Mr Rodgers seems too good to be true. Commonly known as the nicest man in America, the children’s TV presenter was unafraid of teaching his viewers topics which others would consider taboo. Death, divorce and anxiety were all subjects that his shower Mister Rodgers’ Neighborhood was happy to discuss. Nowadays, so many childhood favourites have been disgraced and discredited with the benefit of hindsight; moral standards have shifted, time leaves things behind. But not, Marielle Heller’s film argues, Mr Rodgers.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood is keen to show that there is more to this semi-mythic figure than meets the eye, but it is not a sensationalist exposé. Heller is more than content with showing Mr Rodgers as a human who has worked to earn this reputation. Her Rodgers, as played by Tom Hanks (who else?), is not exceptionally kind by nature. He is ordinarily kind but reaches exceptionalism because of practice. It is a wonderfully simple idea, so much so that it is almost deceptive. “Kindness takes work” hardly seems like the most radical message, but A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood demonstrates the difficulty of devoting yourself to work. Dedication does not always produce the results you imagine, but the film shows how unexpected things can arise from applying yourself anyway.

The cynics who might doubt her compassionate touch are represented by the film’s protagonist Lloyd Vogel (Matthew Rhys). Lloyd is a no-nonsense journalist, tasked with profiling Rodgers as a means of reeling himself in a little. He initially shrugs off “the puppet guy” before meeting him and realising that this is simplification is not a fair assessment. Rodgers, characteristically, is more keen to talk about Lloyd than himself. In fact, he is so self-effacing that Lloyd cannot help but reflect on his own mistakes, turning his 400-word puff piece into a 10,000-word critical essay about his relationship with his father.

Yes, this turns into a “daddy issues” movie. But it’s a pretty good one! There is deep animosity between Lloyd and his father (Chris Cooper), one which would be half-baked in lesser hands. The conflict is still not perfect and takes decidedly too long given that it is ultimately pretty generic, but Heller’s masterstroke is weaponising Mr Rodgers in this simple story. It simultaneously becomes about him and his ethos as well as about broader fights and forgiveness between family members. Hanks projects entire oceans of calm across the movie, offering credibility to a figure who could seem too good to be true. His role in the central reconciliation could so easily be trite, but instead, the only thing he does is encourage a tiny change in perspective. It is, in the grand scheme of things, small, but Heller conveys how such an effort can change entire worlds.

When asked about Hanks’ performance, Cooper said that it was like looking into “the eyes of God.” The final grace note is a wonderful example of how well Heller as a director understands how to not let such high expectations get out of hand. As in last year’s Can You Ever Forgive Me? (her other, accomplished semi-biopic), she is completely keyed into what grounds her characters, recalling in the film’s ending a conversation that Rodgers and Lloyd had about coping with kindness which says so much at once without containing any dialogue at all. Like Hanks’ performance, and Rodgers himself, it is a deft display of honesty and emotional intelligence, the kind which has endeared them both to people for so long. Marielle Heller should have that reputation too.

Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story opens with a couple reading a list of things they like about the other. This narration is accompanied by heartwarming images of their relationship so far, in some of the most emotional opening minutes since Up. Then: a hard cut to the copy of the list, scribbled onto paper, clenched in the hand of Nicole (Scarlett Johansson) in her divorce mediator’s office. Her husband, Charlie (Adam Driver), is holding his list on the other side of the room. They are decidedly, as Nicole says, the “opposite of fiancés.” She concludes that she would rather not read her list and leaves the room.

So goes Marriage Story, a film in which moods shift in seconds. The pair start amicably, which in itself is almost admirable. They have a young child, Henry, and wish to disrupt his life as little as possible. Such proves to be difficult given that Charlie is a theatre director in New York and Nicole is an actress with promising opportunities in Los Angeles. This kind of separation is a recurring motif, whether it be across the entirety of the United States or just on different sides of a garage door. In the latter moment, they are both closing it in unison, editor Jennifer Lame cutting quickly from one to the other and back again. It is not the subtlest of metaphors but works so well because of the strength of its execution.

It helps that Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver are wonderful performers with enviable chemistry. (Perhaps anti-chemistry is more appropriate since they spend most of the film arguing.) You can feel the remnants of the love they had for one another, lingering for longer and more strongly than either had hoped but irreparable given their separate desires. Bittersweet looks reserved for tender moments, particularly those at the film’s end, are especially powerful: there is something in this once lustrous but now lost connection that Baumbach is able to tap into without undermining the validity of their decision.

