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dir. Claire Denis
writ. Claire Denis and Jean-Pol Fargeau
feat. Alex Descas, Mati Diop, Nicole Dog, Grégoire Colin
Lionel (Descas) and Joséphine (Diop) live quiet, busy lives, a father and daughter who have carved out a shared existence of love and support in the absence of other family. But hints of change and rebellion are in the air, and a man lurks outside the door of their apartment, a suitor with the filmmaker's suggestion of a home invader.
In Claire Denis' beautiful and tender tribute to Ozu, we find Descas in the traditional Chishu Ryu role as the aging parent and Diop filling in for Setsuko Hara, the devoted daughter who yearns for an independent life yet doesn't wish to abandon her lonely father. The film elegantly courts the threats of everyday life, two deaths haunting the story while little harm comes directly to our leads. Instead, intimate details shape and propel the tale: Joséphine's stumbling progress with Noé (the lurking suitor,) Lionel's harrowing vision of his future through a retired coworker, a visit to Joséphine's aunt that vaguely answers a few questions of family history.
The conflicts go unspoken, playing out in richly textured scenes of motion and emotion. As the substitute family of Lionel, Joséphine, Noé, and Gabrielle (Dogue as the unrequited lover of Lionel) get caught in the rain and take shelter in a cafe, the caged feelings escape. Noé makes his move on Joséphine, taking the daughter from the awkward father, pressing him to demonstrate his still thriving manhood with the cafe owner, and thus leaving Gabrielle out in the cold. In the time it takes to play "Night Shift" by the Commodores, the dynamic has changed forever, inevitable and irreversible shifts in these lives taking place in a moment out of time, in a placed they would have never visited if not for car trouble and bad weather.
It is this combination of the incessant flow of life and good intentions of the characters that imbue the film with such charm and power. Lives will move onward, but the love between father and daughter will remain.
dir. Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders
writ. Dean DeBlois, Chris Sanders, and William Davies, novel by Cressida Cowell
feat. Jay Baruchel, Gerard Butler, Craig Ferguson, America Ferrera
What a delightful surprise this film turned out to be. I knew it was a good sign when one article cited its lack of broad humor and pop culture references as the reason it didn't blow out the box office initially. Thankfully, it found an audience as one of the biggest sleepers of the year, holding rank for weeks. As one who can't count on his taste being easily transferable, I'll rarely raise the flag for a film. But for this one, I tell everyone to see it.
In this case, the trick is in telling a coming-of-age tale with an unusual setting and a unique spin on what makes the main character special. Hiccup (Baruchel) is a young Viking who yearns to slay dragons just like his Pop (Butler). Unfortunately, he's a pipsqueak who shows little promise and as we eventually find out, doesn't have the killer's instinct necessary to do the job. In first hitting, then learning to love the injured dragon, he finds false success as a master of dragons, for understanding instead of violence. This leads to some powerful conflict between father and son, a rift both distressing and plausible within the context of the world. It also sets up Hiccup as a great savior for his people and gives him room to save their way of life and mend things with Pop.
This plot summary doesn't do the story justice. Just as that initial backhanded compliment indicated, the clever writing and very human sensibility of the film and its characters keep it aloft and entertaining. When Hiccup learns to fly the dragon, we experience something utterly lacking in Avatar which, despite its astounding budget and frequent flying effects, never offered the same gasping sense of freefall that grips the viewer as Hiccup dives toward uncertainty. This has as much to do with the attachment to the character as it does with the animation or 3-D effects (can you name one notable characteristic of the main dude in Avatar? me neither). You are along for the ride, sympathetic to both the adorable dragon and the troubled Hiccup.
All of this while surrounded by stunning visuals, created with the support of none other than Roger Deakins, cinematographer for the Coen Brothers films, The Reader, Doubt, and many more, who consulted to bring greater depth to the lighting. And as a last note, the story is well rounded with a budding romance between Hiccup and Astrid, a sly diversion complete with digs about love feeling like a simultaneous kiss and a punch in the face.
dir. Lee Unkrich
writ. Michael Arndt, story by John Lasseter, Andrew Stanton, and Lee Unkrich
feat. Tom Hanks, Tim Allen, Joan Cusack, Ned Beatty, Don Rickles, Michael Keaton, Wallace Shawn, John Ratzenberger
I'll admit I was afraid when I heard there was a third installment of Toy Story coming down the pipe. Sure, I'd been thrilled by the second one (after similar fears) and pleased by the bulk of Pixar's films, even stunned by many. Yet, Up lost it's momentum despite a strong start and Cars ran out of gas before it even got rolling. Plus, the tiresome push for more 3-D content loomed as a potential excuse to dance the toys across the screen one last time for a big show of unnecessary added dimension. Thankfully, the wizards of Pixar not only protected the property, but turned out what might be the best of the three, an unprecedented feat in movie threedom.
At their best, the Pixar gang get that great storytelling isn't just dynamic, packing in almost constant movement and frequent action set pieces, but also probes deeply, exploring multiple psychological levels and complicated relationships. Their utmost genius is demonstrated in their ability to combine these aspects in such a way that a child might appreciate an adventure about living toys struggling for survival while an adult will enjoy a tale about growing up, the fear of abandonment, and parting ways with loved ones. All of this is packed into a seamless, riveting story that weaves its way through a variety of movie genres and subgenres that include a ditzy cheesy romance and a film noir jailbreak.
Through all the riotous and outlandishly inventive moments (Mr. Tortilla Head ranks highly among the funniest things I've ever seen in my life,) they never let go of the heartfelt story, each character pulling its weight, facing up to its decisions, and dealing with consequences. And through the highs and lows, they never let the enthusiasm and pacing drop for a moment. On top of that, there are none of the easy solutions common to such stories. Just when you expect a villain to show he's a good soul after all, he's just as rotten as before. Just when you know how the gang will get out of a dicey situation, that escape hatch closes. And just when you think you've seen it all, there is a moment that makes you believe the impossible could happen, that seems shockingly adult and frighteningly human for any age group and which sets the filmmakers so far apart from the rest of the pack that they seem to belong to another galaxy. And as you gasp and the tears come, another turn arrives, one so uplifting, so surprising yet so inevitable, and so perfect that it ties the whole world together and confirms (quite precisely) what you thought a moment ago about those talented folks behind the scenes.
