Let’s Review

Film reviewing is a bit of a hobby of mine.  Here are an odd few that I feel merit, ahem, review:

Films Reviewed: 

• Game of Thrones
• Hanna
• Source Code
• 127 Hours
• Buried
• Control
• Punch-Drunk Love
• Biutiful
• The Social Network

Game of Thrones

            Adaptation is a tricky business.  There are so many examples of where it’s gone awry, where I’ve been forced to sit through bastard, butchered versions of my favorite literature.   Books are unique in their precision of detail, the way they make us empathize, the way they put much of the burden on the reader.  Images are imagined, never presented.  Characters take on an airy composite, often shady and without proper form, paradoxical as it may seem.  Novelists can cheat, in a sense, by taking us into minds of characters, taking us places the gaze of a camera won’t allow.  So often do filmmakers taint the perfectly self-constructed image of a favorite book that I feel I have to be wary.  It breaks my heart to see a good book handled inappropriately.

            But when done properly, lord, it’s a beautiful thing.  When things go well, a movie, mini-series, or television show can be a downright fascinating retelling of excellent source material.

            I first read George RR Martin’s A Song Of Fire and Ice, a four (soon to be five) tome epic that clocks in around five thousand pages, when I was fifteen.  I lost a ton of sleep that year, my grades slipped, friends saw less of me: all in the name of Fantasy.   I read and reread those books almost as if the reading were a compulsion.  I loved them, dearly.  When I heard it was being adapted for TV I was nervous.  The odds seemed insurmountable.  The books feature dozens of unique characters, in depth POV switches, and an incredibly mature and well-thought universe.  It’s easily the best fantasy I’ve ever read.  And yes, that includes Lord of the Rings.

            Game of Thrones, the first volume of the series, launches s into the world of Westeros with a fury.  Set in a medieval realm of political treachery, the kingdom attempts to maintain its cohesion following a brutal civil war and the usurping of the previous, absolutely mad king.  Set ten years after the defining war, the tone is wholly ominous: danger lurks, violence approaches from every direction, Winter is coming.   It’s difficult to summarize without getting too excited and over revealing, but it’s mainly important to understand that the world of Westeros is one of light-fantasy (no wizards, few dragons) and old-world misery:  Lords attempt to seize power from one another, murder is ritual, and characters swear allegiance to honor or self-preservation.  Martin brings an incredible finesse when capturing the grim grit of medieval times, while creating dozens of wholly defined, unique characters.

            How could a TV show live up to so much self-perpetuated hype and adapt such a mammoth literary feat?  Well, to be cheesy for a brief moment, Game of Thrones isn’t TV, it’s HBO.  I say this because of how the show managed to live up to, and even exceed my expectations.  HBO has a pretty incredible track record when it comes to shows, andGames of Thrones continues the wicked streak they’ve had running since The Sopranos.  The show nimbly introduced the many, many characters economically and wisely.  It’s well cast: from the gruff, honor-bound Eddard Stark played deftly by Sean Bean, to the pitch-perfect snark of dwarf Tyrion Lanister captured by a charming Peter Dinklage.  Sacrifices had to be made, naturally, but overall I was genuinely impressed by how much they managed to squeeze into the pilot.  Where the books are able to bury you (in a good way) with detail, the TV show manages to use short scenes and brief snippets to illustrate the characters.  The opening scene, in which Eddard Stark insists on executing a condemned man himself instead of handing the gruesome responsibility off to an executioner, lets you know pretty well what Stark is all about: justice and honor.

            The biggest risk with Game of Thrones is alienating and confusing those who’ve never read the books.  The world in which it is set spans thousands of leagues, households have hundreds of members, and, at the end of it all, it’s fantasy; most people just aren’t in to that type of thing.  But, the show manages a wider appeal than the books probably have.  Other than, you know, not having to actually read anything (which turns more people off than I’d like to admit), the show takes a lot of the fantastic out of the fantasy.  In ditching the written word, the show somehow accomplishes a stronger level of reality.  I’m reminded a lot of Lord of The Rings.  The books, as brilliant as they are, are intimidating and foreign feeling.  To a degree, Hobbits seem weird, dragons laughable, and the world inaccessible.  But, in the films you’re able to connect much more.  You’re right there, stuck in Middle Earth with Frodo and the whole crew.  Game of Thrones, in novel form, is certainly less off putting than LOTR, but I can understand why it would be difficult to digest.  The books ask a lot from you, they ask you to create a solid image of a gargantuan world in your head, to keep track of everything that’s going on.  They never apologize, never dip deep into exposition.  With the TV show it’s all there, right in front of you.  It doesn’t apologize, necessarily, but it certainly throws you a lot of ropes.  Its job is to keep you in the clear, to keep things crisp.  With the novels, that’s the reader’s job.

            It’s pretty obvious that watching movies or TV is a lot more passive than reading a novel.  A lot of the time this bothers me, makes me feel dissatisfied.  That’s why I turn to complicated movies, and as of late, complicated television.  I like stuff that makes me think, call me crazy.  In making Game of Thrones the producers have found a good balance between the detail and lushness of the novel form and the ease of the screen.  They present you with the fully formed world, brimming with grey castles and perfect costumes, but never treat you poorly.  There’s still a lot up to the imagination- character’s motivations, histories and relationships, nuances of people and the realm, burning mysteries- but it’s much less of a responsibility for the viewer.

