Under the Skin is as singular as cinema gets, and out of
every movie from 2014, it’s the one that keeps begging for more viewings. And like Kurbrick’s 2001: A Space Odyseey,
Under the Skin dares to show a new and startling science-fiction tableaux that appeals
to the mind just as much as it does to the eyes. This is an endlessly debatable and extremely
challenging movie, forcing the viewer to draw their own conclusions in order to
form the complete story. Glazer believes
in the power of cinematic obfuscation, which can drive people crazy, but for
me, makes all three of his works beyond fascinating and immediately ripe for
reinterpretation. The unpredictability
of Under the Skin and the way it constantly subverts our expectations is what compels
the most, and because so much is left for the viewer to put together, anyone's
guess of what's transpired isn't exactly wrong. Mental mind-trick cinema isn't
new, as filmmakers have been tormenting their audiences for years with
narrative reversals and late- in-the-game twists. But what's so unique and
ultimately haunting about Under the Skin is the way Glazer makes us examine the
human condition and our constant desire for primal lust, and why we're all so
drawn to outward beauty but repelled by the sight of anything different or
potentially otherworldly. Because the film operates in reverse fashion from
what we're used to seeing in mainstream cinema (it spoils nothing to reveal
that the film is about a female alien in human disguise preying on unfortunate
male victims), we're forced to see why the male cinematic gaze is so powerful
and hardened when it's put into opposite context. Casting Scarlet Johansson as
a lethal predator in sheep's clothing was a stroke of genius because of what
she, as a human being, has come to represent in our culture: The Most Desirable
Woman, but here, she's an unremorseful, icily detached killer. And when Scarlet’s alien starts to learn more
about humanity, and starts to add up all of the unique experiences that
she’s(?) had, the movies reaches some startling conclusions about how our
brains operate and why we do the things that we do. This film is one surprise after another, both
on a visual and narrative level, and some of the sights and sounds on display
will remain in your head long after the movie is over. The cinematography in
this film is beyond transfixing and each shot should be endlessly celebrated.
Under the Skin is the sort of film that rewards with multiple viewings, and now
having seen it roughly five times, I can easily that that I’ve picked something
new up each time, and each viewing has informed and improved upon the
last. I simply cannot get the images
from the final moments of Under the Skin off the brain-pan. This is an
endlessly inquisitive film that gets richer the more one experiences it. And
given our current cookie-cutter studio system that keeps shoveling out the same
“product” each and every month, it’s bracing to see a vision this stark and
seemingly uncompromised end up on the big screen. Glazer spent roughly a decade working on this
film from the planning and scriptwriting stages all the way through production,
music, and post-production. Micha Levi’s
brazenly creepy score exemplifies the film’s title, burying deep within the
viewer, keeping them unsettled for the entire running time. Contemplative
science-fiction will always be one of my favorite cinematic cups of tea, and I
knew when I first saw this unqualified masterpiece it would remain as my
Favorite Film of 2014.
Birdman is totally amazing and distractingly brilliant. But
don’t tell Birdman that! He’ll spread
his wings, let out a roar, and get ultra pissed-off! This is an uncontrollably
original and all together brilliant piece of outraged filmmaking, the type of
movie that pounces on the opportunity to bite the hand that’s feeding it, all
in an effort to explore movies and art and creativity as a whole, while
debating the notion of what constitutes “Great Art” in both an emotional and
visceral fashion. The positively overwhelming
cinematography makes you feel like you’re high as a kite and free-form-floating
from scene to scene. How it all comes
together feels very 8 ½ and Fellini in general, and I love the fact that it’s
probably the most expensive art-film ever crafted with flights of fancy that
just need to be seen to be fully believed.
Birdman is a poison pen letter to the conventions of cranked-out
Hollywood cinema and a massive Fuck You to the Hollywood Superhero Machine,
something that’s been coming for a while now. And yet Alejandro Gonzalez
Innaritu’s movie was fully funded by the Hollywood machine (20th Century Fox)
and felt totally uncompromised which just makes me laugh – every now and again
an artist sneaks one by the bean counters and it’s wild to behold (works like
Punch Drunk Love and I Heart Huckabees and Synecdoche, NY and Eternal Sunshine
of the Spotless Mind all come to mind when mulling over Birdman). It’s a movie about movies and Broadway and
actors and directors and about the challenges of creating and about how we’re
never as good as we think we are, and never as good as we want to be. I haven’t
even attempted a traditional plot description, because, well, there’s nothing
traditional about this ultra-ambitious, and scaldingly funny black comedy. One sharp line after another of caustic,
self-referential but never overly precious dialogue after rolls out of the
various character’s acid-tinged mouths, and in tandem with the near constant
percussive drumming score, it’s the sort of assaultive work that you’re able to
get totally lost inside of. The
perfectly calibrated performances from a sterling cast of A-listers (Michael
Keaton MUST win the Oscar as this is the performance of a lifetime) are all in
perfect harmony with one another, as Emma Stone, Edward Norton, and Naomi Watts
truly cut loose, giving bold and passionate performances. The entire endeavor
feels like some sort of cinematic high-wire act where all participants shot for
the moon and nailed the landing with sarcastically poetic grace. Birdman is an
embarrassment of cinematic riches. But please, I beg you, don’t tell Birdman
ANY of this stuff. Otherwise, he’ll come after me. And you.
And all of us…
What I love so much about Christopher Nolan’s breathtaking
and gorgeous sci-fi journey Interstellar is the seemingly unlimited imagination
that it seems to possess. The birth of the anti-blockbuster is here with this
visually astonishing, thought provoking science-fiction epic which feels like
the most expensive “indie” blockbuster ever made, a $165 million production
based on an original idea, one that never feels like a pre-determined,
manufactured “product” that’s eager to sell toys and video games and
lunchboxes. There’s no “made by committee” feeling here, and I applaud the fact
that it offers the audience very little in the way of traditionally overt
“fun,” instead placing an enormous emphasis on ideas and hard-science and
hypothetical thought, while still telling an intimate and emotionally gripping
story that’s relatable, honest, and impactful.
