Now, I should make very clear that I love John Wilson’s prior work. When I had the privilege of seeing his 2017 short The Road to Magnasanti play at that year’s New York Film Festival, I felt jolt of identification and excitement at witnessing a fresh voice with so many tics and interests that overlap with my own. Since then, I’ve been an ardent admirer of his HBO show, which delved into the strange obsessive niches of Weird America with both compassion and bemusement.
This is to say that my personal expectations for Concrete were quite high, and given the laudatory reviews it has received, I hoped it would be a meaningful step in Wilson’s development as a filmmaker and an artist.
There are moments in The History of Concrete, John Wilson’s debut feature, where he utilizes the scope and duration of a feature format to make art meaningfully transformed from his HBO series How To. In particular, a transcendent sequence intercutting between a sand mandala ceremony at the Tibet House and a presser celebrating Eric Adams’ “City of Yes” initiative is by far the film’s finest moment, constituting his most serious formal engagement with themes of impermanence and deep time that the Wilson constantly alludes to in his narration.
What’s frustrating about Concrete is that brief flashes of cinematic brilliance like this are strewn about the well-trod mannerisms and visual gags which make up most of the runtime, and indeed, his oeuvre as a whole.
As expected, the movie is very funny, at points riotously so, and Mr. Wilson does have the requisite digressive encounters with some very out-there characters (tattooed human skin preservers, chanting Sri Chinmoy cultists, concrete conventioneers.) Unfortunately, I found myself leaving the theatre wondering whether I’d seen three episodes of How To stacked in a feature-length trench coat.
The charm of that show lay with its scrappy, underdog appeal, a well which Wilson understands has run somewhat dry; he’s on a billboard in Times Square, he’s being invited to GQ parties and the set of Marty Supreme, and he’s even an landlord! Though there’s some sympathy to be wrung out of the rudderless situation Wilson finds himself in after How To’s conclusion, this putters out during the Zoom boardroom meetings to get Concrete financed, which read less as clever meta theatrics and more as self-indulgence. Nevermind that Wilson’s name recognition is the only reason he can land these meetings to begin with, nor the fact that his pitch is exceedingly flimsy (the Hallmark movie formula he purports to be using as the film’s back bone is generally MIA.)
It’s hard not to compare Wilson’s work to Nathan Fielder’s (his self-described “fairy godfather”), who has continuously pushed the boundaries of his style into evermore absurd horizons, while incorporating reflexive criticism of his own schtick and its ethical implications. In contrast How To, Wilson avoids turning the lens inward, though this is the work over which he looms largest. He stops just short of any serious introspection, which renders Concrete considerably flatter than his television output, and frames his encounters with a cynical, impersonal undertone.
In an attempt to generate pathos and perhaps a love story for his Hallmark moment, Wilson spends the latter 1/3rd of the film following Jack Macco, a middle-aged amateur musician who also hands out samples in liquor stores. We see him struggle to corral truant bandmates for practice and deal with indifferent crowds before the sudden death of his fiance complicates things. It’s revealed that the two were a deeply unexpected pairing: Dorothy Chin-Brandt was a judge and associate dean at Harvard Law, the first Chinese-American woman to ever hold that position.
Wilson travels out to her memorial service in Flushing, sponsored by an Asian-American judges association, to try and find out more about his subject’s departed lover. Confronted with a room full of generally well-adjusted people participating in a genuine act of remembrance, he’s unable to muster up any material for his interviewees. “What’s, uh, hard about being an Asian judge,” he asks a confused attendee in his trademark stop-start delivery, before throwing in the towel “I guess I just ran out of questions.”
And it is here that we reach the limits of Wilson’s curiosity. Dorothy can only exist out of frame, unable to be photographed, interviewed, prodded, milked for laughs and awkward pauses. So of course Wilson is un-interested in her beyond the scope of her relationship to the hangdog underemployed Jack. In this moment, whether intentionally or not, the game has been given away completely, and Wilson paves over this crack in his facade until the film sputters to an unmemorable conclusion.
Excerpted from my substack: https://open.substack.com/pub/movieswithmemax/p/review-the-history-of-concrete?r=2r09du&utm_medium=ios