→ November 18, 2018
→ By

A Private War.

Marie Colvin was a highly decorated war correspondent for The Sunday Times, a British newspaper, for more than 25 years, scoring interviews with major anti-American figures like Muammar Gaddhafi and Yasir Arafat while reporting from war zones in Kosovo, Sierra Leone, East Timor, and Sri Lanka, where she lost sight in her left eye during a grenade attack. She’s been credited with saving the lives of over 1500 women and children in what is now Timor-Leste from an attack by Indonesian-backed forces, and later revealed the existence of a mass grave in Iraq that had the remains of 600 Kuwaiti prisoners. She continued to dive into dangerous situations to report from Libya and then Syria, where she was eventually killed by Syrian artillery fire during the siege on Homs in 2012.

A Private War attempts to tell the story of this fascinating, complicated woman in under two hours, a near-impossible task, but one that this film comes close to approaching by limiting the scope of its chronology to the last thirteen years of her life. This narrow focus gives the film more time to spend with Colvin, played here superbly by Rosamund Pike, in those conflict zones, giving us gripping sequences to highlight her bravery while also showing the violence to which she was regularly exposed. That last point is crucial to the film’s primary theme – that Colvin herself battled post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of her dedication to reporting from conflicts, and engaged in some self-destructive behavior as a result. That “private war” of the film’s title is not sufficiently resolved in this film, but Pike does a remarkable job inhabiting this character and all her complexities, enough that we can get a picture of Colvin as a hero who was still very human.

The film thrives on Pike’s performance, which feels note-perfect throughout – she has Colvin’s voice and diction down pat, and shifts comfortably from the confidence, bordering on arrogance, of Colvin at work and in the field to the damaged side of someone suffering from PTSD and, for the first half of the film, refusing to acknowledge it. Colvin sought treatment, depicted in the film, but continued to drink heavily to try to mask it, telling friends she was “in the hole” when the flashbacks and night terrors became so overwhelming she would isolate herself for days. Pike’s Colvin drinks and especially smokes not just to forget but as a reflexive reaction to trauma, both first exposure and its return via flashbacks, yet she’s also compelled to return to the field and even to move further into danger. In the character’s own words, it’s because someone had to tell these civilian war victims’ stories, and if it wasn’t her, no one else would. The film is removed enough from her character to make her motivations ambiguous; her empathy for victims seems real enough, but she appears to be driven by something more, whether it’s adrenaline, ambition, or a need to prove herself.

A Private War plays a little loose with some key points in Colvin’s story, notably that her husband, Juan Carlos Gumucio, killed himself in 2002, within the timeframe of the film – he’s never mentioned at all. The scene outside of Fallujah where Colvin, her longtime photographer Paul Conroy, and a local crew uncovered the mass grave is depicted as the discovery of Iraqi bodies, but the story Colvin wrote on the uncovering identifies them as Kuwaiti prisoners executed and dumped by Saddam Hussein’s forces. Colvin entered Syria for the last time on a motocross bike to get over the border despite a ban on journalists, a scene that isn’t in the film but seems like it would have been tailor-made for Hollywood. The eleven-year-old Palestinian girl whose shooting death the movie version of Colvin describes seeing appears to have been a 22-year-old in real life, which may tie into a regular flashback we see Colvin experiencing throughout the film. And the movie version of Colvin tells a different, over-dramatized story of her childhood and her relationships with her parents, at least compared to the version she gave in real life.

(The film is based on a Vanity Fair article from shortly after Colvin’s death, titled “Marie Colvin’s Private War,” which I’ve used extensively here in this review. One fact in that article that I find fascinating is that she took a class from John Hersey where she read his New Yorker story “Hiroshima,” which still stands today as one of the greatest works of journalism to date. I can’t believe reading that had no effect on her choice of careers.)

If A Private War is flawed, it’s that no film of 110 minutes could give a complete picture of someone like Marie Colvin, who lived a life of enormous achievements, left a tremendous legacy of work and dedication, and was still a three-dimensional human with emotional problems, messy relationships, and demons she acquired through her work. Pike delivers an incredible performance, although it seems like there may be no room at the Oscar inn for her; I’ve only seen two of the five probable nominees for Best Actress but would rank Pike’s performance here over Melissa McCarthy’s in Can You Ever Forgive Me? It’s a more nuanced biopic than most are, and tells a story more people should hear – including me, since I was unfamiliar with her work or legacy before seeing this.

(One warning, however: the film has some harrowing scenes of flashbacks and nightmares to depict Colvin’s PTSD, which seems to me like a probable trigger for audience members with the same disorder, especially if it’s caused by exposure to violence.)

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: ,
→ November 16, 2018
→ By

They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead.

No story has a happy ending unless you stop telling it before it’s over. — Orson Welles

Orson Welles’ spent about a decade on his last film project, The Other Side of the Wind, but never completed it before his death in 1985, having shot the film for over five years and spent several more editing it, or simply tinkering with it, before he lost the rights to the footage in a legal dispute. Netflix has commissioned a completion of the film with what was shot, in line with what’s known of Welles’ plans, as well as a companion documentary about the making of the original project called They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead. The former film holds little interest to me, for many reasons, but the documentary is one of the most purely entertaining things I’ve seen all year. Morgan Neville, who also had a hit this year with Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, spoke to just about everyone involved in the making of The Other Side of the Wind who is still alive, used archival footage from others, footage from the movie itself, plus recorded interviews with Welles and bits of his other films to create an informative and fast-paced look at a slow-moving cinematic disaster.

