‘My Golden Days’ Is a Stumbling Trip Down Memory Lane

Quentin Dolmaire (left) and Lou Roy-Lecollinet shine in an otherwise dull narrative.

“My Golden Days” embraces its personal ties to director Arnaud Desplechin (who co-wrote the screenplay with Julie Peyr), but the resulting film is one that meanders, navel-gazes, and holds its viewers at arm’s length. If Desplechin hoped to imbue his film with some sort of universal truth— whether about the nature of memory and nostalgia or the vicissitudes of youth— that message is lost amid the confusing and off-putting mix of themes, styles, and cinematic techniques.

After a brief tryst in a bright, airy bedroom, “My Golden Days” picks up with a middle-aged Paul Dedalus (Mathieu Amalric, from the heartbreaking gem “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly”) getting stopped by security at the airport on his way to Paris— some kind of passport issue. What begins as a routine interrogation ends up with Paul flashing back to distinct memories, though it is unclear why he decides to indulge this unsmiling security officer with his life story. He had told the woman from the opening scene that he harbors “no nostalgia” for his time in Paris, but that statement evidently couldn’t be further from the truth: Paul simply cannot let the past go. He jogs down memory lane and makes three stops, broken down by the film’s title cards: “Childhood,” a brief sequence depicting Paul’s astonishingly vivid (and ostensibly baseless) hatred for his parents; “Russia,” in which young Paul (Quentin Dolmaire) and a friend embark on a mini spy mission to free refuseniks from Minsk; and “Esther,” the tale of Paul’s teenage relationship with a bold and brash high school student (played by the fabulously talented first-time actress Lou Roy-Lecollinet), which dominates the remainder of the film, past and present.

As a portrait of the fragmentation of memory, “My Golden Days” is accurate to a fault. The film seems to discourage interpretation by emptying characters and cinematic techniques of any larger meaning. The jumble of French music, American pop music and an original score leaves the viewer with no sense of a unified tone. Visually, the pinhole camera effect alerts us to the initiation of a memory sequence, but other artistic quirks feel oddly out of place: a split screen towards the beginning of the Esther sequence is gimmicky and never replicated, and a mugshot of Paul against a pitch-black background addressing the camera through a haze of fire is just plain baffling. The latter instance is not the only fourth-wall breakage— the film’s disconcerting final shot comes to mind— but it is implemented with little rhyme or reason. Voiceover can be a powerful and effective cinematic tool— used memorably in films as disparate as “Annie Hall,” “Shawshank Redemption” and “Mean Girls”— but the clunky shift from first to second to third person unsettles the film’s flow. Not that the film has any sense of pacing, anyway. We get it, memories are disjointed, tainted, and don’t necessarily mean more than the sum of their parts. But “My Golden Days” refuses even to try making sense of it all. “Life is strange,” Paul murmurs at multiple points in the film. Desplechin seems content to leave it at that.

“My Golden Days” calls to mind “Hiroshima Mon Amour,” with its non-linear flashbacks, agonized brooding, and philosophizing between lovers mediated by the camera (in this case communicated onscreen via dictated letters). But “My Golden Days” lacks the moral urgency and grand, historical importance of the war that foregrounds Resnais’s New Wave classic. Instead, Desplechin focuses a lens on his own personal history, setting much of the film in his own hometown of Roubaix and bestowing his protagonist with the surname of “Dedalus,” recognizable as James Joyce’s literary alter ego. “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake,” Stephen Dedalus says in “Ulysses.” In “My Golden Days”— a title that sours ironically over the course of the film— Paul Dedalus embodies a similar longing.

The film rambles aimlessly, forcing us to sit through a disproportionately long party scene, introducing us to a religious-minded brother who inexplicably buys a gun, and throwing in a whole host of other tidbits that lack any central coherence and don’t pay off later in the film. However, Lou Roy-Lecollinet, the actress who plays Esther, is a notable bright spot: her character is rude, egotistical, and shockingly unlikable, but Roy-Lecollinet infuses her with a vulnerability and unpredictability that makes her feel achingly human. Later on, the adult Paul mulls over their relationship, wondering if he was too good for her or not good enough, and if he was attracted to her because she was dangerous or because she was reassuring. The paradoxes could be illuminating, but with no discernible theme or character development, they fizzle. Paul thinks about his past while taking in an opera, and perhaps we are supposed to wonder about our own pasts while viewing Desplechin’s film. Unfortunately, it all falls flat. As young Paul was fond of saying throughout the film: “I felt nothing.”

