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Widows (2018) - Film Review

Widows (2018)


Cast

Viola Davisas Veronica Rawlins
Michelle Rodriguezas Linda Perelli
Elizabeth Debickias Alice Gunner
Cynthia Erivoas Belle
Colin Farrellas Jack Mulligan
Brian Tyree Henryas Jamal Manning
Daniel Kaluuyaas Jatemme Manning
Jacki Weaveras Agnieska
Carrie Coonas Amanda
Robert Duvallas Tom Mulligan
Liam Neesonas Harry Rawlings
Manuel Garcia-Rulfoas Carlos Perelli
Jon Bernthalas Florek Gunner
Garret Dillahuntas Bash O'Reilly
Lukas Haasas David
Matt Walshas Ken
Director

Steve McQueen
Writer (based on "Widows" by)

Lynda La Plante
Writer

Gillian Flynn
Steve McQueen
Cinematographer

Sean Bobbitt
Editor

Joe Walker
Composer

Hans Zimmer

Crime, Drama, Thriller

Rated R for violence, language throughout, and some sexual content/nudity.
128 minutes
 
 
Most heist movies are built on a sheen of cool genius, masterminded by a gang of antiheroes who are typically seeking a kind of justified vengeance. “Widows” is not like most heist movies. The emotional currents that power Steve McQueen’s brilliant genre exercise are different—it’s societal inequity, exhaustion at corruption, and outright anger at a bullshit system that steals from the poor to give to the rich. McQueen’s masterful film is the kind that works on multiple levels simultaneously—as pure pulp entertainment but also as a commentary on how often it feels like we have to take what we are owed or risk never getting it at all.

McQueen opens his film with an immediate boost of adrenaline, dropping us into the latest “job” by criminal Harry Rawlings (Liam Neeson) and his crew (Jon Bernthal, Manuel Garcia-Rulfo, and Coburn Goss) as it goes very, very wrong. McQueen and his incredible editor (Joe Walker, who deserves the Oscar for his work here) bounce us back and forth between the fateful job and quick scenes of introductions to the Rawlings’ crew and their spouses. So we meet Alice (Elizabeth Debicki), a fragile, abused woman whose mother (Jacki Weaver) barely treats her better than her awful husband; Linda (Michelle Rodriguez), a mother of two who is just opening her own store; and Amanda (Carrie Coon), who has a 4-month-old child. Before the opening sequence is over, all three will be widows, as will be Harry’s wife Veronica (Viola Davis).

Not long after Harry’s death, Veronica is visited by a local criminal named Jamal Manning (Brian Tyree Henry), who informs her that Harry’s final job was to steal $2 million from him and his campaign for 18th ward alderman. With the help of his sociopathic brother Jatemme (Daniel Kaluuya), the Mannings tell Veronica that she has to repay the money just as Harry’s widow happens to find her dead husband’s notebook with all the details on past and future jobs. There’s a lot of information on the next job he had planned, one that looks to net $5 million. Veronica gets the other widows together and they agree to do Harry’s next job. They can repay Manning and have some left over to start new lives.

If only anything were that easy in Chicago. I haven’t even mentioned Manning’s competition for 18th ward alderman, Jack Mulligan (Colin Farrell), part of a long line of Windy City politicians, including his racist father Tom (Robert Duvall). Jack is one of those silver spoon politicians who almost feels like he’s owed the office just by virtue of his last name, never mind the fact that he’s facing a corruption scandal that involves grifting from a project that expanded the Chicago Green Line. Jack is the kind of politician who starts a program to put minority women to work by giving them businesses…from which he then takes a cut. Everything comes at a cost in “Widows.” Everything, to a certain extent, is a transaction. The job that opens “Widows” and then Veronica’s decision to use the notebook instead of just selling it pull back the curtain on a corrupt, broken system, one that feels distinctly Chicagoan while also commenting on inequity around the world. McQueen and his team use the city brilliantly, especially in a stunning single take in which we see Mulligan go from a campaign event in his ward to his home, the camera staying outside the car to show us the rapidly changing neighborhood along the commute.

