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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.”


The Girl In The Spiders Web (2018) - Film Review

THE GIRL IN THE SPIDERS WEB

Production companies: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, New Regency Pictures, Pascal Pictures, Scott Rudin Productions, Sony Pictures Entertainment, The Cantillon Company, Yellow Bird
Cast: Claire Foy, Sylvia Hoeks, Lakeith Stanfield, Sverrir Gudnason, Vicky Krieps, Stephen Merchant
Director: Fede Alvarez
Screenwriters: Jay Basu, Fede Alvarez, Steven Knight based on the novel by David Lagercrantz and characters by Stieg Larsson
Producers: Eli Bush, Elizabeth Cantillon, Berna Levin, Amy Pascal, Scott Rudin, Soren Staermose, Ole Sondberg
Executive producers: Bob Dohrmann, Anni Faurbye Fernandez, David Fincher, Line Winther Skyum Funch, Johannes Jensen, Arnon Milchan
Director of photography: Pedro Luque
Production designer: Eve Stewart
Costume designer: Carlos Rosario
Editor: Tatiana S. Riegel
Music: Roque Banos
Casting director: Carmen Cuba
Venue: Rome Film Festival (official section)


The adventures of Lisbeth Salander, the intrepid punk-goth hacker made famous in Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series, continue in The Girl in the Spider's Web. The filmmakers take a heroic, action-packed, high-tech approach that empties out some of the originality of this unique female heroine, while pointing the movie at a rather different kind of audience from the first trio of Swedish movies and David Fincher’s 2011 remake The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. It is based on the book by David Lagercrantz that continues the series after Larsson's death.
There is a new backstory for Lisbeth that soft-pedals the original one of multiple rapes and abuse. Other disconcerting changes should test the loyalty of the series’ fans, while perhaps picking up younger audiences. She now sports much more advanced IT skills. She also has the new superpower of accessing any computer in the world in two clicks, not to mention driving motorbikes and Ferraris over ice and snow at Le Mans speed and surviving certain-death situations. If you flash on an angry, pierced, femme version of James Bond, you are into the spirit of the piece directed by Fede Alvarez and starring Claire Foy (First Man, The Crown) in the lead role.
Perfunctory in its psychological realism and flagrantly lacking any other kind, the screenplay by Alvarez, Jay Basu and Steven Knight is certainly not the most satisfying version of Lisbeth. But it is edgy and action-packed, and Alvarez’ direction keeps the tension high through a slew of ever-more-improbable threats to Lisbeth and her allies. In the end, her character is so invincible she feels unreal as a human personality. For one thing, she has lost the traumatic background of abuse that made her credible as an angry feminist revenger in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. It’s also perplexing to discover she has a sister (Sylvia Hoeks) whom she left behind when she escaped from their father, a Russian crime lord.
In the film’s dazzling opening flashback, two little girls — Lisbeth and her sister Camilla — play chess together in an icy fortress. A servant announces their father wants them in his bedroom, and one look at his perverted face is enough to know what he wants them for. While Camilla hangs back, little Lisbeth throws herself out of a high window into a blizzard and, surviving the fall, runs for her life. She never goes back while Dad is alive.
This is her new traumatic childhood, which is supposed to have turned her into a vigilante famed for hurting men who hurt women, probably as close to a #MeToo hashtag as an action-thriller can come. Her reputation as a dangerous outlaw hacker gives her an underground cool, and in fact she has been living incognito among Stockholm’s swinging nightcrawlers while apparently wanted by the police for illegal hacking activities.
Her big wounded eyes belying a tough guy appearance, the athletic Foy does quite a respectable job following in the footsteps of Rooney Mara and, in the Swedish films, Noomi Rapace, though she doesn’t outpace them. Her casual bisexuality is entirely in keeping with her modern image: She has a number of female lovers but still has a tender spot for Mikael Blomkvist, the unfaithful journalist who wrote and published her story, causing her to disappear from his life. In a much-reduced and unexciting part, Sverrir Gudnason is hardly more than a shadow in the role that was Daniel Craig’s. Versatile Luxembourg actress Vicky Krieps (Phantom Thread) is more regrettably thrown away in a cameo as Mikael’s business partner and lover. All the actors speak English with mild Swedish accents, including Krieps and the British Foy, an affectation that keeps them in their parts.
An early demonstration of Lisbeth’s steely resolve, as well as her fighting skills, comes in the rescue of an abused wife from her big businessman husband, who has just beaten her bloody and is making excuses for himself. Lisbeth appears dressed as an avenging angel with black wings; she quickly trusses the husband up in a lasso and hangs him from the ceiling, a perfectly impossible operation from a realistic p.o.v. Meanwhile, she empties his bank account in favor of his wife and the two prostitutes he beat up. Her trademark weapon, an electric taser, makes its first of many appearances as she stings him where it hurts the most.
The story proper begins when she’s contacted by Frans Balder (Stephen Merchant), a frightened American programmer who is in possession of software capable of hacking into the world’s nuclear arsenals. He has come to fear it’s not a good thing to leave unattended in the hands of the U.S. government. Admittedly, the stakes are high, and for once Lisbeth is stymied over a password. Though Balder doesn’t get far into the story, he has communicated all the passwords to his savant 6-year-old son August, played by the delightfully serious Christopher Convery. The boy’s presence in Sweden complicates things considerably for Lisbeth, Mikael, the Swedish head of national security and the film’s best new character, Edwin Needham (Lakeith Stanfield), a legendary hacker turned NSA security techie, whose prowess scores some points for the USA. Needham is challenged to keep out of it by his Swedish counterpart but ignores her and plows ahead on a collision course with Lisbeth and friends.
Fortunately, there’s not much gab in the conference room and the hacking — involving anything from building surveillance cameras to national weaponry — takes from two to three seconds of screen time to accomplish. One does get tired of everybody locating everybody else using the old trick of triangulation of phone calls.
Sweden’s wintry landscapes turn out to be the ideal background to buildings bursting into blazing fireballs and motorcycle chases on ice. Imaginative visuals keep coming when a colorful figure from Lisbeth’s past unexpectedly appears and, surprise but no surprise, turns out to be the Spider Master. This arch villain first gasses, then vacuum-packs Lisbeth in a black plastic bag, which must be a first in the world of screen punishment. However, their final confrontation takes place on emotional terrain that is exactly the film’s weak point.
Lisbeth’s fans will be happy to know she still has the dragon on her back, a bit the worse for wear after the ruthless Spiders turns her cool secret digs in an abandoned warehouse into burnt toast. Cement fortresses without windows are characteristic of Eve Stewart’s production design, which pushes high tech ideas into the future with conviction. Also notable is Pedro Luque’s icy cinematography, draining color from scenes like blood from faces.