Nolan, often labeled cold and humorless by his critics, has made his
wittiest, most heartfelt movie yet with Interstellar, and it’s in his expert
and patient blending of the earth-bound dramatics and the life or death stakes
in the cosmos that an enormously involving story is crafted. Anchored by an immensely appealing and dead-serious
movie-star performance from Matthew McConaughey, (the sort of role Tom Cruise
would’ve been asked to do 10-15 years ago), Interstellar takes its time but
never feels its length (it’s close to three hours), allowing the first act on
earth to breathe and take shape before we blast off. After a brilliant jump-cut
from the back of a speeding pick-up truck to the fiery rocket engines of the
shuttle, we’re in the vast reaches of space, heading for Saturn and beyond,
with wormholes and black holes and new dimensions and galaxies to explore. Our Earth can no longer sustain itself and
it’s up to a brave crew of three astronauts to traverse the galaxy in the hopes
of finding a habitable planet, thus ensuring the continuation of the human
race. To be honest, the less that’s
spoiled about this trickily involving narrative the better, because as with all
of Nolan films, there’s layer upon layer that will be open to dissection,
interpretation and surprise. There are
shades of 2001 and Contact and Primer all felt throughout, but Interstellar is
definitely its own thing, operating on a massive canvass and utilizing
top-flight craft contributions from everyone in the top-flight crew. The
jaw-dropping cinematography is by Hoyte Van Hoytema (Her, Tinker Tailor Solider
Spy, Let the Right One In) and each shot is worthy of the pause button, with
the IMAX format allowing for some incredible vistas. The flawless and seamless special effects are
used to propel the story, not as a story-telling crutch, but the most
impressive aspect to Interstellar may just be how much was done practically and
in-camera. Again, no spoilers, but this
is an intensely beautiful movie at times, with images that will simultaneously
thrill and haunt the viewer, and I’d suspect filmmakers like Jonathan Glazer
and Terrence Malick will go bananas for this otherworldly, cosmic trip. But
most importantly, as a filmmaker, Nolan seems incapable of not engaging his
audience on a cerebral level every time he gets behind the camera. The last 30
minutes are as mind-bending as it’s going to get for big-budget cinema, with
the narrative constantly coming around on itself again and again. And as usual, Nolan sends you out of the
theater, yet again, looking to converse with people about what you’ve all just
collectively experienced. Viewing number
two of the film only reinforced how I felt after my first viewing – this is
Nolan’s most accomplished effort to date.
This is an overwhelming space epic, and the more one watches it, the
more emotionally involving the film will become. The wormhole and black-hole segments are
filmmaking at its most bravura, literally taking you to places that you will
never, ever see with your own eyes. Hans Zimmer's magisterial score is one for
the ages, possibly the greatest of his already legendary career. Interstellar is a gloriously trippy and
brain-teasing ride through the cosmos and beyond. As a filmmaker, where does
Nolan go from here? I couldn’t possibly
imagine but I absolutely can’t wait to find out.
Just as great, troubling American war films from our past
(Coming Home, The Deer Hunter, Platoon, Casualties of War) that were scorned by
some during their initial release, Clint Eastwood’s bold and bluntly powerful
anti-war statement American Sniper has become a lightning rod for our
society. No longer “just a movie,” it’s
a legitimate cultural phenomenon; you’ve either seen this important, devastating
film and you can join the conversation, or, for whatever reason, you haven’t. This is a film that will leave its mark on
you and one way or another, and it’s doubtful you’ll leave the theater
unaffected. It might make you
angry. It might make you cry. It might make you feel empowered. We’ve all been living through the war in the
Middle East for quite some time now, some of us for our entire lives, and it’s
shaped our society, our world, and our future.
Like any politically resonant piece of work to come out of Hollywood,
audiences are going to show up with their own agenda at hand, bringing their own
ideologies into the theater. And what
they’ll see on screen in America Sniper is anything but simple and easy to
digest, but rather, it’s a subtly complicated film about the horrors and impact
of violence on one’s psyche, and a sobering reminder of how there are those of
us out there willing to lay it all on the line in the name of their country. I’d like to point to the integral scene in American Sniper
where Kyle is justifiably horrified by the collapsing twin towers, and you see
his emotional response to it. For many
people with an already gung-ho, patriotic up-bringing, this was a seminal event
in their lives – a call to action and a reason to enlist in the military. Yes – from the movie – it's made clear that
the attack on America on 9/11 is what drove Kyle to finally join the
military. But what’s the problem with
that? This exact same thing happened all
across our country in the days and weeks post 9/11 – these men and women, for
the most part, wanted to serve the country professionally and have done so
proudly. Why are people ignorant to the
idea that an attack on our country would have spurred some people to act? Again - Kyle was sent to Iraq by our military
- he didn't walk up to someone and say: "Iraqi's flew planes into the
towers, let’s go kill Iraqis!” He was
fed lies by his government and military about Iraq. He didn’t create the “intel” – he followed
orders and was asked to do stuff that very few people have the intestinal fortitude
to carry out. Why is it that tons of
people seem to forget that soldiers don’t get to pick their deployments. Unless
I’m way off base here and then do and if that’s the case then I’m sorry. It’d just be news to me. All of the anti-war subtext is right there in
the film. It’s just that Eastwood knows
how to do it without obviously ladling it on for viewers. For me, there is no such thing as “too soon” when it comes to
thoughtful explorations of our darkest hours in history via the cinema. When United 93 and World Trade Center were
released in 2005, I can remember a chorus of “too soon” and “No!” And it never made sense to me. Are we supposed to ignore these things that
happen to us in the real world? Are we
to set them aside and just focus on empty-calorie entertainment that, while
entertaining in the moment, leaves no lasting impression? The war film is one of the most important
genres in Hollywood, and some of our very best filmmakers have made some of their
very best films exploring the futility of war and the inherent warrior spirit
that some of us have deep within ourselves.
American Sniper joins the ranks as one of the best, most tough-minded,
and most subtly provocative entries that has come out of the Hollywood studio
system. It’s the Iraq war film that
Hollywood has been toying with making for the last few years. American Sniper is a masterpiece. Clint Eastwood has an
inherent understanding of the power of violence, and with this staggering
anti-war statement, he's crafted one of the best films of the genre, standing
alongside greats such as Platoon, Casualties of War, Black Hawk Down, Paths of
Glory, The Thin Red Line, The Hurt Locker, and Saving Private Ryan. Eastwood
shows the absolute terror and horror of war while also proudly paying tribute
to the Warrior Few, the men who are willing to put themselves in harm's way and
do the unthinkable. Very similar in spirit to last year's gut-wrenching Lone
Survivor, American Sniper plunges the viewer into the chaos of violent conflict
and near constant action. Eastwood's connection to the image of the gun and the
seriousness of death is something that this film benefits from. Bradley Cooper
delivers easily the finest work of his career; this is a quietly devastating
piece of acting, and in scene after scene, you see the anguished pain that this
many must have felt every time he looked down the scope of his rifle. Taking a life can’t be easy, and Cooper
infuses his character with sorrowful notes that deepens the character and
allows the audience to undertand the pain he was going through. Kyle was a solider, like so many, who always felt the need to be doing
something – anything – for his comrades, and if it wasn’t covering them from
afar at an elevated spot as the grunts kicked the doors down on the city level
with no idea of what awaited them on the other side, he was more than happy to
talk with returning soldiers suffering from immense bouts of PTSD, something
that America Sniper casually but forcefully suggests is the true evil in this
new-fangled “war on terror.” Sienna Miller should have gotten a Supporting
Actress nomination for her forceful work as Kyle’s wife back at home. This is the sort of role we’ve seen countless
times, but here, under Eastwood’s sensitive direction, Miller is able to hit
grace notes not previously afforded to other actresses who have taken on
similar roles. The entire physical
production is extraordinary and fully believable. The sound effects are
stunning as is the entire sound design in general, and Tom Stern's patient,
un-showy cinematography captures every horrifying moment with supreme precision
and clarity. Jason Hall's screenplay is on-target, free of speechifying, and
wholly gripping. For this viewer,
American Sniper will easily stand the test of time, and when the dust settles,
will be seen for what it is: a sad reminder of what’s become of our world and a
further demonstration of the powerful and dehumanizing effects of violence that
can take hold of so many people.
