Barbie

Year of release: 2023.     Directed by Greta Gerwig.             Starring Margot Robbie, Ryan Gosling, America Ferrera, Kate McKinnon, Will Ferrell, Michael Cera, and Helen Mirren.

If you saw the first teaser for Barbie, you may have thought the 2001: A Space Odyssey tribute was a one-off gag filmed just to promote the movie. You would have been wrong. Not to spoil the best surprises of the film, but the prologue telling the history of the world from the perspective of the Barbies is both hilarious and an ingenious homage to Kubrick’s masterpiece.

The homage is also thoroughly appropriate given the film’s epilogue where stereotypical Barbie (Margot Robbie) enters a new chapter of her life not at all dissimilar from man’s rebirth as the space child at the end of 2001. To drive the new life idea home, the final line is a funny zinger about the ability to do just that.

What if I also said there’s a “beach off” among the Kens that plays extremely similarly to the pie fight that initially ended Dr. Strangelove? Or a proud proclamation of the same dolls’ identities reminiscent of the most famous line from Spartacus? And what if in fighting the villain of patriarchy, two women communicate mentally, and one of their daughters refers to it as “shining?”

I am convinced there must be more Kubrick references in Barbie, and I’d happily see it again just to catch more of them, but the film delivers on so many other levels as well.

Gerwig and Baumbach’s story does almost nothing that I expected, and while the trailers hinted at similarities with The LEGO Movie, it is very much something different. When stereotypical Barbie discovers her perfect pink world with arched feet and hot, waterless showers falling apart with thoughts of *gasp* death, weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon) informs her she has to travel to the real world and find the child playing with her who has clearly become troubled by something, thus repairing the rift between their two worlds. Stereotypical Barbie just has to choose the Birkenstock over the pink heel, which to be fair, is a choice that not many Barbies would want to make.

If stereotypical Barbie is apprehensive about going to the real world, she is reassured when the other Barbies remind her that the invention of Barbie empowered young girls, letting them know they could be anything they want and not just mothers, and now as a result women hold all positions of power in the real world. And women everywhere will probably want to run up to her and hug her for initiating feminism and fixing all women’s problems.

“At least,” Helen Mirren’s narrator tells us, “That’s what the Barbies believe.” Helen Mirren also delivers my favorite joke in the film, turning an expected breakdown from Robbie’s Barbie into something hilarious, but I’m not spoiling that here.

The slap of cold water that is the real world shocks and appalls stereotypical Barbie while making Ken (Ryan Gosling) feel empowered and respected. A crash course on patriarchy thrills Ken, which he eagerly takes back to Barbieland to inform the other Kens on how they’re supposed to be subjugating the Barbies, riding horses, drinking beer, and watching The Godfather.

As an inverse of the real world’s patriarchal structure, Barbieland is a world where the Kens cannot be president, cannot have Supreme Court appointments, cannot hold high paying jobs, and exist purely for the edification of the Barbies. Since the Ken dolls were created by Mattel to be a companion for Barbie, it’s a very clever twist that demonstrates the toxicity of patriarchy that has plagued the real world for centuries. It reminds me of Aamer Rahman’s comedy bit about reverse racism only being possible with a time machine that would enable Africa to colonize Europe and inflict the abuses on white people that they inflicted on Black people for centuries.

I suppose it needs to be said given the absurd hatred Barbie is generating from right-wing incels for its wokeness, but a film that says we should build a society where women and men are treated equally with equal opportunities is hardly what I’d call woke. Although in a post-MAGA world, general human decency often is woke, so I suppose the label is not wrong, but the film’s basic feminist message is a beautiful thing that would have widely been accepted had not the alt-right gained so much traction in recent years. Nonetheless, the film’s box office success and glowing reviews are reason for hope.

Like Gerwig’s two previous films, Barbie is another example of Graham Greene’s maxim that movies should depict the world as it is and as it should be. While the subject matter here may seem far removed from Lady Bird and Little Women, there is a common thread of hope and decency that celebrates the beauty of love for what is true, noble, and good in the midst of an imperfect world.