‘Midnight Special’: The Indie Sci-Fi Gem That Outshines Them All

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It’s special, alright.

In a 2007 TED Talk, director J. J. Abrams revealed the inspiration for his creative vision: a “mystery box” from a midtown Manhattan magic store that has remained unopened since he purchased it as a child. “What are stories, but mystery boxes?” Abrams explained. “What’s a bigger mystery box than a movie theater? You go to the theater, you’re just so excited to see anything— the moment the lights go down is often the best part.”

So it is with “Midnight Special,” a small-time, supernatural drama from writer-director Jeff Nichols that blends the Abrams approach to storytelling with the intimacy of a Spielberg classic. In the current Hollywood climate, storms of viral marketing and near-pathological media attention ensure that moviegoers are so well informed on upcoming epics (think: “Batman v. Superman” and “Captain America: Civil War”) that actually going to see the movies feels like a rote formality. By contrast, “Midnight Special” opened in limited release with relatively little preceding fanfair, making that tantalizing moment when the lights go down feel all the more exhilarating. “Midnight Special” thrives on the mystery box formula (much like Abrams’s recently released, hush-hush production, “10 Cloverfield Lane”) by holding its secrets close to its chest. But it also flourishes as a profound exploration of familial love and personal values, grounding the extraordinary in the ordinary.

“Midnight Special” marks Nichols’s first foray into the science fiction genre, after 2011 film festival darling “Take Shelter” and the McConaissance-initiating “Mud” in 2012, but it is his fifth collaboration with actor Michael Shannon. Shannon shines as Roy, father to Alton (Jaeden Lieberher), a child born with supernatural powers who is worshipped by a religious sect with morally dubious leadership. A small group of superb supporting characters lends the film additional gravitas: Joel Edgerton (“Black Mass”) as Roy’s buddy Lucas, a former cop; Kirsten Dunst as Alton’s mother, Sarah, in a one-note but still effective performance; and Adam Driver, coming off of a very different role in a rather huger sci-fi epic, “Star Wars: Episode VII – The Force Awakens,” as NSA codebreaker and “Alton Meyer expert” Paul Sevier.

“Midnight Special” picks up in medias res, chugging forward while delivering backstory in tiny, cinematic morsels: news bulletins, brief lines of dialogue, and significant glances serve to lay the scene and clarify the stakes. David Wingo’s captivating score shifts between a melodious piano theme and a pulse-pounding bass, setting the tone for the film’s interplay between the wonder of the supernatural and the suspense of an “on the run” thriller. Early on, as the whirlwind of mystery picks up, religious leader Calvin Meyer (Sam Shepard) turns to the FBI officers investigating Alton Meyer and muses, “You have no clue what you’re dealing with, do you?” At this point, neither do we— and it’s a scintillating feeling.

“Midnight Special” takes its time answering the little questions (Who is this kid? What can he do? What’s going on?) while steadily building up the insurmountable questions of “how” and “why.” Many elements of the story remain unanswered, and it is in this regard that “Midnight Special” truly sets itself apart. Due to a side-effect of Alton’s powers, much of the film takes place at night, with breathtaking sunrises and sunsets marking the rotation of night and day, and there’s a storytelling benefit in (literally and metaphorically) leaving the audience in the dark: it precludes narrative spoon-feeding while allowing for a more active partnership between the filmmaker and the viewer. This richly drawn film needs you, the moviegoer, to use both your brain and your heart.

“Midnight Special” is the rare film that infuses its characters with as much complexity as it does its mystery, ensuring that the humanity at its core does not get lost in supernatural splendor. Roy burns with a quiet but fierce love for his child; he is gentle and caring from the outset, and his steadfast belief in the boy is never questioned as he spirits Alton away from institutions that aim to use him for their own gain. When Roy tucks his son into bed, adorning his youthful face with aqua-colored goggles and bright orange headphones, his tenderness is palpable, as though Alton were just another kid with a strange malady. Roy and Alton’s relationship is the beating heart of this story, and it is to the credit of both the actors and Nichols himself that father and son exhibit such magnetizing emotion. Through little dialogue, Lieberher, resplendent and mature beyond his years, indicates that there is luminous depth to Alton, while every crinkle of Shannon’s eyes demonstrates the aching burdens of parenthood. “You don’t have to worry about me,” Alton assures him. “I’ll always worry about you, Alton,” Roy responds. “That’s the deal.” You’d smile if you weren’t too busy trying to hide your sniffling.

