Back before Louis C.K.'s disturbing history of sexual misconduct came to light, there was a bit he used to do that I really loved. He would talk about the perils of turning 40 and the physical changes he was going through — including dealing with a bum ankle that had been bothering him lately. He went to see a doctor, who informed him he'd need to take Aleve or stretch to mitigate the pain. But there was no "fixing" the ailment: As the doctor explained to him about his suggested workarounds, "That's just a new thing you do until you and your shitty ankle both die." The whole point of the bit was the comedian's realization that he'd reached an age where he'd just have to learn to live with undesirable realities. He was now always going to have a shitty ankle, and there was nothing he could do about it. That's just the way life works.
I'm well into my 40s, and I've experienced a few versions of the "shitty ankle" as I get older — my eyesight isn't as sharp, I don't sleep as well as I used to — and each time one of these developments enters my life, I think of that old bit. There's no cure for these hindrances — I just learn the new thing I have to do to tackle the problem.
We've now endured two years of a pandemic, and so much of life these days seems like that metaphorical shitty ankle, requiring us to make the best of a not-ideal situation. In early 2021, it was tempting to get excited about the news that vaccines were on the way — a miracle, truly — and to hope that, finger snap, life would suddenly get back to normal. But that hasn't proved true: While much of our old lives has returned, Covid and its different variants have been persistent in dictating what reality will look like. Similar to the shitty ankle, it's not going away — at least not for a good long while — and we've all had to cope.
Not unlike 9/11, your relationship with the pandemic has probably been profoundly informed by your age at this moment. The 2001 terror attacks and their aftermath occurred in my late 20s and, coupled with some personal stuff I was dealing with, helped shape my not-yet-30 view of my emotionally undeveloped self. (My inner turmoil was reflected in the unspeakable tragedy happening outside my little world.) In the same way, Covid has been merely the most overt manifestation of the strange transition into middle age that I've been experiencing lately. Whether it's Trump's rise to power or a general sense that the country is teetering on the edge of catastrophe — Biden's victory last year has mostly seemed like a brief respite, not a cure — everything around me feels less certain than it ever has. (I often think I don't have to worry about having a midlife crisis since there are enough real-world crises to distract me.) And even though I've been fortunate not to have faced much death personally because of Covid, the last two years have only thrown into sharper relief my anxiety about losing those closest to me. Everyone I care about is vaccinated, thank god, but the pandemic has been a reminder of how fragile life can be.
More and more, I have to make peace with having a shitty ankle — all those things I can't control or make better, all the worries that take up permanent residence in my head. (Come to think of it, Louis C.K.'s bit is itself a shitty ankle: Every time his standup segment enters my mind now, I'm reacquainted with my disappointment and anger over what he did in real life.) Best as I can figure, you don't ever conquer these things — you just make room for them, accepting them as part of being alive.
And then you remember to be grateful. You think about the fact that your parents are still here and in good health. You think about your sister and her husband and their kids. You think about your friends, the people who really know you. You think about your wife's family — they're all good, too. And then you think about your wife a little longer than all the others. You think about being married for 15 years and how it feels like it's flown by and also been so substantial. You remember that you're lucky and that everybody has a shitty ankle. A limp isn't the worst thing in the world.
* * * * *
Without further ado, let's get to my Top 10 list...
1. Petite Maman
2. Memoria
3. Passing
4. The Worst Person in the World
5. Summer of Soul
6. Red Rocket
7. Dune
8. The Green Knight
9. Test Pattern
10. Days
And because it was such a strong year, here's a salute to the films that just missed the cut: From 11-15, they're C’mon C’mon, Licorice Pizza, The Lost Daughter, About Endlessness and Drive My Car. International cinema dominated 2021, with four of my Top 15 premiering at Cannes, although you may notice those rankings have shifted over the last five months. And it was an exceptional year for Neon, which distributed three of my four favorite films of 2021. (If you're looking for an easy way to see the films on my list, may I suggest JustWatch, a very helpful guide to what's streaming where.)
By the way, if you've read my end-of-the-year list over at Screen International, you'll notice it's slightly different. For Screen, we only count 2021 premieres — so pictures like Test Pattern and Days (which both started screening prior to this year) don't count — and documentaries are separate from features. Even so, some movies have moved up or down on my list since I submitted my Screen ballot. What can I say: There was too much good stuff this year, and it made putting together a Top 10 delightfully torturous.
* * * * *
It's hard to know what the future holds for either my industry or the film business in general. But it sure was great being back at Cannes, and back in regular movie theaters here in America. I took Susan to see Dune opening night after having seen it once already in advance of its Venice premiere, and I enjoyed the film even more the second time, jazzed by sharing such a big-screen film with a huge crowd. Nothing beats that.
As for my own work, I kept busy, which makes me happy. I remain your loyal Senior U.S. Critic over at Screen, where I felt honored to write the Memoria review out of Cannes. As for MEL, we had a brief (and unexpected) hiatus during the summer, but we're back and better than ever. I got to start moderating Q&As in person again — boy, how I'd missed that — and, unbelievably, I did my fourth interview with Spike Lee, this time while he and I walked around his exhibit at the Academy Museum. That was for Rolling Stone, where I also got to talk to Riz Ahmed about his music career and how it feeds into his film career. For GQ, I wrote about John Lennon and Harrison Ford. Over at InsideHook, I discussed Bob Dylan's singing voice and interviewed Victor Kossakovsky about Gunda. And my seventh book, This Is How You Make a Movie, came out in March. (Thanks to the podcasters who had me on to talk about it.) I was once again part of the Gotham Awards nominating committee, I showed up on KCRW a bunch, and the Grierson & Leitch podcast continues to roll along. Like I said, it was a busy year.
But perhaps my favorite piece of writing in 2021 was never published. My parents celebrated their 50th anniversary this year, and as a joke I thought, "Wouldn't it be funny if I put together an oral history of their wedding?" Soon, the joke became serious as I clandestinely interviewed their friends and relatives to hear their stories, many of which were new to me, and I learned a lot about these two people who raised me. (As a friend of mine put it, "It's like you're writing your own origin story.") I surprised my mom and dad with what turned out to be an 8,300-word piece. I printed only two copies, one for each of them. I think they got a kick out of it. Man, 50 years — that's really something.
Happy 2022. When Petite Maman opens, I hope you check it out. It's a special little movie, and at least one thing to look forward to in the new year.