The documentary covers the period from when he began the project on The Other Side of the Wind in 1970 through the Iranian Revolution of 1979, which, for reasons explained in the documentary, cost Welles control of his project, with a quick run through the last few years of Welles’ life and some of the other projects he left unfinished. Welles appears to have had a general vision for the movie, which was itself a film-within-a-film and had a clearly autobiographical bent that he repeatedly denied, but the script and that vision kept changing, while Welles, strapped for cash, kept improvising on matters of location, crew, and even cast. He tried to use impressionist Rich Little in the film, and later cast a local waitress with no acting experience (or, it would appear, talent) in an important supporting role. He tried to work with a skeleton crew of people especially loyal to him, but the set is described by surviving members as “a circus” where it was often unclear why Welles was doing what he was doing, or if he even knew.

Welles comes off as a narcissist and megalomaniac who openly lies to his cast and crew to avoid any admission that things weren’t going well. He was also a perfectionist, in the worst way that can be, in that he couldn’t bear to let films go, leaving at least four projects unfinished at his death — this one, The Deep (an adaptation of the novel Dead Calm), The Dreamers, and Welles’ adaptation of Don Quixote. The perfectionism meant that scenes were reshot and rewritten many times, often on the fly, while the editing process also took years as Welles, in the retelling of people who worked with him, altered his vision for the film as he edited it – while doing so as a squatter in the house of director Peter Bogdanovich, Welles’ friend and one of the stars of the film.

The documentary doesn’t so much address the question of why the movie wasn’t finished – that’s straightforward – or what Welles hoped to accomplish with the movie beyond making his magnum opus, which is unanswerable. It seems more a study of Welles the character, a man undone by a massive early success in Citizen Kane, subsequent betrayals by Hollywood, a lack of contemporary acclaim for later works – many now seen as great films, as his entire legacy has undergone a total reassessment since his death – and strained personal relationships. There’s even a hint at the end of They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead that Welles’ upbringing played a substantial part in his perfectionism and constant need for approbation, although it’s underexplored, likely because there was no one to interview on camera about it. Instead, Neville seems to ask this question about The Other Side of the Wind: Did Welles ruin his own movie or did the movie ruin him?

The film also includes vignettes from Welles’ personal life in the 1970s and early 1980s that both flesh out (no pun intended) his character while further explaining, or trying to explain, the endless story of the making of his movie. That includes the story of Welles’ friendship with Bogdanovich, which ended, per Bogdanovich’s telling, when Welles and Burt Reynolds mocked him during a television appearances; his longstanding affair with Oja Kador, a Croatian artist and actress who also starred in his film; and his extensive working relationship with cameraman Gary Graver, which crossed into the abusive. Those three relationships were essential both to the making of The Other Side of the Wind and its unmaking as well, as there is no way Welles would have fallen so far down this rabbit hole were it not for the devotion he inspired in his friends and colleagues.

Neville uses some quirky devices to keep the pacing brisk, especially at the beginning, such as using clips of Welles from his films to create a false dialogue with the narrator, Alan Cummings, something that I found amusing but is certainly atypical for serious documentaries. There’s also a clip of his wonderful appearance in The Muppet Movie, likely the first appearance of Welles I ever saw, which forever cemented his image for me as a hefty, silver-bearded man with a deep voice and great charisma on the screen. As it turns out, Welles had a spectacular sense of humor as well, which comes across as a side effect in They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead; he had a huge laugh and a quick, dry wit, never evident in his films but very much a part of his persona and likely a reason people in his orbit were so willing to throw their lives into chaos when he called. I can’t say anything here made me more interested in seeing The Other Side of the Wind, but it did remind me of how much I enjoyed his work behind the camera (The Magnificent Ambersons, Touch of Evil) and in front of it – especially The Third Man, a film so good that for years I assumed he directed it.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,
→ November 13, 2018
→ By

Beautiful Boy.

Beautiful Boy, the film, is based on twin memoirs by a father and son, titled Beautiful Boy ($5.18 on amazon right now) and Tweak, respectively, of the latter’s long struggle with drug addiction, especially to crystal meth. It’s by turns a bleak portrayal of the effects a child’s addiction can have on the family and a distant, almost toneless depiction of what should be a gut-wrenching subject, saved primarily by yet another star turn by Timothée Chalamet as the son in the one great performance in the film.

Steve Carell co-stars as David Sheff, the father in the story, looking very paternal, as a successful journalist who is surprised to find out that his son has a serious drug problem and tries to throw himself at the issue to solve it. His son, Nicholas, behaves as you might expect an addict to behave – lying, stealing, deceiving, and then collapsing in apology and self-loathing. The cycle repeats multiple times until Nicholas eventually overdoses in New York, the event that more or less closes the movie and in real life marked the start of his journey to sobriety.