“Midnight Special” also touches on weightier themes without forcing them to sweat it out under the spotlight. How would people react to the appearance of the supernatural? Calvin Meyer’s reverent cult is already established before the opening credits, and the FBI’s briskly bureaucratic manhunt is well underway as the story begins. Rather, by delving into the psyches of the characters, the film is more subtly able to explore the limits and excesses of knowledge and power. In one ironic scene, Alton, reading a Superman comic by flashlight in the back of a darkened car, asks Roy about kryptonite, and Roy berates Lucas for giving Alton the comic book in the first place, insisting that Alton “needs to know what’s real.” But knowledge proves to be an elusive concept; instead, faith and belief take center stage. As Meyer puts it at the conclusion of a sermon: “To know the source of such things is to know our place in the world.” “Midnight Special” revels in this search for purpose, embracing an all-too-rare sense of awe and wonder.

You Will Rue the Day You Saw ‘Knight of Cups’

"Knight of Cups"
Just walk away, Padme.

You’ve heard a lot about experimental filmmaker Terrence Malick, so you decide to give his latest release, the Christian Bale headlined “Knight of Cups,” a shot. You never expected to emerge from the theater blinking uncomfortably in the sunlight as though recently released from solitary confinement, feeling ostracized (if you identify as anything other than a white male) and confused and hopelessly downtrodden.

When cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki’s signature landscape shot fills the opening screen, you’re already thinking ahead to the 2017 Academy Awards. Will Lubezki make history yet again by winning four Oscars in a row? At the very least, this film will be pretty, you think.

But, wait, the movie is running merrily along, leaving you in the (artsy) dust. You shift your attention back to the screen, where models slathered in black slime and painted eyeball masks undulate suggestively. You ponder the implications of Dadaism.

There is an earthquake in Christian Bale’s apartment. His living quarters are sparse, but in a classy way, like he has money to burn but can’t be bothered to spend it because of his crushing ennui. He rushes outside, barefoot, as though late for a beachfront photoshoot. Others are cowering with him on the clean-swept pavement. Potted plants lay smashed on the ground, like his dreams. It’s a metaphor. Probably.

There is an argument in a conference room with bright windows. You catch snatches of the conversation and gauge that Christian Bale’s character is a screenwriter named Rick. You’re already lost and confused but you’re an attentive, intelligent moviegoer, so you at least pick up on basic plotlines. But it turns out that the film doesn’t have much of a plot, so your meager knowledge is useless.

“Where did I go wrong?” Christian Bale’s character muses dolorously at the camera. “Knight of Cups” has only just begun, and yet you check your watch, wondering the same thing.

Your exasperation increases as the film goes on and Christian Bale attends more and more glamorous parties at mansions glittering with treasures worth the equivalent of a small nation’s GDP. Poor guy, tortured by his opulent lifestyle and white male privilege! you think. He must be suffering from affluenza. You send thoughts and prayers.

Soon, however, your feeling of generic queasiness is replaced by a blinding rage, helpfully sounded out onscreen by the oceanic roar that permeates the film alongside Hanan Townshend’s paradoxically pleasant score. As Christian Bale’s character drifts through a lineup of interchangeable women— each one tall, thin, big-eyed and coy— he becomes the literal embodiment of the male gaze, as the women amount to nothing more than different shades of wallpaper. What’s worse, the one woman of color, an Indian model (et tu, Freida Pinto?!), is depicted as an exotic yogi who slurs something about “casting a spell” on Christian Bale’s character. You furiously scribble “orientalism” in your notebook, which is now drawing ink from your own blood.

You live in LA, or perhaps you just wish you did. Either way, as the camera— constantly in motion— passes dispassionately over the greatest hits parade of Los Angeles locales, you feel sparks of recognition: here is the Santa Monica pier, there is the sadly barren LA River, here is Venice Beach, there is an ad-infested Sunset Boulevard, building-sized posters staring out as blankly as the characters in this film. When you lose interest in the film completely, you start to connect these locations to scenes from other movies: there’s a “Hail, Caesar!” scene, there’s an “Inception” scene, there’s a much happier scene from “Grease.” You briefly remember when seeing a movie was actually moving.

