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For many, mental health has only recently come into focus due to the COVID-19 pandemic. However, for those of us incarcerated by the Illinois Department of Corrections (IDOC), mental health has long been an issue and point of struggle. Serious mental illness has become so prevalent in the American corrections system that jails and prisons are commonly called “the new asylums.” According to the Bureau of Justice, there are more people with mental health issues in prisons across the country than all the nation’s state-run mental hospitals combined.

The pandemic has made it even harder to maintain mental health in prison.

In 2016, the Treatment Advocacy Center put out a report in which they estimated that 15 percent of state prison populations suffer from a mental illness. The devastation of the pandemic, with more than a million American deaths, the economic strife that is affecting everyone, lockdowns, the unprecedented curbs on social interaction, no visits, and fear of illness has taken a great toll in prisons. In January 2021, 41 percent of adults who responded to a survey administered by the National Center for Health Statistics and Census Bureau reported symptoms of anxiety or depression. 

This marked increase is prevalent in prisons as well. Men in here are suffering. 

COVID-19 has ravaged the Illinois Department of Corrections (IDOC) statewide both in terms of lives lost and mental health. I personally knew more than 20 men who died of COVID-19 in Stateville in 2020, and some of them were good friends, including my cellmate and best friend, James Scott. We all watched helplessly as they carried the bodies of our friends out of their cells. Some were close friends, others were family.

Many guys, including myself, find it difficult to cope with the grief and isolation. Some guys in here self-harm, others have openly spoken of killing themselves, and yet others turn to drugs. I’ve seen it, I’ve had a cellmate kill himself. The guys who turn to drugs are attempting to relieve their anxiety and depression. One of my friends, Lamont Griffin, told me, “I’m exhausted all the time, yet falling asleep is hard. My mind focuses on every problem, question, and concern.” I’ve heard this exact same thing many times.

In Stateville—and IDOC facilities statewide—there are court-mandated doctors and other mental health professionals. If not for a court order stemming from a lawsuit, IDOC would not have any mental health care available to incarcerated people. The professionals that do work here are severely understaffed and overworked. They are hampered by IDOC’s policies and dictates. IDOC creates obstacles and interferes with their work. 

“The biggest problem is the criminal justice system and the mental health system are not closely aligned,” Texas Tech University psychologist Robert Morgan told the mental health news site Verywell Mind last year. “We need to teach them about their mental illness and make sure they know once they leave, they need to reconnect with the mental health system.” IDOC currently does no such thing.

Mentally, I’m not OK. I struggle with bouts of depression and anxiety, the loneliness is sometimes unbearable. It’s crushing. I don’t sleep well, I have insomnia, and when I do manage to get some sleep, I have nightmares. I’m not eating well, and sometimes my hands shake. I find myself struggling. Then I look around me and I see a lot of other guys going through some very similar things; some aren’t as bad, but others are worse. The pandemic has intensified mental health issues guys already had, and created new mental health issues in many of us.

I was not on the mental health caseload before the pandemic; I was one of those men who struggled silently. However, after James, my cellmate, died, I was in a very dark place. No one came to check on me. I took the step, and put in several requests to see someone from mental health. It took almost six months to even see someone at all! Six months I waited. Had I wanted  to hurt myself, I would have been dead. 

This kind of wait is not the exception; it’s the rule. Such disconnects are commonplace in IDOC. I eventually ended up with a primary caregiver; she is caring, and it helps to see her. However, because of the lack of mental health professionals who work here, and the sheer number of people they have on their caseload, I only see her about once every six weeks. This is the best she can do, despite me voicing my need to see her more often on a regular basis. Once every six weeks seems to be about the best I can hope for. And it’s simply not enough. Even when you really want help, when you ask for help, it’s denied. For those of us who want our situation to change desperately, we simply have to do it on our own.

Every few weeks, a mental health professional makes rounds through the cellhouse. They stop at your cell door and ask if you need to see someone. They make it clear they are in a hurry to keep going. I stopped them once and told them I was having a difficult time. Things were hard at the moment, and I really needed help. They said, “We will put your name in,” and hurriedly left the door. They didn’t ask follow-up questions about whether I was OK, or what I needed help with. It took four weeks for me to even see someone. I never stopped them to ask for help again. 

These “rounds” are mandated, and done to simply check a box; otherwise, they are pretty meaningless. I needed help at that time, and got none. This is the mental health situation at Stateville. It’s dangerously inadequate.

