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dir. Mario Monacelli
writ. Angenore Incrocci, Furio Scarpelli, Suso Cecchi d'Amico & Mario Monacelli (screenplay), Angenore Incrocci & Furio Scarpelli (story)
feat. Vittorio Gassman, Renato Salvatori, Memmo Carotenuto, Rossanna Rory, Carla Gravina, Claudia Cardinale, Carlo Pisacane, Tiberio Murgia, Marcello Mastroianni, Toto
This loose-limbed send up of Rififi rolls amiably through a tale of a hodgepodge gang of bums and crooks joining together to rip off a pawn shop. Trading the taut procedural style of its target for a meandering yet engaging series of gags and character introductions, the story moves joyfully along, winsome and relaxing, with plenty of easy laughs. The inept batch of hoodwinks fall on luck both good and bad, eventually leading them to the big night. Oddly, this is where the plan falters, for the film as much as the heist, the charismatic mood betrayed by sudden seriousness, the laughs slipping, actions suddenly predictable and uninspired. Fortunately, the story soon rights itself with a blissful turn, restoring the airy feeling and scoring a handful of winning moments that complete the tale more effectively than on might have thought possible.
dir. Martin Scorsese
writ. Edith Wharton (novel), Jay Cocks & Martin Scorsese (screenplay)
feat. Daniel Day-Lewis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Winona Ryder, Alexis Smith, Geraldine Chaplin
I suppose that rules make stories of tension and rebellion possible, the needed restrictions against which to chafe and, if lucky, break free. But I can't see my way around The Age of Innocence, even its trite title too deliberate in its intentions. A key problem is that I can't be sold on shallow characterization being blamed on a time period, a type of forged history based on slack romantic texts and and legal documents of an era. Films have long leaned on these conventions for weak shows of melodrama, trading a well-rounded reality for lazy storytelling. Just watch Gone with the Wind for a prime example. Thankfully, there is also relief, refreshing depth flashing on the screen in very early films, such as those of Murnau, Pabst, and Ozu. Granted, they have a limit in their reach, only able to save people from entrapment in a batch of dull stereotypes as far back as the moving picture medium existed.
So, we suffer the stories of earlier centuries, by writers and directors guided by nostalgia and a desire to pity those foolish, unenlightened primitives. Here we are tormented by a dry, deadened tale by Edith Wharton, her so-called incisive wit and criticism of late 19th century upper-class New Yorkers suspect for her position within the fold. I've not read the book, but the gratingly snide narration by Joanne Woodward, screams of someone far more despicable than the characters she mocks. This is no whistle-blower, eager to reveal the faults of the system, but a gossiping spinster, reveling in the private pain of conservative, emotionally handicapped rich people.
Perhaps, it's a revenge fantasy, Wharton's smack back at a husband who would rather spend time with other women, her secret wish to bind him up emotionally, saddle him with otherwise absent conflict. But it requires not just an old-fashioned appreciation for minor drama (big oohs and aahs please when it's revealed that she thought that he thought so-and-so the whole time), but also a withered husk's sense of humor, tittering behind gloved hands coyly, and ineffectually, covering smug grins. This it seems should read as sophisticated, instead of childish. Sorry, no dice. Worse yet, in its over emphasis of small details and a push to wring pain from conflicted desire, the film attempts to be aggressively sublime, seeking a reaction that must be gradually earned, finessed, not demanded like it's some kind of gangster picture.
dir Claude Sautet
writ. Jose Giovanni (novel & dialogue), Claude Saute, Jose Giovanni and Pascal Jardin (adaptation)
feat. Lino Ventura, Sandra Milo, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Marcel Dalio, Michel Ardan, Simone France, Stan Krol
In Sautet's French twist on American noir, the focus shifts from the crime to the personal lives of the criminals. Abel Davos (Ventura) is a family man on the run, clearly still hooked on the adventure of his chosen life, but currently more concerned with moving his family to a safe new home. Tragedy and deceit naturally ensue, but so does an unexpected new friend and ally, in Eric Stark (Belmondo). As Eric joins forces with Abel, he slips into the family dynamic, a fraternal cameraderie between the two men and an avuncular role with Abel's young boys.
