The grind of the New York Film Festival is wearing on me,
and we’re not even at the midway point. There are still new films to see from
the likes of James Gray, Jim Jarmusch, Claire Denis and, uh, Ben Stiller, so
perhaps there’s excitement on the horizon. But I’d be lying if I said this
wasn’t a disappointing slate so far, with a couple of genuine bad films in the
mix. Of course, maybe that’s my fault – twice I bailed on “Norte, The End Of
History,” intimidated by the four hour plus (plus!) runtime and the fact that
it was Lav Diaz’s (who?) twelfth, and shortest (!) film. The wonderful thing
about being a film buff is that everyone has blind spots, there are no such
thing as completists. Maybe one day I’ll look up Diaz’ other work. The New York
Film Festival already tests me when I mistake “319 minutes” for “three hours
and nineteen minutes,” as I did with Olivier Assayas’ “Carlos” a couple of
years back. I love movies, but sometimes I don’t really like vanishing from the
physical world for four hours. Maybe with a friend, but, how many other people
do you know willing to put Lav Diaz on their to-do list?
That same sort of thinking is, in a reductive sense, what
stuffs the theater for the premiere of “Captain Phillips,” a tense pirate
thriller from Paul Greengrass. It’s also the sort that allows Tom Hanks to
uncharacteristically fire back at the press, as he did during the post-film q+a.
When asked about preparing for the role (or some similarly boilerplate
question), he talked about meeting the real Captain Phillips, and compared his
more sensitive, inquisitive style of investigating the subject to the
indelicate way media jerks poke and prod at their subjects with the same
stupid, insipid inquiries. There was a brief heckling from the crowd, and Hanks
fired back in his usually charming, conflict-deflating way, but it was an
interesting set of teeth from the star, perhaps in response to yet another
critic cave troll in the audience loudly demanding (not asking) that the people
on-stage speak louder into their microphones. Hanks was completely in the
right, of course, but you can tell some folks grumbled that this major movie
star had reminded them that their jobs are secondary to whatever Lav Diaz is
doing.
Whatever the case, Hanks has a right to be judgy, as he
hacks and wheezes through “Captain Phillips,” being beaten and dragged
throughout the runtime. Greengrass is a sentimentalist in spite of his verite
approach, so he can never help giving his lead characters a little fight, and
Hanks’ Phillips refuses to be a puppet to these gangly Somali pirates who take
over his cargo ship. And yeah, it’s tense and suspenseful and Greengrass knows
how to tell a story through this action-chaos method that he’s perfected, but
so what? How many movies can Greengrass make where the white American has to
battle the dark-skinned foreigner? He would be Hollywood’s red-state secret
weapon if he hadn’t blown $140 million on “Green Zone,” which pretended that
the general public would care that we went to war in the Middle East under
false pretense. When he makes “United 93,” it’s interesting. When he gives the
defense department a freebie with the glamorous, politically-cynical “Bourne”
films, its understandable escapism. What do we call it now, where Phillips
leads a primarily white crew (black crew members have no dialogue) against the blackest
men of any mainstream Hollywood release this year? What am I saying? I’m just
saying that you start to wonder about this Greengrass character. That’s all.
For now.
To say “Inside Llewyn Davis” is “minor Coen” is dismissive
and obnoxious as hell. But the reason the phrase keeps creeping up is that the
brothers are masters at finding the grace in nothingness, in reaching out into
the void and finding out that there’s no central meaning, there’s no movie-like
contrivance connecting everything. Sometimes, Tommy Lee Jones doesn’t walk into
that bloodbath, and sometimes The Dude doesn’t come close to solving the
mystery. Such is the case with Davis, the title character played by Oscar
Isaac. Clearly, he’s tremendously talented; Isaac plays the songs himself,
which is admittedly impressive. But this sixties-era folk singer isn’t going to
be rewarded for his skills or his stubbornness. Folk music isn’t even viable
during this era, as one such impresario hears Davis play (impressively) and
succinctly tells him, “I see no money in this.”
Davis instead is comically unlucky, and the film follows his
aimless journey into nowheresville. That involves quite a bit of meandering; a
mid-film excursion into the south lasts about twenty minutes of screen time and
ultimately doesn’t affect the plot, other than removing a few precious bucks
out of Davis’ pocket. The reminder is of the trials of the protagonist in the
Coens’ “A Serious Man,” but while that character openly questioned his
universe, Davis motors on, only willing to play his music his way, under his
circumstances, with no compromise. It’s funny because of how openly hostile it
all is, really, leavened only by the brief bits of music arranged by Isaac and
T-Bone Burnett, and only a diehard will be able to discern the genuine material
from that written specifically for the movie. It’s telling that you come away
humming “Please Mr. Kennedy,” a dopey novelty song performed at the film’s
halfway point by Davis and friends, where he is unable to hide his open
contempt for a fairly harmless jingle.