Between Barbieland and the real world, there is so much good, and to the extent that the film has any villain at all, it is patriarchy. Patriarchy claims victims of the Kens, the Barbies, America Ferrera’s mother and secretary for Mattel, and Will Ferrell’s CEO of Mattel, who is not a villain copied from The LEGO Movie as the trailers suggested, but a well-meaning executive who wants to help girls and women while not realizing the ways he’s accepted patriarchal norms.

Ferrera’s third act speech that sets up the climax of the movie may be on-the-nose, but it exhibits the same passion a five-year-old girl has for her make-believe land with Barbies, and as a mom reconnecting with that same childhood passion, I thought the speech worked brilliantly.

Several reviews have commented on how Gosling steals the movie, but honestly, Robbie is just as good and gives him an equally clueless character to play off of. The two of them make for a great duo for a road trip movie that takes hundreds of unexpected turns.

Returning to Kubrick, Gerwig and Baumbach wrote a movie about human progress and relationships where our own inventions (patriarchy instead of HAL) plague us and hinder that progress until we can overcome them. It makes the 2001 framing story all the more fitting, and it shows how we can appreciate that journey through an obelisk and light show or a polarizing doll.

Personal recommendation: A-

Matilda the Musical

Year of release: 2022.                     Directed by Matthew Warchus.                 Starring Alisha Weir, Emma Thompson, Lashana Lynch, Stephen Graham, and Andrea Riseborough.

The two most important songs in Matilda the Musical are “When I Grow Up” and “My House.” Thankfully, in Matthew Warchus’ adaptation of the stage show he directed, those songs are beautifully filmed and performed, packing the emotional wallop they should.

Unfortunately, other than those two tearjerker moments, the emotional stakes are shockingly low, as this watered down version of Roald Dahl’s book and its musical adaptation receives a functional film adaptation. To be clear, nailing the two aforementioned songs places Matilda the Musical a league ahead of Rob Marshall’s disastrous dismantling of Nine, but several leagues behind Spielberg’s brilliant cinematic re-envisioning of West Side Story.

As to other recent Broadway adaptations, I preferred The Prom and Into the Woods, but Matilda over Les Misérables and obviously Dear Evan Hansen (though in the case of the latter, much of the fault lies with the equally offensive stage show).

I think most readers know that I love musicals and am deeply familiar with many of them. However, I know Matilda the Musical better than most shows, not only having seen it, but also having accompanied and directed the pit for a 2020 community theater production. (FWIW, I also read Dahl’s novel as a child but never saw the 1996 film.)

It’s an overused truism that what works on stage doesn’t work on film, and vice versa, but Warchus’ directing, which brilliantly created Dahl’s world of wonder and terror through a child’s eye on stage, feels sadly unimaginative on film. (It’s much better than Phyllida Lloyd’s attempt at recreating her stage direction of Mamma Mia! in the 2008 film adaptation, but that’s not a high bar.)

For instance, take the opening song, “Miracle.” The vibrant colors of the hospital as parents croon over their newborn infants feels like something out of a Dr. Seuss story, but the Wormwood’s home, Ms. Phelps’ traveling library are not much different. Even the supposedly intimidating school run by the sadistic Miss Trunchbull looks like a drabber version of the same thing. Given Tim Burton’s streak of misfires over the past decade, I won’t say Matilda the Musical would have been better had he directed it, but even at his worst, it would certainly have looked better.

Speaking of Burton and musicals, say what you want about the singing and cutting down of the score, but his Sweeney Todd captured a gothic Victorian world much better than Warchus’ very cheerful, brightly colored palette captures any of Dahl’s world, which is equal parts menace and wonder.

As to the staging of the numbers, there’s no consistency at all. “Miracle” welcomes us to a show about admiring parents as contrasted with the neglect and abuse of Matilda Wormwood at the hands of her parents. Eventually, it breaks into a fantasy performance complete with sequined costumes and microphones, not that different than Roxie’s fantasies in Marshall’s adaptation of Chicago. Then, Matilda’s “I want” song, “Naughty,” takes place as a dance across her home as if it’s happening in her world and not some imaginary fantasy. There is nothing wrong with either approach, but nearly every song shifts from one to the other. It’s sloppy and undermines the poignancy of Tim Minchin’s score (which is very good).

