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.

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2/22/15: Growing Up, Moving On

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2014 Academy Awards, 87th Annual Academy Awards, absentee father, abusive relationships, Andrew Villarreal, Barbara Chisholm, Best Director nominee, Best Film Editing nominee, Best Original Screenplay nominee, Best Picture nominee, Best Supporting Actor nominee, Best Supporting Actress winner, Boyhood, Brad Hawkins, brother-sister relationships, Cambell Westmoreland, Cassidy Johnson, Charlie Sexton, cinema, coming of age, divorced parents, dramas, dysfunctional family, Elijah Smith, Ellar Coltrane, Ethan Hawke, father-son relationships, film reviews, films, Jamie Howard, Jenni Tooley, Jessi Mechler, Libby Villari, Lorelei Linklater, Marco Perella, mother-son relationships, Movies, multiple award nominee, Patricia Arquette, relationship, Richard Linklater, single mother, Sinjin Venegas, Steven Prince, Tom McTigue, Zoe Graham

From the outside, indie film wunderkind Richard Linklater’s Boyhood (2014) seems like a pretty impossible endeavor: filmed over the course of 12 years with the same cast, the film purports to follow young Mason (Ellar Coltrane) from his childhood all the way to his 18th birthday, as he leaves for college. Along the way, we get to witness Mason (and his family) growing up before our very eyes, the passage of time marked by such, real-world indicators as growing taller, sprouting facial hair or any of the endless ways in which children become adults. It’s an impressive bit of filmcraft, no two ways about it, the kind of thing that would, no doubt, earn an appreciative thumbs-up from an experimental filmmaker like Terrence Malick. While the final result ends up being no different from a thousand other coming of age tales, it does nothing to take away from Linklater’s achievement: as the press states, there really hasn’t been another film like this and it’s doubtful there will be another quite like it in the future.

Structured in a loosely chronological manner, albeit one devoid of any easy time demarcations (there are no “Two years later” notes, time/date indicators or anything so obvious, although the use of pop music and culture helps to ground the film’s time-frame in a thoroughly organic manner), we follow young Mason, his slightly older sister, Samantha (Lorelei Linklater), his single mother, Liv (Patricia Arquette) and his absentee father, Mason Senior (Ethan Hawke), as they all go about the process of living their lives. Samantha begins as a shrill, obnoxious kid and grows into a smart, droll and laid-back young woman. We watch Liv’s journey as she progresses from divorced, single mother to new college student and, later, college professor: along the way, she bounces from one bad, abusive relationship to the next, first with her alcoholic professor/husband, Bill (Marco Perella), later with a damaged, former soldier (Brad Hawkins). We see how Mason Senior moves from an aimless, perpetually restless, politically-active roustabout to a centered, responsible fellow with a new family and a desire to get it all right, at least the second time around.

The majority of our focus, of course, is reserved for the film’s subject, young Mason. We follow him through all the vagaries of childhood: first love, schoolyard bullies, family problems, sibling rivalries, making (and losing) friends, developing his own interests and viewpoints (albeit with more than a little influence from his father’s fiery rhetoric) and, finally, leaving the nest to strike out into the world and make his own mark. Through it all, Coltrane proves to be a more than capable actor, as comfortable with the film’s bigger emotional beats (the abusive home situation) as he is with the subtler ones (the scene where he hangs out in an abandoned house with older boys and talks about girls, for one). It’s to Coltrane’s great credit that the young performer always feels authentic: there’s an inherent danger with child actors that they’ll come across as stiff or unrealistic but that’s never a problem here.

To be honest, aside from the over-familiarity of the film, there’s very little to complain about here. The acting is uniformly solid, even if none of the performances really distinguish themselves from the others: while Arquette won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her performance here, all of the acting is similarly realistic…there were no real standouts, at least from my perspective. The film looks great, with some nice, vibrant colors and the sound design is quite exceptional: the film is very music-oriented (as is much of Linklater’s output) and the use of pop music to establish the time-frame is nicely realized.

Personally, I’ve never been the biggest Linklater fan: I’ve always found Slacker (1991) to be thoroughly underwhelming and Dazed and Confused (1993) has always placed well behind Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) in my personal playbook. To be honest, my favorite Linklater film is actually Bernie (2011), which is probably the least representative film in his canon. My major issue has always been that his films seem more content to keep up a constant verbal barrage than to actually mean anything: it’s always come across as a ridiculously pompous combination of Kevin Smith and John Cassavetes, at least to my non-discerning ears. While Boyhood is less guilty of this than past films, there’s still plenty of wheel-spinning, especially once we get to Mason’s numerous “philosophical” discussions with girlfriend Sheena (Zoe Graham).

Ultimately, I enjoyed Boyhood, although I certainly wouldn’t rank it as one of the best films of 2014: minus the “twelve years” gimmick, there really wasn’t anything here that I hadn’t seen before, certainly no great “insights” into growing up. In many ways, this was very much a basic coming-of-age film with a slightly glossier top-coat. I was also rather unhappy that Arquette’s character, essentially, was summed up by her various bad relationship choices: it seems slightly mean-spirited that the film allows her to progress from single mother to student to college professor, only for her to keep making the exact same relationship mistakes at each and every turn. It’s almost as if the film is saying that no matter how much Liv progresses, learns or grows, she’s still just a woman who needs a guy in order to feel complete…and can’t even pick a “good” one, to boot. Her final breakdown seems even more reductive, in this light, as if her entire life is defined by others, whether husbands, boyfriends or her own kids.

There’s a lot to like here, without a doubt: very rarely has a family/relationship drama felt this realistic and the actors all have tremendous chemistry together. At the end of the day, however, Boyhood is not appreciably better (or more insightful) than any number of similar films: at the end of the day, I have to wonder…was it worth the twelve years?

