Films That Feel Like Fall (pt. IV)

Far From Heaven

Coco

Warmest welcomes, my wondrous, whimsical readers. I hope you’re staying warm, or cool, depending on how the climate crisis is currently effecting your local weather. Given the dark, somewhat dreary vibes of last week’s noir classics, it felt appropriate for the next November double feature to be a bit cozier, so I hope you’re up for another round of films that feel like Fall. Even though this time of year often means voting, allergens, and the beginning of the holly jolly hellish holiday season, Autumn is the best time of the year—and you cannot convince me otherwise. The colors, the cool breezes, the big sweaters, the burning sunsets and crackling fires will forever be irresistible to this chilly Scorpio. To quote another Scorpio, Bowen Yang, Fall is “the one that got away.” We rush through our lives, keeping up with our commitments and chaos as much as humanly possible throughout the year, and just as we begin to notice the leaves changing colors, they’ve already fallen to the ground. It is a short-lived but romantic time, and its radiant red-and-yellow-tinted foliage always inspires in me vigor and vibrancy—despite the inevitable death and decomposition of said foliage. The next best thing to experiencing Autumn in the flesh and stepping on crunchy leaves for yourself, is watching the foliage-flecked films that are set during this dreamy season. This is now round four of films that feel like Fall, and I never get sick of the ways in which this colorful season is captured on film. Both of tonight’s films could potentially fall into the oddly all-too-common category of sad Autumnal movies, and while I tend to avoid sad movies at all costs, I can allow some poignancy if the complete package is spectacular—and both of these were spectacular, or at least pretty damn close to it. And quite coincidentally, both of tonight’s films also bear shockingly similar resemblances to other films that came before them, but hopefully they’re just paying homage and not directly plagiarizing.