Gillian Flynn’s script for “Widows” brings together many disparate personalities under one umbrella but the differences never feel forced. Only when you sit back and think about it, do you consider that it is likely not by accident that Alice, Linda, and Veronica are Polish, Latinx, and Black, respectively, never mind their incredibly different economic differences—Veronica lives on the Gold Coast while Alice has to become an escort to make ends meet. In part, “Widows” seems to be saying that corruption is a great equalizer, especially among women betrayed by powerful men. When Tom Mulligan says, “The only thing that matters is that we survive,” it’s a line meant to capture how tightly he’s trying to hold on to a white political legacy, but it’s something any number of characters in “Widows” could say. There are a number of great lines like that but McQueen and Flynn are careful to never allow their film to sink into a political diatribe. The dialogue crackles without ever calling attention to itself or sounding overly precious or preaching.

Part of the reason “Widows” stays above the line where it would feel like mere sermon is that it contains the best ensemble of 2018. Viola Davis can do more with a longing, grieving look out a window than most actresses can do with a monologue. Watch the beat where she’s looking out at Lake Michigan and we see her in reflection, an image of her dead husband coming up behind her. It’s almost as if her grief manifested him. And when Veronica’s drive turns from sadness to anger, Davis makes every beat count. There’s not a single wasted decision on her part. It might be her best performance.

She’s matched by a ridiculously talented supporting cast, all on her level. Debicki was great earlier this year in “The Tale,” but this is her breakthrough role, one that nearly allows her to steal the film. Watch Alice’s body language as she goes from a frightened victim to an empowered woman. She never overplays the transformation, but it's impossible to miss. It’s really the rare kind of film for which there are hard to pick standouts. Henry has a couple of brilliant scenes, although many seem to think Kaluuya steals a few from him (I'm not sure I agree. They're both great.). Rodriguez makes one wish she did drama more often. Cynthia Erivo should be a star any minute now. Even small roles like those occupied by Garret Dillahunt and Coon feel “right.” There’s not a wasted or poorly-considered role or performance.

Finally there are the technical elements of “Widows.” It’s not the kind of flashy exercise of something like “Baby Driver,” but the editing here by two-time Oscar nominee Joe Walker (nominated for “12 Years a Slave” and “Arrival”) is just as good. A film with this many characters and themes and plot points requires a master editor to keep it moving, and Walker finds the perfect rhythm. Hans Zimmer’s score is his most subtle in a long time, especially the way that McQueen uses it, holding back on score almost entirely for the first 30-45 minutes, allowing it to bubble up as the heist gets closer, enhancing the tension of the overall experience.

The tapestry that is “Widows” is so deep that it’s easy to miss some of its smaller patterns. There’s a scene in which Jatemme is following Veronica, listening to a report on the radio about Albert Woodfox, a man who spent 43 years in solitary confinement at Angola. There’s a line from Woodfox in the report that McQueen makes sure we hear: “Nothing you do is gonna change your situation.” “Widows” is about both the truth of that and a few people who decide to fight it.   


The Grinch (2018) - Film Review

The Grinch (2018)


Cast

Benedict Cumberbatchas Grinch (voice)
Pharrell Williamsas Narrator (voice)
Cameron Seelyas Cindy Lou Who (voice)
Rashida Jonesas Donna Lou Who (voice)
Angela Lansburyas The Mayor of Whoville (voice)
Kenan Thompsonas Bricklebaum (voice)
Director

Scott Mosier
Yarrow Cheney
Writer (based on the book by)

Dr. Seuss
Writer

Cinco Paul
Ken Daurio
Editor

Chris Cartagena
Composer

Danny Elfman

Animation, Comedy, Family

Rated PG for brief rude humor.

90 minutes
 
 
Two of the most beloved Christmas stories are about characters who—at least at the beginning of the story—hate Christmas. Charles Dickens gave us Ebenezer Scrooge, who calls Christmas a fraud until the ghosts show him Christmas past, present, and future to show him what he has missed by hardening his heart to friends, family, and kindness. And Dr. Seuss (Theodore Geisel) gave us the Grinch, a furry green character with a dog named Max, who hates Christmas so much he decides to spoil the celebration of everyone in the community of Whoville by stealing all of their decorations, food, and gifts.

An instant classic since its publication in 1958, the book inspired an award-winning Chuck Jones animated television special starring Boris Karloff, then an overstuffed 2000 live-action feature film starring Jim Carrey in the title role, and now a very watch-worthy full-length animated theatrical release from the people behind “Despicable Me,” with Benedict Cumberbatch (using an American accent) as the Grinch. It does not surpass the Chuck Jones version (or having the book read aloud by a parent, which is still ideal) but it is far superior to the Carrey film and should become a welcome family tradition.