My experiences with this kind of addiction are mostly through depictions in writing and on screen; I had one relative who dealt with it, hiding it from me for most of my life, until the last few years before his suicide when he was probably no longer capable of the deception required. So when I say I think Beautiful Boy does a solid job of showing Nicholas’ addiction, and his up-and-down cycle through rehab, recovery, and relapse, or that I think the way his disease tears his family up is accurately portrayed, bear in mind that I’m playing with a handicap here.

But the rest of the script feels heavy-handed and even one-sided. Nicholas’ mother (Amy Ryan) lives in LA and is only on screen a few times, but the character is a shrew, and the fact that she takes care of Nicholas for about a year when he’s clean is brushed under the rug so she can fall apart again on the phone when he relapses after a weekend of visiting David. David’s second wife, Karen (Maura Tierney), is an artist, the mother of Nicholas’ two step-siblings, and is something of a cipher of a character, given more screen time but no development. There’s one scene near the end where she takes action after years of watching the damaging David-Nicholas dynamic, a wordless sequence that is the best thing any woman gets to do in the film – but that just speaks to how little the script regards its women, and I can’t believe that neither Nicholas’ mother nor his stepmother was that important in his early life or his path through addiction.

Chalamet is superb, again, probably earning his second Oscar nomination in as many years for this performance; he physically fits the part, looking a little haggard for someone with such a young face, earning the plaudits every time Nicholas experiences moments of clarity and remorse. It’s Carell who disappoints here – he looks right, but he’s just inert in this performance, and I found myself without any emotional connection to his character, even though I am a father myself and should at least have felt that paternal anxiety and grief through his eyes. If David Sheff is just a bottled-up guy, maybe Carell’s performance would make a little more sense, but it doesn’t translate well on screen. I needed a lot more here to feel what the character was feeling and didn’t get it.

There’s also a bunch of stuff in Beautiful Boy that a decent editor would have clipped – the weird, incongruous sex scene between Nicholas and a girl he hooks up with late in the movie served no purpose, and I’m not sure why we saw Karen working on her art at all – and the flashbacks to Nicholas’ youth aren’t well integrated into the primary narrative. Andre Royo has a nice bit part as Nicholas’ sponsor in NA, a fun bit of casting for viewers who remember him as Bubs on The Wire, but the fact that he’s so little used in the story also points to how little we see of Nicholas’ time in those meetings or in the process. There is one little fact delivered toward the end of the film by a doctor played by Timothy Hutton, where he explains to David that the rehab facility director lied to him about success rates of rehab from meth addiction – that the success rate tends to be in the single digits because meth damages the user’s nerve endings. Nothing shook me in this script more than that scene; even I, someone generally empathetic to addicts because I understand it’s a disease and saw it lead to the suicide of a loved one, didn’t quite understand just how brutal it could be. Nicholas Sheff recovered, and is still alive today, working, writing, and living a life that was probably unimaginable for him or his father during the time covered in Beautiful Boy. That miracle needed to come across more in the film.

One postscript: Nic Sheff did an interview with The Fix where he praised the film and Chalamet’s performance in it. It’s worth reading even if you have no interest in the movie.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,
→ November 8, 2018
→ By

First Man.

First Man reunites director Damien Chazelle and Ryan Gosling, who worked together two years ago on La La Land, in a different sort of movie, this time a serious biopic that deals with the biggest themes possible – life, death, and man’s search for meaning. Ostensibly a biography of Neil Armstrong from the death of his young daughter from cancer to his landing on the moon, First Man is much more a story of grief and coping, or not coping, and as a result less insightful as any sort of document of the man himself.

Gosling plays Armstrong, whom we first meet as an engineer and Navy pilot whose two-year-old daughter Karen is seriously ill with a brain tumor that will claim her life (via daughter) very early in the film, after which Armstrong shows the only real emotion he will display anywhere during the course of the movie. The story follows him through his entry into the space program, flight testing, and training, eventually to his selection for Apollo 11, but his path involves living through the deaths of at least five colleagues due to crashes and the cabin fire on the Apollo 1 craft, only furthering Armstrong’s turn inward with its constant reminder of Karen’s death. Armstrong also distances himself from his wife, Janet (Claire Foy), and two young sons, burying himself in work rather than risking further grief by getting too close to anyone else in his life.

First Man is extremely loud and incredibly close, to the point where the sound editing and cinematography, while perhaps accurate for the subject matter, make it hard to watch in several parts. The scenes aboard the various spacecraft involve a tremendous amount of shaking – not just showing us that the people on the ships are shaking, but shaking the camera so much that I repeatedly had to turn away from the screen, something I can’t remember ever doing for another film. The sound in those scenes where Armstrong is aboard any sort of ship is also mixed so that the background noise is amplified and it’s very hard to understand any of the communications between Armstrong (and any colleagues) and Mission Control; I eventually just gave up on understanding that dialogue, much of which involved technical chatter.

Gosling and Foy dominate the movie both in screen time and with their performances, with Gosling making Armstrong almost unknowable with his restrained portrayal, at times painful in his reticence and utter refusal to show emotion. There’s a pivotal scene where Janet forces him to talk to his two sons before he leaves for the Apollo 11 mission, knowing there was a good chance he wouldn’t return, and he can barely talk to the boys or even look at them; when one son asks if he might not come home, Armstrong responds as if he’s still in a press conference, with Gosling barely making eye contact and answering with a robotic tone and cadence. Foy gets to show a broader range of emotions, and her character develops some strength over the course of the film, enhanced by how her character is dressed and Foy’s own waifish appearance.

