4/20/14: A Mother Knows (Oscar Bait, Part 16)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, Academy Award Nominee, Academy Awards, adoption, Barbara Jefford, based on a true story, BBC journalist, Best Actress nominee, Best Adapted Screenplay nominee, Best Original Score nominee, Best Picture nominee, Blue Jasmine, buddy films, Catholic church, character dramas, cinema, drama, film reviews, films, homosexuality, Judi Dench, Mare Winningham, Martin Sixsmith, Movies, multiple award nominee, nuns, Oscar nominee, Oscars, Peter Hermann, Philomena, road trips, Sean Mahon, Stephen Frears, Steve Coogan

In the hustle of bustle of awards season, when it seems that every film is bigger, more important and more prestigious than the next, it can be a refreshing break to sit down with something a little more modest, a bit quieter. The 2013 Oscar season was filled with lots of very big, very vibrant films, including American Hustle, 12 Years a Slave and The Wolf of Wall Street, but one multiple nominee stood out a little: the Steve Coogan/Judi Dench-starrer Philomena. Not only did Philomena tell a much smaller, more personal story than the other nominees, it managed to focus on character in a way that (in my highly biased opinion) was only matched by Nebraska and Dallas Buyer’s Club. It was also a bit of a David vs Goliath story, since everything about the film marked it as the scrappy underdog to the more established powerhouses helmed by Scorcese, Cuaron, McQueen and Payne. Like its subject matter, Philomena is the scrappy little newcomer that can – and does – get its day in the sun.

Ostensibly, Philomena is the true story of a woman looking for the son she gave up for adoption 50 years earlier. The woman, in this case, is Philomena (Judi Dench) and she’s forced to give her son Anthony up for adoption when he’s just an infant. Philomena, you see, has been sent to a nun-run home for wayward girls after her “indiscretion” with a local boy and the nuns make it plainly clear that it’s God’s will that the children be separated from their mothers as quickly as possible. Philomena’s best friend Kathleen (Charlie Murphy) loses her daughter, Mary, when the child is adopted and the nuns decide to make it a two-fer, throwing in young Anthony, as well. Philomena loses her son, without even getting to say goodbye, and spends the next 50 years wondering what became of him.

When Philomena’s grown daughter contacts disgraced former BBC journalist Martin Sixsmith (Steve Coogan) with the story, he initially blows her off. He doesn’t do human interest stories, after all, since he’s a serious journalist. Something about the story ends up resonating with him, however, and he sets off on a journey of discovery with Philomena, starting with the abbey in Ireland where it all began and ending in America, where they finally track down Philomena’s son. Revelations will abound, however, and the hot-headed Martin will gradually lose his patience with the frustrating “culture of silence” surrounding the Catholic church’s adoption practices of that era. In the end, however, this is Philomena’s story and she knows that forgiveness is the glue that really holds the world together. Will she ever find out the truth about her son? Will Martin ever land the big story that will put him back in the public eye? More importantly, will these two strangers be able to make a change in an unfair system?

As mentioned earlier, Philomena is definitely a labor of love: Coogan got the idea for the film after reading the original newspaper article and was involved in nearly every aspect of the film, including the Oscar-nominated screenplay. One of my favorite stories during this last awards season was the one where Coogan got the shocking phone call about his modest little film being nominated for multiple Oscars, including Best Picture. Stories like this, similar to the buzz that surrounded Roberto Benigni’s Life is Beautiful, serve as a wonderful tonic to the usual entertainment industry propaganda machine, adding a little human element to everything.

It’s certainly surprising to see Coogan attached to something so heartfelt but he ends up being the real revelation of the film. As portrayed by Coogan, Sixsmith is an incredibly well-rounded character: a complete, churlish asshole, yet filled with righteous indignation and good intentions. He makes a wonderful foil for Dench and their relationship is the real foundation of the film. At its heart, Philomena is a buddy road movie and those always live or die by the believability of the central relationship: by this rubric, Philomena not only lives but thrives. There’s something almost elemental about Coogan snarking his way through the minefield of contemporary society while Dench projects the sweet, naive air of a child. She’s nice to everyone, regardless of how much they spit on her, while he can’t seem to find anything good to say about anybody, including her. In one of the film’s funniest scenes, Martin makes a condescending comment about Philomena’s good nature that ends up saying as much about her as it does about him: “She’s told four people that they’re one in a million…what are the odds of that?”

If Coogan’s performance is a big surprise in the film, Dench’s is pretty much business as usual. Over the course of some 100+ roles and almost 60 years in the business, Dench was become synonymous with impeccable performances and her turn in Philomena is no exception. I do feel that Dench has got a bit comfortable over the last several years, since most of her recent characterizations seem to follow pretty identical arcs (there’s not much difference in personality between Dench’s role here or her performance in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, to be honest) but there’s no denying how effortless she is. Dench is the kind of performer who can energize anything and she invests the film’s various emotional beats with a spunky sense of purpose.

Ultimately, however, Philomena suffers from something that’s distinctly a filmmaking issue: as a whole, it lacks dramatic tension. Despite the trials that Philomena and Martin go through, the stakes never seem to be high enough, lending everything the feel of a slightly bittersweet made-for-TV movie. None of the film’s revelations really affect anything and the one that potentially could, the revelation of Anthony’s lifelong homosexuality, is deflated almost instantly: Philomena always knew that her son was gay, even if no one else did, so this isn’t news to her, even if it is to the audience. Philomena is such a wonderful, understanding person that, ultimately, this particular revelation couldn’t have any affect on her: that’s just not how her mind (or world) works. Likewise, the banter between Philomena and Martin never reaches a critical boiling point, even though Martin frequently acts like a privileged jerk. Like its titular subject, Philomena is such a thoroughly easy-going, good-natured film that it doesn’t seem particularly interested in rocking any boats. After all, the final confrontation is handled not with the tongue-lashing that we know is well-deserved but with the act of forgiveness that might prove impossible for many watching. Like the battered nun in Bad Lieutenant, Philomena forgives her oppressors, allowing her soul the peace it needs but robbing the audience of the easy gratification of retribution. It’s a mature, reasoned way to handle things but it does tend to make for a fairly even, uneventful story arc.

Since I watched Philomena after the Oscar ceremony, I wasn’t able to really consider it as I watched the telecast but the other nominees were definitely front-and-center in my mind as I watched it. How does Philomena compare? In many ways, the film is the epitome of “good but not great.” While Dench’s performance was typically good, I certainly don’t think it was better than Cate Blanchett’s turn in Blue Jasmine. Similarly, while I thoroughly enjoyed the film, it had nowhere near the impact of Dallas Buyer’s Club, 12 Years a Slave or Nebraska. It’s a much smaller film, obviously, much more of a Little Miss Sunshine than an event picture. The script, while quite good, was also overshadowed by Woody Allen’s script for Blue Jasmine, one of his best in years. If anything, I firmly believe that Coogan was robbed of a Best Actor nomination, finding his performance to be much more nuanced and interesting than Christian Bale’s turn in American Hustle. Provided Coogan keeps at the dramatic roles, however, I see no reason why he won’t (someday) be able to take a statue home for his troubles.

In many ways, Philomena is an absolutely lovely film (the scene where Philomena, Martin and Anthony’s boyfriend sit down to watch home movies brought tears to my eyes in the best, most non-exploitative way possible), filled with wonderful performances, some nice cinematography and a fairly unobtrusive score (also Oscar-nominated, for some reason). There are a few too many obtrusive flashbacks for my liking and the aforementioned lack of narrative tension tends to sap much-needed drama from the proceedings but patient audiences will find much to like here. Philomena may not have been the best film of 2013 but it was certainly one of the nicest ones. At the end of the day, can we really ask for more?

3/13/14: Ain’t No Love in the City (Oscar Bait, Part 15)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, auteur theory, Barton Fink, Best Cinematography nominee, Best Sound Mixing nominee, Carey Mulligan, cats, cinema, Coen Brothers, couch-surfing, Ethan Coen, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, folk music, Garrett Hedlund, Greenwich Village, indie dramas, Inside Llewyn Davis, Joel Coen, John Goodman, Justin Timberlake, Llewyn Davis, Movies, musical numbers, New York City, Oscar Isaac, Roland Turner, set in the 1960's, snubbed at the Oscars, the Coen Brothers, unlikable protagonist, winter

There’s a very fine line between being a gruff, disagreeable, yet essentially human being and being a complete horse’s ass. On the one hand, you have a set of individuals who just don’t feel like towing the party line, the kind of folks who follow their own rules and don’t always have to have a plastic smile glued to their faces. These folks may be curt, short-fused, unapologetically honest and kind of a drag but, for the most part, they’re good people: someone else’s “theme song” isn’t necessarily noise, just different from our own. The world is full of unpleasant people who do lots of good deeds and are responsible for some very essential/beautiful/hilarious/moving things. On the other hand, however, some people really are just horses’ asses and there isn’t much more that can be said about them.

The question at the center of Inside Llewyn Davis, the Coen Brothers’ latest film, is just what kind of an individual Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) really is: is he a gruff, unlikable, immensely talented artiste or is he just a spoiled-rotten horse’s ass? As with pretty much every Coen film since their debut, nothing here is ever as clear-cut as that, although Inside Llewyn Davis tends to be almost as obtuse as Barton Fink, which is no mean feat.

