3/18/15: The Heart, Wrung Dry, Is a Stone

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Aimee Mullins, alcohol abuse, alcoholism, Alex McGregor, black market, Christy Pankhurst, cinema, David Butler, David Clatworthy, drama, drought, dysfunctional family, dystopian future, Elle Fanning, Ernest Holm, family in crisis, farmers, father-daughter relationships, father-son relationships, film reviews, films, Flem Lever, Giles Nuttgens, Jake Paltrow, Kodi Smit-McPhee, Liah O'Prey, Michael Shannon, Movies, neo-Westerns, Nicholas Hoult, Robert Hobbs, robots, sci-fi, single father, The Grapes of Wrath, There Will Be Blood, tragedy, voice-over narration, water rights, water wars, Westerns, writer-director, Young Ones

Pitched somewhere in the middle of the triangle formed by Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (2007) and Stanley’s Hardware (1990), writer-director Jake Paltrow’s Young Ones (2014) is a powerfully acted neo-Western that blends intense character drama with dystopic sci-fi. If the whole thing is somewhat deflated by a rather meandering ending, it does nothing to take away from the journey, which is packed with memorable characters, some rather ingenious plot developments and genuine emotional power.

We’re dumped into a world of the future, although of 20 years or 100, we’re never really told. Stylistically, it’s pure Western, as the land has been in the grip of a devastating drought for long enough to turn everything into parched desert…everything, that is, except for the lush, green areas that are served by the “state” waterworks: the “wet areas,” as they’re called. In these areas, things function much as we might expect, albeit with the extra oomph provided by futuristic robotics and technology. In the “dry” areas, however, it’s a hard-scrabble existence, punctuated by harsh living conditions, sudden death and constant water wars: the untamed West, if you will.

Our lowly protagonist, Ernest Holm (Michael Shannon) is one of the farmers who’s stuck it out, along with his son, Jerome (Kodi Smit-McPhee) and daughter, Mary (Elle Fanning). Mother Katherine (Aimee Mullins) is living in a care facility after suffering a crippling injury of some sort, rendering Ernest a single father, of sorts. He’s a former alcoholic who makes ends meet by delivering supplies to the very same corrupt waterworks employees who continually resist running much-needed waterlines through Ernest’s sun-baked land: talk about your nasty Catch-22s! After his only well goes dry, poor Ernest is reduced to buying his water from gas station-style pumps and praying for much-needed, long-absent rain.

It wouldn’t be a Shakespearian tale without some Shakespearian intrigue, however, and we get that in bulk with Mary’s boyfriend, the elegantly sleazy Flem Lever (Nicholas Hoult). Flem is a smooth talker with a new con for every day of the week and a bone to pick with Ernest, thanks to a perceived slight involving the land that Flem’s father used to own.  As Flem exerts more influence over the increasingly rebellious Mary, he butts heads with Ernest in a million different ways. Through it all, Jerome, our constant narrator, observes it all with his slightly detached gaze: ever faithful to his father, yet caught in Flem’s thrall, nonetheless.

Trouble strikes when the Holm family mule heads to mule heaven and Ernest is forced to buy a robotic replacement (the robot auction is a real thing of beauty). This kicks off a series of unfortunate events that culminates with Flem stealing the “mule,” Ernest tracking him down and…well…”something” happening in the desolate wasteland, far away from prying eyes. What it is, exactly, we won’t know for some time but the tragedy results in Flem becoming the de facto head of the family, much to Jerome’s consternation. When the suspicious son gets the full details on what happened in the desert, however, thanks to the robot’s previously undisclosed video recording function…well, let’s just say that there’ll be hell to pay and leave it at that, eh?

Despite some occasional familiarities with other films (There Will Be Blood was never far from my mind, at any time), Young Ones is a strikingly fresh, thoroughly intriguing film. The script is quite clever and unfolds is a completely organic manner, with some surprising (yet always logical) twists. The blending of dystopic sci-fi and Westerns is seamless and quite magical, if I do say so, creating a believably immersive world, one that’s built up by a million little details and subtle touches. It’s the best kind of world-building, one that’s accomplished by layers rather than a sledge-hammer.

