The Lesson: The Anxiety of Influence

 

T.S. Eliot's famous Formalist essay "Tradition and the Individual Talent" attempted to discern how much the legacy of the past -- in his case, hundreds of years of English poetry -- weighed on a young artist trying to make his or her own way. Eliot, a young St. Louis native who had been transported to London to try to change modern poetry felt both that one must understand and even accept the history of one's art, but that also an artist is obliged to break away from that Tradition to establish something new.

None of this really pertains -- except in an obtuse way -- to Alice Troughton's sharp thriller concerning a "Great Man" writer, played very well by Richard E. Grant and a young, aspiring (Black) writer who desperately wants to be Great, but might be consigned to Teach, as those who "can't do" do. 

In the opening scene (via the film's clever frame-tale) Daryl McCormack's Liam Summers is being feted on British TV for a Major New Work by a Major New Author. This scene brings to mind the brilliant and disturbing Tar, which has a similar frame tale and in some ways an equally bleak ending. When asked what inspired Summers to write his novel, he pauses, and most of the rest of the film attempts to answer that question.

The interior tale of The Lesson has Summers being hired to tutor The Author, J.M. Sinclair's moody Gen Y son, to help said Lad enter a prestigious English Undergrad program presumably at Oxford, or Cambridge. Sinclair's wife, played with cool French disinteredness by the great Julie Delpy, has hired Summers and may, or may not know that Summers is a Sinclair aficionado. Sycophant, perhaps, and also an aspiring writer himself.

Sinclair is Tradition, and Summers is the Individual Talent. 

The action takes place at Sinclair's small but gorgeous country estate, and once Summers arrives and takes up residence, the film plays out like a tight, Harold Pinter-style family drama. Sinclair is a tyrant and egotist, of course, and wife Helene realized some time ago that he only wants her for her French street cred. Oh, and some night time nookie in the writing room. So, she the have an Arrangement as most power couples do. 

But something is rotten in Somerset, so to speak. As Summers dines with Father, Helene and Moody Young Bertie it becomes clear that something more than just the classic Upper Middle Class disfunction is going on here. Stares, or Glares are exchanged like poison darts, while Father controls not just what they eat, but which Famous Russian Romantic Composer's music they are listening to. Through it all Summers tries to learn what is really going on, as he attempts to crack through Bertie's adolescent angst.

The Plot becomes more complicated as we learn that Sinclair is long overdue for his new Novel. Enquiring minds want to know what it is about, and when it will come out. Summers wants to know, too, and at one point about 2/3 of way through the film Sinclair invites him into his inner sanctum and shares that he has a draft of his new book. Summers is invited to read and comment on it, and, in turn, Summers asks Sinclair to read and comment on a draft of his first novel.

How this all plays out in the third reel, and what the deep dark secret is that is driving the overly vicious family dynamics you will have to find out for yourself. I don't put spoilers in my reviews and then say Spoiler Alert up front. OK, I did that with one review, but that is not typical.

Driving the claustrophobic action forward are fine performances all around, including deft work by Crispin Letts as Ellis, the don't ask don't tell Butler. Set design and Camerawork are top notch, and one note should be made of Isobel Waller-Bridge's excellent Score.

Great stuff. 

Won't ask, can't tell

 

It is hard for me, as a Hetero/Cisgender White Man, to imagine the difficulty a Gay Black Man would have had (or even today does have) just living in the world. It is even harder to imagine what that same man would have had to endure in the Armed Forces, considering I also have never served.

Having watched the The Inspection, I can at least say I have some idea of that difficulty. Elegance Bratton's dreamily photographed, yet hard-hitting film tells the apparently true story of one such man, Ellis French, who enrolls in the Marines after a tough young life with a Mom who "just don't understand". Dad is apparently absent (what else is new?) and Ellis seems to believe that the Armed Forces will give him a sense of belonging, and structure that growing up poor, and uneducated hasn't done.

Many enter the Military with similar expectations. They are usually disappointed in the reality of life in the Corps, or whatever branch in which they serve. Mainly because Basic Training is really, really tough. And, until recently, primarily Male, and Hetero. At moment in time our hero enrolls, there are some women, but the Military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy makes being openly (or even closeted) Gay dangerous business.