The visuals are delightfully Seussian, all curves and slants. I loved the mitten-shaped windows on one of the houses and the way that Whoville’s Christmas decorations make it look like a captivatingly intricate gingerbread village. In contrast, the Grinch’s mountain top lair is bare and cavernous, empty and solitary, far from the warmth of the Whovian homes.

We really do not need a backstory to tell us how the Grinch got so Grinch-y that he wants to steal all the decorations and gifts or why Cindy Lou Who (Cameron Seely) was awake on Christmas Eve. But feature-length movies are longer than Dr. Seuss poems, so we get a flashback to the young Grinch’s lonely holidays in an orphanage. In the book, two-year-old Cindy Lou gets up for a glass of water but here the elementary-school-age Cindy Lou wants to make sure she sees Santa on Christmas Eve because she wants to ask him for something very special. It is special because it is not for herself but for her loving yet exhausted mom (Rashida Jones). 

While this is not especially inventive, there are some clever parallels as the Grinch and Cindy Lou each have to come up with a plan for Christmas Eve. They write out their schemes with the same two words alone on a huge surface: “Santa Claus.” And both must assemble helpers and equipment without anyone finding out.

The smaller details are the most fun, especially when the Grinch brings on an enormous, yak-looking reindeer named Fred to pull his fake Santa sleigh. Or when a relentlessly cheery Whovian (Kenan Thompson) with the fanciest Christmas decorations in town keeps insisting that he and the Grinch are best friends.

We see the Grinch wake up in the morning for his breakfast, which includes a latte with a frowny face in the foam, prepared by his ever-loyal dog, Max. He then selects one from a rack of outfits labeled according to mood: “Wretched,” “Miserable,” “Very Miserable,” “Nasty,” and “Grumpy.” They are in fact all exactly alike and indistinguishable from his actual skin and fur. All the gadgets and equipment the Grinch creates are delightfully clever, the action scenes are energetic and funny, and the music, with a score by Danny Elfman and some standards and fresh and tuneful renditions of holiday classics, is superb, with a gorgeous Pentatonix rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” and Tyler the Creator’s brightly updated version of Thurl Ravenscroft’s classic “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch.” The message that Christmas is not about presents and candy canes but about kindness and being together is always welcome. And when the Grinch gets invited to dinner with Cindy Lou’s family, you may find your heart growing a couple of sizes, too.


Welcome to Mercy (2018) - Film Review

Welcome to Mercy (2018)


Cast

Lily Newmark as August
Eileen Davies as Mother Superior
Kristen Ruhlin as Madaline
Toms Liepājnieks as Young Father Joseph
Ieva Seglina as Alyona

Director

Tommy Bertelsen

Writer

Kristen Ruhlin

Cinematographer

Igor Kropotov

Editor

Jordan Maltby

Thriller

Rated NR
 
 
There's a terrific new horror film about guilt, shame, and witches, and its name is "Suspi--" wait, sorry, it's called "Welcome to Mercy," a brooding, atmospheric movie set in a Latvian convent that follows an atheist who becomes possessed by an ancient evil. That may sound like the logline for a tacky throwback to the unabashedly salacious nunsploitation gems of the 1970s, like "Behind Convent Walls" and "School of the Holy Beast." But the best thing about "Welcome to Mercy" is that its creators don't go for cheap thrills ... not many, anyway. Director Tommy Bertelsen and screenwriter Kristen Ruhlin take time to consider what drew disbelieving single mother Madaline (Ruhlin) back to her Latvian home, just to see her long-ill father Frank (Andrey Yahimovich). One answer seems immediately  apparent: to confront her standoffish, estranged mother Alyona (Ieva Seglina). But Bertelsen and Ruhlin are patient enough to make their film's more high concept ideas—surprise: Madaline gets possessed by demons!—subordinate to Madaline's attempts at reconciling abandonment issues that she hopes she won't pass on to her own daughter, Willow (Sophia Massa).

