Movie review by Greg Carlson

Directors Emily Kunstler and Sarah Kunstler, daughters of storied attorneys William Kunstler and Margaret Ratner, blend creative visual storytelling with keen legal and historical acumen to transform Jeffery Robinson’s potent stage lecture into one of the most vital documentaries of the year. “Who We Are: A Chronicle of Racism in America” uses a recording of Robinson’s 2018 presentation at Town Hall in New York as the basis for a sobering examination of the pervasive and insidious proliferation of institutionalized, race-based, anti-Black discrimination and oppression in the United States. It is exactly the kind of information so many politicians serving the Trump-influenced GOP fear will be taught in school.

Harvard-educated Robinson, the executive director of the Who We Are Project, was previously an ACLU deputy legal director and the director of the ACLU Trone Center for Justice and Equality, which houses the organization’s work on criminal justice, racial justice, and reform issues. He developed and refined his talk over the course of a decade, and the Kunstlers – who approached Robinson about imagining the piece as a documentary film – earned trust by, in Robinson’s words, “their clear commitment to engage in anti-racist self-reflection and action.” The filmmakers also guaranteed Robinson’s ownership of all rights to the movie as well as final editorial control.

Robinson’s stage version of “Who We Are” incorporates Power Point-style slides, graphics, video clips, and limited animation, “showing the receipts” for the many underreported realities linking America’s foundational reliance on the labor of enslaved people to the building of the nation. Even the very well-educated will gain fresh and eye-opening insights related to a wide-ranging number of topics. The hidden-in-plain-sight sentiment of slaveholder Francis Scott Key’s third verse to the Star-Spangled Banner, for example, is but one talking point: “No refuge could save the hireling and slave/From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave.”

And even though we don’t hear Run the Jewels performing “JU$T” on the soundtrack, Robinson reminds us that before Andrew Jackson brought enslaved servants to the White House when he became the president, he offered “ten dollars extra, for every hundred lashes any person will give him, to the amount of three hundred” in an ad seeking the capture of his runaway “property.” Twelve presidents of the United States owned people. Along the way, Robinson also addresses the 1921 “Black Wall Street” massacre in Tulsa, the practice of red-lining, the horror of lynchings, the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and the murders of black and brown people at the hands of police officers (then and now).

Like Ibram X. Kendi’s essential 2016 book “Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America,” Robinson’s thesis may at first feel overwhelmingly bleak and acutely painful, but it nevertheless conveys hope, promise, and possibility – if we are willing to put in the work. Some of the most effective scenes in the film version are the personal stories the Kunstlers persuaded an initially reluctant Robinson to include. And each time we cut away from the auditorium to Robinson interacting with folks – some friends, some strangers – “Who We Are” enters a dimension in which the author’s observations are transformed into the recognizably familiar and the intensely human.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

With the documentary feature “Freakscene: The Story of Dinosaur Jr.,”director Philipp Reichenheim (who also uses the handle Philipp Virus) compiles a serviceable primer on the wall of sound produced by one of the seminal power trios of 1980s independent/DIY music. In the 90s, the band would go on to near-mainstream success during the ascendancy of “alternative” rock in the wake of Nirvana’s massive crossover appeal, via regular rotation on MTV programming like “120 Minutes.” Tracking some of the aesthetics of units like Hüsker Dü and the Pixies, who perfected the loud-quiet-loud dynamic that would inspire so much of Kurt Cobain’s songwriting, Dinosaur Jr. combined beautiful melodies with punishing sheets of distortion and feedback.

Reichenheim is the brother-in-law of Dinosaur bandleader J Mascis, and the proximity affords comprehensive access to the substantial trove of archival photography and video that fans will comb for glimpses of favorite performances and previously unseen surprises. “Freakscene” is not, however, structured primarily as a deep critical assessment of the group’s musical output and evolution, even though a pretty straightforward chronological account of key recordings guides the narrative. Instead, Reichenheim foregrounds solo talking-head interviews with the notoriously taciturn Mascis, bass player (and Sebadoh and Folk Implosion architect) Lou Barlow, and drummer Murph, who all spend more time recounting frustrations, struggles and disappointments than they do acknowledging peaks and triumphs.

