A friend recently turned to me and said, part serious, part comedically, “I wonder what terrible movies are going to come out in January.” I didn’t know what to say. I remain hopeful for movies like Bob Marley: One Love, but I too can’t escape the notion that Hollywood reserves its biggest gambles in the earliest month of the year. And all I can think of is, why? Why can we have a summer of great film, but a winter of frigid pictures? 

I saw five movies over the course of the summer. Of those five, three were better than anything I had seen in the months previous. I didn’t think anything of it. We’ve been conditioned to expect nothing less than a wave of great, or at least fun, filmmaking after an onslaught of what is typically mediocre direction. 

This summer, however, was a summer of great films I haven’t seen in a long time. The films of the past few months have been either cinematically great and/or wildly entertaining. 

The first movie of the summer that got the attention of a cultural wave was Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse. A movie as action-packed as Spider-Man isn’t expected to be beautiful, but the animated film was gorgeous. Every frame looked crafted by love: of film, of comics, of Spider-Man. 

The jokes were fresh, the voice-acting was perfectly casted, and every scene filled the theater with the type of energy felt on a roller coaster. After the golden age of Pixar, it’s not uncommon to cry while watching an animated film. 

But still, the plot of Spider-Man, perfectly weaved together, is unexpectedly emotionally vulnerable. You end the movie not only eager to see the next installment, but practically frothing for it. In an age of hastily put together animated films, the Spider-Verse series is a relief. The animation is completely its own, and I can only hope other films take note.

After a month of anticipation, I finally got to see Barbie. Barbie, like The Rocky Horror Picture Show, was more an experience than a movie. The theater, filled with row after row of pink, cried, laughed, and hollered. We were all children at that moment, playing with dolls, regardless of consequence.

Despite the wave of criticism the film has garnered, I thoroughly enjoyed the film. It was expertly directed by Greta Gerwig, who juggled both cartoonish glee and existential melancholy with deft hands. The sets are gorgeous: straight from a Mattel box. 

The casting was devilishly perfect, and the acting was handled with care. The film knew its audience, and it delivered everything and more.

Oppenheimer was, and I hesitate to say this, near perfect. Christopher Nolan is at his best in the film. The cinematography is gorgeous, the set designs become characters of their own, and the direction complements the atmosphere greatly. 

The writing is consistently intelligent and forward, but the best parts of the film are the score and acting. The accompaniment to the films traverses every emotion that the film touches on. Every heart wrenching scene is set alongside an even more pulling score: sweeping violins and the steady pulse of the percussion. 

The cast is glorious, made for each and every role. It would spoil the film to reveal every actor that makes an appearance, but each and every one, regardless of the length of their role, makes the most of every minute. Oppenheimer needs to be seen to be believed: its destruction a monument of its own. 

All this to say, where are the Barbies and bombs of the early months? Can Hollywood not procure a well written movie that excites audiences in the beginning of the year? Do producers believe that audiences can only drudge themselves from their houses for 6 months out of the year? 

I’m not even a fan of the summer months; oppressive heat and existentialism don’t really excite me. I actually like January, and I don’t see why our films can’t show the first month with some love. But for what we got, the summer movies of 2023 were something to behold, and they’re lasting much longer than their box office stay.