The movie has disappointed at the box office – much to the glee of alt-right trolls upset over the absence of a scene where the American flag is planted on the moon, which would be so out of place given the context of what Armstrong actually does after he lands – and I think one reason might be that the movie isn’t just a biopic. There is some celebration of space exploration here, and certainly some jingoism involved as the U.S. reached the moon before the Soviets could, but the larger theme in First Man is death and how we cope with it. The script’s premise is that Karen’s death changed Armstrong forever, leading him to create distance between himself and his family while driving him to take bigger risks at work, including accepting the riskiest mission in the history of the space program. (As a side note, I enjoyed watching Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and The Pin flying to the moon.) Rather than fully explaining his character, though, the script instead shows a man unwilling to open up to anyone in his grief, and the damage that ultimately does to him, to his marriage, and to his relationships with his two surviving children. Perhaps audiences wanted to see more of a hero at the heart of the film – there are a few such moments, but it’s not the dominant tone – and were surprised to see a movie that is so somber and pensive about a topic just about nobody wants to spend any time considering. That theme, and that choice to go with that theme over a rah-rah space and ‘merica tone, makes First Man a stronger film even if it’s less commercially appealing.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,
→ November 7, 2018
→ By

Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Can You Ever Forgive Me? is based on the true story of biographer and literary forger Lee Israel, who discovered she had a knack for mimicking the style of famous authors and began producing fake personal correspondence from the likes of Noel Coward and Dorothy Parker when her own books stopped selling. With two strong performances by Melissa McCarthy and Richard Grant, the film bounces along at a brisk pace, running from the nadir of Israel’s legitimate career through her forgery streak to her eventual trial, but the script itself is flimsy and does way too much to try to make a remorseless con artist into a sympathetic character.

McCarthy plays Israel, a frumpy, mid-50s author who drinks too much and doesn’t really care for people, and whose agent, played by Jane Curtin, has lost interest in working with her between her difficult personality and the lack of commercial appeal of her books. We see her lose an editing job, struggle to pay bills, and experience writer’s block (presaged in one of the many heavyhanded scenes in the movie), before she eventually meets Jack Hock, played by Grant, a flamboyant gay libertine who becomes her one friend and eventually a partner in her crimes. While researching her latest book idea, on comedienne Fanny Brice, she finds a real letter from Brice tucked in a library book, steals and sells it, and hits on the idea of forging letters for profit. Eventually, she’ll be caught, giving McCarthy a scene for her Oscar reel at the sentencing hearing, and hits on the idea of writing a memoir of her stint as a forger both as a way to make money and to satisfy her inner desire to write.

The story is just too light and way too kind to its main character to work. It does show Israel as difficult and often rude to others, but the depiction of her forgery sales gives off the sense that, hey, it’s all okay because she’s just selling stuff that wealthy idiots will buy, and that the independent bookstores who buy her letters to resell them are somehow complicit for their failure to verify that her letters are authentic. Because it’s based on Israel’s memoir, there’s no attempt to explain why she is the way she is – why she drinks so much, why she likes cats more than people (her words), why she can’t maintain romantic relationships, and so on. And that means we don’t learn anything about why she slides so easily into forgery, other than that she had a financial need and then realized she was good at it. There’s zero sense that she regrets any of this, or considers that there might be consequences for the other people she involves, including Jack, and the script doesn’t even try to explain how she ended up without scruples.

McCarthy and Grant are both tremendous in their respective characters and in all of their scenes together, an odd couple of misfit friends, neither of whom has anyone else close to them. Late in the film, Israel’s previous girlfriend appears in a confessional scene, although it merely rehashes what we already knew about Lee’s character – she can’t open up, she creates walls between herself and people who try to get close to her – without explaining any of why. That somewhat limits what McCarthy can do in the role, but given its constraints she goes to an extraordinary length to try to give the character some three-dimensional qualities and create empathy for Israel, even when it’s probably not deserved. Grant makes Hock a delightful scamp, a bit ridiculous at points, but both consistently entertaining and a better elicitor of pathos for the character than McCarthy can be with Israel, as his character is more of an open mess while Israel is a closed one.

There’s already a consensus forming around Grant as a lock for a Best Supporting Actor nomination, and McCarthy probably has a shot at a Best Actress nod, although that might depend a bit on how many voters actually see this movie. She deserves plaudits for easily transitioning from comedic roles that rely on her timing and her gift with physical comedy to a dramatic one where none of those comic skills come into play. It’s the script itself that’s the problem – this is a trifle of a story, told from the perspective of the main character, someone who had every reason to lie about herself and who had an actual history of lying. Some insight on her character would have gone a long way to justifying the film, but we get none of that and too much of the drama around her friendship with Jack and her forging career. It makes for an unsatisfying product beneath the two superb performances that sit on top of the film.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,
→ November 5, 2018
→ By

Madeline’s Madeline.