This “no fun” theme contributes to an appropriately grumpy tone, perfectly complemented by the white and gray winter snowscapes in and around Amherst, Massachusetts, where Mascis was born and still resides. Eventually switching from percussion to guitar, Mascis surprised Barlow – who was certain his fellow hardcore Deep Wound bandmate hated him – by asking him to join Dinosaur. Over the next several years, the band’s commitment to ear-splitting volume, combined with what Barlow describes as the “purity” of Mascis’s far-ranging vision, led to a place at SST and the release in 1987 of “You’re Living All Over Me,” which built the fanbase by leaps and bounds.

In addition to new listeners, the increasingly skillful guitar wizardry practiced by Mascis drew fellow musicians to the Dinosaur enterprise. Sonic Youth, known for championing and nurturing up-and-coming artists, recognized something special. Both Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore appear in “Freakscene,” along with vintage footage shot on tour by Lee Ranaldo. And while the interview subjects rarely dig into specifics beyond the expected construction of band-as-dysfunctional-family, the presence of luminaries like Bob Mould, Frank Black, Kevin Shields, Henry Rollins, Kurt Vile, and Megan and Maura Jasper broadens the film’s appeal.

During the movie’s fleet running time, a great many aspects of Dinosaur Jr. are treated casually, offhandedly, or are skipped altogether. There is no doubt that some longtime followers would have salivated over a deeper dive into the details of songcraft and lyrics, but Reichenheim matches the content of his film to the personality of the band being profiled. In other words, Mascis largely remains an enigma, even following a confessional description of fatherhood and his personal journey toward Hindu spiritualism. One imagines, however, that the soft-spoken composer remains quite content to speak through the music.

Sometimes, I don’t thrill you
Sometimes, I think I’ll kill you
Just don’t let me fuck up, will you
‘Cause when I need a friend it’s still you

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Audrey Diwan’s “Happening,” which premiered at the 2021 Venice International Film Festival and screened in the Spotlight section of Sundance earlier this year, feels contemporary and immediate despite being set in 1963. The story of Anne (Anamaria Vartolomei) – a promising student of literature seeking an illegal abortion – unfolds with meticulous craft and exacting rhythm. Using the weeks of Anne’s pregnancy like chapter markers, an effect that intensifies the sense of urgency, Diwan forges an incredible collaborative partnership with Vartolomei, who appears in every scene.

Based on Annie Ernaux’s 2000 book “L’événement,” Diwan’s adaptation, which she co-wrote with Marcia Romano (Anne Berest also receives a credit), has been regularly discussed by American film critics in the context of the Supreme Court decision to overturn Roe v. Wade this past June. Surely, a film as well-made as “Happening” would be noticed no matter the current climate related to the politics of abortion, but Diwan’s movie takes on additional layers of meaning and significance given the recent turn of events.

Diwan approaches Anne’s dilemma with a series of realizations and obstacles that simultaneously frighten our protagonist and sharpen her resolve. Following the moment her pregnancy is confirmed, Anne faces a series of rapidly closing doors. Telling her parents is out of the question (Anne’s mother is played by the legendary Sandrine Bonnaire). Her closest friends distance themselves, a doctor tricks her into taking a prenatal supplement, an acquaintance pressures Anne for sex because “there’s no risk.” Anne’s frustrations underline a physician’s sober warning: “Anyone who helps you can end up in jail.”

“Happening” will remind viewers of Eliza Hittman’s “Never Rarely Sometimes Always” for the way in which both films present the practical challenges faced by women seeking abortion care. Many making those comparisons, including Shirley Li and Natalia Winkleman, also note a significant difference between the two movies: Anne ultimately navigates the frustrating process without a support system, and certainly without the kind of character portrayed by Talia Ryder in Hittman’s film.

Another point of departure for “Happening” is Diwan’s choice to not only recognize, but also fully validate, female sexual agency and pleasure. Many narratives that deal with abortion inadvertently perpetuate the trope that an accidental or unwanted pregnancy be read as a kind of punishment or consequence (equating sex with a lack of morals), no matter how the male partner may be depicted. “Happening” rejects that entire premise in a manner that, courtesy of two scenes in particular, feels almost radical.

