Who says you can’t laugh about the Holocaust? Certainly not Taika Waititi.
The Hunt for the Wilderpeople director’s latest film Jojo Rabbit, set in Nazi Germany with a fanatical Hitler youth at its center, is uproarious, funny, and anything but glib. The story follows 10-year-old Jojo Betzler (played by the effortlessly charismatic and magnetic Roman Griffin Davis), who idolizes Adolf Hitler so much that Hitler (played by Waititi) has become his imaginary friend, popping up like a proverbial devil-on-one’s-shoulder during random moments of turmoil to comfort and counsel our budding young Nazi.
Jojo’s dedication to the cause is unwavering. Thanks to some imaginative Nazi propaganda, Jojo is convinced that his purpose is to exterminate Jews, whom he envisions as winged creatures that eat children and hoard anything shiny. Alas, after playing cavalier with a grenade at Hitler youth camp, Jojo suffers an accident that renders him unfit to keep training with the other children, including his best friend Yorki (played by the adorably precocious Archie Yates). He’s promptly sent home, where his angst grows due to being isolated from his Jew-hating peers. To add insult to injury, he discovers that his mother Rosie (Scarlett Johansson) has been hiding a Jewish girl in their home. Outraged and beside himself with indignation, Jojo hatches a plan to get rid of the Jewish girl, seizing it as an opportunity to prove himself as a true Nazi believer to his peers.
Jojo embarks on quite the character arc, and Waititi once again proves that he is a masterful director when it comes to working with children. His ability to elicit the purest, most delightful performances from child actors is amazing (just as he did in Hunt for the Wilderpeople), and the audience swiftly finds themselves endeared to Jojo and the rest of the cast. Performances from everyone were delightful, with Waititi allowing each actor (such as Johansson, Sam Rockwell, and Rebel Wilson) to bring their signature flairs to their characters. While the film is approached mostly as a period piece from an aesthetic standpoint (with costumes, set design, and color palettes largely faithful to the period), Waititi’s deliberate choices in making it anachronistic serve two purposes: to punctuate the satire, and to help make what should be a very sobering subject matter more approachable.
The story, a loose adaptation of the book Caging Skies by Christine Leunens, while quirky and sweet certainly doesn’t shy away from the real horrors of the holocaust. It’s a tightrope walk to juggle humor and atrocity, but Waititi makes it seem natural. He also knows precisely how to tug at heartstrings without being melodramatic. Jojo Rabbit’s triumph is ultimately in its ability to treat the topic of ideological extremism with the ridicule it so often deserves while at the same time provoking interesting questions about why people get sucked into blindly following charismatic demagogues, entrenching themselves in hate-filled cults, and spouting toxic ideologies. The best part? Waititi does this with so much thoughtfulness and nuance, all while serving up an entertaining, poignant story.
By the end of Jojo Rabbit, you’re not raising your pitchforks screaming about the injustice of the Holocaust—that would be rather trite. Instead, you’re reminded that humans are complex, multi-dimensional, and capable of both immense kindness and unbridled terror. It’s a celebration of people’s capacity to change their minds. More importantly, it’s a reminder of the beauty of comedy and how laughter can be the best medicine during turbulent times.
Bong Joon-Ho’s latest offering, Parasite, is a comedy of manners for a new generation. The film explores the symbiotic relationship between the unwashed masses and the opulent, played out in darkly comic fashion through the story of the dirt poor but scrappy Kim family and the wealthy Park clan. Bong, no stranger to the allegorization of social inequality (as seen in his 2013 dystopian film Snowpiercer), deftly guides the audience through a twisted tale of a modern-day caste system, where rich and poor coexist because they need each other, both cogs in the wheel of a society that depends on this tension to sustain itself.
We follow the Kim family as they scrounge for scraps in their home in the slums of South Korea, where a perpetual drunkard routinely pees outside their kitchen window. The family patriarch Ki-taek (played by Song Kang-ho), while jovial and generally resourceful, clings to a philosophy and work ethic centered on having no plans. According to his logic, if you don’t make plans, then there’s no way that anything could go awry. So with that, Ki-taek, his wife, and two kids fly daily by the seat of their pants, working odd jobs like folding pizza boxes (poorly, mind you). Ki-Woo (Choi Woo-sik), Ki-taek’s son, stumbles on an opportunity presented by a well-to-do friend: tutor a wealthy girl, Park Da-hye, and get handsomely paid. Thus begins a tangled web of machinations involving Ki-Woo plotting to slowly entrench his family into the Park home.
