L.A. was pretty cool, but we got so caught up in Sin-Dee’s drama that we didn’t even have time to see Disneyland. Fortunately, our next Sean Baker flick we’re covering will bring us across the country to somewhere so close, we can see the Magic Kingdom’s fireworks any night we want: Kissimmee, Florida.
But Walt Disney World’s luster doesn’t last forever. The Florida Project reminds us that when the light show fades and only the faintest whisps of smoke remain, a sense of childlike wonder is our only solace from a cold, dark reality. Like most Baker films, this isn’t some overwhelming depressing look at humanity. Instead, it explores how hope and happiness — not despair — can persist even on the cusp of poverty.
The Florida Project follows Moonee (Brooklynn Kimberly Price), a six-year-old living with her mom, Halley (Bria Vinaite). Their home is the Magic Castle Motel, a cheap, purple monstrosity moonlighting as an apartment complex. Bobby (Willem Dafoe), the Magic Castle’s stern yet warm-hearted manager, struggles to keep the place running while keeping the motel’s children safe. Unfortunately, after Halley loses her job as a stripper for refusing sex, she gets desperate to try and make her weekly rent. As Moonee forms a friendship with her new friend, Jancey (Valeria Cotto), Halley spirals as bad choices and tough circumstances threaten to force her and her daughter from their home.
Sean Baker presents the (al)most magical place on Earth
Like the Prince of Broadway and Tangerine, Sean Baker fully immerses us in his locale. However, The Florida Project marks a distinct turn for his cinematography, led by Alexis Zabe this time around. Shots remain intimate and close, on bathroom floors and beneath dank stairwells.
Yet Baker also pulls back to give us the full living, breathing scope of the Magic Castle. These wide, lingering frames also allude to what lies beyond Kissimmee. Tiny peaks of Disney World’s castles and a barrage of tourist traps make it clear this suburb of Orlando is for everyone but the people who live there.
This slightly removed approach also heightens the film’s realism. After Moonee and her friends cut the motel’s power, Bobby treks to the maintenance room from his office. We see the Magic Castle in its entirety at sunset, its purple almost melding with the sunset above. Meanwhile, frustrated tenants heckle an almost microscopic Bobby. Since the camera isn’t right next to him, we see the progress he has made. At the same time, it captures the rigmarole of his life: One problem begets another, bouncing him back and forth with little gratitude. At the same time, the shot makes the Magic Castle feel confined and almost in stasis. It’s as if the motel and Bob remain the same as guests burn through both.
A later sequence takes a different approach. The camera follows Moonee and her friends from afar. They sprint up a far stairwell to the third floor, across the motel to one of the Magic Castle’s “towers” (a more exposed stairwell with a castle-like design). Where the earlier scene makes the hotel feel immovable and unchanging, here it’s vast and lively. It’s like an unending playground perfect for children who will likely never visit the actual Magical Kingdom on their parents’ dollar.
The Florida Project’s cinematography shifts to evoke boundless wonder with the children like Moonee and an unforgiving reality with the adults, like Halley and Bobby. And this isn’t a hard and fast rule. Often, if the adults find their way into one of the more energetic sequences, like when Moonee and Jancey hide under Bobby’s desk, it’s because the children pull them in. Even in the final scene, when Mooney knows her life with her mom is about to abruptly end, Jancey reminds her that their both still children. We follow them at ground level as they sprint headfirst into Disney World, unphased by any barriers. Here, the shot shakes with excitement, arguing that wonder and imagination are truly liberating.
Heartbreak on Seven Dwarfs Lane
For Sean Baker, grand storytelling doesn’t conflict with realism. Yes, we see Moonee and her friends behave inconsequentially, but those consequences undeniably tie to The Florida Project’s meaning.
For example, consider when Moonee, Jancey, and Scooty (Christopher Rivera) explore a dilapidated neighborhood of condos. Inside one, they break walls, shatter mirrors, and finally set a pillow on fire. This moment marks an abrupt turn for Moonee, though she doesn’t recognize it at first.
At first glance, it could be easy to assume Moonee learned this reaction from Halley. The film’s first scene sees Halley laughing alongside Moonee as her daughter is “punished” for spitting on a car. Plus, the Florida Department of Children and Families (“DCF”) ultimately separates Moonee from Halley in the final scene. It feels like the ultimate punishment for a bad mother who neglected and potentially endangered their kid.
While that’s not entirely untrue, however, it’s also a gross oversimplification of Halley. If she was utterly uncaring, why does she care for Moonee at all? Wouldn’t it have been easier to ditch her at the gates of Disney World? Halley is troubled, misguided, and childish herself, but she’s also viciously maternal.
Ultimately, it’s complicated. Even at the height of her pettiness, Halley still wants to ensure Mooney enjoys her childhood. She goes about it haphazardly, yes, but desperation pushes her there. When she feels cornered, she lashes out, at one point violently. Her fate feels sealed, but even when Halley knows what’s coming, she still does what she can to ensure Moonee has fun for as long as they’re together. And that’s about as good as any parent can do.
With Haley in The Florida Project, Baker pushes the boundaries for what makes a compelling protagonist. He toys with “likability” and forces us to live with a character we’d otherwise dismiss or write off. He’ll challenge us further in this way when we head south for his last film before Anora, Red Rocket.