“Happening” is filled with tight images of the central character’s expressive face. Diwan keeps cinematographer Laurent Tangy’s camera close to Anne, which serves as another reminder of Vartolomei’s remarkable skill as performer. Often hovering just over her shoulder, or following close as she enters a phone booth or pleads with her teacher, the intimacy is at times almost too much to bear. The effect, of course, is one of the ways Diwan tethers the viewer to the specificity of Anne’s journey. Among other things, that proximity concentrates the film’s most harrowing moments, which Diwan stages with unflinching honesty.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In addition to boasting one of the year’s best titles, Jordan Peele’s mind- and genre-bending mash-up “Nope” is big and bold and willing to take risks, even if those wild gambits don’t always pay dividends. The filmmaker’s third feature as writer/producer/director pokes and prods at all kinds of fascinating text and subtext, once again suggesting that there is much more to his stories than what may only be observable on a superficial level. Experimenting with science fiction and the classic Hollywood Western without abandoning some of the horror and suspense that fueled “Get Out” and “Us,” Peele extends and expands upon his interest in historical and institutional racism.

Fictionally linked to the pioneering motion studies made by Eadweard Muybridge, Haywood’s Hollywood Horses owners O.J. (Daniel Kaluuya) and Emerald (Keke Palmer) aren’t exactly on the same page following the bizarre death of patriarch Otis Sr. (Keith David). Under financial duress, O.J. reluctantly makes an arrangement to sell some of his beloved animals to nearby entrepreneur and one-time kid actor Ricky “Jupe” Park (played as an adult by Steven Yeun and shown in flashback as a child portrayed by Jacob Kim), who runs an old-fashioned Wild West-themed carnival/fun fair called Jupiter’s Claim.

As a veteran of the entertainment industry, Peele is well-positioned to riff on the old adage that there’s no business like show business, and many observers have zeroed in on the ways in which “Nope” is a multi-layered critique of generational trauma and erasure inflicted by Hollywood on marginalized and underrepresented people as well as a rich exploration of the photographic process and the relationship between the viewer, the camera eye, and the things being observed. One of Peele’s central gimmicks is the Shyamalan-esque in-universe rule that making eye contact puts humans in harm’s way.

Some viewers and critics have griped that “Nope” fails to establish the kind of rich interpersonal relationship markers and detailed characterizations that would be expected in just this sort of “blockbuster” experience – think Spielberg’s magic touch with Brody, Hooper and Quint in “Jaws,” for example. But on closer inspection, the elision appears to be as deliberate a choice as the initially curious absence of local, state, or federal authorities who would, in movies across the decades, be overwhelmingly portrayed as white and male and in charge. Without compromising what ticket buyers expect as entertainment, Peele asks us to think about who and what is present.

One of the most refreshing dimensions of “Nope” resides in Peele’s willingness to trust viewers to follow him into unexpected territory. Even though the filmmaker organizes a narrative baseline – a UFO hiding in the clouds – the horrifying anecdote of “trained” sitcom performer Gordy the chimpanzee’s inexplicable attack on his co-stars during a routine production is an apparent side-trip that turns out to link the movie’s parallel stories. Jupe describes his almost unbelievable ordeal as “six and a half minutes of havoc” as Peele rhymes the past and present, pondering the public appetite for violence as processed through lenses large and small.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Available on Hulu and in a limited theatrical engagement following its premiere as part of the Sundance Film Festival in January, “Good Luck to You, Leo Grande” spins what might easily have been a much darker examination of sexuality, aging, generational and gender-based expectations, and the ethics of prostitution into a primaily fluffy corona of pink cotton candy. Many, myself included, will concede that is precisely the intention of screenwriter Katy Brand and director Sophie Hyde. The relationship at the center of the film – which takes place almost entirely within a tastefully-appointed hotel room – is a fantasy with transactional strings attached.

A frustrated widow in her mid-50s, Emma Thompson’s Nancy eventually confesses that the unfulfilling sex she shared with her longtime spouse and father of her two grown children never varied from the same pattern desired by her partner. Not only has she never had an orgasm (with or without her husband), she also never ventured beyond the most basic intercourse. Convinced she stands at the precipice of “one last shot,” Nancy engages the services of sex woker Leo Grande (Daryl McCormack), a young charmer ready to put his clients at ease.

It may not exactly be the complete “boyfriend experience,” but Leo talks the talk and walks the walk. Whether true or not, he insists that his personal enjoyment is genuine. No Viagra or artificial stimulants of any kind are necessary, since he so fancies the folks who hire him. Nancy’s skepticism may not be wholly misplaced, but her commitment to the adventure does not get in the way of buying into Leo’s gentle, persistent reassurance and flattery. Later, when inevitable conflict threatens the equilibrium, Nancy will call out Leo’s “sales pitch” even as she schedules more dates with him.

