Sift through some of his best work, and you will find that Steven Spielberg has always been a filmmaker charged by notions of love and ache for families, both those we are born into and those we select for ourselves. Though his tender devotion to domestic, often suburban bonds and rhythms—a well-documented and endlessly discussed through-line in his filmography—has perhaps never been as evident as in the soul-baring “The Fabelmans.” It’s Spielberg’s most personal film, one that gorgeously revives the memories of his childhood and youth with a lavish sense of wistfulness and an aptly Hollywood-ized, fable-like touch.
That beautiful Hollywood sheen is fitting for the on-screen autobiography of an escapist filmmaker, whose name we came to pronounce synonymously with the magic of movies. But no matter how glossy a layer Spielberg coats his personal history with, the complicated melancholy he feels towards the past is profoundly palpable. It’s a past marked by growing up adoring movies and inventively making a few of his own, his fierce sisters, his otherness as a young Jewish boy in a sea of Christians (and sometimes anti-Semitic bullies), as well as his dear parents: his meek engineer dad and vivacious musician mom, happily married for a long while until their eventual separation.
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In that regard, “The Fabelmans” is a coming-of-age story, a romance, an emotional drama, an account of familial resilience, a fairy tale, and a yarn of a young artist finding his voice all in one. It also offers the slightest hint of an episodic structure as it unfolds over a decade across three states. Pick a combination, any combination, of these themes that interest you, and Spielberg’s lovely, sensitive, and often very funny epic—seamlessly co-written by repeat Spielberg collaborator, the great Tony Kushner (“Munich,” “Lincoln” and “West Side Story“)—will fulfill your appetite. But take the whole package, and you’ll be transported into the headspace of the same child-of-divorce filmmaker who once made the heart-wrenching “E.T.,” and numerous others after it, that similarly involved absent fathers and broken families.
In other words, the bittersweet elegy that is “The Fabelmans” feels like the climax of all-things-Spielberg, once again caressed by Janusz Kaminski‘s crisp, gleaming lens and John Williams‘ gently nostalgic score. It’s a delicate and sprawling work, one that lovingly honors Spielberg’s Jewish upbringing on the one hand and openly laments his parents’ parting with startling honesty and generosity on the other, with his film obsession remaining a constant through it all. That passion for cinema is Spielberg’s entry into “The Fabelmans,” with the young and visibly scared Sammy Fabelman (portrayed by Mateo Zoryan Francis-DeFord in childhood) standing outside of a movie theater with his parents Mitzi (Michelle Williams, sensational and otherworldly in one of her career-best roles) and Burt (Paul Dano, quietly poignant), reluctant about watching his first movie, “The Greatest Show on Earth.” But Cecil B. DeMille does his trick, and Sammy gets bitten by the movie bug right then and there, leaving the theater with a pair of preciously wide-open eyes that will be warmly familiar to any cinephile who can recall the moment their own love for film was born.
We are in New Jersey in these early segments, taking a peek into the serene life of the Fabelman family; lively and bountiful family dinners eaten on throwaway plates and a plastic table cloth, disposed of promptly afterward so Mitzi’s soft pianist hands—hands that do wonders with Bach and Beethoven—can avoid doing the dishes. There is plenty of joy in these scenes, shared by grandmothers, Sammy’s two (later, three) siblings, and a close family friend they call Uncle Bennie (Seth Rogen), who’s always around and welcome.
It’s mainly during the film’s Arizona and especially California chapters that “The Fabelmans” gradually swell in emotional complexity, especially once an older Sam (a marvelous Gabriel LaBelle in a star-making breakthrough performance) becomes more proficient as a moviemaker—or shall we say, “picture maker,” as put by John Ford whom Sam meets on the Paramount lot at the end of the film. (In this rendering of a charming anecdote Spielberg recounted in former interviews, Ford is played by another famous filmmaker in an enchanting cameo that wouldn’t be fun to spoil just yet.) Upgrading his equipment frequently despite his hesitant family unsure of his “hobby,” filming the big and small moments of their everyday life tirelessly and resourcefully making genre movies—Westerns, war pictures, you name it—with cheeky effects, the self-taught Sam builds an exceptional knack for visual storytelling in no time. His stunning remembrances and fragmented recollections give us the complete picture of where Spielberg, the director, came from as a maestro.
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Present at the film’s Toronto International Film Festival premiere last night, Spielberg emphasized that just two anti-Semitic bullies tormented him at his California school; his school and town at large weren’t culpable in the same way. Still, those two bullies make a notable appearance in the film’s portion set in the Golden State. Sam is troubled both at home with an increasingly wounded mother and at school, where he seems to be the only Jewish kid. Spielberg and Kushner don’t mince words when it comes to how harrowing the bullying became, but the film doesn’t entirely submit to doom and gloom either. Indeed, there is a lot of humor in Sam’s romance with a devout Christ worshipper in this phase—the couple’s make-out-while-praying sessions are truly hilarious. Furthermore, there is so much satisfaction in the way Sam avenges his bullies, disarming them with the command of film in a fiendish “kill them with kindness” act that he delivers in a retro video project for the school.
Above all, two central scenes that erupt within “The Fabelmans” make Spielberg’s latest one of the year’s most memorable cinematic experiences. One retells the story of Sam’s visiting uncle Boris (Judd Hirsch in a rapturous cameo), a wise man who’s worked in circuses and movies alike. “Art will leave you lonely,” he tells Sam, detecting his talent and insatiable appetite to create art instantly, perhaps even more than his own family. “Art is not a game. Art is like putting your hand in the lion’s mouth.” Sam is a different boy by the time his uncle departs, someone who has no choice but to continue on his chosen path.
The other scene is not only the film’s loveliest but one of the most special sequences ever made, capturing the power of film in revealing details and truths one’s earth-bound eyes would otherwise miss. In it, Sam is hard at work cutting a movie as a surprise present to his grieving mother, painstakingly examining and assembling the shiny film comprising of a recent family camping trip. Poetically accompanied by minor piano keys, the sequence is a love letter to the truth-baring sway of celluloid, if there ever was one. Like the rest of the movie, it’s a thing of absolute beauty that will rip your foolish heart out. [A]
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