While the dawn of a new year hasn’t felt particularly ceremonial in many years, 2024 was a year in which I was subjected to near biblical trials of indomitability— therefore I have little choice than to feel expectant of miracles. I’ll reluctantly admit that I’m not one to buy into new years resolutions. Any day of living is a day to work towards whatever seems to miraculously become more attainable on January 1st. Though it is somewhat serene to witness the widespread hope fostered by a notion of dated significance to change.
As nearly anyone who has ever had a conversation with me knows, I watch a lot of fucking movies. I felt particularly moved to reflect on movies I watched in 2024 after watching Joel Schumacher’s Flawless with a close friend in early December. A commonality amongst some of my favorite first watches of the year is the motif of evolving identity— I realize that I feel most quietly self assured when reflecting on a movie that emotionally uprooted me in a way I wouldn’t have willingly faced otherwise.
Maybe I have no desire for an annual resolution because I’ve spent my entire life, thus far, intently watching entire worlds unfold before me on any given day. I have no need for a reservoir of intention steadied not by faith in myself, but in a day that comes and passes the same as always. A widow rediscovering true love, a person leaning into the arms of the gender identity they’ve never viewed head-on, a miraculous feat of survival and renewal— in those moments, I remember that any day could be beautifully life altering. I cling to the notion of the difference a single day could make unbeknownst to those approaching it.
Life has a flare for the brutal, the cruel, the humbling— but it’s a life. I clench it all with the perpetually crackling fingers on one hand and leave the other open; coaxing forth another fractal in which I will consider a dozen more beautiful worlds— all of them with a place for me. Here are the movies that renewed my faith in myself and the vastness of a single life lived:
Flawless (1999), Dir. Joel Schumacher
As many know, Philip Seymour Hoffman was one of the absolute greatest actors thus far and will likely remain so. The synopsis of this film sounds wonky to say the least, but it near instantly soothes that anxiety the moment Philip Seymour Hoffman utters a word. While I am aware that a cisgender man portraying a trans woman is unsavory at best, I found myself enamored by his character, Rusty. She is everything any subjectively good person is; protective, empathetic, caring. Though she is also aware of her propensity for tempermental outburts and silent scheming. Hoffman’s portrayal of such an enigmatic character brought me a sense of peace at the time. I’d almost entirely forgotten that he is often flanked by Robert De Niro in many climatic scenes. Sometimes a woman is all determination and resilience, perhaps most often when she wishes to possess neither. Sometimes a proud man is incomprehensibly changed without his consent and is left to learn himself again.
Birth (2004), Dir. Jonathan Glazer
There’s little to say of this film that could succinctly summarize a calamity so delicately unfolded, yet unfettered in its honesty. Nicole Kidman is, arguably, at her best in this film. I’d expected nothing less than a harrowing portrayal of grief— still, Glazer possesses an ability and willingness to push-and-pull the audience with the vaguest shift in tone, intention and perception in Birth. This film is a rarity in its ability to suggest little more than coincidence and a yes-or-no conflict meant to be resolved or embraced. After all, life and death are ultimately just matters of biology and physics, yes? Concepts of everlasting life beyond physicality proven to be no more than concepts; a concept conjured to assuage the finality of corporeal death. Most know death to be true and finite, and that principle is as dutifully understood in Birth as it is in our reality. Grief, however, could leave any cynic bowed over— a reconsideration of faith and a willingness to believe in the fantastical. There’s something nearly perverse about the nature of grief; when death is impending we know only of clenching our eyes closed to manifest miracles. No one tells another how settled grief warps all discernment or perspective of what remains beyond that void. A loved one carefully wrought from death is our overlapping, hushed prayer. I could believe in whatever is set before me, if given a minute hope upon which to lean on— I know it to be impossible but I can resurrect this person and suspend their life within mine. The impossibility of this is merely ambiguity when shrouded with a willingness to believe in anything.
Cat People (1982), Dir. Paul Schrader
Well, Cat People is so incredibly unorthodox that I’ll simply say it ultimately reaffirmed my faith in everlasting love. A devoted heart can withstand anything.
I Saw the TV Glow (2024) Dir. Jane Schoenbrun
The closest I’ve been to adequately conveying how much this movie emotionally affected me is this frantic review on my Letterboxd account:
Poor Things (2023) Dir. Yorgos Lanthimos
While Poor Things was incredibly polarizing and rightfully so in certain regards, I personally interpreted it in a less fantastical way than its portrayal; I felt an empathy for Bella that was not dependent on the literal nature of her existence. Being a disabled woman—even simply being socialized as one while identifying differently— is an existence that often times feels surreal and cruel in a manner it seems the world should not be capable of. A life both infantilized and withheld from the concept of adulthood, all the while the world goes by.
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