In Jeremey Pope's nuanced performance, French doesn't hide being Gay, but is never open enough about it that others should really know. But, alas, they do, and the resulting ridicule, and regular beatings from white, black and Latino men give us a small window into the suffering that any non-conformist in the Military must endure.

French does endure, not much aided by his Commanding Officer, Sargent Laws, played with brutal forcefulness by the great Bokeem Woodbine. Although there are some who support French -- including a closeted Officer -- none can be obvious about it. The dichotomy between trying to create a soldier, and suppressing the 'disgusting' gayness that Laws should feel seems to be non-existent. The irony is that commanding officers, especially during Training, both love their trainees and must act like they hate them: tear them down and rebuild them as fighting machines so they can go into battle and prevail.

At some level, Laws must feel this conflict, but he simply cannot show it, if he does. Woodbine plays the character with such conviction that, were it not for Pope's beautiful portrayal of French, Laws would steal the show. Or French's mother, played with similar grace by the equally great Gabrielle Union might do so as well, as her "cold cold heart" melts only slightly as she watches her son try to progress to some accomplishment in life: graduating Basic Training.

Hard to watch, but worth the effort.

The horror, the horror

 

We seem to be now in an era of the offspring of legendary directors somewhat taking over the reigns from their parents. Sofia Coppola is making way more films than her very famous Dad. Ghostbuster's helmer Ivan Reitman's son Jason has become an Indie darling.

Then there is Brandon Cronenberg. Yeah...

"Pops" Cronenberg, like him or lump him, has been one of the most interesting film-makers of the late 20th, and early 21st Century, with such early entries as Scanners, and later ones such as the amazing A History of Violence or Eastern Promises. "L'il" Cronenberg seems determined to one-up Pops, as was demonstrated with the Andrea Riseborough starrer Posessor.

Now we have Infinity Pool. Oh, man. Reviewers I quite admire have zeroed in on the Horror aspects of Infinity Pool, and it is, in parts, horrific. But it is also a real head trip, and kind of a Sci Fi piece, as much as it is a Horror film.

The plot involves a Privileged couple -- played by Alexander Skarsgård (James) and Cleopatra Coleman (Em) -- vacationing at a posh resort, in an Anonymous Mediterranean country. Where the title Infinity Pool comes in is not immediately clear, as this resort doesn't have one. An Infinity Pool, that is. What it does have is a lot of seemingly bored American and European tourists, just hankering for some blood-letting to alleviate their boredom. No problem.

Or, is it? Coming home from an against-the-rules excursion to a beach, slightly tipsy, at night, our Heroes run over a local citizen and, rather than attending to the person they continue back to the resort. Bad choice, as the next morning, the local Constabulary comes a-knockin', arrest James and take him to a strange holding cell where they make him an offer he literally can't refuse. Since said Citizen died, James is guilty of Manslaughter, and will have to be executed. But, if he pays them a lot of money and they will make a Body Double (Doppelganger?) that can be executed instead.

Sound like fun? Well, stay tuned, because what seems like a good idea at the time (who wouldn't use an ATM-generated wad o' Euros as a Get out of Jail Free Card?) turns out to be, well, not very nice. I don't know what is more horrifying (or gross), watching James' Golem (in the Jewish Doppelganger sense) be created in what can only be described as a soup of vomit, or James and Em having to watch him plead for his short life, whilst being executed.

And here is where it gets interesting. Was it the Golem who bit the dust, or James? It is not actually clear, and as the rest of the film descends into a kind of Lord of the Flies chaos of murder and body horror, this thread remains its primary through line. If it is James that is killed, then there are a bunch of Golems running around the resort, if not, what is the morality of killing a vomit soup-generated Golem?

Not that the film cares that much about morality. With skillful story-telling, some interesting camerawork and good SFX "Kid" Cronenberg produces a tale that is truly unlike anything Dad ever did. Or, for that matter, many other directors have done. Perhaps the last reel of Alex Garland's deeply disturbing Men.

Great Cinema, but not for the faint of heart.

The British have this "sad man comes to the end of sad life/career" genre nailed

 

For more than one reason, this lovely, yet melancholy drama staring the incomparable Bill Nighy reminded me of Goodbye, Mr. Chips. Mainly because the British seem to have cornered the market on films about (white) men coming toward the end of their days and wondering whether its all been worth it.