A major reason for Parasite’s magic is Song Kang-Ho, who is such a gifted actor. It’s not easy to cycle through several shades of emotional intensity but he does so masterfully. Really, performances from everyone in the film were superb—Sang Hye-Jin (in the role of matriarch to the Kim family) is a notable mention too—but it’s the richness of the world that Bong paints that makes Parasite so exciting and such a treat to watch. Visually, it was compelling. You felt that this world was lived-in and authentic to its characters, despite how outlandish some of the situations were that they found themselves in. Just as in Snowpiercer, where Bong used very deliberate set design to show how each train car represented different classes, he employed the same specificity and detail in Parasite. The ramshackle shanty that the Kims lived in stood in stark contrast to the perfectly manicured Park mansion. It was interesting to see how, despite their status, the Kims’ home was filled with a bunch of random stuff, whereas the Park house was deliberately sparse with its minimalist design. It plays with the very real idea of wealth being a state of mind and how, ironically, the people who can afford to adopt minimalist aesthetics tend to be upper class.
Bong isn’t exactly subtle—from the use of basements and the Kims’ home being flooded by sewage water—all were intentional in conveying everyone’s place and status in this story. Cinematography aside, the film tackled interesting themes like learned helplessness, poked fun at the rich’s obsession with referring only the best to each other, and took what seemed like a typical MacGuffin (in the prosperity rock that Ki-woo’s friend Min gifts to the Kim family to wish them good fortune), turning it into the instrumental device that accompanies one of the pivotal moments in the film. What makes this comedy of manners so fresh and interesting is that while it followed a traditional satirization of propriety, the added element of horror gave it a unique intensity. Most comedies of manners stop short at making fun of the many contortions people make to fit into society. With Parasite, Bong opts to make the class tensions viscerally felt and near palpable to the audience with an ending that jars you out of your seat.
It’s rare for a film to balance the quirky and humorous with the disturbing, and even rarer for there to be thought-provoking commentary woven into the plot. Bong effortlessly juggles all of these elements, thanks to a tight script that contained just enough exposition to set the stage for all of the characters to develop, while continuing to advance the narrative in a wildly imaginative way. The film takes twists and turns that are surprising and irreverent, but they aren’t there for shock value. There’s a method to Bong’s madness, and he knows just how far to go and when to pull back. It was also fun to see Bong play with the idea of “putting on airs” literally and figuratively, by having Ki-taek’s downward spiral be centered around how the Parks were sensing an odd smell around the house, as if to say that you can put on a crisp shirt and alter your manner of speaking to be more proper, but there’s something tangible that will always give you away and follow you around like a black mark. In Ki-taek’s case, the Parks kept reminding him over and over that he would never be one of them, no matter how much he tried to fit in. With Parasite, Bong pulls a Talented Mr. Ripley, but takes it to another level with a meatier commentary on class.
At the end of the day, Parasite isn’t just about a family of hustlers who hatch a wildly entertaining scheme to siphon as much money from a gullible, wealthy family. It’s a question about how long class tensions can be sustained before the pot boils over. Rich and poor are pieces in the same puzzle because their status is entirely dependent on the other to exist. But it’s also Bong’s deeply personal therapy session about impostor syndrome that he turned into a horror comedy. Hilarious and provocative, it’s a movie that fans of Yorgos Lanthimos will surely appreciate.
The best laid plans are no plans, Ki-taek says in the film, because then there’s no way for them to go awry. In Parasite, things go horribly awry all right, but in the most masterful ways possible.
Let me preface this post with a confession: I am a rom com enthusiast. Go ahead, turn your nose up at me, you snobs! But I unabashedly love romantic comedies. Yes, I’m aware that the genre is much maligned for being painfully predictable and vapid, but it would surprise you how tough it actually is to produce a solid rom com that hits all the right notes.
You see, there’s a formula. Boy Meets Girl (yes, I’m being deliberately heteronormative for this example, put your pitchforks down). Girl plays hard to get. Boy persists and wins her over despite how much the lady doth protest too much. A conflict introduces tension and separation (”Gasp! This was all part of a bet?!”), throwing the relationship into jeopardy. Boy performs Grand Gesture™ to win back Girl’s heart. Girl forgives Boy and the two gallop into the sunset. Cue Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life” as the credits roll.
The formula works, but only if the filmmaker can trick the audience into believing that this on screen romance has real stakes. To do that, you have to have a script that at least pretends to explore an interesting relationship which, as it unfolds, gives the audience butterflies and makes them want to root for the star-crossed lovers. Without audience investment, you have no rom com.
To get the audience to invest, you need likeable leads who have great chemistry and just enough tangible sexual tension to create that air of “Will they or won’t they?” After all, no one ships a couple who are devoid of personality and lack chemistry. Most of this sexual tension is physical—in the way the actors interact with each other—but what can really help establish this is verbal, by way of witty repartee.
