Forgive me, but I’m having a hard time coping. Recently, I
was part of a wave of critics who walked out of the New York Film Festival’s world-premiere
screening of “The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty” with negative opinions, only to
be told by the good folks at Gold Derby that I was a “snarl-puss critic.”
Apparently this is what it takes to dislike this watered down decaf latte of a
film that presses easy baby boomer buttons and willingly drowns in craven product
placement. Gold Derby wasn’t giving a review of the film, mind you. Just a
review of the reviews of the film, which were almost entirely anecdotal. “Snarl-puss”
critics like me were being accused of “tamping down the cool quotient” of this
proudly square film, obscuring the fact that it’s really good it could
be a curveball contender in an Oscar campaign that features a shortage of
upbeat films. As if anyone who really loves films and has ANY respect for their
own opinions is going to walk out of a world premiere and start talking about
what OTHER people think instead of their own thoughts. In other words, to Gold
Derby and all those with similar opinions: shut the fuck up you fucking moron
baby.
There’s a fine line between labor-of-love and vanity
project, and “Mitty” crosses it frequently, with director Stiller coaching
Stiller the actor into a constipated performance as a Life Magazine photo
processor dealing with the magazine shuttering its doors. He’s in charge of
preserving the photo that will be the very last cover in the magazine’s
history, but star photographer Sean Penn has cagily failed to send the photo
that he claims is the “Quintessence Of Life,” forcing Mitty to go on a carpe
diem expedition that involves him skateboarding on empty roads, climbing
mountains, and generally living out a credit card commercial every five
minutes. Every cultural signifier in this film is dreadfully dumb, from the
obvious use of David Bowie’s “Major Tom” (Kristen Wiig has the unfortunate task
of explaining the song’s meaning to the cheap seats) to an out-of-nowhere
fantasy Mitty has about being Benjamin Button, which feels like someone
inserted a rejected “Mr. Show” sketch in this middle of this Oscar bait. Penn,
to his credit, provides the only real-feeling scene in the entire film, but the
spirit of the picture seems to belong to Patton Oswalt, who waddles in wearing
a shit-eating grin as he openly shills for both E*Harmony and Cinnabon. No
joke: drink every time a character says “Papa John’s.”
Contrast that feature-length commercial with something like “Her,”
which also seems to endorse a certain capitalist way of life, without glossing
over the weight involved. Joaquin Phoenix is the last heart alive in futuristic
Los Angeles, one where, ostensibly, crime, homelessness and suffering have been
eradicated. Maybe it’s a Los Angeles as simulated by one of those off-world
colonies in “Blade Runner,” because it presents a world where technology has
allowed us the ability to wallpaper over everything but our emotions. Phoenix’s
Theodore bleeds alone, left broken after a horrible divorce that has forced him
into a quiet life of solitude, where he pens the handwritten love letters of
others at work, quietly retreating to his operating system at night, which
soothingly tells him about the content of his emails while he toys around with
a sad single-player video game. Sometimes you don’t need to be a weirdo or a
jerk to be lonely: Phoenix is neither, but when you hear his voice crack, it’s
like his heart breaks a little as well. He could use a friend.
An operating system upgrade proves to be in the cards, and
Theodore opts for Samantha. As voiced by Scarlett Johansson, she’s distinctly
girlish, flirty but supportive, and ultimately kindhearted. When she says she’s
saved his best emails without asking him, it’s clear that no one’s ever made
quite the effort to find the sensitivity inside this man. Soon, Theodore is growing
fond of Samantha, who has no avatar, but is always there giving him unseen
support through his headpiece. And Samantha, who recognizes that she is a
program, starts to develop emotions and feelings she never thought possible.
The sadness at the heart of “Her” is that, one day (today?), we won’t be able
to tell the difference between real and synthetic sincerity. Spike Jonze’s
fourth film, and fourth masterpiece, suggests maybe that won’t be such a bad
thing.
Phoenix is superb in “Her,” but he’s equally good in a
completely different role in James Gray’s “The Immigrant.” This Depression-era
drama finds Marion Cotillard as a Polish immigrant who arrives in New York
City, only to find her relatives absent, the local authorities ready to ship
her right back. This is where Phoenix, as a wolfish pimp, sizes her up and
springs her free, letting her live in squalor with him as he bankrolls gaudy
burlesque shows that apparently barely break even. Gray’s always worked with
smaller budgets, which makes me wonder just how much this cost, given how it
feels like an eerily believable recreation of that era, both extravagantly
detailed but ultimately pretty shitty as far as decorum. You almost catch
yourself in the moment, wondering, why does this nattily-dressed magician look
a lot like Jeremy Renner? Renner feels amusingly cast against type in a
supporting role as a possible love interest, and this feels like the first role
where the fairly unattractive would-be A-Lister convincingly carries himself as
if he were a hunk.
