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If you're a parent, Lauren Greenfield's new doc about teens and social media 'is a horror movie'

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If you're a parent, Lauren Greenfield's new doc about teens and social media 'is a horror movie'

Documentary filmmaker Lauren Greenfield had spent her day with a group of high school students when a startling revelation came up that compelled her to go home and ask her two sons, then about 14 and 20, a question: “Is BDSM really a trend?”

“Oh, yeah, choking is what we’re told girls want,” she recalled one of her sons saying in reference to the risky sexual practice that some teens engage in.

It was 2021 and Greenfield was in the middle of her latest creative frontier: delving into the lives of the first generation raised on social media.

She was interested in unlocking an intimate glimpse of how social media has shaped adolescent minds after seeing her own kids’ distinctive relationship with it.

“They’re different generations,” she said recently from her office in Venice. “My eldest is a reader, my youngest gets his news from TikTok. Just seeing the difference and being concerned about the younger one being on a lot was part of the inspiration for this.”

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“Social Studies,” a five-part series premiering Friday at the Telluride Film Festival in Colorado and arriving Sept. 27 on FX, is Greenfield’s latest foray into documenting teen life in Los Angeles.

Her body of work, which includes 2012’s “The Queen of Versailles” and 2019’s “The Kingmaker,” has long chronicled beauty, wealth and power — and the damaging toll of it in excess.

But she’s held a perennial interest in youth culture: “Fast Forward: Growing Up in the Shadow of Hollywood” is a collection of photos and narratives of Los Angeles youth in the 1990s; “Girl Culture” captured the effects of American popular culture on young girls; and her short film “kids + money” features L.A. teens discussing money.

“When I did ‘Fast Forward,’ which was my first project, I was in a very different phase of life,” said Greenfield, who attended the private Crossroads School in Santa Monica as a teenager. “I was just out of college, just starting my career. I very much identified with the kids.”

But for “Social Studies,” “I came to this project as a mother, in terms of how the kids see me,” the filmmaker said.

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Dependence on devices and time spent on social media rose dramatically during the pandemic, as restless, isolated teens looked for an escape. In 2021, the surgeon general issued a public health advisory on teen mental health; however, research hasn’t found a direct link between the crisis and social media use.

Sydney, standing to the right, in her freshman dorm room at the University of Arizona. Her relationship to social media, and the temptation to project a sexualized image, is explored in “Social Studies.”

(Lauren Greenfield / Institute )

Greenfield’s series explores the everyday pressures teens confront that have been intensified by social media, including bullying, body-image issues and comparison culture.

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“‘Fast Forward’ was all about media influence and how kids were being changed and impacted by media influence. I called it the influence of Hollywood because I was specifically looking at celebrity and image culture and materialism,” Greenfield said. “I wanted to come back and explore the same subject but with this new influence of social media. It was similar but amplified. Social media was everything I had looked at throughout my career but on steroids.”

The series was largely filmed in Los Angeles and features teens from 10 schools, including Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles and Hamilton high schools. Greenfield shot roughly 1,200 hours of footage over 150 days — covering the 2021-22 school year and some subsequent months. She also recorded the teens’ phone and social media use.

The teens who open up their phones and their lives include Sydney, who grapples with curating her social feeds with provocative videos and images of herself; Ellie, who had a taste of viral fame after her relationship with actor Jack Dylan Grazer (nephew to mega Hollywood producer Brian Grazer); and Jonathan, who volunteers at Teen Line, the nationwide nonprofit hotline. A filmmaker himself, Jonathan sets out on a parallel journey, making a movie about teen life with many of the same subjects while taking part in Greenfield’s documentary.

The series arrives at a pivotal moment. On Wednesday, California legislators passed the Phone-Free Schools Act, which would require public schools to create policies to limit or prohibit cellphone use by 2026. The Los Angeles Unified school board already passed a measure this summer to ban phones on campus; it’s expected to take effect in January.

In a conversation earlier this month, edited here for length and clarity, Greenfield discussed how she treated her young subjects as experts, the ease in capturing teens authentically and why parents should watch.

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1 Sydney in "Social Studies."