            While I’ll side with books over adaptations ninety-nine (point nine-nine) percent of the time, it’s interesting to see a triumphant adaptation.  It’s never the same as the book, and that’s a good thing.  The book is still there, after all.  It’s still aching to be read, bursting with detail and moving prose.  But when an adaptation is successful, when it is an incarnation of that word, “adaptation”, in the purist sense, it’s a beautiful thing.  To make this whole deal short, Game of Thrones is a beautiful thing.

Hanna

               Currently, my bank account holds no more than one thousand American dollars.  I have a whole Sierra-Nevada sized lump of impossible money to pay back for a degree that offers less job security than if I were to seek work at an automotive factory.  I eat a lot of Mac and Cheese, a lot of two-dollar-fifty falafel, and I still saw Hanna twice in two days; I still handed over my twenty-six dollars gleefully.

               Hanna is a movie that should not work.  Because of my overwhelmingly critical eye, my cynicism, my unflinching mockery I figured it was over before it had even begun.  An action film starring the nymph-like Saiorse Ronan as a cold killer directed by the Pride and Prejudice guy?  Well, how could that go right?  It turns out that in the hands of a strong director, anything can work.

              Hanna tells the story of a young girl, Saiorse Ronan, who is raised in the middle of the tundra by her gruff, ex-super spy type father, Eric Bana, to be the perfect killer.  Her goal:  to seek revenge on the southern-accented Miranda, played by a devilish, red-haired Cate Blanchette.   The story is simple, straightforward, and doesn’t over saturate with dramatic character exposition or dreary set up.   It starts and doesn’t stop until the credits roll.

              The beauty of Hanna is how easy it makes it to completely suspend any element of disbelief.  You get too caught up in the talent on display to really stop and think about plausibility. Despite the basic ridiculousness of the premise, the film is made so convincingly and skillfully that few holes present themselves.

              Let’s start with how the actors handle their nuanced (but not obviously) and fascinating characters.  I’ll give this film credit for marking the end of Eric Bana’s days of Hulk- fueled desperation.  He’s been on the upswing for a while now, but it is only now that I can forgive him for how horrible that movie was.  Bana brings a believable stern love to the film and a gruff confidence to the character.             You know his character is taking big risks, and there’s a certain anxiety in his playing of the role, but you’re always sure of his chosen path.   Cate Blanchette is usually best when she steps out of her all-powerful woman comfort zone.  I love, love, loved her as a feeble and foolish woman in The Talented Mr. Ripley, and hated her, with a remarkable vehemence, as the “Russian” villain in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.  When I saw the advertisements featuring her as a scarlet southerner I figured that she, above all else, would be the fatal flaw of Hanna. But Blanchette brought a true iciness to the film that spawned legitimate trembles down my back.  She’s so heard-hearted and vicious, her smiles are all in the lips and never in the arctic-blue eyes, that I couldn’t help but feel a reverence for the character.  She’s a villain you truly love to hate.

                As Hanna, Ronan soars.  She nails the social misunderstandings of a girl raised out of society, plays a killer better than Jean Reno, and portrays a dark innocence through her sun-tinted locks and pure water eyes.  She is dangerous and knows her purpose, yet seeks the common bonds of humanity.  She wants friends and to understand music and to live plainly; after she kills a small army of well-trained soldiers, of course.

               The movie’s true champion is Joe Wright.  Hanna is the best shot action movie I’ve ever seen.  Period.  The camera violates every single rule and gets away with it without second thought.  He has the camera soar, flip around, he lights things violently.  One second it’ll be a Bourne- styled, frantic fight scene shot in one gorgeous long take, and the next he’ll have moving,  intimate close ups of an aching eye or a pining glance.  The filmmaking is genius, and I don’t use that word lightly.

               The movie definitely has its flaws, it starts off a little slow and the script seems generic at first, but all of these misgivings are easily forgotten.  On top of all of the aforementioned goodness, the film is littered with magnificent details.  There is a strong fairytale motif that gives an ethereal quality to the young Ronan (at one point, when asked where she’s from, she simply replies: “The Forest.”                      And the viewer is half convinced for half a second that she really is a nymph of sorts.)  The supporting cast is hilarious and absurd and quirky enough to bring another dimension to the movie.  They fill in all the gaps which the three leads do not fulfill.  All of the small characters bring small motions and movements which make them real people, and I have to give more credit to Joe Wright for that.   He’s exploited the fact that the minute makes people who they are.

              As a somewhat added and unexpected bonus, the Chemical Brothers provide a pulsing digital score that gets everything right where Daft Punk got everything wrong in Tron: Legacy.  It provides a perfect background and energy to keep the film moving. It’s further proof, after The Social Network (in a much different manner), that electronic music has a real place in scoring films.

Hanna is an incredibly vibrant and enthusiastic action movie.  It’s the first in a long time that doesn’t need the crutch of tongue-in-cheek to meet the proper run time.  It’s emotionally powerful, wonderfully acted, and reaffirms my faith in a grossly overexploited genre.  And, in all honesty, it’s a movie that I would support financially even if it didn’t come together as well as it did.  It’s these types of films- these dangerous films that, you know, try– which need our money and attention.  If more movies like Hanna were made, we wouldn’t get so many damn incarnations of the Battle: LA stereotype.

Source Code

               I vividly remember scoffing at the poster of Moon.  It was just an out of focus Sam Rockwell in front of a series of black and white rings.  I found it obnoxious and, frankly, a little played.  Simply, it was trying too hard.  The trailer didn’t inspire any more confidence.  It seemed dull, cliché, overwrought, etc.  In investigating Moon I assumed I knew everything about it.  Been there, done that, on to the next one.