To distract from the tedium, you design a “Knight of Cups” Bingo card consisting of the following squares:

  • Christian Bale + [interchangeable character] frolicking on the beach
  • Highway montage
  • Underwater camerawork
  • Christian Bale sleeping
  • Woo! girls
  • Voiceovers in dramatic whispers

When you realize the characters are never going to actually converse with one another, you start trying to parse the impossibly obtuse voiceovers. Your mind jolts back to the beginning of the film, with John Gielgud intoning a passage from John Bunyan’s seminal Christian allegory, “The Pilgrim’s Progress.” But before you can recall a hazy lesson from your twelfth grade European History class, the fable shifts. Over a montage of Christian Bale’s character livin’ it up in Tinseltown, the voice of Brian Dennehy (who plays his father) laments the loss of the prodigal son, a prince in search of a pearl who diverted from his path and fell into a deep sleep.

At that point, you should have left. Or fallen into a deep sleep yourself.

The entire film is a nihilistic non sequitur: images out of context and muddled voiceovers (sample: “Don’t go back to being dead” and “You have love in you, I know it”— the latter from Natalie Portman, dredging up memories of her cringe-worthy turn as Padmé Amidala in Star Wars) as well as characters so thinly realized it makes you want to weep for the fate of humanity— and not in a cathartic way. Christian Bale’s character, the supposed “everyman,” wanders around in a daze, goo-like and catatonic, an empty shell of a person, and you realize you’ve been calling him “Christian Bale” because his character— Rick, was it?— feels like a papery husk, floating away at the merest mention. The irony of “Knight of Cups” is that it is a film about a screenwriter that was ostensibly put forth  by Malick without a screenplay of its own; actors on camera were encouraged to extemporize as the spirit moved them. The result is painfully awkward, demonstrating a film deeply at odds with itself; it is supposed to be freeing, but instead feels suffocating.

At some point, Christian Bale ends up at a strip club, ogling Teresa Palmer, who is described in the official plot synopsis as “a spirited, playful stripper.” Look how spirited and playful she is! See Teresa. Strip, Teresa, strip. When he asks her name (do men really do that? you wonder), she grins flirtatiously and tells him she can be whomever he wants her to be. “You can be whoever you want to be,” she burbles. Which is the much more heartfelt, hopeful and complex message of “Zootopia,” you realize.

Wes Bentley is Christian Bale’s brother and is overly cheerful and therefore inwardly sad and tragic and has a loft with a cracked mirror and a skateboard.

In the theater, someone’s cell phone rings, and you’re shockingly, sickeningly grateful for the distraction, for the reminder that a world exists outside this Malick monstrosity, a Los Angeles that is not all billboards and bimbos, where the sun shines unmockingly and people smile sincerely.

“Knight of Cups” leaves you feeling unbearably bleak and existentially depressed. You wonder if masochists would gain something from this movie, but you are still so enraged over the insipid thoughtlessness of the film and its specific treatment of women to care.

You really should have seen “Zootopia.”

Studio Ghibli’s ‘Only Yesterday’ is a Gorgeously Rendered Meditation on Life and Memory

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Takahata’s 1991 film charts the emotional growth of a young woman pursuing her dreams.

Though it was originally released 25 years ago, Isao Takahata’s “Only Yesterday” could have been made, well, only yesterday. Based on the manga by Hotaru Okamoto and Yuko Tone, “Only Yesterday” became a surprise Japanese box office hit, but has only recently made its way to North American screens. Fortunately, the film’s bittersweet exploration of one woman finding her place in the world— a universally appealing story aided by the lush animation of the famed Studio Ghibli— has gracefully withstood the test of time.

Taeko (voiced by “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” actress Daisy Ridley in the English-language version) is 27, unmarried, and living in Tokyo. From a phone conversation with her sister early on in the film, we learn that Taeko is free-spirited and independent. Her character immediately shines, shying away from the hackneyed “bitter office drone” prototype and instead embracing refreshing self-awareness as a young woman who simply yearns for something more. Taeko exudes excitement when discussing her unorthodox idea of a vacation: harvesting in the countryside. Her sister is baffled, but Taeko is immediately understood by Toshio (“Slumdog Millionaire”’s Dev Patel), who collects her from the train station and enthuses right along with her.

This opening is interspersed with the film’s first flashback to fifth-grade Taeko (voiced by Alison Hernandez), as her school friends boast of their upcoming summer vacations to the countryside. Taeko’s family’s trip is less glamorous to her fifth grade mind, but she makes the most of the alternate plans and demonstrates a delighted enthusiasm that immediately endears her to the audience. Yet despite her bohemian temperament, it becomes clear that Taeko is still, in many ways, beholden to her past. “I didn’t intend to bring my fifth grade self on this trip,” 27-year-old Taeko muses on the train from Tokyo. “But she was always around.”