2 Two girls stare at a laptop screen while in bed.

1. Sydney in “Social Studies.” (Lauren Greenfield / Institute ) 2. Ellie, right, in “Social Studies.” (Lauren Greenfield / Institute )

So much of what you’re after is capturing your subject in a raw and authentic way. And when you’re dealing with kids who have grown up in this digital era, where so much of the image they put out there is curated, I imagine it was challenging to know when you’re really getting the authentic piece.

Surprisingly, I felt like they really brought themselves. I remember the first group session, nobody dressed up. It wasn’t even like school, which is a bit of a fashion show. It was more like camp. People were not wearing makeup, they were not curating outfits.

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I remember a long time ago, somebody told me, “If you spend enough time, you really get authentic selves,” because posing or pretending takes a lot of energy, and eventually, it’s too taxing. That’s always been really important to my work, slow journalism. There’s always a process of people becoming more and more comfortable with you. I also started with a little bit of a bigger group than I ended up with, but the ones whose stories I really followed, we became very close, and I depend on that. They have to let me know something is happening so I can go and be there. And so they opened up more and more. I felt like by the end, they really presented their authentic selves.

For this one, everybody knew we’re looking at social media and its impact, and even in terms of who I selected, the kids had to care about that because it’s a lot to open up your lives. I think a lot of the kids felt a sense of purpose in doing that.

Having conversations with teens, particularly ones you don’t know, can be challenging. In addition to one-on-one interviews, you held group sessions. It felt a little bit like “The Breakfast Club.” Kids who maybe wouldn’t ordinarily talk to each other are in this room together, realizing their commonalities. Did you see that as a way to get your subjects comfortable?

I like that you said “The Breakfast Club” because that was a little bit of inspiration. The first seven groups I did, we weren’t even filming them as groups yet. I just wanted to hear what they thought was important, what I should cover, what were the problems. I wanted to be led by them. One of the big impetuses for this is I felt like the kids are the experts. We’ve seen experts talk about this topic, we’ve heard from parents, we’ve heard from tech, we’ve heard from legislature leaders, but I feel like the kids were the experts. One of the things I really tried to do was capture the duality of them being both subjects and experts.

There’s three elements: There’s the vérité — where we see them in their lives, sometimes they’re posturing, sometimes they’re presenting, sometimes they’re with friends, sometimes they’re lying. There’s the interviews where they’re just brutally honest, they break the fourth wall, they tell me the truth. That was really interesting, because also we have their social [media screen capture,] so we see the difference between what they’re saying and what they’re showing. And then the third perspective is the group where they’re talking to each other, and there they also were very honest. Sometimes they said it was almost like therapy; it was a place where they could talk about things that were affecting them all the time.

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1 Students sitting in chairs arranged in a circle in a library.

2 A teen boy in a blue shirt speaking to a group.

1. Teens featured in “Social Studies” gather for one of the group discussions held by filmmaker Lauren Greenfield. (Lauren Greenfield / Institute ) 2. Dominic, center, speaks during one of the sessions. (Lauren Greenfield / Institute )

One of the striking elements to the series is that you’ve asked your subjects to screen record their activity on their phone. How important was that piece?

So important. I feel like it’s a time capsule of the culture, the stuff that we captured. It’s really shocking to see how the algorithm works, to see how toxic some of the rabbit holes can be and to see the details of it. In the series, I didn’t want to have it be two worlds, like cut to a screen on black. I wanted a lot of the social that we’re seeing to be on top of the live action. I really wanted to show that these worlds are intertwined, intermixed, multitasking, and sometimes they’re opposing each other. Sometimes there’s fiction and nonfiction. I don’t want to give away too much for the audience, but I think there’s a lot of really shocking content.

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And my hope for the series, ultimately, is that it leads to some kind of regulation. “Fast Forward” was about the early loss of innocence in the ’90s. Now, there’s no innocence. There’s no childhood. You can’t keep your child from seeing devastating things, and they can’t even keep themselves from it, in the sense that the algorithm is going to take you by the hand, and whatever you’re curious about, feed you more and more stuff, and whatever your weakness is, it’ll pull you further into that. And the companies that are creating the algorithm are not doing it with the kids’ best interest in mind. They’re doing it with the interest of keeping them engaged on the platform.

The other theme that’s gone through all of my work, which came back here with a vengeance, is addiction, because it’s really addictive. I struggled with my own son to give limits. But what I realized when I was doing this is, it’s not fair to ask kids to regulate themselves. It’s like opiate addiction.