2/17/15: Where Eagles Dare

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21 Grams, 87th Annual Academy Awards, Academy Award Nominee, Alejandro González Iñárritu, Alexander Dinelaris, Amores Perros, Amy Ryan, Andrea Riseborough, Antonio Sanchez, Armando Bo, art films, auteur theory, Babel, backstage drama, Best of 2014, Birdman, Biutiful, Broadway play, cinema, co-writers, colorful films, difficult actors, divorced parents, Edward Norton, Emma Stone, Emmanuel Lubezki, father-daughter relationships, favorite films, Film auteurs, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, glory days, hallucinations, infidelity, insanity, Lindsay Duncan, mental breakdown, meta-films, Michael Keaton, Mike Shiner, Movies, multiple award nominee, multiple writers, Naomi Watts, Nicolás Giacobone, Raymond Carver, Riggan Thomson, single-take shots, superheroes, washed-up actors, writer-director, Zach Galifianakis

Amidst the stunning technical razzle-dazzle of auteur Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman (2014), there’s one scene that, perhaps more than others, exemplifies how truly impressive the film is: after discovering the remains of a joint in the possession of his fresh-out-of-rehab daughter, Sam (Emma Stone), washed-up Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) explodes into a mess of self-righteous fury, blaming her for trying to scuttle his chance at a comeback, only to have her turn the tables by giving as good as she gets. Sam slashes her blowhard, absentee dad to the bone, reminding him of just how irrelevant he really is, how little he matters in the larger scheme of the world.

After all, what makes him any different from the faceless slobs who live, toil and die in anonymity: what kind of massive, sick ego makes him think that any of his shit is more important than anyone else’s? The camera stays on Sam after she finishes her rant, however, allowing us to see the pain and sympathy that’s crept over her formerly hard, angry features. Everything she’s said is true, no two ways about it: Riggan doesn’t really have anyone but himself to blame for his current situation. But words can hurt as much as weapons and the instant regret that we see is confirmed when the camera finally turns to show the defeated, shamed shell of a man who stands before her. It’s a lot easier to “cut someone down to size” if you don’t have to actually look them in the eyes, after all.

Much of the attention centered around Iñárritu’s extraordinary follow-up to Biutiful (2010) will probably center around two key elements: the film’s duly mind-blowing cinematography and technical polish and Michael Keaton’s all-in lead performance. To be fair, there’s certainly nothing wrong with that reaction: the filmcraft is masterful and Keaton hasn’t been this commanding since the ’90s. In fact, on the first go-through, both of these aspects loom so large that it might be difficult to focus on everything else. This is tunnel-vision, however, since multiple viewings reveal an endless variety of subtle details, outstanding performances and sly commentary on everything from the nature of celebrity to the virtue of sacrifice and the dangers of complacency. In every way, shape and form, Birdman is an extraordinary film, one of the very best of 2014 and, quite possibly, one of the biggest “no-brainers” for early inclusion into the canon of classic cinema. For the fifth time, in a row, Iñárritu has delivered something unforgettable: how’s that for consistency?

Birdman follows (quite literally) the aforementioned Riggan, a former shining star in Hollywood who portrayed the titular superhero in three blockbuster films before hanging up the costume in order to focus on more “serious” pursuits. We know how this story always ends, however: the general public is much more interested in superhero punch-ups than maudlin drama, so Riggan has seen his star gradually fade as he’s distanced himself from the multiplex junk that used to pay the bills. In a final, desperate bid for relevance, Riggan has turned the Raymond Carver story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,” into a Broadway show, which he directs and stars in.

When one of Riggan’s co-stars, Ralph (Jeremy Shamos), is taken out of commission by a falling stage light, he’s forced to come up with a replacement at incredibly short notice. Ralph was a terrible actor, however, so Riggan is more than happy to have him gone: he’s even happier when another co-star, Lesley (Naomi Watts), is able to get her famous actor boyfriend, Mike Shiner (Edward Norton), to agree to step in. Riggan’s best friend/producer/lawyer, Jake (Zach Galifianakis), is thrilled with the development, since Shiner has instant name appeal and will help give the production the visibility it desperately needs, with opening night on the horizon.

Turns out, however, that Mike is a pretty terrible person: egomaniacal, given to violent, drunken outbursts and so shifty and backhanded as to be one step removed from an outright villain, Mike is a human wrecking ball and the last thing that a struggling play needs. He’s big in the theater world, however, which is what Riggan needs if he’s going to win over people like stodgy, unpleasant critic Tabitha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan), a Broadway power-broker whose poison pen can either make or kill a production, regardless of its relative merits.

As Riggan juggles all of this, he must also deal with his caustic, perpetually unpleasant daughter/assistant, Sam; his concerned ex-wife, Sylvia (Amy Ryan); his pregnant girlfriend/co-star, Laura (Andrea Riseborough); his own feelings of inadequacy and anger, as well as his increasingly precarious mental state. You see, while all of this is going on, Riggan is constantly harassed, mocked, pestered and belittled by his gruff-voiced Birdman alter-ego: Birdman doesn’t think Riggan is living up to his full potential and wants him to don the suit again, in order to resurrect both the feathered crime fighter and his own flat-lined career. As his world begins to collapse into chaos, Riggan becomes increasingly unfettered from the constraints of reality: Riggan Thomson, the man, may be a laughing-stock but there still might be a chance for Birdman to swoop in and save the day. Will Riggan be able to stand his ground, defy the naysayers and fulfill his lifelong dream or will he retreat to the safety of public acceptance and weekend box-office returns?

Right off the bat, Birdman looks and sounds amazing: while the Academy doesn’t always (or often) get their nominations right, I don’t think anyone can deny that Iñárritu’s film absolutely deserved nods for legendary cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki’s camera-work, as well as the truly impressive sound design. While the single-take element of the film was thoroughly impressive the first time I watched it, I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing subtle cuts: there was no way it could all be one take. After watching it a second time and really focusing on the cinematography, however, I’m pretty sure I’m dead wrong: with the exception of the obvious cuts at the beginning and end, as well as a small handful of moments during the film (the genius transition into the bar, a possible moment where the camera passes into darkness), I’m pretty sure this was all done as a single-take. In a word: wow.

The sheer level of planning and raw talent that goes into planning something like this is truly mind-blowing, especially when one considers the frequency of mirror shots in the film, the seamless integration of CGI elements and the overall length of the piece: DePalma gets plenty of love for his long, single-take scenes but that’s child’s play compared to what Iñárritu and Lubezki come up with here. Even though the camera can’t cut, we still need to be able to transition to other characters, locations, and time spans: it’s in these moments where the film really flexes its considerable muscles. Employing a technique whereby the camera follows one character before “jumping” to another, we seamlessly follow the action from Point A to Point Z, giving us a complete overview of everything that’s happening. It’s dizzying but, once you surrender to it, completely intoxicating: there’s a flow and poetry to Birdman’s camera movement that manages to blur the line between fiction and fact, audience and actors. We’ve seldom been this close to the action and it’s a helluva feeling.