We’re first introduced to Llewyn, a New York folk singer, as he’s doing one of the two things he’s best at: singing his heart out at a small club. In short order, however, we’re introduced to Llewyn’s other talent, as a mysterious man kicks his ass in the parking lot for heckling during another performance. Even as he’s getting stomped, Llewyn is completely unrepentant: if he regrets anything, it’s probably that he didn’t get away quick enough. We then follow Llewyn on an epic journey of minimalism and aimless drifting as he couch surfs across Greenwich village, letting loose a beloved family pet here, bringing discord to a relationship there and never once wavering from his steadfast devotion to say it like he means it. Jean (Carey Mulligan), one half of a local folk “power” couple with Jim (Justin Timberlake) may be pregnant with Llewyn’s kid but she’d rather abort it than take the chance: “You’re a shit person and everything you touch turns to shit.” Jim gets Llewyn a gig with him in the studio, only for Llewyn to spend the whole time ridiculing the song and being a jerk: “I’m happy for the gig but who wrote this song?” Jim’s unhappy reply? “I did.”

Time and time again, Llewyn acts in the most selfish, self-serving ways possible, navigating through life as if it were a highway and his was the only car in sight. He talks shit about Al Cody (Adam Driver) during the studio session but still manages to ask him to crash on his couch. Not only does Llewyn let out the Gorfeins’ (Ethan Phillips, Robin Bartlett) cat, he also explodes during a dinner, causing Mrs. Gorfein to burst out crying. Nonetheless, Llewyn still shows up on their doorstep later, looking for a place to stay. In any given situation, Llewyn does just what he wants to but then seems surprised when everybody reacts negatively.

As previously mentioned, however, there seems to be a lot more going on here than a simple look into the life of a jerk. For one thing, Inside Llewyn Davis is structured very much like a quest/road-movie, although the ultimate goal never seems quite clear. In some ways, the film reminded me of Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, although the underlying connection of the latter to the Odyssey is much clearer than any classical allusions I can draw from the former. This is not to say that the Coens’ intention is muddy, necessarily, just that I wasn’t able to get it the first time around. There’s definitely something going on internally, especially once we learn that the Gorfein’s cat is named Ulysses, but my initial viewing wasn’t quite sufficient: as with all things Coen, I expect multiple viewings to help clear this up.

We also get the odd introduction of Johnny Five (Garrett Hedlund) and Roland Turner (John Goodman), a beat poet and jazz musician, respectively, who embark on a short, ill-fated car trip with Llewyn. Goodman is absolutely amazing as the crass, boorish, Santeria-practicing, smack-shootin’ jazz musician but it’s a curious role and seems to serve a rather undefined purpose in the film. At first, I was inclined to think that this was a commentary on the inherent differences between jazz and folk during the early ’60s but that felt to reductive. I’m more inclined to think that Roland factors more prominently into the “real,” underlying story beneath Inside Llewyn Davis (I automatically think of Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came but that could just be me).

There’s also the curious business of the beginning and end of the film, sections which seem to hint at some sort of deeper, almost symbolic meaning. By the end of the film, I was left wondering if, perhaps, this were some form of a purgatory, with Llewyn Davis doing eternal laps around the track as some sort of punishment for past deeds. Did the mysterious, ass-whuppin’ man in black represent some sort of cosmic retribution, the universe’s way of making sure that Llewyn earned some measure of comeuppance for his blatant disregard towards everyone else? Was this some way of saying that omnipresent negativity can only breed more negativity, leading Llewyn to wander in a maze of his own unpleasant creation? It honestly stumped me but I won’t admit defeat until I’ve had a little more time with it.

My confusion notwithstanding, Inside Llewyn Davis marks something of a return to form for the Coens (at least as far as I’m concerned) after the disappointment of Burn After Reading, A Serious Man and True Grit. This is a much simpler, quieter film than productions like Oh Brother and True Grit but it doesn’t have the restrained sense of tension inherent to early films like Blood Simple or Fargo, either. For me, this “slow-burn” zone is my favorite mode for the Coens, so watching this felt like the cinematic equivalent of comfort food, in a way. As usual, the ensemble cast is fantastic: like Woody Allen, the Coens have a natural gift with bringing out the best in actors and they have quite the group to work with here. As the titular “hero,” Oscar Issac is simply marvelous and was egregiously snubbed of a Best Actor nomination at this year’s Oscars. Mulligan and Timberlake, as Jean and Jim, are great, with Timberlake continuing to impress me with another simple but spot-on characterization. As previously mentioned, Goodman is a whirlwind of chaos and easily steals every inch of celluloid that he appears on.

Ironically, despite being denied several obvious Oscar nominations (Best Actor, Best Picture, Best Director, for three), Inside Llewyn Davis was nominated for a pair that I just couldn’t agree with: Best Sound Mixing and Best Cinematography. While the cinematography was good but nothing special, I actually found the sound mixing to be rather awful, with the kind of vast gulf between dialogue and music that mars many films/TV shows these days: I found myself riding my remote’s volume more than I liked and certainly more than should have been necessary in a film with “supposedly” exemplary sound mixing.

At the end of the day, due to my lifelong love of their films, it’s always a bit difficult for me to be truly subjective regarding any new Coen Brothers productions. Unlike certain filmmakers like Nicholas Winding Refn or Ben Wheatley, I don’t love every Coen film in their canon: in fact, there are a few that I actively dislike. Very few filmmakers besides the Coens, however, would make me repeatedly watch a film that I don’t care for in an attempt to get me to understand and appreciate it better. While Inside Llewyn Davis is nowhere near my least favorite Coen film (hands down, that would be True Grit), it’s also nowhere near my favorite Coen film (Blood Simple/The Big Lebowski would be the conjoined twin/winner here). I’m willing to wager that, given some time, I’ll understand and appreciate this a lot more. At the very least, I’ll never get tired of watching Roland bluster or Llewyn chase that darn cat all over town.

 

3/11/14: The Anti-Pleasure Cruise (Oscar Bait, Part 14)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, All Is Lost, Best Sound Editing nominee, disaster at sea, drama, J.C. Chandor, lost at sea, nameless protagonist, one-man shows, Oscar nominee, Oscars, Robert Redford, sailboat, sinking ship, snubbed at the Oscars

Although we often single out particular performances in a film above others, the unspoken understanding is that all performances and actors, to one extent or another, help contribute to the overall quality of a piece. This is obviously true of ensemble films, which live or die by their assembled cast but the same is true of pretty much any film, with one notable exception: those rare productions that involve only one actor/actress. In these instances, rare as they are, the entire dramatic weight of the story can rest on only one pair of shoulders, narrow or broad as they may be. Similar to stage plays, one-actor showcases can be dicey affairs: with the right performer, we have an unprecedented opportunity to peer inside a particular character. With the wrong actor, we become trapped in a kind of purgatory, spending an entire film with someone we detest, with no opportunity for “rescue,” as it were. When single-actor films are well-done (Moon, 127 Hours, Silent Running, Buried, Gravity, Cast Away), they can be truly special: J.C. Chandor’s newest film, the Robert Redford-starring All is Lost, is definitely one of the exceptional ones.

In many ways, All is Lost is so simple as to become almost symbolic: a man (Redford, named only as “Our Man” in the cast list) wakes up on his sailboat and realizes that a free-floating shipping container has punched a hole in his boat. The ship is taking on water slowly but surely and Our Man must do everything he can to stay alive. Period. That’s pretty much it, folks. In fact, the whole film unfolds in something that would feel like real-time if we had a week to spend with our protagonist. There are no other actors on-screen, no other voices heard off-screen. The movie opens with Redford’s voice-over saying, “All is lost now…I will miss you…I’m sorry.” And, for almost two hours, those are the only words we hear.

You see, unlike similar films like Cast Away, Moon or Gravity, however, we don’t get lots of scenes where the solo protagonist talks endlessly to themselves. Not on this boat. Rather, we get things just the way they would really happen: Our Man grunts, huffs, puffs, occasionally curses and puts his nose to the grindstone but he does not engage in soliloquies. In certain ways, Our Man is almost like a modern update of Eastwood’s Man With No Name: he’s rugged, individualistic, no-nonsense, take-charge and probably leaving the world the same way he came in – alone.

All is Lost, in many ways, is a perfect model of efficiency. As Our Man’s trials continue, Chandor slowly but resolutely continues to increase the pressure and find new ways to up the tension. Just when things look hopeful, a terrible storm comes out of nowhere… Our Man escapes from his sailboat with plenty of time, only to need to return at the last moment to grab something…a signal fire turns from helpful to potentially lethal…a successful fishing attempt turns into an introduction to several sharks…at any given point, Our Man reacts calmly, rationally and adeptly, only to have the universe throw yet another problem in his face. Rather than whine, pout or complain it, however, Our Man just sighs, sticks his chin out and moves on to Plan J. In a world where decisive “men-of-action” seem to be a thing of the past, Our Man’s tough resolution is both quaint and necessary.