                And then I heard it was directed by Duncan Jones, son of favorite recording artist David Bowie.  That conjured a little hope.  I figured: Who better to direct a hard sci-fi film than the son of the spaceman himself?  Who could understand the cosmos better than Ziggy Stardust jr.?

                I got over myself, saw Moon and found myself wowed.  It wasn’t what I expected, not at all.  It wasn’t some cheesy thriller set on the moon.  It wasn’t a horrible misstep from a first time director.  It was brilliant, powerful, and moving.  Smartly made for almost zero money, the movie gave me a rare twinkle of hope: maybe, just maybe, there was a new, real sci-fi director in town.   Moon has a brilliant Sam Rockwell alone on the, you guessed it, moon grappling with the madness that the expanse of space inspires, amongst many other spoiler-filled plot points that I’d feel too damn guilty giving away.

                I think I was so skeptical about Moon because of that nasty little phrase I just used: Hard Science Fiction.  I grew up on sci-fi.  I read all the obvious books and all the not so obvious; I plunged into Fantasy with a fervor that could only be inspired by having nothing to do and a sister who could advise (and supply) my obsession.  I burned through book after book, despite the serious lack of quality found in most of the indulgent, thousand page tomes.

                To me there is no such thing as Hard Sci-fi.  It’s just sci-fi.  Movies like Battle: Los Angeles or Skyline aren’t sci-fi, really; they’re action movies.  No, sci-fi isn’t defined by the fact that something features aliens, has robots, or is set in the future; it’s defined by the sheer power of the human mind imagining what if dangerously and beautifully.   Sci-fi challenges what we know about the present by showing what the future holds, and how things never really change.  Man will always be man: he will kill, he will lust, he will love, he will continue to be what he has always been, no matter what technological advances he may discover.

                Sci-fi is really an abused genre these days.  You say good sci-fi and someone says “Avatar” and I say “Shut the hell up.”  It’s become a buzz word, a knee jerk reaction to whenever an alien presence moves on the screen.

                After seeing Moon I eagerly awaited Duncan Jones’ new project.  Moon stands out as one of the achingly few movies that truly succeeded as sci-fi in recent years, and I could only assume that Jones would keep moving up in both skill and ambition.

                And then I heard about his next project: a Jake “Pale Prince of Persia” Gyllenhaal starrer that seemed to borrow too heavily from a bunch of movies I’d already seen.  I’ve been tracking the development of Source Code since the beginning, keeping my fingers crossed as worry nipped at me.  Talk about pressure.

                Source Code features Jake Gyllenhaal as a soldier testing a new technology that will allow him to enter the memory of a recently blown-up man for eight minutes in order to find the bomber and stop the next terrorist crime.  See what I mean? Sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?  To me it sounded like a grotesque mash up of Next, Déjà vu, and a comically impotent Groundhog Day.  Which is something no one needs, or wants.

                Honestly, it was only good reviews that got me to go see Source Code.  I’d already written it off.  I figured Duncan Jones would go down as a one-hit wonder, Moon as an anomaly.  Shows what I know.

                Source Code well made and wisely made.   I found a lot of pleasure in watching Jones with a bigger budget this time around.  He makes the obligatory (and ridiculous) train explosion pretty awesome to watch the first time around, amusing the second, and bearable the third.  He gets a strong enough performance out of Gyllenhaal, who relies more on his I’ve Been Good Looking My Whole Life charms than his acting abilities.

                Jones is also able to set up an interesting universe and to build some suspense.  We legitimately feel for Gyllenhaal’s character, who spends much of the movie as we do: trying to figure out what the hell is going on.  The story is fairly straightforward, matching the arc of the characters well.

                Despite the fact that Source Code is approximately a billion times better than the average flick, despite that it’s properly made and well-thought out, I was pretty disappointed once I left the theater.  Because, well, this isn’t the movie I wanted.  This isn’t the movie that Jones’ first feature promised me, this isn’t the movie Jones was meant to make.  It’s popcorn perfect, it’s engrossing, it’s entertaining; it’s just not sci-fi.  At least, it’s not my sci-fi.  It didn’t open a whole world of philosophical questions, it didn’t make me quake and quiver over the future of mankind, it didn’t make me think the way 2001 or Moon or Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon does.  Those types of Sci-Fi, the real, cosmic movies, music, and books are able to inspire thought that we rarely access in the day to day.  I think it’s good for humanity to think about how impossibly small humanity actually is, to think about the infinite infinities which compose our ever-expanding, ever- enigmatic universe.  I think it’s good to get out of our heads, our towns, our relationships and all the little things that fill our heads once in a while.  I think it’s even better to get far away from our planet, our solar system, our galaxy; to confront the gaping blackness which surrounds you, me and everyone who’s ever existed.  Sci-Fi is beautiful because of the unique way it challenges us.  That’s what Sci-Fi is: a challenge on the cosmic level, not a bunch of alien-littered shoot ‘em ups.

                I think Source Code is a nice baby step for Duncan Jones.  It proves he can spend a few million dollars well, that he can bring some solid action to the table.  It shows he can move out of obscurity and towards the mainstream.  I just wanted more.  I wanted his second film to be a great leap; a landmark sci-fi film.  I mean no disrespect as the film was more than competent.  I still think Jones is one of the most exciting up and coming directors around.  I’m just not sure that he’s the messiah of real science fiction; I’m just not sure he’s the kind of director I’ve been waiting for since I was eight years old.  Here’s hoping he proves me wrong.