The film bounces between Abel's dual quest for safety and revenge and lingering moments of normalcy, family being family or Eric trying to get the girl. Trust and loyalty are tested and punishments administered, though the outcome of the story (particularly given an ending that seems uncertain of the filmmaker's conviction) comes second to the theme that an ordinary life is the ultimate goal even for killers and thieves.
dir. Ivan Reitman
writ. Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis, Rick Moranis (uncredited)
feat. Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Sigourney Weaver, Harold Ramis, Rick Moranis, Annie Potts, William Atherton, Ernie Hudson, David Margulies
Ghost Busters is an astounding example of pitch perfect storytelling, a near miraculous balance of action, comedy, and pacing. The jokes fly wildly (not carelessly), moving with the story, never slowing it down for a slack jawed audience to obediently laugh before waiting for the next one. In early slower moments, the filmmakers wisely use Bill Murray to charm his way through character development. Exposition is revved up with the techno-geek patter of Aykroyd and Ramis, with Murray breaking it down for the layman with amusing interruptions.
And of course, there are ghosts, still fun and functional 25 years later, despite advances in special effects, thanks largely to the sharp decision not to make the appearance of the ghosts particularly important to the story. Also, when you climax with a giant, round, soft-edged marshmallow man, you make it easier for 80s effects wizards to create something both plausible and entertaining.
A few 80s songs off the soundtrack sting the ears, though the film largely escapes the worst pains of aging. This enduring success and survival is the result of Ghost Busters swift and limber pacing, a head of steam fueled by a terrific roster of top talent, in synch in tone and commitment to an energized, playful story.
writ. and dir. Louis Malle
feat. Lea Massari, Benoît Ferreux, Daniel Gelin, Michael Lonsdale, Ave Ninchi, Gila von Weitershausen, Fabien Ferreux, Marc Winocourt
With convincing offbeat scenes of bonding and budding adolescence, Louis Malle establishes a family that appears natural and appealing, like a bunch of kooky neighbors with whom it would be fun to share a drink now and then. With this familiarity, he slyly disarms the viewer, altering expectations and inhibitions over the course of his deceptively airy film as the story moves toward a climax that is both horrifically unsettling and inevitable. With masterful sleight of hand, he reduces the revulsion to a mere flinch, its impact overwhelmed by Laurent's sunny disposition and newfound manhood.
dir. Ronald Neame
writ. Muriel Spark (novel), Jay Presson Allen (play and screenplay)
feat. Maggie Smith, Robert Stephens, Pamela Franklin, Gordon Jackson, Celia Johnson, Diane Grayson, Jane Carr
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie has all the character and complexity of a woman unabashedly certain that she is in the prime of her life. Jean Brodie (Smith) struts the school grounds, her pride stoked by her effect on men and the girls she not only teaches, but coaches into teenage life. At the height of her charismatic powers, her ego verily bursts from her attractive and well-postured body, rendering her romantic notions about heroic dictators, passion, and art incontestable, her ideology above reproach.
But Jean's ideas about the world were born of her own young experiences of love and loss, then harbored and fueled in the safe haven of the classroom, encouraged by a regularly replenished tribe of adulating girls on the brink of adolescence, all too susceptible to a seemingly worldly mentor professing the importance of love and truth. Over the years, Jean's vague, static utopia grates against reality, and though she feigns preparation for change and the unavoidable results of aging, her purely philosophical defense crumbles quickly and easily when challenged. In the end, it is her narcissism that both creates and destroys Jean Brodie's so-called prime, the time spent protecting and prolonging her perfect self wasted, her ensuing decline calling into questioning the value of every aspect of her character- as a teacher, a leader, a lover, a woman.