The criminal justice system is woefully ill-prepared to handle the needs of its mentally ill prisoners. The pandemic has only complicated matters. At an interpersonal level, some prisoners receive mental health services, while a vast majority are grossly underserved. 

How can we change this? The hiring of more mental health professionals is a must; it is essential to more evenly distribute caseloads, and focus on those asking for help, as well as implement new programs. Second, mental health issues need to be destigmatized, and therapeutic approaches such as cognitive behavioral therapy, teaching problem-solving skills and lifestyle changes, training programs such as “Thinking for a change,” and Reasoning and Rehabilitation should be offered. Programs like these, as well as peer group counseling, and more frequent one-on-one talk therapy sessions, will all help those suffering from mental issues be better able to cope.

Why is this important? These men are in prison; they committed crimes. While this is true, they are paying their debt to society, and more importantly, they are human beings. The men in this place have themselves been victims of many kinds of abuse. Many have PTSD. Yet because they have been found guilty of committing a crime, and are considered to be perpetrators, there is no room to also be a victim. 

These men should matter because they are human beings, and society should care because many of these men are coming home. These men will be thrust back into the community, having never received proper care or treatment for their mental issues. Leaving prison without guidance or referrals of any kind, or without medications, is a recipe for disaster. 

Mental illness raises the risk of recidivism, as well as alcohol and drug abuse. These men need to be treated, and given the skills to cope with the issues that face them. Concentrating on violence and crime after the fact is a reaction, and it helps no one, especially the victims. Doesn’t it make sense to treat the men in prison before they get out, to meet these issues head on? 

These issues need to be treated before they manifest into substance abuse and crime. Think of the crimes that could be prevented, simply by making sure prisoners receive competent, comprehensive mental health treatment.

Anthony Ehlers is a writer incarcerated at Stateville Correctional Center who contributes a regular opinion column to the Reader. 

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Here’s the TL;DR version of what to expect from Ain’t Too Proud, the new jukebox musical about soul/blues/disco/rock hitmakers The Temptations, whose catalog of songs spans the 1960s and the height of the Motown era through the disco beats of the 1970s and beyond. 

The music—featuring more than 30 tunes from the Motown catalog—is irresistible and unimpeachable. In musical terms, director Des McAnuff’s production is a four-star endeavor. 

But there’s also a story—more or less, but mostly less—surrounding that music. And in Dominique Morisseau’s book, the story of the Temptations is perfunctory, superficial, and offers little insight into either the artists themselves or the tumultuous historical context that surrounded and informed their art. 

Ain’t Too Proud
Through 6/5: Tue-Fri 7:30 PM, Sat 2 and 8 PM, Sun 2 PM; also Sun 5/29, 7:30 PM, and Wed 6/1, 2 PM; Cadillac Palace Theatre, 151 W. Randolph, 800-775-2000, broadwayinchicago.com, $31.50-$171.50.

Still, there’s a standing O’s worth of Motown gloriousness here, from 1960s hits (“Baby Love,” “I Can’t Get Next to You”) through the 1970s and beyond (“Papa Was a Rolling Stone,” “Superstar”).

The cast is anchored by Marcus Paul James as founding member Otis Williams, with Jalen Harris playing lead singer Eddie Kendricks, Harrell Holmes Jr. as basso profundo Melvin Franklin, and Elijah Ahmad Lewis as growling power-tenor David Ruffin. 

Backed by a power-driving live band conducted by Jonathan “Smitti” Smith, the five “classic” Temptations are impeccable: Holmes has a bass that feels like it’s bubbling up from the ancient depths of middle earth. Ruffin’s falsetto soars to the most delicate outer reaches of the human voice, his tone so high and delicate it could set a crystal goblet vibrating. 

But when the music stops, Ain’t Too Proud ain’t so great. Characters are flatly one-note, even when their vocals are majestic and orchestral. And in lieu of narrative arc, the musical provides a repetitive carousel of bullet-point issues involving drugs, women, and egos. 

Further, Morisseau’s book relies on telling rather than showing; founding member Williams often breaks the fourth wall to explain what’s happened or is happening or is going to happen, rendering what narrative there is inert and presentational. 

In one particularly egregious bit of shorthand, Williams is faced with a choice between marriage or possibly facing statutory rape charges because his pregnant bride was underage when he impregnated her. He opts to wed. The fact that Josephine (Najah Hetsberger) was a child when Williams slept with her is played for laughs.