Brand handles each of the hotel encounters with candor when it comes to expressing Nancy’s insecurities and fears surrounding the realities of exploring cravings held for so long in check. Thompson does a lot of heavy lifting when it comes to building a fully-formed character, but McCormack earns his own share of praise for understanding how to convey honesty about his vocation without bursting the bubble necessary for repeat business. Brand avoids several traps – there is no scene where Nancy crosses a line by “falling” for Leo. If anything, her tendencies toward motherly advice irritate her otherwise unflappable escort.

Despite overwhelmingly positive reviews, a few critics have challenged the way in which the movie presents Leo as a kind of savior figure for Nancy – a magical “sex saint” or “menopause miracle,” as she puts it. But Hyde’s handling of the material, confirmed by her tone and the setting, should not be condemned for something it is decidedly not. “Good Luck to You, Leo Grande” includes some dialogue that ponders certain aspects of the sex trade from a moral/philosophical position (colored by Nancy’s own cultural standards as a retired religion educator, to be sure), but it is a long way from the raw and gritty contemplation of trafficking and child exploitation depicted by Josef Kubota Wladyka in “Catch the Fair One.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Cha Cha Real Smooth” is writer/director/actor Cooper Raiff’s follow-up to “Shithouse,” and the titles of both films disguise, or at least misdirect, the earnest and heartfelt positivity of Raiff’s hip-to-be-square worldview. “Cha Cha Real Smooth,” which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January prior to a limited theatrical run and a streaming home on Apple+ this June, feels a lot like a spiritual sequel to “Shithouse.” Raiff’s recent Tulane grad Andrew has much in common with “Shithouse” freshman Alex. Both young men (Raiff was born in 1997!) wear their hearts on their sleeves, rely on supportive moms, struggle with the “growing up is hard to do” transition into adulthood, and yearn for romances that seem to be just out of reach.

Raiff’s writing is built around the willingness of his characters to expose their vulnerabilities. Many viewers have responded enthusiastically to the filmmaker’s investment in the humane and the candid – “Shithouse” received the Grand Jury Prize for Best Narrative Feature at South by Southwest and “Cha Cha Real Smooth” picked up an audience award at Sundance. Others have not been convinced. Manohla Dargis, who “didn’t believe a single second” of it, blasted “Cha Cha” as “American indie entertainment at its most canned and solipsistic.” Michael Phillips, Derek Smith, and Bilge Ebiri also torched the movie, taking aim at protagonist Andrew.

Certainly, one person’s interpretation of emotional openness might be another person’s definition of what Phillips calls “creeping smugness and self-regard,” but I think Raiff is a legitimate addition to the broad group of artists identified with the New Sincerity trend as popularized by David Foster Wallace and Jim Collins (and frequently applied as a descriptor to the work of Wes Anderson). Stylistically, Raiff is much closer to the realistic, low-budget DIY aesthetics practiced by booster/supporter Jay Duplass than he is to the painstaking miniatures imagined by Anderson, but both clearly eschew cynicism and, to paraphrase Wallace’s ideas on the subject, risk accusations of sentimentality and softness.

Dylan Gelula was brilliant opposite Raiff in “Shithouse,” and Dakota Johnson is equally beguiling as Domino in “Cha Cha Real Smooth.” Johnson has recently made a series of excellent career choices in front of and behind the camera (she is one of the producers of “Cha Cha”). Her quiet, melancholy Domino has lived through her 20s while Andrew has only started his, but the two apparent opposites are drawn together through several curious similarities. To the movie’s great benefit and the viewer’s relief, Raiff skips anything like a psychological assessment or explanation, but we can easily discern that both Andrew and Domino are longtime caregivers who labor emotionally to meet the needs of the other before the needs of the self.

“Cha Cha Real Smooth” values the connections (and the temporary disconnections) between people deeply and unfailingly committed to each other. Mothers, sons, daughters, brothers, and step-parents are all integral moving parts in Raiff’s well-calibrated machine. If coming-of-age stories are your catnip, and you enjoy the secondhand embarrassment of painfully awkward social interactions, and you ache at the bittersweet hopelessness of right place-wrong time sparks, then make a date with “Cha Cha Real Smooth.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Directors Tia Lessin and Emma Pildes, anticipating the recent Supreme Court decision that would overturn Roe v. Wade, began work on their documentary “The Janes” in 2019. The movie, now available to view on HBO Max following a January premiere at the 2022 Sundance Film Festival (which also hosted Phyllis Nagy’s “Call Jane” and Audrey Diwan’s “Happening”), chronicles an important moment in the still-unfolding history of abortion rights in the United States. Filled with candid and unflinching on-camera interviews with the women – and a handful of men – directly involved, “The Janes” joins the growing collection of valuable media records on the practice.