I cringed through most of “Le Week-End,” coming off a run of
movies where women are horribly emotionally abusive towards their male
counterparts. I suppose that’s rightful punishment for so few films passing the
comically-simple Bechdel Test. I’ll accept it, even if it makes me feel like
James Gandolfini in “Enough Said,” simply grinning and accepting the
indignities thrown his way with a fractured grace. The target of the ire in
this film is poor, doddering Jim Broadbent, here playing a flighty college
professor vacationing with wife Lindsay Duncan in France. Little does he know
that the relationship has run its course, and she’s about to give him the
broom, the final straw being his empathetic enabling of their unemployed (and
unseen) son. Seeds are planted to suggest that this has been a relationship
built on constant emasculation: Broadbent quietly sings along to classic rock
on his IPod when the wife isn’t around, and takes her brow-beatings as
sadomasochistic flirtation. When he jokes about a sexy pair of heels, “Who did
you buy those for?” she dryly responds, “I bought them for me!” There are no
nautical miles to register how far his expression sinks.
“Le Week-End” calls into question the fourth wall when
halfway through the movie, International Superstar Jeff Goldblum struts in.
Goldblum’s always been recognizable more than worshipped by audiences, but some
brief time away from screens and a sojourn into supporting roles has only
granted him the sort of latter-day status where barging into a modest film like
this is super distracting. It feels like less of a stretch to imagine that this
character is in fact Goldblum himself with a changed name, and all the same
memorable mannerisms and behaviors of the famous face, including the open-palm
temple press and the unnecessary redistribution of weight. His role feels
ceremonial: his best-selling novelist serves as a way to get the bickering
couple to the same table together for the third act. But is there necessarily
anything wrong with Goldblum the gentle scene-stealer manipulating the
narrative and providing a few laugh lines for what has become a fairly downbeat
marriage drama? Can we just ignore Goldblum the actor, and appreciate Goldblum
the weapon?
The still-vivacious Duncan also figures into “About Time,”
though like all the women in Richard Curtis’ latest schmaltz-fest, she’s
window-dressing that allows boys to play at gods forever. Domnhall Gleeson is
on the cusp of adulthood when his father tells him he has the ability to travel
back (and not forward) into time. Instead of saving the world or improving the
lives of everyone around him, he uses this ability to do what any of us would
do: romance Rachel McAdams. With ease, he pulls enough time-jumping tricks to
win her heart within the film’s half hour. I was amused by all the walkouts
during the press screening at this point, a quarter of the way through a two
hour movie: once he’s ended up with Rachel McAdams, what greater feat can this
man achieve?
“About Time” ends up leaning on its one random, arbitrary
crutch, where Gleeson is forbidden to alter the lives of anyone not within his
tiny social circle (read: upper class white people). As a result, it’s another
bullshit Carpe Diem narrative written by people who wipe their ass with hundred
dollar bills. As the father figure, Bill Nighy seems like he’s performing
interpretive jazz around the lines of dialogue; it’s not a performance, it’s a
pose, a particularly charming one done to avoid the fact that this is a movie
with no characters, only people who wear signs around their neck alternately saying,
“Care about me!” and “Don’t care so much about me!”
The NYFF is under new leadership this year with the arrival
of Kent Jones, and it seems he’s revealed himself as a fan of slight comedies
that deserve to be dumped on DVD stateside. “About Time” isn’t even the
strongest in Curtis’ weak filmography, and what is “Alan Partridge” doing here?
This paper-thin excuse to stretch the shelf-life of a beloved BBC character
feels like it traps “Frasier” in a sub-“Anchorman” world of comedic chaos,
where now local radio DJ Partridge is desperate to hold onto his job during a
corporate takeover, only to suggest a rickety co-worker (Colm Meany) become the
staff’s latest cut. When a retaliatory shooting and hostage situation puts
Partridge under the gun, he has to invent a number of inane screwball schemes
to keep everyone alive. There will be pop songs, and a few montages, and
extended repeated gags desperate to stretch this thing to ninety minutes.
Steve Coogan’s Partridge remains an amusing distraction, a
broadcaster with infinite hubris and confidence despite a less-than-workable
knowledge of the world. But fans of the character, or fans of any longstanding creation
that waited to make their screen debut, will see the flop sweat coming from
four credited writers (including Armando Iannucci!) struggling to justify this
small-screen regular’s presence in a skimpy premise that can’t even keep
straight whether Meany is one-dimensionally insane, or comically tragic, a
threat or a diversion. For Partridge completists only, and also for those who
haven’t seen any generic lowbrow American comedies of the last fifteen years.
