It's officially that binge-until-your-eyes-bleed time of the year for voting critics! I've spent all fall visiting horror film festivals around the country, fit in three separate weddings to boot, AND crushed Thanksgiving dinner yet again (Matt Donato roasts a damn fine turkey). The last few months have been a whirlwind, but from now until Christmas, I have one focus (outside my day job, writing assignments, and regular anxiety lol) — For Your Consideration screeners.

This year, I'm going to keep a running diary of my watches to help end-of-year voting go as smoothly as possible. Plus, it keeps me writing about awards contenders I had to pass on during the year because I've dedicated myself to the horror genre. Such are the choices we make in life, eh?

Anyway, to the first batch of movies!

Emilia Pérez (dir. Jacques Audiard)

Should Emilia Pérez win Best Picture, it'd be a Green Book-level disgrace. Jacques Audiard's operetta about a Mexican cartel kingpin's gender-affirming surgery (pre and post) is a mess of ambition sans execution. It's a "musical" made by a filmmaker who hates musicals, which becomes an ill-conceived and laughably ineffective comedy of errors. I'd reckon 90% of the musical numbers bring scenes to a screeching halt, which says a lot because the rest already feels staged and hollow. Audiard's cinematic anarchy is misguided and bumbling, erasing the film's emotional pleas with rhythmic interludes that are out of step with the rest of the production. I fell off in Bangkok and never got back on.

Entire sequences resemble an amateur stage production. Imagine you're trapped watching a friend's WAY off-Broadway "thinker," and the minutes pass like hours. I laughed for all the wrong reasons and found core performers — including lead Karla Sofía Gascón and the forgettable Selena Gomez — distractingly off-putting when spoken dialogue turns sing-songy. I can tolerate Zoe Saldaña's impending nomination — she's thrust into a tumultuous arc that's thoughtfully executed — but can't sanction any praise toward original songs or technical achievements. Emilia Pérez doesn't live up to even a fraction of its initial festival hype, poised to remain my biggest awards season bust.

1.5/5

Wicked (dir. Jon M. Chu)

Shot, meet chaser. If Emilia Pérez is a mouthful of room-temperature Malört, Wicked is a glass of special release Lagavulin poured by Nick Offerman.

I couldn't help getting swept up in Wicked's big-time whimsy and musicality or wiping away tears during "Defying Gravity." Jon M. Chu's booming adaptation is a dazzling blockbuster from a filmmaker in complete control. Oz's fantasy land pops with (albeit subdued) color despite recent complaints I don't quite understand — I'm expecting plenty of technical nominations from Production Design to Costume Design. Digital animation isn't as sharp at points, but that's a minor complaint in an otherwise awe-striking redecoration of the Emerald City.

Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande are packing vocal heat in addition to their non-melodic performance power. As a tandem, they're top-notch, but my choice — should only one get nominated — is the blindingly talented Erivo. Her voice as she punches every mile-high note in "Defying Gravity" platforms Erivo as the ensemble's North Star. I also love a debonair and snake-charmer sneaky Jeff Goldblum as The Wizard (no shock). Not to forget Michelle Yeoh, cheeky Jonathan Bailey, and the rest of the successful supporting cast.

Bonus points for the film's themes of rebellion and activism in a time when they're needed most. Wicked is more than enchanting entertainment; it's a whole-chest rallying cry.

4/5

A Different Man (dir. Aaron Schimberg)

Aaron Schimberg's one-of-a-kind character study lingers in the right way. Sebastian Stan and Adam Pearson are one of the year's best actor couplings. I don't love the ending — Stan's crime spoils momentum, in my opinion — but adore Stan and Pearson's back-and-forths. Stan ditches his hunky leading-man charms while Pearson out-charismas Marvel's Winter Solider, embracing the story's poignant themes about physical appearance.

Once Pearson struts into Edward's life as the lovable and confident Oswald (despite his neurofibromatosis, much to post-treatment Edward's displeasure), A Different Man soars. Stan's spiral as Edward confronts the truths about his neurofibromatosis and mental state is fantastic, as well as Pearson's mirror-image buddy brimming with excitement, curiosity, and joy. Renate Reinsve's Ingrid wedges between the two with such chaotic energy, and who doesn't love a Micahel Shannon cameo? Still, A Different Man's success is a testament to its leads.