Finally, the production is marred by Peter Nigrini’s projection design, which seems created for a much larger stage. When the group tours and the names of various cities unscroll behind them, for example, the effect is that of an intricate Wordle. You can see some of the letters in some of the words, but it’s a puzzle putting them together. 

Ain’t Too Proud could be a superpower if it was solely about the music and Sergio Trujillo’s sharp, sensual choreography. There are astounding death drops on display here, and some of the slickest, smoothest moves ever to grace American Bandstand. 

Lose the book. Keep the cast and the band. Then, Ain’t Too Proud would be irresistibly tempting. 

PS: Masks are required when attending BIC shows, but enforcement was lacking opening night. Several people directly in front of me—senior citizen white guys all—kept their masks around their chins throughout, presumably so they could sing along. It was alarming and aggravating. Brosefs: You aren’t the only person in the theater. And nobody paid orchestra-seat ticket prices to hear you sing. 

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Here’s the TL;DR version of what to expect from Ain’t Too Proud, the new jukebox musical about soul/blues/disco/rock hitmakers The Temptations, whose catalog of songs spans the 1960s and the height of the Motown era through the disco beats of the 1970s and beyond. 

The music—featuring more than 30 tunes from the Motown catalog—is irresistible and unimpeachable. In musical terms, director Des McAnuff’s production is a four-star endeavor. 

But there’s also a story—more or less, but mostly less—surrounding that music. And in Dominique Morisseau’s book, the story of the Temptations is perfunctory, superficial, and offers little insight into either the artists themselves or the tumultuous historical context that surrounded and informed their art. 

Ain’t Too Proud
Through 6/5: Tue-Fri 7:30 PM, Sat 2 and 8 PM, Sun 2 PM; also Sun 5/29, 7:30 PM, and Wed 6/1, 2 PM; Cadillac Palace Theatre, 151 W. Randolph, 800-775-2000, broadwayinchicago.com, $31.50-$171.50.

Still, there’s a standing O’s worth of Motown gloriousness here, from 1960s hits (“Baby Love,” “I Can’t Get Next to You”) through the 1970s and beyond (“Papa Was a Rolling Stone,” “Superstar”).

The cast is anchored by Marcus Paul James as founding member Otis Williams, with Jalen Harris playing lead singer Eddie Kendricks, Harrell Holmes Jr. as basso profundo Melvin Franklin, and Elijah Ahmad Lewis as growling power-tenor David Ruffin. 

Backed by a power-driving live band conducted by Jonathan “Smitti” Smith, the five “classic” Temptations are impeccable: Holmes has a bass that feels like it’s bubbling up from the ancient depths of middle earth. Ruffin’s falsetto soars to the most delicate outer reaches of the human voice, his tone so high and delicate it could set a crystal goblet vibrating. 

But when the music stops, Ain’t Too Proud ain’t so great. Characters are flatly one-note, even when their vocals are majestic and orchestral. And in lieu of narrative arc, the musical provides a repetitive carousel of bullet-point issues involving drugs, women, and egos. 

Further, Morisseau’s book relies on telling rather than showing; founding member Williams often breaks the fourth wall to explain what’s happened or is happening or is going to happen, rendering what narrative there is inert and presentational. 

In one particularly egregious bit of shorthand, Williams is faced with a choice between marriage or possibly facing statutory rape charges because his pregnant bride was underage when he impregnated her. He opts to wed. The fact that Josephine (Najah Hetsberger) was a child when Williams slept with her is played for laughs.

Finally, the production is marred by Peter Nigrini’s projection design, which seems created for a much larger stage. When the group tours and the names of various cities unscroll behind them, for example, the effect is that of an intricate Wordle. You can see some of the letters in some of the words, but it’s a puzzle putting them together. 

Ain’t Too Proud could be a superpower if it was solely about the music and Sergio Trujillo’s sharp, sensual choreography. There are astounding death drops on display here, and some of the slickest, smoothest moves ever to grace American Bandstand. 

Lose the book. Keep the cast and the band. Then, Ain’t Too Proud would be irresistibly tempting. 

PS: Masks are required when attending BIC shows, but enforcement was lacking opening night. Several people directly in front of me—senior citizen white guys all—kept their masks around their chins throughout, presumably so they could sing along. It was alarming and aggravating. Brosefs: You aren’t the only person in the theater. And nobody paid orchestra-seat ticket prices to hear you sing. 