Hell, that's not even the end. It's as though the toys had the allegorical coming-of-age experience that we will never see Andy, their owner, have as he heads off to college. Their separation and the accompanying anxiety follow, a denouement that crystallizes the heart of the story, a gentle and emotional summing up after the exciting heavy lifting. And maybe just here, there is a touch of indulgence in the happy ending, the toys finding renewed love and joy in a new owner and together.
dir. Jean Renoir
writ. Jean Renoir, based on Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde feat. Jean-Louis Barrault, Teddy Bilis, Sylviane Margollé, Jean Topart, Michel Vitold
The unquestionable highlight of Renoir's version of Stevenson's classic tale is the performance by Jean-Louis Barrault as Opale (Hyde). Through astonishing makeup, simple but clever costume changes, and sly cinematography, the dapper aristocratic doctor is transformed into a hunchbacked, puffy faced, wolfman. Opale steals the show with his shambling swagger, limber-necked lothario poses, and persistent menace. His introduction, tormenting a solitary little girl, suggests a venomously energetic Hyde, not only escaping society's norms, but eager to exact a bitter coward's revenge, to hound and destroy the weak and vulnerable.
Unfortunately, other than a lively turn by Michel Vitold as a rival doctor, the film lags whenever Opale is absent. Marveling at Dr. Cordelier's face, doubtful that it could be the same actor in both roles, only engages for so long. This isn't for lack of effort on Renoir's part. When it appears that Opale must have escaped through a high window, angular shots of high exterior windows, treacherously narrow ledges, and officers scouring the roof pair with an eerie score for a moment that would be delightfully unsettling if we didn't already know the gag. Saddled by the viewer's prescience of what should be the stunning final reveal, the better set pieces are defused, their thunder stolen, the ominous edge of the picture drained of its potentially ghoulish impact.
dir. and writ. Nina Paley
writ. Valmiki (book - Ramayana)feat. vocals of Annette Henshaw
This inventive animated feature breaks down the Ramayana epic, telling it through three main animation styles including shadow puppet narrators, miniature Mughal paintings, and cartoony music video segments set to the songs of 20s jazz songstress, Annette Henshaw. In another layer, the director, Nina Paley, tells of her own dissolving relationship, animated in what appears to be a cross between the shaky pencils of Bill Plympton and the doughy figures of Cathy Guisewite.
Much of the art is beautiful and compelling, richly colored and inviting, the frequent shifts welcome to break up what otherwise might become monotonous. The three competing narrators make for the most engaging portions of the film. Their overlapping narration, frequent confusion and corrections, and questioning of the motivations of the characters in the epic give the impression of overhearing a real conversation between a group of thoughtful, argumentative and hilarious Indian history students. The sections move remarkably quickly, with facts, cracks and quips occasionally lost in the fray, though not particularly missed given the delightfully entertaining overarching effect. The painted Mughal style imagery is beautifully rendered, combining seamlessly with the simpler shadow play and lending a touch of authenticity to the historical aspect of the story.
The bright, clean vector graphic music videos are lovely and hypnotic, with amusing perfect circles that make up Sita's body and flat bright colors. However, Henshaw isn't especially dynamic as a singer, her music and lyrics often dull and quickly redundant. The film could have used a singer with more range or various voices, a choice that would not have felt inconsistent given the leaps from style to style. Similarly, the portions relating to Paley's own life could use a lift, both in the animation and the character development. It smacks of a creator wishing to use real pain for effect but too shy to reveal anything of substance. She whines and mopes. He is dull and distant. That's it, the whole time. Either they are the most boring people on the planet or something has been kept from the viewer.
Despite these shortcomings, the movie's fluidity exhibits a powerful charm that quickly restores engagement after letting the grip slide in the lesser moments, holding on and coercing a silly grin.
dir. Peter Bogdanovich
writ. Larry McMurtry (novel), Larry McMurtry and Peter Bogdanovich
feat. Timothy Bottoms, Jeff Bridges, Cybill Shepherd, Ben Johnson, Cloris Leachman, Ellen Burstyn, Eileen Brennan, Clu Gulager, Sam Bottoms
Peter Bogdanovich takes the existential Western through Antonioni territory in his chronicle of a post WWII dying Texas town. Dust blasts through the streets of Anarene as though the dinky burg might blow clear off the map. Teen mute, Billy (Sam Bottoms), persistently if ineffectually sweeps the road, perhaps trying to preserve something long since lost, an era when his father, Sam the Lion (Johnson), brought life and love to the area, caring for it, building its economy by offering opportunities to the locals. As Sam's energy fades, so does that of the town.
Shiftless high school seniors, Sonny (Timothy Bottoms) and Duane (Bridges), won't even commit to the football team as they ramble around, going to the movies, and trying to score with the girls. Jacy (Shepherd) looks for the next thrill, testing out sex in a few forms before trying out elopement. Her mother, Lois (Burstyn), already lived that life and dabbles in it still when she isn't dreaming nostalgically of the few beautiful moments she once experienced.
Though the kids grow older and assume the roles of their predecessors, no savior rises from the dusty streets. The best loved citizens fall, the movie house kills the lights, and Ruth (Leachman), after a defiant screaming moment that rages on behalf of the entire town, surrenders with a gentle whimper.
dir. Steven Soderbergh
writ. Kurt Eichenwald (novel), Scott Z. Burns (script)
feat. Matt Damon, Scott Bakula, Tom Papa, Melanie Lynskey
Soderbergh explodes the title of his film and earns the exclamation point with The Informant! In an adaptation that smacks of...well, Adaptation, Eichenwald's procedural novel about price fixing is twisted inside out by presenting the most unlikely turncoat in Mark Whitacre (Damon). Whitacre, while eager to appear as the well-meaning agent of truth and justice, immediately begins tripping over his own lies, clearly embroiled in the entire scam that he is supposedly unearthing. His moral radar, severely damaged or violently askew, keeps him dodging in and out of the hands of the feds, occasionally realizing his predicament before launching back into the relationship that seems to satisfy him on some level.
