Saturday, October 15, 2016

"The Queen of Katwe"

 4.5 / 5 

The Queen of Katwe is a movie about a girl from a Ugandan slum who becomes a chess player.

That might be the worst high-concept logline for a movie since, "A boy from an Indian slum becomes a contestant on 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,'" but Slumdog Millionaire went on to win the Oscar for Best Picture, and The Queen of Katwe bears a lot of resemblance to that movie in the best possible way, especially in their shared sense of quiet, defiant optimism.

Phiona Mutesi, a real-life chess prodigy played flawlessly by first-time actress Madina Nalwanga, cannot read or write, she is just a little girl, but her life has already been defined for her: She will help her mother (Lupita Nyong'o) and her brother Brian (Martin Kabanza) sell corn on the streets.  Her sister, named Night (Taryn Kyaze) has seen her own way out, through finding a fast-talking man on a motorcycle.  (The movie, which is rated PG and released by Disney, implies but never directly states prostitution.)

But Phiona and Brian stumble across a ministry-sponsored chess club run by Katende (David Oyelowo), and though the unbathed, slovenly Phiona is mocked by the others on her first day, she refuses to accept their taunts.  Katende is impressed.  Chess, he observes, is a game about fighting, and Phiona is a fighter.

From here, The Queen of Katwe follows a familiar sports-movie trajectory: training, success, unexpectedly devastating defeat, resilience and victory.

The Queen of Katwe is as predictable as they come, but director Mira Nair and screenwriter William Wheeler turn that familiarity into an asset, and the extraordinary cast capitalizes on it.  The strength of the movie rests on how much we are willing to believe we haven't seen this story again, and Nyong'o, Oywelwo and, especially, Nalwanga make us believe.

Chess, of course, isn't exactly a cinematic game, and most movies that have tried (Searching for Bobby Fischer is a noteworthy exception) don't generally succeed in making it particularly compelling.  The Queen of Katwe solves the problem of the complexity and general unfamiliarity with the chess by ignoring it.  The specifics of the game aren't important; the concepts of the game are: strategy, long-range thinking and discipline.

They're not qualities that would generally be rewarded in the kind of world in which Phiona lives, but Katende, her coach, gets her and us to understand why they matter.  In one of the movie's most affecting scenes, when Phiona has lost a key match and wants to give up, he reveals some of his own childhood, and then gets to the movie's meaning: Losing isn't easy, but what's important is not (contrary to conventional wisdom) how you've played, but in how you reset the board and line up the pieces to try again.

It's a beautiful moment in a beautiful film, one matched in emotional honesty when Katende reveals to his wife (Esther Tebandeke) that he has turned down a job in order to keep coaching his kids.  Her response runs counter to every cinematic stereotype we've ever seen of the long-suffering-but-stoic wife, and the same could be said for the movie.

The Queen of Katwe could all too easily have slipped into condescension, but it consistently avoids the easy way out; it's an intelligent, emotionally open-hearted and frequently surprising movie, a film that takes a story that follows a trajectory that seems entirely familiar but sends it into a place that feels new, warm and completely fulfilling.

In large part due to its flawless cast and the honestly won catharsis of its final scenes, The Queen of Katwe is a movie that reminds us why, to paraphrase a popular Internet meme, everything is going to be OK.

Viewed Oct. 15, 2016 -- Century Regency


Monday, October 3, 2016

"The Girl on the Train"

 3 / 5 

Other than a puzzling and thoroughly unnecessary relocation of the action from suburban London to suburban New York, the film adaptation of The Girl on the Train holds no surprises at all for anyone who's read the snappy, twisty, addictive novel with the same name.

Indeed, to call The Girl on the Train an "adaptation" isn't quite right; this is what used to be called a "filmization," a direct re-telling of the action with almost no embellishment.  Emily Blunt's drunken, meddling title character (and it's hard to consider her as anything other than the latter, really) is exactly the image millions of people had in their heads while reading the book.

The same goes for the other characters, the settings, even the interiors.  There were times, watching The Girl on the Train, that the images on screen felt a little creepy: I had seen this movie before, but it was last year while on vacation in Europe while I was reading Paula Hawkins' novel.  Clearly, Ms. Hawkins has a talent for writing film-ready novels, because The Girl on the Train was apparently as film-ready as they come.

None of that necessarily makes The Girl on the Train any less of a movie than it is, but the disappointing part is that it doesn't make it any more of a movie, either.  No one will walk out of this movie unsatisfied by the outcome, but the filmmakers also missed an opportunity to do something unexpected with the source work, to give it just enough of a twist to leave audiences surprised that they didn't know exactly how every beat of the ending would play out.