Foxcatcher is as chilling as true-crime cinema can get. The vice-grip direction from the extremely
erudite filmmaker Bennett Miller in tandem with a supremely intelligent screenplay
fashioned with scalpel-sharp dialogue from Dan Futterman and E. Max Frye creates
a film that is unshakeable and grim. Funereal in tone and sad to the core,
Foxcatcher is a richly textured a masterpiece of filmmaking and storytelling,
daring to explore America at its worst, never cheapening anything during its
all-consuming, slow-burn runtime. This
film will be massively off-putting for many people – a true bitter pill – but
for those who have cinema running through their veins, this is the equivalent
of a five course meal at a Michelin rated restaurant. With the clear and clean screenplay at his
disposal, Miller captures the dark, rotted soul of the corrupted male psyche,
utilizing a cold and detached directorial aesthetic that fully absorbs the
audience. Greig Fraser’s quiet,
measured, and totally unassuming cinematography unfolds in a deliberately
patient fashion; I was blown away by the unnerving quality of Foxcatcher, as
Fraser and Miller use empty visual space to convey the alienation of everyone
in the narrative. The performances are
astounding with the big-three trio of Channing Tatum, Steve Carell, and Mark
Ruffalo providing transformative work, anchoring this exceedingly gripping tale
of obsession, paranoia, ritualistic sport behavior, and blunt, psychological
turmoil. Carrell imbues self-professed
“patriot” John Dupont (ex-heir to the Dupont family fortune who hosted the 1988
wrestling team at his estate) with a staggering false sense of importance and
pride; his consistent uttering that he’s “helping America” is one of the
creepiest elements to the character of Dupont, and something that Carell does
so well in the film. The fact that when
you see Carell in this film and you never once think of Michael Scott from The
Office – that’s a testament to how deep Carell went in his portrayal; the rest
of his work as an actor will be judged against his menacing turn in
Foxcatcher. He’s a sociopath to the
extreme, bordering on outright psychopath.
Yet, nobody calls him on it, none of his handlers or business managers
or associates. Because, had they raised
concerns, they wouldn’t have gotten paid.
And, as I see it, one of the many key themes of Foxcatcher is just that
– how much is a person’s life worth?
It’s a crime that Tatum wasn’t talked-up for Best Actor because, for me,
he’s Carrel’s equal in every way. Using
his already physically intimidating body to maximum effect as 1984 Olympic
wrestling gold medalist Mark Schultz, his jaw jutted out, with a shuffle of a
walk, Tatum forces the viewer to confront this socially awkward character head
on. He’s a man in the shadow of his
brother, fellow gold medal winning wrestler Dave Schultz, having never grown up
with the love of a father, looking for something – anything – to latch
onto. Ruffalo plays Dave Schultz as a
good and decent family man, and as always, is astonishingly natural, never
hitting a false note, always nailing the little details just as much as the big
scenes. As the film progresses, you
watch as he begins to possibly understand the madness that he’s allowed himself
to become a part of. The scene with Ruffalo being coached by the documentary
filmmaker to say that he loved Du Pont and that Du Point was his mentor has got
to be one of the more upsetting movie moments of the year. As Foxcatcher builds towards its inevitable
conclusion, one is left with the impression that Miller wants us to examine the
very fibers of what it means to be a “winner,” and how people of high-net worth
and little actual talent delude themselves into thinking that they are somehow
entitled to greatness, without having to earn it. This is a phenomenally layered and erudite
piece of work that chills to the bone.
Pauline Kael once said something along the lines of: “Great
movies are rarely perfect movies.” If she were around today, she’d hopefully
think that Whiplash is both great and perfect, because after only one viewing,
I’m pretty much convinced that it’s a flawless piece of great cinema.,
something that couldn’t possibly be improved upon, made with exacting care and
precision. Writer/director Damien
Chazelle has made one of the most promising debut features in recent memory,
demonstrating commanding technique and a raw understanding of how to ruthlessly
move your narrative forward without shortchanging character and emotion and
depth. Led by two of the best performances of the year from Miles Teller and
J.K. Simmons, Whiplash tells the laser-focused story of a determined college
drumming prodigy (Teller) and his psychotically passionate band instructor
played with fierce force by J.K. Simmons (chaneling R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal
Jacket), who will stop at nothing in order to bring greatness out of his
students. I will spoil no more about the twists and turns that the high-voltage
story takes but I will allow this: there’s not a false moment to be had at any
point during the two crisp hours that the story unfolds. To say that Chazelle
has been influenced by Full Metal Jacket would be an understatement; Whiplash
feels like a war movie, from Simmons’s intensely verbal (and vulgar) taunts to
the fetishizing of the instruments and the obsessive details of rehearsals and
recitals. This is clearly a world that Chazelle feels in his bones and he’s
made a picture that grabs you from frame one and never lets you go. Sharone Meir’s dynamic and agile
cinematography gets up close and personal to the all of the musical action,
bringing the viewer one step closer to the loud and rhythmic world on display. It
goes well beyond being just another Mean Teacher Movie because of the way that
Chazelle explores the psyches of his stop-at-nothing-to-achieve-greatness
characters. Whiplash is about striving for greatness,
never losing sight of the task at hand, and how certain people have an almost
obsessive desire to always be perfect, no matter what’s being asked of them. And
just wait for the dazzling and utterly impeccable final shot – it’s the best
single shot I’ve seen all year. In any
movie. Not just because of how it looks
visually, but for what it suggests thematically. It’s a wowser of a cinematic moment.
Boyhood is a once-in-a-lifetime-movie. For everyone involved: Richard Linklater, his crew, his cast, the
studios who funded it, and the audience watching it. Other films have dabbled in this “shoot for a
small period of time over a number of years” style (Apted’s Up series and
Winterbottom’s Everyday immediately come to mind) but nothing is like Boyhood
whatsoever. This is a scripted narrative
drama, using the same actors over the course of 12 years, where Linklater and
the cast and crew met for one week per year, every year, in an effort to
chronicle and trials and tribulations of a boy, his sister, and his single
mother, as they navigate all manner of tricky waters, in an effort to create a
home for themselves. Doesn’t matter what
your race, religion, or gender is – I dare you to watch this movie and not find
at least ONE thing about it that mirrors your own life, and whether it’s a big
or small moment in the film that reminds of you something personal, Boyhood is
that unique project that will mean something different to all who experience
it. This is a nearly three hour story
told in linear fashion (albeit with a ton of jump-cutting, obviously), and it
carries the same relaxed, unhurried, and observational style that all of
Linklater’s films have employed. He’s
the least show-offy director I can think of, and while I wouldn’t call his
directorial aesthetic bland, I love how he refuses to call attention to himself
as a filmmaker; his graciousness as an artists can be felt in every department
of the filmmaking process. All of the
performances are a joy to behold. You
watch as Ellar Coltrane ages 12 years, effortlessly, right before your eyes,
and Patricia Arquette is worthy of all of the acclaim she’s received thus far,
etching an unfortgettable portrait of a woman trying to right by her children,
while still trying to maintain her own life and grasping on to the things she
finds important. Ethan Hawke, a regular
Linklater collaborator, is perfectly cast as the “here one minute and gone the
next” father to Arquette’s children, and the way he interacts with Coltrane and
Lorelai Linklater (the director’s daughter playing the daughter in the film)
has a familiar ease that’s refreshing and candid; you feel as if you’re
watching a father talk with his own children.