As with any one-actor showcase, All is Lost is almost completely dependent on that actor. To that end, Chandor hedged his bets and went with Redford, still one of the finest actors around at the ripe old age of almost 80. Redford is such a masterful actor that he ends up doing more with his eyebrows than most actors do with a monologue. He looks old, to be frankly honest, but he never seems frail: if anything, this is one old guy who could (and probably would) administer one severe ass-whupping. It’s to the film’s great credit that nothing comes across as far-fetched or unlikely: Our Man, thanks to Redford, seems exactly like the kind of ornery cuss that would react in just this manner to just this situation. While it’s unlikely that a lead role with only a small handful of speaking lines would ever be nominated for, much less win, a Best Actor Oscar, it still feels like Redford was unduly snubbed this year.

Aside from the phenomenal acting by Redford, All is Lost looks gorgeous, making excellent use of both the deep-sea and stage sets to create a nearly seamless illusion: perhaps I could find the seams if I looked harder but only common sense really let me know what scene was filmed where. The sound design, in particular, is extraordinary: each creak of the mast, each slap of water against the ship’s side, is delivered in crystal clarity and aid immeasurably in the all-engulfing feel of the film. As someone who can’t swim, this was about as close to be being stranded at sea as I could ever see myself getting and I’m pretty okay with that.

At the end of the day, All is Lost is quite simple but completely effective. If you’re looking for a thrilling tale of man vs nature, look no further. Turn off the lights, turn up the sound and remember: all may be lost but in the best way possible.

3/2/14: Do Not Look Away (Oscar Bait, Part 13)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, Adi Zulkrady, Anwar Congo, atrocities, Best Feature Documentary nominee, cinema, death squads, documentaries, documentary, Errol Morris, film reviews, films, gangsters, genocide, Herman Koto, Indonesia, Joshua Oppenheimer, junta, mass killings, military dictatorship, Movies, murder, Oscar nominee, Pancasila Youth, paramilitary groups, snubbed at the Oscars, Syamsul Arifin, The Act of Killing, Top Films of 2013, torture, Werner Herzog

Very rarely, if ever, would I call any film “required” viewing. Humanity is just too fundamentally diverse to ever see eye-to-eye on issues like housing, health care, religion, government, child care and equitable living wages, so asking everyone to agree on entertainment seems like a pretty silly pursuit. I think that Dawn of the Dead is one of the most amazing films ever created: if you don’t like horror movies, the conversation is over. Some people listen to EDM and hear the new noise of a generation: others might hear a modem connecting. There are masses of people who swear that The New Girl is funny, while I agree to respect their opinions. At the end of the day, it really is all just a matter of taste and perspective: like what you want to like, watch you want to watch. In a world where everything is essential, nothing can truly be essential.

The Act of Killing, Joshua Oppenheimer’s Oscar-nominated documentary about the Indonesian killing fields, is required viewing. I say this with no hyperbole whatsoever and with full acknowledgement that it completely contradicts my earlier statement. Up until now,  for one reason or another, I had never seen a film that I felt needed to be seen by everyone. I’ve seen plenty of films that I felt all film fans or film students or music fans or (insert favorite niche here) fans needed to see but never a film that all humanity needed to see. The Act of Killing, however, is that film. This should be given away to everyone (Alamo Drafthouse, the doc’s distributor, already set up ways for the film to be freely viewed and screened in Indonesia, where it’s also been banned), taught in school curriculum and made a part of international dialogue. Otherwise, there is the very real risk that the atrocities portrayed within the film will be forgotten by the world at large, something which must be prevented at all costs. There is a lesson for the whole world to learn here, a terrible lesson that very few will want to hear.

In the mid-1960’s, the Indonesian government was overthrown by the military, resulting in a brutal junta that ruled by fear, violence and the trumped-up threat of “Communism” sweeping into the area. Using local gangsters and paramilitary units, the military rounded up, tortured and murdered any and all opposition/undesirables, including  union members, farmers, intellectuals and ethnic Chinese. Within a year, these massacres had claimed the lives of over one million Indonesians. To this day, almost 50 years later, the military is still in power and the men responsible for all of the killing are still extolled as national heroes and civic leaders. Imagine a case where Hitler grew old and was allowed to retire to a quaint, rural Polish village, a village where he was routinely celebrated as not only a hero but as a kindly, grandfatherly gentleman. This, in a nutshell, is the situation in Indonesia.

When Oppenheimer and his courageous crew traveled to Indonesia, they had the great fortune to find two of the most notorious – and most celebrated – local gangsters: Anwar Congo and Herman Koto. Not only were Congo and Koto unrepentant regarding their past crimes: they were openly proud and had nothing but fond memories of the murders. Under the guise of allowing Congo and Koto to further their own propagandist notions, the filmmakers offered the two men the opportunity to film their best “activities” using the mannerisms and styles of the American films that they love so much: musicals, gangsters pics, film noir, etc. At first, the two men are overjoyed at this chance to fully portray and laud their “heroic” activities, offering future generations the chance to learn from their initiative. Along the way, however, something quite surprising happens: when presented with the never-ending tidal wave of his past atrocities, crimes which have gone not only unpunished by celebrated, Anwar Congo begins to crack. By the time the film is over, this smirking charlatan, this two-bit street thug turned defacto robber-baron, will lose the only thing that could ever truly matter to him: his own sense of self-worth.

The Act of Killing is, for lack of a better word, crushing. There are few words that can accurately describe just how powerful, how unbearably nihilistic, the film is. In one scene, Koto moves through a slum neighborhood and attempts to enlist the services of the locals to play the part of “Communists” in their staged production. The locals agree (what else could they possibly do?) and even participate somewhat enthusiastically (if rather confused) but they are still participating in the re-enactment of things that happened to them as directed by the men who originally committed the acts. It’s akin to forcing a rape victim to reenact the crime for the sole enjoyment of the perpetrator. At another point, one of Congo’s men fondly recalls how raping young girls was one of his favorite things to do: “I would always say this is going to be hell for you but heaven on earth for me.” Adi Zulkadry, one of Congo’s fellow executioners in the ’60s, happily discusses the “Crush the Chinese” campaign where he, personally, stabbed dozens of Chinese Indonesians in the street, including the father of his own Chinese girlfriend. The list of atrocities is seemingly endless, many of which Congo and his goons gleefully reenact as splashy, Golden-Age-of-Hollywood” vignettes, complete with singing, dancing, costumes and surreal sets.

Far from serving as a glorified snuff film, however, The Act of Killing has a much more subversive intent. Since the people who Oppenheimer and his crew intend to target are still very much in power and “beloved” by their countrymen, shedding light on their heinous actions isn’t quite as easy as sitting down for a traditional interview. As one of the soldiers says, regarding the Geneva Conventions definition of war crimes: “War crimes are defined by the winner and I am the winner.” When the vice-president of the country is speaking at one of your rallies, you have to assume that your group has official government support. In order to “hang” these criminals, Oppenheimer needs to give them enough rope: the result will speak to the whole world.

Since so much of the world seems to either turn a blind eye to the massacres in Indonesia or was actively supporting it (Western governments threw their support behind the cleansing under the guise of “stomping out Commies”), The Act of Killing may serve as the first real glimpse into that past history. Even more importantly, this comes directly from the mouths of those who committed the crimes: an unwitting digital confession, as it were. When Congo takes the filmmakers to the area where they conducted mass executions and describes, proudly, how he made the killing more efficient by switching from beating to a wire/strangulation technique, he’s doing something very important: documenting for the entire world his complicity in the crimes. Perhaps I’m being unduly optimistic, but if Congo and his cronies are ever actually brought to justice, it will probably be from evidence like this. Rather than relying on the eye-witness testimony of survivors, this is straight from the horses’ mouths, as it were: the killers aren’t denying the events, they’re describing them in gory detail.

The whole film is wretchedly, terribly powerful, the kind of movie that becomes instantly unforgettable, for better or worse, the moment you watch it. You will be changed by this: maybe a little, maybe a lot…but you will be changed. There’s something about seeing events this terrible, this real, that brands your soul. We’re used to seeing the face of evil, by this point in humanity’s history, but I don’t know that evil has ever looked this happy, this complacent and at peace with the world. Up until the end, viewing so much grinning depravity, so much hopeless oppression, made me lose hope: this wasn’t a story where the good guys won…where there even were good guys, to be honest. This was the story of terrible, amoral people committing heinous acts to innocent people.

But then, towards the end, something happens. Congo, whether through the constant reminder of his past or through his own portrayal of various murder victims, seems to change. He begins to grow wearier, smiles less. He seems to be troubled, instantly, as if he’s aged 30 years overnight. Could it be that he has finally come to realize the weight of his actions, that he sees the inherent evil of a massacre perpetuated because he and his young friends, in their words, “would do anything for money and wanted new clothes?” He seems to be more thoughtful but Congo is a cagey guy: could this be some sort of attempt to hedge his bets, to straddle both sides of the fence? Congo makes a statement that seems to confirm this: watching the footage has made him feel what the victims felt. He seems genuinely sorry but then the filmmakers land the killing blow: as Oppenheimer gently reminds him from off-camera, what happened to his victims was actually real, not a film. For the first time in the entire film, the light goes out of Anwar Congo’s eyes and the aging gangster/torturer/mass-murderer/statesman/grandfather seems completely speechless. This is not about Congo receiving redemption: he doesn’t deserve it. This is, however, about finally admitting (even if only to himself) that what happened was actually wrong.

