laura (Carey Mulligan) is clearly too smart for her husband, and one senses that she settled for him out of a fear of becoming a spinster through societal pressures. There’s clearly tension between them as she holds onto vestiges of their old life and societal standing. She can clearly see the thin line separating her from the poor white trash of the area, and the even thinner line demarcating her privileged existence over that of her black neighbors. Much like her husband, she’s never outwardly aggressive or openly racist but she tells more than she asks and demands more than she gives in return.
For all of Laura’s tenuous grasps on keeping her family together and holding onto middle-class signifiers, Florence (Mary J. Blige) is actually a giving, suffering, equal partner in her life and marriage. She and Hap both know that they walk a precarious line around white folks of any economic status, and the change between their public and private selves is seamless through years of practice and generations of ingrained lessons. In her most private moments and thoughts, Florence is a woman with a rich inner life and potential that is clearly going under realized through racial roles and social stasis.
Mudbound’s most unique and engaging relationship is through the friendship that forms between Jamie McAllen (Garrett Hedlund), Henry’s younger brother, and Ronsel Jackson (Jason Mitchell), Hap and Florence’s oldest son. They meet while serving in World War II, and reignite a tenuous friendship when they return home. While the Confederacy may have fallen, the hideous specter of the Civil War and Jim Crow lingers in the air throughout Mudbound. Their friendship, no matter how benign, is considered an affront to a caste system that should’ve been washed out long ago.
Dee Rees has made a film of startling power and impact here. Not only does she get stellar work from her cast, the biggest surprise being Mary J. Blige’s transformative performance that digs deep into a dramatic prowess no one saw coming and Jason Mitchell’s star-in-the-making work, but she gives them a wealth of material to play both externally and internally. One of the joys of the film is watching as Rees’ camera lingers on her actors faces in close-up in the full gamut of human emotion. The sight of Blige washing Mitchell’s injured and bleeding body late in the film is remarkable for the complicated emotions Blige manages to telegraph to the viewer.
Mudbound’s final scene is set in post-war Germany, as the country reconciles its atrocities and Ronsel returns to his wartime lover after escaping the present-day violence of America’s sins and entrenched social conditions. It’s a scene of hope and a bleak smack in the face for the ways it accuses America of not taking a good, hard look at itself. This scene, like so many others, is just a part of the reason why Mudbound was one of the best films of 2017.
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