5/22/15: Doin’ It For the Kids

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7th Floor, Abel Dolz Doval, Adrian Garcia Bogliano, Alfred Hitchcock, alternate title, Argentinian film, Belén Rueda, Buenos Aires, Charo Dolz Doval, cheating husbands, cinema, custody issues, divorced parents, film reviews, films, foreign films, Guillermo Arengo, husband-wife relationship, infidelity, Jorge D'Elía, kids in peril, Lucas Nolla, Lucio Bonelli, Luis Ziembrowski, missing children, Movies, mysteries, Osvaldo Santoro, parent-child relationships, Patxi Amezcua, Ricardo Darín, Septimo, set in Argentina, Spurloos, suspense, The Lady Vanishes, The Vanishing, thrillers, twist ending, writer-director

For parents of young children, there can’t be many more terrifying nightmares than having them vanish, seemingly without a trace. Despite how careful and attentive parents might be, they’re not omniscient deities: even the best parents can let their attention stray for a moment, become complacent with friendly surroundings, take their eyes off their precious charges for the barest of moments. As we find out all too frequently these days, it doesn’t take more than a moment (sometimes only a few seconds) for tragedy to strike.

Argentinian writer-director Patxi Amezcua’s Septimo (2013) deals with just this parental nightmare and, for over half its 88 minute running-time, it’s quite the razor-sharp, white knuckle thriller. Coming off as a grim combination of Hitchcock’s classic The Lady Vanishes (1938) and George Sluzier’s Spurloos (The Vanishing) (1988), Amezcua puts his characters (and his audience) through the wringer, giving us a front-row seat to the mounting terror that an estranged husband and wife feel as they desperately search for their missing children. Once the mystery comes into sharper focus, however, the film loses much of its inherent tension, playing out towards a rather predictable ending, right up to the fourth act “twist.” At the end of the day, however, half a Hitchcock ain’t too shabby.

When we first meet newly divorced criminal lawyer, Sebastian (Ricardo Darín), it’s pretty obvious that the guy is a dick: we watch him shrug off his anxious sister’s concerns about her potentially abusive ex and see him rage against the “old lady” who keeps parking in his designated spot at his apartment building. After the kindly super, Miguel (Luis Ziembrowski), explains that the old lady is almost blind, Sebastian snorts and replies that he’ll happily have her towed, anyway: if she can’t see, sell the damn car. George Bailey, he’s most certainly not.

Once Sebastian gets up to his seventh floor apartment (hence the film’s Spanish title, as well as its alternate title, 7th Floor), we meet his adorable kids, Luna (Charo Dolz Doval) and Luca (Abel Dolz Doval), as well as his put-upon ex-wife, Delia (Belén Rueda). There’s still lots of simmering tension in the relationship, mostly due to the fact that Sebastian is a pompous ass who’s constantly running late, although more for the fact that he steadfastly refuses to sign the paperwork that will allow Delia to move herself and the kids to Spain (they all currently reside in Buenos Aires), so that she can take care of her ailing father. Sebastian is, above all else, a deeply selfish man, however, and he has no intention of making anything easy for his ex.

On the day of a particularly high-profile case, however, Sebastian’s life hits a bit of a speed-bump. Humoring his children, the lawyer lets them race down the stairs while he takes the elevator, the exact same “game” that Delia has previously complained about being “too dangerous.” Beating them to the lobby, Sebastian waits around until he gets a troublesome notion: the kids aren’t coming down. From this point, Luna and Luca’s father flies into a mad frenzy of activity, frantically searching his apartment building for any sign of his kids, all while trying to avoid alerting Delia to the present crisis. Enlisting a resident police office, Rosales (Osvaldo Santoro), for help, Sebastian questions his neighbors, many of whom seem to be decidedly odd, suspicious people. As the clock continues to tick down, the obnoxious lawyer must learn to rely on the help of others, even as he seeks to unravel the mystery of his kids’ disappearance. Is this related to his high-profile case? Does Rosales know more than he’s letting on? And, most importantly: will Sebastian and Delia ever see their children again?