And that’s why Boyhood is so special of a movie – it’s free of artifice,
and instead of taking a potentially gimmicky narrative conceit (ahem, The
Artist, ahem…) and not doing much with it except creating an homage to what’s
come before, Linklater expands upon the form, telling his story in the most
unique manner possible, and cementing his reputation as one of the most
underrated filmmakers of the last 20 years.
While it’s not my absolute favorite films of the year, I’d love to see
Boyhood win Best Picture and Best Director at the Oscars, if for no other
reason than that the movie is a milestone for the form, and Linklater has been
paying his dues, making very good if not great movies consistently with little
to no acclaim being thrown in his direction.
If you’re searching for two perfect hours of fully
transporting cinema then look no further than the Swedish import Force Majeure.
It’s a devastating masterpiece, slyly satirical, aesthetically unnerving,
deeply emotional, and incredibly powerful, with icy-cold cinematography that
would make Michael Haneke giggle with sadistic joy. Director Ruben Östlund is
unknown to me; it’s now time to search for anything else he’s made and to
actively look out for his name in the future. This is the sort of dark,
disturbing look at marriage that will be seen as a psychological endurance test
for some viewers, but for others, it will serve as a caustically funny and
penetrating glimpse at a relationship under extreme pressure. It’s ironic that
both Force Majeure and Gone Girl would come out in the same year, but after
seeing the former, the latter feels all the more like a beautifully appointed
cartoon in comparison. The two films seek to disrupt the notion of the “perfect
marriage,” with Gone Girl taking a trip down the Grand Guginol highway, and
Force Majeure taking a more elevated, cerebral approach to the highly dramatic
proceedings. The film centers on the perfect Swedish couple with their two
perfect children. They are vacationing at an uber-perfect French ski resort
that’s literally carved out of a post-card-perfect mountain. Money is no
object, everyone’s happy, everyone’s in love. Then, while the family is having
an outdoor lunch, they are witness to a controlled avalanche, which suddenly
becomes less controlled than the resort probably ever anticipated. The
narrative thrust of Force Majeure centers on the exact moments when the
avalanche reaches the family and how both the husband and wife react in a
moment of crisis. This movie will make you question what you’d do in the same
situation, and there’s a dark wit that permeates so much of this movie which
results in a severely biting tone that’s both arresting and unique. Using
classical musical cues to heighten individual scenes and shooting in 2.35:1
widescreen via mostly long and medium shots, Force Majeure has an overwhelming
visual and sonic beauty that fills in the gaps when there’s long stretches of
silence, of which there are many. This is a haunting, quiet, totally masterful
exercise in filmmaking, one that is worthy of multiple viewings. The end
sequence is sweaty-palms-brilliant, true white-knuckle stuff, and the final act
on the part of one of the characters makes the entire movie all the more rich
and priceless.
James Gray’s The Immigrant is the masterpiece that got away
from 2014. The Weinsteins should be
ashamed of themselves for the embarrassing way they treated this movie – it’s
like they thought they had a dud on their hands they pretended that it didn’t
exist. It’s better than pretty much
every other movie they put their company logo on in 2014, and over time, I
truly hope it attains the status it deserves as a brilliant, completely
consuming work of American historical art.
Every single shot in The Immigrant is worthy of museum placement.
Legendary cinematographer Darius Khondji (Seven, Evita) is a visual genius, and
the way he plays with light is a marvel to behold. Engrossing doesn't cover it as this work of
art overwhelms you with both epic and intimate details. It's easily the best,
most fully realized work from Gray, and he's made some great movies (Little
Odessa, The Yards, We Own the Night), so that’s no small compliment. There’s an ambiguous nature to the patient
narrative, and by the end of this tragic and distinct piece of work, you’ll
have run through a gamut of emotions. Marion Cotillard is a magnetic screen
presence, portraying a European immigrant coming to America in the early 20’s,
arriving with nothing at Ellis Island (how were these scenes achieved?) and meeting
the potentially nefarious Joaquin Phoenix, doing customarily intense work. He’s smitten immediately, and whisks her away
to his apartment, eventually putting her to work as a high-end call girl. She then meets a frisky and upbeat stage
magician played by an always in-the-moment Jeremy Renner, who also starts to
fall in love with her. From there, Gray
tells a tale about love, the American dream, and the idea of people coming to
this country and trying to navigate the slippery waters of trying to become a
citizen. It’s simply mind boggling why
this haunting, uniquely adult, and magnificently mounted production got buried
with a half-assed release last summer. This is as "fall prestige
season" as it gets, and I hope that Gray puts a hit out on the Weinsteins
down the road. And just wait for the
final shot – astonishing its quiet beauty and narrative implications.
Bleak. Grave. Arid.
Desolate. Angry. Internal. Methodical.
Australian writer/director David Michod (Animal Kingdom) has crafted a haunting
companion piece to Cormac McCarthy's The Road with The Rover, a gut-punch movie
for people who are fascinated by nihilistic, end-of-times scenarios. We’re not sure exactly what has gone down in
society but life is on the downward slope in The Rover – nobody has gas or oil,
food and water seem to be in short supply, the streets are seemingly lawless
except for military types roaming from town to town, and there’s a general air
of despair that feels as if it’s there for good. Guy Pearce is yet again
fantastic as a man on a mission and with one purpose in life – to get back the
car that’s been stolen from him by a gang of dimwitted thieves. That’s all you need to know about the “plot”
of The Rover, because it’s less about ticking off plot points and more about
the sun-scorched way this sad, and introspective movie is unraveled. Pearce is raw, dirty, quiet, and doing some
serious acting with only his eyes; you can’t look away when he’s on
screen. His emotionally ravaged and
quietly forceful performance as a man with literally nothing to lose is as
haunting and affecting as anything I've seen in recent memory (Robert Redford's
legendary work in All is Lost comes to mind but that's about it). His weathered
face and sullen eyes, framed often times in close-up, dominate the widescreen
space, conveying more than written words could ever provide. Michod knows that Pearce's mere presence is
enough. And there lies the genius of Michod's storytelling technique - dole out
just enough information verbally but allow the unspoken to fill in the blanks. Natasha Braier's expansive, controlled 2.35:1
widescreen cinematography captures Michod's penchant for sudden, graphic
violence with an unflinching eye, while also capturing the dusty, dangerous,
ominous vistas of the Australian outback. The patient shooting style is matched
by the exacting editing by Peter Sciberras, and the PTA-esque musical score,
filled with discordant chords to keep you off kilter, allows for a constantly
intense mood. And Robert Pattinson
proves he can act, playing a slow-thinking pseudo criminal who crosses paths
with Pearce, after his brother (the always awesome Scoot McNairy) has left him
for dead after a botched robbery. There's nothing happy to be found with The
Rover - this a film about bad, desperate people in tough, deadly situations. One
gets the sense that Michod made exactly the film he set out to make, having to
make no concessions, with nobody standing over his shoulder taking notes or
offering suggestions. Stark and pare, The
Rover is a great piece of contemplative cinema, with an absolutely devastating
final shot that haunted me for days.