127 Hours

 

Danny Boyle can do anything.  He’s proven this, and himself, time and time again.  And with the exception of a couple of brief missteps, I can confidently say Danny Boyle is brilliant.

            He disturbed us, shocked us, and made us chuckle with the skin-crawling Trainspotting; he resurrected the long-dead and thoroughly clichéd zombie genre in the manic (and perfect) 28 Days Later; and he made all the grunge and grit of the slums of India vibrant in Slumdog Millionaire (not to mention the well-earned Oscar he took home for a movie that almost went straight to DVD.)

            I first heard about 127 Hours a while back.  The concept seemed impossible, ridiculous, even laughable.  A movie about a man trapped under a rock for 5 days is an absurd concept.  Which is exactly why I was so excited about it.  I knew that if there was anyone who could pull it off gracefully, it would be Mr. Boyle.  Boyle is a Kubrickian type of director.  Not necessarily in style or substance, but in ambition.  He’s not afraid to test the waters in a new genre, and he most certainly doesn’t shy away from a challenge.  The impish, goofy seeming Brit is all gusto.

            James Franco can also, apparently, do anything.  As an Oscar host, soap star, writer, artist, and, above all else, extraordinary actor, he seems perfectly fit to match the Renaissance-man ambitions of Danny Boyle.

            127 Hours is a testament to how well these two incredibly hard-working men collaborate.  I’m sure I’m not the only one hoping that theirs becomes a long time partnership.

            The film tells the true story of  Aaron Ralston, played by James Franco, the man who sawed off his own arm (with a pen knife) after he was trapped, alone, under a boulder in the middle of the gargantuan, consuming Utah desert.

            Apparently, 2010 was a good year for the one-man show.  Ryan Reynolds held his own in the creepy Buried and now James Franco gives a career-defining performance in a similar set-up: a man, on his own, trapped for an hour and a half.

            But what makes 127 Hours unique (and superior) is the humanity and potent style that Boyle manages to bring.  127 Hours is one of the most life-affirming and gripping movie experiences I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching.  It’s exciting, touching, funny, dramatic, inspiring, and beautiful.

            The power of the movie comes from Franco’s performance.  Franco has been on the rise acting wise for a while now (I thought he was the best part of Milk) and 127 Hours is perfect evidence that he has completely come into his own.  Franco manages to play Ralston, an honest and loving, if self-centered, character with a distinct charm.  Boyle gives him plenty of room to shine through use of handheld confessionals and a choice flashback or two.  We’re completely caught in the moment with Franco as he effortlessly glides through a whole series of emotion.  We are terrified for him, we ache to see him escape, and we cringe violently as he cuts through flesh, bone, and tendon in a triumphant display of the human will.  Franco is able to create a dynamic character who feels like a real human being, and because the setting is so intimate (most shots are close and tight, claustrophobic and entrapping) we completely and totally empathize with the character.

            Franco’s impressive turn is matched perfectly by Boyle’s daring style and engrossing filmmaking. Boyle used two cinematographers to make up for the fact that he (basically) had only one actor.  This scheme works flawlessly as the film showcases the rugged beauty of the Utah desert while creating the intensity of being trapped with little water and fewer options.  Boyle uses many risky techniques (including split-screen and a hand-held video diary which Ralston makes) to make sure you are wholly immersed in the setting.

            127 Hours is a pitch-perfect synthesis of many moods, emotions, and senses.  The score, provided by Oscar champ AR Rahman, is exciting and varied, coupling distinct sounds to create the perfect tone for such a distinct movie.

            Overall, 127 Hours is almost aggressively impressive.  It’s so very in your face, so showy in its contained premise, so striking, gorgeous, and well-made that it is impossible to deny its power, and any minor missteps are completely forgiven.  Boyle is too smart with the camera, putting it in every small nook and unexpected place, to bore or frustrate you.  I was sincerely moved, grossed out, and riled.  I was compelled to holler and shout, urging Ralston to make it out of that god-forsaken cave.  For 94 minutes I forgot myself.  127 Hours pulled me in and became my reality.  I can think of no better indicator of a successful movie.

Buried

               I am claustrophobic.  Not the type who grows weary with discomfort when one too many people board the train car he or she is planted in, but the type who feels a neck-tugging terror whenever the innocuous bell of the elevator door rings.  For me, that noise is like thunder.  I have to take a deep breath whenever I set foot into one of those grotesque metal tombs.  I spend the duration of the ride, which always seems like an eternity, tugging at my neck (a nervous tick) or staring fiercely at the ceiling. It is only once I burst free from the vertical iron-maiden (and I’ve been known to literally burst forth- just shy of pushing down the elderly and feeble for freedom) that I become myself again.

               It should come as no surprise that I was incredibly unwilling to sit through Rodrigo Cortes’Buried.  The idea of watching a man, played by Ryan Reynolds, in a coffin for an hour and a half sounded as fun as kissing a blender.  But, once it was released on DVD, and I no longer had to worry about the general public hearing me whimper for the film’s duration, I decided I’d test the water.

              Throughout the whole film, Buried literally only shows Ryan Reynolds buried alive in a coffin, with little more than a zippo lighter and a cell phone (with very good reception) to keep him company.  I went into it expecting a gimmicky, throwaway movie; I thought I’d be able to walk away from it, more out of boredom than fear, after a few minutes of Mr. Reynolds’ usual snark.