Punctuating the story are flashy flower power inspired title cards, playfully hinting at an era earlier than the 90s of the film (which really looks like the late 80s in dress and decor), and wonderfully fanciful musings by Whitacre about the workings of the world. These latter diversions, delivered as internal monologue, present minutiae that fascinates and baffles, potentially guiding his delusionally misguided pursuits. The speedy pace of the picture combined with these disruptive yet propulsive thoughtful moments make for a film wholly owned by Damon, in a role that shows off the range and command of an underrated talent.
dir. and writ. Andrew Bujalski
feat. Tilly Hatcher, Maggie Hatcher, Alex Karpovsky
As a dutiful cinephile, I've tried on a couple mumblecore films, curious to see what the minimal hubbub is all about. Bujalski's earlier Mutual Appreciation had a nice slow burn to it, a quiet warmth that defied the almost aggressively grungy black and white cinematography. It also chose a small but sticky subject, the whiff of infidelity by a girlfriend with her beau's close friend. This near-sex experience has the appeal of awkward conversations, drama that can be visceral to the participants but not necessarily to viewers, a difficult complication to illustrate as it barely surfaces verbally and has no physical component. Bujalski commendably engages the viewer, supporting the story with the secondary plot of Alan's (Justin Rice) move to New York City to make it big with his band, a compelling and relatable period of transition that brings more meaning and grounding to the film.
Beeswax offers up another minor drama, this time depicting twin sisters with their own changes coming down the pike. Unfortunately, these changes are so small and unworthy of drama that all the awkward conversations and petty challenges ring false. Jeannie's (Tilly Hatcher) business problems feel overwrought and unjustified, her inability to deal with them a show of childish weakness forcing the question of how she possibly had the backbone and determination to start the business in the first place. Her sister, Lauren (Maggie Hatcher), feels real enough, but her indecision about whether to go have a real life in another country carries no weight. Perhaps the viewer is meant to be wowed by these real twin non-professional actresses, or take for granted the binding connection between twins that makes it hard for Lauren to leave. But instead one seems whiny and irritating and the other sweet but dull.
The bigger problem comes from the desperate push to seem "real." I don't buy that anyone (without notable mental disabilities) speaks so awkwardly and struggles this much to make connections. Sure, most movie dialogue is unrealistic, a deliberate choice to keep stories moving and chatter engaging. Here, instead of disposing of the script, it feels like a push in the other direction, as though the actors were directed to dumb it down, bury all intentions, hopes, and dreams as though not one clear thought ever spun through a character's head. The end result is the sensation that it would be just fine if this Beeswax were none of mine.
dir. Michel Gondry (Interior Design), Leos Carax (Merde), Bong Joon-Ho (Shaking Tokyo)
writ. Gabrielle Bell (graphic novel "Cecil and Jordan in New York" for ID), Michel Gondry, Leos Carax, Bong Joon-Ho
feat. Denis Lavant (ID), see imdb
I can't help going into an anthology film expecting about 5% of worthwhile material, such projects generally the depository for filmmakers' experiments, ideas and methods without the backing of enough confidence to warrant a feature. Tokyo! is therefore a pleasant surprise, a cohesive triptych of uneasy tales by highly inventive directors inspired by that city.
Gondry kicks it off with his adaptation of a story from a graphic novel (the source actually set in NYC) that follows a young couple struggling to survive in an expensive often alienating city. Twists arise unexpectedly, taking a magically surreal turn reminiscent of an Etgar Keret short story. A transformation from human to inanimate object plays more naturally than one could dream and the metaphorical underpinnings of the sad and sweet finale resonate like a short written work at its most effective.
Carax's entry follows with the explosive introduction of Merde (Lavant), a filthy wild man rising up out of a manhole to race through the streets, terrorizing the public by pushing, shoving, kissing and being a general nuisance. It's quickly revealed that he's a known celebrity, renowned and ogled for his madcap, largely harmless if misanthropic behavior. Excited teenagers rejoice for having made contact with the mysterious underworld figure. The tone shifts dramatically as the playful fellow turns violent, launching grenades through the city as casually as he speed-walked previously. He is promptly caught and put on trial, the only person in the world who speaks his moaning, nonsense language brought in as his lawyer.
Up to this moment, the story is riveting, fast and furious, relentlessly engaging and doggedly captivating. Then something dies, the trial and the amusement of the filmmakers by these overwrought exchanges of groans and contortions bogging down the short (and the full film), bringing it to a standstill, with nearly zero progress for 10 to 15 minutes. Yes, it's funny for a couple minutes, but then simply long and painful. A slight recovery comes at the end, promising future adventures, though such damage is done that it's hard to wish for more.
Finally, Bong Joon-Ho (Mother, The Host, Memories of Murder) brings his trademarked blend of humor and ill ease to the city, tracking a man who never leaves the house and his unexpected attraction to a delivery girl who passes out in his pad during an earthquake. The shaking up of lives and the mysteries of other people and outside one's door are explored without suggesting aphorisms or easy solutions, a trembling and satisfying comment on city life as well as an appropriately inconclusive conclusion to the full film.
dir. Jean Renoir
writ. Émile Zola (novel), Pierre Lestringuez, Jean Renoir
feat. Catherine Hessling, Jean Angelo, Werner Krauss, Raymond Guérin-Catalain
Renoir's production of Émile Zola's novel, Nana, rides the line between the silent films that long soured me on the form and the expressionistic masterpieces that reeled me be back into their favor. The stunningly lavish costumes and sets manage to fill the gaps, holding attention when acting and story lag. Nana (Hessling, Renoir's wife at the time) plays that baffling archetype, the untalented actress, prone to overwrought displays of just about everything that demands the money, favors and attention of all the men around her. Other than a general sense of excitement revolving around such characters, I can't see the draw. But thankfully, many other men do, or there wouldn't be much of a story.