The other benefit to the single-take approach is that it puts a premium on the entire cast’s performances: despite being the “subject” of the film, Keaton’s Riggan is absolutely not the only element that “matters.” Since Iñárritu and Lubezki can’t fall back on the traditional back-and-forth cutting element of most cinematic conversations, we get whole scenes where the camera focuses exclusively on one character, allowing us to see the full range of their emotions. The aforementioned scene with Sam reading her dad the riot act is an obvious highlight but the film is chockfull of scenes just like that. Each and every performer in Birdman needs to be “on” in every scene, making this one of the most masterfully acted films in some time.

While Norton is pretty great as the unrepentant shithead know-it-all and Stone is superb as the broken-down but defiant Sam, the film is full of wonderful performances. I’ve never been the biggest fan of Galifianakis, finding him to be one of the most annoyingly one-note performers to come down the pike in some time but his performance as Jake is, easily, a career highlight: for the first time, Galifianakis actually comes across as a real person, rather than a blustery caricature, and it works marvelously. Naomi Watts brings a genuine sense of pain to her portrayal of Mike’s long-suffering girlfriend and the scene where she breaks down is truly difficult to watch. By contrast, Andrea Riseborough isn’t given nearly enough to do as Riggan’s girlfriend, which is a shame: the few moments where the film focuses on her are some of its most impactful scenes. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t throw a little praise at Lindsay Duncan, who manages to make Tabitha one of the most effortlessly loathsome characters in quite a while. The scene where she, matter-of-factly, tells Riggan how she plans to ruin him, without even giving him the benefit of the doubt, works on a number of levels and she proves integral to the film’s internal machinations.

While the cinematography and acting are out-of-this-world, the rest of Birdman’s filmcraft ably follows suit. The sound design is quite genius and impossibly immersive: the way in which the non-diegetic, percussive score (courtesy of Antonio Sanchez) seamlessly becomes diegetic is a brilliant way to illustrate Riggan’s growing mental divide and used to great effect. The film is also full of so many smart background details, immaculate production design and vibrant colors that the entire film seems to be a constantly breathing, shifting organism: my second viewing revealed so many details that I missed the first time around, it makes me wonder what the fifth viewing will reveal. One of my favorite, subtle bits is the “A thing is a thing, not what people say it is” placard that’s tucked into the corner of Riggan’s dressing room mirror.

The script, credited to four writers (including Iñárritu), constantly loops and wraps around itself: while the film is fairly linear, it’s anything but straight-forward. The parallels between the on-stage world of Riggan’s play and the “real world” of his life are subtle but they help to establish the kind of complex intertexuality that’s so key to filmmakers like Charlie Kaufman and Spike Jonze. Despite how “tricky” the film is, it never feels pretentious or overly showy: indeed, Iñárritu and crew have created an “art film” that manages to feel decidedly down-to-earth, despite its more fantastic flights of fancy.

And, of course, there’s that central performance by Keaton: a former superstar, himself, Keaton IS Birdman and wears the character like a second skin. I’ve heard some critics say that Keaton is a “character actor” and, therefore, not worthy of Academy consideration for his performance. This, of course, is the exact same insult that Tabitha tosses in Riggan’s face like acid: he’s a “celebrity,” not an actor. Just as in the film, the condemnation holds no water: the quality of a performance has nothing to do with the performer and everything to do with the performance, itself. Keaton displays a range and depth, here, that’s consistent with some of the best performances of the year: while I’m not sure that his was the “best,” it was certainly one of the strongest of the year and eminently worthy of award consideration.

All in all, Birdman is a hell of a film: eye-popping, deliciously dark and surprisingly funny, it’s the kind of film that usually gets ignored by the mainstream, which makes its nine Oscar nominations a bit of a head-scratcher. I’m not saying that it doesn’t deserve all of them (even without seeing all of the nominees, I know that Birdman belongs there) but I’m certainly surprised. For my money, Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler (2014) has a slight (ever so slight) edge over Iñárritu’s latest but that, ultimately, says more about my particular sensibilities than anything: in most ways, the two titans line up pretty evenly, at least in my book.

At the end of the day, Birdman is a towering achievement, a film about the vagaries of backstage life that easily rivals predecessors like Noises Off (1992) and Living in Oblivion (1995). It’s a film about the eternal, pointless crusade for cultural immortality, the never-ending war between “art” and “commerce” that’s split the art community since at least the Middle Ages. It’s a film about accepting one’s place in the world, while refusing to stop reaching for the stars. It’s a film about a father and daughter taking the first, tentative, painful steps towards reconciliation. It’s about ego, self-sacrifice and the need to be loved by someone, anyone, before we shuffle off this mortal coil. Iñárritu’s Birdman is an ambitious, exquisitely made love letter to dreamers, dabblers and the people who love (and hate) them, set against the bustling crowds and marquees of Broadway.

It’s a one-of-a-kind film which, I suppose, makes it just another day at the office for Iñárritu.

2/2/15 (Part Two): No Justice…Just Us

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Alejandra Yañez, Alejandro Fernández Almendras, Ariel Mateluna, based on a true story, bullies, Cape Fear, Chilean films, cinema, Daniel Antivilo, Daniel Candia, Death Wish, divorced parents, family, family in crisis, father-son relationships, fighting back, film reviews, films, foreign films, forest ranger, guilt, harassment, ineffectual cops, Inti Briones, Jennifer Salas, justice, masculinity, Movies, Pablo Vergara, rape, revenge, set in Chile, Straw Dogs, thugs, To Kill a Man, vigilante, vigilantism, writer-director-editor

Most of the time, cinematic evil is pretty flashy, memorable and, let’s face it, kinda cool: it’s the Bond super-villain plotting the world’s destruction from the comfort of his high-tech, fortified island estate…the suave, dastardly mustache-twirler butting heads with the hardy hero…the badass monster with acid for blood and a hankering for humans…the evil genius who’s constantly building killer robots, turning people into zombies and infecting the water supply with some sort of designer mega-virus. Take a minute to think about which characters in any Nightmare on Elm Street film are more interesting: the bland, anonymous victims or wise-crackin’, ultra-cool Freddy? Evil may be something to overcome (most of the time) but that doesn’t mean it can’t be gussied up with some sweet duds and an enviable haircut.