Perhaps Warchus was trying to set up the mix of childhood dreams versus realities that occurs in “When I Grow Up,” which is the heart of the show. As the children leave school after a day of witnessing horrific child abuse (more on that in a moment), they dream of the world as it is and as they know it should be. This is the strongest number in both the stage show and the film, and their naïve dreams of adulthood are effectively moving in their innocence, sense of wonder, and hope of escape.

As to the child abuse itself, the film is rated PG for “exaggerated bullying,” which initially seemed like an odd euphemism to describe the physical and psychological torture of children that Dahl wrote, but it’s really not inaccurate. As Miss Trunchbull, Emma Thompson is strangely miscast, and the sadistic headmistress is so unhinged that it is obvious from the beginning Matilda is going to get the best of her.

I love Emma Thompson and think she is one of the most talented actresses alive. There are several reasons I don’t care for her in this role. First, the role was written for a man in drag on stage, and while I’m not sure that suspension of disbelief would have worked in a film, the lower, darker range for which Trunchbull’s songs were written is lost with Thompson’s mezzo voice. Second, Thompson’s acting coupled with Warchus closeups of her is too subtle for a role that was written to be an eleven in terms of scenery chewing. I think of other similar villains (Jim Carrey’s Count Olaf, Robert Helpmann’s Child Catcher, even Thompson’s Baroness in Cruella), and they all were comical and menacing. The Trunchbull here is just comical.

As to the other villains (Matilda’s parents), Stephen Graham and Andrea Riseborough are largely wasted. They both have solo numbers in the stage show, which were cut from the film. Matilda also has an older brother in the show and novel, whose purpose is to show the blatant favoritism of their parents. He is also cut. All of this makes Matilda’s home life an underdeveloped afterthought that makes the neglect and emotional abuse of her parents seem like a joke. It also makes the antics of “Naughty” seem wholly unwarranted.

The lack of stakes for Matilda makes Dahl’s morbid world of corrupt idiot parents, evil authority figures, kind but frightened teachers, and scared children all shockingly dull. The outcome is never in doubt, even if one is not familiar with the story. To be sure, it’s a powerful story about standing up to the monsters in your life and building a family of love when your blood relations neglect their responsibilities, and the moments of tenderness highlighted in Minchin’s songs still come through, but it disappointingly lacks the emotional wallop that other versions of this story have.

One scene that does pack the emotional punch that it needs to is Lashana Lynch’s rendition of “My House.” As Miss Honey, Matilda’s tender yet timid teacher Lynch is easily the best of the cast, and she is given the most to do, despite her act one solo being cut as well. The casting of her parents makes that mystery obvious way too far in advance, but the “reveal” is still poignant without the surprise.

Regrettably, the filmmakers felt obligated to go for best original song Oscar and wrote a new finale for the movie. First, it takes the focus of the story away from Matilda and shifts who the protagonist is without any setup for such a shift. Second, like most attempts at that Oscar added to musical adaptations, the song is mostly forgettable. Third, the finale of the stage show is perfect, and it ruins that.

It is worth mentioning that this new finale is not the first time Warchus’ directing steals the story away from Matilda. Her act two solo, “Quiet,” is brilliantly sung by Alisha Weir, but editing the Trunchbull’s threats throughout it takes the moment of growth away from Matilda.

I would not deny that the stage version of Matilda the Musical has its flaws, but the energy and emotions packed into that production are some of the most moving and heartfelt, making it my favorite musical centered around children. Sadly, the film remains too much a shadow of that story to bring Dahl’s creation to life the way the musical did on stage.

Personal recommendation: C+

Annette

Year of release: 2021       Directed by Leos Carax. Starring Adam Driver, Marion Cotillard, and Simon Helberg.