Of course, that's not the kind of "adaptation" a big studio does anymore -- the days of Hitchcock playing with Psycho or even Spielberg playing with Jaws are over, and no one can afford to gamble with the investment money, which will probably pay off very handsomely for the producers of The Girl on the Train.  Perhaps I was just holding out a little too much hope that there would be something boldly unpredictable about the movie version.

It begins with such fidelity to the book that it even starts by introducing each of the main characters in "chapters" that use their first names.  But this strict adherence to the book leads to a confusion that seeps through the rest of the movie, too; as it jumps around in time, from character to character, it frequently lacks some clarity.  It works in print because if we're confused we can just flip back and re-orient ourselves, but there's no such opportunity in linear filmmaking.

Even more confusing is that two of the characters look astonishingly alike.  They're meant to, of course, it factors in to the plot; but it leads to some frustrating moments since the movie just keeps plowing ahead, not giving any chance to think about what we're seeing.

That is, naturally, part of the plan.  It's a murder-mystery, after all, one that features a highly unreliable narrator.  For her part, Blunt plays the hell out of the pathetic, continually drunk Rachel, whose life has been in a shambles ever since her husband (Justin Theroux) left her, and the younger, prettier, sexier new wife (Rebecca Ferguson) moved into their beautiful home on the Hudson River.

Every day, Rachel takes the train into New York and passes right by their old house.  She's trained herself not to look at it, but instead has grown increasingly obsessed with fantasizing about the perfect couple who lives a couple of doors down, Scott Hipwell (Luke Evans) and his wife Megan (Haley Bennett).

One day, Megan goes missing, and Rachel is shocked to discover that she has literal blood on her hands and knows only that she was drunk as a skunk that night, got off at her old suburban stop, and then blacked out.

It's a great setup for a mystery, and on the page it plays like gangbusters.  For those who haven't read the novel, it will probably be great, too.  But like any mystery, once you know the secrets, you also see how the trick is done, and because The Girl on the Train is so slavishly faithful to the book, that means one of the biggest tricks of the story is all too clear: The key clues and evidence are withheld from everyone -- from Rachel and from the readers and viewers -- until they need to be revealed.

Like the best magicians, really great mysteries do it right in front of you and you're never the wiser until you get to the end, when you can turn back to the beginning again and see it all laid out.  That's not the case here, and the flip-flopping perspectives, the too-large cast and the too-jumbled motivations end up being more perplexing than thrilling.  We learn too much about the backstories of some characters and too little about the history of Rachel herself.  We have no hope of piecing it all together ourselves because we're not given enough information.

(Oddly, several of its characters are played by actors with missplaced accents, making the transposition of the action from London to New York even more mystifying.  One of the central characters -- and suspects -- is Eastern European in the novel, and in the film retains his Croatian-sounding name, but inexplicably speaks Spanish, while the screenplay has to go out of its way to comment on Blunt's out-of-place British accent.)

In the book, the surprises are truly surprising, and the novel is a page-turner until the very end.  But as a movie, The Girl on the Train ends up being a bit too twisty for its own good.  If you haven't read the book, it might all come as a nasty little surprise (and these are, make no doubt, nasty characters, each of them as sick and unpleasant as they are beautiful to look at).  But what if you did finish novel?  Well, the only surprise may be how easily the denouement all comes rushing back.

That leaves The Girl on the Train as something less than completely fulfilling but still better than average, which is due in no small part to Blunt's terrific, frantic performance, along with some great scenery and the chance to see some pretty people who live in catalog-ready homes and have a rather eye-opening amount of sex in a rather eye-opening variety of locations.

Blunt's performance alone almost wholly redeems The Girl on the Train, as does a fine cameo by Lisa Kudrow, who's the one truly new addition, but whose character (as good as Kudrow is) feels a little like cheating.

Though its plot twists and turns, this adaptation mostly ends up being as straight-on, relatively uneventful and, perhaps to its credit, as reliable as a commuter train through suburbia.

Viewed Sept. 28, 2016 -- ArcLight Hollywood


Saturday, September 24, 2016


 2.5 / 5 

How could this happen?  How could a filmmaker as passionate, sometimes even lunatic, as Oliver Stone have taken the tale of Edward Snowden and turned it not into a deeply paranoid thriller but instead an overlong, over-talky and moderately dull recitation of the facts?