In the real world, however, true evil is rarely as “cool” as movies make it out to be. In fact, true evil, for the most part, is exceptionally banal: it’s the bureaucrat moving “casualties” from one column to the next…the terrorist who kills based on dogma…the egomaniacal dictator who rules by virtue of having the most guns, not the best plan…the bored thrill-seekers just looking for something to do…the bullies who indiscriminately target the weak in an effort to make someone’s, anyone’s life more miserable than their own…the fat cats who relentlessly pad their own wallets at the expense of those around them…the companies dumping pollutants into the water and air. Real evil, for the most part, is boring, beige. True evil is also all but impossible to eradicate: you may be able to send in Rambo or Jason Bourne to take care of the cinematic baddies but it doesn’t work quite like that in the real world. Most of us are in no position to eliminate the day-to-day evils of the world: evil, like good, is just a fact of life.

Alejandro Fernández Almendras’ To Kill a Man (2014), which the Chilean director also wrote and edited, takes us right into the thick of real evil, showcasing the casual cruelty, misanthropy and harassment that often leads to violence, heart-break and death. There are no heroes here, just a desperate, broken-down father who tries (and fails) to protect his family. There are no super-villains, either, no suave harbingers of cool chaos for us to vicariously live through: the evil in To Kill a Man is earth-bound, sweaty, stupid and ugly, the product of generations of degradation, not a special serum or radioactive infection. There is nothing rousing, fist-raising or “epic” about the fight between good and evil in Almendras’ film: this is real evil, in all of its slouching, misshapen glory. There are no happy endings here because, in the real world, evil is seldom vanquished: it simply returns to the soil, like so much rot, in order to spring anew elsewhere. By removing feel-good notions of cosmic justice and the supposed balance between good and evil, Almendras lifts up the rock that is our world and let the hidden things spill out into the light: in the process, he creates one of the most powerful, tense and unpleasant films of the year, a funeral dirge for our modern age.

The protagonist of our little film, Jorge (Daniel Candia), is a mild-mannered forest ranger, father of two and loving husband. He’s soft-spoken, diabetic, gets his family whatever they want at the drop of a hat and seems like a genuinely nice guy. As with Paul Kersey in Death Wish (1974), however, this is not the kind of world for a meek, kind-hearted push-over: this is the jungle and the weaker animals are always prey for the stronger. In this case, the stronger animal is one Luis Alberto Alamos Alamos (Daniel Antivilo), also known as Kalule. Kalule and his gang of reprobates have recently taken over a small park in Jorge’s neighborhood and currently “rule” with an iron fist. No one is safe from their harassment, petty larceny and thuggish violence: think a meaner, stupider and crasser version of Alex’s droogs and you’ve on the right track.

One night, while passing through the park on his way home from work, Jorge happens to run afoul of Kalule and his “boys.” At first, the thugs just harass the poor guy, kicking a soccer ball at him, calling him names and cheerfully menacing him. When Jorge is forced to go back through the park later, however, in order to buy his son, Jorge (Ariel Mateluna) and his friends some beer, his second meeting with the gang isn’t quite as “pleasant.” The creeps surround Jorge, push him around and snatch his wallet, taking what they want and throwing the rest into the dirt. The scene is terrible and humiliating, with Jorge as defenseless as a small child, despite his status as patriarch of his household. To add insult to injury, Kalule refuses to take Jorge’s credit card (“I’d probably have to pay your bill,” he laughs) but does take the expensive blood tester that Jorge needs to help control his diabetes.

When Jorge gets home, he’s too devastated to even look his family in the eyes. His wife, Marta (Alejandra Yañez), and daughter, Nicole (Jennifer Salas), seem mortified and his son is pissed off and ready for action: he wants his dad to give him 5000 pesos so that he can go to the gang and, at the very least, negotiate the return of his dad’s tester. Jorge tells him to drop it which, of course, has the opposite desired effect: young Jorge sneaks out while his parents sleep and attempts to get his dad’s stuff back. When he finds out, Jorge rushes after his son, only to get to his side right after Kalule has shot him. While he watches, Kalule calmly shoots himself and then calls the police, claiming that Jorge’s son attacked him and he only shot in self-defense.

At the trial, Kalule continues to plead his innocence, even as he accepts a plea deal that would put him in prison for 1.5 years. Jorge’s family, for their part, is heartbroken: young Jorge has survived but his injuries have put an end to his schooling, dooming him to the same sort of lower-class life as his parents. Marta, meanwhile, has never stopped blaming Jorge for their son’s injury and the couple have since divorced, with the kids staying with their mother and Jorge taking up residence in a flea-bag motel. Faster than you can say “Cape Fear (1991),” however, Kalule is out of jail and looking to even the score with Jorge and his family. The thug begins a campaign of terror and harassment against the family that includes obscene phone calls, throwing rocks at their house and stalking young Nicole everywhere she goes. The police, so unhelpful during the original crime, are just as unhelpful now: regardless of how many complaints the family lodges, how many protection orders they get or how much they try to avoid Kalule and his gang, the authorities merely shrug their shoulders, leaving the family completely on their own.

As the pressure begins to wear on him, Jorge finds himself changing in subtle ways. After a confrontation with an asshole in the forest ends with Jorge chasing him off with a shotgun, however, the beleaguered father begins to feel empowered, if only ever so slightly. After Kalule and his men commit a shocking, vile and humiliating act against his daughter, however, Jorge finds himself at a crossroads: will he be able to continue taking the “high road,” hoping that the police will eventually do their job, or will he take matters into his own hands and try to make his own version of “justice?” When he finally does make a choice, Jorge’s decision will have a terrible, lasting impact on all those around him: there are no winners, here, only various shades of losers and wrecked human beings.

Lean, mean and consistently down-trodden, To Kill a Man is one of the finest examples of “feel bad” cinema I’ve seen in some time. Everything about the film is calculatedly to make the viewer feel as tense and uncomfortable as possible: the ominous score, all deep-voiced wind instruments and droning, low tones crawls under your skin and stays there…the violence, when it happens, is sudden, shocking and all-too realistic…the gang seem all-powerful and absolutely immoral, lending the film an overriding sense of futility…in every way possible, To Kill a Man is the epitome of a stacked deck.

