Minari opens beautifully. A hauntingly airy score from Emile Mosseri. A countryside floating by outside a car window. A child in the backseat looking out. We know immediately we are on a journey of discovery, but a wholly intimate one, not just about exploring new landscapes in the natural world.

The film centers around a South Korean family moving to a farm in Arkansas in pursuit of the American dream. The hard-working father, Jacob (Steven Yeun), has bold dreams of starting a farm to provide for the family, while the mother, Monica (Han Ye-ri), is more concerned with the practicality of making a living in their new home state to provide for their children, Anne (Noel Kate Cho) and David (Alan Kim). The film mainly plays out from the child’s perspective of young David, witnessing his family struggles to find their way.

A well-told film could work good enough with a premise like that, but the reason I believe that this film soars to an emotionally-rich and universal story is because of the semi-autobiographical nature of the script, based partly on writer-director Lee Isaac Chung’s experience as a child. In these characters, and in the superb performances from this cast, we are treated to a family dynamic with details and idiosyncrasies so specific and nuanced that the film rings true down to its very core. Later in the film, we are treated to the appearance of Soonja (Youn Yuh-jung), the grandmother of the children, who arrives to help the family in their new home. She brings along with her a strong reminder of the family’s Korean heritage, which is perhaps the reason for David’s initial mistrust of her upon her arrival. She brings a fresh vibrancy to the film at this point as her relationship deepens with the children. She teaches them how to gamble, pokes fun at them, and takes them with her to plant the korean-native herb, minari, on their land.

Meanwhile, Jacob struggles to provide and find a way to grow and sell other Korean crops in order to make ends meet. This ambition leaves his wife, Monica, stuck between the needs of her children and the threat of a failing farm. This movie is not just a coming-of-age story for the kids, but also for the adults who are learning how to grow their family in a new land. As they succeed and as they struggle, we know that these moments will shape their lives forever.

Minari captures the reality of what it is like for an immigrant family in America and presents it to us with a raw authenticity that speaks to the heart of the human experience. We all long to leave impact and grow something beyond ourselves. And what this film shows, is that it’s often the most personal and overlooked aspect of our lives that has the greatest potential for growth. In a Q&A about the film, Chung speaks about the fact that in his own life, it was his father who pointed out that the minari thrived most in that Arkansas land so many years ago.

Sansho the Bailiff  is a film full of emotion. Not completely melodramatic or over-the-top, but true emotion that sits within the very essence of the story. Helmed by one of Japan’s master filmmakers, Kenji Mizoguchi, many consider this film to be his masterpiece (although there’s a case to be made about many of his later films being his very best). Whatever your take is, there’s no denying that the filmmaking here demonstrates a master at work. Through his unassuming camera with perfectly framed compositions, to his actor’s commitment, and his deep personal connection to the story, all of it comes together to provide a powerful and haunting experience.

Based on a classic folk tale, the film follows a mother, Tamaki, forced to flee with her two children after her husband, a local administrator, is exiled for his mercy towards the people by the powerful Sansho the bailiff. On their travels, Tamaki is split apart from her daughter, Anju, and her son, Zushio, when they are betrayed and sold into slavery. The children find themselves under the service of none other that Sansho the Bailiff. Although the character of Sansho gives us the film’s title, he himself is not the center of the story, but merely acts as an example of cruelty and oppression faced by the people of Japan in this time period. In their difficult circumstance, Anju and Zushio adopt new names, and thus a new identity. Throughout this, they hold on to their father’s teachings, “A man is not a human without mercy.” Then, the story jumps forward 10 years and hope is suddenly reignited by Anju (now named Shinobu) when she hears a new slave singing a tune from a distant island with lyrcis that contain her and her brothers old names, “Anju. Zushio.” It’s an immensely powerful scene with beautiful staging, as the camera lingers on Anju’s face as the realization slowly hits her, and her purpose for life slowly reignited. We learn through other scenes that their mother, Tamaki was forced into a brothel to survive, and she has been desperately seeking her children since. With this revelation, they know that their mother is alive, and Anju begins to plan a possible escape, in hopes of reuniting their family. Zushio, however, has adapted to his surroundings in a much different way, and does not share his younger sister’s optimism, instead becoming cold, preferring to stay on the bailiff’s good side in order to survive. He has even assisted the bailiff himself in the cruel act of branding an old man who attempted to flee. The teachings of their father speaking of mercy have no place in Sansho’s land. I won’t give away too much else that happens after, in risk of ruining the experience. But the film unfolds in an unpredictable way that brings about mixed emotions of both fulfillment and soul-crushing disappointment.