This was not the case.

Buried is a sharp, smart, and incredibly well-made thriller that is both frantic and terrifying.  It exceeded all expectations I had brilliantly, and managed to conjure a completely empathetic and satisfying film experience.

Reynolds plays a Michiganite truck driver working in Iraq who awakes bloodied and battered in complete darkness.  The film opens in blackness, and we hear his early rumblings, then the rising crescendo of his panic.  Horror fills the coffin as he realizes what is happening, where he is.  The film manages to maintain this invasive feeling of horror as Reynolds desperately calls whoever he can: the police, the FBI, his wife, the shadowy, gravel voiced Iraqis who put him underground.

And that’s it.

In Buried there is not a single shot outside of the very small wooden box which Reynolds is trapped in.  There are no flashbacks, no dream sequences, no cheating.  It’s just shot after shot of a man in a box.  One could easily assume this would grow tiring after, say, fifteen minutes. But no, each ofBuried’s 94 minutes is used expertly.  Rarely have I seen such a taut and tense film.

The director, Cortes, manages to find a way to make each shot and sequence feel fresh.  Of course, every shot is incredibly tight, and evokes a feeling of dense claustrophobia I have not felt since the nightmare-inducing The Descent.   Even with only one tiny set, Cortes is able to create continual rising thrills that keep the viewer nervous with dread and excitement.  He uses all six feet well, never wasting an inch.  He proves there’s a seemingly impossible amount of variety one can conjure out of any amount of space.  It’s refreshing to see such an inventive use of so little.

Every aspect of Buried is impeccably done.  The script, written by newcomer Chris Sparling, is incredibly impressive as it perfectly creates suspense while inspiring genuine emotion.  Sparling has written Reynolds’ character well, making him likable and flawed, or, in other words, a legitimate human being.  As an added bonus, and something that makes the film seem absurdly relevant, Sparling is able to use the current chaos and turmoil of the Middle East as a backdrop which perfectly matches and enhances the chaos on screen.

Ryan Reynolds gives a pitch perfect performance as the exasperated and frustrated Paul.  He’s a decent man and a family man.  We get the feeling his life is marred by regret, but we are never given more than brief snippets of his past.  We only know who he is by the expression on his face as he stares down death.  Reynolds nails every emotion as he goes through the stages of grief.  Except these stages have been injected with adrenaline, pumped up with PCP; Reynolds manages to give even depression and denial a spark of frantic rage.

The film is so successful because it manages to completely put you in Reynolds’ character’s psychological state using simple, and not so simple, tricks.  The only sources of light are those that Reynolds can use.  When it’s pitch black for him, it’s pitch black for us.  What he sees, we see.  What he hears, we hear.  What he knows, we know.   What he feels, we feel.

And what we feel, above the terror, the horror, the anxiety, and claustrophobia, is frustration. Because the film is clever and crafty, it manages to throw in jabs at the futility of the bureaucratic American lifestyle.  (Apparently, not even shouting the words “I’m going to die in a small wooden coffin!” is enough to stop you from getting put on hold.)  The War on Terror is also scratched at: Reynolds’ character is just an average guy, completely uninvolved in the conflict yet tortured because of it.

Buried is a quick thrill, but one that sticks with you.  The image of Reynolds lit only by the haunting glow of a cell phone will be one I hold with me for quite some time.

 Buried is the type of movie that makes me feel lucky.  It’s greatest success is in making me feel brave for sitting through it, yet blessed for being awake and breathing, with no image flickering in front of me— cozy and far from the nightmare of being buried alive.

Control

Control tells the brief and painful tale of Ian Curtis, lead singer and lyricist of the 70’s British band Joy Division.  On paper, the film sounds generic: a young man with passion for nothing but music strives to make it big, devotes himself to his art, and begins to succeed, only to be tortured by the loss of simplicity.  But Curtis’s story is not a “Behind the Music” episode, it’s a modern tragedy.