Maybe not cornered, as America's Mr. Holland's Opus, for which Richard Dreyfuss received a best actor nod, reminds one of Chips. And in both films -- not in Living -- the main character is reminded by those around him that his life hasn't been meaningless.

No such luck in Oliver Hermanus's spare, yet spiritual entry. Nighy plays Mr. Williams, the dry, somewhat distinguished head of a small department of a small local government who one day is seemingly not surprised to discover he has six months to live. I say not surprised because Williams appears to be living in a state of decay, like an old Oak that has stopped growing long ago. He receives the terminal verdict from his Doctor much like he might receive the news of a no confidence vote in the Prime Minister. I think the Brits call it a "stiff upper lip". I just call it sad.

The only question for Mr. Williams, besides whether he will even tell his mildly estranged Son that he is dying, is how he will live out the last few days of his washed out existence. Enter Government Department underling Margaret Harris, played beautifully by Aimee Lou Wood, who is just young and naïve enough to still have a joie de vivre that we wonder whether Williams ever had. A chance meeting with Harris outside of his office, along with a trip to one of the few British seaside towns that still hasn't decayed into irrelevance (Brighton?) and Williams decides, yes, his last few months will have meaning.

That's it, its that simple. Yet this seemingly small drama is writ in Mock-Heroic Epic scale, due to Nighy's Oscar-nominated performance and the sure-handed direction of Hermanus. Williams decides that he will accomplish one meaningful thing as he heads toward the last waiting room: build a playground in a dirt-poor section of London.

We learn in the first reel that that building this playground would be easier than winning World War II given the Kafka-esque bureaucracy in which Williams and his nearly anonymous group of co-workers labor. Yet Williams's determination to conquer this mendacity as an analog to giving his own seemingly sad life meaning is a battle hard won. How this plays out using a clever flash-back technique (yes, its not a spoiler to say that Williams dies half-way through the film) is quite something.

The music and cinematography contribute mightily to the tone of the film which is, as I have said, beautiful and melancholy. Or beautifully melancholy. Not sure which. Kind of like a Radiohead song.

The unbearable heaviness of loss

 

When I first encountered Mike Cahill's trippy meditation on love, loss, and the possibility of our souls living on past our bodies, I was intrigued. Upon re-watching, I would say intrigued has become impressed.

What I had remembered was that the film seemed to use a very Sci-Fi premise -- that our eyes' Irises contain the code, or key to our living souls -- to tell a very intimate story. Bio-tech researcher Ian Gray (Michael Pitt) working in NYC meets and falls in love with an elusive, butterfly-esque French woman (sounds a bit cliche, but go with it) and then loses her almost as quickly in a spectacularly horrific accident. The almost unreal heights of his passion translate to equally hard to swallow grief, but again, this doesn't kick us out of the story, thanks to Cahill's skilled story-telling.

Upon re-watching, I would say the Sci-Fi component is far more toned-down than I remembered, and the love-and-loss tone poem is really fore-grounded. Much to the film's benefit.

In order to work through his almost other-worldly grief, Pitt doubles down on his research, aided by Karen (played by the wonderful, and wonderfully-talented Brit Marling) and stumbles upon a remarkable discovery: it is possible that the key to an immortality of sorts is hidden in the Iris of every human being. Apparently, the Iris is the most unique expression of an individual short of their DNA, and Ian and Karen end up positing that after one person's body dies, their Iris can re-appear in another - and that that person will bear a remarkable resemblance (personality and spirit-wise) to the original.

Whether you buy this rather outlandish premise is somewhat unimportant, because the way it plays out in the last reel of the film is pitch perfect. It would be a spoiler to say whether Karen and Ian are able to prove their Thesis, but the path that takes them to their conclusion is lovely, touching and seemingly ready-made for this Indie "Sci Fi" film.

Definitely worth a watch of you like this genre, or even if you don't. Because, well, Brit Marling.

'The Vilnius Schoolmaster' Indeed

 

It is so interesting (at least to me) to re-visit films that I quite liked when I first encountered them -- many years later -- and assess if they still hold up. I am happy to say in this case, with John McTiernan's top-notch adaptation of Tom Clancy's Cold War thriller, it most definitely does. Hold up, that is.