After watching Annette, the two movies I’m most reminded of are The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Mulholland Drive. And if your taste in any way overlaps with mine, on the basis of that comparison and recommendation, you should drop everything and see Annette as soon as possible. Definitely do not read further until you’ve seen Annette, unless you do not care about spoilers.

I compared Annette to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Mulholland Drive, because Jacques Demy and David Lynch are the two artists whose work has the most similarities with Annette. Annette is an obvious spiritual and thematic successor to Demy in that it takes a story that cross-examines musical tropes while also magnificently and stunningly paying homage to said tropes. At the same time, it shows the dark underside of the world of performance, fame, and jealousy in a way that questions where the performance ends and where reality begins.

The blurring of the line between performance and reality starts with the opening scene. Director Leos Carax turns to the Mael brothers, the film’s composers, and says, “So may we start?” The brothers turn that into a riff, which in turn becomes a song, which in turn the cast and chorus join in as they transform into their characters.

Another stunning sequence shows the merging of the line between performance and reality as world renowned soprano Ann Desfranoux (Marion Cotillard) is performing an opera. The backdrop of the set opens up to reveal an actual forest that she steps into before returning to the reality of the stage and its prop forest. The performance is both symbolic of a liberating, fantasy dimension and at the same time a constricting reality.

Ann’s relationship with standup comic Henry McHenry (Adam Driver) functions much in the same way. It is both an enthralling, passionate affair that fulfills both of them, and at the same time a dangerous clash of personalities and careers that constricts around them.

Driver is magnificently unlikable as Henry; it’s a testament to his acting abilities that he can make a character so repugnant and fascinating at the same time. His brooding demeanor perfectly captures Henry’s dangerous side. Even from the opening number as the actors transform into their characters, Driver’s expressions hint at the type of character he is going to play. The same can be said of Cotillard, who is sublime as his better half and shines like a ray of grace throughout the film beginning with that opening number.

The story functions much like a typical opera or musical love affair, with a central couple passionately in love and another party interested in ending that relationship. The third party here is Ann’s accompanist, later turned conductor, played by Simon Helberg. At least, the first half (or act) of the film functions that way. The second half is where the Lynchian nightmare, which had been simmering just under the surface, really takes hold.

Perhaps the strongest connection to Demy is that Annette asks the question what if the whirlwind romance of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg had worked out, and what if that was a tragedy that pushed the characters just ever so much further. That is the basis of the nightmare of the second half (act), and that is where the horror of fame, jealousy, and living vicariously through a performer really becomes apparent.

The relationship of the conductor does not become complicated with Ann as would be expected, but with Henry. After Henry kills Ann—on board a yacht, in a scene that is obviously staged on set and yet a dangerous portal to another fantasy realm—and exploits their daughter Annette for her miraculous voice, the conductor joins him in promoting Annette, and becomes convinced he is her father.

It should also be pointed out that Ann’s death recalls one of the most infamous celebrity deaths, Natalie Wood’s, which is yet another example of the fine line between performance and reality that Annette walks throughout its entire runtime.

If The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Mulholland Drive are the first two influences on Annette, then Gypsy is the third. As Henry exploits Annette, her status as a puppet becomes ever more apparent. And Annette is played by a disturbingly life-like puppet. First, she was on object of her mother’s affection, then an object for her father’s second career, and then an object of possession between two men who both want to claim her as belonging to them.

While it’s fairly obvious that Annette will transform into a real girl at some point, the moment at which she does is magnificent and better than anything I anticipated. Henry is finally in jail for two murders and the doll comes to visit him. As they begin conversing, a child (Devyn McDowell) walks from the back of the room to replace the puppet. On the one hand, this is another example of blurring the line between performance and reality. At the same time, it is the first instance of Annette exhibiting agency for herself. The shot of the doll left behind on the floor of the prison cell is a visually stunning commentary that Henry’s and Annette’s old lives are over.

The lyrics for that scene are magnificent. Henry insists he loves Annette, and she responds that he can’t love her. It is certainly true he will never be a father to her, and he made her life and her performances all about himself. For a story about white male mediocrity erupting into violence, the straightforward simpleness of a child’s rebuttal is more powerful than the justice that Henry is being served in prison.