            Because Curtis as a character is so removed from humanity, much about him remains unknown. We can’t know facts; all we can take away is feelings, the feelings of desperation and hopelessness that Sam Riley, as Curtis, masterfully captures in every single moment of his performance.  From his cold silences to his rigid, hurt stares to the gentle sway of his body to the way he grabs hold of the microphone with white knuckles and trembling hands as he performs, Riley seems able to capture human anguish with every fiber of his being.  He makes you believe that Curtis could only breathe, think, and feel pain; that every minute in Curtis’s short life was more brutal than the last. The director, Anton Corbijn, shows us that the feelings of loathing and fear that course through every scene undoubtedly resulted from Curtis’ gradual, almost designed, loss of control.
Control, released in 2007, is, ultimately, a highly reflective experience.  Not only because it calls for introspection, with its joyless themes of abandon and rejection, but because the film is perfectly balanced, allowing us to see pieces of Curtis in every aspect of the movie: be it first time director Corbijn’s choice to make the film in black and white, which captures the bleak feel of 1970’s England and the grey, muddled emotions of the maincharacter, or the film’s soundtrack, in which each song is so carefully chosen and calculated it seems they were written for the movie itself; “She’s Lost Control” plays as Curtis loses all interest in his wife, “Love Will Tear Us Apart Again” hauntingly sets the stage for the end of his marriage.   The soundtrack is truly able to put us into the mindset of Curtis, as we hear songs that he composed along with his muse, misery, and a variety of tracks that influenced Joy Division’s sound.  The existential instrumental “Warszawa”, written and performed by David Bowie, pulsates with the same eerie sadness as Curtis, just as the enigmatic “She’s Lost Control” transports the viewer to the same puzzled and frustrated state of mind as Curtis- “I’ve lost control again, And how I’ll never know just why or understand.”  Corbijn is able to use music both as the centerpiece of the film, because, at the end of the day, music is what Curtis’ life was all about, and as a statement to make us question Curtis’ emotions and motivations.
In the beginning of the film, Curtis, at 16, has nothing but ambition. Lacking even true personality, he expresses himself through the personas of his idols, strutting around the room like Lou Reed, or quoting the poetry of Walt Whitman.  But as he ages, falls in love, gets married, loses his way, and gets divorced he can build only a dark, walled-off, and cruelly distant human being.  He gives nothing to his family, nothing to his friends, but everything to his music.
Because, in the end, all he can have influence over is his music; he’s loses control of his marriage and wife by pushing her away, so pained by his own lack of interest that he writhes at her touch; he’s lost control of his emotions, now wild and erratic.  The final blow comes when he is diagnosed with epilepsy, for then he has lost control of everything, including his body.  And once he’s loses control of every aspect of his life, he loses even his ambition; he lets it fade into the obscurity of his obsessive, self-loathing mind, to become washed away in the fog of misery.
Corbijn does a fantastic job of showing the loss of self in Control.  The shots and style he uses are careful; he frequently has Riley standing separate, as if on a plane all by himself.   The cinematography becomes as frantic and crazed as Riley does, the voiceover shows the construction of lyrics and thoughts that shadow the images being shown, the supporting cast comes off only as significant as Curtis saw them, mere objects in his life.  Corbijn creates a barrier between us and the character, mirroring the barrier that the character builds between himself and everyone else.  He uses empty space and silence to portray immense feelings of loneliness, and the script uses terse dialogue and careful blocking to portray the ever emerging rifts between characters.
Overall, Control is an astounding film biography.  It avoids the common pitfalls of the genre and, instead of giving a broad view of a performer, it gives a personal and painful portrait of a man.  Corbijn is able to keep a planned gap between us and Curtis, as if we are watching his life on stage as faceless fans, from the same strange distance as those closest to that hollow figure with the somber voice.

Punch-Drunk Love

Despite five Oscar nominations, a Best Director prize at Cannes, and Silver and Golden Bears from the Berlin International Film Festival, P.T. Anderson’s greatest achievement will always be making me like Adam Sandler.  I went into Anderson’s film, Punch-Drunk Love, expecting a disaster.  Not because of the man behind the camera. I’d loved Anderson’s previous work: Boogie Nights was sharp and fun, with a complicated subtext of dreams of greatness and the cold reality of failure; Magnolia was an emotional epic, covering the most private and painful moments of many character’s lives in a mature and intelligent manner; and There Will Be Blood was an absolute triumph, a twisted, painful view into the mind of an absolutely sinister man.  Because three of his movies were among my favorites, I avoided Punch-Drunk Love like the plague, not willing to ruin Anderson’s perfect batting average.  When it came up in conversations, when I was asked to defend my choice of Anderson as my favorite director, fellow cinephiles would scoff and smugly throw phrases in my face like “But didn’t he make that movie withAdam Sandler?” ^__ Sandler’s name dripping out of their mouths like venom.  I would simply avoid the question or quietly say “Even Kubrick made Eyes Wide Shut.”