Like all Gray films, this one descends into melodramatics by
the end; depending on the day, I like that sort of thing. But the real pleasure
is in seeing Phoenix and Cotillard’s characters collide. You’re never sure if
he’s telling the truth about his feelings for her. She seems to be an
opportunity for him to earn a quick buck, but he’s awfully patient with her,
treating her almost as a good luck charm. Even though you know he’s rotten,
there’s something so convincing about his sweetness that it sickens you when he
tries to turn her to prostitution. Cotillard, to her credit, doesn’t play the
title character as a victim. In gestures both powerful and petty, she lets you
know that she’s not to be trifled, allowing herself a small reservoir of
self-respect even when she engages in the most unsavory behavior. Odd as it may
seem, she’s kinda gangsta.
There were two major films at the festival with major LGBT
content, and ultimately I feel underqualified to talk about either. “Blue Is
The Warmest Color” is a sprawling three hour love story between a
twentysomething lesbian and a sixteen year old girl just learning about her own
sexuality, and it features several scenes of graphic, un-simulated lesbian sex.
“Stranger By The Lake,” meanwhile, is a suspense thriller that takes place on a
beach for cruising gay singles, and it too features several moments of un-simulated
sex between gay males. One of these was much easier to watch than the other,
and I think you can probably guess which one that was.
“Blue Is The Warmest Color” packs most of its power in
extreme close ups in dialogue scenes where you can read the emotions on the
beautiful Adele Exarchopoulos’s face as she navigates romance as a sudden shove
into adulthood. She can barely figure out how to make it through high school,
never mind what to do about this assertive blue-haired beauty (Lea Seydoux)
calling her number. The sex scenes are enormously explicit and upfront, but
most of “Blue” has that overly eroticized feeling, the one that comes from
pressing your face against someone else, the physicality providing an
undeniable desire. It is a film of passion, the camera lovingly capturing
Exarchopoulos’ sensuous overbite and bee-stung lips, and later her considerably
young, supple curves. It feels as if my opinion about this picture matters
little, for I am a heterosexual male, and you know full well what I think of
it.
“Stranger By The Lake” doesn’t have the same eroticized
charge, instead concerning itself with the fact-of-life treatment of homosexual
relations. Even someone attracted to men would realize that the gorgeous
sun-kissed location, where men lie on the beach and tan until a like-minded
stud picks them up for a romp in the forest, is the most gorgeous sight
onscreen. Early on, the unencumbered sight of various flaccid members onscreen
(several crossing paths with the subtitles) is at once relaxingly casual, and
then overwhelmingly distracting. I’d like to think this isn’t because of a
phobia of penises, but because the slow-burn suspense plot, which involves a
cat-and-mouse game between a killer and his wary lover, feels too slight on its
own. Ultimately, the sexual frankness of the film feels like a gimmick of sorts,
and by the time the third act resolves itself by becoming a slasher, you
realize there isn’t much sexy, naked, tight, masculine meat on the bone.
That slightness has worked for the most part as far as Jim
Jarmusch’s body of work, and it returns in “Only Lovers Left Alive,” which
could also derisively be called “The First Hipsters.” Centuries-old lovers Adam
and Eve (Tom Hiddleston, Tilda Swinton) are casually separated, in elegantly
wasted ways. She’s nestled away in Europe, living in secrecy with fellow
vampire Christopher Marlowe (John Hurt) as they sip designer blood and crack
Shakespeare jokes. He’s straddling an endless row of guitars while wasting away
in Detroit, taking a half-hearted interest in suicide as he bribes a local doctor
(a very funny Jeffrey Wright) for a little extra juice. When they hook up for a
Skype call, it’s amusing that Adam has to pick up a 1990’s-era phone, before
cracking open an early 2000’s laptop, wired to transmit through a television
set from the 1960’s.
Eve finds cause to visit her old paramour, getting him to
spruce up a bit and go out, possibly humoring the well-equipped groupie (Anton
Yelchin) that keeps Adam’s hipster bonafides intact. What follows is an
extended chill-out vibe that likely reflects Jarmusch at his most relaxed and
pokey. Nothing much happens before Eve’s attention-starved sister (Mia
Wasikowska – no, I still don’t get it) comes aboard, inorganically jazzing up
the proceedings as the sort of irritant that leads the gorgeous Hiddleston to
constantly roll his eyes through the rest of the film. It doesn’t feel
altogether heavy, but it does feel 100% Jarmusch.
It was an unlikely “Great Gatsby” reunion at the NYFF as the
stars of the seventies version, Robert Redford and Bruce Dern , both debuted
their biggest roles in almost a decade. Unfortunately, in the case of both of
them, it feels slightly like bullshit. Less so in Redford’s case, as the
intrepid sailor at the heart of “All Is Lost.” The J.C. Chandor-directed
survivalist thriller features Redford, the only actor in the film, as just a
guy on a boat, dealing with a sinking ship after a horrible storm. Its greatest
virtue is also its weakness: this movie is what it is, and any projections
about aging, mortality, or ingenuity are just that. Chandor made a similarly
no-bullshit movie with “Margin Call,” a well-written and well-acted film about
the architects of the major financial crisis. That picture had real feeling and
sentiment from a great cast. This film, considerably less talkier, relies on
the weathered visage of Redford, who, undeniably, has had a bit of work done on
his face, and seems less physically interesting than someone else would in the
same predicament. It’s an old dude at sea. What more do you want?