Taeko’s fifth-grade life is more engaging and vibrant than her present-day story, and the film lags a bit during her languid, repetitive days in the safflower fields. But perhaps that’s part of the point. Fifth-grade Taeko is an underdog, the misfit of her family and the “goody two-shoes” of her class. The youngest of three daughters, she struggles to relate to her older sisters, who were, like normal teen girls in the ‘60s, fully consumed with notions fashion and a global Beatles obsession.  Taeko navigates the wonders and pitfalls of adolescence, from her first crush, to sex ed, to hall monitor politics. Older Taeko, all bubbly optimism, seems to have her life all figured out.

But “Only Yesterday” is a more delicate film than that. Taeko’s reminiscences are no mere nostalgia trip; her past informs and shapes her present— indeed, her entire worldview— in more subtle ways. She recalls failing a math test and trying to learn from her mistakes with her impatient sister, Yaeko (Ashley Eckstein): Taeko draws a picture to explain her sophisticated thought process, but a bemused Yaeko waves her away and instead simply rattles off the mathematical laws. Soon after, the girls’ stern mother expresses the underlying sentiment felt throughout the film: Taeko is not a normal kid.

It is worth noting— and praising— Takahata’s pitch-perfect portrayal of little girls and young women across all cultures. From fifth-grade Taeko’s embarrassment about periods to her older self’s ambivalence towards marriage, the overall character feels startlingly real. Studio Ghibli is known for producing well-crafted female protagonists, and Takahata’s fellow Ghibli director, Hayao Miyazaki, has been particularly outspoken about this initative, calling his leads “brave, self-sufficient girls that don’t think twice about fighting for what they believe in with all their heart.” Taeko is a worthy addition to these ranks.

But “Only Yesterday” is also very different from other Ghibli films, foregoing the fantastical for a more understated tale reflected in its pastel-colored minimalism. Animation is an industry growing at an exponential rate, but at nearly three decades old, the film’s luscious, watercolor landscapes feed into the romantic, nostalgic tone perfectly. Even the drawn-out slicing of a pineapple is effective— I could actually feel my stomach rumbling.

“Only Yesterday” traces an unusual young woman’s identity over time, and true to the complexity of this journey, it’s difficult to judge whether the ending is a victory for Taeko or a defeat. (Speaking of the ending, make sure you stay through the credits, or you’ll miss it.) It’s a slow process at times, but the soft beauty of the animation more than makes up for the plot’s meandering, and the nostalgia of childhood coats the film like the rosy rouge of the safflower. In a voiceover, Taeko wonders at the vividness of her fifth-grade memories, noting that the remembrances played “like a movie in my head.” Audiences will walk out of “Only Yesterday” feeling the exact same way.

Innovation Abounds at Aspen Shortsfest 2015

Aspen Shortsfest 2015
(from left) James Surls, Austin Lottimer, and Maitland Lottimer from ‘The Journey’; Mathieu Lalande from ‘Zero’; Festival co-director Laura Thielen

In the age of virtual reality goggles and groundbreaking advances in computer animation, the film industry is hungrily cracking open the window to a new frontier of creative storytelling. While heavyweight filmmakers like Christopher Nolan (in one end of the cultural boxing ring) and Jean-Luc Godard (occupying the other corner) garner the majority of the attention for their boundary-pushing techniques, much of the medium-and-message experimentation has its roots in the oft-overlooked genre of short film.

Short films typically run less than 40 minutes, and their emotional punch comes from the condensed, in media res drama that contrasts sharply with the narrative diffusion of your modern-day, three-hour blockbuster. Think: Anders Walter’s Helium (23 minutes), a tearjerker about a terminally ill boy and the hospital janitor who befriends him, or Eoin Duffy’s trippy, whimsically apocalyptic The Missing Scarf (7 minutes), a cubist animation tale of a squirrel who ventures out in search of his missing scarf and confronts a few existentially disturbed friends in the process.

The 24th annual Aspen Shortsfest (April 7-12, 2015) is screening over 70 short films from 30 different countries, and they run the gamut from uplifting to gut-wrenching, with dozens of variations in between. Below, read through a brief selection of the shorts that made a longer-lasting impact.

Note: Audience rating system spans 1 – 4, with ‘1’ being the lowest rating and ‘4’ being the highest.