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In July 2019, Chicago indie-rock trio Horsegirl played the eighth annual Square Roots Festival. At the time, live shows were the only way to hear the group’s taut but disarming dream pop, with its windswept-lakefront sound—and they’d only performed a few of them. They hadn’t released any music, not even to stream, and unsurprisingly they’d received no press coverage at all. On the second day of the fest, Horsegirl took the stage in Maurer Hall as part of an afternoon block showcasing regulars from Old Town School of Folk Music’s monthly teen open mike. 

The Square Roots poster didn’t name any of the teenage musicians at Maurer Hall that day, but “Best of Teen Open Mic” might’ve been the most significant event of the festival. Horsegirl have since attracted flocks of dyed-in-the-wool indie-rock fanatics. Sixteen months after Square Roots, in November 2020, Chicago Tribune music critic Britt Julious wrote the first major profile of the band. By the end of that year, they were getting national exposure. And in April 2021, Horsegirl signed to venerable indie label Matador Records.

That Square Roots set was significant to the members of Horsegirl too. Singer-guitarists Nora Cheng and Penelope Lowenstein and drummer Gigi Reece love decades-old underground rock that other kids their age consider obsolete: the Cleaners From Venus, Sonic Youth, the Clean (and basically all the Clean’s labelmates on New Zealand indie imprint Flying Nun). At Square Roots, Horsegirl first met Chicago four-piece Dwaal Troupe, whose imaginative, wide-screen rock recalls the whimsical psychedelia of the Elephant 6 collective at its mid-90s peak. “It was the first time we’d ever seen kids our age doing something that was similar to the stuff we’d all bonded over watching videos from the past,” Nora says. 

The admiration was mutual. “They were serious,” says Dwaal Troupe multi-instrumentalist Kai Slater. “We came in with banjos and really shitty guitars. And they came in with serious, like, Strats. I was like, ‘Wow, they know what they’re doing. This sounds like Sonic Youth.’” 

For the Square Roots set, Horsegirl filled out their sound by recruiting their friend Asher Case on bass. For a few months Asher had been jamming with Penelope’s younger brother, Isaac, in a noisy project they’d name Lifeguard, and Horsegirl invited Isaac to sit in on drums for a song too. After the set, this extended Horsegirl crew chatted briefly with Dwaal Troupe about the indie bands they all like, then parted ways. Penelope realized they’d missed an opportunity only after she and her friends had left Maurer Hall. 

“We were like, ‘Oh, we should have gotten those guys’ numbers,’” she says. “‘What are we going to do? We just lost them forever.’ And then from a distance, Asher was like, ‘Oh my God, there’s Dwaal Troupe,’ and called them over. We were like, ‘OK, we need to get your number.’”

A few weeks later, Asher and Isaac brought Kai into Lifeguard, making the group a trio. A new Chicago indie-rock scene, small but mighty, began to take shape, full of musicians who aren’t old enough to drink. (Friko front man Niko Kapetan, who helped engineer Horsegirl’s breakout 2020 single, “Ballroom Dance Scene,” is an exception at 22.) Within a year or so, this loose group of friends began referring to themselves as “Hallogallo kids.” In early 2021, Kai published the first issue of a zine documenting what they were all doing. He called it Hallogallo too.

This little scene has managed to flourish despite the pandemic, which has rearranged many of the musicians’ creative and interpersonal lives. In fact, a later addition to the scene’s roster of bands arguably owes its existence to 2020’s period of social distancing: Charlie Johnston of Dwaal Troupe, who teamed up with her friend and neighbor Will Huffman in the shaggy, folky duo Post Office Winter, started collaborating with him that fall in part because their bubbles overlapped and they had access to a garage where they could practice with the door open. 

The Hallogallo community has been a boon to Huffman too. “I personally would not have been pursuing the same things in music that I’m currently pursuing if not for meeting them,” he says. “It just felt out of reach.” 

The larger world has also taken notice of the Hallogallo scene. Lifeguard have issued two seven-inches through Chunklet Industries, the Georgia indie label that grew out of Chunklet, Henry Owings‘s irreverent music and culture magazine. And the weekend of July 8, two Hallogallo bands will play at top-tier Chicago street festivals—Friko at West Fest, Dwaal Troupe at Square Roots (this time by name).