You can tell that there's something different about "Welcome to Mercy" from the way its terrific ensemble cast delivers their oft-pulpy dialogue. These performances are the heart and soul of a film whose ideas could have easily devolved into genre cliches and pseudo-empathetic pandering. "Welcome to Mercy" is, after all, a film where demonic possession is presented as an expression of Madaline's long-unexamined feelings of helplessness. Her secular trauma is given a high-concept horror twist, but with good reason: a world of old world religious/superstitious fear is the one this character was pre-emptively kicked out of, and that she consequently fears.

How can you blame her? Look at the way that Seglina and Juris Strenga, the actor playing the skeletal Father Joseph, play their parts. Their accents and appearances are (necessarily) off-putting: at times, she sounds like Frau Blücher from "Young Frankenstein" while he looks like the evil priest from "Poltergeist II." Still, there's enough humanity in both Seglina and Strenga's performances to make you wonder if Madaline knows what she's talking about when she dismisses both Joseph and Alyona's ritualistic faith as mere superstition. Listen to Strenga—as his character refers to the still-living Frank—add a syrupy pause worthy of Bela Lugosi to the sentence "He was ... a good friend." Or listen to Seglina deliver a master class in inflection as she--as Alyona rejects Madaline's claim that Yelina "abandoned [her]"—delivers a line that, from a lesser actor, would come out on the wrong side of Meryl-Streep-y camp: "I did not! A-ban-don YOU! I wanted to give you a BET-TER life.” 

That sort of pitch-perfect heightened tone is, admittedly, the sort of thing you have to see to believe. Still, the creators of "Welcome to Mercy" deserve praise for giving their story enough weight to make some timeworn horror conventions (Look out, stigmata!) seem new again. As a screenwriter, Ruhlin brings sensitivity to her characters in a way that none of the other authors of this season's big horror films did (sorry, fans of this year's "Halloween" sequel!). As a writer, Ruhlin gives Madaline enough time and humanity to worry: maybe she's unconsciously hurting her own daughter because she doesn't understand why or how much her mother hurt her. That lingering should help many jaded horror fans to suspend their disbelief, which is essential since Madaline (the audience's surrogate) must willingly submit to the prodding concern of the sisters of Mercy, a secluded convent whose nuns supposedly have the "spiritual disciplines" needed to help Madaline become unpossessed.

Madaline's dilemma sounds incredible, but it's supposed to, from Seglina and Strenga's Boris & Natasha-style accents to the superstitious, rural trappings of Frank and Yalina's home (so much garlic and hay!). This is how a skeptical urbanite sees the world she was (in her eyes) forced out of as a child. It's small, and a little backwards, so it's also easy to pigeonhole. 

Realistically, the most exciting thing about "Welcome to Mercy" isn't its exceptionally creepy scare scenes—ever wonder what the world looks like according to a victim of possession?—but rather its creators' thoughtful consideration, not only of how it feels to be abandoned, but also what it feels like to understand why you were seemingly left behind. "Welcome to Mercy" is, in that sense, a rare horror movie whose creators seriously represent both sides of a dilemma, and is therefore more mature than it seems at first glance. Bertelsen and Ruhlin understand why people fear religion, but also why we look to it as a balm for secular guilt and shame. In horror movies, Love is usually the world's one-size-fits-all cure. In "Welcome to Mercy," it's a more complex sentiment: forgiveness.


 

The Other Side of the Wind (2018) - Review of a Netflix Production

The Other Side of the Wind (2018)


Cast

John Huston as J.J. "Jake" Hannaford
Oja Kodar as The Actress
Peter Bogdanovich as Brooks Otterlake
Robert Random as Oscar "John" Dale
Susan Strasberg as Juliet Rich
Joseph McBride as Charles Pister
Edmond O'Brien as Pat
Mercedes McCambridge as Maggie Fassbender
Cameron Mitchell as Matt Zimmer
Paul Stewart as Matt Costello
Peter Jason as Marvin P. Fassbender
Tonio Selwart as The Baron
Claude Chabrol as Himself
Henry Jaglom as Himself
Paul Mazursky as Himself
Lilli Palmer as Zarah Valeska
Director

Orson Welles
Writer

Orson Welles
Oja Kodar
Cinematographer

Gary Graver
Editor

Orson Welles
Bob Murawski
Composer

Michel Legrand

Comedy, Drama

Rated R for sexual content, graphic nudity and some language.