Jorge, as portrayed by Candia, is a sympathetic, yet largely pathetic, character, a man who wants to believe in some notion of balance and justice yet keeps getting kicked in the nuts by the universe at every turn. Yañez, for her part, serves as surrogate for anyone taking the view that bullies need to be stood up to: the scene where Marta sneers at Jorge and warns him to beware of “mean kids in the park” is a real heart-breaker, since it just reinforces the notion that Jorge was too weak and not “masculine enough” to protect his family. We witness young Jorge go from the traditionally supportive son to a bitter, jaded shell of a man who holds his father in the same contempt that his mother does. And poor Nicole, so hopeful and positive, is absolutely destroyed by the violence and misogyny that swirls around her like a toxic cloud. This isn’t a family so much as three horses which, along with Kalule, are striving to pull Jorge to pieces.

While the acting is consistently strong and nicely understated, the cinematography, courtesy of Inti Briones, is a real thing of beauty. Time after time, Briones comes up with some truly gorgeous images: the shot of an automatic door slowly closing, only to stop midway, works on a number of levels, as does the awesome shot of Jorge’s truck disappearing backwards into the night, its wan headlights gradually swallowed in the same manner as Jorge’s rapidly dwindling humanity. The sense of framing is exquisite and the frequent close-ups, shot from odd angles, keep the constantly shifting power relationships as off-kilter as possible. As difficult as To Kill a Man is to sit through, content-wise, the film always looks and sounds amazing, a razor blade wrapped in a candy shell.

Ultimately, I was pretty blown away by Almendras’ film: while I’ve never been the biggest fan of what I like to call “hopeless cinema,” it’s impossible to deny the raw power of To Kill a Man. In many ways, the film is a modern successor to Death Wish, a searing, jagged examination of the destructive power of vengeance and what it means to be a “protector” in these violent times. While Jorge’s measured march to his own annihilation is painful to watch, it’s the kind of pain that any cinephile should force themselves to endure. At its core, To Kill a Man peels back humanity’s skin, revealing the coal-black heart that beats beneath. You may not necessarily “enjoy” the film but truth, like life, is often painful. Sometimes, you need that pain to appreciate everything else. Sometimes, that’s all there is.

1/3/15 (Part Three): Her Choice

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abortion, best friends, Best of 2014, Chris Teague, cinema, comedies, David Cross, directorial debut, divorced parents, Donna Stern, dramas, favorite films, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, Gabe Liedman, Gaby Hoffmann, Gillian Robespierre, Jake Lacy, Jenny Slate, mother-daughter relationships, Movies, Obvious Child, one-night-stands, parent-child relationships, Paul Briganti, Polly Draper, Richard Kind, romantic-comedies, stand-up comedians, Stephen Singer, strong female character, writer-director

Of the many subjects and issues that continue to be hot-button topics in our modern world, few have remained as controversial and divisive as the subject of abortion. Regardless of which side of the debate one finds themselves on, there can be no denying that abortion is a deeply personal decision for any woman to make: separated from notions of religion, politics or societal constraints, abortion is, fundamentally, about a woman’s body…it doesn’t get any more personal than that.

While Hollywood has had no problem dealing with the subject of abortion, any films about the subject are, for obvious reasons, usually dramas. To my knowledge, there’s really only been one abortion-themed comedy and that was Alexander Payne’s explicitly political satire Citizen Ruth (1996). This makes writer-director Gillian Robespierre’s Obvious Child (2014) even more of marvel: for what must be the first time, we have a brutally honest, romantic-comedy about a woman deciding to get an abortion that completely excises any notion of politics or outside factors. It’s simply a film about a woman navigating through life and the choices she makes along the way. It could have been a lot of things but Obvious Child ends up being genuinely funny, heart-felt, emotionally resonant, sweet and quietly insightful.

Donna Stern (Jenny Slate) is a stand-up comic who specializes in relationship-based material, along with a heaping helping of bathroom humor. When we first meet her, she’s just finished her set and her boyfriend, Ryan (Paul Briganti), has just dumped her: he blames the breakup on Donna’s hectic schedule and her constant airing of their dirty laundry on stage, although he also casually mentions that he’s sleeping with someone else. Whatta guy!

To make matters even worse, Donna finds out that she’s losing her job at a bookstore due to the landlord evicting them. Good thing she has the best support system in the entire world: best friend Nellie (Gabby Hoffmann), a hardcore feminist with a snarky sense of humor and zero tolerance for anyone who wants to mess with Donna. Donna’s parents are also in the scene, albeit divorced from one another: her mother, Nancy (Polly Draper), is an uptight professional who disapproves of Donna’s act, while her father, Jacob (Richard Kind), is laid-back and tells Donna that “adversity makes great art.”

In this case, however, Donna’s “adversity” leads her to get roaring drunk before her next performance and she delivers the kind of bitter, venomous and wildly offensive set (Holocaust jokes abound) that sends the audience heading for the door. Hanging around after the set with her gay comic friend, Joey (Gabe Liedman), Donna happens to run into a nice but nerdy computer programmer, Max (Jake Lacy). After a night of drunken shenanigans (the scene where Max and Donna pee outside is a minor classic) and some silly dancing, the couple wakes up in bed, the next morning.

Flash-forward a few weeks and Donna gets the news that she’s pregnant after her one-night-stand with Max. Although she immediately tells her doctor that she wants an abortion, Donna needs to wait a few weeks, since she’s only three weeks pregnant. This would put the procedure on Valentine’s Day, a bit of irony not lost on Donna after Max suddenly reappears in her life. He knows nothing about the pregnancy or Donna’s intended abortion but he’s sweet on her and wants to take her out for a “legitimate” date. As the date of her procedure approaches, Donna tries to navigate around Max, her friends and parents, all while trying to figure out what she really wants.

Obvious Child is really quite an extraordinary film: any synopsis of the movie, no matter how detailed, will always fail to convey all of the myriad little ways that it’s so special. Indeed, it’s all of the little details and elements of Robespierre’s debut feature that make it such an insightful, enjoyable and, ultimately, sweet film. In a year that was ridiculously rich with great debut films, Robespierre still manages to stand out with this completely self-assured bit of filmcraft.

The film has a whimsical quality that’s handily reflected in Chris Teague’s excellent cinematography: rather than resembling the stereotypical indie rom-com, Obvious Child looks great. In fact, some of the shots are actually quite beautiful, displaying a really nice sense of framing and space. It seems like an odd thing to hammer home, but the film really does look fantastic: it’s one of the first things I noticed and really made an impression on me.