Even the mere facts of Edward Snowden's story should make compelling cinema.  In fact, they already did in the Oscar-winning documentary Citizenfour, which is a better movie not simply for its veracity but for its straightforwardness.  Citizenfour tells us what happened, and Stone's Snowden shows us what happened, but it never gets to the heart of exactly why and what it means.

In part, that's because Stone is not offering up any whacked-out conspiracy theories like he did in JFK or being as deliriously passionate as he was in Platoon, he barely even seems worked up about the revelations Snowden made about government surveillance of American citizens.

Strangely, we're not even all that worked up about it; after the initial flurry of coverage, outrage has given way to -- what? -- resignation?  Simple apathy?  Snowden should be full of righteous fury, but there's none.  It should be fueled by tinfoil-hat-wearing paranoia, but there's virtually none of that.  At one point, Snowden, having made up his mind to blow the whistle on the government, tells his girlfriend that her phone and maybe their house is bugged.  The most enthusiasm he can muster is to take her on to the patio.

Remember those great 1970s films in which the guy who thinks the government is going to kill us all suddenly realizes that everyone around him is suspicious?  As a society, we became so deeply fearful of the government, of everything we once believed was safe and secure, that the fear infused our popular culture.

So, how come there's none of that palpable sensation in Snowden?  After all, it's a movie based not on a wild conspiracy theory but a proven fact that our government has been spying on us.  But in the hands of Stone, who co-wrote the long-winded screenplay with Kieran Fitzgerald, Snowden is little more than a recounting of a lot of unnecessary backstory.  There's a long sequence that shows how Snowden trained to be in the Army but broke his legs and ended up in the hospital, which is where he went on an online dating site, which is where he met a woman and told her that he was a deeply conservative patriot who believed his country could do no wrong, but she was a liberal -- and at that point, I started losing a lot of interest in Snowden.

As the movie follows Snowden into the CIA, where he isn't just smart but maybe the smartest guy anyone has ever seen, it detours into a long and ultimately extraneous story about how Snowden wanted to be a more active agent but developed a distaste for it after he found out the government could gather almost any sort of data on anyone anywhere.

This is where Snowden gets really problematic, because it never once places into doubt Snowden's near-sainthood, nor does it delve particularly deeply into his suspicion and paranoia.  It just dutifully dramatizes the stories we've heard before, that Snowden himself told in Citizenfour.  It is, in fact, a strange thing to see a big-budget film that is essentially a dramatic re-enactment of a highly publicized documentary.

Despite its simplicity and lack of any real perspective, Snowden coasts into near respectability thanks to a compelling central performance by Joseph Gordon Levitt, who is always an interesting actor and here manages to flatten both his voice and his usual exuberance to create a version of Snowden who somehow can be simultaneously intense and practically asleep.  Levitt captures the same sort of hangdog look that we've come to know from the real-life figure, who's never really exuded a deep charisma.

The rest of the cast mostly flounders with desperately underwritten characters.  Shailene Woodley is Snowden's stand-by-your-man girlfriend, while a strangely unrecognizable Rhys Ifans is the embodiment of sinister, secretive government, both mentor and antagonist to Snowden as the script sees fit.

He's not a very good villain, but the only other choice Snowden had was to make everyone the bad guy, to pit an unknown CIA analyst against everybody and everything, but that would have required the kind of energy, passion and paranoia that Snowden just can't seem to muster.  Which makes me a little worried -- if Oliver Stone can't get us frightened, angry and bewildered at the discoveries Snowden made, who can?

Viewed Sept. 23, 2016 -- ArcLight Sherman Oaks


Sunday, September 18, 2016

"Kubo and the Two Strings"

 5 / 5 

Have we gotten so accustomed to simplicity in animation that the complexity of Kubo and the Two Strings is such a surprise?

We've grown used to animated films with princesses and sidekicks and moments in which the heroine states explicitly what's on her mind (back in the '90s, when this was fresh, it was called the "I Want Song"), that the very existence of Kubo and the Two Strings is a little miracle.  It's a big-budget film released by a major studio, but it both expects and requires it audience to pay attention.  That's more than you can say about almost all mainstream, live-action films anymore.

It's the most complex, thoughtful film I've seen in a summer that has included the complex and thoughtful Hell or High Water, and it's certainly the most emotionally surprising and honest film I've seen all year.  On top of all of that, Kubo and the Two Strings is one of the most visually majestic movies anyone will ever see, a wonder of stop-motion animation made with overwhelming artistry, which extends to its exquisite musical score.