It wasn’t all shits and giggles at the fest, particularly
with documentaries like “American Promise” sparking conversation. This is a
real lightning rod of a movie, dealing with two black children from middle
class families as they navigate thirteen years of private school. Along the
way, they deal with the crush of being surrounded by what the world views as an
ideal, competing with white children in every walk of life. When the more
overly sensitive of the two kids, just entering his teenage years, talks about
how his life would be “better” if he were white, it’s the heartbreaking sign
not only of a young child developing a unique awareness of the world, but also displaying
a level of critical thought towards an enemy too big to defeat, to out-think or
out-smart.
What’s upsetting about this film is that the directors, Joe
Brewster and Michele Stephenson, are also the parents of that same child. It
troubles when he starts to struggle in school, and becomes diagnosed with ADHD
as a result of plummeting self-esteem and performance issues. Hm, is that
because of that invasive camera butting its way into his life, forcing him to
behave in a certain way, making him play to an unseen audience? Is there any
more accurate way to magnify the pressures of growing up? The two directors are
also seen on camera, egging on this despondent boy as he grows less certain of
himself in the face of challenge. Their desires as parents are quite like the
behavior of a director, as they corner him and force reactions out of him for
mistakes he’s made and shortcomings he’s developed. Interestingly, they leave
him alone once he delivers an achingly sad rejoinder, usually about how he
needs to take responsibility for his failures. They’ve gotten what they want
from him.
There’s more curious parenting in “Club Sandwich,” the
latest from “Duck Season” director Fernando Eimbcke. In this slight
comedy-drama, there’s a burgeoning tension between a younger-than-usual mother
and her doughy teenage son. On vacation in a run-down, under-populated motel,
they spend their days lounging by the pool, though you get the feeling she
requires his companionship a lot more than he needs her. When she talks about
watching her weight despite a limber figure in a bikini, he tells her he doesn’t
think she’s fat, and she blushes a bit too much than she should. It gives her
the confidence necessary to order the title meal, which becomes a go-to during
their stay
Soon, he starts hanging out with a sullen, well-endowed girl
of the same age, and their virginal courtship reeks of indie movie contrivance:
no real conversations, just endless, clumsy heavy petting. Mom gets
territorial, creating the potential for a face-off that never happens.
Characters in this film either don’t listen to each other, or respond to
conflict by walking away with shoulders shrugged. I haven’t seen Eimbcke’s
other work, and I’m curious to see if it has the same sort of weightlessness to
its conflicts. I don’t think there’s anyone or anything to root for in this
film, nor am I intrigued by any appealing moral dimension. In my mind, these
characters will continue walking in these circles at that motel forever. I’m
not certain how to feel about that.
I am becoming more certain as to what Catherine Breillat is
like after her latest, “Abuse Of Weakness”: a big ole’ sexy pervert. The plot
follows a provocative female filmmaker who suffers a stroke, calling to mind
the same condition Breillat herself recently suffered. After a couple of fairy
tales in “Bluebeard” and “Sleeping Beauty,” Breillat seems ready to bare
herself, and the opening scene lays it all out. In bed underneath flawless
white blankets lies a naked Isabelle Huppert, who succumbs to a painful stroke
and tumbles to the floor, a chair gracefully landing alongside her bottom as if
it were a particularly chic fashion shoot. The presentation of Huppert’s
physical perfection, the billowy sheets, and the naked floor on which Huppert
lies in profile is the first suggestion that Huppert’s complete loss of control
is meant to be immensely sexual. Brelliat here is copping to the fact that her
films, laced with oppressive sexual violence and viciousness, also turn her on.
During her rehab, she is turned on by a thief-turned-bestselling
author, played by mature rough-neck Kool Shen. What appeals to her is the
casual masculinity he wears on his sleeve, but also the shark’s sadism of his
eyes. He’s only moving in one direction, for one purpose. She invents a new
movie for him to star, but it’s soon clear that, despite her vivid description
of the plot (in a single shot, Huppert gives the year’s best female
performance), there is no film. Instead, she uses him as a muscular prop, as he
casually remarks that her condition pleases her because it makes men into
slaves. He also takes advantage of her, requesting a series of loans that financially
cripple her, and the film ignores the underlying air of sexual violence to
present two people draining each other of life. What she is doing is
intentional, and Breillat gives her typically troubling insight into the
sadistic pleasures of being a victim, told with an intimacy her previous films,
for good reason, simply couldn’t muster.
I’m not entirely clear what to make of Jia Zhangke’s “A
Touch Of Sin,” which feels like both a commercial film from him as well as a self-critical
look at what a filmmaker has to do to be noticed. It is an excessively violent
multi-character piece about accountability, political and otherwise, with four
also-rans taking on the system in specifically violent ways, people who have
snapped waiting for justice to be served as the watchmen look the other way.
The first moment of the film features an overturned fruit truck, spilling
apples along the street. One man looks on while eating one, as undisturbed as
the accident scene itself. When a society cannot clean its messes, it’s understandable.