How does an honest man working in a corrupt industry stay on
the right side of the tracks? What’s
wrong with cutting corners and being shady if all of your competitors are
taking extra, morally questionable steps to ensure their success? What drives people to do the things they
do? These are only some of the questions
that the thematically rich film A Most Violent Year covers in an intimate, very
70’s way. Writer/director J.C. Chandor
(Margin Call, All is Lost) summons the ghost of Sidney Lumet with this down and
dirty, early 80’s NYC fable consisting of businessmen, politicians, cops,
wives, children, and the constantly shifting dynamics between men of power and
those who are needed to allow that power to continue and thrive. Every character in this slow-burn drama (with
a tad of melodrama thrown in at the end, possibly unneeded) is out to get their
own; everyone has an agenda and enormous reason for wanting the things they
want. When one character asks another in
this beautifully written story about ethics and morals “Why do you want this?”,
the question takes on multiple meanings.
And when the character answers with simply “I don’t understand your question”
you know that this is a film that isn’t interested in black and white notions
of good and bad, but rather, the gray areas that separate us from doing right
and wrong. A Most Violent Year carries a
metaphorical title that extends more to the atmosphere of NYC in the early 80’s
then it does to constant violent action, which is something that this talky,
low-key, and wonderfully observed movie is most definitely not interested
in. Yes, you get some fantastic foot
chases and one sensational, hair-raising car chase that echoes the POV car chase
in James Gray’s The Yards (another Lumet homage), but A Most Violent Year is
all about the performances and the writing and the burnished, dark, early
morning and late night cinematography from shooter-of-the-moment Bradford
Young. His work here is elegant and
smoky, all browns and blacks and golds with splashes of orange and red for
accent. I loved looking at every image
in this movie. Oscar Isaac is
sensational as Abel Morales, a man trying to run a home heating-oil company
with his wife Anna (a juicy, sexy Jessica Chastain, playing the ultimate
snake-in-the-grass), and always attempting to run an honest business without
cutting too many corners. Interesting in
always being “mostly good,” Abel knows he could call his wife’s gangster father
for support in any number of ways (someone is jacking his oil tankers and
beating up his salesmen and drivers; people are waiting for him outside his new
mansion in the late hours with pistols, etc.) but he doesn’t want to do that. And despite probably knowing that his wife is
more than meets the eye in any number of respects, he keeps his head up,
doesn’t ask too many questions, and lets the assorted pieces to his complicated
business puzzle take shape. By the end
of this tense and gripping drama, if you loved it as much as I did, you’ll want
to know more about what happens to the various characters as the screen fades
to black – I know I did.
The sweet stench and hazy after-effects of marijuana can be
found all over Paul Thomas Anderson’s hysterical, bewildering, utterly
zonked-out shaggy-dog detective movie Inherent Vice. This film didn’t make a splash with general
audiences and it’s not all that hard to guess why. Based on Thomas Pynchon’s novel, this is a spacey,
ridiculous, totally original work that has “cult-classic” status written all
over it. Different and yet similar to obvious inspirations such as The Big
Lebowski, The Big Sleep, and The Long Goodbye, Inherent Vice is going to anger
a lot of people looking for easily identifiable plot points and then it’s going
to be groovy for many others who are willing to accept the notion that this
film is all about the journey, not necessarily the destination. And also, it
must be said that you’ve got to be interested in watching a perpetually stoned,
lackadaisical, potentially hallucinating lead character (Joaquin Phoenix,
completely incapable of never not being awesome) who can’t seem to get out of
his own way. As this is a PTA movie, the
cast is reliably peppered with tons of stars (Reese Witherspoon, Owen Wilson,
Benicio Del Toro, a debauched Martin Short in one of the best scenes in the
film) but Phoenix owns this picture. Coming on the heels of his exquisite and
varied work in both The Master and Her, he delivers a totally different
performance in Inherent Vice, bringing his chameleonic quality to any role he
takes on, investing every performance with integrity, intensity, and odd,
sympathetic charm. The “plot” of
Inherent Vice can be followed, but I’ll admit this after only one viewing: I’d
be lying if I said I caught every last little detail, every line of dialogue,
every flight of fancy. And that’s fine.
Great movies allow for constant exploration. And this is one of the ultimate
“multiple viewings” movies that I’ve ever encountered. Because Phoenix’s character
is essentially an unreliable narrator, and because everyone he comes into
contact with screws with him in some way, there’s this sense of randomness to
the plot that won’t be to everyone’s liking. Inherent Vice is more about the
crazy characters and the druggy aroma and the floral dialogue and stony
voice-over and the minutiae of the time period – those looking for an
“air-tight” plot need to go find something else. It’s also about the collision
of two subcultures, and how America, in particular Los Angeles, was rapidly
changing during the late 60’s and early 70’s.
Josh Brolin absolutely nails his could-have-been-a-farce
supporting role as an angry LAPD officer who butts heads with Phoenix multiple
times throughout the story. He’s the
complete opposite of Phoenix – buttoned up, repressed, clenched, and waiting to
explode. Their scenes together are
gold. There’s also some of the bravest nudity I’ve
ever seen from an actress on the part of the lovely and talented Katherine
Waterston, who injects her character with an earthy, hippie sensuality that you
don’t normally see on the big screen. I
loved watching this film I can’t wait to let it glide over me again, as I’ll be
ready to waft it all in. Inherent Vice makes you feel intoxicated even if
you’re not already before watching it, and because of PTA, I’m now totally
obsessed with the band Can, and in particular, the song Vitamin C. This film has a dynamite soundtrack that’s a
total play-thru.
The Raid 2: Berandal is the greatest action film I’ve ever
seen. It eviscerates the
competition. I’ve been ranting and
raving for months about it and for just cause: there’s nothing else that even
remotely comes close to matching the overall level of bad-assery that you’ll find
in this movie. It’s two and a half hours
of punching, shooting, maiming, garroting, car-chasing, slicing, dicing,
hammering, base-ball-batting, kicking, and shanking, and yes, if you can
believe it, there’s more plot to choke a horse.