The 1965-1966 massacres in Indonesia are a terrible dark stain on humanity’s blood-spattered history and have been largely over-looked and downplayed in the 50 years since. The film begins with a terrible, but true, quote from Voltaire: “All killing is prohibited and punished unless done in large number and to the sound of trumpets.” This is true and only another reason why The Act of Killing should be required viewing: it refuses to let this pass into the gauzy fog of time, obscured from the prying eyes of the world. This was a film that hit me hard, as if someone had punched me right in the gut. I’m willing to wager that it will hit you equally hard, if you give it the chance.

3/1/14: Six Degrees From Everybody (Oscar Bait, Part 12)

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20 Feet From Stardom, 2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, backup singers, Best Feature Documentary nominee, Best Feature Documentary winner, Bruce Springsteen, Darlene Love, documentaries, documentary, fame, Gimme Shelter, Janice Pendarvis, Joe Cocker, Lisa Fischer, Merry Clayton, music documentaries, Sheryl Crow, stardom, Sting, Tata Vega, The Rolling Stones

In this day and age, it seems that Warhol’s maxim about everyone getting 15 minutes of fame is seen as more of a cultural imperative than an amusing observation. There is nothing that modern society seems to appreciate more than a good rags-to-riches story…unless it’s a good rags-to-riches-to-rags story, of course. We like to see the underdog make good, at least in a safe, controlled, acceptable environment. We enjoy seeing the unsung hero step from the shadows and into the limelight, taking the long-coveted solo that will allow them to leave behind the workaday drudge of the 9-5 and ascend into that truest pantheon of modern gods: the “star.” Unfortunately, this doesn’t often (or even rarely) happen outside of televised game shows and the reality is usually a bit less glittery: in most cases, we’re lucky if we can get…20 Feet From Stardom.

As someone whose twin loves have always been film and music, music-based documentaries are definitely a weak point for me. At their best, music documentaries can shed new insight on artists I enjoy (along with a few that I don’t), all while giving me a generous helping of good music. At their worst, music documentaries will still (usually) supply plenty of good listening, even if the format may be too musty (talking heads, not to be confused with The Talking Heads) or too frustrating (poorly shot footage, inane commentary). In the vast majority of cases, however, music documentaries will still only cover the headlining star: very little insight is usually given to such things as the touring crew, back-stage personnel, backing band (if a solo artist) or backup singers. The Oscar-nominated documentary 20 Feet From Stardom attempts to rectify this oversight, at least a little, by focusing on those unsung purveyors of the doo-do-doo: backup singers.

When discussing a field as seemingly broad as background singers, it helps to narrow the focus a bit and the doc does so by focusing on a handful of different backup singers, chief among them Janice Pendarvis, Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, and Tata Vega, although some time is also spent with The Waters Family, Judith Hill, Lisa Fischer, Claudia Lennear, and Mable John, ensuring that there’s a pretty wide cross-section of singers represented. There’s also plenty of commentary from stars who regularly utilize backup singers, including Bruce Springsteen, Sting, The Rolling Stones and Sheryl Crow (herself a former backup singer). Springsteen makes an interesting statement that serves as one of the documentaries two main points: it takes a certain kind of person to make the leap from the background to the foreground and not all singers are equally suited for the task. The other main point is equally important, although rather obvious to music fans: background singers have shaped, guided and enhanced the music we listen to practically since the creation of recorded pop music, even if they seldom get any sort of recognition for it.

20 Feet From Stardom is a brisk, interesting documentary that offers up several good stories and anecdotes about the recording process behind certain timeless songs. Merry Clayton discusses how she recorded the backup parts for the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” at 2AM, with a robe on and curlers in her hair. Janice Pendarvis uses the line “And the colored girls go…: from Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side” to make a case for black, female empowerment. Luther Vandross was one of David Bowie’s “Young American” singers. Joe Cocker’s spastic dance moves and gentlemanly attitude are discussed, along with an aside about Ray Charles that makes him seem like a jerk. It’s a dizzying array of information and, at times, the film’s structure can suffer just a bit from the overload. At times, 20 Feet From Stardom resembles nothing so much as a series of loosely connected stories about the music business told from the perspective of career insiders.

There is a point to the film, however, aside from the dispersal of interesting information. 20 Feet From Stardom makes a good case for the way that backup singers have been under-represented and marginalized over the years. In the extreme cases, such as with situations where backup singer vocals have been used and sold as “main” vocals without proper compensation, it can even be seen how backup singers have been denied the ability to properly earn and “rise through the ranks,” as it were. It’s quite sobering to see the stacks of unsold solo albums that most of the discussed backup singers have produced: only Lisa Fischer and Darlene Love seemed to have success with their solo careers at all.

Ultimately, as a music fan, I enjoyed 20 feet from Stardom quite a bit. The film was filled with fun anecdotes, some great vintage performance clips and some interesting interviews with the key players. It was brisk, flowed well and featured a few larger themes to center the (sometimes) overwhelming factoids being dropped everywhere.  Were this not an Oscar nominated film, I would find myself enjoying this and not thinking much about it later. As one of the five nominees for Best Documentary Feature in 2013, however, 20 Feet From Stardom was automatically elevated into a slightly different category, forcing me to view it a little more critically. As such, I actually found it to be one of the weakest of the five nominees, ahead only of Dirty Wars, which was rather flawed. Imagine my surprise, then, when 20 Feet From Stardom went on to win the coveted gold statue the night of the awards. If anything, I suppose that this just proves my earlier point: our societal fascination with stardom isn’t going anywhere.

2/28/14: This Pain Will Help You (Oscar Bait, Part 11)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th, 8MM, Alex Jones, Best Cinematography nominee, cinema, dark films, Denis Villeneuve, Detective Loki, drama, film reviews, films, Hugh Jackman, Jake Gyllenhaal, kidnapped, Maria Bello, Melissa Leo, missing child, Movies, Nicholas Cage, Oscar nominee, Oscars, Paul Dano, Prisoners, race against time, rainy films, Roger Deakins, Seven, snubbed at the Oscars, Taxi Driver, Terrence Howard, The Hunt, torture, Viola Davis

Movies have a marvelous way of presenting the most wretched, bleak situations possible in a truly hopeful light. Through the power of film, no obstacle is too great to overcome, no adversity too dire to best. Genocide, slavery, Holocaust, world hunger, extinction, climate change, death: all it takes is the right person (or group of persons) to change even the most stubborn of societal ill. On the flip side, however, films also have a particular way of sucking all of the air from a room and showing us how terrible insignificant we really are. The right film, at the right angle, for the right person, can be the most bleak situation imaginable.  Think back to the rain-drenched, under-lit atrocities of Seven and 8MM…the relentless march to oblivion that is Taxi Driver or Old Boy…the parental anguish of Hardcore…some films exist not so much to make us feel better about the world but to remind us of how terrible it really is. Some films, like Martyrs, are not so much entertainment as painful open wounds, viscera thrown straight into our brains. And some films, like Denis Villeneuve’s Prisoners, exist to remind us that the first place we should always look for evil is in ourselves.

Keller Dover (Hugh Jackman)’s young daughter and her friend have gone missing and the police have a suspect in custody: Alex Jones (Paul Dano). Alex seems to be a truly weird, creepy guy and the beat-up RV he tools around in does seem fairly suspicious, but suspicions aren’t quite good enough for the legal system. Detective Loki (Jake Gyllenhaal, chewing up scenery and spitting out shrapnel) is forced to cut Alex loose, which just doesn’t sit well with survivalist papa Keller. With the unsteady assistance of Franklin (Terrence Howard), the father of the other missing girl, Keller kidnaps and tortures Alex, trying desperately to find the missing girls. As the case becomes more complicated and Loki continues to dig up new leads, such as Alex’s strange aunt Holly (Melissa Leo), a mysterious body in a cellar and a homicidal priest, it becomes less and less certain that Alex is actually guilty. As the clock ticks down, Keller is faced with the agonizing possibility that the bloody, terrified man before him might actually be innocent…and that the real villain might still be out there.

On its face, Prisoners has quite a bit going for it and seems to compare well to similar fare such as Seven. The film is beautifully shot, featuring some truly gorgeous camera-work by legendary DP Roger Deakins, which also earned the film its sole Oscar nomination (Best Cinematography). The score is moody and oppressive, which aids ably in smothering the film in the same sort of atmosphere that cloaked films like Seven and 8MM and the script, while not completely original, nonetheless provides enough twists and turns to keep things interesting. Towards the end, the twists begin to spring up so fast that the film threatens to spring a leak, however, and there’s at least one moment that still has me profoundly confused. Nonetheless, the film looks and sounds great.