Young Ones is a very dialogue-heavy film, without a doubt, but Paltrow’s script and cast are more than up for the challenge. In most cases, anything this “talky” might become tedious but some of the film’s greatest pleasures come from the frank, in-depth conversations that the characters, particularly Ernest and Flem, have with other. There’s a wry lyricism to Paltrow’s lines that makes everything simultaneously grim, yet rich: it’s a quality that I associate with Cormac McCarthy and, while Paltrow isn’t quite there yet, I can easily see him getting there in the future.

Without a doubt, one of the shining stars in Young One’s crown is its phenomenal cast. Most of the time, it’s an easy best that Michael Shannon will be the best thing in whatever he’s in: there’s an honesty to him that makes it all but impossible to tear your eyes from the screen whenever he’s there and Ernest is one of his best, most complex roles in some time. In this case, however, Shannon gets a run for his money from Smit-McPhee, Hoult and the rest of the superb cast: everyone brings their A-game, making this one of the most exquisitely acted films I’ve seen in some time. To be honest, Hoult and Smit-McPhee give two of the best performances of the year, playing two of the most radically different characters possible. Only Fanning, normally great, falls short of the mark: chalk it up to the character or the performance, but Mary is a constantly petulant, unpleasant and hysterical character, never sympathetic, even during the moment’s where the film practically demands it.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention the ending, which sputters into the station after the film runs out of steam some 20 minutes before the finish line. It’s the odd deflating moment in a script that normally runs like a Swiss clock, feeling like nothing less than Paltrow ran out of things to say before he ran out of film: again, only notable due to the fact that the rest of the film moved so effortlessly.

That being said, Young Ones is still a mighty impressive film and bodes quite well for Paltrow’s future. When the film really works, there’s a sad sense of poetry that says more about the death of the idealized West than a million cowboy hats ever could. Giles Nuttgens’ cinematography is often quite beautiful (the mournful shots of the robotic mule pacing across the mesa are, quite simply, stunning) and there’s a sense of austere seriousness to the proceedings that fits it all like a glove. While there’s something inherently tragic about the Holm family and their blood-spattered legacy, the only tragic thing about Jake Paltrow (and yes, in case you’re wondering, he’s Gwyneth’s brother) is that we’ll need to wait for his next film. When you’ve got something like Young Ones on your calling card, the sky, quite frankly, is the limit.

1/10/14: A Modern Master Returns

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Amy Adams, auteur theory, Boogie Nights, cinema, drama, Film, Film auteurs, Hard Eight, Joaquin Phoenix, Magnolia, Philip Seymour Hoffman, PT Anderson, Punch Drunk Love, The Master, There Will Be Blood, World War II

Here’s a little factoid about myself that will, no doubt, make me a bit of a pariah in this day and age: I’m a firm believer in the auteur theory of filmmaking. I know…I know: it takes a village to make a film, right? How dare that one person put their name on the project multiple times! An Alan Smithee film? What a massive jackass! Were it not for the gaffer, camera op, best boy, boom operator,  makeup artist, set designer, PA, editor and craft services folks, there would be no film! Rabble rabble rabble!!

All out of your system? Feel better now? Good to hear. Now, let’s go ahead and take a little closer look at what I believe. No film gets made without the able support of every department, crew member and actor: this is a stone-cold fact. Unless you’re a one man/woman band, you will need other people involved. However…and this is the big however, folks…a truly great, singular, one-of-a-kind film requires a very strong central vision. There are lots and lots of truly great films out there, with more being made all the time. There are also, however, certain films that exist outside of time and space, films that are almost without peer: Kubrick’s 2001; Coppola’s Apocalypse Now; Scorcese’s Taxi Driver; Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. There is a reason that these films are so seldom separated from their creators: these are the work of auteurs and are as much a creation of these singular individuals as they are of all those who worked on them.