It begins with a storm at sea as Kubo (Art Parkinson) narrates his own story, telling how his mother took a great risk to keep him safe from her jealous, vengeful family, including the Moon King, Kubo's loathsome grandfather, who stole the boy's left eye and desperately wants the other.

Gruesome?  Yes, but that's only the beginning.  The grandfather and the mother's two wraithlike sisters killed Kubo's father.  Kubo's mother keeps him safe high on a mountain overlooking a small village in ancient Japan.  She has a sad, far-away look in her eyes, and has sacrificed so much for Kubo that she seems to hardly be able to move.

During the day, Kubo takes his magical three-stringed shamisen and a stack of origami paper and entertains the villagers with tall tales that the paper brings to life when he plucks the strings of his instrument.

But Kubo must be back by sunset.  It is the only way his mother can keep him safe.  But Kubo, like all great heroes, is curious, and when he hears of a life outside the one he knows, he wants to see what it is like.  He stays out too late -- and, indeed, the evil aunts swoop down from the skies to find him.

That begins an epic quest as Kubo searches for the legendary suit of armor that can keep him safe and help him vanquish his evil family.  Like Dorothy in Oz, he meets three strangers along the way who help him: A snow monkey who seems to have sprung to life from a charm Kubo's mother gave him, a wordless little paper samurai, and a giant half-man half-beetle.

The monkey (Charlize Theron) seems to know much about Kubo, but the beetle (Matthew McConaughey) has lost his memory.  They search for the armor together, in a grand quest through snowy mountains, forbidding forests, unknown caverns and onto a mysterious lake.

Never predictable nor boring, but frequently surprisingly quiet and thoughtful, Kubo and the Two Strings is a grand adventure, a blend of The Wizard of Oz and Harry Potter that excels at finding the intersection of action and emotion.

If it has a fault, it's only that it's so densely plotted its story may be overwhelming, yet how can that be a quibble when its such a literate, intelligent and inventive adventure, one that ends not with a tangible reward but an emotional one: Instead of learning the importance of a simple emotion like love or bravery, Kubo is taught the importance of the memory of the dead, the power of the past to sway the future, and the complex relationships we have with people we love, even after they're gone.

Only toward the end of the film does Kubo reveal the meaning of the two strings in its title.  The moment is a powerful one, a revelation both of plot and of character, yet it has such careful nuance that it leaves room for interpretation.  Kubo and the Two Strings is the rare film, whether for children or adults, that keeps you thinking, and talking, about its intentions long after its final, beautiful frame.

Viewed Sept. 18, 2016 -- ArcLight Sherman Oaks


Sunday, September 11, 2016


 3 / 5 

I saw Clint Eastwood's Sully on Sept. 11, and just an hour or so before heading to the theater I had been watching an as-it-happened rebroadcast of the Today show's coverage of the terror attacks.  The fear and dread were almost as real as they were 15 years ago as the images of United 175 hitting the South Tower were replayed and replayed and replayed as the newscasters and the world struggled to comprehend what they had seen.

Similar images, created with digital visual effects, are front and center in the first few minutes of Sully, and they drive home two points about the movie: First, like last year's The Walk, it's about 9/11 without directly being about 9/11.  Second, it's very, very difficult to make a movie about a plane flight that lasted 3 minutes, 28 seconds.  Even at just slightly more than an hour and a half, including credits, Sully feels padded, particularly in its first half.

That's when Capt. Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger -- played by Tom Hanks in a role that seems custom-made but a few decades too late for Jimmy Stewart -- bolts up in bed, hyperventilating with with movie-perfect night terrors as he dreams about what could have gone wrong with the airplane he was piloting on Jan. 15, 2009.

US Airways Flight 1579 landed in the Hudson River and all 155 people aboard survived, facts that anyone going to see Sully will probably know.  (Then again, given that some people thought The Martian was based on a true story, maybe some people won't.)  The facts are simple: The flight took off from La Guardia airport, ran into a flock of geese, lost power and ended up in the river three minutes later.

The sheer brevity of its central narrative means that Sully can't rely on only the flight itself for drama; it has to find a narrative hook that can sustain an additional 90 minutes of story, and the one it settles for also lacks drama: It revolves around the follow-up NTSB investigation into the events on board the airplane, leading to questions about whether Sully and his first officer Jeff Skiles (Aaron Eckhart) really did the best they could.