The Guilty (2018) - Film Review

The Guilty (2018)

Cast
Director
  • Gustav Möller
Writer
  • Gustav Möller
  • Emil Nygaard Albertsen
Thriller
85 minutes
 
 
 
At this year’s Sundance Film Festival, the first film that really started a buzz was from the relatively under-promoted World Dramatic Competition, Gustav Möller’s “The Guilty,” now finally opening in limited release. It’s easy to see why so many critics and viewers have taken to this laser-focused study of a man whose prejudices and assumptions enhance a tense day on the job. With its single setting and real-time story, “The Guilty” is a brilliant genre exercise, a cinematic study in tension, sound design, and how to make a thrilling movie with a limited tool box. The film’s own restrictions actually amplify the tension, forcing us into the confined space of its protagonist.
The opening moments of “The Guilty” might feel like mere wheel-spinning until the “real story” kicks in but they’re essential to why the film really works. In them, we meet Asger Holm (Jacob Cedergren) a Danish police officer embroiled in a bit of a controversy, and so stuck at an Emergency Services (their version of 911) call center until it blows over. We get snippets of conversation about a testimony tomorrow and learn that he no longer lives with his significant other, but we don’t know the details—these are just elements that add to the fabric of tension, and reveal that Asger is under a lot of stress.
Asger is also kind of a jerk. In his role as the provider of necessary, often life-saving services, he can be judgmental and abrasive. A few calls early in the film reveal this character trait as he scolds one caller for taking drugs and allows another who has been mugged by a prostitute to stew in his bad decision before sending help. The idea that Asger isn’t as free from assumptions about the people who call him as he should be sets him up as a flawed character. And so when he gets a call that will change his life, we know that he’s already imperfect—and that could impact how the night unfolds.
The call comes from a woman, who Asger identifies through his call system as Iben. She sounds like she’s in trouble but she’s not making a lot of sense. We soon learn, with Asger, that she can’t exactly say what’s wrong but she alludes to a very bad situation, and our protagonist soon gets sucked into the nightmare she’s experiencing. Well, he gets sucked into his interpretation of what she’s experiencing. “The Guilty” is a complex examination of how commonly we make assumptions about other people—how easily we can take a limited amount of information and fill in the gaps in a way that’s not always right. Just as he blames the drug taker for making a bad decision without knowing anything about what led up to that decision, he jumps to conclusions with Iben that prove to be his downfall.
In a sense, all of us make variations on the mistakes that Asger makes in this film, only with less terrifying results (I hope). Think about how often we use a tweet or a text in ways to read the mind of the person sending it. One of the masterstrokes of “The Guilty” is how identifiable Asger feels. Even though he’s not exactly likable, we want him to pull out of the tailspin he’s in on this night, and “The Guilty” gains another level of complexity when Asger realizes that this night is allowing our hero to see how he got here—the aforementioned controversy—in a whole new light.
“The Guilty” is a tight, excellent piece of work that will likely be seen by way too few and forgotten in the year-end conversation. Denmark has submitted it for the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film, a category that can often be hard to predict but typically goes with more recognizable auteurs or movies dense with internationally resonant social messages. It’s been a phenomenal year for this category with films like “Roma,” “Shoplifters,” and “Burning” almost certain to pop up. Those Cannes and TIFF hits deserve their acclaim, but don’t forget about the film from Sundance.
 