Anyone familiar with Mizoguchi knows that this film is very personal to him; and it clearly shows. Growing up in poverty, Mizoguchi shared in the tragedy that many of his characters in this film experience themselves, with him being split apart from members of his family and witnessing his older sister being sold as a geisha. The heartbreak and lament we see on screen is not just a story, but it’s his story, which adds a powerful depth of autobiography to the telling of it. I often say that when a film is personal to a filmmaker, it shines through in an indescribable way, as if every creative decision is rooted in instincts and emotions that are fueled by deep experiences and revelations that mirror those on-screen. I believe that it’s hard to find a filmmaker who creates at a more personal level than Mizoguchi does here. His critique of the Japanese treatment of women and societal burdens on the poor comes from a place of pain, understanding and empathy that creates a strong adaptation of the source material and story.

Sansho the Bailiff  is a powerful film, meant to be experienced and felt rather than dissected for filmmaking techniques (although it is rich in filmmaking lessons). It’s a film about mercy, freedom, and hope that plays out like an intimate epic, covering years of life but never straying from the strong emotions of the characters. It’s powerful and haunting, and is not always easy to watch. But if there’s one thing that can be learned from Sansho, it’s that oppression can be overcome, but the laments and scars may never disappear. I like the words of the film critic, Anthony Lane, who wrote, “I have seen ‘Sansho’ only once, a decade ago, emerging from the cinema a broken man but calm in my conviction that I had never seen anything better; I have not dared watch it again, reluctant to ruin the spell, but also because the human heart was not designed to weather such an ordeal.” If that doesn’t speak to the power of cinema, I don’t know what does.

The mythology behind Robert Rodriguez’s low-budget classic is astounding. How the Texan director sold his body to science at a local drug testing facility where he wrote the script, filmed it in Mexico with a budget of only $7,000, and managed to make it through their rushed production and post-production without any crew. Just one guy behind a camera and the help of those in front of it, (and a lot of talent). This story has long inspired film students and independent filmmakers throughout the decades, proving that it is possible to just go out and make a film despite the resources you have. But for me, what’s most remarkable about this story is that the film itself is actually great! The enduring legacy of Robert Rodriguez’s debut feature is that it’s not just possible to make a film for cheap, but it’s possible to make a really awesome film. El Mariachi proves it!

The first thing that stands out to me about El Mariachi is just how fast-paced it is. Although Robert Rodriguez was still a film student, this has none of the flaws that has become commonplace for so many student films. In one of the early scenes of the film, we meet the protagonist, Mariachi (Carlos Gallardo), hitchhiking in the desert “Sin amor. Sin suerte” (or “Without love. Without luck.”). To me, it immediately gives off strong vibes from George Miller’s original Mad Max as both contain a lonely man forced to wander the wasteland. This time, the archetypal hero carries nothing but a guitar case in his hand, which proves to be instantly iconic. He is also accompanied by a small turtle who walks alongside him on the road into town, ducking into its shell as Mariachi passes him on the sun-baked road. Also iconic. At this point, we don’t know much about this character, but I’m hooked. How long has he been on screen? 30 seconds? 2 minutes? I told you this thing moved fast.