The film follows Nana as she connives her way into bigger theatrical productions and deeper pockets, finding a reliable sponsor in the aristocrat, Muffat (Krauss), who puts up with her flings and bad behavior simply to share a little time with her. Much of the entertainment comes in the form of these desperate men, willing to kill themselves to spend a little time at her feet. While Muffat may seem above all that in posture, it doesn't take much to get him to slip money into a candy box to win Nana's audience, then prance and bark like a dog to earn a chocolate. This scene in particularly is wonderfully uncomfortable to watch, a credit to the skillful filmmaking if not to Muffat's honor.
It is such powerfully executed scenes that lift the film above Nana's limitations as a character, whether a raucous, untethered dance hall scene where Nana becomes the center of attention, that prancing dog, or Muffat's final visit to Nana, the sprawling staircase heavy with other suitors and the dread of disease as he marches to certain doom.
dir. Jean Renoir
writ. Georges de La Fouchardière (novel), André Mouézy-Éon (play), André Girard, Jean Renoir
feat. Michel Simon, Janie Marèse, Georges Flamant, Magdeleine Bérubet , Roger Gaillard, Marcel Courmes
In what feels like a warm-up to future works such as Boudu Saved From Drowning and The Rules of the Game, Renoir opens La Chienne with puppets, a show within a show, teasing the audience with the suggestion that the film is a tragedy or perhaps a comic farce about manners, then denying both, insisting it is nothing but a story. Legrand, an aspiring painter and put upon poor schlub, is a joke at the office and a whipping boy to his shrew of a wife (Bérubet). When he stumbles upon Lulu (Marèse) being beaten by her dandy, would-be pimp, Dédé (Flamant),
he takes action and incidentally becomes Lulu's next mark.
I suppose Lulu has a title to live up to in the film, though it always takes a leap of credibility for me to see why a man falls for a cruel, gold-digging woman who seems to shower meager affection in proportion to her needy whimpering. But perhaps sex and a touch of youth are good enough for Legrand and at least moderately better than his wife, always comparing him unfavorably to her deceased former husband, a war hero. As Lulu further deceives Legrand, selling his paintings as her own and continuing to run with Dédé, a fun twist arrives in the guise of the Colonel, the former husband long believed dead, who had apparently decided to stay dead to avoid returning to the hellish wife. The men share a delightfully backward argument, each insisting the other has a right to the wife and the life, neither wanting it. Legrand sees his escape and sets a trap that will free him in the process.
As the story nears its end, the roles of the characters are explored in greater depth. Lulu wishes for a real life with Dédé, something he seems to consider before reverting to his pimp-owner attitude, shattering her hopes. Similarly, Legrand, on the verge of collapse, having caught Lulu with Dédé and ready to dismiss her for good, suddenly changes direction, perhaps seeing her as his last chance for something better, ready to take her away from the temptations of the city to make a life for them somewhere new. Sadly, Lulu has her roles in mind as well and can't live that fantasy with Legrand, unfortunate for her since she winds up dead instead.
Dédé is the likely culprit in the public eye, even if innocent, and so it plays out. One can't help but wait for the last minute confession, the stay of execution, the saved day. But it never comes in this story, a satisfying lack of twist and an acceptance of the sometimes rotten luck of life. A last remark upon life's immeasurable opportunities follows in the final scene when we see Legrand, now a bum, watch one of his paintings get sold and packed into a fancy car at the same moment he is reunited with the Colonel, and a small found bill offers enough for them to celebrate a bright moment in the day.
dir. Jean Renoirwrit. Jean Renoir (screenplay), Jacques Levert (story)
feat. Charles Blavette, Celia Montalván, Édouard Delmont, Max Dalban, Jenny Helia
Sparks of Renoir's humane approach to love, life, and filmmaking glimmer through Toni, while never reaching the full rise of his greater works. Toni arrives in Provence searching for work and falls in immediately with Marie, his landlady and lover after a small nod of consent. The story jumps takes occasional leaps forward in time, as much to account for lapses in reason as to advance the plot. Before long, Toni, truly in love with Josefa, marries Marie in a double wedding where Josefa becomes the bride of the brutish Albert.
The story is riddled with holes posing as the idiosyncrasies of life. Josefa is an incorrigible flirt unworthy of Toni's attention. Albert is a callous brute with no redeeming or desirable qualities. Toni marries Marie despite his obvious disinterest in her.
Yet in the end, as (supposed) true love strains to make things right after an accidental murder, the film manages to achieve a gentle air of romantic tragedy. Nevertheless, it is the small moments, the playful chase of a bee in a woman's dress or the way in which a friend demonstrate compassion and sympathy even when his pal makes stupid choices that gives the picture its heart.
dir. and writ. Götz Spielmann
feat. Johannes Krisch, Irina Potapenko, Andreas Lust, Ursula Strauss, Johannes Thanheiser
Alex (Krisch) is your typical mid-level action picture thug, the tough but disposable guy who dies nameless, either at the hand of his employer for crossing the line by dating one of the girls or as fodder for the good guys as they chase the top dog. But not in Revanche. Here, he takes the lead, gritting and bearing it when his boss calls him soft, and formulating his own big plan to escape a shitty life, taking his prostitute girlfriend with him. And like so many such plans, something goes terribly wrong.
This twist sends the story spinning into rural territory, where Alex, devastated by the loss of his girlfriend, his intended future shattered, hides out on the farm of his grandfather, Hausner (Thanheiser). There, he prepares firewood for the old man with such fervor, it seems he might throw himself into the spinning blade. Furious and shaken, he stumbles upon the man he deems responsible for his predicament, Robert (Lust), and hatches his plan for revenge (in the second, and most obvious, of several spins on the title).
But easy solutions will not be permitted. Guilt-ridden cop, Robert, and his wife, Susanne (Strauss), cross paths with Alex, offering him his shot before quickly complicating that supposedly simple act as their lives interweave. The film excels here, as these relationships develop, crossing surprising lines and elevating the tension. One could argue that all the intricacies of the plot are laid out to lead to one delightfully taut scene, a confrontation between Alex and Robert that forces hard questions about resolve and responsibility.