Up until the midpoint revelation, Septimo is an endlessly tense, nail-biting bit of cinema, easily comparable to the work of fellow Argentinian Adrián García Bogliano (there are bits and pieces of his Cold Sweat (2010) and Penumbra (2011) littered through Septimo’s DNA). The acting is uniformly solid, with Darín and Rueda being easy standouts as the parents. There’s a real art-form to playing an asshole character (too much on either side and the character becomes either completely unbearable or thoroughly unrealistic) and Darín hits the bulls-eye with what seems to be studied ease. It’s all in the margins for the character: we get enough casual exposition to establish Sebastian’s more douche-bag tendencies (his infidelity with Delia’s best friend, his casually dismissive interactions with anyone “below” his station) but he fills in the spaces with some truly subtle mannerisms that are almost subliminal. We can see that Sebastian is an asshole but, more importantly, we can feel that he’s an asshole: as far as I’m concerned, that’s great characterization, right there.

For her part, Rueda’s Delia is a massively complex character, made more so by the fact that we spend so little time with her compared to Sebastian: like Sebastian, we pick up much of our impressions of her from the margins, with the added benefit of the surprise “revelations” of the mystery format. There’s a subtle sense of downplaying that really works with Rueda’s performance: she dials it back enough that, when Delia needs to let loose, her outbursts actually come with a little punch. Call it the benefit of knowing when to turn the knobs to 11 and when to exercise a little restraint.

The rest of the cast does equally admirable work, albeit in much smaller doses. Osvaldo Santoro is extremely charismatic as the gruff, no-nonsense police officer, while Luis Ziembrowski manages to make the character of the landlord seem kindly, sympathetic and a tad bit sinister. Perhaps most impressively, the Dovals do fantastic work as the children, Luna and Luca. Oftentimes, child performers are the weak link in any production: it pretty much comes with the territory. In this case, however, Abel and Charo hit every single required beat, managing to walk a tight line between adorable urchins and actual flesh-and-blood people.

If I have any real complaints with Septimo, they lie more with what is being expressed than how it’s being expressed (although I’ll freely admit that the midpoint resolution and resulting “twist” ending did nothing for me and actually knocked the film down a peg or two, in my mind). While I won’t give away the final revelation (astute viewers will probably be able to piece at least part of it together well before the final act), suffice to say that it felt more than a little misogynistic and casually cruel, at least to this viewer. It seems that Amezcua went out of his way to establish Sebastian as an unrepentant cad throughout the film, only to suddenly end up in his corner by the finale. It feels a little unfair, sure, but it also feels as if it blatantly disregards many of the subtle points that have been raised throughout the rest of the film. I’m not sure if Amezcua was making an actual point or whether I just read a bit too much into it: regardless, this ended up leaving a distinctly bad taste in my mouth that impacted my overall impression.

Slightly muddled message aside, there’s an awful lot to like here. As stated earlier, the first 40+ minutes of the film are some of the tightest, most tense and atmospheric that I’ve seen recently: I don’t throw that Hitchcock stuff around lightly, after all. When Darín is frantically racing around his apartment building, barging into locked residences and alternately cajoling and threatening anyone who crosses his path, there’s a sweaty, adrenalized sense of panic to the proceedings that are pure cinematic bliss. Perhaps it was asking a bit much for Amezcua and company to sustain that fever pitch for the entirety of the film but I still can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Here’s to hoping that, next time around, Amezcua lets us all twist on the hook just a little longer.

6/23/14: Ol’ Hitch Would Be Proud

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Alex Winter, Alfred Hitchcock, Allen Leech, Best of 2013, cinema, classical music, Damien Chazelle, Dee Wallace, Don McManus, Elijah Wood, Eugenio Mira, favorite films, Film, film festival favorite, film reviews, Grand Piano, Hitchcock films, John Cusack, Kerry Bishe, Movies, mystery, pianist, piano, sniper, split-screen, suspense, Tamsin Egerton, thriller, Timecrimes, Tom Selznick