Performances are key in something like this, however, and Robespierre gets some absolutely first-class work from a really great cast. Draper and Kind are both lots of fun as Donna’s parents: Draper, in particular, strikes just the right balance between disapproving authority figure and loving mother. Lacy is perfect as Donna’s one-night stand, managing to be equal parts nerdy, sweet and naive. Rather than coming across as the usual “white knight” cliché, Max always seems like a real person. Part of the film’s success from the authentic feel of Donna and Max’s halting courtship: if we didn’t buy Lacy as being genuinely nice, it wouldn’t give the film as much sting as it has. As Donna repeatedly states, Max was the nicest possible one-stand-stand she could have had…but he was still just a stranger. Lacy really plays out that facet of the character and it works beautifully. There’s also a really funny appearance by David Cross as an asshole who tries to seduce Donna, leading to one of the film’s funniest setpieces.

Let’s take a few moments to extol the virtues of Gabby Hoffmann’s slam-bang turn as Nellie, shall we? Hoffman has had a pretty extensive career in film, stretching all the way back to her big-screen debut in Field of Dreams (1989), but she’s rarely been as likable as she is here. Quirky, sarcastic and unflinchingly loyal, Nellie is the perfect complement to Donna and, quite frankly, one of the funnest characters in some time. The two really do come across as best friends, which lends the whole film an air of authenticity that really makes the emotional beats hit hard. Were it not for Slate, Hoffmann would handily steal the film: any scene with her is a highlight and her performance is just more testament to what a talented actress she is.

But, ultimately, Obvious Child belongs to Jenny Slate. I’ll admit to being less than a fan of Slate’s stand-up work, although I’ve enjoyed a lot of her various voice gigs. Going into the film, I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to connect, since I’m not a particular fan of Slate’s style: these fears were completely dashed within the first few minutes of the film. Quite simply, Slate is astounding in this, a complete and total revelation. I can’t really recall the last time that a performance so completely transformed my opinion of a performer, which might make Slate’s turn as Donna a bit of a first, in my book.

Slate’s performance is multi-faceted, subtle, low-key, impossibly sweet, suitably edged and never anything less than riveting. While Slate handles the overtly humorous material with ease (her various stand-up routines are great and her back-and-forth with Nellie is hilarious), it’s the serious stuff that really surprises and impresses. The moment where Donna finally breaks down and crawls into bed with her mother is incredibly powerful and her final stand-up routine, where she discusses her upcoming abortion with a suitably surprised audience, is a real tour-de-force. As Slate guides the scene from awkward spoken-word to a legitimately funny stand-up routine, it’s like we’re watching Donna’s entire journey unfold before us, in condensed form. I’m not surprised that Slate wasn’t nominated for any awards this season but I am incredibly disappointed: her performance was such a masterful blend of innocence and edge, pain and good-nature, that it really stood out in a very crowded field.

One of the most impressive aspects of Robespierre’s film is how light and breezy the whole thing is, despite the weighty, hot-topic subject matter. This isn’t about the legal ramifications of abortion, the “right and wrong” of it or any political aspects: quite simply, Obvious Child is about a woman who matter-of-factly decides to get an abortion because that’s what she wants, regardless of what anyone else might think. Obvious Child seems almost revolutionary for the way in which it reduces such a controversial subject to such a completely human level: there are no “talking points” here, no “agenda.” This is just about humans being human, with all of the messy stuff that always entails.

In closing, I absolutely loved Obvious Child: it was easily one of the best films of the year and Slate’s performance was, likewise, one of the best. I can certainly understand the film serving as a lightning rod for both opponents and proponents of abortion-rights but I really wish folks would just come to it with an open mind and see it for what it really is: an intensely honest, funny and smart look at one young woman’s journey through life, with all of the joy and sorrow that comes with it. When Robespierre’s film is funny, it’s a dirty, goofy little riot. When it’s time to get serious, however, she proves such a deft hand that there are never jarring tonal shifts: if anything, Robespierre has already managed to perfect Wes Anderson’s patented brand of cheerful glumness on her very first try: my mind absolutely boggles at what the future holds for her. With any luck, Gillian Robespierre will prove to be the new cinematic voice that her debut promises: we absolutely need more filmmakers like her, making more films like this.

9/7/14: Anywhere But Here

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absentee father, Amanda Anka, Benicio del Toro, boredom, Chris Pontius, cinema, coming of age, divorced parents, dramas, electronic score, Elle Fanning, ennui, film reviews, films, Harris Savides, Hollywood actors, independent film, indie dramas, living in a hotel, Lost in Translation, Movies, parent-child relationships, Phoenix, Sofia Coppola, Somewhere, Stephen Dorff, The Virgin Suicides, writer-director

If there’s one big take-away we can get from Sofia Coppola’s Somewhere (2010), it’s that being young, rich and famous is just about as tedious and dull as it gets. Sure, Johnny (Stephen Dorff) may be a famous actor who indulges in endless partying, drinking and womanizing, attending one gala overseas movie premiere after another but it’s the in-between moments that are particularly telling: when not surrounded by paparazzi and sycophants, Johnny’s life seems to entail sitting alone in his hotel room home, drinking and smoking one cigarette after the other. Entitled? Absolutely. Glamorous? Not on your life.

Since this is the movies, however, we know that it won’t be that simple: there’s got to be some sort of catalyst for change. And there is, of course, in the person of Cleo (Elle Fanning), Johnny’s 11-year-old daughter. Johnny’s ex-wife has sent Cleo to spend some time with her absentee father and he’s reluctantly agreed, despite the monkey wrench it will throw into his wastoid lifestyle. Somewhere along the way, however, a funny, cinematic thing starts to happen: Johnny and Cleo begin to connect and the lay-about actor starts to feel the first stirrings of some pretty alien emotions – love, responsibility and a new-found sense of purpose. Perhaps there’s more to life than empty partying and pleasure-chasing. Perhaps it will be 30-something Johnny who finally begins to grow up, rather than his pre-teen daughter. Perhaps it’s actually up to the child to teach the adult the real ways of the world. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

As someone who thoroughly enjoyed Sofia Coppola’s first two films, the gauzy, hazy The Virgin Suicides (1999) and Oscar-winning Lost in Translation (2003), I was really looking forward to seeing Somewhere. While I haven’t kept up with Coppola’s career in the same way that I have her father’s, for example, I’ve long felt that she was a ridiculously talented writer/director who was managing to develop her own unique, distinctive vision, a vision that didn’t look quite like anyone else’s (least of all, her father’s). Alas, I found Somewhere to be something of a mess, alternating between deadly dull non-action and bizarre, awkward, vaguely nonsensical “arthouse” elements, none of which sit comfortably side by side. It’s a film that opens with a terribly tedious, repetitious static shot of a car racing around a track and then manages to one-up this tedium at every possible opportunity.