Speaking of simpleness, all the lyrics of the Mael brothers are equally straightforward and repetitive. For instance, in the love duet Henry and Ann repeatedly sing, “We love each other so much,” and nothing else. All love duets in operas or musicals express that sentiment, but here the lyrics blatantly state it, thus exposing the mechanics of the song and purpose of any love duet. The magnificent opening number functions very similarly. “So may we start” becomes a refrain that acknowledges what is happening (the musical is starting), with the chorus echoing “may we” (mais oui). That is yet another brilliant example of performance blending with reality; it extends from the visuals to the actors to the lyrics.

Carax is more than up to walking that line with perfect balance, and he is aided by a phenomenal cast, and a phenomenal score by the Mael brothers (aka Sparks). It may seem strange that a Sondheim fanatic such as myself enjoyed lyrics this simple and repetitive, but they so perfectly contributed to the ever-present blurring of fantasy and reality that I thought it was a stroke of genius.

As to whether Henry is meant to be a great standup comic or a mediocre provocateur, I felt it was definitely the latter. His audiences clearly come to see “the Ape of God” because of his offensive schtick. Driver does a great job of connecting the insensitive and repellant nature of Henry’s “jokes” with his jealousy and violent tendencies. Even the lovemaking scenes between Henry and Ann contain some of those red flags as Henry tickles Ann against her will and later jokes about it.

How Henry and Ann came together and what they saw in each other is never addressed in the film. It’s also completely beside the point. Their relationship is riffing on the toxic relationships often found in operas and some musicals (e.g. Carousel). I believe the first opera Ann performs in is a fictitious opera that the Mael brothers wrote music for. However, we do see a billboard that she performed in Bluebeard’s Castle.

Bluebeard’s Castle is about a newly married bride who insists on opening all the doors to her husband’s castle against his will. As he implores her to stop, she discovers more horrors behind each door until it’s too late to leave. Warning signs are there for Ann all along. By the time she notices them, namely in the brilliantly filmed #MeToo dream sequence, it’s too late for her to leave as well. Like Bluebeard’s bride who is ultimately forced to stay in the castle forever, Ann becomes trapped in Henry’s world.

In an attempt to leave that world, Ann haunts Henry beyond her death. It’s implied she gives Annette her amazing voice, as if taking over a part of her child’s identity is the only way she can achieve justice for herself. This is another example of why Annette is played by a puppet, but also a tragic instance of one victim having to objectify someone else to survive. Henry’s toxic masculinity has more victims than just the two corpses.

Ultimately, everything has to come to an end: Annette as a puppet, Henry’s crimes, Ann’s revenge, their careers, the music, and the film itself. That happens once the illusion is shattered, and no performance can overcome the mistreatment of a child. It is quite possible that Carax decided to have Annette played by a puppet to avoid any exploitation of a child. Or it could have been another way of drawing attention to the mechanics of the performance itself and demanding the viewer suspend their disbelief. Either way, when McDowell enters for the final scene, Henry can no longer joke, Ann can no longer sing, and as Annette leaves the performance world behind, the music can no longer play.

The opening voice over forbids breathing throughout the show, and while it’s meant as a dark joke foreshadowing Henry’s offensive standup routine, it also is a fitting descriptor of the film, through which I sat enraptured for over two hours. And then, after the final scene which will easily be my favorite scene of any film this year, it’s time to stop watching and for the performances to end.

Personal recommendation: A+

The Red Shoes

Year of release: 1948               Directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.     Starring Anton Walbrook, Moira Shearer, and Marius Goring.

Originally published as part of the Arts & Faith top 100.

The most famous line in The Red Shoes is probably an early exchange between Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook) and Victoria Page (Moira Shearer). The director of a prestigious ballet company asks the aspiring ballerina why she wants to dance. Her reply: “Why do you want to live?”

The answer impresses Lermontov enough to earn her a small part in the company, but it also reveals the two most important themes of the film—the importance of vocation and the danger of allowing that vocation to become an idol.