At least Redford gets to play capable and resolute, which is
more than what can be said by Dern in Alexander Payne’s latest peanut-gallery
mockery of the Midwest, “Nebraska.” With his white hair windswept far over his
dome, the elderly Dern looks like a hungover wizard, delusionally chortling
over the millions he just won from an obvious mail scam. Without a license, he’s
determined to walk through multiple states to claim his bogus winnings, much to
the chagrin of his exasperated son (Will Forte) who eventually accompanies him on
the trip. As much as it pains this member of the Will Forte Fan Club to say
this, he seems genial but out of his depth alongside Dern, who seems too bright
but is otherwise fairly convincing as a bitter old man. Were the picture only
about these two, it would carry similar (not equal) weight as David Lynch’s “The
Straight Story.” Unfortunately, Payne loads the picture with several dopey
bumpkin stereotypes just itching to get a taste of the money (including a
literal Tweetledum-Tweetledee pair of brothers), artificially stretching the
narrative to the breaking point. June Squibb brings considerable pluck and
resolve to the role of Dern’s put-upon wife, but soon the movie finds itself
leaning too hard on her aw-shucks plainspokeness. By the time she’s flashing
the grave of a former suitor, you get the sense Payne’s lost the story a bit.
Two wayward girls take center stage in “My Name Is Hmm” and “Nobody’s
Daughter Haewon.” The first, in agnes b.’s directorial debut, is an eleven year
old that engages on a somewhat fantastical journey where she runs away from
home, leaving behind an overworked mother and sexually abusive father to play
house with a kindly tattooed truck driver. It’s fairly student film-ish for
most of its runtime, and the gravity of the situation never seems to be
addressed or subverted. It almost feels like a version of Terry Gilliam’s “Tideland”
made without any imagination whatsoever. It soon becomes clear that this is
mostly a fantasy version of a kidnapping, and the empathetic point of view
towards everyone involved (including the monstrous father) feels less humanist
and more idle-minded.
The second girl is the lead of the prolific Hong Sang-Soo’s
14th feature, and if you’ve already seen a couple of his films, you
know what to expect. Haewon is a college student struggling to find her
identity after the departure of her mother to America. She does this through a
series of dreams and reveries she has about a failed relationship with a
co-dependent college professor and the friends that she assumes she trusts.
Sang-Soo makes hangout movies, where characters often sit and play out minor
conflicts over tea and snacks, and this film features a number of similar
sequences, which subtly reveal each person’s desires and secrets through not
only what is said, but what goes tantalizingly unsaid.
Director Sebastian Lelio of Chile also contributed his own
heroine to the fest, and the results were a bit more colorful. In the
Spanish-language “Gloria,” the title character is a hard-drinking mess in her
mid-forties, classically the last person at the party. A new love affair
blossoms, but ten years after a divorce, she finds that it’s too late to
pretend neither her nor her lover has any baggage. “Gloria” reminds of the
darkly comic AA drama “Julia” with Tilda Swinton awhile back, but while that
picture found its drunken protagonist forced to grow up, “Gloria” instead finds
its lead lost in a maze of bad decisions and forced to act like a kid. This
results in some fairly plastic comic set pieces that betray the honesty and
explicit sexuality of the material, audience concessions rather than real life
drama. Which is unfortunate – this is a film that very nearly sticks the
landing.
Speaking of which, it appears that Claire Denis remains the
world’s greatest filmmaker. Her “Bastards” is unforgettably bleak and
upsetting, Denis’ take on a noir that manages to address sex scandals, revenge,
and forbidden love in one tough-hearted cocktail. There are some who believe
female filmmakers have a natural softness that keeps them from mainstream
success, but clearly that person hasn’t seen Denis’ work, and “Bastards” is the
toughest film of the fest by far. The story slowly unravels, doling out morsels
of detail bit by bit, a storytelling act of seduction that forces you to claw
onto each story beat. All you need to know is in the images; a naked girl
roaming the streets alone, a bloodied ear of corn, a mangled car, a manila envelope
in the darkest office in the world.
Ultimately, with “Bastards” it’s not the images you recall
as much as the vibe. This is a dark film, and while the story is told through
slivers of light, you remember the shadows. You remember the darkness through
which powerfully masculine Vincent Lindon peers, you remember the light that
cascades over Chiara Mastroianni’s beatific face, and you know that Denis
understands the simpler pleasures of the genre. You also remember the title and
realize that Denis’ picture is sinister, unpredictable, and damning in all directions.
There isn’t a single moment you feel more than uneasy during “Bastards,” and as
it builds to its deeply upsetting final minutes, you realize they’re set to one
of the slinkiest, sexiest tunes from frequent Denis collaborators the Tindersticks.
It’s Denis’ way of showing you the despair at the heart of compromised people,
and daring you to be the slightest bit aroused.
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