Yet even in her departing speech, there is pride and strength in Jean Brodie's voice and plans for the future. This resilience and Jean's qualities, both troubling and admirable, evident in the treacherous former pupil who orchestrates her downfall leaves the viewer with the lingering difficult question of what makes a proper role model.
writ. and dir. Cristian Mungiu
feat. Anamaria Marinca, Laura Vasiliu, Vlad Ivanov, Alexandru Potocean
Director Cristian Mungiu deftly weaves a story of black market abortion in Ceausescu regime Communist Romania by choosing the perspective of the pregnant woman's friend. In selecting an approach that would seem to distance the viewer from the subject, he instead focuses even more pointedly on the pain and resounding emotional effects of a difficult decision.
From the outset, Otilia (Marinca) proves resilient and reliable, making arrangements, booking a hotel room and bringing the abortionist (Ivanov) there, while the the pregnant Gabriela (Vailiu) botches important details, a lack of preparedness that stems from a combination of personality and an understandable reaction to the daunting predicament of securing a highly illegal, terrifying operation. When it comes to it, far more tense and threatening than the procedure itself is the negotiation leading up to it, a kind of black market drug deal where the dealer is well aware that he has the upper hand. Here the full cost of the choice is brought to bear, desperation forcing the friends to pay more than their friendship may be able to afford, and pushing Otilia to the brink, challenging her sanity and beliefs as she calls her whole life into question.
As thoughtfully and thoroughly the film explores emotional pain, it decisively avoids gruesome imagery, instead leading the viewer to the moment, then leaving the rest to the imagination. One key exception is an unforgettably searing shot that will challenge some to keep their eyes open, a singular image that is arguably mandatory. Without it, the subject would not be fully realized.
dir. Lindsay Anderson
writ. David Sherwin (screenplay), David Sherwin & John Howlett (script "Crusaders" that screenplay was based upon)
feat. Malcolm McDowell, David Wood, Richard Warwick, Christine Noonan
This story of a strict British private school smacks of Dickens and Lean via Billy Liar with a hint of the yet-to-come A Clockwork Orange, a touch of fantasy escapism and rebellious violence spawned by abusive schoolmasters and restricted adolescence. Though it drifts toward the suggestion that creativity may be provoked, if sporadically and explosively, by the attempt to control and inhibit youngsters, whenever this notion is raised, it is all too briefly nurtured, returning the film to the tired old tropes of the lash and egotistical authorities.
While there is a degree of satisfaction in seeing McDowell in a role that grooms him for A Clockwork Orange, and the film is likely a landmark in shock value and surely loaded with a few delightfully absurd flights of fancy, it doesn't age well, too closely tied to the lifelessness enforced by its power wielding elite.
dir. Louis Malle
writ. Louis Malle & Roger Nimier (adaptation), Roger Nimier (dialogue), Noël Calef (novel and pre-adaptation)
feat. Jeanne Moreau, Maurice Ronet, George Poujouly, Yori Bertin, Jean Wall
Louis Malle rolls out a hip noir tale of murder and suspense in his directorial debut, defying a title that dares to give away too much plot with numerous twists to keep the viewer guessing. As Julien (Ronet) awaits discovery in the eponymous lift, Florence (Moreau) roams the streets of Paris longingly searching for him, fearing that she's been left for another woman. Meanwhile, Louis (Poujouly) and Veronique (Bertin) race around town in Julien's car, a younger, imaginary version of the older couple, as prone to trouble but wilder and less experienced.