Probably one of the least commented on scenes is when aspiring composer Julian Craster (Marius Goring) plays through his rewrite of the titular ballet for Lermontov. At one point, he replaces a pedestrian hymn with a Lutheran chorale. The chorale is Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland (Now come, Savior of the Heathen). It’s a fascinating choice of music to pair with a setting of a Hans Christen Andersen fairy tale, but one that emphasizes the theme of idolizing art and the necessity of salvation from that.

For Vicky and Julian that hope of salvation comes in the form of their love, to the consternation of Lermontov. However, it may not be enough to save them from the slavish devotion to their art that Lermontov expects and requires of everyone in his company. An early dismissal of his prima ballerina because she got married causes the fired dancer to exclaim, “He has no heart.” Ballet for Lermontov is a jealous and merciless god that will allow for no other loves.

Lermontov embodies the red shoes of the titular fairy tale and ballet. As he relates the story of the ballet to Craster, he says with palpable exhilaration, “At the end of the evening she gets tired and wants to go home, but the red shoes are not tired. In fact, the red shoes are never tired…Time rushes by. Love rushes by. Life rushes by. But the red shoes dance on.” When Craster inquires how the story ends, Lermontov nonchalantly says, “In the end, she dies,” as if that’s the natural outcome once someone can no longer create their art.

Obviously, Vicky is the young girl and how her story ends is a fait accompli, foreshadowed through the settings of two of her major interactions with Lermontov and the place where she first meets Julian. Both men represent two vocations, and both of them make one incompatible with the other. That is the tragedy of the film, and it is from that which all the characters need salvation.

In a scene towards the end, there is an acknowledgment of that need for salvation, but it is too little too late. The conflict between the two vocations can be seen in Vicky and Julian’s bedroom. Not only does the allegedly blissfully married couple sleep in separate beds, but the lighting creates a dark chasm between them, showing that need for reconciliation. The scene turns into both of them pursuing their art, making it even clearer that their two loves are too envious to allow a competing force.

Importantly, the film allows the viewer to be swept up in the grandeur of the art and romance, wishing for both to work out with a happy ending, without acknowledging how toxic the idolization of a vocation is. Brian Easdale’s gorgeous score, Robert Helpmann’s stunning choreography, and Moira Shearer’s flawless execution make the ballet of The Red Shoes come alive as it needs to. It indicts the viewer’s own desires, making them culpable for any time they’ve idolized a love of theirs excessively.

The more I think about it, the more perfect that chorale choice is. It matches the perfection of the dancing, the acting, the scoring, the directing, the costume design, and it does so in a way that reminds the viewer that any art or the need to create art cannot be the only reason to live. Art for art’s sake is not necessarily a bad thing, but as beautiful and enriching as great art is, it becomes even greater when it exists for something beyond itself as well. That’s a realization that all the characters eventually have, and it’s one that the final scene hauntingly and tragically depicts.

 

Personal recommendation: A+

Frozen II

Year of Release: 2019      Directed by Chris Buck and Jennifer Lee.  Voices of Idina Menzel, Kristen Bell, Jonathan Groff, Josh Gad, Sterling K. Brown, Martha Plimpton, and Evan Rachel Wood.

The relationship with a sister is something to be cherished. That was the driving force behind Frozen, and it continues to be so for this originally unplanned sequel. The relationship between Anna and Elsa (Kristen Bell and Idina Menzel reprising their roles) receives more attention here, as the bond between them is once again tested in a journey into an enchanted forest, as fears of change, isolation, and issues of trust threaten to ruin their relationship once again.

If you’re saying, “didn’t they resolve those issues at the end of the first film,” yes, they did. However, since when has anyone just stopped a destructive habit after doing it for a lifetime? The unconditional love between the two sisters remains, and how they navigate threats with that as their foundation is where the sequel places its focus.

I loved Frozen when it came out. I saw it back to back days in the theater. At the time, I admitted that the secret villain twist was obviously an afterthought that didn’t work at all, but I thought everything else was fantastic, except for a couple clunker songs such as “Fixer Upper” and “Reindeer(s) Are Better Than People.” It was frustrating when Disney put all their promotions toward “Let It Go” as the best song, when it clearly was (and is) “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”—a song about one sister begging the other for a relationship, which is the heart of the film. I can’t even hear the first notes of it without tearing up.