Think of some of the classic rom coms, like When Harry Met Sally. Why does it work? Sally is a Type A personality. Prim, proper, particular, and uptight. Harry is more laid back, casual, and candid— unafraid to tell it like it is. He’s also a bit of a troll who enjoys getting a rise out of someone. Throw the two on a road trip together and you have a recipe for romance (or disaster—however you want to look at it). As a viewer, you begin to root for them because we’re told that opposites attract and complement each other. Harry softens Sally’s rough edges, Sally helps Harry realize he needs some maturing.
And you all know the Big Gesture™. A New Year’s eve confession that inspired a thousand sappy rom-com speeches.
What makes When Harry Met Sally successful?
Harry and Sally are different enough from each other that there is enough sexual tension and push and pull to make their interactions interesting.
Each half of the couple has their own personality that feels authentic to their character. They have their own ambitions and goals. They also have traits and quirks that uniquely position them to attract each other.
The relationship does not seem guaranteed—the audience has to have a moment of doubt or uncertainty that makes them will the couple back together.
Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal have fantastic chemistry.
It seems pretty straightforward. Follow the formula, and you’ll be fine. In fact, it’s hard to screw up a good rom com if you just imagine unconventional ways to put two individually interesting but opposite enough people together then lean back and watch the sparks fly.
So all this to say that nothing could have prepared me for the soul-sucking awfulness of Always Be My Maybe, the Netflix flick starring comedian Ali Wong (know for her Baby Cobra Netflix special) and Fresh Off the Boat’s Randall Park.
The story follows Sasha Tran (Wong), a renowned chef and restauranteur, who rekindles a romance with her childhood best friend Marcus Kim (Park) when her marriage engagement suddenly falls through. Tran is portrayed as ambitious and driven, while Kim is unmotivated and immature, using his widowed father as a crutch to not follow his dreams. In its purest form (this summary), the gist of the story seems fine. Nothing to write home about (certainly not novel), but this is romantic comedy and the bar is more of a footstool so no one’s begrudging sticking to convention. But Always Be My Maybe takes that convention and, in true Asian fashion, approaches it with textbook diligence that just sapped the joy and life out of what should have been a fun, light-hearted romp. So much for subverting Asian stereotypes!
Now I’m a fan of Ali Wong and Randall Park’s, but this movie was so mind-numbing, it made me physically ill. Ali Wong? Hilarious! Randall Park? Extremely likable and has great comedic timing! Together you would think they would be dynamite. Fireworks! An explosive affair of epic proportions! And for those of us who’ve had a hankering for a rom com with Asian leads (and God knows we’ve waited a long fucking time—thank you, Crazy Rich Asians) we know about the demand for one.
Alas, what a disappointment. A telephone pole and I would have had more chemistry than Ali Wong and Randall Park. As much as it pains, I have to say that Always Be My Maybe just might be one of the worst romantic comedies I have ever watched.
Not only did this movie put two leads together who had zero chemistry—or at least enough sexual tension to help the audience suspend their disbelief that these aren’t just actors—but the story unfolds in a fashion that actually makes the audience keenly aware of the formula. I know I said if you just follow the formula you can’t go wrong, but Jesus they didn’t have to make it so obvious! It’s like Fight Club, you know? The first rule of making a good rom com is YOU DO NOT MAKE THE AUDIENCE AWARE THAT THEY ARE WATCHING A ROM COM. I mean, at least try to approach it like it’s actually an interesting story about two people.
Instead, the movie followed story beats that seemed to exist for the sake of moving the story along instead of actually selling us on the relationship. The beats were so obvious that you can actually pinpoint where they begin and end because they were helpfully (and often unnecessarily) bookended by old school hip hop songs. Cue music! Here comes the conflict, the part where Boy and Girl rekindle their romance only to find that the years apart have made them different people. Boy judges Girl for being pretentious and obnoxious. Girl judges boy for being immature and unmotivated. A big fight ensues! Insults are hurled at each other that are so truthful they hurt! But it’s only a sign that they are meant to be with each other because they can trust each other to be this honest!
You know your movie is bad when your story beats are so obvious that they take the viewer out of the movie. You know your rom com is bad when Boy’s Big Gesture™ felt like a very clear When Harry Met Sally rip-offwith dialogue that makes you want to get a lobotomy. There’s certainly nothing wrong with being referential or, even better, deliberately parodying romantic comedies. But Always Be My Maybe wasn’t really trying to be either. It was just stuck in this weird gray area of trying to be a romantic comedy and failing.