With fictional depictions of teen life — whether it’s “Euphoria,” “Thirteen” or even “Beverly Hills, 90210” — it’s easy to say, “That’s the extreme, it’s not really like that for teens. But the first episode of this series is pretty jarring.

A portrait of a blond woman with glasses.

Filmmaker Lauren Greenfield: “My hope for the series, ultimately, is that it leads to some kind of regulation.”

(Marcus Ubungen / For The Times)

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When I was doing feedback screenings, I showed [filmmaker] Nicole Holofcener, and after the first episode, she said, “This is a horror movie.” I don’t think it’s a horror movie for kids, though. I think that kids — and also 20-somethings, because I did some feedback screenings with those groups — see themselves. I think the kids are saying: “We need to talk about this.” There’s one part where Sydney’s mom’s like, “I don’t want to go in my kids’ TikTok.” But what I’m trying to do is say, “We need to be in this business. We need to have them share their experience.” What I love is that the kids are the ones who are saying, “This is concerning.” They’re saying, “You need to pay attention.” By the way, the parents — and I’m guilty of this myself — are posting on Facebook, I did this, I did that, but not always realizing how toxic it is.

Right. Sydney’s mother talks about her own social media use, specifically Facebook. How much did you want to hear from the parents?

At first, I wasn’t planning on including the parents. I thought it was going to be more like Charlie Brown, where the parents don’t understand and they’re in the background. Sydney’s mother was a really important voice. I feel like the parents are responsible, loving parents for the most part and yet have no idea. It’s not that they don’t want to help their kids, it’s like they don’t know what’s going on and they don’t know how.

With Sydney’s mom, there was a scene that I filmed where Sydney’s mom was like, “Don’t wear that short skirt outside.” She is an enlightened woman who doesn’t like the sexualization, but it’s a really hard thing to come down on because there’s a feeling among girls, and I’ve seen this in my own capturing of feminism and new feminism, where girls feel like showing their bodies is their right and their self-expression and they want to own that. And from my generation of feminism, I feel like that is not your voice and that it may feel like self-expression, but actually, it’s making the body the primary expression of identity. I don’t think it is good for either girls or boys.

I really tried to not fault the parents because I feel like I also did not know what was going on with my kids. Like I said, I have to sit down at the table and be like, “Is BDSM really a trend” to my teenagers? I was sure they were going to say no, and when they said yes, I almost fell out of my chair.

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What were those conversations like to get parents of the teen subjects in the film on board?

I think a lot of them looked at my other work and could see this isn’t entertainment. It’s purpose-driven, and not everybody opted in, but the ones who did saw it as an interesting opportunity. We started talking to kids and parents in spring 2021 and we didn’t start [filming] until August 2021. I’m really grateful to the kids and the families because it was a lot to ask.

What is the push and pull of wanting to provide this anthropological look at teen life today while, in turn, asking them to put themselves out there on, arguably, a more mainstream platform as a TV series?

For one, in terms of choosing kids, of course, one of the big subjects around social media is fame. And one of the things I was looking at was fame as a value and how values have shifted. Even when I was doing “Generation Wealth,” I was really struck by, when you ask kids what they want to be when they grow up, they say rich and famous instead of a particular job. So when I was looking for kids, I did try to correct for not bringing in kids that wanted to be in this project to be famous. It wasn’t as much of an issue as I thought, because I don’t think any of them thought that this was a way to be famous.

A teenage boy, holding a video camera, films a peer scrolling on her phone for his documentary project

Jonathan films Sydney, 18, in her bedroom. He’s a videographer at his school and began to chronicle the other students in the group for his own documentary.

(Lauren Greenfield / Institute )

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One of your teen subjects, Jonathan, also felt inspiration to make his own film, and there’s a bit of parallel documenting that happens. What piqued your interest about his approach or his perspective?

It’s a big thing when you allow yourself to be in a documentary, so I feel like everybody has to get something out of it. And lots of the kids were makers. Jonathan was the videographer for the school, and that was one of the things that was appealing about him. Plus, he had a different relationship with social media. He wasn’t a poster; I didn’t want everybody being big posters. And he was very serious about his filmmaking. And he wanted to interview kids from our group. He was on this parallel journey with me.