122 minutes
 
 
In Jean-Luc Godard’s 1968 film “La Chinoise,” one of the characters, Kirilov, announces, “L’art ne pas le reflet du réel, mais le reel de ce reflet.” Which translates as “Art is not the reflection of reality, it’s the reality of the reflection.” In “The Other Side of the Wind,” a film shot in the years between 1970 and 1976 and later (only partially) edited by Orson Welles, a character named Mr. Pister, a very young, whippet thin and presumably callow square of a film critic—played, not coincidentally, by Joseph McBride, who would go on to become, besides a fine critic and scholar in general, one of the key voices keeping Welles’ often misunderstood legacy alive—asks its bete noire-legendary director figure, Jake Hannaford, “Is the camera eye a reflection of reality or is reality a reflection of the camera eye?”

This citation of Godard sounds more like a piss-take when Pister continues “or is the camera merely a phallus?” This is meant to sound ridiculous, and it does, and yet the more you reflect on what’s actually in “The Other Side of the Wind,” the more the idea of that camera as phallus—or at least as impotent phallus desperate to achieve tumescence and usurp the passive voyeur status of the eye/lens—gains currency. Among other things, this picture from the director of “Citizen Kane,” “The Magnificent Ambersons,” “Touch of Evil” and several other masterpieces both mainstream and hermetic, increases the sex-and-nudity quotient of the Welles filmography not by a percentage but by a power. 

The story, such as it is, concerns the 70th birthday party of Jake Hannaford, portrayed with vanity-free abandon and lemon-sucking bitterness by John Huston, who looks like he’s been dragged through hell and spat back up onto earth because hell found him too hard to digest. To this party have been invited dozens of friends, enemies, well-wishers, and chroniclers. Journalists, academics, TMZ-avant-la-lettre footage collectors, documentarians, and out-and-out spies. The other thread of the story is of the movie Hannaford is trying to complete, a trippy, arty, uncomfortable, almost dialogue-free chronicle of a woman (Oja Kodar, Welles’ lover and a credited co-writer of the movie) walking nearly naked through the world and happening on all manner of orgiastic activity while pursuing a male biker whom she seduces in a moving car in a sequence that’s virtuosic, dreamlike, and squirm-inducing all at once. 

The Hannaford party is an assemblage of the footage shot by the invitees. In a narrated prologue, conceived and executed well outside of Welles’ purview, Peter Bogdanovich’s character explains the rationale behind the document. An extra-diegetic text before the film proper begins explains that this cut of Welles’ unfinished film is an attempt to “honor and complete” Welles’ vision. 

What vision it finally presents is a continually paradoxical one. It is a curse on cinema and a blessing of it. Its explorations of sexuality near explicitness, but its musings on the subject have to do with nothing but secrets. A sniping critic/historian played by Susan Strasberg harps on Hannaford’s camera fixating on his movies’ leading men. She recalls that Hannaford had affairs with all the wives of his movies’ lead males, and theorizes that this was his way of sublimating his desire for the men. Certainly Hannaford’s fixation on John Dale (Bob Random), the hippie-curled leading man of the new project, is not healthy. Dale came into Hannaford’s life while the latter was vacationing. The older man believes he saved the younger when he was trying to drown himself. A drama teacher brought to Jake’s party has a different story about Dale’s own ambition. Repressed homosexuality is not especially emphasized here as a betrayal of one’s self, but “Wind” is a movie in which everyone is selling everyone out, or at least is susceptible to doing so. Its web of relationships is vertigo-inducing, and the breakneck cutting, constantly shifting film stock, and seesawing aspect ratios don’t construct the easiest through-line by which to track them. 