Whenever I think about suspense films, there’s always one name that’s on the tip of my brain: Alfred Hitchcock. It should go without saying that Hitchcock was one of the greatest directors to ever walk this planet, a master craftsman who was probably only equalled by fellow artisans like Stanley Kubrick, Akira Kurosawa and Ingmar Bergman. For my money, however, ol’ Hitch is also the greatest director of suspense films, hands down. Hitchcock films are perfectly wound, intricate clockwork puzzles, designed for maximum audience reaction and as close to perfect examples of sustained/released tension as I think it’s possible to create. His method of operation is best described by his famous example of the difference between “surprise” and suspense.” To paraphrase: if two people are sitting at a cafe table and suddenly blow up, that’s surprise…if the audience sees that there’s a bomb underneath the table but the characters don’t, however, that’s suspense. In one instance, you get the momentary shock of surprise, which is a fleeting rush. On the other hand, however, you can continue to build tension, dragging out the scene until the audience is practically screaming at the screen: this is a longer process and requires more patience but the payoff, ultimately, is that much greater. Hitchcock was practically peerless in letting audiences stew in their own juices.

Hitchcock, obviously, was a pretty one-of-a-kind filmmaker, a true auteur. Despite this indisputable fact, however, why would I begin a review of Eugenio Mira’s extraordinary new film, Grand Piano (2013), with a bunch of praise for an unrelated filmmaker who died when Mira was all of three years old? Regardless of how extraordinary I find Hitchcock to be, how much could he actually have to do with Mira’s film? Let’s put it this way: Hitchcock may not have had anything to do with Grand Piano but his fingerprints, style and sense of humor are all over the film. In many ways, Grand Piano is one of the very best films that ol’ Hitch never made, a meticulously crafted, unbelievably tense and remarkably plotted work of art that showcases a pair of actors at the top of their craft and gives audiences one completely unforgettable thrill ride. I’d heard good things about the film before going in but this was one situation where the hype should have been a whole lot louder.

Master pianist Tom Selznick (Elijah Wood) has come out of a five-year retirement in order to perform for a packed audience that includes his adoring, extremely famous actress spouse, Emma (Kerry Bishe). Tom quit the business after screwing up a complicated piece, humiliated by his public miscue. He’s here tonight, however, and playing his dead mentor’s priceless grand piano: the smell of redemption is in the air and Tom is feeling pretty great. As he turns the page on his sheet music, however, he comes across an ominous declaration, written in red across the page: “Play one wrong note and you die.” Subsequent notes lead him to understand that a mysterious sniper has both Tom and his wife in his sights and won’t hesitate to shoot them if Tom makes any mistakes. After being directed to grab an earpiece from his dressing room, Tom is finally in vocal contact with the mysterious man (John Cusack). The rules are simple: make one mistake, say one thing, try to attract attention in any way at all or disobey a single order…and Tom’s a dead man. But the show must go on: Tom’s audience may be captivated but he’s a captive and will do whatever it takes to get out.

Grand Piano takes an extremely simple, if ludicrous, premise (concert pianist held captive by sniper during live performance) and manages to turn it into one of the thorniest, wildest, most wonderful and flat-out impressive films I’ve ever seen. No joke: the film is an instant classic and, were it not for the prevalence and necessity of modern technology like cell phones, would seem almost timeless. Chalk that up to a few different things. On one hand, you have an outstanding lead duo with Elijah Wood and John Cusack: the two have more chemistry as adversaries than most romantic pairings I’ve seen lately. Wood has been on a bit of a career renaissance of late, with his performance in Franck Khalfoun’s outstanding Maniac (2012) being a particular highlight. His performance as Tom is just as good, although much more restrained (obviously). If anything, he definitely brought to mind the hassled heroism of someone like James Stewart, driving home that whole Hitchcock connection. Cusack has also been shying away from the roles that made him a mega-star in the ’80s and ’90s, becoming a bit of a brooding hero/anti-hero in film’s as diverse as Lee Daniels The Paperboy (2012), The Factory (2012), The Numbers Station (2013), Adult World (2013), The Frozen Ground (2013) and The Bag Man (2014). His performance as Clem is one of his very best “bad guy” roles, easily the equal of his work as the villainous Robert Hansen in The Frozen Ground. Cusack has the doubly-difficult task of being able to use only his voice for the vast majority of the film: it’s to his great credit that every slimy aspect of Clem comes through the earpiece loud and clear, without the benefits of body language or facial expression. Quite simply, Wood and Cusack are extraordinary in the film, each one so perfectly cast that it, again, reminds one of Hitchcock’s meticulous way with his actors.