 
 

First Man (2018) - Film Review

First Man (2018)

Cast
Director
  • Damien Chazelle
Writer (based on the book by)
  • James R. Hansen
Writer
  • Josh Singer
Cinematographer
  • Linus Sandgren
Editor
  • Tom Cross
Composer
  • Justin Hurwitz
Drama, History
Rated PG-13 for some thematic content involving peril, and brief strong language.
138 minutes



If you want to get an almost first-person sense of what it felt like to fly in one of the earliest supersonic planes or ride a rocket into orbit and beyond, "First Man" is the movie to see. More so than other films about the US space program, including "The Right Stuff" and "Apollo 13," it makes the experience seem more wild and scary than grand, like being in the cab of a runaway truck as it smashes through a guardrail and tumbles down the side of a mountain.
Future first-man-on-the-moon Neil Armstrong (Ryan Gosling) and his fellow Apollo Program team-members zip themselves into insulated suits fitted with bags to catch their body waste, strap themselves into narrow seats, wait hours or days for clearance to take off, then spend a few minutes being shaken and rolled. The vibrations of the trip rattle their bones and the noise scorches their eardrums. There might be a brief moment of beauty or peace, along with a sidelong glimpse through a window of the blue earth, the grey-white moon, or the blackness of space, but that's generally all the aesthetic pleasure they get—and maybe all they can handle. They expend most of their mental energy studying the instrument panels in front of them and trying to process the information that's being fed through their headsets by mission control, knowing that one missed fact or wrong choice could mean their deaths.
To do this kind of work, you have to be the bravest person on earth, or have a death wish. This blockbuster drama from director Damien Chazelle ("Whiplash," "La La Land") and screenwriter Josh Singer ("Spotlight," "The Post") implies that there might not be a lot of difference, and that if there is, the astronauts aren't the people to explain it, because they're steeped in a tradition that forbids admitting you even have feelings, much less discussing them. 
Neil, a handsome but tight-lipped test pilot in the mold of Sam Shepard's Chuck Yeager from "The Right Stuff," enrolls in the Apollo program in part because he wants to be distracted from the pain of losing his two-year-old daughter Karen to cancer. Neil's wife Janet (Claire Foy) is grieving, too, but during missions she's stuck at home, or roaming the halls of NASA trying to get information about Neil's safety. To their credit, the filmmakers periodically remind us that, as dangerous as Neil's job is, it's at least a respite from the emotional pain of living with loss—and that the helplessness the wives felt as they sat in the living room watching coverage of the mission or TV, or waiting for the phone to ring, was uncompensated emotional torture. 
Every now and then, the movie lets you know that other things were going on in 1960s America besides a race to beat the Soviets to the moon. A brief sequence near the midpoint shows that many African-Americans (who were behind the scenes participants in the space program, as "Hidden Figures" showed, but weren't allowed in planes and rockets) thought the Apollo missions were an expensive distraction from the fight for racial and economic equality on the ground. Much of the white political left and some women felt the same, even when they were inspired by the astronauts' bravery. We get hints of this disquiet in conversations and TV images alluding to Vietnam and social protest, as well as in glimpses of astronauts' wives stewing in the shadows while their husbands claim the spotlight. Chazelle and Singer deserve credit for allowing notes of national unease to creep into the story; it helps make "First Man" feel truer to the period than other movies about the US space program (although, for its totality of vision, the HBO miniseries "From the Earth to the Moon" is superior). 
Unfortunately, none of these notes are developed into anything but side trips or afterthoughts. It soon becomes clear that the director's heart is in the flight sequences, the climactic moon landing reenactment, and the various scenes of Neil tamping down his depression and anger because he's a mid-century American man who understands more about physics and engineering than he does his social conditioning. When Chazelle is examining Neil's inarticulateness, "First Man" becomes a tragedy of American machismo, in the vein of "American Sniper" (which wasn't shy in admitting that its hero kept volunteering for combat duty because he couldn't deal with being a husband and father) and "The Deer Hunter" (in which straight white men expressed love for each other through pain and sacrifice). 