As I mentioned, the auteur theory is particularly unpopular nowadays, mostly because we seem to have so few true auteurs left. One modern filmmaker that easily fit within this old tradition, however, is the inimitable PT Anderson. Over the course of six feature films, Anderson has explored several aspects of the American Dream, along with the inter-connectedness of all things. My first experience with Anderson was ’97’s Boogie Nights, a film that quickly became one of my all-time favorites. He’s bounced around over the years, landing on some spots that I loved (Punch Drunk Love, There Will Be Blood), along with one that still has me confounded (Magnolia). Aside from that other Anderson (Wes, for those who just got here), PT is one of those filmmakers that can always provoke chills and awe from me. Any new PT Anderson film is a reason to celebrate. This, then, brings us to Anderson’s most recent film, The Master.

The Master bears the onus of being only the second Anderson film (along with his debut, Hard Eight) that I failed to see in theaters. To be honest, I actually neglected to see the film until this past Friday. Hoping to make up for such an egregious oversight, I decided to dedicate the whole day to the film, allowing my mind to soak up and focus on as much PT as possible. By the end, however, I must be honest: while The Master is a good film, it really doesn’t add much to Anderson’s already impressive canon.

Ostensibly, The Master is the story of Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix). Freddie, for lack of a better word, is a mess. We first meet this potentially insane navy-man during the tail end of World War II. Freddie’s the kind of guy who humps sand sculptures and can make booze out of anything, including torpedo juice. Cut loose from the only world that makes sense, Freddie is pushed head-first into a world that has no idea what to do with him. A terrifying outburst in a shopping mall ends his photography career, just as an unfortunate incident involving homemade moonshine ends his career as a migrant farm worker. Freddie is a mess, a roaring monster made up of only an id, a penis and a shot liver. At the bottom of a very tall barrel, Freddie stows away on a luxury boat, one night, and discovers his purpose in life: Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman).

Dodd, the charismatic leader of a cult called The Cause (despite what many remarked upon the film’s release, I can see only the most surface/basic parallel between Dodd’s Cause and L. Ron Hubbard’s Scientology: basically, they’re both cults) becomes fascinated with Freddie’s untamed, animalistic nature and deigns to take him under his wing. Over the course of many years, Freddie becomes one of Dodd’s most loyal acolytes, before the whole thing eventually goes ass over tea-kettle, leading to a resolution that’s nowhere near as apocalyptic as There Will Be Blood but just as final.

Unlike Anderson’s previous films (with the possible exception of Hard Eight), The Master seemed to exist more as a series of pleasurable moments than as a unified whole. The acting, across the board, is phenomenal, particularly in the cases of Phoenix, Hoffman and Amy Adams (as Dodd’s long-suffering wife). The film has a clean, almost vintage look which suits the material to a t. There are several inspired scenes (Freddie imagining every woman in a packed room nude; Dodd yelling “Pig fuck!” to a packed room as if suddenly struck with Tourette’s; Freddie picking cabbages with other migrant workers and then violently defending himself when one falls ill from his moonshine). Ultimately, however, The Master felt too inconsequential to me, too weightless. There was none of the sense of a large world and its interconnected consequences that one felt in Boogie Nights and Magnolia. Even There Will Be Blood, which The Master’s intimate character study most closely resembles (although the resemblance isn’t especially close), had a sense of a larger world and how it affected the characters contained within. The Master, for all of its scope, is really the story of Freddie Quells, an aimless drifter looking for some sense in this world. Phoenix does wonders with the role, no doubt about it, imbuing Freddie with so much realism that you’ll swear you’ve met this guy before (hopefully you weren’t this guy). It’s always a pleasure to watch Hoffman work: he has to be one of the most under-rated actors working in film today.

At the end of the day, The Master is still a good film. When compared to much of what came out last year, it stands head and shoulders above the competition, possessed of the kind of cool, calm grandeur that PT Anderson could probably create in his sleep. When measured against the rest of his mighty output, however, The Master seems uncomfortably slight: Boogie Nights may have seemed garish and candy-coated but it was also a full meal. The Master feels, conversely, like the palate cleanser between courses.