Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director Lulu Wang finds inventive ways to freshen up the terminal cancer tale in “The Farewell,” a worthwhile diversion to so much summer blockbuster fare. The popular subgenre, which comfortably intersects with drama, comedy, and romance, has attracted filmmakers and audiences for decades. Akira Kurosawa (“Ikiru”), Ingmar Bergman (“Cries & Whispers”), and Mike Nichols (“Wit”) all brought their considerable talents to the associated tropes of the category, and scores of others have explored the built-in emotional fireworks of life interrupted and mortality faced.

Awkwafina plays Billi, a struggling New York writer who was brought by her parents to America from China at the age of six a quarter of a century ago. Hiding her struggles to make rent from father Haiyan (Tzi Ma) and mother Jian (Diana Lin), Billi expresses alarm when told that her beloved Nai Nai (the Chinese term of endearment for a paternal grandmother) is in the late stages of advanced lung cancer and likely has just months to live. Using the comically elaborate pretext of Billi’s cousin’s wedding to gather the family in Changchun, the members of the clan have agreed to withhold the truth about Nai Nai’s condition from the matriarch.   

Billi, initially incredulous that her relatives would all perpetuate a so-called “good lie,” wonders aloud whether a person should have the right to know about one’s own health matters. Billi’s “moral” position, broadly representative of the Western individualism that clashes with the collectivist system practiced by her extended relations, marks the first significant theme Wang will explore as the wedding preparations unfold in Changchun. The filmmaker, who developed “The Farewell” from a segment called “What You Don’t Know” that she produced for the 2016 “This American Life” episode “In Defense of Ignorance,” uses the subterfuge as a way to think about, among other things, dual-culture identity. 

Wang’s welcome twist distinguishes “The Farewell” and sets up another of the movie’s successful visual and thematic contrasts: the morose cloud of gloom that hovers above the head of Billi versus the vivacious optimism and joie de vivre emanating from the cheerful Nai Nai. Zhao Shuzen is a marvelous onscreen presence as Billi’s grandma, and Wang stages several astute, observant, and insightful exchanges between the old woman and the young woman. Accordingly, the film deftly balances the comic and the tragic from start to finish (see, or rather don’t see, Zara Hayes’ insulting “Poms” for comparison).  

“The Farewell” opens with the script “Based on a true lie” and ends with an image of epiphanic surprise. Wang’s autobiographical connection to the material, embodied via audience identification with Billi, adds some intrigue, especially when it comes to the elements of suspense and anxiety revolving around the ever-present threat that Billi will defy the wishes of the others and share the truth with Nai Nai. Several critics have noted a kinship between Ang Lee’s early-career indie “The Wedding Banquet” and “The Farewell,” both in terms of East-West differences and in the application of deceit as a storytelling device. The comparison is reasonable, and hopefully Wang will build an equally distinguished filmography.         

Movie review by Greg Carlson

For superstar auteur Quentin Tarantino, there’s no business like show business — never has been for the whole arc of his career — and “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” doubles down on everything that fanboy and fangirl (mostly fanboy) disciples have studied with religious devotion since the days of “Reservoir Dogs.” A nonstop pastiche of pop culture references both iconic and obscure, the new feature embraces revisionism and fantasy in its interpretation of events surrounding the gruesome murders of Sharon Tate and friends by members of the Charles Manson Family in August of 1969.   

Tate is played by Margot Robbie, and our knowledge of her senseless and tragic demise hangs like a dark cloud over the otherwise freewheeling portrayal of the “more than a friend, less than a wife” bromance between Leonardo DiCaprio’s washed-up, alcoholic TV actor Rick Dalton and his Hal Needham-inspired driver/stuntman Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt). Los Angeles plays itself as an equally important character, and appreciators of meticulous period detail and history by suggestion will devour the Boss Radio/KHJ promo spots interspersed with expectedly perfect soundtrack selections like Los Bravos’ “Bring a Little Lovin’” and Neil Diamond’s “Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show.”   

Cinematically, Tarantino does so many things so well it can be easy to forget that his magic armor has been deflecting all manner of criticism for years. His Wikipedia biography contains an entire section labeled “controversies,” selecting a quintet of issues that includes his problematic relationship to the N-word and his irresponsible mistreatment of Uma Thurman during the filming of a dangerous driving scene while making “Kill Bill.” Additionally, his proximity to Harvey Weinstein and his 2003 defense of Roman Polanski have been haunting a number of the “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” conversations.  