Ultimately, the title earns its due, in a manner of speaking, though in a far more elaborate and satisfying way than one might guess, for the viewer if not the characters.
dir. Lone Scherfig
writ. Nick Hornby (screenplay), Lynn Barber (memoir)
feat. Carey Mulligan, Peter Sarsgaard, Alfred Molina, Cara Seymour, Emma Thompson, Olivia Williams, Rosamund Pike, Dominic Cooper
The experience of watching An Education closely parallels the relationship between David (Sarsgaard) and Jenny's parents (Molina and Seymour) in the film, a winsome sleight of hand distracting from important questions with the swaying charm of elegant handling. Already drawing Jenny's eye, David works his way into her life as a kind of mentor in the parents eyes, a reasonable point of entry. As the relationship grows more intimate, something that would be more obvious at home as well, the story veers from such considerations, sticking to topics of economics and success, steering clear of quiet moments where Mom and Dad might sit and consider if their teenage daughter is having sex with a man in his 30s.
And the suave, earnest David sells it, both to the parents and to the viewer. His passive approach to seduction is inviting without being (too) creepy, in no small part because Jenny is so well-educated, an equal among her new companions, and eagerly cosmopolitan, sucking down all the culture and parties that David dishes out (excellent makeup and hair aside, it also helps that Mulligan was hitting her mid-20s as opposed to Jenny's 16). In one of the best scenes in the film, David even sells Jenny on his criminal lifestyle, casually explaining that he's made certain choices in order to live better, a moment that sidesteps the typical histrionic recriminations and apologies of such confrontations.
It's only when David leaves the picture that the glamour fades, not just for Jenny and family, but for the audience as well. The film is reduced to a morality tale of the value of hard work and earning it for oneself, minor characters are given meager life, and we're begged to feel for a girl who might (banish the thought) not be welcomed into one of the greatest universities in the world. It's hard to buy the "close call" spin of this final act, and it doesn't appear as though the filmmakers feel it either, letting loose a rapid fire, going-through-the-motions series of scenes complete with a studious montage and an abrupt, closing voiceover meant to wrap things up tidily.
While I understand the decision to cut a final appearance by David (see Deleted Scenes for those catching it on video), this omission leaves a gaping hole, a lack of deeper resolution. While Jenny is the main character, David gives the story its life. And while she may survive and prosper without him, the story doesn't have the same fortitude. That being said, I came away a fan of the film despite these substantial shortcomings. Perhaps, the greatest lesson doled out by An Education is how to slyly win over viewers without fulfilling them.
dir. Georges Franju
writ. Jean Redon, Claude Sautet, Pierre Boileau, Thomas Narcejac (adaptation), Jean Redon (novel)
feat. Pierre Brasseur, Alida Valli, Juliette Mayniel, Edith Scob
Franju's tale of a plastic surgeon (Brasseur) who can't successfully repair his daughter's face, damaged in an auto accident he caused lends a dreamy French quality to a story that feels much like the Edgar Allen Poe, Roger Corman, Vincent Price films of the same era. Opting for black and white over the striking Technicolor of the Poe pictures, Franju bounces between stiff and occasionally stark moments of police and medical procedural and the gauzy, floating wandering of daughter Christiane (Scob) about the gothic estate. In her thin, eerie mask, forced upon her by her father and his demanding assistant (Valli), Christiane appears just shy of lifelike, real enough to show her sadness, yet incomplete, keeping joy out of reach.
The horror surfaces in the Doctor's obsessive need to fix Christiane's face and his methods, kidnapping similar looking young women and using their fresh faces as transplants. The twisted story of love and devotion is anchored by an unsettling surgery scene, the Dr. methodically marking and cutting away the skin of his victim in a misguided, desperate struggle for redemption that only distances him from his daughter, even as it illustrates the gruesome lengths to which a father will go. But more powerful than the gore is the harrowing pain and despair experienced by Christiane, a once lovely young woman now trapped not just in her tower, but by her own face.
dir. John Huston
writ. Guy Gallo (screenplay), Malcolm Lowry (novel)
feat. Albert Finney, Jacqueline Bisset, Anthony Andrews
It's a wonder that Geoffrey Firmin (Finney) has survived as long as he has, rambling about Mexico, never far from a consoling bottle. As we find him, he has lost his position as British Consul to Mexico, a result more than a cause of his incessant drinking. As Geoffrey drifts drunkenly into his past, recounting military tales of heroics (and potential disgraces) to anyone within earshot, we never discover when he decided to drink himself under in this little corner of the world. We do find that an unfaithful wife, Yvonne (Bisset), has at least something to do with his condition, though her return and subsequent promises to rekindle the relationship doesn't remedy his situation.
While Geoffrey shows a glimmer of hope at the prospect of running away to a new land to restore the marriage, the booze and his embittered state bury him back again. Finney plays the perpetual drunk fluidly- clumsy, embarrassing, inept and dangerous both to himself and his companions - without turning morose, his severe moments coming with levity and a show of teeth paired with verbal wit. Geoffrey has given up and has no reason to mourn in advance.
dir. John Huston
writ. Leonard Gardner (novel)
feat. Stacy Keach, Jeff Bridges, Susan Tyrrell, Candy Clark, Nicholas Colasanto
Stacy Keach belongs to the 70s. Maybe that's unfair to a guy still turning up in a handful of TV and film roles each year, but I don't mean to critique his current work. It's about the way in which he owned the shambling, rough and tumble characters he played back then, whether as Calvin, a crook with big dreams, in The Gravy Train, Sgt. Stedenko, the always fumbling and delusional officer of the law, in Up in Smoke, or Tully, a down on his luck boxer, in Fat City. Keach doesn't need to sell hard to appear as the out-of-shape athlete considering another shot at the big time. His quiet cool, a confidence born from experience flows forth as he casually encourages Ernie (Bridges) to keep at the boxing game, sure after just a short round of sparring that the youngster has what it takes.