I’d never so much as heard of director Josephine Decker’s film Madeline’s Madeline (available on amazon & iTunes) until the Gotham Independent Film Project’s award nominations came out about two weeks ago. Honoring – you guessed it – the best in independent film of the year, the movie earned one of the five nominations for Best Feature Film (along with First Reformed and the upcoming If Beale Street Could Talk), while its star, Helena Howard, earned a nod for Breakthrough Star. It’s very much an indie film, nonlinear, highly metaphorical (the first line of the film tells you this), and often inscrutable, but Howard delivers one of the best performances by a teenaged actor I can remember seeing.

The movie is very, very weird, which is why it’s regularly called “experimental,” although in this case I’m not sure what’s experimental about it beyond just the nonlinear storytelling. Howard plays Madeline, a 16-year-old actress, who has recently found her calling with a local theatrical troupe (or interpretive dance troupe), and has a deeply troubled relationship with her mother Regina (Miranda July). Madeline suffers from some serious mental illness, may have injured her mother before, and has an eating disorder and self-mutilation habits. The troupe is led by Evangeline (Molly Parker), who at first appears just like a director/writer consumed with her art, but her actual role and motivations are not so clear. She sees in Madeline both an incredible talent and a rich story of mental illness; her drive to get Madeline to open up and provide the subject for their performance lead Evangeline into a toxic relationship with Madeline that threatens the girl’s fragile tie with her mother and the integrity of the troupe itself.

Howard gives a virtuoso performance for a tyro – this is her first screen credit, film or TV – as a complex, difficult character prone to massive mood swings and primal behavior (yelling, screaming, using her body beyond simple gestures). The film depends entirely on the ability of the actress in that role, and Howard is strong from the beginning, only to get better as the film progresses and the script asks more of her. There’s a climactic scene where she imitates her mother that feels like the “that’s the scene that won her the X Award” moment in the film, but even in smaller scenes she excels at pushing the borders of the screen with those sudden shifts in mien or tone.

The script itself leaves a hundred questions along the way, resolving nothing. Foremost among them is whether Madeline is actually acting or dissociating; her most intense performances with the troupe seem to come from somewhere deeper within herself than most people can readily access, and that climactic scene ends with everyone reacting while she briefly goes catatonic. Related to that question is how much of what she tells us about her relationship with her mother is real; we see a little bit of her home life, and Regina is certainly not winning Mother of the Year given her extreme neuroses and how she takes those out on her daughter, but is it all true? For one example that comes up at the start of the movie: did Madeline actually burn her mother with an iron – or herself? Madeline’s father is mentioned but never appears; he seems to have left the family, but is discussed as if he’s present, and the most we learn about him comes when Madeline and some friends go in her basement and explore her father’s stash of porn. Why he left, and if he had any role in creating Madeline’s maladies, are both left unanswered.

The theatrical troupe is also … well, not quite right, to the point that it appears that the troupe may really be a cult, led by Evangeline, who sees a perfect recruit in Madeline, only to see the ingenue later threaten her control of the entire enterprise. The rhythmic breathing and humming, the all-black outfits, the masks (really, are you dancers, or are you Slipknot?), the often affectless way they greet each other all speak to some kind of relationship beyond members of the same dance ensemble.

I’m assuming the choices of the three main characters’ names were deliberate here, as two of them in particular have strong biblical connotations that seem to apply to the story. Madeline is derived from the same way we get the name Mary Magdalene, whom Jesus is said to have driven out “seven devils” – likely a reference to mental illness – according to the Gospel of Luke. Evangeline means the bringer of a gospel or good news, ironic since Evangeline is nothing but bad news for Madeline and her family but is unable to see anything beyond her own needs.

The story itself ends up a muddle without any clear here to there – often it wasn’t apparent whether we’d jumped back in time – and there is no answer to anything posed here. The final sequence of the script is powerful visually, and I thought reinforced the idea that this might be a cult, but I can’t say I know where we went on that journey or what the screenwriter was trying to say. That said, if you can watch a film just to see one character’s tremendous performance – not to mention to see someone throw up a 2012 Bryce Harper sort of debut – Madeline’s Madeline is worth the time just for Howard’s performance. This, it turns out, is how a star is born.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,
→ November 3, 2018
→ By

A Star Is Born.

The latest iteration of A Star Is Born, the third remake in the 81 years since the original premiered, manages to craft a clever, well-executed film beneath its enormous budget and the star power of the two leads. It dispenses with much of the schlock and sentiment of most mass-market dramas – and of the original film – but keeps the essential framework of the story, layering it with humor and well thought-out dialogue. For about two hours, it might be the best movie of the year, although the failure to set up the film’s climactic moment detracts from much of what came before.

Bradley Cooper co-wrote the new script and directed the film while also starring as a roots-rock artist Jackson Mayne, who is selling out stadiums and can’t go in public without people trying to surreptitiously take his picture. He’s also an alcoholic and drug addict, which we see in the opening scenes of the film, and which leads him to stop in a bar somewhere outside New York City – a drag bar where their former waitress Ally, played by Lady Gaga, sings every Friday night. She performs “La Vie en Rose,” and Mayne is utterly smitten by her voice, her personality, and her looks. She confesses to him that she wants to be a singer but she’s been told by every record executive that she’s not attractive enough to be a commercially successful artist. Of course, if you know the story at all, you know that he disagrees, takes her under his wing, and turns her into a star, all while the two have a fairy-tale sort of romance that can’t possibly last given his self-destructive tendencies.