Not that their story is always an easy ride. Nicole, perhaps sensibly, hires a lawyer to ensure that the legal elements of their separation flow smoothly. That lawyer is played by Laura Dern, high-powered and compassionate to Nicole but brusque and professionally ruthless to Charlie. Dern is having fun letting the leads carry the emotional weight while she delivers monologues with bite and switches tones with distracting ease. She spars with Charlie’s lawyer and argues that he was unwilling to take Nicole’s wishes into account, but, seconds later, it is time for lunch and she is congratulating him on a theatre grant. This process, emotional chaos for Nicole and Charlie, is mundane for their lawyers. It is another jarring contrast in a film full of them, further emphasising what a discordant experience this process is.

Meanwhile, each is trying to be good parents to their son. His custody is a key schism between them, especially when the lawyers get involved. Henry is too young to fully understand why his father is not around more and Charlie grows palpably frustrated that he cannot understand the nuance of the situation. This anger is revisited later, in a scene laced with genuine rage which does not defy belief but is so intense that it becomes more upsetting than scary. Here, Baumbach’s skills as a screenwriter pay off, for he has devoted roughly equal time to both and thus offers validity to both of their points of view. This makes the story much more engrossing and complex than a film which would force you to choose sides.

Baumbach brings the film full circle with a narrative device so perfect yet so simple that you cannot help but gasp when you realise what he is doing. His camera captures every perspective you would want from this moment and Driver’s struggle to contain overwhelming emotions in front of his character’s child is heart-wrenching. The progression the couple experience, from sparring over their differences to doing their best to help each other in trying circumstances, is not a typical happy ending, but one which speaks truth to a thorny process which does not offer comprehensive solutions. By the film’s end, you admire them again.

Maybe watching from your sofa on Netflix will help make the experience more manageable, but watching The Irishman in all its 209-minute glory in the cinema is to experience it as intended: a fragmented odyssey through a hitman’s life, itself reflecting how his existence fractures with age, the only thing the mob couldn’t control.

That man, Frank Sheeran, is played by Robert De Niro. These days, De Niro’s legacy is complicated: we live in times closer to the likes of Dirty Grandpa than Goodfellas. Yet the magic of Scorsese and De Niro’s partnership has not faded. This is their best work in years, precisely because it retains the strengths of their past work but reminds us how much time has passed and how much things have changed. In some ways, The Irishman is a swan song, to energised lives its creators can no longer lead, but it also reminds us that their creative vigour is far from expired.

Somewhat based on the real Frank Sheeran’s life, the film opens with the World War Two veteran talking us through how he became a mafia hitman. It was not a particularly straight-forward journey, which is why we jump back and forth through his life, often decades at a time. De Niro plays Sheeran irrespective of the period, aided by de-ageing technology which lifts his skin and smooths his wrinkles. At first, it is a little too smooth, but the distraction does not last for long. It is only truly strange when young De Niro attacks a man who insulted his young daughter, his sluggish gait betraying the 75-year old man behind the young face. Yet, his character is a harbinger of death, lumbering into your life with footsteps heavier than his heart. Perhaps the contrast works after all.

Regardless, the strength of this choice is De Niro, who can still appear intimidating but with age has acquired an elegaic air which elevates The Irishman beyond typical gangster fare. He is accompanied by a rogues gallery of the genre’s best, chiefly Al Pacino and Joe Pesci, the latter returning to the screen for the first time in nearly ten years. Pacino is at his funniest since Heat and his portrayal of union boss Jimmy Hoffa drives much of the plot. Pesci, meanwhile, is quietly terrifying as one of the chief mobsters, the behind-the-scenes puppeteer to Pacino’s charismatic public figure. Such is almost entirely subtext: the character does not threaten or glower because Pesci skilfully offers the kind of gravitas which makes such unnecessary. It is a disarmingly alarming performance.

Its nature as an odyssey means that certain initial sections drag more than others, but everything comes together beautifully in the final half-hour. Time passes, De Niro’s edges closer towards his real age and with it acquires the mournful gaze of a man whose life has been all work and no play. But, instead of losing his grip on reality, Sheeran is anchored to it, weighed down by the consequences of killing for a living and alienating a family who refuse to care for him any longer. Anna Paquin co-stars as his daughter Peggy, who barely speaks but imposes sweeping emotional and moral judgements on him with her expressions alone. Lesser filmmakers would have her explode in anger at Frank for his line of work; Scorsese knows that her silence is far more devastating. He and his perennial partner, editor Thelma Schoonmaker, elevate the film’s end with a series of shots which amplify Frank’s self-inflicted isolation. Paired with the mundane tragedy of his failing body makes the ending even more powerful. This is a portrait of physical deterioration and moral self-assessment, one worth sparing three-and-half hours for.

It’s November and the weather is now as bleak as the headlines. Some of the movies are too! Especially if you have to watch four Bergman movies for a class paper!

I think my favourite of those was Cries and Whispers (1972). In typical Bergman fashion, it has a pretty austere style and relies upon the viewers’ patience while he slowly untangles complex emotional conflicts between his characters. But, uncharacteristically, it is a film saturated with colour. It does not seem to be a coincidence that red is such a dominant colour in a film which is so heavily laden with sexual frustration.

