2020 Retrospective: How COVID, ‘Nomadland,’ ‘Undine’ and More Turned a Curious Kid into a Promising Young Cinephile
Few years in history trigger such immediate reactions upon mention as 2020. From a global societal shutdown in response to COVID-19 to an equally widespread culture of political turbulence and online chaos, our 21st century collective suddenly faced an unprecedented level of uncertainty about virtually all of life as we knew it. Now turning our shoulder back from a healthy distance of five years, observing 2020 is not only endlessly fascinating but necessary — just ask Ari Aster. This particular period was as dividing as it was uniting, confusing as it was enlightening, limiting as it was brimming with opportunity.
For me, it was the beginning of the life I had always dreamt of. Raised in Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico, my passion for film was unfortunately met with a hostile and indifferent environment. A socially confused 13-year-old at the time of the March lockdown, I had allowed the lack of opportunities around me to define my relationship to film as a mere hobby. Until now. Amidst the external chaos of the pandemic, I decided to make this extended home vacation into my time to dive into film head first. Outside of classes and homework, days mostly consisted of movie marathons, jumping from a Robert Bresson classic to Wedding Crashers in a matter of hours with virtually no ensuing whiplash. This oasis of time often resorted to almost exclusively — excessively — basking in film glory, certain weeks consisting of over 5 films a day. Now a college student with over 3,200 films watched, I have seen my life develop and shapeshift parallel to culture. 2020, however, remains an asterisk worthy of picking apart and reshaping, a catalyst for the best and the worst of what life is today. Its films largely represent this changing period too, from crowdpleasers to challenging arthouse dramas, streaming anomalies to conversation-starters, and everything in between.
Having regained my interest in early awards predicting during this time, Nomadland’s successful festival run and considerable acclaim quickly made it a major source of excitement for this young cinephile. With a local film festival having a drive-in showing of the film in October, I enthusiastically dragged my family to a film they knew nothing about (a practice they would soon become accustomed to). Albeit plagued by technological issues, from a delayed start time to the car battery dying in the middle of the screening, the experience served as a perfectly timed reminder of cinema’s undeniable power: outside chaos be damned, a good story will tune a crowd of strangers into a matching wavelength. This was but one of many drive-in screenings we collectively attended during this period, a previously shrugged off ritual that became the theatrical industry’s epipen during this short window. These drive-ins — and the discussion around Zhao’s film — may now be facing the same waning fate as the places Fern traverses, yet the beauty of its leading hope remains: “see you down the road.”
Through this newfound fascination with the film festival circuit, my attention began expanding into the less awards-friendly pockets of arthouse filmmaking. Chief among the titles I sought out was Christian Petzold’s Undine, a beautifully subdued retelling of the popular European myth. Amidst a modern Berlin backdrop, the central romance — largely indebted to Paula Beer and Franz Rogowski’s impressive performances — radiates a subdued yet resonant form of warmth and sensibility, a large departure from the sugar coated love stories my teen self had become accustomed to observing on the silver screen. Locating the film amidst closed theaters largely resembled the difficulty of my commitment to staying up to date with 2020’s latest releases; I endured through the likes of Scoob! and The Wrong Missy, but kissing these frogs eventually brought me to the occasional Prince Petzold. Distribution has become even harder for these titles in the following years, with those lucky few that receive a limited theatrical window rarely turning in a profit. In these moments, seeking these films out has become a responsibility as a cinephile who cares. Miroirs No. 3 couldn’t come any sooner.
After the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor by the hands of police, mobilized citizens across the United States to demand racial justice, the walls of separation sharply built by quarantine suddenly shattered. As the chaos of lockdown shut us off from the world, it was this collective need to physically assemble in the name of something greater that reminded us of the community we were capable of creating. Simultaneously, the pandemic brought great incertitude regarding film as an entertainment format, with streaming-only content becoming the norm. Steve McQueen’s Small Axe, an anthology collection of five 60+ minute films, released in the midst of these various conversations in November 2020. Every Friday for five weeks, I would impatiently await the latest “episode” in McQueen’s series, putting together this rich tapestry of Black British life in the mid-to-late 20th century. The highlight of the series was undeniably Lovers Rock, a beautiful love letter “for all lovers and rockers” that moves with the rhythm, hedonism and free-spiritedness that its characters exude in spades. The camera tracks a night young in spirit and rich in potential, with extended takes equally transportive and exciting in capturing the party where our lovers cross paths. The debate on Small Axe’s categorization, whether as a limited series or 5 separate films packaged together, endured throughout the entirety of awards season. Submitted to the Primetime Emmys under the Best Limited Series categories whilst receiving honors from various film critic circles, Small Axe was but another example in the ongoing trial on what truly separates one form of media from another. This fluidity in categorization is bound to remain for as long as streaming and theatrical are able to coexist, yet the beauty lies in the pieces worthy of said fluidity — works like Lovers Rock and Small Axe as a whole that exist within a liminal space to begin with.