“The Other Side of the Wind” is a very rich film and a very difficult one. I’ve seen it nearly three times now and what I intuit about the aspects of it that “work,” and those where the seams just show too nakedly shift all the time. Cameron Mitchell’s fired makeup artist, with his ridiculous straw hat and bathetic vaudevillian bearing, seems to have dropped in from an entirely different film, and I still can’t be sure that’s not entirely the point. Some of the compositions—an early shot on the studio lot, a low-angle into which move Mercedes McCambridge and a couple of other figures to make a nice Eisenstein-like three-figure composition that Welles expanded upon with just the right dolly-in camera movement—are vintage Welles, including uncomfortable closeups like those of Glenn Anders in “The Lady From Shanghai,” all of the tricks and trills pushed to their limits like a circus act gone mad. While the film-within-a-film, with its empty spaces and forced-perspective winks, is parodying Antonioni and other art-film directors, there’s also a self-critique or homage in the visual references to Welles’ own “The Trial.” In “They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead,” the fascinating documentary about the making of this film that’s also an excellent companion piece to it, Simon Callow, the actor, director, and Welles biographer says “I have a feeling, for which I have no evidence, that Welles didn’t want to finish ‘The Other Side of the Wind.’” This is followed by denials, some indignant, of the idea that Welles would not WANT to finish a film. Of course he wanted to finish; he was merely denied the opportunity. 

As it happens, I agree with Callow, and I think there is evidence: it’s the movie itself. As a vessel for Welles’ self-loathing, which by this point in his life was arguably bottomless, “Wind” itself needed to have no bottom. The hundred hours of footage from which Welles worked on the feature was packed with self-inflicted wounds upon which he could pour salt, particularly with respect to his tortured relationship to the film culture he helped create, and more specifically his personal relationship with Bogdanovich. Down to the pettiest little thing. When Bogdanovich’s Brook calls Hannaford a “rough magician,” after a speech in Shakespeare’s “The Tempest,” and Hannaford “confesses” to Brook that he knows not the meaning of the word “abjure,” those who have read Bogdanovich’s interview book with Welles, “This Is Orson Welles,” should be able to hear Welles himself pretending he doesn’t know who Mizoguchi is. 

In that book Welles says of Godard, “What’s most admirable about him is his marvelous contempt for the machinery of movies and even movies themselves—a kind of anarchistic, nihilistic contempt for the medium—which, when he’s at his best and most vigorous, is very exciting.” It’s not for nothing that Welles sets the ending of “Wind” at a drive-in theater, the inverse of a sacred movie palace, a place for the desecration of cinema and a pretext for sexual activity, and shoots it like it’s a touchstone site of the romance of the American West, which of course it is. Everything contradicts everything else in this film, while at the same time drawing perfect circular connections. What Godard had to say about Welles, in 1963, was this: “[M]ay we be accursed if we forget for one second that he alone with Griffith, one in silent days, one sound, managed to start up that marvelous little electric train in which Lumiere did not believe. All of us will always owe him everything.” Fun fact: on the slates for “Wind,” the cameraman was written in as “Bitzer.” If you get that joke—for “Wind” is a movie best appreciated only by individuals as enriched and as damaged by cinema as Welles was himself—you will get this movie.
 

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (2018) - Review of a Netflix Production

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (2018)


Cast

Tim Blake Nelsonas Buster Scruggs
James Francoas Cowboy
Liam Neesonas Impresario
Tom Waitsas Prospector
Brendan Gleesonas Irishman
Bill Heckas Billy Knapp
Zoe Kazanas Alice Longabaugh
Tyne Dalyas Lady
Director

Ethan Coen
Joel Coen
Writer

Ethan Coen
Joel Coen
Cinematographer

Bruno Delbonnel
Editor

Ethan Coen
Joel Coen
Composer

Carter Burwell

Comedy, Drama, Western

Rated R for some strong violence.
133 minutes
 

I’m not one of those reviewers who likes a particular type of Coen Brothers movie more than another. As much as I revered the filmmakers’ knotty, relatively somber “Inside Llewyn Davis,” I didn’t sit through “Hail Caesar” grumbling that I’d have preferred a more serious work.

It’s hard to pin down the brothers’ new film, “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs,” an anthology film that presents itself as a literal story book, first edition 1873. As the mournful air that supports the ballad “Streets of Laredo” (and other lyrics, as the movie demonstrates in its last story) plays, the book opens, the pages turn; a full-page illustration shows a moment from a tense poker game; and away we go.

Into a rather goofy singing-cowboy vignette, the title story, starring Tim Blake Nelson as a man in a white hat who addresses the viewer most cheerfully before he begins blowing holes in any number of dirtier men who won’t cooperate with him. Is he, as a wanted poster paints him, a “misanthrope?” No, he insists, he just doesn’t like to be, um, contradicted.