Up first is a familiarly fictionalized story surrounding very real dynamics of race, class, and sexuality, this is Todd Haynes’ 2002 film Far From Heaven. I liked the films Carol and Velvet Goldmine just fine, but I really fell in love with Todd Haynes’ work when I saw his 2023 film May December. And I gained an even deeper appreciation of his thoughtful, sensitive, artistic eye when I did a Todd Haynes double feature and watched his cult-classic Safe and his controversial underground stop-motion-Barbie documentary Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story. So given my love for his chic, complicated, semi-twisted point of view, I was curious to see his 1950s suburban drama Far From Heaven. The film opens on a hopelessly idyllic, small, provincial town in Connecticut, where every street and roof and gentle breeze is aflutter with Autumnal excellence. Leaves are scattered everywhere, canopies of trees line the cozy, welcoming streets, and Julianne Moore steps onto the scene in a blonde wig and a high society dialect as she tells her son to help bring in groceries—to which he responds with a classic, “aw shucks.” The Leave it to Beaver vibes are laid on so heavily, it feels a bit like The Stepford Wives at first, and pretty soon, a sense of unease descends upon this seemingly-sweet slice of Americana. Julianne Moore stars as Cathy Whitaker, the perfect wife and mother of the perfect nuclear family, who is getting ready for a party at her friend Eleanor’s (Patricia Clarkson) house. The only problem is that Cathy’s husband, Frank (Dennis Quaid), still hasn’t come home from work, and when the phone finally rings, its not Frank, but the police department. Cathy has to go bail Frank out of jail, and though Frank says it was just a “misunderstanding” it becomes clear that this wasn’t just an intoxication charge, but something a bit more illicit and salacious. Unbeknownst to Cathy, Frank has been exploring the clandestine world of underground gay bars in Hartford, but when Cathy does finally become aware, there’s not much she can do other than despair and yearn for a better life—as all 1950s housewives did. But one day, as Cathy is being interviewed for the local weekly gazette, she spots a strange man in her backyard—a black man by the name of Raymond Deagan (Dennis Haysbert.) Cathy isn’t as startled as the journalist or her photographer, she is intrigued and curious, and soon learns that her gardener has died and his son, Raymond, is taking over. The journalist is so struck by Cathy’s kindness to Raymond, that she includes a line about her “kindness to negros” in her puff piece, which causes a bit of a stir in this small town. Emotions and gossip and prejudices are stirred up even more, as Frank flunks out of conversion therapy and sinks further into alcoholism, and as Raymond casually charms Cathy even further. It doesn’t take much to cause a scandal in this helplessly stuffy town, and every little old biddy busy body is talking about Cathy’s blossoming connection with Raymond—even Cathy’s bestie Eleanor can’t help but poke fun at Cathy’s willingness to humanize this kind man, as she jibes, “She’s been liberal ever since she did summer stock with all those steamy Jewish boys, why do you think they used to call her red?” Despite the growing tension, the subtle sparks of chemistry between Cathy and Raymond are so lovely to witness—particularly when they talk about ideas as abstract as art and love, and the ways in which they express their care and concern for one another, without saying anything at all. The cutting, cunty remarks from the high society hoes run as rampant as the racism and cruelty in this town, and as Raymond and his daughter become the target of bigoted attacks, a difficult decision must be made. Far From Heaven was made in the near-spitting image of a Douglas Sirk film—specifically All That Heaven Allows and Imitation of Life. As soon as it was revealed that Dennis Haysbert was a gardener, filling in for his father who passed, I said, “Wait a minute, I’ve seen this one before.” But this didn’t bother me, it intrigued me, especially because queer director Todd Haynes included a challenging and layered gay subplot beneath the overarching challenging and layered race relations plot. With Todd Haynes at the helm, and Steven Soderbergh and George Clooney producing, I knew this film would be stunning to look at, but Far From Heaven is even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. You can tell that Haynes took meticulous time to light each scene delicately, to cascade Autumn leaves strategically, to dress every single person gorgeously. I couldn’t decide what was more blindingly beautiful: the consistent flurry of multi-colored foliage, or the never ending cavalcade of perfectly pristine mid-century dresses on Julianne Moore and and the rest of the ensemble. I, for one, am not always impressed by subtlety (especially in aesthetics) so I really loved how each scene was lit and shot depending on the mood and amount of tension required. When Cathy is dealing with her husband’s alcohol and repression-induced antics, the entire frame is doused in shades of cold, sterile blue, but when Cathy is speaking with Raymond, it’s as though she’s stepping into the wonderful, colorful world of Oz. Though undeniably sad and a bit frustrating at times, Far From Heaven is an impeccable and compelling period piece that expertly captures the terrors and devastation of racism during this time. I found every single person to be perfectly cast—even though Dennis Quaid is not the most convincing gay man, James Gandolfini was originally cast in this role and (while I love him so much) that seems even harder to imagine—the only characters that really grated against me were Cathy’s annoying children (even though they’re practically part of the furniture.) The Douglas Sirkisms were captured with immense attention to detail—down to the font and style of the credits—which was really delightful to see as a fan of these older films. I would’ve loved more Viola Davis and June Squibb, who are also in this film, but what I would’ve loved even more is a happy ending—though I was not foolish enough to expect one from a 1950s interracial love story made by sadboy legend Todd Haynes.