Why?

In retrospect Clancy's flag-waving, almost jingoistic Spy Novels can be hard to take. Not the least because they are usually quite long, and complex. Said complexity partially informed by his deep of-the-time understanding of a simpler Spy Game in a simpler world. Hunt shows that in spades, for example in the nuanced way (white) hero Jack Ryan has to navigate both the CIA Beaurocracy and the Politically-charged Executive Branch to, well, save the world.

Leaving aside the novel, which I'll admit I did not read, McTiernan's crisp adaptation may or may not be faithful to the book, but is a crackling good filmic tale. The legendary Sean Connery chews the scenery as legendary Russian Nuclear Submarine Captain Marko Ramius, who in a fit of insanity has gone down a path that I won't reveal so as not to spoil one of the key plot points. Sufficed to say he has commandeered a Russian Nuclear Sub and has "gone rogue". Just let that sink in for a minute - even in todays' hyper complex world where the Russians, the Chinese and/or the pimply-faced kid down the street might bring whole economies down, a Nuclear Sub Captain still is, as the film slyly puts it "the most powerful man in the world". 

Attempting to thwart him is Clancy's Luke Skywalker, Jack Ryan, ably played by a very, very young Alec Baldwin. This is Baldwin pre-manslaughter trial, pre Cancel Culture. White, male, young, and ready to save the world. With the help, thank McTiernan and his Casting Director, of Admiral James Greer, played to perfection by the legendary African-American Actor James Earl Jones.

Am I using the word "legendary" too much?

You see where I am going here? I wanted to dislike Hunt because, well, it was a fairly straightforward film made during a much simpler time. But I can't because, well Jones, and former Senator Fred Dalton Thompson as a cranky, but thoughtful Carrier Captain. And the wonderful Scott Glenn as the American Sub captain who has to face down Ramius.

Besides the impeccable casting, Hunt features a tightly-written screenplay that makes its two hours plus running time feel like 90 minutes. And solid, pre-CGI production design that, I think, includes a couple of almost laughable early CGI effects. 

But the proof, to coin a phrase, is in the casting, and acting. The casting is one of the best ever in "pulp" style thriller -- who would have thought to cast Beetlejuice's Jeffrey Jones as a wheelchair-bound Sub engineer -- and the acting is, excellent. The scenes between Jones and Baldwin are great, especially when you consider Baldwin was probably terrified to appear on screen opposite the voice of Darth Vader. And Jones's brief scenes with South African actor Joss Ackland as the Lying Russian Ambassdor from Central Casting (remember him from Lethal Weapon, Part 2?) are really quite wonderful.

I could go on. Well, OK, I will. What about Dr. Frank-N-Furter himself, Tim Curry as an obsequious "Political Officer" who almost torpedoes Ramius's plans before they can get underway? (see how I did that?). Or legendary Kiwi (not Australian, BTW) thespian Sam Neill as another Russian Sub Captain. The only complaint, possibly, is that this is a major Sausage Fest. Either such were the times (as is lamely said) or Clancy's novel featured nearly no women in important roles.

Nonetheless, you find this fine adaptation on Showtime Anytime, or Fubo (wait, what?), or for Heaven's sake buy the Special Edition Blu-ray or 4K edition, or buy or rent on Amazon. You will not regret it. 

Something sacred

 

Darren Aronovsky's uncompromising take on grief, fatherhood, Literature and, well, the horrifying reality of morbid obesity divided critics. Some disliked it, some admired Brendan Fraser's Oscar-winning performance. A critic I quite admire called it "stagey". Well, yes. It is a film adaptation of a stage play, after all.

I greatly admired this courageous work. Why? It starts with the very artistic choice of a 4:5 aspect ratio (a la Robert Eggers' The Lighthouse) which underscores the dilemma of one who has fallen prey to addictive over-eating: the world literally becomes too relatively small to contain the very large person and they are constantly bumping into things and can't function in any way normally.

And it ends with denouement that can only be called Revelatory. I won't spoil it to say that the very Aronvsky-esque ending (have you seen his masterpiece, The Fountain?) has Fraser's character perhaps ascending to Heaven. I would argue that moment is very well earned.