Arguably, QT tightened his own noose by grossly underwriting Tate and depriving her of nearly any scene in which the audience is allowed inside her head. At Cannes, Farah Nayeri was the first person to call out the lopsidedness of Robbie’s onscreen agency in comparison to what DiCaprio and Pitt were given to play. Tarantino was predictably unapologetic. Rich Juzwiak’s thoughtful and thorough case against the filmmaker’s “shittiness toward women” is a must-read that lays out a strong argument, adding another chapter to the continuing discussion of gender in the director’s films. 

It will surprise nobody that Tarantino’s contract granted him final cut or that the length of “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” is 161 minutes. The pacing, rhythm, and crosscutting all aid in evoking the episodic television milieu inhabited by Dalton and Booth. And the leisurely running time carves out plenty of room for the actors to stretch their legs (Booth’s meal preparation ritual for scene-stealing pet pooch Brandy is as much fun as Dalton’s heart-to-heart with precocious co-star Julia Butters, who manages to make off with a scene or two herself). It’s easy to read Tarantino’s own artistic anxieties concerning relevance and vitality into the movie’s thematic exploration of faded and fading glory, but the film can certainly be properly pondered without any biographical inferences.     

Except for the foot fetishism.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director Riley Stearns confronts the foul odor of hypermasculinity and misogyny in “The Art of Self-Defense,” a pitch-black comedy featuring Jesse Eisenberg, Alessandro Nivola, and Imogen Poots. Eisenberg’s Casey Davies is another of the actor’s signature submissives, a “35-year-old dog owner” (according to a local news report) victimized by a group of motorcycle thugs while on his way to purchase chow for his dachshund. The brutal physical assault merely adds to Casey’s daily humiliations. His every waking hour is fraught with a suffocating series of micro and macro indignities, which Stearns presents with droll self-reflexiveness.    

Casey joins a karate class led by the enigmatic Sensei (Nivola), a supremely confident martial artist whose unorthodox methods on the mat are paired with increasingly alarming invective. Especially troubling is the openly hostile criticism Sensei directs toward skillful brown-belt Anna (Poots), the only female student in the dojo. Sensei’s ugly leadership in “The Art of Self-Defense” invites comparisons to the reactionary and defensive buffoonery of Donald Trump and his MAGA legion. As satirical critique, Stearns’ vision metaphorically intersects with ongoing discussions centered on the politics of white male fragility.   

The film’s pronounced references to its own artificiality irritate or delight, depending on one’s tastes. Stearns expresses a level of individuality that merits attention, but his grasp of tone — which includes an often successful blend of surrealism and banality — lacks the consistency of Quentin Dupieux, whose “Wrong” parallels “The Art of Self-Defense” in several respects. Blunt-force radical honesty and statements of the obvious to generate uneasy laughter call to mind Yorgos Lanthimos’ “Dogtooth.” Stearns’ association with David and Nathan Zellner, who serve as two of the movie’s executive producers, builds additional goodwill and credibility. David Zellner is a welcome onscreen presence as blue-belt karate student Henry.  

Like “God’s lonely man” Travis Bickle, Casey’s inclination to lash out with the aid of a firearm leads to a comic exchange with a purveyor of guns and serves as a terrifying reminder of just how easily the frustration of an Angry Man in America can escalate to mayhem and murder. The arch dialogue in the interaction between Casey and Davey Johnson’s blunt shopkeeper echoes the famous scene between De Niro’s cabbie and Steven Prince’s smooth-talking salesman in “Taxi Driver.” Paul Schrader’s dialogue, however, is subtle by comparison, as Stearns imagines a no-pressure dealer eager to describe every possible statistical horror awaiting a new pistol owner.   

Karate provides Casey with a sense of purpose, a feeling of self-control, and an avenue for reinvention. But cracks in Sensei’s facade present our protagonist with increasingly thorny dilemmas. While Stearns exploits a number of ridiculous possibilities invited by the color-coded hierarchical structure of the ancient combat system — Casey’s desire to wear a yellow belt at all times inspires one of the movie’s funniest scenes  — “The Art of Self-Defense” just as comfortably embraces horror tropes. The close proximity of sudden, shocking violence to the humor challenges viewer expectations, but with a few notable exceptions in the movie’s later sections, the filmmaker successfully pulls off his tricks.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Legendary British skipper Tracy Edwards, who in 1989 led the first all-female crew of sailors to compete in the tough-as-nails, 33,000-mile Whitbread Round the World Yacht Race, makes for a convincing heroine in filmmaker Alex Holmes’ thrilling sports documentary “Maiden.” Named for the refurbished, King Hussein of Jordan-sponsored vessel Edwards piloted in the competition, the film unfolds with a strong sense of adventure and excitement — due in part to the likely ignorance of a majority of viewers who don’t know the outcome of the contest, and also to the urgency and immediacy suggested by Katie Bryer’s skillful editing. 

