Top 25 Discoveries of 2021: Part 5. Playgrounds, California Dreaming, and Scenes from Marriages (Top 5)

5. Mary and Max (2009, Dir. Adam Elliott)

For filmmakers, creating stories that center around autistic leads is difficult. There is concern that they won’t be authentic, maybe creating an ableist piece of art that reinforces negative stereotypes. Of the few who have managed to come up with something greater is Elliott, whose story of an unlikely set of pen pals turns into one of the most endearing and memorable tales, at times diving into the macabre to fully understand how neurodivergence can be seen as both a gift and feature many personal struggles to relate to the outside world. With plenty of offbeat humor, the story becomes a powerful ode not only to being “different” but to what it means when someone finally connects.

What makes this an exemplary tale of autism is not that it celebrates a false portrait, but revels in raw honesty. There is something curious about the behavior of Max, who makes odd sandwiches and has plans that feel disconnected from the mainstream. Mary meanwhile is odd and has her own preconceived notions. Elliott doesn’t judge them, instead allowing them to exist in the world and overcome their own hurdles with an honest execution. It’s a story about how loneliness and isolation are part of our everyday lives, but there’s also hope and potential to grow and find peace. Even the strangest of us are capable of love, and it’s what makes the film ultimately a beautiful, brilliant tribute to the human spirit, free of any dishonest optimism. This isn’t a sad story, but one so full of hope and potential that it makes everything feel better by the end.

4. Burning (2018, Dir. Lee Chang-Dong)

The story starts simply enough with a man being asked to watch an old friend’s cat. However, things grow curiouser and curiouser as he looks for reason. At the apartment, it’s difficult to tell if the cat even exists, if he’s not being pulled for a ruse. There’s evidence to suggest both ways, but at no point does Chang-Dong want to give answers. He decides to exist the film in ambiguity, the characters slowly descending into madness as reason fails to materialize. It’s a dreamlike journey into the absurd, finding a film rich with metaphors blazing trails everywhere from parking lots to burning greenhouses. Everywhere there is something striking, searing memories that inspire confusion.

It’s the type of prism that makes one want to look closer, but not too closely. The uncertainty of what will happen next is exciting, making the inevitable conclusion hold a power rarely achieved. Steven Yeun also gives one of his best performances as a beguiling and ambiguous figure who is as much a threat to any deeper sense of intimacy as he is annoyingly optimistic. He is a figure who is likable enough, able to be that way until the film requires him to change without notice into the villain, who even then has great nice guy energy. It’s a tightrope of a film that balances everything as it builds mystery and creates the potential for cinema to reach higher, pushing into a realm beyond our own understanding – and all without falling into genre fiction. This is the real world, or so it seems. Whatever it is, it’s a perfect film to immerse yourself in and forgive yourself for missing details. If anything, it’s the type of film that inspires rewatchability almost immediately, which is saying a lot. 

3. Chungking Express (1994, Dir. Wong Kar-Wai)

A cross-section of characters enters Kar-Wai’s drama looking for the same thing, though not each other. Everyone is lonely and in desperate need of connection not necessarily of the romantic kind, but just in the sense that humanity hasn’t passed them by. It’s in these moments that Kar-Wai reflects the various ways that characters explore their individuality from hanging out at bars to collecting expired pineapple to commemorate the end of a relationship. There’s symbolism at every turn, and yet the question ultimately is: is there any bigger truth in any of this? Maybe we’re all just kidding ourselves, passing the hours until we pass onto the next phase of our lives.

It’s a stylish film, full of cool moments. One of the most impressive is a recurring use of The Mamas and The Papas’ “California Dreamin’” where a deli employee plays the song on repeat, finding the experience turning from discovery to monotonous back to dreamlike. There’s something in those notes that make life worth living, it’s just difficult to live in that moment forever knowing that it’ll come to an end. Everything is overlapping in its own meticulous way, finding the lonely nights turning into moments of philosophical debates as 90s pop songs play. It’s brilliant in its youthful vigor, managing to create an understanding not only of why we look for connection but how that time informs parts of our identity, themselves creating character and in some ways only isolating us further. Still, it’s a hopeful story worthy of every last perfect minute. 

2. Ikiru (1952, Dir. Akria Kurosawa)

As we reach the end of our lives, one question ultimately comes up: what did I do with my time? For one of Kurosawa’s most profound works, he answers that question with a recognizable “not much.” This is the story of melancholy, where one man discovers that as his days are numbered, he hasn’t much of a reputation to leave behind. Even the paperwork behind him has piled up, detailing how the sewage system in town is backed up. It’s not unlike his own body, refusing to work in harmony with the other components. Everything is on the verge of shutting down, and the question goes from what you did to what can you do when your days are numbered.

It’s a compassionate drama that explores a life that may have started late, but at least it started before it was too late. His mission may seem foolish, but his new plan of building a playground seeks to provide some influence over society, bringing joy to the youth and hopefully bettering the future beyond his lousy job. As his coworkers question his interests, one thing becomes clear. They have even less to show for their achievements beyond wealth. Kurosawa’s layered drama captures a fully examined life so beautifully that the once prison-like imagery evolves into picture frames, capturing moments of pure joy and potential. He may have not been the most successful man to have ever lived, but as his gift to the world will suggest, sometimes it takes risks and passion to make everything else matter. 

1. Scenes from a Marriage (1973, Dir. Ingmar Bergman)

Towards the center of Bergman’s epic is an intimate moment where Liv Ullman opens a box of memories. In it, she discovers pictures and diaries that open an understanding of who she is. There’s been despair that’s always existed inside of her, incapable of fully appreciating the love around her. It’s a monologue, never showing the flashback that she speaks of, and yet it’s so vivid. Bergman’s writing is so eviscerating. Ullman’s performance is so melancholic with self-actualization that makes the sorrow feel more real. This is a moment that helps explain her views of the marriage she is in, so full of potential for greater things and yet it all feels hollow. She’ll never be happy in her current state.

With decades of filmmaking to his credit, Bergman knows how to tap into his characters using the least amount of effort. Even within a single room, he’s able to frame each person’s mental state, finding one side busy with desks and shelves and the other barren. There’s power in his subliminal approach that shows a divide that only grows more by the second. Small turns of phrase come to hold the deepest weight. Even scenes of prolonged procrastination come to hold power as Bergman does everything in his power to keep them together. There is a need, even if they are incompatible, to stay together and not feel alone in the greater world. They can repair everything even if there’s so much evidence against the argument.

For 1973 especially, this was a groundbreaking piece of art that the recent HBO miniseries fails to capture. It isn’t just the eviscerating fallout of a relationship, but the greater social meaning, how one is perceived in society. Everyone knows how the story ends, and yet it goes beyond, finding the ability to move on and find happiness. It’s one of those hard truths that make this work timeless, capable of speaking to generations who have had their heart broken, watching their own interpersonal relationships fall apart. So much of this is real that it is at times haunting. This breaks free of the minimalist drama that at times feels more like a stage drama and becomes something more self-reflexive, in need of greater understanding. This is how divorces usually go, and Bergman’s ability to slowly unravel the string is a brilliant tool that results in an amazing film that rivals his best, proving just how immortal of a filmmaker he has always been.