After that, our protagonist enters Ciudad Acuña, Mexico, where his luck does not improve when he is mistaken for the killer Azul (Reinol Martinez) also carrying a guitar case who is wanted by local hitmen. With that simple setup, this film is off to the races in which Mariachi must survive a series of dangerous gun fights to escape the town alive in hopes of playing his guitar another day. There’s hardly a slow beat in this film, and once the action gets going it’s impossible to look away. Even slower scenes inside bars are kept entertaining by Rodriguez’s energetic camera or quick cutting style. One of my favorite moments is when Mariachi must ride a zip-line across a public street onto the front of a moving bus. It doesn’t matter that the zip-line they used on set was homemade, or that nearly everything was shot with only one take almost like a documentary, the results are there and so is my suspension of disbelief. In 2020, it’s hard to believe Robert Rodriguez pulled this off, and in 1992 it must’ve been unbelievable… It’s truly a masterclass in economical, effective filmmaking. The camera’s use of zoom lenses, placement, and rapid cutting not only disguise the film’s low-budget, but also serve the story perfectly! Besides, those quick cuts would probably be there anyway if they had a million bucks and blocked off the city street, hired a stunt coordinator, and shot the sequence with multiple cameras. But that’s not the Mariachi way.

Anyway, the script doesn’t just pander to fun action or interesting plot setups, but the character of Mariachi is developed into an empathetic hero that is grown and challenged in interesting ways. He meets a woman named Domino (Consuelo Gomez) and falls in love, which complicates matters more. And he learns that there’s one man behind everything, Mauricio (Peter Marquardt), who lounges back on a wealthy ranch, pulling all the strings. By the end, Mariachi will come to find he has more here at stake than just his own life, and he is given new purpose to continue onward. In the beginning, he was Mad Max; but by the end, he’s become the Road Warrior, bearing a trusty dog at his side, a painful wound, and a new machine that will take him across the wasteland as he continues to wander. And there’s the turtle again. Nice touch. I love this movie.

Spike Lee’s masterpiece is now 31 years old. I witnessed the film for the first time last year on it’s 30th anniversary, and I watched it again last week coincidentally only days before the death of George Floyd, which eerily mirrors the on-screen death of Radio Raheem. Spike Lee recently commented on this climactic scene saying, “It was a hard scene to shoot. And for 31 years it’s been a hard to scene to watch.” It’s hard because this scene transcends a fictional narrative, and shows up in our world today.

Events like this prove the film’s enduring relevance. Tackling racial issues head on, Spike Lee shows us the truth of human behavior in this film. Set on the hottest day of the summer, the story follows the lives of various residents on a racially tense Brooklyn Street. There are several characters: Mookie (played by Spike Lee) who delivers for the local Italian owned pizzeria on the corner, Sal (Danny Aiello), the Italian owner of the pizzeria, Radio Raheem (Bill Nunn), a neighborhood local who sports the iconic knuckle rings of “love” and “hate” with a boombox playing Public Enemy’s Fight The Power, Tina (Rosie Perez) who dances in the film’s opening credit sequence and is Mookie’s girlfriend, Da Mayor (Ossie Davis), an old man labeled as a drunk who proves to contain hidden wisdom, and many, many more that  would take too much time to list. But what’s so impressive about each of these characters is that not a single one of them is surface level or cliche. In a film that balances so many subplots and “minor” characters, all of them feel major, and all of them have a story. Spike Lee shows a deep empathy for everyone in this film, and it’s this love and deep knowledge of identity for all of these characters that makes the story work as good as it does. It’s stylized to the core in the best way possible and presents complicated characters that are impressively well developed for only a single day of story.

As we follow each of these character’s lives sweating throughout the neighborhood tensions begin to rise in small, but significant ways. But nothing is forced or faked here to deliver artificial conflict. Everything feels earned as the day in the story progresses and the heat rises. When considering the violent outcome of the film, it’s difficult to place the blame on any one person or any one issue. The blame could be shifted onto Sal for smashing Radio Raheem’s boombox, but he stayed open late to serve other people in the neighborhood and got attacked because of it. The blame could fall to Radio Raheem for attacking Sal, but a piece of his identity was smashed along with his boombox, and he was just trying to make his voice heard. Blame could also fall to Mookie for smashing Sal’s windows, but how can we blame him for demanding action after a murder? Perhaps if circumstances were changed by just a little…if people understood each other just a bit more…if there was just an easier way to communicate…then maybe doing the right thing wouldn’t seem so murky.