Jonathan offered a lot; he’s a very empathetic person in a time of narcissism and a culture of narcissism, and I think he’s part of what we need. Empathy is another antidote to narcissism and focusing a lot on yourself and being in this feedback loop with yourself.

What do you want audiences to take away after watching this documentary?

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Empathy, connection. When they say at the end, “Here we are without phones; we’re just talking” — it’s so great. One time when I was watching that, I almost just started laughing because it’s like a revelation— we’re without phones, we’re talking and it’s so amazing.

It’s a really hard time to grow up. I do think kids show resilience and wisdom, but they do that in the face of a really challenging environment, and ultimately, the adults are responsible for this environment. That’s what I hope we take away: We need to do something about it, to protect kids, because it’s just not fair to ask them to protect themselves.

Movie Reviews

“Resurrection” Movie Review: To Burn, Anyway

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“Resurrection” Movie Review: To Burn, Anyway

“What can one person do but two people can’t?”

“Dream.”

I knew the 2025 film “Resurrection” (狂野时代) would be elusive the second I walked out of Amherst Cinema and into the cold air, boots gliding over tanghulu-textured ice. The snow had stopped falling, but I wished it hadn’t so that I could bury myself in my thoughts a little longer. But the wind hit my uncovered face, the oxygen slipped from my lungs, and I realized that I had stopped dreaming.

“Resurrection” is a love letter to the evolution of cinematography, the ephemerality of storytelling, and the raw incoherence of life. Structured like an anthology film and set in a futuristic dreamscape, humanity achieves immortality on one condition: They can’t dream. We follow the last moments before the death of one rebel dreamer, called the “Deliriant” or “迷魂者,” as he travels through four different dream worlds, spanning a century in his mind.

Jackson Yee, who plays the main protagonist of the movie. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Being Bi Gan’s third film after the 2015 “Kaili Blues” (路边野餐) and the 2018 “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” (地球最后的夜晚), “Resurrection” follows Gan’s directorial style of creating fantastical, atmospheric worlds. Jackson Yee, known for being a member of the boy group TFBoys, stars as the Deliriant and takes on a different identity in each dream, ranging from a conflicted father-figure conman to an untethered young man looking for love to a hunted vessel with a beautiful voice. His acting morphs unhesitatingly into each role, tailored to the genre of each dream. Of which, “Resurrection” leans into, with practice and precision.

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Opening with a silent film that mimics those of German expressionist cinema, “Resurrection” takes the opportunity to explore the genres of film noir, Buddhist fable, neorealism, and underworld romance. The Deliriant’s dreams are situated in the years 1900 to 2000, as we follow the evolution of a century of competing cinematic visions. The characters don’t utter a single word of dialogue in the first twenty minutes, as all exposition occurs through paper-like text cards that yellow at the edges. I was worried it would be like this for the whole film, but I stayed in the theater that Tuesday night, the week before midterms, waiting for the first line of spoken dialogue to hit like the first sip of water after a day of fasting.

Supporting female actress Shu Qi. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Through a massive runtime that spans two hours and 39 minutes, this movie makes you earn everything you get. Gan trains the audience’s patience with a firm hold on precision over the dials of the five senses and the mind.

The dreams may move forward in time through the cultures of the twentieth century, but on a smaller temporal scale, the main setting of each dream functions to tell the story of a day in reverse. The first dream, being a film noir, is told on a rainy night. Without giving any more spoilers, the three subsequent dreams take place at twilight, during multiple sunny afternoons, and then at sunrise. “Resurrection” does not grant sunlight so easily; we are given momentary solace after being deprived of direct sunlight for a solid 70 minutes, until it is stripped from us again and we are dropped into the darkness of pre-dawn – not that I am complaining. I love a movie that knows what it wants the audience to feel. I felt a deep-seated ache as I watched the film, scooting closer to the edge of my seat.

“Resurrection” is a movie that is best watched in theaters, but a home speaker system or padded headphones in a dark room can also suffice. Some of its most gripping moments are controlled by sound. Loud, cluttered echoes of the world, whether from people chatting in a parlor or anxiety in a character’s head, are abruptly cut off with ringing silence and a suspended close-up shot. We are forced to reckon with what the character has just done. I knew I was a world away, but I was convinced and terrified at my own culpability and agency. If I were him, would I have done the same? I could only hear my thoughts fade away as we moved onto the next dream.