I expected nothing but sadness, on the other hand, from tonight’s next film, and instead got one of the most joyous-with-a-side-of-poignant movies I’ve ever seen: this is Lee Unkrich’s 2017 film Coco. As I previously stated, I don’t do sad movies. And when I caught wind of the tears being shed over this movie back in the day, I decided not to prioritize it. Disney, after all, might be the number one provider of needlessly-sad stories with needlessly-dead moms, and given how terribly sad life already is, why would I willingly expose myself to more? But as time went on, as children’s stories became just as nuanced and complex as films catered toward adults, I became more curious, and potentially more charmed by the idea of a kid’s movie that could somehow tackle the topic of death, especially if it’s Halloween-adjacent. I somehow felt tears immediately welling up, as I pressed play and heard the spectacular mariachi rendition of the Disney theme When You Wish Upon a Star. We are introduced to a little boy named Miguel, who lives in a small town in Mexico called Santa Cecilia, and he explains how he think he might be cursed. You see, long before he was born, Miguel’s great-great grandmother Imelda was married to a handsome and talented musician, and together they had Miguel’s great-grandma: Coco. But great-great grandpa had massive ambition, and walked out on Imelda and Coco to pursue a career in music. From that day forward, Imelda learned to provide for her small family by building a shoe business—and not a single note of music was allowed inside the home ever again. This tradition of musical prohibition was passed down generation by generation, but the only problem is: Miguel does not dream of making shoes, he dreams of being a musician! Miguel’s mother, father, grandmother, aunts and uncles all forbid him from playing, so he does so in secret, inside his attic shrine to the late-great Ernesto de la Cruz—the most famous musician in Mexico. On the night of Dia de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead), Miguel sneaks out to perform in a local talent show, and to add insult to karmic injury, he breaks into the mausoleum of Ernesto de la Cruz to borrow his guitar. But when Miguel strums a single chord, he is caught up in a rush of marigold petals, and suddenly, he is invisible to everyone in the land of the living. But soon, we learn that Miguel can be seen by all of the dead people arriving at the cemetery, appreciating the gifts and tokens offered on the ofrendas by their living relatives. Miguel has been cursed for stealing from the dead, but thankfully he runs into his long-dead relatives—lovely little skeleton ancestors who know Miguel quite well, though he’s never met them before. They take him into the Land of the Dead, through their version of customs, where a skeleton agent asks “do you have anything to declare?” and after they reveal the still-alive child, the agent’s jaw bone doesn’t just drop, it falls off completely. Miguel has to get back before sunrise or else he can never return to the land of the living, and only a member of his family can send him home. But his great-great grandma Imelda will only help him if he promises to never play music again. This deal doesn’t work for the music-obsessed Miguel, so he runs off in search of his great-great grandpa—whom he believes might just be the great Ernesto de la Cruz. There’s not much else I can say about the plot of this film without giving away some of the best parts, and without devolving into a puddle of uninteresting but earnest descriptions like “it was just really fucking cool.” Coco is the kind of movie you need to experience for yourself, with an open mind and an open heart, on the biggest, most-color-capable screen possible. It is simultaneously complex and simple, dark and pure, real and fantastical. I thought the way Mexico was depicted was gloriously-colorful, but when we enter the Land of the Dead, every frame is overflowing with vivid oranges and purples and blues and yellows and greens that flickered and flashed with so much effortless, creative beauty that took my breath away. Yes, Coco has sad, poignant moments, but it was nothing that this crybaby couldn’t handle. (And I would rather watch every sad scene from this movie on a loop then ever watch GDT’s Pinocchio ever again, sorry daddy.) Every tear I shed felt thoroughly earned and bearable, because of the way this story is told, and the kind, sensitive way death and grief are handled. It is not an easy feat—telling a story about death that is palatable and coherent and entertaining to kids—but somehow, this film pulled it off. Coco has just as much fun and humor (and even a few innuendos) to offer as it does hard truths, but again, I cannot stress enough how whimsical and easy it is to digest these tough topics here—which is a miracle. I love musicals, don’t get me wrong, but I loved how Coco is a movie about music, with music in it, and it still isn’t a musical. But I really did love the music! It’s as if the overlords at Disney know the exact chords and melodies that will bring one to tears. I loved the design of the dead people, of the colorful spirit animals, of the vibrant world they live in, and I absolutely loved the Frida Kahlo representation—particularly how they made her into an even more avant garde artist, because I do believe her work would’ve only gotten weirder if she had been given the chance. Coco is full of twists, turns, Autumnal colors and more love than I can put into words. And as the credits began to roll and I reached for another tissue, I thought to myself, “Oh so this is both sad and happy like life which guarantees pain and pleasure and grief and joy and though death is devastating it is also a guarantee of life and honoring and remembering your loved ones is how you can hold onto them when you are apart and the stories we tell and the songs we sing are portals to being with them again? Oh okay cool.” I put off watching this film for way too long, only to discover that it was worth every punch to the gut. It felt like a completely solid, unique story, and yet I am learning that it might just be a rip-off of the 2014 film The Book of Life—but much like Far From Heaven’s nods to All That Heaven Allows, I can forgive this copy/paste job because it’s just so much fun. Well, that’s enough sweet, sappy, Autumnal-themed sentimentalism for one week. Thank you for reading along and allowing me to indulge in another season of cinema. Until next time, go jump in a pile of leaves or somethin!