Some of the weaknesses have become more noticeable over time. I still enjoy Frozen immensely, although not quite as much as I originally did.

I love and appreciate this sequel more than I ever cared for the first one. The score is more uniformly excellent with fewer standout numbers, but a higher caliber of songs overall. None of them are as good as “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” But almost all are on par with “For the First Time in Forever” and “Let It Go.” I really appreciated the way the songs set up one another and connect to the main themes of isolation and trust in the midst of life’s changes.

“All is Found” is a lullaby that sets the mood for the film that follows, promising a story of mystery and fantasy that also has a sense of tenderness in the midst of fear. “Some Things Never Change” functions similarly to “For the First Time in Forever,” but it introduces several subplots and grounds the characters in what’s most important to get them through the subsequent journey in which things will obviously change.

Elsa’s big “I want” song this time is “Into the Unknown,” which seems to be where Disney is (correctly) placing its Oscar hopes. For my money, it’s a stronger song than “Let It Go,” not only musically, but also for being the instigation of the plot and for having a satisfying dramatic answer in “Show Yourself,” which occurs in the second act of the film. Idina Menzel once again belts the demanding range with authority, transitioning from the insecurity of the verse to the confidence of the chorus.

“When I Am Older” continues the carefree shuffle from “In Summer” into another Olaf solo about learning to make sense of the world, while searching for Samantha, even if you don’t know anyone named Samantha. Josh Gad is every bit as funny as he was in the first film, and his new song here is at least as good. Olaf’s philosophical crisis is not only great comic relief, but ties into the plot nicely as well.

Kristoff (Jonathan Groff, returning) gets a longer solo than “Reindeers Are Better Than People” with “Lost in the Woods,” which is the power ballad ending the first act of the film instead of “Let It Go.” This is a brilliant idea on several levels. For most of the film the characters are literally lost in the woods and struggling to prevent themselves from becoming lost emotionally from one another. Taking the focus briefly away from the sisters appropriately heightens the conflict at the narrative center of the movie.

Anna has her own solo this time as well. Strongly emphasizing the heart of both this film and its predecessor is the relationship of the two sisters, it follows both of Elsa’s solos, indicating she cannot complete her journey without the aid of her sister. “The Next Right Thing” is also a powerful testament to finding your way out of depression and helplessness even when it doesn’t seem possible. Kristen Bell certainly does not have the voice Menzel does, but the intimacy and tenderness of her performance is a haunting complement to the virtuosity of Elsa’s songs.

As I said, “Into the Unknown” is the catalyst that sets the plot in motion. After Elsa hears a voice reminding her of her mother, she accidentally wakes up the four spirits of enchanted forest (earth, wind, fire, and water), endangering the lives of the people of Arendelle. She, Anna, Kristoff, Sven, and Olaf set off to the forest to find out what has upset the spirits and appease them before it’s too late. The main plot points are fairly obvious well in advance, but that plot is primarily a backdrop for the relationship between Anna and Elsa, which takes forefront here more powerfully than the first film.

Similar to Shakespeare’s As You Like It, the sins of the proper, civilized court are exposed and atoned for in the wild fantasy of the woods. Anyone who has seen any recent family films will probably be able to guess who committed the unatoned for sin, but once again, that’s not the main focus of this movie. The bond between sisters and friends forms the film’s center, and when people we trust betray us, monsters chase us, or any unknown confronts us, it’s those bonds that hopefully remain constant, and they form the roots from which we grow.

In the midst of his philosophical musings, Olaf asks if the enchanted forest will transform them. He then wonders what a transformation is. There’s a small one just after that when Elsa confronts the fire spirit with calmness and acceptance, making what was first seen as a monster into a cute harmless lizard. It’s a small act of kindness, which in turn foreshadows greater acts of compassion and love that allow the fears of the unknown to be a source of transformation and not destruction.

 

Personal recommendation: A-