Maria (Liv Ullmann) and Karin (Ingrid Thulin) are estranged sisters, each stuck in loveless marriages with no real intimacy in their lives. The former has engaged in an affair with her child’s doctor, but one scene in which he compares her ageing face with her spiritual decline tells us that he is not ideal company. He pushes her face towards the mirror and forces her to look in a scene which feels like a misogynistic, and, perhaps, hypocritical dissection of a woman under great emotional distress.

Her sister is hardly much better. During dinner with her husband, she smashes a glass of wine. Keeping one shard, she cuts her own vulva and bleeds profusely, later smearing such over her mouth when her husband enters the bedroom. Clearly, she wants to make the concept of sex odious to him; the blood on her face seems to demonstrate that she doesn’t want to talk to him either, so lifeless is their relationship. Their marriage is so warped that it can only disfigure her now, just like the shattered glass.

There are hints that the two could salvage some kind of bond, but their relationship is further strained by their dying sister, Agnes (Harriet Andersson). Her steep decline reminds them how distant they have become; the film’s final scene shows that it was not always this way. Maria tries to synthesise connection with Karin, but the latter is so fearful of the commitment required by such intimacy that she recoils at her touch. Bitter snarls follow.

It is a fascinating film and, like much of Bergman’s work in this period, gloriously brief at 91 minutes. It shares many themes with two other films of this era: Through a Glass Darkly (1961) and The Silence (1963). Warring sisters, families fearful of intimacy and sexual frustration (of which The Silence’s Anna weaponises somewhat beautifully) abound. And all that is without even getting to the stuff on God!

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Amidst such intensity it’s sometimes nice to return to something familiar. This week, that was Booksmart (2019), which I have inexplicably seen three times since it arrived last May. I’m so glad I have, particularly given that it has been an experience which I have shared with new people every time.

Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever are as charming and hilarious as you’ve heard, but the film’s true strength is that it shines a light on every character. None of them are disposable cut-outs made to fill in the background. Director Olivia Wilde offers the kind of stereotypes you would expect in the first act before slowly showing how all of these archetypes are hiding a greater sense of nuance or vulnerability. Molly Gordon and Skyler Gisondo are particularly winning as supporting characters who would normally just be the butt of the joke. Perhaps it is not accidental that the leads find a greater sense of nuance in this transition from adolescence to adulthood.

And then there’s Billie Lourd, whose inexplicable presence in consecutive scenes is increasingly hilarious. It is difficult to execute such an outlandish performance without it feeling like a little much, but she and Wilde find a great balance. It helps that Feldstein and Dever manage to react perfectly almost every time. Don’t let these three slip through your fingers, Hollywood!

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Lastly, there is The Farewell, Lulu Wang’s autobiographical drama about a Billi, a Chinese-American woman (Awkwafina), who returns to her birth country to say goodbye to her dying grandmother who, due to a quirk of Chinese culture, has not been told that she is dying.

What a premise ! As the film’s title card wryly announces, the story is based on an actual lie told by Wang’s family. Awkwafina is very much a dramatised version of Wang, but such works to the film’s advantage as every emotion she goes through feels authetnic. The film covers a lot of ground: guilt about lying to the grandmother she loves, culture shock in a country she has not lived in for twenty years and linguistic isolation as her Mandarin isn’t quite as good as it often needs to be.

One of the most effective images Wang offers is a shot of an arch in the middle of a roundabout, itself surrounded by nondescript tower blocks. Billi notes that it feels familiar; her family tell her that this is where her grandmothers house, one of her favourite haunts as a child, used to be. Now it is lost, living only in her memory. That the same will soon be true of her Nai Nai is heartbreaking.

It helps that Nai Nai is played so beautifully. Zhao Shuzhen is absurdly charming as the family’s matriarch, simultaneously warm and dismissive, without ever tipping too far one way or the other into cariacture. Her obliviousness to her ultimate fate is wrenching, even more so when the characters around her are so clearly struggling to keep their emotions in check given what they know. At the hospital, Billi confronts her Nai Nai’s doctor about the severity of her condition, but does so in English to spare her grandmother the true details. Not long after, she hammers away at a piano, almost perfectly remembering a melancholic piece on an instrument she earlier told us she hasn’t played in years. It’s funny what the strenght of certain emotions can bring out in us. Lulu Wang understands this better than most.

So, this is happening! Not quite sure what it’s going to be yet. Think I want to try offer some scattered thoughts in a more organised way. Letterboxd can only get you so far!

Maybe I’ll offer some weekly thoughts on films I’ve seen. I’ll definitely be doing a top 50 (I guess? Is 100 too far?) of the decade soon; boy have I been thinking about that one. Still lots of work to do on that front though.

Onward!