In between we have Fraser's desperately humanistic portrait of a man, destroyed by Divorce and grief, who has been taken over by what is acknowledged as an addiction, overeating. We open with him masturbating while watching porn, when a knock at the door of his sad little apartment interrupts the sad, loveless act. The film's tone is set perfectly, as we are brought into the world of Fraser's character, perhaps living out his last days, with absolutely no Frills. Straight, No Chaser.

Whether this is Realism, or Naturalism I am not sure, as I did not attend Film School. What it is, is a visceral gut punch of uncomfortable Reality. It would be arrogant to assume that critics and viewers who did not care for The Whale were unable to "handle the truth" of its squirm-inducing scenes, which include Fraser walking back a heart attack by reciting lines from an Essay about the novel Moby Dick, or his estranged daughter (played brilliantly by Sadie Sink) emotionally flaying him for abandoning her.

I could go on, but, as Samuel Beckett might say, "I can't go on, I must go on, I will go on". OK, one final set of kudos for The Whale. The plotting and story (perhaps inherited from the stage play?) are nearly perfect. There are two major revelations in the film that relate directly to one and other, well, three, if you count discovering that Fraser's character's Nurse is related to the event that caused is extreme grief. How these Revelations are gradually, beautifully teased out through the dialogue and action is truly masterful.

The main Revelation of The Whale is, perhaps, that "we are all children of a Creator, worthy of the dignity of anyone on the plant" (cribbed from a Catholic Priest I admire). To me, that is worth the price of admission.

And what a Triangle it is

 

I remember the old school term "schlock jock" made famous by Howard Stern. You either love Stern or hate him. Maybe there is a new term, "schlock helmer" or something.

It seems many directors today -- Julia Dorournau, Rob Zombie to name a couple -- exist in part to test the moviegoer's appetite for the disgusting, Add Triangle of Sadness's Ruben Östlund to that list. For reasons I can't discern I avoided his critically-acclaimed Force Majeure, and didn't even bookmark The Square.

Am I glad I watched this wears-it-on-his-sleeve critique of Privilege? Yes, and no. Yes, because, ultimately it is a well-made film, and has an important point to make. That point being, in a nutshell, Rich People Suck. No, because the seemingly endless second reel barf-fest (sorry if that is a spoiler) is really, really disgusting.

Basic plot is a group of way too rich a-holes are vacationing aboard a luxury yacht. This includes two horrible Millennials who spend the first third of the film arguing about who is going to pay for dinner. In Paris. Yeah...

The marvelous Woody Harrelson plays the wasted skipper of said luxury yacht who may or may not be the most "normal" person aboard. Think Reality TV's Below Decks with an artistic point to make. At one point one of the Dowagers asks if they are going to put up the Sails. That tells you most of what you need to know about Ostlund's his characters.

Except, in the last third of the film things take a very interesting left turn. Without spoiling this wonderful section of the film I will say it is "Lord of the Flies for the One Percent". There is even a "twist ending" that does not remind one at all of M. Night Shyamalan.

Enjoy, or, well, something.

Quotable, yes, but does The Big Lebowski really hold up?

 

I had occasion recently to reference a scene from The Coen Brothers' Pynchon-esque mystery/comedy in an interaction with my daughter. My daughter is an artist, and I was recalling to her the scene where 'artist' Maude Lebowski -- brilliantly played by a young-ish Julianne Moore -- comes flying in an odd contraption over the titular Lebowski's head, spraying paint on a canvas as female voices (which appear to be making the sounds of women orgasming) are played over loudspeakers.

Hysterical, a bit subversive (the Coens are skewering post-modern art, a la Gerhard Richter), yet somehow germane to the film's plot line. Which is, ostensibly, the rescue of the other Lebowski's trophy wife, Bunny.

Or is it?

The various moves that TBL makes in service of its relatively ordinary, dare I say noir-ish, storyline at times seem to be the point of the film. Does it really matter that Bunny has been kidnapped, or has "kidnapped herself", or is the Journey here the real reward? And, more importantly, does this bowl of late-nineties cinematic gazpacho still hold up?