Yacht racing, when referenced at all in mainstream popular culture, suggests wealth, whiteness, masculinity, exclusivity, and privilege. Holmes doesn’t comprehensively dispel these characteristics, but does emphasize the rebellious, scrappy, outsider aspects of Edwards during her restless youth. The exposition, handled with economy, sets the film’s core thematic agenda: a tradition-smashing bid for respect in a space historically closed off to women. A period clip from a local news station package draws laughs and gasps. The merciless and cruel male chauvinism of observers is still present in several of the newly-shot interviews. And yet, then and now, Edwards is determined and undaunted. 

Holmes cuts among straightforward talking head interviews with crew, rival sailors, journalists, and others to fill in the narrative of the odyssey, but the lower-quality, archival, shot-on-video footage, often taken by Maiden cook (and Edwards’ childhood friend) Joanna Gooding, gives the director gripping raw material illustrating the power and extremes of weather conditions throughout the race. Those seafaring images are Edwards’ equal in star power, and should drive viewers to the movie. “Maiden” additionally weaves together recollections from Edwards’ supporting cast of voyagers, providing details about all kinds of doubts, fears, and challenges. One noteworthy example is the personality conflict that led to the dismissal of first mate Marie-Claude Kieffer Heys.      

During the course of the film, which charts the progress of the nine-month endeavor through its six legs, the commitment of the women to the cause and to the boat and to each other transcends the obvious messages of gender-indicated empowerment to say something even more profound. Edwards is rock-solid in this respect, delivering one naked truth bomb after another on the topics of both sailing and misogyny, with articulate, crystalline, no-bullshit perspicacity. The women on board the Maiden, nearly all of whom are on hand to look back, speak with such candor, tears will stain the cheeks of all but the hardest spectators.

Holmes, who first encountered Edwards when she spoke at his daughter’s school, suggests that the feminism of yesterday versus today can illustrate the insidious grip of entrenched, male-run institutions. Reflecting and refracting the ongoing conversations around everything from the salary inequity between male and female soccer players to the alleged child sex trafficking hellscape perpetuated by Jeffrey Epstein (the latter of which is brilliantly addressed by Rebecca Solnit in her recent Literary Hub essay “In Patriarchy No One Can Hear You Scream”), “Maiden” can be read as both time capsule and time bomb.  

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Hereditary” director Ari Aster’s sophomore feature “Midsommar” firmly cements the filmmaker’s auteur bona fides. A visually stunning slice of art-house “folk horror” that draws from several touchstone movies — most notably Robin Hardy’s 1973 masterpiece “The Wicker Man” — Aster once again explores the insidious devastation of grief, this time within the framework of a romantic relationship break-up. Bereft of jump scares and absent the visceral action of many of its scenes necessaires, “Midsommar” is executed with Bressonian control. Gorehounds should not despair, however, as Aster unleashes several nauseating depictions of mayhem, barbarity, and damage visited upon the human body.

Even prior to release, it was inevitable that “Midsommar” would divide viewers; internet discussion boards have hosted lively, intense deliberations scrutinizing the film’s minutiae. Comparisons of the script to the finished film, which clocks in at a rather expansive 147 minutes, is but one of the topics. Others delve into Aster’s considerations of religious faith and fanaticism vis-a-vis Christianity and paganism, explorations of gender politics, numerological symbolism, altered states through hallucinogens, and assorted conspiracies and speculations that prod at the movie’s “real” meanings.  

Aster creatively takes advantage of setting to drench “Midsommar” in the light of the midnight sun. Hungary stands in for the north Sweden commune inhabited by the blue-eyed, blonde-haired Harga villagers, and cinematographer Pawel Pogorzelski and production designer Henrik Svensson combine forces to render a geometrically seductive arrangement of striking, elegantly simple buildings integrated with natural features including woods, meadows, and an ominous rock formation that features in what might be the film’s most shocking and stunning sequence. One could spend hours contemplating Aster’s use of indoor and outdoor spaces.