Officially the Abortion Counseling Service of Women’s Liberation, but more popularly just called Jane, the Chicago-based group provided an estimated 11,000 safe abortions from 1969-1973. Lessin and Pildes combine well-positioned stock footage with more specific archival imagery to illustrate the recollections and listen to the voices of their interview subjects, several of whom punctuate the testimony with a potent visual aid: the index cards used to keep track of the information – financial, medical, and otherwise – of the rapidly-increasing numbers of primarily low-income clients. One card notes, “Afraid of pain.” Another says, “Be cautious, father is cop.”

Some of the interviewees elect to share only a first name, but Lessin and Pildes smartly frame the speakers in well-lit, detailed close-up, often in the cozy surroundings of living spaces and kitchens. The approach underlines the common and the everyday without diminishing the legacies of action. Some of the women are known to feminist scholars; all are remarkable to the filmmakers, who select compelling thoughts from Judith Arcana, Marie Leaner, Martha Scott, Eleanor Oliver, Peaches, Sheila, Eileen, Laura Kaplan, and Heather Booth, to name a few.

In 2018, Rachel Carey’s “Ask for Jane” dramatized the story of the Chicago movement. Many films, past and present, have also centralized abortion stories or included abortion as a subplot. Spanning mainstream studio fare and independent releases, fiction and nonfiction, and comedy and drama (and beyond), the growing list includes “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” (1982), “The Last American Virgin” (1982), “Dirty Dancing” (1987), “Story of Women” (1988), “Citizen Ruth” (1996), “Vera Drake” (2004), “The Abortion Diaries” (2005), “I Had an Abortion” (2005), “Lake of Fire” (2006), “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” (2007), “Obvious Child” (2014), “Grandma” (2015), “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” (2019), “Never Rarely Sometimes Always” (2020), “Unpregnant” (2020), “Plan B” (2021) and many more.

Class and race are thoughtfully addressed in “The Janes.” Dr. T.R.M. Howard and so many of the film’s other fascinating side-trips could easily sustain separate feature-length studies. Leaner’s insights, which include linking the civil rights movement to her abortion activism, are among the movie’s highlights (“I said here’s an opportunity, for me to take a stand in defining ‘Who am I as a person? What do I stand for?’”). Another sharp segment considers the unwelcome chauvinism and misogyny of presumed movement allies and the Black Panthers.

Lessin and Pildes make a series of inspired choices in the design and structure of “The Janes.” The arrests of the abortion providers don’t occur until there are only 25 minutes left in the 101-minute film. By emphasizing the organizational workings and personal motivations of the members of the Jane Collective for the majority of the running time, the filmmakers demystify the clandestine mythology of Jane in part by exploring the boundaries between the implications of the term “underground” and the accessibility of the network – which hid in plain sight on bulletin boards and was shared via word-of-mouth.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

While some Josephine Decker fans have decided to turn up their noses at her adaptation of Jandy Nelson’s 2010 YA novel “The Sky Is Everywhere,” I was delighted by the filmmaker’s impossibly beautiful, candy-colored vision of grief and love. Nelson prepared her own book for the screen, making a few key changes to the story of teenage Lennie Walker (Grace Kaufman) as the heroine figures out how to cope following the unexpected death of beloved older sister Bailey (Havana Rose Liu). Decker’s affinity for the fantastic, combined with the vivid hues of Ava Berkofsky’s fluid cinematography, will appeal to the young and young-at-heart – especially those who have lost a sibling or close family member.

While “The Sky Is Everywhere” addresses serious and very grown-up issues, this outing’s more family-friendly tone is a distance from the worlds conjured by Decker in cult favorites “Butter on the Latch,” “Thou Wast Mild and Lovely,” and “Madeline’s Madeline.” Like “Shirley,” the screenplay for “The Sky Is Everywhere” was written by someone other than Decker, offering the moviemaker’s admirers another opportunity to observe how she handles material not originated (or co-originated) by the director. The critical consensus prefers unfiltered Decker, but there’s a thrill in the knowledge that her unique style is reaching a much bigger audience.