            Eventually I felt it was my duty as an Anderson fan to endure Punch-Drunk; I’d seen There Will Be Blood over ten times and I just had to understand why and how Mr. Anderson made a film starring Adam Sandler as a borderline mental patient who sells novelty plungers and falls in love.
The film, released in 2002, shows the life of Barry Egan, played by Sandler, a man with seven overbearing sisters and some serious anger management issues.  Barry Egan is a dreadfully unhappy man; his life is dominated by the cruel taunts of his sisters, a frustrating and frustratingly stupid business selling “fungers” (read: fun plungers), and a torturous inability to connect.  One of Barry’s sisters attempts to set him up with Lena, a sweet, unassuming and enigmatic character, played by Emily Watson, who becomes infatuated with Barry after seeing him in a family photo.  Barry has been, as the title suggests, battered and bruised by love, and now lives with a demented outlook.  This causes him to “beat up” a restaurant bathroom mid-date (meaning he smashes the living hell out of it), get caught up in a phone sex scheme, and follow Lena to Hawaii, without warning, after a single date.   At face value, it’s a sweet romantic comedy about an awkward man trying to win over a loving woman.  In reality, it’s an intense, nervous, and violent comedy about a man very much on the edge attempting to latch on to a chance at redemption he finds in the form of a woman.  The character of Egan is a dark, brooding and unstable one, all while maintaining a distinct likability and charm.  And yes, he is played by Adam “You Don’t Mess With The Zohan” Sandler.
Now don’t get me wrong; there was a time when I loved Adam Sandler.  But, then I turned nine, and everything went sour.   After he was snubbed by the Academy for playing complex roles including Little Nicky and the Waterboy, I assumed Mr. Sandler was comfortable playing the same idiot over and over and over again.  But Sandler delivers an astonishingly powerful and convincing performance as the rage-filled Egan.  He mumbles angrily, smashes windows, and professes his love all with a constant deranged streak.  He is able to capture the simplicity of love and complexity of anger perfectly, creating a role that reminded me of a modern day Lennie from Of Mice and Men.  Sandler is able to carry the movie, which is really a character study of this one man, with hunched shoulders and an awkward disposition.  He rambles and rants, beats the hell out of people, and, in one of the better scenes, intimidates a pimp/ mattress salesman played by Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Sandler’s greatest triumph is in creating a character that is so ludicrous, so emotionally disturbed and damaged, that you could easily imagine him sitting next to you on a bus, speaking soft, bitter words to himself.
Egan’s reality can truly be attributed to Anderson’s filmmaking.  A writer-director, Anderson is able to consistently create lush, real characters out of both the mad and the unbelievable:  There Will Be Blood’s Daniel Plainview is a real-life monster, Magnolia’s Frank TJ Mackey is a real-life loser.  InPunch-Drunk, Anderson is able to manipulate the common romantic comedy formula to create a somewhat surreal, almost absurd love story.  Anderson writes Egan as completely subdued, a man who is subjugated by his sisters’ cruel words, who is pushed and prodded until he explodes.  He doesn’t think like others, he’s all but insane, and he is, most of all, alone.  People like Barry in the real world tend to stay that way.  But therein lies the genius of Punch-Drunk Love.
Punch-Drunk seems, much of the time, like a dream of Barry’s.  The colors are incredibly vibrant and reflective; Barry is seen wearing a dark, deep blue suit in every scene of the movie, for instance. Each scene has a very liquid, tender feel to it, and Anderson uses a lot of abstract technique to manipulate a simple story.  He interjects colorful artwork into the film for many frames, used much like the kaleidoscope sequence in 2001. He uses a loose harmonium centered score to shadow each shot, and presents us with a universe that is just quirky and odd enough to not feel completely real.  And these tricks, these weavings of sight and sound in a way that only seem proper in dreams makes the film incredibly moody and beautiful.  Each frame both creates and reflects raw and true emotion, not emotions we’re told to feel, but emotions that are drawn out of us without any obvious source, without proper logic. The film’s lucid feel is so pervasive and convincing that the viewer is unsure what is fact and what is not, but always confident in how they feel about what it is they’re seeing.

The dialogue is smart and simple, awkwardly lurching enough to seem completely authentic out of the mouths of the characters.  Everything is right, and yet something is off.  And because of this, we are more able to believe the story of Barry Egan.  This man, so insanely socially inept, is able to find a soul mate, improbable as it may be, who is much like him.  Anderson makes the character of Lena questionable. We know little about her, not even enough to know why she’d be interested in a man like Barry, and, at times she seems like a fantasy.  She’s too weird, too passively violent and passionately contained to exist. Yet she does, and she’s found someone to wallow in near-madness with.   One oddly tender scene has them praising one another. Barry to Lena: “I’m lookin’ at your face and I just wanna smash it. I just wanna fuckin’ smash it with a sledgehammer and squeeze it. You’re so pretty.” And Lena to Barry: “I want to chew your face, and I want to scoop out your eyes and I want to eat them and chew them and suck on them.”  Anderson is able to twist and warp this simple story so much that, when the credits roll, you’re unsure if what you just saw was reality or fantasy.  The true beauty of the film is that it doesn’t matter if the events were real, because the emotions and sentiments are.
After Magnolia, Anderson stated that he wanted to make something different, something more contained.  And in many ways, he did.  Magnolia drags the improbable and unreal into our world, where we are still expected to suspend disbelief, and chronicles the complex relations of nearly a dozen characters.  Punch-Drunk focuses solely on one man and his quest to find an impossible happiness, and instead pulls the viewer and his reality into a world that is less than cohesive, Barry Egan’s world.  In Egan’s world, everything works out for him.  Sure, it’s a rough path, and he has to break a few windows and bones to get his way, but he does. And that’s the point, that’s what’s so ridiculously wonderful about it.  It’s almost as if we’re witnessing a man’s delusion: he finds the girl and wins her inexplicably, and then has an impossible triumph of strength and will over men who represent his vices.  We’re watching a delusion, but instead of being disgusted by it or scared of it, we can only support it with wild applause and excited eyes.  We support the madness because, in the midst of it, a man as strange and deranged as Barry Egan can find happiness. And if he can find it, maybe it’s not so crazy to believe things will work out all right for the rest of us.

Biutiful

“I’m not going to die,” Uxbal says, with a strange conviction that almost makes us question the boundaries of death.  Almost, of course, because death is inevitable, even for a man with such unique talents as Uxbal.

Uxbal, masterfully portrayed by Javier Bardem, is a manager of sorts.  He manages the tense relationship between the manufacturers of cheap goods and the rip-off artists (the type whose entire lives rest on a blanket, ready to be scooped up at any moment in a mad dash) who sell them, the love felt between him and his estranged, mentally disturbed wife, the balance of care and worry he feels for his two children.  Uxbal even manages the line between life and death; he’s able to communicate with the recently deceased, yet unable to properly communicate with those still living.

            In Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Biutiful, which he co-wrote and directed, Uxbal has been diagnosed with an overwhelming, blood-in-the-urine illness and given very little time to live.  In a film of twisting plots, several languages, and dozens of complex relationships, one thing is clear: Uxbal is going to die.

            But the film is not about his death, necessarily, it is about what Uxbal can do for his friends, for his workers, for his business, and, primarily, for his family before he passes.  When he claims he is not going to die, it is out of frustration, terror, and pain.  But this torrent of emotions, of fear, is shown in between the lines.  Bardem is capable of portraying a confidence on the exterior, while the true Uxbal lies just beneath, urging and begging to break out, to break down and weep.