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

OK, perhaps I am going a bit overboard, but it is nice to have my remembered enthusiasm validated for, if not the Coen Brothers best film, at least their funniest. Either No Country for Old Men or Fargo is probably their best film. But even Barton Fink is not as funny as Lebowski. And Barton Fink is pretty funny.

Lebowski is one of those oft-quoted films, like The Godfather. Yet, it is most-oft quoted, I think, by middle-aged white men like me. So, perhaps my love of the film exists, and is echoed in a kind of Dad echo-chamber. I'm not really sure I care much. 

Why?

Let me count the ways. The late, great Ben Gazarra is porn king Jackie Treehorn, who, in classic Noir fashion slips a 'Mickey' into Lebowski's White Russian. The afore-mentioned Julianne Moore as Maude; the also Late, Great Phillip Seymour Hoffman as the sycophantic assistant to the other Lebowski. And of course, multiple Coen actor John Turturro in his steal-the-show performance as Je-sus. Oh he that nobody f's with. In retrospect, his turn is mildly racist, but, again, who cares? It is hysterically funny.

Of course, what really "ties the thing together" (see how I did that) is Oscar-winner Jeff Bridges as Jeffrey Lebowski, who cruises through the increasingly complicated and somewhat dangerous Story with the help of a constant low-grade buzz. Knowing now what we know about how great an actor Bridges is (have you seen The Old man on Hulu?) it is remarkable to look back and see him fully in character throughout the film.

You try playing a stoner/slacker/private dick. Well, if the "you" is Joaquin Phoenix in P.T. Anderson's wonderful Inherent Vice, fine. That film channels Lebowski, as many have since.

And The Big Jeffrey is joined by his partners in crime: Walter -- played with scenery chewing relish by the great John Goodman -- and the nearly silent Donny played with true 'third wheel'

glee by the under-rated Steve Buscemi. These three split into singlets, and pairs, and a trio several times, perhaps at no time funnier than when Walter and Lebowski attempt to deliver the ransom money to retrieve Bunny.

They are, alas, unsuccessful. Why would they be, and the sound of the mobile phone constantly ringing adds a brilliant comedic touch for the next several scenes, kind of a like the perfect spice in the soup. If you have never seen the Amazon Prime Original show Patriot, you simply must watch Season One. The Episode entitled "John's To-Do List" uses a Blackberry (a Blackberry!) to accomplish a similarly brilliant comedic effect.

Again, channeling Lebowski.

Is it the main story and main three characters, or the many, many memorable cameos that make this such fun? I can answer that in one word: Flea. I mean, who but the Coens would have the inspiration to have the Bassist from The Red Hot Chili Peppers appear as one of the Nihilists (not Nazis) who memorably repeat "give me the money, Lebowski, Jah" like a moronic mantra. Mostly it is the wonderful Swedish actor Peter Stormare uttering one of the film's many quotable lines.

I could go on, but need to stop. And watch it again. Lord...

Troubles with a Capital "T"

 

The one sheet above says it all: a title that is a bit perplexing, although inviting, might make one wonder whether Martin McDonagh's latest effort is worth seeing. Yet the presence of two marvelous Irish actors, Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson reassures that, if nothing else, having them in the film makes it worth a watch.

That's McDonagh in a nutshell. His films are always interesting, if a bit maddening. The meta-data in HBO Max tagged this as "comedy" and "drama". McDonagh's version of "comedy" is have a few laughs on the way to a deadly serious outcome. In fact, I found myself cringing more than laughing as Farrell's character Padraic, attempts to undo the puzzle box he is given right at the outset of the film.

Two men living in a somewhat picturesque, but depressing backwater town on an island in Ireland are best mates. Until they aren't. One day Gleeson's character Colm tells Padraic that he no longer wants him as a friend. Just like that, setting in motion a freight train to a small kind of Hell that it is unstoppable as it is brilliantly plotted and acted.

To quote Edward Albee, Padraic's obsession with finding out 'what happened', and the tragic consequences that ensue, are a "historical inevitability". Of course Padraic asks, and Colm in almost gentlemanly fashion simply replies that he doesn't want Padraic as a friend anymore. Both the viewer, and Padraic can't accept that answer and must know the real reason.