There are fast cars, curious characters, dangerous deeds, and violence, but it's the improvised score by Miles Davis that really fuels the film, lending life and anguish to the action. It is the mood modulated by the music that brings Elevator to greater heights than its relatively simple story.
writ. and dir. Nuri Bilge Ceylan
feat. Muzaffer Ozdemir, Emin Toprak, Zuhal Gencer, Nazan Kirilmis
The opening shot of Distant show Yusuf (Toprak), a dark figure, crossing a snowy plain, the quiet crunching of his boots the only sound in the desolate landscape. Far in the background, a band of sunlight illuminates the high trees along the mountainside. Immediately, Ceylan has set up the themes of his film, the cold distance between people and a vague, almost invisible glimmer of hope.
Yusuf leaves the barren land for icy Istanbul to visit his cousin, Mahmut (Ozdemir), a photographer whose career consists mainly of corporate shots for a tile manufacturer. In brief glimpses, we see that Mahmut has let his aspirations slip and has also lost his wife, possibly for an inability to express his still-existing feelings for her. Meanwhile, Yusuf searches for work in the city, dreaming of a life at sea, something bigger and brighter than his meager existence back in a dying factory town. As Yusuf disrupts Mahmut's isolated and dull, but stable lifestyle, the film manages to depict simultaneously the frustration of an unwanted visitor and a desperate need for further human contact.
Ceylan skillfully evokes emotion from minimal sources, plaintive expressions and awkward gestures offering more information than dialogue. The anguish that fuels his stories (here and in Climates) lies deeply buried and isn't easily voiced. With his mix of frosty gray exteriors, dimly lit interiors, and openly wounded characters, Ceylan has found a beautiful way to communicate pain.
dir. John Schlesinger
writ. Penelope Gilliatt
feat. Peter Finch, Glenda Jackson, Murray Head, Peggy Ashcroft, Tony Britton, Maurice Denham
John Schlesinger's followup to Midnight Cowboy returns to questions of sexual identity and relationships, this time examining an atypical love triangle. Bob Elkin (Head) bounces between his two loves, Alex Greville (Jackson), a business-stressed woman, and Daniel Hirsh (Finch), a patient-weary doctor. Bisexuality and homosexuality are presented without a glint of shock value, permitting the story to lunge directly into the differing ways in which men and women handle love, possessiveness, and jealousy.
Schlesinger utilizes shadow, editing, and sound cues to effectively arouse tension, hinting at a suspense film, encouraging the viewer to look for a gimmick or sudden dark twist. But this technique, while somewhat misleading, serves to illustrate the discomfort Alex and Daniel feel in sharing their lover, each occasionally left jilted as Bob scurries off to see the other or cancels a date at the last minute. By making Alex and Daniel fully aware and vaguely respectful of one another, even sharing a few of the same friends, the film both avoids common scenes of surprise and outrage and plumbs greater depths of feeling, adding a face, personality and details to what Bob experiences when away from home.
As a character, Bob disappoints, too flighty and without the substance to seem worthy of the affection of these educated, critical lovers. But therein lies the message in their messy, imperfect relationships- the joy of love, not matter its faults can be worth the compromise.
dir. Spike Jonze
writ. Maurice Sendak (book), Spike Jonze & Dave Eggers (screenplay)
feat. Max Records, Catherine Keener, James Gandolfini, Paul Dano, Catherine O'Hara, Forest Whitaker, Michael Berry Jr., Chris Cooper, Lauren Ambrose, Mark Ruffalo
Oftentimes, a great film adaptation requires transformation, perhaps never more so the case than with Where the Wild Things Are. Sendak's book is just a handful (or two) of pages, nowhere near the substance needed for a feature film. And substance is exactly what Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers bring to the story in their near miraculous production. Jonze must have some serious cache in Hollywood to have pulled off (and released) this murky, frightening tale that reminds the viewer of just how deeply children feel from a very young age.