Javier Bardem is a man of great range.  The last time I saw him he was using his guttural charms to seduce and destroy both Vicky and Christina in Woody Allen’s charming Barcelona adventure. Before that, he was menace incarnate:  a freak-haired, coin-tossing, destroyer made of malice and madness.  For that complicated turn, he won an Oscar.  Bardem is the rare actor who can shape shift without losing his recognition.  He doesn’t method act, per se, he simply convinces you that he’s someone else entirely while being wholly and completely Bardem.

             Now, in a very different Barcelona, Bardem takes on the role of Atlas in Biutiful.  The entire movie rests on his shoulders, as do the fates of all of those around him.  Without such an astounding performance, the movie simply would not work.  But, thankfully, wonderfully, perfectly, it does.

            Biutiful is my first expedition into the world of Iñárritu, who also made the Oscar nominatedBabel and 21 Grams.   From the single film I’ve seen, he is an assured film maker, and a film maker of vision.  Biutiful is not necessarily an accessible film, but it is a moving one.  It is grim, even horrifying at times, but you get so wrapped up in the beauty of simply living that there is no denying its power.  It is a film that affected me in a profound manner, a manner which I have not experienced in what seems like a long time.

            The film is, above all else, moody.  Its beautiful cinematography and staging set the tone of despair in the slums of Barcelona.  The haunting, pervasive score (provided by back-to-back Oscar winner Gustavo Santaolalla) is sometimes abrasive, and sometimes terrifying.  He uses strange, nontraditional techniques and sounds to create a cruel backdrop which matches both the intense melancholy and sparse, but all-consuming, beauty of the film.  As for Iñárritu’s craft, I think his greatest power is balance.  He perfectly manages the many sides of the film, which features nearly a dozen distinct and nervous characters.  Biutiful also features the best, and slightest, use of the supernatural one could ask for.  Iñárritu adds a touch of dark, spiritual and magical realism which gives the film an almost ethereal quality that plagues and inspires the viewer.

            I’ve heard the term “tone poem” tossed around in pretentious circles quite frequently.   They use the phrase to describe the work of Sophia Coppola or other less daring film makers.  I’ve always thought it was just a buzz phrase, something the fauxphisticated indie crowd could latch onto without it packing real meaning.  Well, I’ve been wrong before.  Because Biutiful is exactly what that overused phrase implies.  The plot isn’t the main component of the film, nor is the production, nor the moving score, nor the award worthy acting.  In short, there is no single element in Biutiful that makes it great: it’s the feeling it evokes.  It’s the complicated mood shifts and emotional manipulation that make Biutiful an astounding film.  Sure, Bardem’s acting is what anchors it all, but he is simply an avatar of the mood.  His ragged face shows us the horror of leaving those you love behind, but so does the chilling score and the masterful film making.  Biutiful is truly a film whose impact is greater than the sum of its parts.

            Upon first viewing, Biutiful seems to have its flaws.   I mentioned earlier that it is inaccessible because of its grimness, and for the weak of heart that’s very true; the film may seem overwhelming at points.  I had a conversation with a contemporary of mine recently who said that the film was simply feel-bad for feel-bad’s sake.  At first I was inclined to agree– mainly because I left the theater feeling detached and shaken up.  But after reflection I realize that the flaws of the film actually make it more powerful, more real, more convincing.  The film has to feel painful, like so much of real life, because it dangles so much in front of you.  It needs that grit, that flawless flaw, in order to set the proper tone.  A tone that suggests that life is grim and you must find whatever beacons of light you can to redeem you. For Uxbal, it’s his children.  For Iñárritu, it’s obvious that his beacon comes from putting so much of himself- so much of his woe, agony, and even hope- into his movies.

The Social Network

 

 

         When I first heard that David Fincher was making a Facebook movie, I shuddered a bit.  Then I heard it was going to star Justin Timberlake, and I felt like weeping.  As impressive as he was in The Love Guru, I felt his presence signified the lack of emotional depth and quality that the movie would possess.  How wrong I was.

The Social Network tells the story of Facebook’s founder, Mark Zuckerberg, who may or may not have stolen the idea from a suave set of Harvard twins.  Zuckerberg, played by Jesse Eisenberg, is the cold hearted, sacrifice-your-friends type businessman.  Eisenberg escapes teen comedy purgatory with a ruthless and perfect performance as the world’s youngest billionaire.

The film is a 21^st century movie: using Hahvahd as the backdrop, Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin is able to create a biting and sharp commentary on our nation’s elite and all their dirty deeds.  The film feels fresh and ripped right from the headlines, mainly because, well, it is, and disturbingly authentic in a world of Bernie Madoff treachery.  It’s smart, fast paced, surprisingly emotional, and captures the smug tone of what it’s like to be young and cocky with ease.

The score, provided by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, combines industrial smut and old musical themes beautifully, the writing is award-worthy and matches the Instant Message generation’s quickness, and the acting is unexpectedly powerful all around.  My only complaint is that I would have liked to see a bit more of Fincher’s flair.  He felt overall too reserved, with some glowing exceptions- a certain rowing sequence, anyone?  That said, believe the hype.  It’s that good.  Mr. Fincher, I owe you an apology:  never again will I doubt you, even if you decide to make a mob drama about Twitter starring Lady Gaga.