Unfortunately, there are two critical issues that threaten to pitch the whole affair upside-down: the over-the-top acting and the film’s general bloat. Although there are some nicely understated roles in the film (Dano is excellent as Alex and Viola Davis is very good as Franklin’s wife, Nancy) and one particularly juicy broader one (Melissa Leo is simply marvelous as Alex’s aunt and was criminally overlooked in the Best Supporting Actress category), the majority of the actors are almost ridiculously over-the-top, playing so broad as if to be shouting to the rafters. Gyllenhaal, in particular, is mercilessly teeth-gnashing, playing Loki (so named because Max Powers was too silly?) as the kind of sneering, desk-pounding, perp-bashing super-cop that was a cliché by the ’70s. He’s a good actor attempting to mimic Nicholas Cage at his most out-of-control and the effect is head-scratching: what was the point? Rather than coming off as a badass, Detective Loki is sort of like a whiny, highly ineffectual but endlessly bragging Harry Callahan. He receives perfect support from Jackman, however, who seems to greet any trial or adversity by howling in pain and punching it. Between the two of them and Howard’s skittish, constantly shouting Franklin, the film often feels like we’ve walked into the middle of a particularly nasty argument between complete strangers. Maria Bello is criminally wasted as Grace, Keller’s wife, suffering from the lethal combo of being as broad as the other actors but with less screen-time to smooth it out.

The fact that any character receives too little screen time is a bit of a minor miracle, however, since Prisoners worst flaw, by far, is its rather unbelievable 2.5 hour run-time. Since the film tells such a simple, contained story and never expands much past the immediate surroundings, it seems rather criminal for things to stretch past the 90 minutes mark, much less the two-hour mark. The film ends up being relentless but not in a good way: we end up getting bludgeoned into submission by one extended torture scene after another followed by one Loki tsunami after another followed by one Keller freak-out and so on and on. The Hunt managed to explore the horror and pain of small-town suspicion gone amok in a much more succinct fashion, while Saw and Wolf Creek managed to do likewise with the torture genre. Prisoners manages to mash both together yet, rather than co-mix them, seems content to merely stitch them side by side. The investigation portion of the film, alone, would make a full film, as would the largely gratuitous torture scenes. Together, it’s all too much. I found myself fatigued and wanting to tap out way before the extended 40-minute or so finale introduced another handful of twists.

It’s a shame that Prisoners hobbles itself in some pretty fundamental ways because it has so much going for it. Deakins, the master behind the lens of films like Fargo and The Big Lebowski, does some fantastic work here, presenting certain shots that are pretty enough to frame. There’s an easy fluidity to everything that makes the film effortlessly watchable, even during the torture sequences, which is a necessary counterpoint to the film’s bloat. You can see the hint of something truly exceptional and powerful gleaming deep in the clogged excesses of Prisoners: if the film were only an hour shorter, maybe that light would be a little easier to see.

2/26/14: When You’re Here, You’re Home (Oscar Bait, Part 10)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, alcoholism, Alexander Payne, auteur theory, Best Actor nominee, Best Cinematography nominee, Best Director nominee, Best of 2013, Best Original Screenplay nominee, Best Picture nominee, Best Supporting Actress nominee, Bob Odenkirk, Boogie Nights, Bruce Dern, cinema, Citizen Ruth, dementia, Election, estranged family, Film, Film auteurs, film reviews, growing old, grown children, Heartland, indie comedies, indie dramas, June Squibb, Midwestern, Movies, Nebraska, old age, road movie, road trips, small town life, snubbed at the Oscars, Stacy Keach, sweepstakes, The Descendants, Will Forte, Woody Grant

Realistically, there’s no such thing as a “perfect” anything, much less a perfect film. After all: one person’s concept of “amazing” is always someone else’s notion of “played-out.” That perfect hamburger? How do you know? If it were truly perfect, would it ever actually end? Wouldn’t that perfect sunset just continue on into infinity? Can humans, inherently faulty as we are, ever actually make something perfect? Could robots? What does “perfect” even mean? Is it as meaningless as “awesome” and “epic” in the Aught Tens? I bring up these points for one simple reason: I consider Alexander Payne’s Nebraska to be, essentially, a perfect film. I believe this through and through, even though all of the evidence points to how impossible it is. There is nothing perfect, although Nebraska is as perfect as it comes. This makes absolutely no sense…and I’m totally okay with that.

Some films hit me on a more pure, elemental level then other films. One of the best examples of this I can think of is PT Anderson’s Boogie Nights. I’ll never forget seeing that for the first time, in the theater, and just sitting there in stunned silence. I felt like I couldn’t even process the film on the first viewing: I could only sit back and absorb it. Immediately afterward, I bought another ticket and stayed for the next showing. To this day, I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve seen Boogie Nights but it never fails to impress me and lift my spirits: the film is a complete masterpiece and was from opening night. My first experience with seeing Nebraska was nearly identical to my experience seeing Boogie Nights. I was immediately, completely and totally in love with the film from the jump and this impression gradually broadened and deepened into something approaching blind faith: I not only loved what I was currently seeing but I was positive I would love everything still to come. And I did.

Payne, one of modern filmmaking’s brightest talents, is no stranger to the prickly ways in which humans, particularly relatives, interact. His filmography may not be huge but it is ridiculously deep: Citizen Ruth, Election (another of my favorite films), About Schmidt, Sideways, the Descendants (another Oscar favorite) and Nebraska. Any of these would be a bright star in most writer/director careers but Payne’s CV is quite the embarrassment of riches. With Nebraska, however, he’s managed to hone the “Heartland shiv” of Election and Citizen Ruth into a merciless edge while adding in the richly textured familial issues of The Descendants. In the process, he’s crafted his best, most enduring film (thus far).

In a cinematic universe of “difficult” people, Woody Grant (Bruce Dern) might be their supreme leader. Hard-drinking, stubborn, suffering from the first pangs of dementia and brutally honest, Woody is the kind of person who seems to exist solely to vex his loved ones. And vex them, he does. His long-suffering wife, Kate (June Squibb), and grown sons David (Will Forte) and Ross (Bob Odenkirk) have had just about as much of them as they can take: Kate, in particular, has taken to treating Woody like a flop-eared hound that won’t quit piddling on the rug. The thing is: Woody is one genuinely difficult dude. Not just prickly, mind you: genuinely difficult. When he receives one of those ubiquitous “You may already be a winner!” sweepstakes notices, he decides to walk from his home in Montana all the way to Lincoln, Nebraska, to claim his “winnings.” Rather than have his father drop dead on the side of the road (and unable to convince him of the truth behind the sweepstakes), David decides to go with his dad and make it a father-son bonding trip. The stage is set for a sweet, nostalgic, heart-warming tale of reconciliation and family…except Woody couldn’t give two shits about his family and certainly doesn’t look forward to being stuck with his square son David. Tempers flare, hard truths are learned and David learns the most important lesson of all: You can’t always pick your fights and you can never pick your family. But, sometimes, that’s okay.

Picking out one individual aspect of Nebraska to laud is not only nearly impossible but unnecessarily reductive. The individual aspects of the film truly shine but it’s the sum of these parts that makes Nebraska an unmitigated classic. Right from the get-go, with the gorgeous black-and-white cinematography and the hauntingly simple but beautiful bluegrassy theme, the film felt timeless. Indeed, the film was so stunningly filmed that I was certain it would be a lock for cinematography, Gravity be damned. The camera-work in Gravity was flawless and head-scratching (how the hell DID they do that?) but the cinematography in Nebraska is beautifully evocative and so cinematic that it hurts. This was a film that looked as good as it “felt,” a perfect synthesis of form and function.

As is standard in Payne’s films, the acting is absolutely superb. In fact…here comes that word again…it’s pretty much perfect. Will Forte, so good as a comic, is a complete revelation as David. At once sympathetic, sweet and slightly pathetic, David is a fully realized, complex character, someone who all of us know (if we aren’t actually him, that is). Bob Odenkirk is marvelous as brother Ross, likewise reigning in his comedic tendencies to portray a character who’s equal parts fatigued snark and genuine compassion. It’s as far from Saul Goodman as possible and never less than 100% authentic. Stacy Keach has a terrific part as Woody’s former friend, Ed, a loutish civic leader who browbeats Woody mercilessly yet manages one of the most heartbreaking displays of emotion I’ve ever seen in a film: the part where he mockingly reads Woody’s letter to the bar is powerful stuff but the changing expression in his eyes as he realizes what he’s done to Woody is the stuff of legend. Keach has been far too scarce in films these days (I actually thought he was dead!) and it’s a tremendous shame: someone get this guy some more roles STAT!

In a cast this excellent, this perfect, however, there are still two standouts, two performers that brought completely indelible characters to life. June Squibb, as Kate, is a complete revelation, an actress so watchable, so absolutely compelling, that I find myself wondering why I never noticed her before. Kate is a real person: an honest-to-God flesh and blood creation. I know several people like Kate: many of them are also my family members. You know many people like Kate: some of them are likely your family, as well. As a character, she’s flawed, sometimes reveling in a level of nasty “honesty” that’s breathtaking in its cruelty. The scene where she visits the family cemetery with Woody and David is amazing, one of those scenes that film fans should remember in the same way that they do the “Hold it between your knees” scene from 5  Easy Pieces. As she walks about the graveyard, Kate keeps a constant running commentary about their interred relatives: this one was a slut, that one was an idiot, this other one always wanted to “get in her pants.” In the piece de resistance, however, Kate stops before the grave of a former beau, hikes up her skirt and stands before the tombstone: “See what you could have had if you didn’t talk about weed all the time?!” It’s a vulgar, hilarious, awesome moment, one of those bits that deserves to go down in cinematic history. While I was happy to see Nyong’o win Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars, Squibb was, hands-down, the best of the four performances I saw (sorry Julia: Osage was a bit hard to get ahold of).