Aster’s previous work with Toni Collette indicated the director’s appreciation of deeply accomplished, next-level performance, and the casting of Florence Pugh as the grieving, fraying-at-the-seams Dani Ardor matches the rawness and intensity displayed in “Hereditary.” As a young woman clinging to a boyfriend who remains with her out of pity, Dani is Pugh’s richest character opportunity since her utterly jaw-dropping and Oscar-worthy breakout in “Lady Macbeth.” She navigates the complex emotional terrain of Dani’s incredible journey with convincing and surefooted skill. 

Aster carefully structures his films, and so much detail is provided in the expository arc. The composition of multiple frames in which Dani is the lone female amidst the quartet of faux-sympathetic partner Christian (Jack Reynor) and his friends adds to the chill. “Midsommar” captures the way in which males in a group can so completely ostracize an unwanted female “intruder.” In one of Aster’s many inventive touches, the prologue immediately establishes Dani as the final girl even prior to her acceptance of Christian’s insincere invitation to join the trip to the rural collective where pal Pelle (Vilhelm Blomgren) grew up. 

In Jordan Peele’s excellent interview with Aster in the fourth issue of the relaunched “Fangoria,” the “Us” director lavishes praise on his peer, suggesting that Aster has accomplished in “Midsommar” an “ascension of horror” that subverts the common victimization of the viewer in favor of a remarkable identification with Dani. Peele says, “I felt like I was being put up on this pedestal and honored through the eyes of the protagonist.” Peele’s astute observation acknowledges yet another way in which Aster transcends genre expectation as a teller of distinctive and original stories.     

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-producer-director-photographer Rachel Lears teams with writer-producer-editor (and spouse) Robin Blotnick and producer Sarah Olson on advocacy doc “Knock Down the House,” now streaming on Netflix following a world premiere in January at the Sundance Film Festival. A direct response to the election of Donald Trump, Lears follows the grassroots campaigns of a quartet of political newcomers: Cori Bush in Missouri, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez in New York, Paula Jean Swearengin in West Virginia, and Amy Vilela in Nevada. The result is an energizing portrait of working class, mad-as-hell action — and the birth of a national celebrity.

“Knock Down the House” invites its quartet of progressives to articulate the personal reasons that inspired each woman to run in Democratic primaries versus establishment candidates. The results of the midterm elections are in the rearview, and of the film’s subjects, only Ocasio-Cortez succeeded. AOC’s history-making bid to unseat the ten-term incumbent and Democratic Caucus Chair Joe Crowley (who is consistently seen in the film as an absolute fool) is accompanied by her close-up-ready charisma, moving her story into the central spot. Had any of the others won their races, the film would have undoubtedly been shaped into a somewhat different narrative. 

But don’t fault Lears for her filmmaking tactics. Many documentarians collect footage during time-sensitive events with unknown outcomes — embracing the reality that a great deal of the storytelling will be shaped in post-production. The bigger picture for the filmmakers, one imagines, was clearly not originally meant to be a personality profile of Ocasio-Cortez. Blotnick switches among the most compelling aspects of each journey, but there is no denying AOC’s commanding presence. Vilela describes the painful experience that inspired her decision. And all of the women leverage identification with specific issues and the common folks at the bottom of the dogpile.

So many political documentaries trade on the razzle-dazzle of fame, power, and media coverage that the nuts and bolts of on-the-ground strategies are treated as a kind of sorcery practiced by wizards who more often than not prefer to stay behind the curtain. In the case of “Knock Down the House,” the activist groups Justice Democrats and Brand New Congress are seen and heard, but the details of how potential candidates are selected and vetted remain murky and mysterious. Lears introduces a few intriguing players, including Corbin Trent and Saikat Chakrabarti, and they at least offer direct answers about their end goals if not their formulae.  

Lears ends with the election night outcomes of the Democrat-versus-Democrat primary challenges. As a result, the content of the film doesn’t fully take the deep dive into the general contest that would more directly address the national climate/snapshot regarding the Trump presidency. That November scorecard would see a net gain of 40 seats for the Democrats in the House of Representatives and a net gain of 2 seats for the Republicans in the Senate. Short of the complete Blue Wave victory sought by the Democrats, all eyes now turn toward 2020. As AOC says in the movie, “…in order for one of us to make it through, 100 of us have to try.” 