The film bursts open with Max (Records) racing around the house, chaotically chasing and wrestling his dog, laughing and crashing like a wild child. In the subsequent scene, Max plays in the snow alone, yearning for companions, only to surge with excitement when he finds friends for a snowball fight, then plummet into loss and sadness when his igloo is carelessly destroyed, a scene that perfectly captures the mercurial nature of childhood joy. Jonze doesn't shy away from the difficult feelings, recognizing that loneliness and despair are intrinsically tied to hope and love. The young cling to simple ideals, notions of right and wrong that are self-centered, easily challenged and upset by the frequent disappointments of the real world. When things don't add up, distress arouses fury, and Max runs, eager to escape the pain, certain that a world exists where everything and everyone is fair and well-meaning all the time.
This foundation that Jonze establishes permits him to open the door to a fantasy realm where Max can explore his utopian hopes and dreams, even making them a reality for awhile, before he learns that no such place exists or can exist. By playing king, Max discovers that one cannot please everyone all the time, and that hard choices must be made, feelings sometimes hurt, and strength developed to deal with it all. Eventually, it is this lesson that brings him around to the realization he's just a visitor in this strange and wild domain and that his own patiently and lovingly awaits him at home.
dir. Neil Jordan
writ. Patrick McCabe (novel), Neil Jordan and Patrick McCabe (screenplay)
feat. Eamonn Owens, Stephen Rea, Alan Boyle, Brendan Gleeson, Aisling O'Sullivan, Sinead O'Connor
It's hard to determine where The Butcher Boy goes wrong. The film suffers for two equally important reasons, a child actor who shows no range and a story that has no notable arc. Francie Brady (Owens) springs forth as a devil child, not easily explained away as a result of a drunken, virtually absent (at least mentally) father. And while his terrorizing of the small Irish town is spirited, it lacks depth or more importantly charm. Rea's narration as the adult Francie manages a skillful bit of wit despite a deadpan tone that suggests a sense of humor for evil deeds done long before, but that doesn't translate to Owens' monotonous performance. Whether this is a result of asking too much of a young actor or that Francie has nowhere to go and nothing much to learn over the course of his young life is left an open question.
Not that Jordan doesn't make a sincere effort. His usual attention to detail is evident, particularly in the dark, claustrophobic rooms of the boy's home as contrasted by a fort hideaway along a lush stream bank to which Francie escapes with his best pal Joe (Boyle). And Rea's ever understated performance is beautifully rendered throughout. But other creative lunges fail, namely Francie's frequent conversations with the Virgin Mary (O'Connor,) a device that begins as a curious bit of faked revelation that develops into something more substantial, but then falters, quickly turning into a bland, implausible conscience for Francie. This external (and, in casting Sinead O'Connor, deliberately controversial) voice undercuts the chance for believable character development as a result of actions and consequences, as though the filmmakers don't have faith in the story itself without yet another narrator to help communicate their ideas.
dir. Martin Scorsese
writ. Robert Getchell
feat. Ellen Burstyn, Albert Lutter, Kris Kristofferson, Diane Ladd, Harvey Keitel, Vic Tayback
Scorsese draws on his influences in Italian neorealism in this stunningly human story of a single mother, Alice (Burstyn,) struggling to bring up her son, Tommy (Lutter,) after the sudden loss of her husband. Alice reenters the working world for the first time since her marriage, finding the challenge in making it as a lounge singer in her mid-30s and the risks of that world for an attractive woman who must protect herself and her child.
The stress of their meager existence, always just a few dollars shy of broke, tries both mother and son, cracks appearing in their fragile veneers. But it's the way in which the two deal with dire moments, when it all becomes too much, where the characters shine brightest. Alice doesn't sugar coat their troubles, instead occasionally snapping and subsequently pleading with Tommy to understand how hard she's working. And this isn't a new way of relating for the two, Tommy's foul mouth and worldly (or at least advanced for a boy of about 12 years) knowledge clear signs that Alice has treated him like an adult for quite some time. But he's still a boy after all, evident in his favorite endless and possibly pointless joke and the routine temper tantrum.