And then, of course, there’s Bruce Dern. To be honest, I’m not sure how much acting Dern did for the film: perhaps that’s why he ended up losing to McConaughey (who also completely deserved the award, ironically). Perhaps this is how Dern really is. Perhaps he’s nothing like this. At the end of the day, there’s only one thing I knew: this was the single most perfect acting performance of the entire year. The whole thing. Better than McConaughey (who was astounding), better than Ejiofor. Better than anyone, actually. At no point in the film did it ever feel like Dern was acting. Nothing felt inauthentic, every beat and facial expression was well-earned and it was that rarest of modern acting performances: a stellar turn that did not revolve around flawless mimicry (sorry, Meryl). Perhaps it’s because of my own experiences with an elderly father but I completely identified with everything about both Woody and David: I experienced the same measure of heartwarming/breaking that I did in real life. If you have no experience with elderly parents, perhaps you won’t be affected as deeply. With acting this masterful, however, I’m betting you will.

So we have a great looking/sounding film and amazing performances. What else is there? Well, how about the funniest, freshest, funkiest script in ages? While Nebraska is anything but a joke-a-minute laughathon, it is shockingly funny, more so than any indie “dramedy” I’ve yet seen. Much of the humor definitely comes from the verisimilitude of the absurd situations (I laughed like an idiot during the scene where David’s yokel cousins mock him for taking so long to drive there, since I’ve had that exact same conversation with similar idiots in the past) but there’s just as many great one-liners and exchanges flying around. One of my favorite scenes has to be the one where Woody, Kate and David eat lunch in a small diner. Woody spends an inordinate amount of time studying the menu. When Kate asks him, “What are you having, old man?” he resolutely replies “Meatloaf.” Her exasperated comeback could have come straight from my childhood: “You’ve been staring at that menu for ten minutes…where does it say meatloaf?”At another point, David tells Woody that “All of your brothers are coming over.” “Some of them are dead.” David looks at Woody, for a beat, before replying: “The dead ones won’t be coming over.” Classic.

All of these various elements would be impressive enough but the one thing uniting them all is the most important: heart. Nebraska has a big heart, much bigger than the gently mean sarcasm would have you believe. You can see the genuine emotion creeping at the edge of every frame, sneaking into each scene like an insistent boom mic. The emotion isn’t always on the forefront but, when it is, the film burns with an almost palpable sense of pain. If you don’t feel something when Kate sits as Woody’s bedside, you probably don’t have much to feel. If you don’t tear up at the end, as David lets him father drive triumphantly through town, you’re probably already dead.

In the end, Nebraska is that most impossible of films: a scruffy, mean, hilarious, heartfelt celebration of the Heartland and all of the people who inhabit it. There are no characters here, only real people reacting with the same pain, humor, bias, hatred and love that we all do. Whereas every other film that I saw for Oscar season (including the otherwise incredible Dallas Buyers Club) struggled with notions of authenticity, Nebraska was the only one that I bought part and parcel. Like I said before: I know these people. I grew up with them. I probably love and hate them with equal fervor. If there were major flaws with the film, I couldn’t find them. If you can, I’m guessing we’ll probably never see completely eye to eye. That’s okay, though: there are no perfect films, so you, but Nebraska is just perfect enough for me.

2/25/14: Lost in Space (Oscar Bait, Part 9)

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2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, Academy Award Nominee, Alfonso Cuaron, All Is Lost, astronauts, auteur theory, Best Actress nominee, Best Cinematography winner, Best Director nominee, Best Film Editing winner, Best Original Score winner, Best Picture nominee, Best Sound Editing winner, Best Sound Mixing winner, Best Visual Effects winner, Children of Men, cinema, disaster films, Ed Harris, Emmanuel Lubezki, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, George Clooney, Gravity, lost in space, marooned, Movies, multiple Oscar winner, outer space, rescue mission, Sandra Bullock, sci-fi, space shuttle, special-effects extravaganza, thriller, trapped in space

My Oscar-prep viewing for the last week of February continued with Alfonso Cuaron’s Gravity. Of all of the nominees, I was probably (initially) most excited to see this one, since I’m a huge fan of Cuaron’s previous film, the wonderfully dystopic Children of Men. After waiting seven years for a follow-up, how would Gravity stack up? And did it really earn all ten of its Oscar nominations? Read on, gentle readers…read on.

As a boy, my twin loves (above and beyond anything else that I loved) were dinosaurs and outer space. If there was a book about the subject(s), I read it. if there was a show or movie, I watched it. I’ve always been fascinated by huge, open expanses but my inability to swim has always rendered the deep-sea about as terrifying as diving into an active volcano. Space, however, was a different story. As frightening as the notion of all of that vast emptiness was, I never ceased to be fascinated and drawn to it. As time went on and I got older, my former obsession with dinosaurs gradually faded into my childhood, although I remember being fairly agog when I first saw Jurassic Park in the theater. My obsession with space, however, has never waned. If anything, I find myself more fascinated by it now then I ever was: we truly live in a glorious time for anyone who’s ever wondered about what might be “up there,” since we seem to get word of astounding new galactic discoveries on a fairly regular basis. If there’s one thing me and my boyhood self would agree on, it’s this: outer space is pretty damn amazing.

Interestingly enough, however, my lifelong love of space hasn’t really translated into a love of sci-fi films. I’ve found many, over the years, that I really enjoy and a few that I even love: 2001; Alien; The Black Hole; Event Horizon, to name a few. For the most part, however, I’m not really drawn to the space shoot-em-ups of stuff like Star Wars or Battlestar Galactica. I’m much more interested in low-key, intellectual films like Moon, Europa Report, 2001 and Solaris. Part of the appeal of space, to me, has always been the inherent mystery of it: the best sci-fi films manage to preserve this sense of mystery while still giving something to thrill along to.

Gravity could certainly be said to exist in the same company as the aforementioned “intelligent” sci-fi films, but it’s not quite the same thing. There is nothing lunk-headed or especially clumsy about the film but its heart is definitely more interested in action (sometimes so non-stop as to almost seem real-time) than it is in wonder or inquiry. There’s nothing wrong with this, mind you, but it immediately puts Gravity into a slightly different category and is one of the reasons why I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed after the whole thing was over.

Story-wise, Gravity is simplicity itself: Ryan Stone (Sandra Bullock) and Matt Kowalski (George Clooney) are American astronauts on a routine spacewalk when disaster strikes. The Russians have accidentally bombed one of their own satellites, which has caused deadly space debris to travel into the Americans’ vicinity. Too late to avoid the bombardment, Stone and Kowalski find themselves adrift in space, no contact with Earth and only their connecting tether keeping them from spinning away into the vastness of forever. Using every ounce of their strength, courage and cautious optimism, the two must do everything they can to make it back home, lest the far reaches of space become their frigid tomb.

In a nutshell, that’s pretty much it: just slightly over 90 minutes of Bullock trying desperately to get back home. In many respects, Gravity and All Is Lost (Redford stuck at sea on a sinking sailboat) are kindred spirits. Both are claustrophobic, quick-paced thrill rides that feature one protagonist (it’s no spoiler to say that Bullock spends the majority of the film alone), almost no supporting characters or additional actors and minimal locations. While I heartily enjoyed Gravity, I’ll have to give the edge here to All Is Lost for one very important reason: it didn’t dilute its impact with unnecessary emotional baggage. In All Is Lost, we end up knowing as little about Redford’s character as possible: he doesn’t even get a name. This isn’t to say that there’s no character information whatsoever: through a few small, subtle scenes, we find out enough about Redford’s character (wife and kids back home, well-to-do older man) to become invested in his struggle. At no time, however, does the film wring unnecessary mileage out of the emotional beats: they’re just there to humanize the character.

In Gravity, however, Ryan’s back-story directly influences her actions in the film and, at times, is used as the sole emotional ballast. For my money, this wasn’t the best way to humanize the character and, to be honest, had a bit of the opposite effect for me. At times, I found myself questioning Ryan’s actions: she would be unthinkingly swift and decisive one moment, curled in a fetal position and looking “lost” the next. While this might be a natural reaction for any normal person caught in the situation, it still had the effect of dragging down the film and injecting a maudlin, overly emotional tone that was at odds with the film’s more clinical inclinations. It’s almost as if Cuaron was unsure if the audience would be fully invested in the actual things happening to Bullock’s character (who the hell wouldn’t find being lost in space terrifying and thrilling?!), so he decided to hedge his bets by piling on a tragic back-story for her to overcome. It’s a reductive measure and, effectively, boils down Ryan’s entire experience in space to “overcoming personal adversity.” It’s equivalent to Ripley coming at the Mother Alien with the robot suit only to end up shaking hands and hugging it out. This is particularly puzzling since, aside from the too obvious back-story and some beats with Clooney’s character, there isn’t anything obvious about the actual film. This was a pretty big disappointment for me, since it seemed like a concession to what modern audiences expect from films, not what filmmakers actually intend. I keep wondering how amazing this film would have been as a non-stop, tightly-shot, A-B-C thriller and it makes the final product even more disappointing.

