Hello, Mondaynistas! 

We’ve made it through another pointless weekend, and now we get to return to work! Back to the toil that defines us, that gives our lives shape and meaning. That’s what Sonya should have said to Vanya at the end of their play; “We’ll take our work. I believe that, Vanya, I do.” Because what could be more important?

I actually did do a little labor this weekend, filing a review of the Broadway revival of Other Desert Cities, which stars Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Ed Harris, Allison Janney, Lily Rabe, and Joe Keery and is unfortunately quite bad. The performances are all out of sync, the pacing is off, and the relevance of the play—an allegory for the messes of the George W. Bush years—is implied but never felt. Keery is a bright spot, though; he gives the most lucid and persuasive performance of the whole talented bunch. I’m not saying you should plop down over $1000 for a pair of tickets just to see him, but if your rich old aunt who lives in a moldering classic six on Park Avenue invites you to town for an an afternoon outing, maybe you can persuade her to take you to a matinee so you can enjoy the kid from Stranger Things, who’s now kind of a pop star too, blowing a quartet of classy actors out of the water. 

Speaking of water, on Sunday evening I went to see Whalefall, a movie about a man stuck inside a whale. “How much could a movie actually be about that?” I naively wondered as I plopped down in my seat, right next to two children who were definitely too young to be there and who spent the next 106 minutes asking their dad questions every 30 seconds. Turns out, a movie really can be fully about a guy stuck inside another living organism, complemented by some turgid flashbacks to that guy’s issues with his dad. The film’s combination of goopy, gaseous claustrophobia and clichéd father-son stuff is very much not for me, I’m afraid. I hope, at least, that those two kids enjoyed watching something weird and upsetting, because that can be character building. Though, I did get the impression that the trailer for Werwulf really unnerved one of them. Whoops!

On Saturday, I chose to stay home watching my important YouTube videos while my partner went to see the new Street Fighter film, based upon the classic vidja game. For his thoughts on the picture, let’s turn to a new segment I’m calling Andrew’s Corner. Take it away, Andrew!

“Street Fighter is wildly homoerotic, ridiculous, millennial nostalgia-porn, but overall a waste of my time.”

Oh dear! The first Andrew’s Corner is a total pan of Noah Centineo’s once-exciting new project. Too bad. Hopefully the next edition will bring more positive news.

At least Street Fighter won the box office this weekend, raking in $31 million from an eager built-in audience before it likely falls off a cliff in the coming days. But that is not the interesting box office story right now. More compelling is that, in very limited release, La Bola Negra had a massive $69,357 per-screen average. (It’s like gay people live in New York and Los Angeles or something.) That bodes well for the future of the film’s theatrical run, and hopefully tells Netflix that people want to see their much-ballyhooed festival acquisitions in the manner they were meant to be seen. Especially if they feature Penélope Cruz and Glenn Close and lots of handsome men and cater to the interests of childless fruits with nothing else to do on a Saturday afternoon. Let’s hope those same flaneurs drift their way over to the Korean wonderment Possible Love this weekend. 

Still, though, we have not discussed the most exciting box office news of the weekend. That accolade belongs to You Can See Everything, the Lance Oppenheim and Nathan Fielder-directed film about Theranos fraudster Elizabeth Holmes, which opened to a whopping $15 million in North America, the second-highest tally for a documentary in history—only Fahrenheit 9/11 beats it. (Though, when adjusted for inflation, 1896’s The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat Station reigns supreme.) That’s huge for A24, and suggests that big things could be in the film’s future. Or, not that big, but certainly gold and human-shaped. Yes, I’m talking about old Oscar himself, the bald man with the bold plan. 

Could You Can See Everything be the first documentary ever nominated for best picture? Is You Can See Everything even a documentary, technically speaking? Let’s hash it all out here. But first: SPOILER WARNING! If you have not yet seen the movie (and you really should see the movie), click away. 

I saw You Can See Everything for the second time this weekend, and while the element of surprise was lost, I was still quite captivated. It’s quite a picture, isn’t it? Oppenheim and Fielder make the absolute most of their incredible access, stitching together an intimate and yet ever-shifting portrait of a person, and a relationship, that may never be fully knowable. 

I saw some critiques of the film recently that seemed to suggest that the (failed, in their estimation) project of  You Can See Everything is to uncover more about Holmes, to once and for all figure out if she’s a liar. But I don’t think that’s what the movie is about? It’s more zoomed out than that; it’s a rattling provocation about notions of truth in an era when nothing feels absolute, a pushback against the smug certainties stoked online by— perhaps in particular—stuff like true crime. The central question of the movie isn’t, “Is Elizabeth Holmes a conwoman?”, it’s, “Is there any moment in this movie when someone, or everyone, isn’t performing?” 