While there’s undoubtedly an intriguing film to be made out of the skewering of movie star lifestyle clichés, Somewhere just doesn’t have a whole lot to say. Sparse and spare to the point of feeling underdeveloped, the film comes across more as a series of tedious vignettes than any kind of organic, cohesive narrative: Johnny watches in abject boredom as awkward twin dancers perform a strange pole-dance to the Foo Fighters’ “My Hero”; Johnny watches Cleo figure-skate for what feels like 10 uninterrupted minutes; Johnny shares an elevator with Benicio del Toro (playing himself, natch); Johnny sits for a lengthy makeup session that involves the application of an old man mask; Johnny has an awkward encounter with a male masseuse who drops his own drawers since “if his clients are naked, he should be, too”; Johnny and Cleo attend an Italian awards show; Johnny and Cleo lounge by the pool…it (literally) goes on and on and on. Of the various “scenes,” most are deathly dull, although the bits involving the awful twin dancers and the naked masseuse are, at the very least, more entertaining than the mind-numbing figure-skating routine.

There are a few nods to an actual storyline buried in here (Johnny keeps getting mysterious texts from someone who asks him not to be an “asshole,” pushy paparazzi keep tailing him) but nothing ever develops past the most basic level: in essence, Somewhere is 90-odd minutes of minutiae and ennui. There’s no character development, even if Johnny, technically, finishes the film with a different mindset than he began it (never mind that his character arc ends with his car breaking down and he merrily walking into the horizon because, you know, “regular” people walk places): Cleo never seems to serve as more than a plot device, save for one nicely realized scene where father and daughter share room-service gelato and watch Italian-dubbed episodes of Friends on TV.

It doesn’t help that Johnny is kind of a shitty person to spend any amount of time with: he’s moody, disinterested in everything to the point of being disengaged and seems to exist in a constant state of horny boredom. At a certain point, his non-stop womanizing becomes unbelievably silly (Johnny is so desirable that anonymous women flash him, in public, and he always seems to be coming home to a new, mysterious, nude woman in his bed), although there’s something undeniably creepy about his tendency to follow strange, attractive woman around. Is it only considered stalking if the creep isn’t rich and famous? Inquiring minds want to know.

From a craft standpoint, Somewhere is decent but certainly nothing to write home about. While the cinematography, courtesy of frequent Fincher collaborator Harris Savides, features some truly beautiful night shots, it just as often simply revolves around medium close-ups of Stephen Dorff looking bored. The minimalist electro-score, by French electronica-pop band Phoenix, is so restrained as to recede almost completely into the background, providing the kind of generic score that could have been contributed by any number of faceless soundtrack pros. The acting is just fine throughout, although none of the actors, in particular Dorff, ever seem to display much beyond passionless disinterest and melancholic acceptance.

I really wanted to love Somewhere but I’ll be honest: the tedious opening set a tone that, unfortunately, the rest of the film was only too eager to fulfill. Although I’ve yet to see Coppola’s take on Marie Antoinette (2006) or her critically acclaimed recent film The Bling Ring (2010), I must admit that Somewhere has made me extremely wary. While one less than stellar film does not a career break, necessarily, Somewhere felt like an expansion and doubling-down of the worst affectations in Coppola’s first two films. I’m still curious to see what Coppola has in store for the future but count me as someone who would rather have been anywhere than Somewhere.

5/6/14: It’s His World…We Just Live Here

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absentee father, American Beauty, Ann Magnuson, Arizona, Catcher in the Rye, Chris Klein, cinema, coming of age, depression, developmentally disabled, divorced parents, Don Cheadle, drama, drug abuse, drug dealer, dysfunctional family, fate, films, flashbacks, Holden Caulfield, independent films, indie dramas, infidelity, James Glennon, Jena Malone, Jeremy Enigk, juvenile detention facility, Kerry Washington, Kevin Spacey, Leland Fitzgerald, Lena Olin, Martin Donovan, Matthew Ryan Hoge, mentally challenged, Michael Pena, Michael Welch, Michelle Williams, Movies, murder, Nick Kokich, prison films, revenge, romance, Ryan Gosling, shattered families, Sherilyn Fenn, Sunny Day Real Estate, The Notebook, The United States of Leland, troubled teens, vengeance, voice-over narration, Wesley Jonathan, writer-director, youth in trouble

Grainy, home movie footage of a yard gives ways to a slow pan across the bright, vibrant green grass, as Ryan Gosling’s familiar, rather bored voice talks about “not being able to remember that day.” The pan continues, as deliberate as a lazy summer day, before finally ending on the obviously dead body of a young man. Gosling stands there, looking pensive for a moment, before jogging off as the Pixies’ iconic “Gigantic” bursts from the soundtrack. It’s a dynamic, effective opening and as a good a way as any to pull us into The United States of Leland (2003), a coming-of-age downer that often plays like a lesser American Beauty, despite having a few extra tricks up its sleeve.

After the opening, we get the meat of the situation: Leland Fitzgerald (Gosling) has just admitted to his mother, Marybeth (Lena Olin) that he killed Ryan Pollard (Michael Welch), the developmentally disabled brother of his girlfriend, Becky (Jena Malone). The whole thing comes as even more of a shock since Leland is so easy-going and seemed to genuinely care about Ryan. His admission is emotionless, distant and he’s locked up post-haste. While inside the juvenile detention facility, Leland meets the usual, stock “guy in prison” characters: a kindly Hispanic inmate (Michael Pena) who tries to strike up a friendship with Leland and a young, black inmate (Wesley Johnathan) who is initially hesitant of the “devil worshiper who killed the retard,” but gradually warms to him. More importantly, however, Leland meets Pearl Madison (Don Cheadle), an aspiring author who teaches classes at the facility.