3.5/5

Didi (dir. Sean Wang)

Sean Wang's painstaking recreation of the 2000s teenage experience is picture-perfect. From the Paramore band t-shirts to Hellogoodbye's "Touchdown Turnaround" playing from shitty desktop speakers, Wang's dedication to period feel is immaculate. Every minutiae is torn from 2008 — I still remember the site where you could download those raunchy AIM avatars. Even better? Wang's screenplay is openly wounded, awkwardly humorous, and an A+ boyhood tale that doesn't shy away from the horrifying hormonal growing pains of high school eras.

Young Izaac Wang gives a brilliantly tortured performance as uncool skater boi Chris Wang, even just by hopelessly chatting with o.g. AI bot SmarterChild for the most heartbreaking scene of 2024. Wang's face when Chris finds out he's no longer on his bro's MySpace Top 8 will melt your heart, but let's not forget Joan Chen as Chris' single-parenting mother. I'd love Chen to be recognized with an acting nomination for her portrayal of a matriarch stuck doing her best with two rebelling kids, but Didi just doesn't have the heat (it deserves) right now. Wang's tremendous aughts drama boasts an Eighth Grade attraction about itself.

4.5/5

Saturday Night (dir. Jason Reitman)

Jason Reitman's fictional(ish) recounting of the 90 minutes leading into Saturday Night Live's first game-changing episode is an odd yet addictive experience. No, it's not 100% truthful — Milton Berle was banned from the show on a different night and showed his dong to a different party. But for the purposes of the film's intention, to depict the changing of television's old guard to a fresh, rag-tag group of 20-something comedians? Saturday Night is a cynic's paradise fueled by coke addictions that follows Gabriel LaBelle's Lorne Michaels as he becomes the arrogant producer many know (and not everyone loves).

Lorne's pretentious blathering undercuts themes of determination, bullheaded ambition, and unparalleled nerve, but that's all on purpose. It's as much a tell-some (not tell-all) as it is a reminder of how Hollywood hasn't evolved despite generational takeovers. A bunch of renegade lunatics ushered in a new era of television, and while some might not appreciate what the film "celebrates," I'm not sure I see confetti falling come the credits. You'll fare better with an adoration for Saturday Night Live lore, knowing all the debauchery and chaos of SNL's 70s beginnings. Reitman doesn't glamorize the creative process and calls out its business-backed necessitations, which might be jarring to audiences — he's not advocating for represented methods but still is in awe of how SNL blasted off.

Also, those roles. Ella Hunt's Gilda Radner and Cory Michael Smith's Chevy Chase are shining examples of actors transforming into their iconic cast members, notably J.K. Simmons playing the big-dick swinging Milton Berle (who I'd love to nab a Supporting Actor nomination). One of my favorite ensembles of 2024? If Rami Malek can win for Bohemian Rhapsody, half of Saturday Night's cast should be recognized.

3.5/5

Nightbitch (dir. Marielle Heller)

I get Nightbitch, I appreciate the message, but I don't like the movie? Marielle Heller's balancing of humorous animality and the film's furious reclamation of motherhood feels like two movies. Amy Adams — who I adore as a performer — brings primal rage to monologues that demonize society's toxic positivity around being a mother. She's stellar, but the film's fractured methods clash as black humor undercuts the narrative's serious themes.

It's corny as heck, which is so frustrating. Adams' shining outbursts as a stay-at-home mom asked to sacrifice her artistic career lose their impact as she deals with becoming a "Night Bitch," aka furry dog. Heller never figures out how to incorporate some of the best bars from Rachel Yoder's source novel, relying on narrations over montages of Adams cosplaying an Animorph's cover image with poor results. Nightbitch wants to be an Oscar contender and B-movie at once but only ends up fighting itself. Whatever wonderful woman-roaring exploration of mommyhood Adams musters (alongside Scoot McNairy as her stereotypically unaware husband) is ruined by Heller's unsteady execution.

2.5/5