Whereas Small Axe represented the many categorical anomalies of the streaming era, Charlie Kaufman’s i’m thinking of ending things became a misunderstood middle child in an increasingly short-lived breed of films: the modern auteur’s kindly financed streaming passion project. Netflix may have continued to invest in other big-swing arthouse projects in the following years (Blonde, White Noise, El Conde), yet began turning more towards the acquisition game to guarantee their investment in awards viability (The Lost Daughter, May December, Train Dreams). Having fallen in love with Kaufman’s filmography in the earlier months of the pandemic, the film was a major source of excitement amidst the year’s release drought. Yet upon first viewing, I felt my anticipation get the best of me. From the trailer’s eerie atmosphere to my comfort with the dark humor of Synecdoche, New York or Being John Malkovich, I was unsure what to make of the final product’s more ambiguous and hostile formal approach. As I took said confusion with the images before me into investigation, I realized the value of both reading film criticism and checking my expectations at the door. Moving forward, my viewer concerns were no longer related to the film I wanted, but to the intentions and goals of the film that was made. It was through this newfound mindset that just one viewing later, I fully fell in love with the film. Most viewers similarly reacting in puzzlement to Kaufman’s alienating tone, leading to i’m thinking of ending things struggling to connect with audiences. Hence far less discussed in conversations of pandemic relevance, it is nevertheless a spine-chilling study on the harms of isolation, an aspect of the 2020 lifestyle whose effects no one has been able to fully shake off.
On the other end of these lessons was Promising Young Woman, Emerald Fennell’s candy-coated mousetrap of a debut. Close enough to MeToo to remain relevant yet plastered with shaky politics more reflective of the decade prior, the film attempts to reinvent the revenge thriller through the eyes of a sexual assault victim’s best friend. Whereas ending things reflected my openness to growing into a film upon rewatch, Promising did not fare well to further inspection. Excited by its Sundance reception and intriguing premise, my first viewing saw my young cinephile naiveté get the best of me, dazed by Fennell’s Pinterest-friendly framing and irresistible needledrops. Upon rewatch, however, the rather conflicting implications of its twists and final moments left a bitter taste in my mouth, no longer able to admire its ambitions. The film’s Oscar win for Best Original Screenplay signaled the continuation of the writing categories’ spotty record of rewarding the illusion of moral righteousness over nuance and depth in penmanship (Green Book, Jojo Rabbit), a trend that has shown no signs of stopping (CODA, Belfast, American Fiction, Conclave). Watching Saltburn in theaters almost exactly 3 years later, with my understanding of film having grown immensely, I now observed the trap comfortably from afar, no longer impressed by any of its shiny gimmicks. Both films saw a major surge in popularity upon hitting streaming, a perfect example of how a film can now enter the zeitgeist via various distribution channels.
The world continues to feel the sticky reverberations of 2020, yet the passing of time is similarly visible within the filmic kaleidoscope offered by these five works. It can be observed in the larger trends of political conduct and film consumption, showing shades of the extreme attitudes that defined said year. Yet it is just as present in the personal scope: at the time of viewing these pieces, I was a scrawny 13-year-old with a computer, a dream, and a room I was confined to. The computer may have gotten newer, the rooms may have expanded in size, yet the dream feels a little more real, a little more tangible. Within it all, I remain indebted to those smaller moments: Feeling the magic of a trip to a theater, seeking out a foreign hidden gem, admiring an unclassifiable piece of media, warming up to a less approachable work, or even falling out of love with a film upon further analysis. Call me naive or an optimist, but I thank 2020 every chance I get.
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