Along with Berkofsky’s saturated storybook palette, Decker collaborates here with production designer Grace Yun and art director Cat Navarro, who both worked wonders on “Hereditary.” Set decorator Alex Brandenburg and costume designer Christopher Peterson also deserve special mention; all four of these remarkable talents supply a distinctiveness that invites the viewer into a place where everything is just slightly more intense than the reality we inhabit most of the time. And all these contributors align with Decker’s own flair for the performative and the theatrical.

The basic plot outline of “The Sky Is Everywhere” sets up a love triangle suspending Lennie between the attentions and affections of Bailey’s boyfriend Toby (Pico Alexander) and fellow musician Joe (Jacques Colimon). The resulting complications are familiar genre staples which Decker and her actors nevertheless handle with confidence and aplomb. But the real attraction of the film is the manner in which Decker gets at the messiness and unpredictability of the everlasting shadow of grief. From survivor’s guilt to the crushing sorrow accompanying the unfulfilled promise of bright stars burning out too soon, Lennie pinballs from the highest highs to the lowest lows.

Our protagonist resides in a gingerbread cottage tucked amidst the breathtaking redwoods of Humboldt County and flanked by an aphrodisiacal rose garden. Yet, Kaufman provides Lennie with enough self-doubt, second-guessing and insecurity that she successfully grounds a character who occasionally floats right off her feet at the joy of making music or the recognition of romantic butterflies. “The Sky Is Everywhere” is Decker’s most conventional film – in this kind of territory one wishes all the supporting characters were more sharply drawn – but the moviemaker’s core ideals remain. Decker is committed to immersiveness and immediacy. Her bold and passionate choices value and validate the subjective experiences of female artists/creators toiling to figure it all out.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Kate Dolan’s dark and atmospheric feature debut “You Are Not My Mother” lives at the fringes of folk horror, but the underlying family melodrama drives a story more interested in generational trauma than supernatural fairytale. In significant ways a thematic companion piece to Natalie Erika James’s intense “Relic,” Dolan’s movie carefully locates the sweet spot between creepy Celtic lore and the equally troubling responsibilities that come with being the child of a parent suffering from mental illness. The writer-director trusts her viewer, letting us wonder (and decide) how much of what we witness belongs to the realm of the mystical.

Hazel Doupe plays the ominously-named Char, a bullied teenager living with her grandmother Rita (Ingrid Craigie) and her depressed, barely-functioning mother Angela (Carolyn Bracken) in a shabby North Dublin housing estate. On a day that could be like any other, Angela disappears following a harrowing car ride to drop Char at school. Dolan makes Char’s feelings of stress, guilt and frustration absolutely palpable. When Angela returns, as inexplicably as she vanished, her daughter is ecstatic to find a more responsive, attentive parent. A skeptical and superstitious Rita, however, believes that the prodigal Angela is an imposter, a changeling.

The secrets and lies that lead Char on a journey of self-discovery pull double-duty as the fuel for this bildungsroman’s engine. Wouldn’t we all rather believe that the faults, flaws and shortcomings of our own parents are the result of some hex or curse and not a genetic predisposition to bipolar disorder or some other affliction? In collaboration with the skillful Doupe, Dolan pinpoints what happens when roles are reversed and a child must become the caregiver to her own mother. In one of the best scenes in the film, Angela loses herself in a whirling dance to Joe Dolan’s “You’re Such a Good Looking Woman.” We watch helplessly as Char grows more and more frightened at her mother’s manic, out-of-control behavior.

Dolan sets the action at Halloween, a seemingly obvious ploy to intensify Char’s perceptions of the crisis unfolding in her own home. The decision is a good one, though, as the filmmaker uses Samhain’s affiliation with masks, disguises and false-faces, bonfires, and sacrifices to explore, as we hear in a field-trip scene, “a time when the veil between our world and the other world [is] at its thinnest.” This liminality is also embodied by Char’s suspension between what should be a more carefree childhood and the harsh realities of her premature adulthood.

As a director, Dolan knows just when the eyes of her actors will communicate what words cannot convey. And while the filmmaker draws fine performances from the entire cast, Doupe and Bracken elevate “You Are Not My Mother” to another level. Both are called upon to express the full range of emotional highs and lows. Both show tenderness and vulnerability. Both can also turn on a dime, setting themselves with a steely resolve as scary as any external force wreaking havoc on the delicate, eggshell equilibrium in their less than happy house.