This episode is a gasp-inducing wonder, a perfect storm of Frank Tashlin and Sam Peckinpah stylings, suggesting this is going to be one of the more raucous and absurdist Coen outings. The next story, starring James Franco as an ill-fated bank robber, leads up to a punchline that’s one of the funniest in the Coen canon.

In the third story, “Meal Ticket,” the movie takes a grim, mean turn. Its protagonists are a taciturn, hard-drinking traveling showman, Liam Neeson, and his charge, an armless and legless young man with a great store of poetry and scripture at his command, billed as a great “Orator.” Beginning his “set” every night with Shelley’s “Ozymandias,” he speaks to ever-dwindling frontier audiences, compelling Neeson to make an arguably ruthless business decision.

 In “All Gold Canyon,” inspired by a Jack London story, Tom Waits—who fits so well into Coen World that it’s kind of a shock to realize this is his first picture with the filmmakers—plays a prospector for whom process seems more fulfilling than the accumulation of wealth. The next story, “The Gal Who Got Rattled,” featuring remarkable performances from Zoe Kazan, Bill Heck, and Grainger Hines, is also an adaptation, from a story by Stewart Edward White, but the Coens stack it with mordant ironies that not only make it their own, but make it perhaps the saddest of the tales here.

There’s a lot of killing in this movie, and many of those who suffer it are depicted lying down, with their eyes open, looking at the sky. In the movie’s final story, “The Mortal Remains,” one of a pair of bounty hunters, played by Jonjo O’Neill, tells his fellow passengers in a stagecoach of how, after his partner (Brendan Gleeson) has “thumped” one of their victims, he enjoys looking into that man’s eyes and watching as he negotiates the border between life and death, trying to find a state to which he can be reconciled. Do any of them “make it?” one of the passengers asks. “I don’t know,” the bounty hunter says cheerfully. “I’m only watching.”

This final segment plays like an extra-morbid but enigmatic coda to the prior proceedings. Then it hits you how, in a speech by Saul Rubinek’s  “Frenchman” character (who introduces his philosophy of life by anticipating Sartre’s statement that “we have only this life to live”), his insistence that in life you “cannot play another man’s hand” completes a circle:  extending the movie’s trajectory back into an animating situation in its first story.

What’s most bewitching throughout “Scruggs” is its sense of detail. Its meshing of formal discipline and screwed-down content sometimes give it the sense of a work that has been carefully and elaborately embroidered rather than photographed.

Do the Coens troll their audience? Yes and no. Movies require too much money and effort to predicate them merely on pranking people you don’t like. On the other hand, I had a conversation last fall with a great film scholar and critic who rather famously dislikes the Coens' work, and he was taking issue with the naming of the main character and ostensible hero of “Hail Caesar.” Josh Brolin’s good guy “Eddie Mannix” was named for a real-life character who was in fact a rather bad guy, an MGM-employed “fixer” who covered up major crimes by film figures and bullied potentially rebellious stars into doing the studio’s will. “Why would they want to ennoble Eddie Mannix,” he asked, and I said that, clearly, the movie wasn’t intended as any kind of portrait of the real Eddie Mannix, and that they probably just liked the name. Which I think is true. But the Coens are creators who rather effortlessly work on multiple levels, and I think it’s closer to the truth to say that they liked the name AND that they knew that using it would push certain people’s buttons, and they’re not just fine with that; they’re delighted by it.

Here, their adaptation of Western story modes goes directly against contemporary consciousness of Native American genocide and other issues. Because it’s a pastiche, it situates itself in an old-fashioned mode in which diversity is articulated only in terms of mutual antagonism. The only articulation of a Native American perspective comes in the form of a disdainful laugh one “Indian” warrior throws in the direction of a character with a noose around his neck. For the purposes of this marvelous and disquieting movie, it’s enough. Its pleasures—the endless succession of perfect shots of remarkable scenery, the gorgeous music by Carter Burwell and others that swells and dips like the landscapes themselves—are real, and acknowledged as such, but there’s something more real underneath it all. The book’s pages at the movie’s beginning are turned too quickly for a viewer without a freeze button to read its dedication and epigraph, but the latter might as well be a portion of the Russian grammar book sample Vladimir Nabokov used to open his 1952 novel The Gift, to wit, “An oak is a tree. A rose is a flower. A deer is an animal. A sparrow is a bird. Death is inevitable.”


 
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