Picking up mere moments after the obscenely bloody events of The Raid,
this sequel ups the ante in every regard: characters, plot-lines, set-pieces,
and overall level of lunatic abandon when it comes to the mind-blowing action
sequences. You’ll see one of the very
best car chases ever captured by cameras in The Raid 2, and you’ll also see the
single most vicious and bloody one-on-one fight that I could ever possibly
imagine. Honestly – after the stuff done
in this film – I’m not sure what else needs to be attempted with this sort of
thing. But leave it to director Gareth
Evans as he’s currently working on The Raid 3.
This is legendary action cinema, taking cues from genre masters like
John Woo, Takashi Miike, and Paul Greengrass, mixing an
undercover-cop-in-prison narrative ala The Departed with classic tribal feuds
straight out of a Japanese Yakuza picture.
The Indonesian setting makes for an exotic backdrop for all of the
insane bouts of mayhem, with the impossibly agile cinematography covering all
of the action from the most bezerk angles possible. This is a movie where you feel every punch,
hear every bullet whizz past your ears, and every single scene seems to have
been designed to top the last. This is
outstanding action cinema that will be very, very tough to beat.
What can one really say about Ari Folman's bold,
breathtakingly alive hybrid movie The Congress? It's like nothing you've ever
seen, I can promise that much. Half animated, half live-action, all totally
blazed to the extreme, this is a colossal artistic statement about Hollywood,
art, culture, society, and our unending preoccupation with make-believe and
hero worship. It operates on multiple levels of reality and surreality
simultaneously; this is super-charged cinematic acid that feels like it’s being
dropped directly onto your corneas. The purposefully sprawling and messy
structure plays to the film's wild and operatic strengths. This isn't a movie
to be taken 100% literally, as it’s more of an existential crisis fable that
begs to be viewed multiple times for maximum appreciation. I've been
able to watch it twice now, and I can’t wait for another trip – and I mean trip
– into this wild and wooly world where you never really know what’s going on.
Robin Wright plays a tweaked version of herself, a mid-40's actress who is
about to be abandoned by the major studios due to her being “old,” an actress
beaten down by the pressures of the Hollywood machine and the demands of the studio
movie-star system. Thanks to her lively agent (the awesome Harvey Keitel) and
an extra-slimy studio chief (Danny Huston, twirling his moustache with glee),
she's given the chance to have her mind, body, and soul digitally transferred
into a computer so that her likeness can be used and re-used throughout the
years, preserving her "Princess Buttercup" good-looks and charm, thus
transforming her into the ultimate movie-star for years and years and years.
The Congress then makes a 20 year jump cut at the mid-point and leaps
head-first into a hallucinatory outpouring of odd and crazily unique
Anime-inspired images. It seems that the only way that one can enter the movie
studio of the future (playfully referred to as Miramount) is to drink a magical
potion which turns you into a digital avatar of yourself, and then, once inside
this madcap universe, you're able to drink yet another potion which can
literally turn you into whatever you want. This is a dense, packed-to-the-gills
experience, one that shouldn't be immediately shrugged off as just another
esoteric artistic experiment. Folman is the real deal, a man with a singular
vision, and now, after Waltz with Bashir and The Congress, he's a filmmaker
that I will actively anticipate each new film with baited breath. The Congress
will be on repeat-watch-mode for weeks to come.
With the exuberant and hysterical The Lego Movie, filmmakers
Phil Lord and Chris Miller have crafted a work that's as accomplished as the
best offerings from Pixar. Bursting with creativity from first frame to last
while stacking the deck with an almost assaultive amount of verbal and visual
humor in tandem with note-perfect voice performances, this is one of the rare
"kids movies" that transcends the genre and becomes something of a
pop-culture touchstone. The songs are
bouncy and beyond-catchy, filled with witty humor that will delight
everyone. I remember seeing this film
with a packed crowd of families and children, and the responses from everyone
were a joy to observe. The kiddies loved
the wild animation and abundant silliness, and the adults could latch on to a
touching story that reinforces the notion that our childhoods are important and
special and that everyone deserves a little fun every now and again. I’ve watched this movie countless times now
on Blu-ray, and I’m constantly in awe and amazed by the technical skill that
was required to pull the entire thing off.
The colors are virbrant, literally screaming off the screen. The script is smart without being
pretentious, satirical without being cynical, silly without being stupid, and
above all else: Massively Entertaining.
Unnerving. Unforseeable. Unforgettable. Writer/director Dan
Gilroy's thrillingly caustic media satire Nightcrawler shows some seriously
vicious teeth, taking you on a dark and twisted trip through nocturnal Los
Angeles, all shot in 2.35:1 Mann/Refn-vision by the estimable Robert Elswit,
with James Newton Howard's synth score pounding away in the background. Jake
Gyllenhaal is utterly brilliant as Lou Bloom, a diseased creature of the night,
appearing in virtually every scene, totally live-wire, spewing rapid fire
dialogue with sociopathic glee. Shades of Travis Bickle abound in his portrayal
of a freelance videographer hustling from crime scene to crime scene trying to
sell his exploitive footage to the highest buyer. This is the best performance
of his career so far, and over the past few years, he seems incapable of not
being thoroughly excellent in whatever he appears in (Brothers, Source Code,
End of Watch, Prisoners, Enemy). It’s great to see Renee Russo in a substantial
role again, as she brings sass and class to her role as a beleaguered news
producer. She gets to cut a nasty
portrait of what it might be like to run a big-city local news station struggling
for a piece of the competitive ratings pie. Original movies from a single voice
seem less and less common these days, and as Nightcrawler races through its
propulsive and lurid narrative, you begin to realize that you're watching
something that's playing by its own sick and cynical set of rules, unafraid to
peek at the nastiness that's running through our cities, news outlets, and
members of society. This is an instant classic that defies expectations that I
can't wait to watch again and again.
Locke is a mesmerizing film to study. Cemented (no pun intended...just see the
film...) by a spellbinding, tour de force performance from Actor of the Moment
Tom Hardy, Steven Knight's brilliant existential drama Locke is nerve-rackingly
intense, fully absorbing and completely unpredictable, due in no small part to
the narrative conceit of the entire film taking place from the interior of a
car. Confined to the driver's seat of his BMW SUV, Hardy gives an all-stops-out
performance – this guy is the real deal, seemingly capable of any role that’s asked
of him, always able to elicit sympathy no matter how ragged the character,
going from subtle to big at the drop of a hat. The dreamy, artsy cinematography
by Haris Zambarloukos leaps off the screen; it’s
London-street-lamp-at-night-gorgeous, cousins with Collateral in some respects,
with reflections and window patterns dotting the 2.35:1 widescreen space.
Because the story is exclusively delivered via a series of desperate phone
calls that Hardy is having with a variety of people, there’s always the question
of how realistic can this scenario play out. But because Knight is so strong
with his words and so precise with his visuals, the film becomes more than just
a trick-stunt – it’s a gripping, all-together brilliant ride that will leave
you with sweaty palms by the finish.