And Tully is right about Ernie, if less so about his own hopes for a return to the ring. Instead, he rolls around town, falling in with lonely lush, Oma (Tyrrell), as he drinks himself deeper into retirement. They form a mighty troubled pair, either perfect or the worst thing going for one another, drinking and sparring more violently than Tully can muster in a real bout, and wearing each other out in the process. Tully is a sucker for punishment though, unable to escape thoughts of Oma or the bars long enough to sustain the recovery he imagines.
As the film, and Tully, inhabit these places, Ernie nearly disappears, off to a bright future of boxing success, a wife, a child. But the men cross paths again, raising a glass for old times sake, both realizing that they've moved on and have little to share anymore. In this moment of revelation, Ernie sees his surroundings anew, sharply aware of the life he lives and the loss of his youth and prospects. And as a 70s Keach character, he doesn't even seem shaken, likely to keep cruising along, taking it day by day with an easy smile.
dir. John Huston
writ. Arthur Miller
feat. Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift, Thelma Ritter, Eli Wallach
For an all-star film with plenty of well-executed set pieces, The Misfits has a wonderfully ragged quality about it, evidence of the talented cast, with at least one at the height of her powers. Marilyn plays Roslyn, a lovely young woman securing a reluctant but much-needed divorce as the picture opens. Roslyn is shaken, losing faith in the world, particularly the men she attracts. While she would like to live free and love freely, that course has steered her wrong and left her uncertain as to how she should proceed.
Naturally, this glowing beauty, newly single and looking for the next step in life draws admirers, namely everyone else in the film. Gay (Gable) is an old school cowboy still struggling to live the rough and tumble single man's life in a decreasingly wild west. As the aging lothario, confidence waning, he nearly pleads for Roslyn's attention just as he begs for a few more years of the life he's loved. Guido (Wallach), an auto mechanic still trapped by the loss of his wife years ago, is revived by Roslyn as she inhabits his old house, left barren and incomplete when his wife passed away. This invigoration overwhelms him, forcing him to feel again after years of rolling along casually without probing too deeply into the past or moving ahead to a new life. Perce (Clift) rambles through town, following the rodeo, a jaded romantic who feels jilted by his stepfather for taking his legacy and lost without a new dream to set his sights upon. There are times when he seems the best match for Roslyn though the two might crumble together, neither with the assured substance to support them as a duo.
Isabelle (Thelma) is the only character who seems to have it licked, standing on her own two feet, well aware of how the world, and men, work. She appears caught between knowing satisfaction and mild resignation, neither of which thrill nor depress her.
The unavoidable pain in the world is at the heart of the film, and Roslyn suffers terribly when forced to face it directly, doled out by her closest friends. Her explosive reaction changes everything, for a moment, stirring the group to face themselves and their behavior, including herself. It's a stunning movie climax, the kind that may or may not change the day to day lives of those involved but most assuredly changes the way they think of them.
As notably, this period in Roslyn's life provides a bridge between the character and Marilyn's screen persona, allowing the actress to slowly shed the trappings of the ditzy blonde, molting out of that stereotype as though seeing clearly for the first time. It is a rare and stunning feat, revealing talents that sadly remained hidden previously and would never have the chance to mature, given that it was Monroe's last completed film.
writ. and dir. Michael Haneke
feat. Isabelle Huppert, Beatrice Dalle, Patrice Chereau, Rona Hartner, Maurice Benichou, Olivier Gourmet, Brigitte Rouan, Lucas Biscombe, Hakim Taleb, Anais Demoustier
Haneke kicks into the post-catastrophic tale with both a bang and a whimper, perhaps pegging the reality of such a situation more accurately than your typical Hollywood blockbuster without the explosions or media theatrics. After an unknown event disconnects France from the world and sends people panicking, stockpiling food and bolting the doors, Anne (Huppert) is left wandering the countryside with her two young children, Eva and Ben (Biscombe and Demoustier), struggling for survival. As Anne strains to keep the family together while seeking food and shelter, the slim and easily disrupted cover of civilization evaporates, revealing just how close people are to the hardscrabble life where the next meal is not guaranteed.
While there is no assurance of safety in numbers, the family joins other refugees to share resources and a rough sense of community in a tight space where fractures and conflicts come easily, the best and worst traits of man surfacing within seconds of one another. Eva seeks companionship from a boy slightly older than her, finding repeated disappointment in his selfish nature but returning to him repeatedly as though he is her last desperate chance to find hope in the desolate world. Meanwhile, though quieter and appearing less affected, the younger Ben is propelled into a realm of doubt rarely discovered before adolescence, anguish spurred and amplified by the evident meaninglessness of existence in the wasteland. While his moments on the brink of utter and irreparable hopelessness are brutally heartbreaking to watch, they are also the film's greatest strength and terribly unforgettable. As a Westerner who is aware that the great majority of the world's people live in similar situations- few resources, unclean water, on the verge of starvation- it's difficult not to see the film as a symbol of what many must go through daily, an added layer of resonance that may or may not be Haneke's intention.
writ. and dir. Michael Haneke
feat. Daniel Auteuil, Juliette Binoche, Maurice Benichou, Annier Girardot, Bernard Le Coq, Walid Afkir, Lester Makedonsky
Haneke commits fully to his title in this mysterious tale that begins as a who- and whydunit and veers into richer territory, exploring the hidden histories, both recent and distant, that informs people's daily lives.
Georges and Anne (Auteuil and Binoche), a seemingly stable and content upper middle class couple with a teenage son, Pierrot (Makedonsky), grow unsettled upon receiving haunting surveillance videotapes shot from just outside their door. As the tapes accumulate, the threat looms larger despite the absence of any demands or clearer message from the sender. Heightened anxiety leads to heated exchanges with overreactions that hint at other rifts in the relationship, issues that will also remain obscure, other than the suggestion of other secrets.