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Nisha Ganatra’s “Late Night,” featuring Mindy Kaling as both star and screenwriter, tackles a wide range of challenging topics. Toxic masculinity, white privilege, gender inequity, tokenism, quota-based hiring, and intragender conflict and competition are a few of the areas under examination in the writer’s room and surrounding milieu of the multiple Emmy-decorated talk show hosted by Emma Thompson’s Katherine Newbury. Newbury’s vehicle faces waning ratings and the indignity of a replacement host in the form of a below-the-belt bro comic played, in a parodic industry swipe, by Ike Barinholtz. Can Kaling’s Molly Patel, an enthusiastic newbie, save the day?

Close kin to “The Devil Wears Prada” and the broad outlines of the superior-subordinate relationship movie, “Late Night” borrows elements from Kaling’s biography while sticking close to the beats and rhythms of the episodic serialized television sources familiar to the performer’s fans (both good and, per Emily Nussbaum, bad). Patel’s growth is mapped in several ways, including the interactions she shares in groups and one-on-one with the frustrated Newbury, and the equally tough treatment meted out by the immature members of the staff. Kaling’s effectiveness is certainly open to interpretation, but most jokes and gags land with more confidence than the film’s odd depiction of the deficiencies of Newbury and her show.   

“Late Night” struggles to define almost all the characters in the ensemble beyond providing the majority with a single, instantly recognizable trait. Thompson and Kaling eke out something closer to multidimensionality, but worthy and formidable veterans like Amy Ryan, as a tough network chief, and John Lithgow, as Newbury’s devoted but ailing partner, should have been given more. The young-ish white dudes writing for Newbury, led by the fragile and thin-skinned head monologue scribe Tom Campbell (Reid Scott in a meta-allusion to Kaling’s friend and ex B. J. Novak) work interchangeably as a one-headed pack of unenlightened wolves.

Any number of small screen examples — from “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” to “30 Rock” — contain sharper, richer explorations of gender within the milieu of behind-the-scenes media and TV production. Had “Late Night” been stretched out to a season of episodes, some of the curious choices might have been better justified or explained. Why is Patel shown making the leap from work in a chemical plant to a nightly television series with only the thinnest experience doing stand-up? Why does Newbury seem so utterly distant, clueless, and out of touch in relation to the kinds of bits that succeed for her competitors — especially if her show has been a powerhouse Emmy magnet?

Still, there is much to like about a universe in which a multi-decade late-night network talk show starring a woman is a given thing. Ganatra alternates between showing how both Patel and Newbury, one at the bottom rung and the other at the top, figure out the necessary armor to best protect against the worst kinds of daily, sex-based bias in a world so typically geared toward males and masculinity. Fortunately, Ganatra and Kaling skip the establishment of an unnecessary friendship between the women (although the movie comes closest in a scene where Newbury climbs multiple flights to see Patel), emphasizing instead that the skill and instinct needed to survive come in individual varieties.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Martin Scorsese embraces the prankster spirit of a longtime inspiration/subject in “Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story.” The confounding testimony is as much mockumentary as documentary, combining new interviews and gorgeous archival footage into an entertaining put-on. Not everyone, and not even every Dylan fan, will go along with the tall tales, but amidst the japes are several of the most riveting live performances of Dylan’s career. “Rolling Thunder Revue” is not, however, a concert film. Just as much time and energy is poured into the backstage and offstage happenings — real and fabricated — as the music.

Dylan’s traveling circus, his 1975 response to the conclusion of a larger-scale stadium tour with the Band, featured performers Joan Baez, Allen Ginsberg, Joni Mitchell, Roger McGuinn, Ronee Blakley, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Bobby Neuwirth, Scarlet Rivera, Mick Ronson, and others. Following the release of “Blood on the Tracks,” the shows highlighted electrifying reworkings of Dylan staples as well as fierce and fresh previews of songs that would fill out the Jacques Levy collaboration “Desire,” which was released between the autumn and spring legs of Rolling Thunder. The scope of the experiment boggles the mind of any Dylanologist; Scorsese’s movie leaves out even potential cameo appearances by Muhammad Ali, Coretta Scott King, Harry Dean Stanton, Dennis Hopper, Ringo Starr, Stevie Wonder, and Dr. John. Sara Dylan is also omitted.  