The Edge of Impossible (USA, 14 min., Documentary)

Conor Toumarkine’s upbeat documentary follows quadriplegic skier Tony Schmiesing on his mission to take on Alaska’s Chugach Mountain. All of the campaigning, fundraising, and logistical planning took place behind the scenes, as the film focuses on the thrill of big-mountain powder-skiing and the incredible can-do attitude of Schmiesing and his entire support team, including Brian Sheckler, Schmiesing’s “one-in-a-million ski partner, fellow collaborator, and friend.” The duo’s dynamic enthusiasm is contagious, and their winter wonderland adventures are captured in rudimentary but effective GoPro footage. Aside from a brief mention of Schmiesing’s condition (along with, of course, the ubiquitous wheelchair), we don’t receive a detailed explanation of Tony’s physical limitations—mostly because he, himself, doesn’t view his “disability” as limiting. As Tony expresses with a roguish smile, alluding to the aptly-titled name of the short: you’ll never know what is and isn’t possible until you try. My vote: 3. (Available on Vimeo)

The Bigger Picture (UK, 8 min., Animation)

Writer/ Director / Animator wunderkind Daisy Jacobs created a superbly original animation from scratch. She painted impressionistic, life-sized character murals and built an elaborate, papier-mâché set, weaving it all together through stop-motion animation. The illustrative medium allows Jacobs to show rather than tell her tale of two brothers caring for their elderly mother, and the effect is all the more poignant because of it.The Bigger Picture won a whopping 23 festival awards, not to mention a 2015 Oscar nom for Best Animated Short. My vote: 4. (Clip)

Zéro (France, 10 min., Fiction)

A bird takes flight through a quiet, suburban apartment complex; another hobbles along a dirt path, appearing faintly bored. Nearby, on a hilltop overlooking the same town, one boy takes a puff of his inhaler, and another observes him cautiously, also appearing bored. Throughout the remainder of music video specialist Tony T. Datis’s fantastical short film, “Zero” attempts to prove his cosmic worth to his classmate in a series of overeager—yet not completely misguided—superheroesque demonstrations. My vote: 3. (Trailer)

The Journey (USA, 16 min., Documentary)

Filmmakers Austin and Maitland Lottimer loaded their slo-mo specialist FS700 into a minivan and tailed Texan sculptor James Surls as he transported his latest sculpture from Colorado to Houston. The 38-foot high “Tree and Three Flowers,” made of bronze and stainless steel, was commissioned by the Upper Kirby District Foundation to join several other publicly displayed Surls sculptures. According to the artist, “Tree and Three Flowers,” a piece two years in the making, represents his “big hurrah.” Though the film offers interesting tidbits of insight from Surls regarding his creative process, The Journey is minimalist in its narrative techniques—much like Surls’s sculptures. My vote: 1.

Listen (Denmark/Finland, 13 min., Fiction)

Listen is the prime example of a short film painting a dramatic masterpiece in a mere handful of scenes. Zambia-born Hamy Ramezan and Finnish-Iranian Rungano Nyoni collaborate on this harrowing piece, in which a woman in a burqa attempts to file a police report against her abusive husband. The title serves as a literal reference to the frightened woman’s appearance—her full-body burqa prevents her from being seen, so her voice is all she has. But her voice is mercilessly taken away from her as well, as her translator calmly advises her to “go home and pray,” and the well-intentioned but ultimately dismissive officers fail to understand her words or her plight. My vote: 4. (Trailer)

Lambs (Germany, 4 min., Animation)

There’s not much to dislike about Gottfried Mentor’s brightly animated, whimsical short about a ewe’s consistent disregard for its species’ traditional vocalizations. Although aimed at 3-5 year-olds, parents can also identify with the somewhat-humorous frustration of trying to get through to their kids. My vote: 3.

Grounded (France, 19 min., Fiction)

Alexis Michalik takes a mundane concept—airport bureaucracy—and concocts a high-stress story equal to any contemporary thriller. Any 21st-century traveler can sympathize with Evelyne, a young woman attempting to fly to London with her husband and 3-month-old daughter to attend her mother’s funeral. She enters traveler hell when she realizes she forgot her newborn’s ID, and is prevented from boarding the plane. If you feel like tearing your hair out based on this sparse summary, you’re not alone—my heart was pounding anxiously until the very end, and I was forced to hold back tears of gratitude when Stephanie, a compassionate ground hostess jumps through every hoop in order to assist poor Evelyne. If nothing else, this film demonstrates that we are all, ultimately, at the mercy of TSA officers. My vote: 4.