What does it mean to sell out? Some would decry Greta Gerwig's move from mid-budget indies to big studio fare as a modern example. This line of thought posits the director's fourth film, Barbie, as capitulation to the tyranny of big bucks, no more than a glorified toy commercial for "vacuous, hypersexualized dolls." But when you're actually watching Gerwig's movie, it's difficult to take the pink oddity as proof evident of any sacrifice of vision or integrity for the sake of profit. Barbie's too ambitious a creation - in terms of text, tone, performance, audiovisual stylings galore - to support such dismissive readings.
From beginning to end, the summer's biggest comedy bursts at the seams with ideas, saturated with the clear intent of a creative mind given free rein. It glows with the kind of resources seldomly bestowed upon women directors. That doesn't mean the picture's perfect, exempt from criticism, or its enthusiasm is without drawbacks. But, even if Gerwig can't quite have her cake and eat it too, she manages to share a personal, goofy, deeply idiosyncratic proto-existentialist dream with her audience. Better yet, she does it with the attitude of a kid, their favorite toy in hand, eyes widening at the playtime possibilities before them…
Like in the famed teaser that drove the internet mad with excitement, Barbie opens with Helen Mirren's dulcet tones, narrating the beginning of everything over a Kubrickian 2001 parody. It's the plastic Genesis, when little girls, relegated to playing with baby dolls since time immemorial, first glimpsed another way of life – the fashion doll par excellence. Standing tall, the 1959 original Barbie blocks the sun, her contact with fertile minds brings forth the future anew. And so we go, flying into a universe split in two. There's BarbieLand and the Real World, where the dolls' fuchsia revolution solved all problems women have ever faced, and everything's perfect.
At least, that's what the Barbies think. Perfection is their thing, you see. They wake up every day to another faultless spin 'round the painted sun and moon, every motion in tune with a Lizzo track playing somewhere in the ether. It's an existence defined by child play logic and the hyper-artifice of a Golden Age Hollywood musical, the soundstage materiality a paradoxical mixture of movie magic and perfect imperfection. It's all in the details, how Gerwig, production designer Sarah Greenwood, and costume designer Jacqueline Durran pick up on the distinctive ways kids relate to the eponymous toy, how adults remember it.
Together, they have conjured a fever dream that's both gently mocking and celebratory, shot by Rodrigo Prieto as a bright-hued, bright-lit repudiation of the clichéd studio mega-production of our age, so fixated on pushing superficial notions of "realism" to the point the whole enterprise pratfalls into grey sludge. Is Gerwig's vision too indebted to 1980s-90s Mattel aesthetics to feel wholly relevant to today's paradigm? Perhaps, but that's part of the point, Barbie having to grow up after girls have grown out of her. If nothing else, the Mark Ronson-produced soundtrack is as poppy a manifestation of the now as you can get.
The cutting's snappy, the references cut deep, and the performances have been sharpened to arrow points of keen camp. All the Barbies and Kens (and Allan) move through their world like a kid's idea of grown-up joy, often preposterous, mostly earnest, always enchanting. Then, one day, Stereotypical Barbie starts thinking about death, her heels drop, and the story begins. Off we go into the Real World through a nonsensical series of dioramas, boats, spaceships, rollerskating to Venice Beach of all places. Honestly, the way Barbie never tries to justify its bonkers cosmology, allowing it to be the nonsense scaffolding for humor and emotional unravel, is the most charming aspect of all. More world-building should be given the benefit of bafflement.
What? How does this work? Why? – all useless questions when engaging with the fantasy. That said, they are somewhat relevant to Barbie, the protagonist, and even Barbie, the movie. Beyond the toy world and (un)real counterpart, the story devised by Gerwig and Noah Baumbach feels eager to question itself, wavering between a sincere appreciation of Barbie and an interrogation of what harmful ideas she can represent and perpetuate. The critique of gender expectations, putting patriarchy under fire, is a goal but also at odds with the project's corporate purpose, its ironic tonalities. This manifests in proselytizing that sounds more like marketable platitudes than proper radical thought, regardless of the genuine convictions backing them up or their effective righteousness.
The very concept of making a movie about a toy is cause for examination, adding one more to the many tensions at the heart of Barbie. Tensions that the filmmakers can't entirely resolve or choose not to, perhaps honing on the fact that the lack of neat conclusiveness is an opportunity to slap passivity out of the viewer. As ludicrous as it might seem, behind all the social media-ready slogan-like dialogue and clip-reel-ideal jokes, there's a kernel of challenging cinema. Savor the pastel-pink pudding all you like, but beware of a nutty knot in the spoonful. It's an existential crisis that transcends Barbie's flat-footed dilemma.
Speaking of which, Margot Robbie negotiates the doll's reluctant self-actualization with rare brilliance, acing how a kid's perspective of adult personhood develops into the real deal over 114 minutes. Her performance and general register would be excellent companions to Amy Adams' Gisele in Enchanted, only with more open crying, a final note of gender euphoria, and the creeping pull of death. Indeed, Barbie's journey is surprisingly morbid, tying much of its final gestures to the frisson-friction between human frailty and the immortality of concepts untethered from flesh. A moving Ann Roth appearance tells us all we need to know early on, though there's a whole other character at hand to drive the point home.
To be fair, superfluous characters abound in the cameo-heavy movie, Will Ferrell the worst culprit. Throughout, he never stops playing like the last vestiges of an early draft holding on to the final script by the writers' stubbornness alone. Funnily enough, the figure openly discussed within the story as its most irrelevant ends up being the MVP, taking that title out of his leading lady's grasp with boyish ease and a cocky flex. If Barbie confirms Margot Robbie has what it takes to be a real movie star, Ken confirms that Ryan Gosling is one of Hollywood's most underutilized clowns, eager to commit to the bit like nobody else could.
Vibrant, vivid, fun, all froth and fizzy pop, ready to break into song at the drop of a cowboy hat and just as likely to illuminate truth through fakery, he embodies the best of Barbie. Nevertheless, Gosling's Kenergy never becomes too great to be detrimental to the movie, complementing rather than overshadowing Gerwig's provocative grand opus. Fittingly, he exits stage left before the director hits us with her thesis statement, a confession of her own path as an artist, from in front to behind the camera in pursuit of being the one that makes things rather than the thing they make. A Proustian touch blossoms a bouquet of life as Billie Eilish's "What Was I Made For" finally manifests as more than melodic leitmotiv – it's beguiling melancholy in line with Gerwig's past features, her cinema's fundamental tenets exploded in rose-colored supernova. Between broad comedy and delicate pathos, this Barbie reminds us that meaning can be found even within the commodified object, imparted into it by people, full flush of Humanity.
In the end, while Mattel and Warner Bros' mercenary pressures may be mighty, they got nothing on a true artist armed with a fashion doll and a dream. And so, I ask you: How is that selling out?