The story has been told before, although the original script, co-written by Dorothy Parker, revolved around a young actress discovered while working as a waitress at a Hollywood studio party by a famous actor already on the decline due to his drinking. The new version of A Star Is Born works hard to provide complexity to both of its main characters, including an extensive back story to Mayne to try to explain why he continues to abuse a panoply of substances; the story’s focus on those two characters to the almost total exclusion of anyone else makes it an unusually dense, smart script for a major studio release, and gives the two leads tremendous material for performances that both seem like locks for Oscar nominations.

Cooper has more to work with here, as he’s the primary character, has that more detailed character history, and has written in much more complexity to Jackson than he gave Ally. But Lady Gaga’s performance was even more revelatory, both because she has virtually no acting experience in film and very little in TV, and because she conveys so much of her character’s emotional vulnerability beyond reciting dialogue. If they gave out awards for the best use of an actor’s hands to show you a character’s emotional state, she’d be the overwhelming favorite. The two together have undeniable, immediate chemistry, and the story just of the first night they met is a perfect meet-cute anecdote that, of course, can’t last in the long term. (My only quibble with Lady Gaga is that she’s too pretty for the whole “you’re not pretty enough to be a rock star” gambit.)

For two hours, this machine hits cruise control and rolls along at 70 mph without so much as hitting a pebble in the road. The pacing is remarkably smooth, the dialogue smart and believable, and the inverse paths of the two characters’ careers handled intelligently and credibly. But the ending to this movie, which is very similar to those of previous versions, is rushed to the point that the last big plot event isn’t earned by the story that comes before it. That kind of plot device, even borrowed, needs more justification than it received here, and the way it’s written trivializes the choice that character makes. The script spends more time on the mechanics leading up to that moment – the practical steps the character takes – than on his emotional state and explaining how he came to such a drastic decision.

I’m going to predict, even though it’s early in the season, that A Star Is Born ends up with the most Oscar nominations, with at least nine, including Best Picture Director, Actor, Actress, Song, Cinematography, and some sound awards, while Sam Elliott could grab a nod for Best Supporting Actor in a small but pivotal role as Jackson’s brother and a critical member of his touring team. The concert scenes are incredibly well staged and shot, giving you a sense of the grandeur (and, to me, the anxiety potential) of performing in front of ten or twenty thousand people, yet much of the movie is filmed close – you are often right there with the characters, even when they’re talking to each other, in a way that works to heighten the intensity of arguments and breakdowns throughout the story. The sound in those concert scenes is superb as well, along with the way the film uses sound to bring the recurring bouts of tinnitus that Mayne experiences home to the viewer. It’s not the best film of the year, but it might be the biggest winner come awards season.

–

I’m going to reveal the big climactic event in the movie, since it’s worth a separate discussion. It is slightly different from the analogous moment in the three previous iterations of the movie, although in all four U.S. versions of this movie, the Mayne character dies, twice by drowning himself in the ocean, and this time by his own hand but via another method. I understand that in the real world, people do commit suicide for what might seem to an outsider a totally insufficient reason, and they also commit suicide with little to no warning. I’m holding this movie, and others, to a somewhat higher standard: If you’re going to have a character do this, I need to buy it. This time, I didn’t.

In the 1934 original, Norman Mayne’s decision to drown himself comes after a steep decline that was already underway at the start of the film. He’s a successful actor but a known drunk, he’s sozzled when he meets his ingenue Esther, and his career fortunes drop consistently throughout the film, until, near, the end, he’s a has-been and a public laughingstock. When he realizes that he’s destroying Esther’s career, he decides to take his own life. It’s not ‘right,’ of course, but the script spends more than enough time explaining how Norman got to that point.

The new version really doesn’t do that, and I think at least some of the problem comes in the writers’ choices to focus more on Ally’s rise than on Jackson’s fall. Ally gets a lot of screen time after Jackson has made her a star, including a new if unfinished arc about her choice to pursue a more commercial direction than Jackson intended for her career, one where she might be sacrificing some of her artistic integrity to sell more records. The cost of that additional story is that we get less detail to Jackson’s slide; there’s one enormous scene where he embarrasses her at the Grammy Awards (just as Norman Mayne did to Esther at the Oscars), but what follows from there doesn’t really lead to suicide. It’s the point where the film just stops being a great story and starts to rush to connect the remaining dots, so that the last 15-20 minutes don’t live up to everything that’s come before – and it all does so in a way that makes suicide seem like an entirely impetuous, selfish act, instead of the desperate decision of someone suffering from mental illness or great physical pain.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,
→ October 30, 2018
→ By

Let the Sunshine In.

Let the Sunshine In (available to rent on amazon and iTunes) is a star turn for Juliette Binoche, a thinly plotted wisp of a movie that works entirely because of Binoche’s performance as a middle-aged woman looking for something in her love life but unable to find it – perhaps because she doesn’t know what it is she wants. It’s a sort of cringe comedy for adults, full of awkward interactions in and out of the bedroom, punctuated by emotional scenes of Binoche lamenting her unhappiness and questioning the decisions she’s made, while she’s surrounded by some generally awful men.