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In July 2019, Chicago indie-rock trio Horsegirl played the eighth annual Square Roots Festival. At the time, live shows were the only way to hear the group’s taut but disarming dream pop, with its windswept-lakefront sound—and they’d only performed a few of them. They hadn’t released any music, not even to stream, and unsurprisingly they’d received no press coverage at all. On the second day of the fest, Horsegirl took the stage in Maurer Hall as part of an afternoon block showcasing regulars from Old Town School of Folk Music’s monthly teen open mike. 

The Square Roots poster didn’t name any of the teenage musicians at Maurer Hall that day, but “Best of Teen Open Mic” might’ve been the most significant event of the festival. Horsegirl have since attracted flocks of dyed-in-the-wool indie-rock fanatics. Sixteen months after Square Roots, in November 2020, Chicago Tribune music critic Britt Julious wrote the first major profile of the band. By the end of that year, they were getting national exposure. And in April 2021, Horsegirl signed to venerable indie label Matador Records.

That Square Roots set was significant to the members of Horsegirl too. Singer-guitarists Nora Cheng and Penelope Lowenstein and drummer Gigi Reece love decades-old underground rock that other kids their age consider obsolete: the Cleaners From Venus, Sonic Youth, the Clean (and basically all the Clean’s labelmates on New Zealand indie imprint Flying Nun). At Square Roots, Horsegirl first met Chicago four-piece Dwaal Troupe, whose imaginative, wide-screen rock recalls the whimsical psychedelia of the Elephant 6 collective at its mid-90s peak. “It was the first time we’d ever seen kids our age doing something that was similar to the stuff we’d all bonded over watching videos from the past,” Nora says. 

The admiration was mutual. “They were serious,” says Dwaal Troupe multi-instrumentalist Kai Slater. “We came in with banjos and really shitty guitars. And they came in with serious, like, Strats. I was like, ‘Wow, they know what they’re doing. This sounds like Sonic Youth.’” 

For the Square Roots set, Horsegirl filled out their sound by recruiting their friend Asher Case on bass. For a few months Asher had been jamming with Penelope’s younger brother, Isaac, in a noisy project they’d name Lifeguard, and Horsegirl invited Isaac to sit in on drums for a song too. After the set, this extended Horsegirl crew chatted briefly with Dwaal Troupe about the indie bands they all like, then parted ways. Penelope realized they’d missed an opportunity only after she and her friends had left Maurer Hall. 

“We were like, ‘Oh, we should have gotten those guys’ numbers,’” she says. “‘What are we going to do? We just lost them forever.’ And then from a distance, Asher was like, ‘Oh my God, there’s Dwaal Troupe,’ and called them over. We were like, ‘OK, we need to get your number.’”

A few weeks later, Asher and Isaac brought Kai into Lifeguard, making the group a trio. A new Chicago indie-rock scene, small but mighty, began to take shape, full of musicians who aren’t old enough to drink. (Friko front man Niko Kapetan, who helped engineer Horsegirl’s breakout 2020 single, “Ballroom Dance Scene,” is an exception at 22.) Within a year or so, this loose group of friends began referring to themselves as “Hallogallo kids.” In early 2021, Kai published the first issue of a zine documenting what they were all doing. He called it Hallogallo too.

This little scene has managed to flourish despite the pandemic, which has rearranged many of the musicians’ creative and interpersonal lives. In fact, a later addition to the scene’s roster of bands arguably owes its existence to 2020’s period of social distancing: Charlie Johnston of Dwaal Troupe, who teamed up with her friend and neighbor Will Huffman in the shaggy, folky duo Post Office Winter, started collaborating with him that fall in part because their bubbles overlapped and they had access to a garage where they could practice with the door open. 

The Hallogallo community has been a boon to Huffman too. “I personally would not have been pursuing the same things in music that I’m currently pursuing if not for meeting them,” he says. “It just felt out of reach.” 

The larger world has also taken notice of the Hallogallo scene. Lifeguard have issued two seven-inches through Chunklet Industries, the Georgia indie label that grew out of Chunklet, Henry Owings‘s irreverent music and culture magazine. And the weekend of July 8, two Hallogallo bands will play at top-tier Chicago street festivals—Friko at West Fest, Dwaal Troupe at Square Roots (this time by name).

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Jake Paul, the YouTube-star-turned-prizefighter, is targeting Glen “Big Baby” Davis for a fight on his next boxing card in August, sources confirmed Thursday to ESPN.

Davis, 36, played in the NBA for nine seasons, most recently in 2014-15 with the LA Clippers. He weighs over 300 pounds, and Paul’s team with Most Valuable Promotions (MVP) is currently in search of an opponent for him, sources said.