The observer effect alters even the observer in You Can See Everything, catching Fielder somewhere between serious inquisitor and comedian trying to make a bit work. He strains for a joke in the sad hours before Holmes carts herself off to prison, perhaps fearing that if he doesn’t do something funny and classically Fielder (like getting her a gag gift or awkwardly trying to allow Holmes one last chance to have sex), he won’t have enough of a movie. That same sense of shtick is there in many cutaways to Fielder’s trademark deadpan face, watching Holmes and her freakish partner, Billy Evans, play out their domestic routine. Is that just Fielder’s resting face, or is there some kind of act happening, Fielder knowing that at least one camera is on him and thus he must play a part?

Holmes and Evans are putting on a show too, though whether or not they’re doing tandem solo performances or an intricate two-hander remains murky. Maybe it’s something in between, both of them doing their best to move in sync but inevitably following their own bizarre and complex instincts. The movie itself, the formal structure of Oppenheim and Fielder’s shooting and editing, poses as something it’s maybe not actually. It’s scored and photographed like an artsy indie drama, rather than a documentary. It builds a narrative that fascinatingly strays further and further from fact even as it maintains its vérité framing. You Can See Everything is a movie that headily captures what it is to live, and therefore doubt, in these woeful modern times of ours, when the tiniest of niggling suspicions that what we’re seeing isn’t real is enough to dismantle an entire perception of reality. 

But maybe the most interesting performance in the film is that of Amanda Seyfried, a kooky and talented actor who shows up halfway through You Can See Everything and gives the film a hearty extra boost of loopy, faintly sinister verve. The big question I have with her is this: When is Amanda Seyfried acting in You Can See Everything? Is she actually drunk at that nightmare dinner with Billy? Is she really prodding Fielder about his maybe-romantic feelings for Holmes at the end? Is Amanda Seyfried being herself, or is Amanda Seyfried thrillingly playing an Amanda Seyfried of the movie’s invention, of the movie’s necessity? I don’t really want concrete answers to those questions, because it’s much more fun to reel around in the wondering. 

That said, some sort of basic understanding has to be established if—and I believe this is an aim for A24, tacit or not—Seyfried is to have any sort of best supporting actress campaign. Obviously she’s acting when she’s playing Holmes, but what about everywhere else? Clarifying exactly what Seyfried is doing would give away the game of the movie, and I don’t think anyone involved wants to do that. Which puts the film’s awards strategy in a tricky spot. Maybe it’s best to just leave Seyfried’s work where it is, and if the improbable happens—meaning, Academy voters throw rigid standards out the window and figure Seyfried is doing enough acting to merit a nod—then that’s great. If not, she’s still doing one of the coolest, strangest things a mainstream actor has done in a long time and that’s a mighty victory unto itself. 

You Can See Everything may have to take the same casual attitude toward the best documentary category, which is governed by one of the more persnickety branches of the Academy. Those voters regularly turn their noses up at any documentary involving a celebrity, and thus might immediately reject YCSE on those grounds. Or they’ll probe one step further and determine that there is just too much fiction in the film, or presumption of fiction, to qualify it as a true documentary. It’s vexing but true: the documentary with the second-highest opening weekend gross of all time could easily miss out on a best documentary nomination. 

Wildly enough, the film probably has a better shot in best director and, even more so, best picture; if it gets into the latter category, it would make history as the first documentary to break into that rarefied list. Or, pseudo-documentary, or whatever you want to call it. The odds aren’t bad. The movie is financially successful, it’s critically beloved, and it’s a cultural juggernaut on the coasts; it’s undeniably the hot-ticket conversation piece of the season and plenty of older voters will no doubt be goaded to watch it by their more plugged-in children. Yes, the film is likely alienating to some older voters and literalist voters and the fuddy-duddy bloc, but I’d imagine plenty of other people in the Academy will thrill to the film’s style, its mystery, its ability to capture the zeitgeist like few other movies are able to these days. You Can See Everything is by no means a best picture lock, but it is certainly a strong surprise contender.

It would be a crime if the movie wasn’t also a player in editing, cinematography, and score, areas where it shines. Or, not only shines; without those three crafts being plied so effectively, the movie would be way less enveloping an experience. The Academy would be foolish not to recognize that boggling artistry. Though the Academy is often exactly that, I would be surprised if You Can See Everything doesn’t get nominated in at least one of those categories. 

Can it win anything? Oh, probably not. But the nominations would be triumph enough for a movie that most people didn’t even know existed until Labor Day weekend. 

Okay, that’s it for today. I’ll see you back here on Wednesday. Enjoy your work!