Binoche plays Isabelle, an artist and single mother who, at the start of the movie, is experiencing but definitely not enjoying sex with a rather unattractive banker named Vincent, who quickly reveals himself to be something of a pig – and is also quite married and full of himself. Isabelle says she’s in love with him, although her actions would imply otherwise. Between watching Vincent treating a bartender like he’s something less than human and hearing Vincent say he will never leave his wife, Isabelle decides to break it off and venture out on her own, which leads to a couple of doomed affairs with brooding artist types and a lot of conversations about her misadventures and melancholy.

It’s unfair to say nothing happens in Let the Sunshine In (the actual title of which, Un Beau Soleil Intérieur, is better translated as “a beautiful sun within”), but what does happen is usually inconsequential. Isabelle seems unable to distinguish physical intimacy from genuine emotional affection, a confusion of which men around here seem more than happy to take advantage – I was reminded of the opening couplet from the Shelter song “Here We Go,” about a guy using love for sex while the girl is using sex for love. Nearly all of the men Isabelle encounters are creeps of varying levels of aggressiveness, and when the one possible ‘nice guy’ in the film kisses her but doesn’t want to rush right into sex, she feels rejected. There’s no destination here, or even any real growth; the film ends with Isabelle’s visit to a psychic (and, obviously, a fraud) played by Gérard Depardieu, with his bad advice and her questions continuing through most of the closing credits.

With the wrong actress as Isabelle, this would have been unwatchable; even though there are a few sex scenes and a few other big moments, the script is powered entirely by dialogue, nearly all of which involves the main character. Binoche delivers an Oscar-caliber performance here, owning the screen every time she’s on it, conveying a mix of strength and vulnerability, the understanding that she’s still attractive (can confirm) but the awareness that she’s aging and that her ‘window’ to find that perfect mate might be closing. The character is locked in a sort of arrested development when it comes to romance, thinking of love and sex as a young adult might, even though Isabelle is somewhere in middle age (never specified, although Binoche was 52 when this was filmed). She still dresses young, and that sex-for-love confusion dictates nearly all of her behavior with men, exacerbated by the fact that pretty much all of the men in this movie are terrible to her.

But is there a point to all of this? It’s not quite #CancelMen territory, although all the men in this movie who get more than a few minutes on screen are either out to get laid or to find someone to mother them (or, in at least one case, both). Isabelle herself has plenty of points in the film that could cause her to reevaluate her decisions in dating, yet she continues forward on the same path, so she just repeats her mistakes, right down to the decision to go to a clairvoyant (whom we see is a phony in one of the few scenes that doesn’t include Binoche). I’d watch Binoche work in almost any movie, and Isabelle is a suitably three-dimensional character, just one deserving of a more complex story.

(Random trivia: Director Claire Denis’ first film was called Chocolat, but it’s not the same film as the Oscar-nominated film of that name that starred Binoche and earned the latter a Best Supporting Actress nod.)

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,
→ October 26, 2018
→ By

Disobedience.

Sebastián Lelio directed 2017’s A Fantastic Woman (Una mujer fantástica), which won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film this spring and was one of my top five films of last year. His follow-up, Disobedience (available free on amazon prime), is his first English-language movie, but continues the theme of focusing on people who are and feel marginalized by their communities, in this case looking at two gay women who have taken different paths since their sexuality was uncovered by the Orthodox Jewish community where they lived. It’s based on the 2006 novel by Naomi Alderman, who later won the Women’s Prize for Fiction for The Power.

Ronit (Rachel Weisz) has returned to the community from exile upon learning that her father, Rav Krushka (Anton Lesser), has died, but it’s clear from her arrival at her childhood friend Dovid’s (Alessandro Nivola) house that she is an outcast. She’s also surprised to see that her other close friend from childhood, Esti (Rachel McAdams), has married Dovid in the interim, and that no one even tried to contact her to tell her of the wedding. Dovid invites Ronit to stay in their guest room, to the chagrin of the more conservative members of the community, and the film slowly reveals the history between the two women – that they had some kind of affair as teenagers, and were discovered by the Rav, which led to Ronit’s hegira to New York, but also led the Rav to push Esti to marry Dovid. The two women find their attraction to each other hasn’t dimmed, but as the flame is rekindled, the inevitable consequences ensue, and Esti and Dovid both find themselves facing difficult choices between the constraints of their insular community and the exercise of the free will that the Rav himself discussed in his final sermon.

Where A Fantastic Woman was dramatic and brisk, moving the lead character from one crisis to the next, Disobedience is subtle and measured, relying on words far more than actions to advance the plot. Esti is the real heart of the film, because she chose to stay when Ronit left, and is now facing the same emotional conflict a second time – but now has the obligations of marriage as well as the understanding of an adult. The script emphasizes the lack of agency for women in such a community, which could just as easily apply to strict Muslim or fundamentalist Christian communities, even before we consider the taboos of homosexuality in such religions. Ronit’s life in New York is defined solely by her career as a photographer; there is no mention of friends or lovers, except when she confesses to Esti that she hasn’t been with another woman since their liaison ended, so while there’s an implication that Ronit is happy because she fled, there’s also a void where the information surrounding someone’s life would be. Yet if Esti has friends, we don’t really see them either; her role is the devoted wife of the presumed heir to the Rav’s place as leader of the congregation, but there is no definition to her independent of that.