But, let’s be absolutely frank here: most people going to see Gravity won’t be going for the character development, the writing or anything of that nature: they’ll be going to experience a huge, eye-popping visual smorgasbord. And on that count, Gravity absolutely does not disappoint. In fact, I daresay that I really have no appropriate words to describe how utterly, sumptuously amazing the film looks. There isn’t one frame that didn’t look meticulously composed and I still have no idea whatsoever how many of the shots were achieved. As far as I can tell, Cuaron took a small crew into deep space and filmed: that’s about the best explanation I have for a lot of the film. The SFX are seamless, the space visuals are so stunning that I got teary-eyed (really) and the sound effects put you right in the thick of everything. If there’s one part of the filmmaking I didn’t care for, however, it would definitely have to be Steven Price’s intrusive, too-obvious score. Something more minimalist and  moody would have helped the film but I felt like the score tried to be too leading: I’m not a fan of hand-holding between filmmakers and the audience and the score was definitely that. As far as the technical awards and the Best Cinematography statue, however? There was simply no other film in the running after this one: even discussing other films’ effects as being equitable is absolutely ridiculous.

At the end of the day, perhaps my own unreasonable expectations led me to be disappointed by Gravity. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoyed most of the film as I was watching it (save for the overly emotional bits referenced above). I was even stunned at several points, especially that jaw-dropping opening. It was a fun, exquisitely crafted film with a rock-solid performance by Bullock (not Oscar worthy, IMHO, but damn close), a very Clooney-esque performance by George C and a totally awesome reference to my favorite scene in Jaws. It was also, unfortunately, a rather slight film, almost more of an effects exercise then anything else. I remember how much I found myself pondering and returning to Children of Men after I first saw it. After watching Gravity, my only thought was, “Damn: shoulda seen it in the theaters.” While Gravity was a good Cuaron film, it looks like I might have to wait another seven years for a great Cuaron film.

 

2/24/14: We All Go a Little Mad (Oscar Bait, Part 8)

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2013 Academy Awards, Alec Baldwin, Andrew Dice Clay, Annie Hall, auteur theory, Best Actress nominee, Best Actress Winner, Best of 2013, Best Original Screenplay nominee, Best Supporting Actress nominee, Blue Jasmine, Cate Blanchett, cinema, despression, drama, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Ginger, investment fraud, Jasmine, Louis CK, mental illness, narcissism, Oscar nominee, Oscars, Peter Sarsgaard, Sally Hawkins, socialite, Stardust Memories, white-collar-crime, Woody Allen, writer-director

My quest to catch up continues as we now enter the week before the Academy Awards. Journey with me now to a distant past, one where we could still only speculate as to any given winner, a time when The Act of Killing seemed like a lock for Best Doc and “Alright, alright, alright” was only something that an impatient person might say. The week leading up to the Oscars was jam-packed with nominated films. The first one up? Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine.

Who among us really enjoys hanging out with fractured, damaged individuals? Not tolerates, mind you, or “does one’s duty” but actually spends time with a complete mess and has a great time? The answer, I’m relatively positive, would be that very few people, aside from masochists, actually derive any real pleasure from neurotic, morose, over-emotional basket-cases. Who among us, however, enjoys watching these individuals from the (relative) comfort and safety of our living rooms? That answer, at least judging by our collective viewing habits, would be quite different. Damaged people make terrible friends but they make really great fodder for entertainment, especially when springing from the fully loaded imagination of Mr. Neurotic himself, Woody Allen.

As a filmmaker, Allen is almost a cottage industry, bringing audiences decade after decade of schlubs, nebbishes, jerks, wallflowers, social misfits and generally unpleasant people. That he’s managed to present these characters for nearly 50 years is impressive enough but Allen has (usually) managed the rather nifty hat-trick of making these fractured folks at least somewhat likable. At the very least, these are people that we recognize (whether or not we recognize them from the mirror, however, is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish), friends, neighbors and family that drive us to distraction but still, for some reason, deserve our love at the end of the day.

Blue Jasmine, Woody Allen’s 44th feature film (yikes!), introduces us to one of his most prickly, unpleasant creations: Jasmine (Cate Blanchett). In an Allen multiverse filled with neurotic characters, Jasmine may just reign as their queen. We first meet her overwhelming an old lady on a plane with her life-story, a bludgeoning than continues all the way onto the tarmac and into baggage claim. Jasmine never stops talking and the old lady never has a chance to do much of anything but smile politely and nod. Once they separate, the old woman’s husband asks her about Jasmine, only to be told that she seemed to be talking to herself. One encounter in, we get the message loud and clear: Jasmine is her own best friend and worst enemy.

Jasmine goes to stay with her sister Ginger (Sally Hawkins), which is a decided change from the old days when Jasmine and her white-collar-criminal husband, Hal (Alec Baldwin), were on top of the New York social scene. Many defrauded investors and a prison-stay for Hal (where he hangs himself) later, Ginger and her new boyfriend, Chili (Bobby Canavale) must help to take care of the penniless, clueless Jasmine. Just as spoiled, privileged and nasty as she was back in the “good ol’ days” but with none of the money and fancy apartments to back it up, Jasmine must, somehow, integrate herself into a world that is not only frightening and mystifying but most certainly beneath her. As Jasmine sails from one unpleasant realization to another, she comes to see that the people you step on while you climb are the same people who end up stepping on you. Will she learn the lesson too late or is there still hope for this entitled twit?

In a long career filled with buoyant highs (Annie Hall, Manhattan, Stardust Memories, Radio Days), Blue Jasmine easily stands as one of Woody Allen’s finest films. In fact, the film was probably my favorite Allen film since Radio Days and easily stands tall next to his established classics. As usual with Allen’s films, the various ingredients poured into this make all the difference in the final product. Start with a smart, sharp script that graces everyone in the cast with some truly juicy dialogue. Add in one of those stereotypically far-reaching, all-star Woody Allen ensembles (Blanchett, Baldwin, Hawkins, Andrew Dice Clay, Louis CK, Peter Sarsgaard, et al). Mix in some incredibly complex characterizations and voila! You have one Blue Jasmine.

In a film filled with great performances, however, three actors really stand out: Blanchett, Hawkins and Clay. Blanchett ended up winning the Academy Award for Best Actress and the choice was a complete no-brainer: no matter how good any of the other nominees were, Blanchett was just that much better. Period. I’m not even a huge fan of hers, to be honest, and I found her entire performance to be utterly captivating and impossible to look away from. While Jasmine is not a likable character, she is a completely relateable one, a person that we’ve all known and (perhaps) been. It’s to Blanchett’s tremendous credit that she makes the finale such a complete punch in the gut: without her fearless, withering performance, the final twist (and it is a twist, folks, almost as nifty as the ones Shyamalan used to pull off) would have nearly the impact. As it was, the final shot had me completely devastated: she’d already won the statue by that point, as far as I’m concerned. Initially, I thought that Blanchett’s Jasmine would serve as this film’s Allen stand-in but she ends up being even more irreparably damaged than his protagonists usually are: this is the dark side of the neuroticism he normally traffics in.

Sally Hawkins, although not as dynamic as Blanchett, does amazing things with the potentially thankless role of sister Ginger. There is real pain in Hawkins performance, along with a surprising amount of self-assurance and joy. For the most part, Ginger is marginalized by everyone around her and it would be the easiest thing in the world for her to shut down and play the victim, as Jasmine so readily does. Instead of that, however, Ginger continues to love and keep her heart open, despite the constant negative reinforcement she receives from guys like Chili and Al (Louis CK). Blue Jasmine was never Ginger’s movie but it’s a film that wouldn’t exist without her, at least not with the same kind of soul and passion. Although I didn’t feel that Hawkins performance was the best of the year, I was still overjoyed to see her at least acknowledged with a nomination. Any actor was going to stand in Blanchett’s shadow on this one but Hawkins managed to hold her own.

In the complete surprise category, however, we have Andrew Dice Clay as Ginger’s prickly ex-husband, Augie. Full disclosure: I’ve never cared for Clay, particularly back during his foul-mouthed “golden years.” His performance in Blue Jasmine, however, was a complete revelation. Not only was Clay completely invested in the character (this was no Ford Fairlaine, for sure) but he managed to make Augie extremely likable. There was still some of Clay’s blue-collar jerkitude in evidence but Augie is no cardboard-cutout. Similar to the ways that John Travolta and Burt Reynolds had their careers resuscitated via Pulp Fiction and Boogie Nights, I sincerely hope that Clay’s turn in Blue Jasmine ushers in a new era for him. After this, he’s earned my respect enough to check out his next project…providing he doesn’t decide to grace us with Brainsmasher 2, that is.