When a message points Georges to a strange address where he discovers a childhood friend, Majid (Benichou), upon whom Georges, as a young boy, had a life-changing effect, the mystery appears to surface, certain to be revealed. Instead, the story slides sideways and back into Georges past, revealing old conflicts and buried pain. From here, the film takes turns both subtle and sharp, plumbing satisfyingly complicated emotional territory such as the responsibility of a child and the measure of guilt while also overtly avoiding answering questions that seem overdue with regard to the tapes and the one responsible for them. The effects are too great to write off the cause as a mere entry point to the story, leaving a feeling of emptiness with regard to the story. However, perhaps Haneke (a dauntingly insightful filmmaker) intends this sensation as a way to better connect the viewer with Georges who is left with unanswerable questions that won't easily settle.
dir. Akira Kurosawa
writ. Hideo Oguni, Eijiro Hisaita, Akira Kurosawa, Ryuzo Kikushima, Shinobu Hashimoto
feat. Toshiro Mifune, Masayuki Mori, Kyoko Kagawa, Tatsuya Mihashi, Takashi Shimura, Ko Nishimura, Takeshi Kato, Kamatari Fujiwara, Chishu Ryu
Kurosawa's take on corporate corruption alternates between a routine procedural and a heated futile quest for revenge. Far too many conversations about who did what, when and to whom fall between Nishi's (Mifune) brutal yet calculated steps toward routing those who have done him wrong and exacting his own idea of justice upon them.
But instead of taking a straight line, the story wanders, emotions and confusion blocking any clear paths to retaliation, as though the writers (reportedly five of them on this one) couldn't resist exploring every avenue. Though this meandering muddles the plot from time to time, it also brings a human touch to characters such as Wada (Fujiwara), a whining, fearful executive assistant who manages to stop mewling long enough to force an unexpected emotional confrontation between Nishi and his wife. The time and energy spent on the relationship between Nishi and his wife, an otherwise pawn in his path to revenge, beautifully delineates the difference between people, rife with emotions and conflicts, and corporations, dedicated only to hierarchies and the protection of profit.
Naturally, there is some crossover between realms, people called upon to execute the needs and wishes of the company, those whose ultimate alliance is with the organization. Here, we have a perfect specimen in Iwabuchi (Mori), eager and willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to preserve the system. His boundless servility has an almost comic edge in the end, an early warning sign of explorations of foul systems to come, such as The Trial or Brazil.
dir. Akira Kurosawa
writ. Masato Ide, Hideo Oguni, Ryuzo Kikushima, Akira Kurosawa, novel by Shugoro Yamamoto
feat. Toshiro Mifune, Yuzo Kayama, Tsutomu Yamazaki, Reiko Dan, Miyuki Kuwano, Kyoko Kagawa, Tatsuyoshi Ehara, Terumi Niki, Akemi Nigishi, Yoshitaka Zushi
Coincidental timing brings a worthy sparring partner for Dogville to my small screen with Kurosawa's Red Beard. Mifune plays Dr. Kyojo Niide, a 19th century doctor committed to the poor whom he serves at his rigidly run clinic. Dr. Noboru Yasumoto (Kayama), a proud young doctor feels he's being punished in his appointment to assist Niide, ready for the glory and big bucks of serving as the shogun's personal physician. This common and long-winded setup introduces what at first appears to be a tedious lesson in the value of all humankind and the trials and troubles of the poor. However, the mood quickly shifts into that of a ghost story inhabited by the living, the sick, the healing and the dead.
Illness takes an ominous form in the guise of the madwoman (Kagawa), a multiple murderer, more prisoner than patient, a living spirit of the clinic with a tragic past worthy of sympathy despite her persistent compulsion to kill. Sahachi (Yamazaki), the dying elder, on the other hand, is second only to Niide himself in popularity and good intentions, though his dark secrets well up in a confession that reveal sad sordid origins to his behavior. People are complex creatures, not to be judged too harshly or easily. Even Niide misbehaves, shaking down the wealthy, vaguely threatening blackmail, and violently beating those who would threaten the health of a young girl. He criticizes himself most harshly, his tolerance reserved only for those he helps.
Niide's second guessing and additional vignettes exploring a variety of health problems and their sources bring great life and heart to the story. And the final return to a sweet tale with a predictable resolution can't diminish the power of these rich human moments. Ultimately Kurosawa's wealth of emotional depth tips the scales, posing a more convincing argument in defense of the oppressed and the wretched than von Trier presses against them. Though I definitely recommend them as a pair when you have about 6 hours to spare.
writ. and dir. Lars von Trier
feat. Nicole Kidman, Harriet Andersson, Lauren Bacall, Jean-Marc Barr, Paul Bettany, Blair Brown, James Caan, Patricia Clarkson, Jeremy Davies, Ben Gazzara, Philip Baker Hall, Thom Hoffman, Siobhan Fallon, John Hurt
Not all movies earn a long running time, frequently growing bloated and redundant, a sure sign of directors in love with their own words and images (see Inglorious Basterds). But Dogville is an exception, a story that carefully, often painfully, charts a course toward a surprisingly twisted and delightfully deserved conclusion.
The film plays like a fable, Grace (Kidman) on the run from bad men and finding respite in the goodly arms of Tom (Bettany) and the people of Dogville. John Hurt's amiable narration guides the story, occasionally stepping in for longer stretches to mend gaps that the action can't sew up alone. The much-discussed design of the set, a series of chalk outlines that depict the town's buildings with spare furniture inside reads as novel at first, raising the question of its value, the viewer asked to watch little but faces and acting for the long haul. Such doubts are quickly quelled as this spare, simple choice serves to quicken the action, accentuate the transparency of life in a small town, and unveil the willingness of citizens to turn a blind eye to the seemingly obvious and undeniable.
Grace is a mystery to the small insular community and given the gunshots that announce her arrival, an understandably dubious addition to the town. It seems reasonable that she's required to win the affections of the local folk before being offered safe harbor. Yet, the people of the town gradually overshadow Grace's questionable past, their manipulative ways advancing into territory that could compete with the most sordid background. Here is where the time serves most effectively, the slow but steady shift from kind citizens to venomous abusers creeping along deceptively into the absurd, remaining plausible as only a fable can.