The NTSB investigators are painted as mustache-twirling villains, while Sully implies that the final hearing into the flight happened within days of the incident, when in fact it came nearly six months later, and it's pretty likely that the investigators were, like Sully himself, just doing their jobs.

Director Eastwood and screenwriter Todd Komarnicki also try, without success, to build some dramatic tension around Sully's home life, with his wife, played blandly by a surprisingly ineffective Laura Linney.  She laments that they might not be able to pay the bills if Sully doesn't start flying again soon.  All of her scenes are cutaways of her on the phone with Hanks, and at one point Linney resorts to biting her fingernails as she tries to find some urgency.

So, Sully has about as hard a time getting airborne as the airplane itself -- but finally has much more success, though, ironically, only briefly.  The scenes on board the plane are harrowing and well-crafted, and the shots of the stricken aircraft descending over upper Manhattan are convincing.  The landing is a white-knuckler, and will have anyone who sees Sully paying a little more attention to the pre-flight safety briefings next time they fly.

Its latter half works about as well as its first half doesn't, but, lacking anything more to say once the hearings are done, the movie comes to an abrupt ending.  We're left to sort out for ourselves why Eastwood thought that Sullenberger's brief, but undeniably heroic, flight was important enough to turn into a feature film.

Fifteen years after 9/11, I think, he wants Sully be an antidote to the depression we still feel around that day and everything that came after it -- it's about an airplane that flew over Manhattan and didn't strike the towers, didn't kill thousands of people, didn't lead to a pervasive sense of gloom and disillusionment that still won't go away.

"Sully" Sullenberger is the hero we lacked on 9/11, the one we hoped we'd find amid the ruins.  He's the guy who took an impossible situation and made it all right.  "No one dies today," says an anonymous rescue worker as one of the passengers is plucked from the freezing Hudson.  It's a needless line, trying a little too hard to drive home the point Sully is trying to make.

Last year, Robert Zemeckis directed The Walk, an extraordinary movie about the World Trade Center that both was and wasn't about 9/11.  It was about the innocence and wide-eyed wonder we seem to have lost on that day, an ode to the towers, a story about a man's determination to do something impossible in the skies over New York City.  Sully is, in some ways, a spiritual companion to The Walk, given that it won't directly address the issue most on its mind, but Sully's metaphor is as clunky as The Walk's was graceful.

Sully goes so far as to show pictures of the airplane smashing into buildings as Sully dreams about the calamity he prevented.  He did a heroic thing, that "Sully" Sullenberger, with his equally heroic co-pilot right by his side, aided by heroic flight attendants and even heroic passengers.  What it all meant, why it all mattered, are the things that Sully never quite articulates.  It's not a bad film at all, and thanks to Eastwood, it's never unwatchable.  But it never manages to do much more than show us what happened and hail Sully as a hero for his quick thinking in the air.

When it's the skies and in the water, Sully soars; on land, I'm afraid it crashes.

Viewed Sept. 11, 2016 -- ArcLight Sherman Oaks


Thursday, September 1, 2016

"Southside With You"

 4 / 5 

The most important question to ask about Southside With You, the only legitimate question, really, is whether it would be a good movie if its leading questions were Jane and John Doe, not Michelle and Barack Obama.

The answer is yes, mostly.  It's a sweet and romantic film, which owes more than a little of its existence to Richard Linklater's Before movies.  It pays careful attention to the rhythms of how two people who don't know each other meet and fall in love, why almost every meeting and date is forgotten except the one on which you meet the person you'll decide you want to spend your life with.

It begins on the afternoon of a hot Chicago summer day in 1989 and ends late that night, when Michelle Robinson agrees to meet the twenty-something law student who she mentors at the high-priced law firm where she works.  His name is Barack Obama, and she assures her mother and father that he is nice and smart and handsome and black.  Meanwhile, he assures his grandmother that Michelle is tall and smart and black.

As an opening, it's weak, and for a movie that's not even 90 minutes long, Southside With You spends too much time worrying that it will be seen as a biography and not as a fictional romantic fantasia on the lives of two people who came to influence (I think it's safe to say without hyperbole) the entire world.

But Southside With You presents them as people: He's a loquacious, magnetic, sly chain-smoker, she's something more of a cipher as the movie begins, and maybe even as it ends, though it's she who turns out to be the main character, not him.  She is dubious of him, and recoils at the suggestion that they are on a date, though he has carefully manipulated the afternoon to maximize the time he spends with her.