The absence of any direct explanation or mention of Howard Alk and the making of “Renaldo and Clara” is perhaps the biggest clue to Scorsese’s agenda. A Sam Shepard interview broadly describes the writer’s participation in Dylan’s vision, but aside from an allusion to Carne’s “Les Enfants du Paradis,” the new movie is mute on the original film project. Instead, Scorsese introduces bogus documentarian Stefan van Dorp (played by Kipper Kids performance artist and Bette Midler spouse Martin von Haselberg) as the acidic cinematic chronicler of the revue. Van Dorp is a hilarious presence, deadpanning great lines like his Ratso Sloman insult, “Please. Does the cockroach really cause problems for the house?”

Beyond the imaginary van Dorp, all kinds of helpful guides and breakdowns are floating around to separate out the lies, but the brave and untroubled viewer might prefer a first pass without a cheat sheet. Scorsese, in a sly nod to the era’s hair-raising attitudes about the casual presence of teenage groupies, calls on Sharon Stone to concoct a phony narrative that she got hooked up on the tour by her ambitious stage mother. Michael Murphy reprises his role as Michigan representative Jack Tanner from Robert Altman’s “Tanner ‘88” to add a yarn that Jimmy Carter scored him admission to one of the shows. Current Paramount Pictures CEO Jim Gianopulos did not work as the promoter of the tour. And so on.

But for every single sidetracking goof, “Rolling Thunder Revue” showcases at least two transcendent time capsules. Dylan and Ginsberg sit down at the gravesite of Jack Kerouac. The troupe members take their troubles down to Madame Ruth in a joyous interpretation of “Love Potion No. 9.” Dylan follows along, grinning and awestruck, on Joni Mitchell’s breathtaking performance of “Coyote” at Gordon Lightfoot’s house party. Add Dylan’s own commentary, befitting the mask-wearing, train-hopping legacy of the creative trickster. Attempting to define and summarize (both anathema in the Dylan dictionary), Bob says, “I don’t remember a thing about Rolling Thunder… It happened so long ago I wasn’t even born.”    

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Joining several recent titles that consider, among other things, gentrification and race in the San Francisco Bay Area, Joe Talbot’s feature directorial debut is left of the dial compared to the frequencies of “Blindspotting” and “Sorry to Bother You.” All three of these movies express complex emotional connections and relationships (“You can’t hate something if you didn’t love it first”) with the beautiful and infuriating dimensions of home and place in times of rapid change through economic upheaval, but “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” is quieter, dreamier, and sweeter — though no less passionate — than the earlier pair.

The movie is loosely based on experiences from the real life of Talbot’s longtime friend Jimmie Fails, who created the story with the director (they dreamed about realizing the idea as a film since they were kids). Fails’ character in the movie also happens to be named Jimmie Fails. And even though Talbot picked up the U.S. Dramatic Directing Award at Sundance, the film is unimaginable without the unique presence and perspective of Fails. Notably, a Special Jury Award for Creative Collaboration was also bestowed on the movie.

Undoubtedly, natives of the 415 will spot details and nuances invisible to outsiders, and several reviewers have made a point of noting asides, quirks, and references — like the naked man at the bus stop, the hazmat suits, Jello Biafra as a tour guide, and Rudolph Maté’s “D.O.A.” on the TV — that speak to the character of the Golden Gate City. But Talbot and Fails, along with co-writer Rob Richert, understand the importance of communicating a universal experience. In this capacity, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” soars, stretching gull wings as a poetic lament articulating longing and loss recognizable and accessible to all.

The stately Fillmore District Victorian that was once inhabited by Jimmie’s family emerges as the movie’s MacGuffin, and soon comes to represent much more than a plot catalyst (San Francisco has seen its Black population shrink by more than 30 percent over the last two decades). Jimmie, who often crashes in the clutter of the modest dwelling belonging to best friend Mont’s Grandpa Allen (Danny Glover), longs to reclaim the beautiful mansion built by his grandfather. Mont, perfectly inhabited by Jonathan Majors, sketches and writes in an ever-present notebook. He may be the most important human in Jimmie’s life, but the house looms just as large.

Brilliant comic images see Jimmie lovingly care for the exterior of the residence. His touch-up painting, however, irks the current owners, who have most assuredly not given permission or blessing for the maintenance. Later, Jimmie and Mont will move in as squatters, but with the twist that long-stowed furnishings appoint the space with a nostalgia and majesty befitting the house’s significance to Jimmie’s personal history. Mont stages a remarkable theatrical production in the attic, and the while Talbot’s stylistic presentation differs from Wes Anderson’s frequent use of mise en abyme, “The Last Black Man in San Francisco” touches some of the same kinds of notes, bringing joy and wistfulness into close proximity.