Wetlands is singular, gross, nauseating, highly sexual,
strange, lovely, smart, insane, icky, depraved, uber-graphic, and sort of
monumental. It’s never, ever going to be
remade for American audiences and it’s likely to appeal strictly to fans of
“cinema-as-art.” I’ve never seen
anything remotely like it. You get to
see a POV shot from that of an STD-infected pubic hair, a woman uses a variety
of vegetables as sexual pleasure devices, and the camera lovingly details a
shaving accident that, let’s just say, will pucker up a certain part of your
hind-quarters. And that’s all in the
first act! Directed with energy and snap
by rising star David Wnendt with a constant attitude of “I’ve Got Something To
Prove,” Wetlands, at times, feels like a hybrid of Enter the Void and Blue is
the Warmest Color with a dash of the sweetness of a Farrelly Bros. enterprise,
and while I probably won’t re-watch it as much as Void and Color, I’m glad I
subjected myself to this off-the-wall, intensely stylish, totally
uncompromised, fully deranged, and boundary-pushing German import. Carla Juri gives an absolutely fearless,
wholly committed performance as a young woman named Helen with any number of
unique sexual and bodily fetishes.
There’s isn’t one American actress who would ever dare take on the
challenge of this role. Known in some
circles as “the anal fissure movie,” Wetlands will prove to be an endurance
test for many viewers, offering wildly graphic sights you’ll never be able to
un-see. After the previously mentioned
shaving accident, Helen winds up in the hospital and falls in love with a male
nurse, but this being the type of movie that it is, their meet-cute is over
discussions of bloody buttocks injuries and the benefits of abundant oral sex. After her surgery, Helen fakes the inability
to pass her bowels, in an effort to remain in the hospital so that she can win
the heart of the nurse she’s falling in love with. So it’s the classic girl meets boy story, filled
with the requisite amount of heart and honesty that makes you care for the
characters, but ups the gross-out elements way past what Apatow and the
Farrelly’s could ever dream of creating.
This is outlaw cinema to be sure, replete with constant full frontal
female nudity, extraordinarily graphic sexual behavior, and a general air of
chuck-it-all-unpredictability that is bracing to behold and keeps you on edge.
And while there is a rather sweet and simple story that gets told, many viewers
will be too caught up in the moment to make heads or tails of whether or not
Wetlands has something interesting or valid to say. And I think it does. At its heart, this is a film about
acceptance, and about love, and about how one woman, no matter how different or
odd her behavior may seem, is living the life that she wants to live, bloody
orifices or not. Not for the faint of
heart or weak of stomach, Wetlands is a romantic comedy that defies general
description. In short, see it with the
fam!
Mood Indigo has a hand-made feel that I adored. Cinematic whimsy is tough to pull off; done
wrong and it can be quite annoying, but when done by someone like Michel Gondry
(Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Science of Sleep, Human Nature),
the results are typically dream fun, and his latest (maybe greatest?) is no
exception. I’m shocked by the relatively
muted response that this wildly original artistic triumph received. It feels like the sort of movie destined to
find a cult audience down the road, but I’m afraid that it’s maybe too out
there to possibly find the fans it deserves.
This wondrous filmmaking and a further demonstration that the best
movies in any given year are the ones that feel the least artistically
compromised. Sustained cinematic surrealism is rare these days, and as this
majorly tripped-out film began to unfold, I doubted whether or not the
anything-goes-style and charmingly frantic pace could sustain itself. It did –
Gilliam eat your lunatic heart out. This is maximum Gondry, unfiltered
imagination, whimsical and poetic and over the top, all in the name of visual
storytelling. The story is simple: man
meets woman, they fall in love, and then she gets sick because a water lily is
growing in the pit of her stomach…you’ve heard this story before, right? Mood
Indigo will be a patience tester from the outset for many…you’ll either be
smitten or totally turned off by the heightened performances, the free-for-all
spirit, and the purposefully artsy inclinations. Gondry’s DIY-aesthetic is
pushed to the breaking point, then it breaks, then it becomes something
all-together-new. The phrase “How did they do that?” will be uttered repeatedly
while watching. This film feels like the
deranged lovechild of Amelie and The Science of Sleep and if that doesn’t get
you excited then I’m not sure what to tell you. You don’t even need the sound
on with this one as the visuals transport you away to some bizarro world where
everything is alive with the sound of cinema. (Note: I viewed the two hour and
10 minute “extended cut” – I gather there’s a 95 minute version lurking around
somewhere. The horror!)
Enemy, the glorious head-scratcher from French Canadian
director Denis Villeneuve (Prisoners, Incendies), is a twisted mystery with all
sorts of loaded implications. Is it the
slyest version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers that’s ever been pulled
off? Is it a metaphysical exploration of
divided souls hovering in a unique state of otherworldliness? Is it the simple yet complex story of one
many having a nervous breakdown? Or is
it none of those things and something completely different? That’s the brilliance of this tricky,
multi-layered, and extra-creepy piece of work, which features an on-fire Jake
Gyllenhaal in dual performances. One
version of Jake is a regular office dweller, repressed and atypical, going
about his daily routine without much in the way of surprise, and the other Jake
is the ultimate version of himself, what we project ourselves to be: commanding,
sexy, dangerous, and strong. When the
two of these entities meet, the film becomes a mind-twisting exploration of
identity and fate, all filtered through the always intriguing notion of the
doppelganger. Based on Jose Saramago’s
novel The Double, Villeneue shoots in Fincher-esque pea-soup green and
piss-yellow, giving the film an ominous visual sheen that’s both sketchy and
slick. The films’ final shot is a doozy,
and show-stopper, and a candidate for the most WTF moment of the year. It’ll create the impulse to hit the rewind
button on your Blu-ray remote, as the stunned look on your face quickly gives
way to nervous laughter. This is a
hot-blooded mental-mind-fuck that will play twister with your brain.
The Hollywood biopic is a tricky thing to pull off. You have to respect and honor the individual
in question while also providing a complete, sometimes unflattering portrait
that might upset some members of the chorus.