MVP specifically is looking for someone from the world of pro wrestling to fight Davis, with the hope of finding a former heavyweight WWE star, according to sources.

The Athletic first reported the news of Davis being targeted for the boxing match.

No date or location has been set for the card. Paul fought most recently last December, getting a knockout win over former UFC welterweight champion Tyron Woodley. Paul’s August opponent has not yet been decided.

Paul and MVP were the co-promoters last month for the Katie Taylor vs. Amanda Serrano fight, a huge box-office success that was the first women’s combat sports main event in the history of Madison Square Garden.

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Josh Leong’s 13-minute short Chicken is meant to be a sympathetic look at incarcerated youth. But it does little to challenge carceral systems, instead acquiescing in the idea that it’s the people in prison who are broken, rather than the system that has caged them.

The film features the convincingly anguished Jordan Biggs as a 16-year-old father incarcerated for a violent crime. The boy is a victim of domestic violence himself; he is locked in a cycle of abuse, unable to react with care and kindness, and unfit, he fears, to be a father. In prison he participates in a program in which the boys raise baby chicks. The hope and the promise of the film is that by caring for these animals, he will learn to care for his child and for himself.

Animal-care programs in prison are extremely worthwhile and valuable, not least because they recognize the humanity of those behind bars. But any discussion of prison needs to acknowledge that prison itself is part of a cycle of violence, not a solution to it. A scene in which a counselor (Opal Besson) tells the boy that he is “not trapped” seems especially tin-eared. She means that he isn’t doomed to hurt others, but she tells him so while he is literally in handcuffs. Physically, materially, he absolutely is trapped, and jailers are not in a position to offer bland promises of freedom. 

I’m certain Leong means well, and the chick-raising program is a worthy cause. But prison is a massive, racist source of violence and harm. A film about incarcerated people, especially one purporting to advocate for them, needs to engage with that fact. 13 min.

Screening at Tribeca Film Festival

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The cinematic debut for the long-running animated series about a misfit family of restaurant owners brings all the quirks and quips of the original Bob’s Burgers, extending to a length that feels just about a perfect medium-rare without flaming out into a dry well-done.

Creator Loren Bouchard helms the flick, carrying the same offbeat sensibilities fans have come to expect from the show. The cast all reprise their roles, as Bob (H. Jon Benjamin) and Linda Belcher (John Roberts) attempt to save their struggling burger joint from a devastating combination of late bank loans and a giant sinkhole containing a long-cold crime scene that opens directly in front of their entrance. With the—often unrequested—help of their kids Tina (Dan Mintz), Louise (Kristen Schaal), and Gene (Eugene Mirman), the Belchers scheme up a series of last-ditch efforts to save their shop and even solve a murder.

Bouchard and collaborator Nora Smith pen a fast and witty script, leaving few breaths absent of side jokes and offhanded puns. The pacing of the film drives straight forward, allowing for multiple side stories to coalesce in an entertaining conclusion that even novice viewers to the series will enjoy, while leaving enough room for inside jokes and witty fan service. PG-13, 102 min.

Wide release in theaters

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Being the son of the great Iranian dissident filmmaker Jafar Panahi and the protege of the late master director Abbas Kiarostami can’t help but cast a shadow, but if this digressive and slyly weighty debut is any indication, Panah Panahi will have no trouble making his own voice heard.

A family of four drives through a forlorn countryside en route to connect with smugglers who will ferry their eldest son—in trouble for nameless reasons—out of the country. The traditional familial hierarchy is upended by the father’s immobility due to a full-leg cast. A philosophical bearded type, he spends much of the trip entertaining his younger son, when not staring aimlessly off into the distance. The desperately raging heart of the movie, the little boy, curious about everyone and everything, drives his family crazy while also distracting them from the heavy journey they’re on. The pain of the imminent separation is communicated wordlessly on the mother’s face.

I don’t know how Panahi manages to make this road trip neither heavy-handed nor derivative, but he’s found a new wrinkle to add to perhaps the oldest trope in film (and literature). By focusing on the mundane task of managing a little boy’s time and following the instructions of the smugglers hired to get their other son to safety, Panahi manages to keep the action moving without sliding into existential hand-wringing. Despite the very real darkness threatening to engulf this family, they know to keep moving ahead, no matter how unsettled the future looks through the windshield of their little car. I don’t know if they’ll be OK, but I’m glad to’ve been along for the ride. 93 min.

Music Box Theatre

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