It is the love shared by Alice and Tommy that binds the two, keeping hope and joy alive in troubled times. And it is the security that this love provides that is threatened when well-meaning interloper David (Kristofferson) works his charms on both mother and son, upsetting their balance and ease. With so little in life to rely upon, employment and residence both tenuous at best, Alice could easily retreat from a chance that can't be guaranteed, a chance at a different kind of love. But that wouldn't be much of a life at all.
dir. Sam Mendes
writ. Dave Eggers & Vendela Vida
feat. John Krasinski, Maya Rudolph, Carmen Ejogo, Catherine O'Hara, Jeff Daniels, Allison Janney, Jim Gaffigan, Samantha Pryor, Conor Caroll, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Josh Hamilton
For a moment, Away We Go hints at a great movie idea, exploring the lives of a couple in their mid-thirties about to have a baby who haven't yet figured out their place in the world. When Burt (Krasinski) and Verona (Rudolph) discuss whether or not they are "fuck ups," there is a whiff of timely territory, the chance to tap into the hearts of a generation that has put off marriage and children for a decade longer than their parents, who arguably have lived more of their youth as individuals, or have simply extended adolescence. I know those people. They are my friends and myself. I haven't seen that movie.
Alas, no. Instead, we are driven roughshod through a weak road movie with implausible, unamusing characters and a badgering score, desperate to make the viewer feel deeply at appropriate times. Burt and Verona pass as real people, even if Burt falls a bit close to Krasinski's role on The Office and Verona comes up short of spirited, charismatic, or even interesting. But from there forward, a slew of cartoon characters fill the screen, from Burt's parents (Daniels and O'Hara) swiped from a Christopher Guest film to Verona's sister for a forced moment of nostalgia for their deceased parents to a series of good friends and old acquaintances jam-packed with quirks and "crazy" parenting techniques.
All of this would be fine if the film wasn't so eager, so needy in its pursuit of truth and answers to big questions. Every time the music swells, Alexi Murdoch's songs plead with the viewer to forget the trite conversation and gut-clenchingly false characters and just feel the pain and yearning of these good, pregnant people. And ultimately, therein lies the biggest crime of the picture. From the outset, it neglects the very basic idea of this visual medium of showing and not telling. Whether in the many supposedly philosophical conversations or the pushy soundtrack, no feeling is earned but instead demanded.
dir. Frank Capra
writ. Robert Riskin (screenplay), George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart (play)
feat. Jean Arthur, Lionel Barrymore, James Stewart, Edward Arnold
This particular Capra jab at a life of joyless greed starts like a fever dream, the world and company of Martin Vanderhof (Barrymore) both absurd and captivating, only to wheeze through exhausted lungs into a protracted illness that one begs to end. The charm and eccentricity of Vanderhof and his family hint at the Addams Family (coincedentally first a comic strip begun in '38,) slightly crazed and possibly dangerous yet successful and happy. All of these qualities are quickly conveyed, leaving no doubt in the viewer, nor anywhere to effectively go with the characters.
Of course, banker and patriarch, Anthony P. Kirby, has a long road to travel from his avaricious post to humble father and decent man, a painfully slow path to be eked along by his son, Tony, whose love for young Alice (Arthur,) granddaughter to Vanderhof, is only rivaled by his distaste for the family business. It's this journey that makes one yearn for the speed and efficiency of a dentist, the predictable ending playing out in slow motion for nearly the full final third of the film.
And it's unfortunate to lose the momentum generated so winsomely. Early scenes paint Tony as a clear mismatch for the fast-talking world of finance, his thoughts operating in a more circular manner, swirling slowly, while somehow not awkwardly, into a proposal of marriage to Alice. And Tony's abandoned dream simply and beautifully suggests a future in solar power technology, a small idea that might be nurtured into something important if not forced to live up to the immediate demands of a quick return. If these inklings could have been developed and sustained as themes, a resonance may have been achieved to surpass another story of a banker learning his lesson.