The movie shows us nothing at all of their lives outside of this afternoon, and virtually nothing of them apart from the time they spend with each other.  This could be why the movie is so reluctant to begin -- it is impossible, especially the way they are portrayed by Tika Sumpter and Parker Sawyers, to think of them as something other than who they will become.

But this is both the movie's strongest and weakest suit.  There are times it uses our knowledge as a storytelling crutch, and others when writer-director Richard Tanne appears to feel obligated to mention biographical facts that waste time and don't add anything to the story of these two people.  It doesn't want to be a biography, but it can't avoid the fact that it is, and it's in the bumpy first 20 minutes or so that its very nature is a liability.

Then there's a crucial scene of Barack talking to a group of neighbors about the troubles of their southside neighborhood and the impossible bureaucracy they face to try to get a community center built.  This is when Southside With You springs to life.  In a sharply written speech, beautifully delivered by Sawyers, Barack crystallizes the philosophy for which he'll become known: that nothing about government is easy or nice, that there are perspectives and beliefs other than your own, that the only answer to "no" is, he believes, to "carry on."

The speech is a wonderful moment, but it's also where the film pivots perfectly.  If Michelle was doubtful, he convinces her to think about him differently.  They begin to talk about their philosophies, their ambitions and even, in one other remarkably written and acted scene, her doubts about the choices she's made.

Both Sawyers and Sumpter achieve something special, evoking their well-known real-life counterparts (he bears a striking resemblance to the president) without turning them into caricatures.  The easiest recent comparisons are Josh Brolin as George W. Bush and either Frank Langella or Anthony Hopkins as Richard Nixon -- and Sawyers surpasses them.  His easy-going but intense and insistent Obama captures the intangible spark that made him irresistible to half of the country while irritating the rest.

Yet none of that matters, including Sumpter's less flashy but no less integral portrayal of Michelle, unless we care about the characters, and Southside With You manages to make us do that by remaining, at its core, a romance.  Its main characters barely know each other when the film opens but care deeply about each other just a few hours later, and the film makes that believable and charming.  You leave the film wanting to know what happens next -- even though, of course, you do.

Is there reason to doubt the film's sincerity, to wonder if it's some sort of political tool?  Maybe it is -- just as Oliver Stone's W. in 2008, Southside With You comes just as the president is leaving office, when we're beginning to think about his legacy.

The interesting thing about Southside With You is that if it's a political film, it assiduously avoids politics.  It takes a polarizing president and humanizes him, turns him into a minor hero, and I suppose, given where we are in the 21st century, having a president who anyone thinks is both heroic and admirable is worth acknowledging.

Southside With You is more concerned with Barack Obama's humanity -- in its story of how he came to win over a dubious, anxious and uncertain woman, it wins us over, too -- than it is about his politics.

The most politically charged statement Southside With You makes is the one it doesn't: Could anyone make a movie this endearing, this sweet, this romantic about Hillary Clinton?  Or, let's be honest, about Donald Trump?

Viewed Sept. 1, 2016 -- ArcLight Sherman Oaks


Monday, August 29, 2016

So Shone a Good Man in a Weary World

Today, let's remember Gene Wilder by momentarily forgetting about the Willy Wonka we all like to talk about -- the crazy, scary, borderline insane, slightly sadistic child torturer.  Everyone knows Willy Wonka was off his rocker.

But he was also kind.

And generous.

He had a heart that might have had a hard, dark chocolate coating, but was filled with beautiful, golden love on the inside.

Watch the clip at the beginning of this post.  Remember this Willy Wonka.  Not the one who screams, "You lose!" ... but the one who joyously shouts, "You won!"

The one who tells Charlie that the traits most worth rewarding are to be honest and to be loving.

Gene Wilder made every child believe that he or she could behave like Charlie Bucket, even when we knew we were really acting more like Veruca Salt and Violet Beauregarde and Mike Teevee and Augustus Gloop.

Gene Wilder made us believe that Willy Wonka would see through our rottenness and find the good.

Gene Wilder made many movies.  He was good in all of them, even the bad ones.

But he was never better than he was as Willy Wonka.  Thank you, Gene Wilder, for reminding us, no matter how old we are, that as adults we can be mean and scary and angry, we can frighten children sometimes with our unpredictable behavior, but at our best, when we do those things it's because we care.  Because we want children to be better.

Because we want ourselves to be better.

Gene Wilder reminded us that it was always possible to be better -- to reward our better selves, and to be rewarded for the effort.

He made other movies, even movies that mattered, but none ever mattered to me quite like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and that was because of Gene Wilder.

May the universe look kindly upon him tonight.  And always.