Despite the film’s remarkably small, intimate set-up, it’s far from a two-man show. More than able support comes in the form of Kerry Bishe, whose Emma manages to seem fully actualized with a rather minimal amount of screentime. Also impressive are Tamsin Egerton, as Emma’s brash sister Ashley, and Alan Leech, as Ashley’s boyfriend Wayne. The duo add quite a bit of genuine humor to the film, as well as some surprising pathos, later on. They aren’t big roles, by any stretch of the term, but they are exceptionally important roles: there are no throwaway pieces in Mira’s intricate jigsaw puzzle of a film. Every actor, just like every camera angle and line of dialogue, is perfectly calibrated to offer maximum impact. One of the neatest touches? Bill and Ted’s Alex Winters as the assistant. As always, it makes me wish he acted more often, since it’s a perfectly nuanced performance. Even a seemingly disposable role like the janitor who shakes his head disapprovingly at Tom is given considerable class when played by a veteran character actor like Jim Arnold: it’s a great touch that really speaks to a rock-solid cast.

Not only is Grand Piano exquisitely cast, however, but it’s immaculately crafted, possessing some truly gorgeous cinematography and an excellent sound design that seems tailor-made for amps that go to 11. I’ve driven home the Hitchcock references time and time again but I’ll hammer it one more time: quite simply, Grand Piano looks like one of Hitchcock’s classic films. There’s a richness of image and color, a vibrancy and life that instantly recalls the Golden Age of Hollywood. As enamored as I was with the story, it would have been impossible to tear my eyes from the screen, regardless, thanks to how great everything looked. There’s one moment in the film where a shot organically becomes a split screen: I’m not quite sure how it’s done but I do know that it’s audacious, eye-catching and completely badass. It’s the kind of moment that makes films so much fun and Grand Piano is full of them.

Truth be told, Grand Piano really knocked my socks off. By the time the film revs up to full speed, it’s absolutely unstoppable, one fist-raising moment after another. It’s no hyperbole to say that I was on the edge of my seat the whole time because I literally was: it would have been impossible for me to sit back if I tried. Like the best of Hitchcock’s films, Grand Piano is imminently watchable, a 90 minute thrill-ride that feels like 45. Not only is Grand Piano tense and thrilling, however, but it’s also whip-smart: this is not the typical “dumb people do dumb things to advance the plot” film. This is much closer to an intricately plotted heist film, where every little detail and tidbit is part of the scheme, every throw-away factoid is actually a clue to the bigger picture. Regardless of how initially ridiculous any one set-piece in Grand Piano is (and there are some real corkers, let me tell ya), the movie handles everything with such a consistent sense of intelligence and rationality that I was inclined to believe all of it: why not?

I’ve tried to be as purposefully vague with plot details as possible so as to preserve as many of the film’s genuine surprises as I can: this is a film that will surprise you, time and again, so the less known, the better. The only things that you really need to know are that Grand Piano is an astounding film, Eugenio Mira is absolutely a director to keep an eye on and that you’re pretty much guaranteed to have a blast while watching. I don’t pretend to speak for Alfred Hitchcock in any way, shape or form but I’m pretty sure that Hitch would give this his seal of approval. At the very least, he’d take one look at Eugenio Mira and say, “Now there’s a man who understands the difference between surprise and suspense.”

1/25/14: The Father of the Giallo

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1960's films, Alfred Hitchcock, auteur theory, cinema, Dario Argento, Film, Film auteurs, foreign films, giallo, Italian cinema, John Saxon, Mario Bava, Movies, murder-mystery, suspense, The Evil Eye, The Girl Who Knew Too Much

As a huge fan of Italian cinema, particularly in its glorious ’50s-’70s heyday, there are a few auteurs that I hold especially dear to my heart: Sergio Leone, Federico Fellini, Vittorio de Sica and, of course, Mario Bava. As spiritual (and technical) forefather to the more extreme Italian horror directors that would follow, including his own son Lamberto, Dario Argento, Lucio Fulci, Umberto Lenzi, and Michele Soavi, Bava was a fascinating bridge between more classical filmmaking styles and the rougher, edgier fare that would begin to permeate the genre by the mid-’70s.