When it simply doesn’t bother, it’s maddening.
Zhangke reportedly based the film on a series of real-life
incidents tied to corporate malfeasance, and to their credit the cast perfectly
recreates the struggles of impotent people being softly crushed by the thumb of
bureaucracy. It’s not the freshest material, but from such a taciturn
filmmaker, the violence is astonishing in moments. The first sequence alone is
a shotgun squib-fest, and the way Zhangke lovingly captures the puddles of
blood dripping onto the ground implies a sick catharsis. Unfortunately, I don’t
know much about Chinese culture; I imagine there’s greater insight to be had from
someone else other than “dis blood loked gud.”
“Jimmy P.: Psychotherapy of A Plains Indian” probably
features the one standout performance I’ve seen at the fest, from Benicio Del
Toro as the title character. His Jimmy, a disturbed Native American, is
endlessly watchable, salvaging a soggy two-hander where he engages in folksy
therapy sessions with an eccentric doctor played by Mathieu Almaric. Like most
Del Toro movies, it seems like almost a shame that there’s any dialogue at all.
There are five movies constantly happening on Del Toro’s face all at once, and
they’re all good. Here, he manages to place himself visually into his own
dreams and fantasies, and his reactions reflect a troubled bemusement – could I
really be this cracked? There isn’t much more to it beyond Almaric’s affectionate
flirting with a colleague who brings a little sun to the darker proceedings.
But when you watch Del Toro bark that he’s not crazy, it’s as if his voice is
setting off a million different impulses in his own face and body, fighting
over whether to prove those words right or wrong.
One of those matter-of-fact docs about stranger-than-fiction
stories, “The Dog” chronicles the life of John Wojtowicz, the loquacious
hustler who inspired “Dog Day Afternoon.”
As most could have guessed, that film only tells the partial story,
leaving out the heartbreak and deception of a post-prison relationship between
Wojtowicz and his transgendered lover, as well as a sexually ambivalent early
life that birthed the man who today, in his advanced age, openly calls himself
a “pervert.” Wojtowicz makes for a great subject, but the flashes of his
contemporary self simply remind that this is a man entirely based in
self-promotion, and at this point a documentary is the sincerest form of flattery.
There’s so much visual majesty in “The Wind Rises,” the
final film of Hayao Miyazaki, that for a moment you forget you’re watching
animation, and you wonder just exactly how certain images came to be. The
increasingly hermetic world of American kiddie animation continues to take
notes from the Saturday morning cartoons of yesteryear, but only Hayao Miyazaki
feels like a real filmmaker. That being said, this non-fantastical story of WWII-era
engineer Jiro Horikoshi is fairly dry and overly expository at points, and
probably isn’t a great entry point into the filmmaker’s work. But when his
characters take flight, the picture is breathless, and the visuals are so
powerful as to feel sentimental, like someone has recreated a dream you think
you had on the big screen. A character introduces themselves as being sick at
the film’s start, and it feels like a bit of a slow march to get to the end.
But I confess, I wouldn’t know. I snuck out early to headbang my way through a
screening of “Metallica: Through The Never 3D.” Please don’t tell Lav Diaz,
okay?
"When a retaliatory shooting and hostage situation puts Partridge under the gun, he has to invent a number of inane screwball schemes to keep everyone alive."
ReplyDeleteDid we watch the same movie? Alan Partridge has to invent a number of inane screwball schemes to play off of the media attention to revitalise his long-buried media image. Asides from helping them make a radio jingle what does he do to save anyone? Heck, even the radio jingle had an ulterior motive since Partridge wants the radio station to attract listeners during the siege because the media attention surrounding the siege has made him more popular than ever before.
Are you actually at all familiar with the "I'm Alan Partridge" series? This isn't a character you'd expect to keep anybody alive and I'm pretty certain he doesn't do so here either.
You're the first to explain how "Inside Llewelyn Davis" is going to be able to showcase the Coen brothers' trademark nihilism that I love so much. I'm even more excited for that now. Though annoyingly, it won't be released in the UK until January. What the hell?
I'm not going to judge Greengrass for "Captain Phillips". I'm not keen to see it, but I think "Green Zone" was his attempt to express his own individual values and it fell flat. I saw it in the cinema and found it extremely contrived (as well as finding that Greengrass's shaky-realism camera technique doesn't work so well for chases that take place on foot as it does for car chases). "Green Zone" was a flop and so when the producers say "make all the lead protagonists white, we'll make more money that way" I doubt he was in such a good position to argue at this stage. I'd like to say "perhaps he'll learn from this movie to question that sort of thing" but I think we both know that Hanks is going to bring in enormous amounts of money this time around and the moral he takes away will be "go where the money is"... :S
I am familiar with Alan Partridge. I was just being simplistic and facetious because, let's face it, I wasn't paying much attention to a paperweight movie.
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