All of this leads to a finale both unpredictable and deeply satisfying that throws a bludgeoning monkey wrench at lefty social theory with an argument that the neo-cons, if they actually sat through long foreign films, would champion as gospel.
writ and dir. Michael Mann
series created by Anthony Yerkovich
feat. Colin Farrell, Jamie Foxx, Gong Li, Naomie Harris, Ciaran Hinds, Justin Theroux
We all have our guilty pleasures, and having been a religious viewer of the original Miami Vice series, my impressionable young self struck by the sex, violence, and those jaw-dropping surprise endings, I couldn't help but eventually get around to the feature film.
Most striking here is the devotion to the original characters that Mann employs in his update of the material. I remember reading an interview at the time of release, noting how much of the old pastel and stucco of the 80s is long gone from Miami, all of which is gladly abandoned. But the characters, in both their strengths and flaws are faithful to the source. Tubbs (Foxx) remains the verbose, less than genius, unconvincingly tough-talking loyal brother, always ready to clarify the details, the officer in charge of exposition. He has his girl and will protect her at all costs, perhaps endangering the case to do so. This frees Crocket (Farrell) to play the wild man, hooked on the job, losing his identity over the course of long stints undercover. He works it fast and loose, racing off to chase the femme fatale, bonding over their shared high-risk lifestyles. Shying away from the morose, when Sonny and Isabella (Li) recognize their relationship can't last, they immediately realize that it means there is nothing to lose, only stoking their fires for one another.
Mann delivers the whole batch relatively seamlessly and deserves credit for his honorable update when he could have easily offered up a wild buddy cop story that simply cashed in on the brand. However, the pieces don't add up to a stellar film even if the elements are true. The sex scenes are requisite (apparently one shower per star) and devoid of heat, even with attractive players, and though one criminal (Luis Tosar) actually has the presence to seem truly threatening, the film fails to realize a climax that feels worthy of the big screen. Any pleasures, guilty or otherwise, could be just as easily sated by watching an episode of the TV show.
dir. Akira Kurosawa
writ. Akira Kurosaw, Hideo Oguni, and Masato Ide
feat. Tatsuya Nakadai, Akira Terao, Jinpachi Nezu, Daisuke Ryu, Mieko Harada, Yoshiko Miyazaki
Kurosawa melds stage and screen with stunning results in his epic rendition of King Lear, transposed to feudal Japan. With astonishing depth, blazing color, and carefully composed lighting, the imagery overflows the screen, alternately hypnotizing and assaulting the viewer, just as Tsurumaru's combination of flute notes and blazing fire bring Lord Hidetora to his knees. Kurosawa combines a gripping yet often simple approach to shooting with elements of Kabuki - blocking, movement, costume and makeup - deepening the drama and expanding the story. These seeming contradictions also appear in the legendary battle scene, possibly unrivaled in all of cinema, where an incredible balance of beauty and horror is struck, defiantly lulling and revolting at once.
While the theatrical formalism occasionally slows the pace of the picture and accentuates the predictability of certain outcomes, the sweeping scope and greater success of the film begs that Ran sit beside the dictionary definition of masterpiece.
dir. Lindsay Anderson
writ. David Storey (story and screenplay)
feat. Richard Harris, Rachel Roberts, Alan Badel, William Hartnell, Colin Blakely, Vanda Godsell
Richard Harris exploded onto the film scene in his first major role, as Frank Machin, a miner that ascends to local sports hero as a city league rugby star. Brutal determination carries Machin far enough to catch the eye of an elderly benevolent scout who takes Machin under his wing, forming bond enough that the eager upstart calls the gentleman Dad. But after stampeding his way onto the field, Machin doesn't find life much easier than the mines as a minor celebrity, thwarted by the politics of team management and confused by his inability to stir amorous reactions, or even relative warmth, from his widow landlady, Mrs. Hammond (Roberts).
Machin stumbles through life, operating like his namesake (one letter away from machine), taking what he can when he sees the opportunity. His vague ideas of success and its spoils drive him to grab wildly, playing the game to his advantage as he discovers small ways to make gains, such as courting Mrs. Hammond's children as a course to her. But his lack of foundation, and arguable inability to feel emotions other than anger and frustration, make him an ultimately destructive force, a conqueror without care who leaves those he uses behind, damaged and forgotten.
dir. Duncan Jones
writ. Nathan Parker (screenplay), Duncan Jones (original story)
feat. Sam Rockwell, Kevin Spacey, Dominique McElligott
Moon offers several delightfully confounding moments, where it's unclear what is going on, reason has been defied, and somehow, perhaps because it's all happening in the isolation of a quiet base station on the moon, such strange occurrences seem within the realm of possibility. Few films achieve such mind-bending disorientation while managing to bring it all back to a plausible reality. This feat, along with a rare meaty role for Rockwell propels Moon up a short list of thoughtful science fiction films that deliver as many ideas as space-based thrills.
At its best, the film explores the effects of isolation upon the human psyche in a clever and wonderfully effective way (which to describe would ruin much of the pleasure). Both the technique used and the findings carry the picture, frequently arousing and satisfying the viewer's curiosity. But the narrative also strays, wasting time on a HAL-inflected computer (voiced by Kevin Spacey) that suggests deeper personality traits that never surface and a few notes of corporate malfeasance that while apparent, aren't interesting or developed enough to seem important to this story. All in all, Moon feels about a reel short, missing something, a discovery or two left hidden, leaving one aching for a touch more.
writ. and dir. Ari Folman
feat. Ron Ben-Yishai, Ronny Dayag, Ari Folman, Dror Harazi
Folman's gripping study of war and memories both forgotten and eternally haunting moves along at a deceptively calm pace. The simple animation style imbues the characters with hypnotic, almost languorous motion without resorting to cheap, unnecessary tricks - flashing cuts or blasts of sound - to underline the already harrowing battle scenes. Folman's quiet probing approach to interviewing unlocks the personal stories of his subjects, each revealing awkward, private moments from the battlefield. While the unique and varied accounts could seem disjointed, a collection of tales that don't share a narrative track, the repeated horror and the final surprising shots of the film converge powerfully to assert the pointlessness of war and the damage wreaked upon both civilians and soldiers.