Almost every man in the Apollo program is in the same emotional boat as Neil—including Kyle Chandler's Deke Slayton, Ethan Embry's Pete Conrad, Pablo Schreiber's Jim Lovell, Jason Clarke's Ed White, Shea Whigham's Gus Grissom, Cory Michael Smith's Roger Chaffee, William Gregory Lee's Gordon "Gordo" Cooper, and the crewcuts of mission control. They all have the correct Life Magazine corn-fed, square-jawed look, and the actors all do their best to inhabit the time period without fuss. But ultimately, none of Neil's colleagues register as much more than glorified background characters. When Chazelle re-enacts the 1967 Apollo 1 capsule fire that killed three astronauts, it's upsetting because of the matter-of-fact abruptness of the staging (as if a candle had been unexpectedly snuffed out), not because we'd gotten to know and care about the crew. Their deaths register mainly as threats to Neil's safety and the future happiness of his family. 
The only actor besides Gosling who makes a strong impression is Corey Stoll as Neil's future Apollo 11 capsule-mate Buzz Aldrin. The character is presented as a wry, talkative fellow who can access his own emotional interior, knows he's handsome and charming, and enjoys acting the role of the cocky space pilot when TV cameras are pointed at him. Neil respects Buzz but sometimes seems annoyed by how comfortable he is in his own skin. Whenever they share the screen, Chazelle and Singer veer a little too close to endorsing the idea that emotional constipation equals manly virtue. If the movie didn't suggest that Neil's stoic nature and suppressed grief make him resent anyone who seems happy, "First Man" might've come across as validating the notion that, after all these decades, the strong, silent type is still the masculine ideal. The first man was, after all, a caveman. 
Even when "First Man" stumbles as historical psychodrama, it still represents a giant leap forward for movies about the physical experience of flight. I wouldn't call the test piloting and blastoff-and-orbit scenes artful, exactly—there's little poetry in the images—I don't think they're really aiming for that. They're more about single-mindedly putting you inside Neil Armstrong's body and brainpan, and giving you a sense of how hard it must have been to focus, work out equations and flip switches with all that motion and noise battering the senses. 
Chazelle and his regular cinematographer Linus Sandgren try to keep the camera on, or with, Neil, whether he's absorbing facts during a NASA briefing, reading to his son at bedtime, fighting with his wife, or walking away from a burning wreck. The objective seems to be to make you feel, by the end, as if you've walked a million miles in Neil Armstrong's boots. On that score, judged solely as a spectacle, "First Man" has to be considered a success—especially if you see it in IMAX format, which imparts astonishing clarity to the images even when Sandgren's handheld camera is shaking so hard that Southern Californians might wonder if the film is doing its job or if the San Andreas Fault has finally called it quits. 
Chazelle is an extremely visceral director, more in the mold of a technically adept big-screen showman like Robert Zemeckis ("Contact," "Flight") than the gritty '70s character-driven filmmakers that he cites as heroes during interviews. The musical scenes in "Whiplash" were so intense that they sometimes made you feel as if you were trapped inside a drum during a solo. The large-scale action scenes in "First Man" play like the most hellish amusement park ride ever, so unrelenting that you'll wonder how long you'd have been able to endure the real thing without giving up and pressing the "Eject" button. The three stars at the top of this review are for Chazelle and Sandgren's visuals, Gosling's internalized but rarely mannered acting, the script's ability to communicate Neil's buried emotions without dialogue, and the bowel-rattling sound design. If you watch it in IMAX, add half a star but make sure not to eat beforehand. If you see the movie at night, you may glance up at the moon afterward and realize that it's nice to look at, but you'd never want to go there.


 
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