While I certainly wasn’t surprised that Blue Jasmine (and Allen) were under-represented at this year’s Oscars, I was definitely disappointed. Allen, much like Polanski, is a highly polarizing figure whose personal and professional lives often become a bit too intertwined, at least as far as the general populace goes. Love him or hate him, however, there’s absolutely no one who should deny what an astounding film Blue Jasmine is. If you’ve always been an Allen fan, rest assured that Blue Jasmine is one of his all-time bests. If you’re not an Allen fan, you still owe it to yourself to see the film, especially you’ve ever know anyone who’s struggled with depression or mental illness. Blue Jasmine is many things: funny, sad, infuriating, uplifting. The one thing it’s not, however, is easily ignored.

2/22/14: Doing it For Yourself (Oscar Bait, Part 7)

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1980's, 2013 Academy Awards, 86th Annual Academy Awards, Academy Award Nominee, Academy Award Winner, Academy Awards, AIDs, AZT, based on a true story, Best Actor nominee, Best Actor winner, Best of 2013, Best Supporting Actor nominee, Best Supporting Actor Winner, biographical films, bull-riding, character dramas, cinema, clinical trials, Dallas Buyers Club, drama, film reviews, films, gay community, HIV, homophobia, Jared Leto, Jean-Marc Vallee, Jennifer Garner, Matthew McConaughey, Movies, Rayon, rodeo, Ron Woodroof, Steve Zahn

For all intents and purposes, we like to pretend that the world isn’t as cruel and ruthless as it really is. We’d like to think that no one truly falls through the cracks, that there’s always some sort of safety net out there if people are just willing to look. It may not be the most ideal support, we’d like to think, and people may not be able to live in the exact manner of their choosing but beggars can’t be choosers, we reason. At the very least, we’ve always thought, truly sick people should be able to have access to medicine: no one should just be allowed to sicken and die, particularly if there’s something that can be done about it. Right? If we’re being dead serious with ourselves, however, we don’t believe that anymore than we believe in unicorns or the Bermuda Triangle.

In reality, vast expanses of the populace, of every populace since the beginning of time, have been marginalized, pushed to the fringes and forced to rely only on themselves for their well-being. These populaces vary from society to society, country to country, culture to culture and state to state but they’re always painful reminders of one cold, simple fact: whenever anyone needlessly dies, equality is nothing more than a feel-good bedtime story. Anytime an individual is brushed off by the established order and left, essentially, to die, we see the failure of the status quo. In these situations, it becomes necessary for brave individuals (or groups) to fight for their own rights, health and well-being. This need to fight doesn’t necessarily reflect society at its best but it sure does make for some riveting cinema and Dallas Buyers Club is gripping from start to finish.

Based on a true story, Dallas Buyers Club wastes no time in introducing us to our protagonist, rodeo bull-rider and general gadfly Ron Woodroof (Matthew McConaughey). Ron’s the kind of guy who likes to live life to the fullest: threesomes behind the scenes of a bustling rodeo, conning his fellow riders and getting his ass beat in the process, hovering up cocaine by the yard, saying the first thing that comes to his mind. There’s absolutely nothing altruistic about our “hero”: within very short order, we’ve determined that he’s a virulently homophobic, crooked man-child who couldn’t give two shits about anyone else in the world. He’s the kind of good ‘ol boy who sneers when it’s revealed that Rock Hudson is homosexual and dismisses HIV and AIDS as a “gay disease.” He’s also the guy who ends up with HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, thanks to his numerous, unprotected sexual escapades.

Doctors give Ron just thirty days to live but he’s a stubborn cuss and won’t go softly into that good night: “Fuck your 30 days, motherfuckers: ain’t nothing can kill Ron Woodroof in 30 days!” Ron celebrates his “ridiculous” diagnosis by immediately rushing out and having a coke-fueled orgy with his best friend Tucker (Steve Zahn) and a couple “lucky” ladies. Once the seriousness of his situation finally settles in, however, along with the realization that all of his friends and associates have abandoned him, Ron must get to the very serious business of staying alive. Drug trials offer scant hope: kindly doctor Eve (Jennifer Garner) can’t guarantee that Ron will actually get the AZT rather than the placebo. Time and time again, Ron is faced with the terrifying notion that no one really feels they can cure him: everyone seems to be waiting for Ron to die so they can study him.

A chance meeting with an AIDS-infected transexual named Rayon (Jared Leto) sets into motion a chain of events that sees Ron go around the world to pick up experimental, “unauthorized” HIV/AIDS drugs and distribute them to patients through a club of sorts” the Dallas Buyers Club. In short order, Ron and Rayon’s club is doing boomer business and Ron’s health seems to be improving. Dark clouds appear on the horizon, however, when the DEA, IRS and AMA all get wind of what’s going on. Will the Feds work to shut down the only thing that seems to be keeping Ron and Rayon alive? Is Ron an opportunistic con-man or a saint in redneck clothing? If Ron gets shut down, what will become of the rest of the Dallas Buyers Club?

By the time I saw Dallas Buyers Club. I had already seen a handful of other Best Picture nominees for 2013: American Hustle, 12 Years a Slave and Captain Phillips. Of these four films, Dallas Buyers Club was easily my favorite and, in fact, probably one of the best films I’d seen in quite some time.  There’s an awful lot to love in Dallas Buyers Club: the film looks great and has a gritty, earnest eye for period detail; the script is razor-sharp, full of sharply delineated characters and plenty of juicy dialogue (especially some of Ron’s bon mots); the ensemble casts fits together like a jigsaw piece, each actor (both major and minor) working together to paint a complete picture; the film has a big, epic scope yet still brings everything down to a personal, relatable  level; the film is deeply emotional and powerful, yet never maudlin, obvious or hysterical. It’s a beautifully made, powerful work of art that hits on a number of levels yet never loses the inherent dignity and passion of its characters. And then, of course, there are those towering performances by McConaughey and Leto.

Even before he was given the Best Actor statue at the Academy Awards, I already knew that McConaughey had earned it. His performance as Ron Woodroof is nothing short of a revelation: angry, charming, obnoxious, feral, frightened…Woodroof is an open-nerve, the unbearably loud voice of the disenfranchised screaming at maximum volume. There’s absolutely nothing about McConaughey’s performance that ever feels like acting or, to be honest, anything less than completely authentic. At times, it’s impossible to watch, since the pain radiates from the screen in waves. At other times, it’s impossible not to watch, since McConaughey seems to attract all matter and attention to him in the same matter that a black hole might. Ron Woodroof is an amazingly conflicted character and McConaughey brings him to life in all his multi-faceted glory. Bruce Dern was amazing in Nebraska and Chiwetel Ejiofor was heartbreaking in 12 Years a Slave but, for my money, McConaughey gave the single best performance of the year, hands-down.

Leto’s performance as Rayon, although not as multi-faceted as McConaughey’s take on Woodroof, is a pretty spectacular piece of craft. Leto becomes the character so completely that, just as with McConaughey’s performance, I bought it all absolutely. Despite how good Leto was, however, there were still several moments that felt too “actorly” and performed, moments that were more wholly-integrated in McConaughey’s performance. I chalk this up to one fact, plain and simple: Leto just isn’t the actor that McConaughey is, at least not yet. It’s impossible for me not to feel, at least in some small way, that Barkhad Abdi (Captain Phillips) ultimately deserved the trophy more than Leto. While Leto gave a humble, nuanced and tender performance, it still felt like a performance: Abdi, on the other hand, never felt anything less than completely authentic, even if his role didn’t have the emotional beats and arc of Leto’s. Nonetheless, Leto’s performance is extraordinary and, in any other Oscar year, would have been my pick, as well.

In many ways, Dallas Buyers Club strikes me as the anti-American Hustle. Both films are period-pieces about the disintegration of the American dream and both feature characters who must pull off elaborate hustles in order to survive. While American Hustle strikes me as weightless and inconsequential, however, Dallas Buyers Club reminds me more of films like Boogie Nights and Goodfellas. There are certain films that just impact me more than other films and Dallas Buyers Club was one of those films: by the time the end credits rolled, the film felt like a masterpiece and something deserving of the term “classic.” When American Hustle was over, however, I only found myself entertained: truth be told, I’d already forgotten about several key moments days after first watching it. Dallas Buyers Club, however, stuck with me for days and I can still it so clearly that I might as well have watched it days ago, not weeks ago.

Despite being a film about the terrible ravages of AIDS, Dallas Buyers Club is a fiercely vibrant, alive, angry film. There is nothing melancholy or morose about this: like Ron Woodroof, Dallas Buyers Club isn’t interested in feel-good sentiments or gauzy hand-holding. There’s nothing stereotypically “heroic” about Woodroof: he’s a selfish jerk and he knows it. He also, however, refuses to give up, refuses to lie down just because the odds aren’t good. He refuses to listen to “experts” who’ve written him off, friends who’ve turned their back on him and a society that looks down on him. Ultimately, Ron Woodroof couldn’t give two shits whether you like him or not: he’s not asking society’s permission to live. Ultimately, Ron (and Dallas Buyers Club) stand as towering testimony that the spark of life can never be truly extinguished as long as the will to survive is strong. Dallas Buyers Club was a profoundly moving experience and was, without a doubt, one of the very best films of 2013.