If Bava, himself, was a transitional figure in Italian cinema, than his 1963 mystery The Girl Who Knew Too Much (cut and re-released in America as The Evil Eye, which should be summarily avoided) functioned as a transitional film within his own catalog. For one thing, The Girl Who Knew Too Much would be Bava’s last black and white film: his very next release would be the landmark anthology film Black Sabbath, marking his first foray into the world of Technicolor. This might have been sad news for those who looked forward to another black and white world as lush and atmospheric as the one presented in Black Sunday but it also opened the door wide for my personal favorite Bava film, Planet of the Vampires: this cotton-candy nightmare was a direct inspiration for Ridley Scott’s Alien and should be required viewing for anyone who has even a passing interest in cinematic sci-fi.

More importantly, however, The Girl Who Knew Too Much is generally regarded as the first giallo, although it’s a much more gentle affair than any of the films that would follow it. Bava’s best giallo is probably Blood and Black Lace, since I’ve always considered Bay of Blood to be a proto-slasher as opposed to a true giallo. Although Bava would only make two giallos in his long career (three if you count Five Dolls for an August Moon but that’s more bizarro spy story than anything else), he would serve as an undeniable influence on the man who would become the undisputed master of the giallo: Dario Argento.

But enough backstory, already: how about the actual film? While it may be of slightly more interest historically, The Girl Who Knew Too Much still holds up today as a pleasant, if slightly weightless, mystery/thriller.  Nora, an American tourist, is on a vacation in Rome when things begin to get a little crazy. She’s come to stay with Ethel, a dear old friend who also happens to have a bad heart. Handsome Dr. Marcello Bassi (John Saxon, making about as effective an Italian here as he made a Mexican in Joe Kidd) is taking care of her but, alas, Ethel is not long for this world: that night, she passes away before Nora can administer her medicine.

After imagining that Ethel’s body has inexplicably moved (shades of Black Sabbath), Nora runs in terror from the house, only to get mugged and knocked unconscious. When she comes to, she witnesses what appears to be a man killing a woman before dragging her body away. Not sure whether this is all real or the result of head trauma, Nora pursues the mystery, dragging new beau Marcello along for the ride. Along the way, she meets Laura, a strange friend of Ethel’s and a shadowy reporter named Landini, either one of whom may have more to do with the mystery than they let on. Has Nora actually witnessed a murder? Could she have seen a ghost? Who keeps sneaking around her house at night? And what, if anything, does a hobo’s daughter have to do with anything?

While not a mind-blowing film, The Girl Who Knew Too Much is quite good, reminding me more than once of a Bava homage to Alfred Hitchcock. Even the title seems to reference Hitchcock’s own The Man Who Knew Too Much. One scene, at the beginning, made me think directly of the suspense master: Nora has (inadvertently) been carrying around a cigarette pack full of marijuana and realizes it just as she is about to go through security. We watch as she slowly works the pack out of her pocket and drops it, centimeter by centimeter down her leg, lower and lower, until it finally drops onto the floor. Relieved, she walks away, only to have a friendly security guard immediately hand her back the pack she “dropped.” It’s a genius moment and I could practically feel ol’ Alfred grinning from the afterlife.

There’s another nice moment where Nora sets up a trap that she read about in a mystery novel. She decides that it’s safe to try the trap, since the novel has yet to be published in Italy. “Killers don’t read mystery novels,” the narrator helpfully adds, putting the audience at ease.  Poor John Saxon getting caught in the elaborate web of strings and tripwires when he goes to check on Nora is, if you think about it, the only acceptable way for that situation to end. There’s also a great reveal as the camera swoops through a closed-door, showing the audience a photograph that would explain everything to Nora…if she could only swoop through that locked door, of course.

All in all, The Girl Who Knew Too Much is a good film, filled with some decent performances, some great music (the opening theme is so brassy and sleazy that I automatically figured this would be grittier than it really is) and a pretty lo-cal, Scooby Doo-ish mystery. As a work that not only gestured at Bava’s past but also pointed towards his epic future, The Girl Who Knew Too Much is important for not just Bava completeists but anyone interested in Italian cinema, in general.

Just remember: be sure not to accept strange packs of cigarettes from handsome strangers on airplanes. As Nora found out, that’s always how trouble starts.