Demi Lovato’s “Child Star” offers a stark, unflinching look at the toll early fame can take on young performers, but it isn’t as hard-hitting as it could have been.

The documentary succeeds in gathering an impressive roster of former child stars, including Drew Barrymore, Christina Ricci, and Kenan Thompson, to tell their personal stories of navigating fame at a young age.

The film’s emotional core lies in these candid interviews, where the actors speak openly about the mental health struggles, identity crises, and personal battles they faced during and after their time in the spotlight. The vulnerability on display is its greatest asset, giving viewers an intimate glimpse into the complex realities behind the public personas.

But “Child Star” stops short of delivering a full critique of the entertainment industry’s systemic exploitation of child actors.

While the film touches on the challenges of growing up in Hollywood, it barely scratches the surface of the structural issues that have allowed these harmful patterns to persist for decades.

Topics like exploitative contracts, inadequate mental health support, and the industry’s fixation on youth are mentioned in passing but are not explored in any meaningful depth.

This lack of focus on the industry’s larger role leaves the viewer with little more than a collection of personal anecdotes, missing a critical opportunity to advocate for change.

Additionally, the pacing of the documentary can feel uneven, jumping between emotional moments without a clear throughline.

Lovato’s direction leans heavily on nostalgia, which, while effective at evoking sympathy, often overshadows a more rigorous investigation into the lasting harm caused by Hollywood’s treatment of its youngest stars.

By relying too much on the emotional weight of individual stories, Child Star misses the chance to be a more pointed, urgent call for reform within the industry.

While “Child Star” succeeds in humanizing the former child actors who suffered under the weight of fame, it falls short of delivering the hard-hitting critique necessary to push for real, systemic change.

“Whiplash” crashes back onto the big screen, a thunderous reminder of why it’s one of the most electrifying films of the past decade.

Damien Chazelle’s 2014 masterpiece is a visceral exploration of the pursuit of greatness, set against the backdrop of a cutthroat music conservatory. Miles Teller delivers a career-defining performance as Andrew, a young drummer pushed to his limits by J.K. Simmons’ terrifying maestro, Fletcher. Simmons’ portrayal earned him a well-deserved Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor, one of three Oscars the film claimed that year.

The film’s rhythm is as precise as a metronome, building tension with each beat until it reaches a crescendo of sweat, blood, and cymbal crashes. Chazelle’s direction is relentless, mirroring the grueling journey of his protagonist. The editing, which also garnered an Oscar, is a masterclass in pacing, each cut as sharp and purposeful as a drumstick strike.

What sets “Whiplash” apart is its unflinching look at the cost of excellence. It dares to ask: How far is too far in the pursuit of perfection? The answer, like the film itself, is both exhilarating and deeply unsettling.

The jazz performances, captured with stunning clarity (earning the film its third Oscar for Best Sound Mixing), serve as both backdrop and metaphor for the psychological warfare unfolding on screen.

Chazelle’s screenplay, though snubbed at the Oscars, is a tightly-wound spring of tension and release. The verbal sparring between Andrew and Fletcher crackles with intensity, each exchange a duel of wit and will.

It’s in these moments that the film transcends its music school setting, becoming a broader meditation on mentorship, ambition, and the fine line between pushing someone to greatness and breaking them entirely.

As it returns to theaters on September 20th, “Whiplash” proves it hasn’t lost a step. Its questions about art, ambition, and abuse remain as relevant and thought-provoking as ever. The film’s final sequence, a bravura display of filmmaking and performance, still has the power to leave audiences breathless.

“Whiplash” is a reminder of cinema’s power to move, challenge, and exhilarate. It’s not just a film about jazz; it’s a jazz composition in cinematic form – bold, improvisational, and utterly unforgettable.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Harold and Maude” is my favorite film, and Maude my personal hero. But I’d bet a hundred bucks her favorite film is “The Graduate.”

There’s a delicious irony in imagining the free-spirited Maude relishing the tale of Benjamin Braddock’s suburban ennui.

Yet, “The Graduate” speaks to that same restless spirit, that yearning to break free from societal expectations that Maude embodies so wonderfully.

Mike Nichols’ 1967 masterpiece captures the zeitgeist of its era with a precision that still resonates today. Dustin Hoffman’s portrayal of Benjamin, adrift in a sea of affluence and hollow ambition, is a study in understated rebellion.

His fumbling romance with Mrs. Robinson, brought to life by the magnificent Anne Bancroft, crackles with tension and forbidden allure.

The film’s visual language is a feast for the eyes. Nichols and cinematographer Robert Surtees paint a picture of sun-drenched California malaise, punctuated by moments of absurdist comedy. Remember Benjamin in his scuba gear, sinking to the bottom of the pool, a perfect metaphor for his suffocating existence?

But it’s in the film’s final act that “The Graduate” truly soars. The mad dash to stop Elaine’s wedding, set to the iconic strains of Simon & Garfunkel, is cinema at its most exhilarating.

And that final shot – Benjamin and Elaine on the bus, their expressions slowly morphing from elation to uncertainty – it’s a moment of pure cinematic perfection.

“The Graduate” doesn’t just capture a moment in time; it speaks to the eternal struggle of youth against the machinery of adulthood. It’s a film that dares to ask, “What next?” without pretending to have all the answers.

In its ambiguity and artistry, it’s a film that I can imagine Maude sneaking into the cinema to watch over and over again, fist pumping at Benjamin’s rebellion.

And who knows? She might even have liberated a poster or two on her way out, just for the thrill of it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​