Always Be My Maybe’s biggest problem is in its turd of a script. It was so cringeworthy, filled with inauthentic lines and tired Asian jokes (the joke about Asians hating tipping was played out to the point of exasperation). Even their attempts to make fun of woke culture (which is an effort I wholly endorse) felt contrived and flat, which is such a bummer because that would have been a cool differentiator. Even the promising jabs at the pretentiousness of haute cuisine were awkwardly executed. Most of all, it didn’t do its lead actors any favors, turning them into cartoonish cardboard cut-outs that were designed to follow the formula of a rom-com without putting in the work to earn the audience’s investment. Performance-wise, Wong did a passable job, but there were times when it felt like she was reciting a line that was clearly more apt for a comedy skit rather than a piece of dialogue that a character in a movie is saying. Park’s attempt at faux awkwardness, on the other hand, was excruciating to watch. Couldn’t he just be a dude in a rap band who happens to live with his dad? That’s a decent enough back story. There really wasn’t a need to give him a personality quirk that seemed put on rather than authentic.
The film’s most promising moment was a Keanu Reeves cameo. And it’s only because Reeves was so game at poking fun of himself and the pretentiousness of celebrity that it worked. But just like the tired Asian jokes, at a certain point the humor was played out to the point where it became unwelcome. I also want to give credit to the film for portraying an Asian American upbringing that wasn’t the Fresh Off the Boat variety. While there isn’t anything wrong with that portrayal, it’s also a treat to be able to see a different dimension of Asian culture, one that shows how typical and relatable it is to the average American’s upbringing. Premarital, promiscuous sex! Rap music! Being into pretentious food! Much as I hate to admit it, the whole “Asians—we’re just like you!” approach is kinda needed in film and television because it removes this layer of exoticization that can be restrictive to Asian characters.
While not tokenizing Asian characters is a positive, it still doesn’t make Always Be My Maybe a good movie. While I did watch it all the way to the end (despite my body’s vehement protests), it hurt my soul in ways I didn’t anticipate. How did they ruin this rom com? First, and most importantly, there was a shocking lack of individual character development. You don’t get a sense of who these people are individually. Instead, they just seemed to be characters created for the sole purpose of putting them together and contrasting them enough to where they should have some sort of chemistry. But you can’t manufacture that. Each actor has to go through the work of making their characters likable. If I like the characters individually, I like them even better together! See how that 2+2 worked? But without dedicating the right amount of time and space in the story to showing their inner lives and what makes them tick, you’re setting them up for failure.
Second, and on a related note: there were no real stakes to the relationship. because setting up Sasha and Marcus to be together just seemed like a given from the get go. There didn’t seem to be any real jeopardy to their relationship, even once the conflict was introduced. The forced repartee between the characters came off like lines of dialogue instead of natural conversation, not to mention the very apparent lack of chemistry between Ali Wong and Randall Park. So much so that you didn’t really want to see them make out, let alone root for them to end up together. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you ruin a rom com.
If you, a friend, or family member just watched Always Be My Maybe and are experiencing similar symptoms of nausea and misanthropy, may I direct you to a Netflix original rom com that is actually good? Go check out Set It Up, if you haven’t already!
What did you think of Always Be My Maybe? Am I full of shit? Did you like it? What are some of your favorite romantic comedies? Sound off in the comments below!
Katharine Ross, who played Etta Place in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) is married to iconic character actor Sam Elliott (Tombstone, The Big Lebowski, and more recently A Star is Born). Interestingly, Elliott’s first film credit was for a minor role in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, as the card player who accuses Sundance of cheating early in the film. However, he and Ross never met on the set of that film, as Ross was an established Hollywood actress and Elliott was just getting started. At the time, Ross was also married to Conrad L. Hall, the cinematographer on Butch Cassidy. Ross and Elliott met later during filming of the 1978 movie The Legacy and married in 1984.
Robert Redford wanted to do all of his own stunts in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969). Paul Newman was especially upset about Redford’s desire to jump onto the train roof and run along the tops of the cars as it moved. Redford said Newman told him, “I don’t want any heroics around here. I don’t want to lose a co-star.” (x)
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) was the movie that motivated David Fincher (Se7en, Fight Club) to become a director. “I was about seven years old and there was a documentary on the making of George Roy Hill‘s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Fincher says. “I had not seen the movie, but my parents had told me it was a great movie and I was allowed to go see it. I just saw this making of and it was the first time it ever occurred to me that movies weren’t made in real-time, that if you watched a movie that took two hours it was probably made in a couple afternoons. If it was complicated, it could take a week. It never occurred to me that it took months and months and months. So I watched this and thought, you get to blow up full-size balsa wood trains, you get to have cowboys on horseback and you get to hang out with Katharine Ross. This sounds like a pretty good job.” (x)
The more commonly used name for Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid’s gang was “The Wild Bunch”. However, when the Sam Peckinpah film The Wild Bunch (1969) was released a few months earlier, the name of the gang in George Roy Hill’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was changed to the “Hole in the Wall Gang” to avoid confusion with Peckinpah’s film (x).
Paul Newman did his own bicycle stunts in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) after his stuntman was unable to stay on the bike. The only one he didn’t do was the scene where Butch crashes backwards into the fence, which was performed by cinematographer Conrad L. Hall (x).