Beyond sight and sound, the plot also deals intimately with the senses of taste, smell, and touch, but you will have to watch the movie yourself to find that out.

My high school acting teacher once told us that whenever a character tells a story in a play, they are actually referencing the play’s overall narrative. This exact technique of using framed narratives as vessels of information foreshadowing drives coherence in a seemingly ambiguous, metaphorical anthology film. Instead of easy-to-follow tales that mimic the hero’s journey, we are taken through unadulterated, expansive explorations of characters and their aspirations. We never find out all the details of what or why something happens, as the Deliriant moves quickly through ephemeral lifetimes in each dream, literally dying to move onto the next, but we find closure nonetheless through the parallels between elements and the poetry of it all.

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That is why I like to think of “Resurrection” as pure art. It is not bound by structure; it osmoses beyond borders. It is creation in the highest form; it is a movie that I will never be able to watch again.

Perhaps because the dream worlds are so intimate and gorgeous, the exposition for the actual futuristic society feels weak in comparison. We learn that there is a woman whose job is to hunt down Deliriants, but we don’t see the rest of the dystopian infrastructure that runs this system. However, I can understand this as a thematic choice to prioritize dreams over reality. Form follows function, and these omissions of detail compel us to forget the outside world.

What it means to “dream” is up for interpretation, and we never learn the specifics of why or how immortality is achieved. Instead, “Resurrection” compares dreaming to fire. We humans are like candles, the movie claims, with wax that could stand forever if never used. But what is the point in being candles if we are never lit?

The greatest reminder of “Resurrection” is our own mortality. Whether we run from the snow-dipped mountaintops to the back alleyways of rain-streaked Chongqing, we can never escape our own consequences. “Resurrection” gives me a great fear of death, but so does it reignite my conviction to live a life of mistakes and keep dreaming anyway.

Dreaming is nothing without death. Immortality is nothing without love. So, I stumbled back to my dorm that Tuesday night, the week before midterms, thinking about what I loved and feared losing. So few films can channel life and let it go with a gentle hand. I only watch movies to fall in love. I am in love, I am in love. I am so afraid. 

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Spotify once had a reputation for underpaying music artists. It hopes to change that perception

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Spotify once had a reputation for underpaying music artists. It hopes to change that perception

Back in the early 2010s, the music industry was at a low point.

Piracy was rampant. Compact disc sales were on a steady decline. And the then-new audio streaming services, like Spotify, were taking hits from creators for paying low royalty rates.

Today, Spotify has grown into the world’s most popular audio streaming subscription service and the highest-paying retailer globally — paying the music industry over $11 billion last year. The Swedish company said in a recent post that the payouts aren’t strictly going to ultra-popular artists, but that “roughly half of royalties were generated by independent artists and labels.”

“A decade ago, a lot of the questions were really fair. Spotify had to be able to prove out if it could scale as an economic engine. People didn’t know if streaming would scale as a model,” said Sam Duboff, Spotify’s global head of marketing and policy of music business.

Duboff said Spotify’s payouts aren’t “plateauing — we’re still growing that royalty pool on Spotify more than 10% per year.” He credits the streaming platform’s growth to “incentivizing people to be willing to pay for music again” by providing personalized experiences and global accessibility.

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The company, founded in 2006, serves more than 751 million users, including 290 million subscribers, in 184 markets.

“The average Spotify premium subscriber listens to 200 artists every month, and nearly half of those artists are discovered for the first time,” Duboff said. “When you build an experience where people can explore and fall in love with music, it inspires them to upgrade to premium and keep paying.”

The platform offers a wide variety of playlists, curated by editors like the up-and-comer-driven Fresh Finds or rap’s latest, RapCaviar. There are also personal playlists generated for users, such as the weekly round-up Discover Weekly and the daily mix of tunes called the “daylist.”

The streamer considers itself the first step toward “an enduring career” for today’s indie artists. Last year, more than a third of artists making $10,000 on the platform in royalties started by self-releasing their music through independent distributors.

“Streaming, fundamentally, is about opportunity and access. It’s artists from all over the world releasing music the way they want to and reaching a global audience from Day One,” Duboff said. He adds that when fans have a choice, they will discover new genres and music cultures that may have otherwise languished in obscurity.