Pearl sees something in Leland and convinces him to keep a journal, which the boy dubs “The United States of Leland.” Seeing the perfect subject for his long-gestating novel, Pearl tries to get to the essence of Leland, hoping to figure out what drove such a seemingly nice guy to do such a terrible thing. Meanwhile, on the outside, the dead boy’s family is falling apart: father Harry (Martin Donovan) is obsessed with the idea of killing Leland, mother Karen (Bongwater-member Ann Magnuson) has completely shut down, sisters Becky and Julie (Michelle Williams) are a wreck and Julie’s boyfriend, Allen (Chris Klein) is doing his best to hold everything together. He can’t, of course, because the situation continues to spin out of control, even as Leland seems to get some semblance of peace behind bars. As the reasons for Leland’s actions become more clear, including life-long issues with his absentee, famous writer father, Albert (Kevin Spacey), and Becky’s backsliding into heroin addiction, via her slimy ex-boyfriend, Kevin (Nick Kokich), everything seems to move along the most fatalistic path possible. When Allen decides to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to heal the wounded family, his actions bring everything to a boil, changing all of their lives, forever, in the process.

Released the year before Gosling would find super-stardom with the romantic hit The Notebook (2004), The United States of Leland is an odd role for the burgeoning superstar. While an argument can be made that many of Gosling’s performances hinge on his handsome, slightly bemused face taking stock of the situation (any situation…every situation…), it seems a rather unfair criticism to say that he spends the entire film staring off into the distance. Yet, essentially, this is what he does for the better part of the film’s almost two-hour-run-time. There’s not a whole lot of acting going on here, to be honest, more like a studied attempt to under-act whenever possible. While this affectation may have worked wonders in films like Drive (2011) and Only God Forgives (2013), where Gosling served more as an enigmatic symbol than an actual person, it only serves to strip any chance of relating to his character: in most cases, Leland seems about as alive and “with-it” as someone in a semi-catatonic state.

With Gosling effectively out of the picture, then, the “heavy emotional lifting,” as it were, needs to come from American Pie’s Klein as Allen, one of the most obvious “white knight” characters in recent memory. Allen is such a ridiculously nice guy that he never seems to do anything for self-serving reasons: coupled with his kindly demeanor, soft-spoken strength and determination, Allen is just about the nicest nice guy you’d ever meet. Yet, time after time, the movie takes care to shit on Allen from a great height, beginning with the rather callous way that his girlfriend, Julie, kicks him to the curb when things get bad and culminating with his spectacularly terrible plan to “make everything better.” The film never makes any attempt to explain away Julie’s change of heart, which is actually pretty par for the course in a film where characters seem to make arbitrary decisions that are designed to propel the narrative forward.

Pearl cheats on his girlfriend with a co-worker, seemingly for the sole reason of giving Leland some moral high-ground on him. Leland’s father, Albert, is nothing but contradictions: the character seems so mercurial that it almost feels as if Spacey is playing two separate people, super-glued together. Becky, despite being a junkie (those folks aren’t normally known for being reliable), is a complete mess: none of her actions seem to go together and her motivations range from unknown to insane. While Malone is a more than capable actress, I felt a massive disconnect with her character: she seemed so arbitrary and calculatedly cruel that she was completely unrealistic: uber-nice guy or not, I find it hard to believe that Leland would put up with too much of her shit.

The film makes a few rather sharp points about the human tendency to mess up, something which Pearl repeatedly blames on human nature. In one of the most thought-provoking lines in the film, Leland smiles and tells Pearl that he thinks it’s amusing that people always blame bad stuff on human nature but not good stuff: that’s all us. It’s a smart observation and one of the few times in the film were we seem to get a (mostly) conscious Gosling. By contrast, the film’s coda, which purports to explain Leland’s mindset, is a complete muddle. There’s an allusion made to a family that he met years before, the Calderons, and we’re made to believe that sleeping with the mother opened Leland’s eyes to the sadness of the world. While it’s an intriguing thought, it’s also an underdeveloped one, coming as it does in the final few moments of the film. It’s not a revelation, per se (hence I don’t feel the need to warn about potential spoilers), mostly because it’s difficult to see how it actually influences the course of the narrative: it’s equivalent to finding out that someone wore a blue shirt on the day they killed someone. Since the color of the shirt, specifically, doesn’t have anything to with the killing, knowing this bit of information doesn’t provide us any further insight. It’s a sort of MacGuffin, if you will, but for character development.

One of my biggest issues with the film has to do with its structure. For most of the movie, The United States of Leland utilizes almost continual flashbacks: often, it’s difficult to figure out exactly what time-frame we’re currently in, especially with some of Becky’s drug activity. This seems particularly unnecessary since the actual plot of the movie is pretty straight-forward: the flashback structure just seemed like a way to “gussy up” the proceedings, some way to make the film stand out a little more. Ultimately, the flashbacks feel as unnecessary as Gosling’s constant voice-over, which does little to add to either his own motivations or the actual story at hand. Whenever I complain about voice-overs (which I constantly do) I’m complaining about superfluous ones like this. For the most part.

Most of the cast does just fine with their roles, although Spacey’s screen-time really amounts to more of a glorified cameo than anything else, which is kind of disappointing. During those few scenes, however, Spacey is a nearly perfectly pitched alpha-male asshole, a pretentious word-cruncher who can’t stop his compulsion to correct someone’s grammar even as they’re offering him help. Cheadle is reliably solid as Pearl but I can’t help feeling that much of his actions and characterizations were just as arbitrary as those of Becky and Julie. At least Albert’s actions all fit with his obnoxious personality but Pearl was always something of an enigma.

One notable aspect of The United States of Leland would definitely be the soundtrack and score. Beginning with the Pixies song in the opening, music plays a pretty big part in the overall design of the film. This isn’t surprising when you consider that Jeremy Enigk, the frontman for ’90s-era emo-band Sunny Day Real Estate, handles the score duties here. Considering that veteran cinematographer James Glennon – whose resume includes Flight of the Navigator (1986), Citizen Ruth (1996), Election (1999) and About Schmidt (2002) – was behind the camera, The United States of Leland has a consistently good look, especially with some nicely saturated colors. While the film isn’t particularly original, it’s never a chore to watch.

Ultimately, The United States of Leland is a decent effort but one that breaks no new ground whatsoever. Despite a decent ensemble cast, there just isn’t much here to write home about. If you’ve always wondered what a less-focused, more vague take on American Beauty would feel like, The United States of Leland might just fit the bill. Otherwise, it’s a pretty basic drama about dysfunctional families, our dysfunctional society and the million little ways we find to make ourselves truly miserable.