The film is anchored by three very strong performances, McAdams’ in particular, as Esti has the central struggle in the film – deciding whether to even give in to her feelings, and then, since she does (in the movie’s one truly intense scene of action rather than dialogue), coping with the consequences and the choices she must make in the wake of those. You could diagram the film’s story as one where the troika’s friendship has devolved to the point that Esti is now pulled equally by one friend on each side – Ronit on the side of freedom, Dovid on the side of tradition or family or obligation. Nivola’s accent is utterly convincing; the American-born actor’s grandmother was a Jewish refugee who fled Germany in the 1930s, but he also studied Hebrew to be able to recite many of the lines in the film and the accuracy of the accent helps establish his character’s hidebound nature. When the denouement arrives, Dovid has as much to do with it as Esti does, with the film’s themes of agency and free will returning after the late Rav’s speech introduced them in the opening scenes. The ending might be a little too pat, making the next steps that come after the big decisions seem easier than they would certainly be, but the path that these characters take from Ronit’s arrival until that moment is a journey to appreciate.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,
→ October 15, 2018
→ By

Hold the Dark.

The Netflix movie Hold the Dark, which was released briefly in theaters and debuted at the Toronto film festival, is a slow-burning mix of Jim Thompson-esque noir and psychological horror, set in the bleakest of American landscapes – a small Native American village somewhere in Alaska. Based on the novel by William Giraldi and directed by Jeremy Saulner (Green Room), the movie falls for a few cliches of the noir genre but keeps the tension high at virtually every point, eventually arriving at a climax that appears to have left many readers guessing at what it meant.

A writer and wolf expert Russell Core (Jeffrey Wright) gets a letter from an Alaska woman named Medora Sloane (Riley Keough), who says her son was kidnapped by wolves and asks Core to come find the wolf and kill it. He does, but things get weird almost immediately, when on his first night staying in her house, she appears nude, wearing a wolf mask, and lies down next to him while trying to get him to choke her. Her husband, Vernon (Alexander Skarsgård), is seen in graphic scenes of firefighting in Iraq, and is nearly killed, returning home to find his son dead and his wife by that point missing, which in turn sets off a string of violent shootings that envelop an unwilling Core in their web and the manhunt for Vernon that ensues. (Medora is the young woman who waits at home for her pirate captain lover Corrado on Verdi’s opera Il corsaro; she and Corrado both die at the end, because that’s just how things went in 19th century opera.)

Hold the Dark is decidedly, deliberately creepy, with barren white landscapes and wooden cabins with dark interiors, so that nearly all of the movie is a little hard on the eyes and leaves you unsettled regardless of what’s happening on the screen. Core is the central character, although the narrative does shift to follow Vernon on the lam, and much of the camera work tries to give you that same sense of dread and confusion that Core would be experiencing as he’s exploring the Sloanes’ basement or is caught in a firefight with cops and a suspect. There’s a lot of graphic violence – almost every shooting involves blood and flesh flying from the body, certainly more than anyone really needs to see here – but the most powerful on-screen deaths are the ones that occur with little or no warning. Core is a witness to nearly all of them, and his reactions, coupled with the trouble he has coping with the short daylight hours of the Alaskan winter (it’s near the solstice, so the days are just five or so hours long), infuse the film with a sense of permanent unease, like the world is spinning just a tick faster than normal and you can’t find your footing.

Wright is especially apt for his role, as the grey in his beard and his overall mien convey seriousness and an implacability that will be quickly tested by the events of the story, and he has the deep, sonorous voice that can work even as the characters are mumbling. There is a lot of mumbling, though, which struck me as a too-hard attempt to give the movie that noir feel – it’s all serious, we’re serious, a little violence won’t even change the cadence of our speech – when the plot itself should do that. This is dark noir, like Thompson or even some James Cain, where no character is safe and thus you don’t feel like you can anchor yourself to anyone in the film. Even Keough tries to join in, with a vacant, affect-less speech that makes her sound more strung-out than anything else (exacerbated by makeup that makes it look like she hasn’t slept in a long time – which would fit her character’s arc).

The sky and the dark are frequent themes and characters mention them several times, both as a metaphor for the psychosis that appears to have gripped some of the characters in the film and as a literal reference to the effect that the wide open spaces and pervasive darkness can have on people who are already living isolated lives. The wolf mask and several scenes with wolves acting in what appear to be counterintuitive ways speak to the fact that we are animals at heart, and the story seems to ask whether we are really all that able to suppress the animal instincts within us. There’s also a subtext here, never spelled out but to which the dialogue alludes a few times (and with one picture), that I shouldn’t mention for fear of spoiling the ending, although apparently this is clearer in the book (I did not think it was very clear), but it’s important to fully understand what Hold the Dark is trying to achieve. If you can stand the violence – and I would say this was on the edge of what I tolerate – it’s a really gripping, dark vision into humanity on the edge of civilization, and most of the film lives up to the tension of a good thriller.

(One warning: there’s a rape scene near the start of the movie that isn’t explicit but makes it very clear what’s happening. The scene is shot strangely anyway, but I thought a trigger warning was justified.)

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,