Then there’s the question of Historical Accuracy vs. Poetic
License. I try not to get bogged down in
such details; I understand that a movie is a movie, it’s not real life, it’s
not a documentary, concessions have to be made, and dramatic flow for the
cinema must be adhered too. With all
this being said, Ava DuVernay’s Selma, an impassioned look at a chapter in the
historic life of Martin Luther King, felt urgent, vital, topical (especially given
our current social and political climate), and important. This isn’t a film you should feel “obliged to
see” because of the subject matter; you should WANT to see this film. It should anger you, shock you, and pull you
out of your seat. DuVernay’s style, in
tandem with Bradford Young’s striking widescreen cinematography, is immediately
engrossing and undeniably powerful. David
Oyelowo’s magnetic performance as Dr. Martin Luther King is immense, nuanced
and beautiful to observe. Rather than a tired and traditional biopic narrative,
screenwriter Paul Webb focuses on the Right to Vote protest and bridge-march
from Selma to Montgomery in 1965. It was there that King and his followers
gathered in an effort to show that the illegal and oppressive anti-voting
tactics of racist southerners wouldn’t be tolerated any more. Selma is
necessarily brutal at times, with Young’s fluid and unflinching camerawork
capturing all of the harsh violence and angry hysteria that accompanied the
various protests. Sound effects are used to maximum effect during all of the confrontations,
giving the audience the sense of the ferocity that racist whites felt while fighting
for what they disgustingly believed in. Not enough can be said about Oyelowo’s mythic
performance; you can’t look away when he’s on screen. His voice and physical resemblance to the
real Dr. King are uncanny, and there’s a gravitas to his presence that few
actors currently possess. Selma is yet another film to highlight an
embarrassing chapter of intolerant behavior on the part of simple minded and
backwards thinking people, but rather than overly preaching and going the
“message movie” route, DuVernay smartly allows the ugly facts of the story to
take center stage, and with Oyelowo front and center, Selma becomes more than
just “that movie about Martin Luther King,” but rather a glorious portrait of
people who refused to sit quietly and allow our society to be further poisoned.
Spare. Menacing. Near constant tension. Vice-grip direction. Airtight plotting that MAKES SENSE when you
stop to think about the fine details. Graphically
violent yet never exploitive. Virtually
faultless. Blue Ruin is writer-director-cinematographer Jeremy Saulnier's big
coming out as a top-notch genre-buster.
Reminiscent of the Coen brothers with its dark thrills and formal
precision, this is a true screw-turner, a grab-your-date-on-their-arm thriller
that takes no prisoners. It’s like no
revenge movie I've ever seen, and I admired how Saulnier used the blackest of
comedy to somewhat lighten the heavy, nihilistic load of neo-noir mayhem. Macon
Blair's uncommonly focused, award-worthy, multi-layered lead performance is one
for the ages and totally mesmerizing to behold.
It helps a ton that this is an actor I've never seen before and that I
had no preconceived notions of, as you don’t bring any baggage into a film when
the actors are unfamiliar. I don’t want
to spoil the plot to Blue Ruin, but I’ll allow that it’s a “man on a mission”
narrative that gets turned upside down due to a series of unfortunate
circumstances, each escalating in violence, and culminating in a fierce
finale. This is a dangerous,
all-consuming work, strangely beautiful, and horrifyingly bloody. I loved all
90, ultra-precise moments and I can't wait to see what's next for Saulnier.
Begin Again is a pure delight from start to finish. A tad melancholy to be sure, but like John
Carney’s previous heartfelt musical-romance Once, his newest effort is long on
charm and inherently likable. Mark
Ruffalo, in one of his best performances, is a sloppy, beaten-down, old-school
music executive who, after a night of heavy, depressing drinking, stumbles into
a NYC bar and just so happens to hear the voice of a talented,
equally-down-on-her-luck singer (the effervescent Keira Knightley, who should
have been nominated for her work in this film rather than her solid but
unspectacular showing in The Imitation Game); it’s mutual respect at first
sight but will it blossom into something more?
The two music lovers decide to record an original album, preforming all
of the songs all throughout NYC, out in public areas, in an effort to create
something special and organic and long-lasting.
Carney is a sadist with a smile, a guy who loves the tropes of the
romantic dramedy but enjoys tweaking the formula just enough so your
expectations are subverted at almost every turn. He’s also a massive fan of keeping his
potential love-birds apart from one another for as long as humanly possible,
which will annoy some, but delight those of us who know that life isn’t as
simple as “I do” or “I don’t.” If Begin
Again isn’t quite the movie-miracle that Once was, well, that would have been
impossible to replicate for a variety of reasons, but it’s still a hugely
entertaining movie that will likely prove impossible to resist for anyone who
gives it a chance.
White Bird in a Blizzard is something unique: a touching
coming of age story, a tense whodunit with a dynamite final twist, a study of
marital discord, a time capsule of the late 80’s, with some surrealistic
touches and flights of fancy for good artistic measure. Directed with customary style by Gregg Araki
(The Doom Generation, Smiley Face, Mysterious Skin) who also wrote the
genre-defying screenplay based off of Laura Kasischke’s novel, White Bird in a
Blizzard feels like one of those movies that’s just waiting to be
discovered. Shailene Woodley, so good in
The Spectacular Now and The Descendants, grows WAY up in the lead role of Kat
Connor, a sexually blossoming high-school student with a phenomenally messed up
mother (a whacked-out Eva Green) and a put-upon father (a quiet Christopher
Meloni) who is trying to figure out what kind of woman she’s growing up to
be. The narrative is framed around Kat
meeting with her therapist (a kindly Angela Bassett), flashbacks to Kat’s
childhood, and the various romances that Kat embarks upon (the boy next door,
an older police officer). Woodley is
naked here – physically and emotionally – and I absolutely love watching her as
an actress. She’s able to express
vulnerability very well, and she has an unforced and extremely natural air
about herself as an actress. Green
steals all of her scenes as the Mom From Hell, and I loved how Arakki upends
expectations in more than a few instances, and then throws a killer twist at
the viewer during the final moments.
This film was a big surprise, and hopefully it finds a large audience at
home.
Fury is a reminder of how hellish life must’ve been like for guys
suffering through tank warfare during WWII.
Embracing the gung-ho spirit of old-school Hollywood action flicks, writer/director
David Ayer has considerably upped his game as a big league filmmaker with this
ruggedly fashioned, butt-kicking trudge through the rain-soaked and bombed-out battlefields
and cities of late WWII combat in Germany.
The film carried the hardened spirit of a late-era John Wayne movie,
with just as much anti-war sentiment as pro-American image making. The Americans are good and Nazis are bad –
it’s the same template Hollywood has used for eons, and for good reason: Who
doesn’t like some dead Nazis? A gruff,
grizzled Brad Pitt and a surly band of supporting actors (Shia LeBeouf as the
introspective one; Michael Pena as the wise-ass; Logan Lerman as the rookie; and
a skeevy Jon Bernthal as the potentially unstable wild card.) confidently carry
this combat ready and extremely graphic depiction of the horrors of war. Had Fury been based on an actual event, it
probably gets a Best Picture nomination from the Academy, because when you look
at the film, it has all the requisite ingredients for that audience. I’m surprised it didn’t do a tad better at
the domestic box office (roughly $90 million) and with critics in general (78%
at Rottentomatoes), because while not an earth-shattering entry into the genre,
it’s dependable, entertaining, and effectively brutal when it comes to
showcasing the bloody battles that tank operators went through. The ending doesn’t go all Hollywood which was
also a plus; while one might question the final outcome slightly, it makes
enough sense within the scenario that Ayer created. Fantastic, gritty cinematography and
excellent, lived-in production design went a long way in creating a dangerous,
volatile atmosphere, but my one complaint might be the slightly overbearing
musical score; sometimes less is more but I get what Ayer was going for –
maximum, blunt impact. This is a
rock-solid action movie that will be a dependable choice for many viewers for
years to come.