Film Matters Magazine

I went in expecting Gene Kelly, and I did not get Gene Kelly. My disappointment with La La Land stems from impossible expectations, fueled by not only its 14 Oscar nominations but also by the nonstop conversation framing it as a revival of the classic Hollywood musical. But did the movie itself promise that? I think it did — from the very beginning. Mia literally points out the window where Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman looked out in Casablanca, and the film’s final “Epilogue” sequence is packed with visual nods to Singin’ in the Rain, especially the “Broadway Melody” ballet: the collage of neon signs, the reappearance of the casting director from Mia’s audition, even the red-and-yellow color scheme. Some argue that La La Land is not trying to be an old Hollywood musical but rather pays tribute to one in a modern context. La La Land doesn’t just reference old Hollywood — it invites direct comparison. And once that invitation is made, I think it’s fair to ask whether the film lives up to the emotional and narrative standards of the works it imitates.

Since its devastating Best Picture loss at the 2017 Oscars, having anything negative to say about La La Land is an opinion best kept quiet. Its fans love it passionately and emphasize its basis in nostalgia as a strong positive. Erika Balsom of Sight and Sound said simply, “La La Land remembers when movies were magical and fun” (Balsom). To detract from such an innocent spectacle may seem a bit harsh, cold-hearted even, but there are underlying issues with the film that deserve picking at.

Gore Verbinski’s 2013 film, The Lone Ranger may have flopped at the box office, but beneath its glossy Disney exterior lies a revisionist Western that critiques settler colonialism, corporate greed, and Hollywood’s history of flattening Indigenous characters. The film breaks away from the typical hero-sidekick dynamic by giving Tonto (Johnny Depp) emotional depth, a tragic backstory, and room to evolve, making it a strong candidate for cultural reevaluation.

I recently sat down to rewatch Chris Renaud’s 2012 animated adaptation of The Lorax. In the past 13 years I’ve seen the film more times than one might care to admit; something about the classic story paired with what I can only describe as musical genius has the unique ability to capture my full attention, watch after watch.

George Miller’s Mad Max: Fury Road (2015) isn’t just an action film—it’s a demolition derby for outdated masculinity, a furious deconstruction of the traditional action hero. While many celebrate it for its practical effects and relentless pace, there’s a deeper, more subversive layer that often gets overlooked. Beneath the surface spectacle lies a pointed critique of toxic masculinity—one that slips past many viewers and even some critics, buried under the roar of engines and the chaos of its dynamic set pieces.

Marriage Story (Noah Baumbach, 2019) follows the emotional and legal challenges of a divorce between Charlie, a successful New York theatre director, and Nicole, an actress seeking independence in Los Angeles. As they navigate divorce and a custody battle over their son, Henry, the film explores the personal sacrifices and miscommunications that tear them apart and analyzes the inescapable bond that will forever linger between them. Baumbach crafted a narrative that captures the raw, unfiltered emotions of separation, lending the film a remarkable sense of authenticity and emotional depth that evokes profound sorrow in its viewers. Reflecting on its emotional weight, film critic Wenlei Ma observed, “ Marriage Story is so raw and emotionally burning that the experience is best savored alone” (Ma, 2019). It is clear why Ma would express this sentiment, as the film offers a gut-wrenching two-hour immersion into the unraveling of a once-deep love. Similarly commenting on the painful authenticity of the film, many viewers have described Marriage Story as “sadly too realistic,” “incredibly depressing,” and “devastating,” one viewer commenting that “no cheek will be left dry” (“Marriage Story”).

Even before studying film, I had always been at least dimly aware of Pulp Fiction (Tarantino, 1994). It is a film embedded so deeply into our collective cultural consciousness that not encountering it in one way or another is essentially impossible. Having won the Academy Award for Best Screenplay in 1995, being the top-grossing film at the US box office its first weekend, and with an average rating of 4.3 on Letterboxd, Pulp Fiction is clearly regarded highly by critics and the public alike. After watching the film myself, however, I found that it fell short of these high expectations. Instead of coming out on the other side completely changed, I was left instead with a feeling of overwhelming indifference.

Through precise filmic techniques, Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream tragically depicts the destructive nature of addiction, particularly for the character Marion Silver (Jennifer Connelly). When read against the grain, the film’s use of lighting, mise-en-scene, and camerawork highlight the consequences of drug addiction to symbolize the disillusionment of the American Dream, revealing how Marion’s desires for success are inhibited by unattainable ideals.

Scooby-Doo satirizes post-9/11 fear tactics

Each episode follows a formula: the Mystery Gang chases ghosts, goblins, and other demonic creatures, only to expose a disgruntled old man using fear for petty revenge. Without the meddling kids, his plan might have worked. This predictability creates comfort, audiences anticipate each twist and ultimately learn that monsters do not exist, the supernatural remains a myth, and any real threat can be handled by four teenagers and a dog. The 2002 live-action Scooby-Doo movie shifts away from this reassuring structure, introducing supernatural elements such as demons and curses, suggesting that monsters are real and evil does exist. Premiering less than a year after 9/11, the film reflects how the U.S. government and corporations exploited national fears to justify control, surveillance, and manipulation. Directed by Raja Gosnell, Scooby-Doo explores how those in power use fear as a tool to uphold their authority.

Of the many 2000s films to take a well-beloved franchise and imbue them with the flair and cultural values of the Y2K era, I believe that Scooby-Doo (Gosnell, 2002) is one of the best and most underappreciated by critics. The film holds the ability to strike the perfect balance between the mystery gang’s cross generational appeal and fun, bold aesthetics. Initial critical reception for the film was negative, Rotten Tomatoes gave the film a 32% and IMDb, a meager 5.3 rating. A 2002 Guardian article by Peter Bradshaw calls the film “incredibly leaden and unutterably boring.” However, the mid-budget film was a commercial success, grossing 275.7 million despite this negative perception, speaking to the still ongoing disconnect between critics’ opinions and the public.