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In 2025, nearly 14,000 artists earned $100,000 from Spotify alone. The streamer’s data also show that last year the 100,000th highest-earning artist made $7,300 in Spotify royalties, whereas in 2015, an artist in that same spot earned around $350.

The company, with a large presence in L.A.’s Arts District, emphasizes that the roster of artists on its platform who earn significantly more money — well into the millions — is no longer limited to the few. A decade ago, Spotify’s top artist made around $10 million in royalties. Today, the platform’s top 80 artists generate over $10 million annually. Some of 2025’s top artists globally were Bad Bunny, Taylor Swift and the Weeknd.

Spotify claims those who aren’t household names can earn six figures, with more than 1,500 artists earning $1 million last year.

For some musicians, the outlook is not as clear

Damon Krukowski, a musician and the legislative director for United Musicians & Allied Workers, argues that Spotify’s money isn’t necessarily going to artists — it’s going to their labels.

Those without labels usually upload music through distributors such as DistroKid and CD Baby. These platforms charge a small fee or commission. For example, DistroKid’s lowest-level subscription is $24.99 a year, and the site states users “keep 100% of all your earnings.”

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”There are zero payments going directly to recording artists from Spotify,” Krukowski asserts. “Recording artists deserve direct payment from the streaming platforms for use of our work.”

The advocacy group, which has mobilized more than 70,000 musicians and music workers, recently helped draft the Living Wage for Musicians Act to address the streaming industry. The bill, introduced to the U.S. House of Representatives last fall, calls for a new streaming royalty that would directly pay artists a minimum of one penny per stream.

In the Q&A section of Spotify’s Loud and Clear website, the streamer confirms that it “doesn’t pay artists or songwriters directly. We pay rights holders selected by the artist or songwriter, whether that’s a record label, publisher, independent distributor, performance rights organization, or collecting society.”

Instead of following a penny-per-stream model, Spotify pays based on the artist’s share of total streams, called a “streamshare.”

“Streaming doesn’t work like buying songs. Fans pay for unlimited access, not per track they listen to,” wrote the company online. “So a ‘per stream’ rate isn’t actually how anyone gets paid — not on Spotify, or on any major streaming service.”

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‘Project Hail Mary’ Review: Ryan Gosling and a Rock Make Sci-Fi Magic

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‘Project Hail Mary’ Review: Ryan Gosling and a Rock Make Sci-Fi Magic

In contrast to other sci-fi heroes, like Interstellar’s Cooper, who ventures into the unknown for the sake of humanity and discovery, knowing the sacrifice of giving up his family, Grace is externally a cynical coward. With no family to call his own, you’d think he’d have the will to go into space for the sake of the planet’s future. Nope, he’s got no courage because the man is a cowardly dog. However, Goddard’s script feels strikingly reflective of our moment. Grace has the tools to make a difference; the Earth flashbacks center on him working towards a solution to the antimatter issue, replete with occasionally confusing but never alienating dialogue. He initially lacks the conviction, embodying a cynicism and hopelessness that many people fall into today. 

The film threads this idea effectively through flashbacks that reveal his reluctance, giving the story a tragic undercurrent. Yet, it also makes his relationship with Rocky, the first living thing he truly learns to care for, ever more beautiful. 

When paired with Rocky, Gosling enters the rare “puppet scene partner” hall of fame alongside Michael Caine in The Muppet Christmas Carol, never letting the fact that he’s acting opposite a puppet disrupt the sincerity of his performance. His commitment to building a gradual, affectionate friendship with this animatronic creation feels completely natural, and the chemistry translates beautifully on screen. It stands as one of the stronger performances of his career.

Project Hail Mary is overly long, and while it can be deeply affecting, the film leans on a few emotional fake-outs that become repetitive in the latter half. By the third time it deploys the same sentimental beat, the effect begins to feel cloying, slightly dulling the powerful emotions it built earlier. The constant intercutting between past and present can also feel thematically uneven at times, occasionally undercutting the narrative momentum. At 2 hours and 36 minutes, the film feels like it’s stretching itself to meet a blockbuster runtime when a tighter cut might have served better.

FINAL STATEMENT

Project Hail Mary is a meticulously crafted, hopeful, and dazzling space epic that proves the most moving friendship in film this year might just be between Ryan Gosling and a rock.

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