Unfortunately

In the end, what starts as an almost comedic, well, "romp" would be too strong a word, ends up as a Tragedy of minor Shakespearean proportions. I won't spoil the review by saying what the reason ends up being, only to say it is very, very sad. And, I also won't spoil by saying where everything ends up, but will say that the small drama taking place in Inisherin seems to echo (in allegorical fashion?) the larger conflict taking place across the water. This is 1980s era Ireland, after all.

McDonagh is fine film-maker, which shows in the overall mise-en-scene, here. He and his DP photograph the stunning Irish landscapes with clarity and eschew the sentimentality that sometimes accompanies "small town Ireland/Wales/Scotland" films. The script and acting are all superb, with Oscar-nominated Farrell and Gleeson showing why they are two of the finest their country has to offer. Farrell's sister is ably played by Kerry Condon and the wee lad who plays the town "idiot" nearly steals the show.

But the main event here is the story -- comedy deftly transformed into tragedy -- and the character development of Padraic and Colm. 

Trampled under foot

 

Full disclosure, I am a huge fan of Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead. The only American film-maker that I think even comes close to their ingenuity and vision is Shane Carruth. Regretfully, Carruth hasn't made anything since is truly amazing Upstream Color.

So, we members of the Benson and Moorhead Marching and Shouting Society (to quote the late Vin Scully) must be content to watch their phenomenal, mind-bending films. I had actually thought that The Endless was the best film they would ever make, especially as it was followed by the middling Synchronic, which apparently showed what happens when promising film-makers meet the Hollywood System. Not good.

We had nothing to be concerned about, because Something in the Dirt is, well Something. Really something. I spent the first ten to fifteen minutes very confused about what was going on, and worrying -- it turns out, without reason -- that this was going to be a low budget Synchronic. It is not.

What Something in the Dirt is, is phenomenal. Mind-bending. Hallucinatory. Visionary. Funny has heck. All of these qualities rolled into a 115 minute tour-de-force that questions the very nature of Time and Space, Existence, Spirituality, and much, much more.

The basic plot is that a Man moves into an apartment in LA, and meets his neighbor who lives downstairs. Both characters are, as in The Endless, played by the co-directors, which, I think, is really where they are at their best. Unlike The Endless, this film concerns primarily the two Men, as they puzzle through cosmic phenomena that start occurring in the first Man's upstairs apartment.

I think I remember a scene in Ghostbusters where Bill Murray opens a closet door and it turns out to be the entrance to Hell or something. Think that, but on Acid. In this case, they open the closet door of the apartment and it appears to be a Time-Space vortex where matter and energy either do not exist, or exist to such excess that they erase everything else. Oh, and there are strange calculations written on the walls of the closet. But written by whom?

Benson and Moorhead are truly an acquired taste. But not, like some directors because they test the boundaries of "good taste" (I'm looking at you, Julia Dorcaneau). Mainly because you must be willing to take a cinematic acid trip - open to the idea that, in a film, the very nature of reality and existence can be essayed in celluloid. Or Digital, Whatever.

And some of the most interesting Indie SciFi films in recent memory are made in Los Angeles, set in LA and made by LA-based film-makers. The other one that comes to mind is the wonderful Under the Silver Lake, with Andrew Garfield. In any case, if you like your mind fully messed with, you will love Something in the Dirt. If you would rather that the story make traditional "sense", this is definitely not for you.

I loved it, though :)

All The Chairman's Women

 

The main thing that this film left me with was a profound sadness, and sense of disgust.

If you don't know what it is about, here's a quick synopsis. Harvey Weinstein, the Chairman of Miramax, sexually and verbally abused and harassed at least 82 women over the years, and was eventually brought down by journalists from the NY Times and The New Yorker. He is currently in prison and will probably spend the rest of his life in jail.

Weinstein was a monster, and She Said does an excellent job of telling -- All the President's Men style -- the thrilling story of how two intrepid NY Times reporters finally brought him down. Well, along with Ronan Farrow.

I say excellent because She Said sticks to its guns, so to speak, and focuses on the journalistic enterprise, and largely stays away from the politics of the #metoo movement. Probably good, as that pendulum swung way to far in one direction, obliterating people, institutions and much else with out much discretion.

Speaking of institutions, the most horrifying thing about Weinstein isn't Weinstein, but the corrupt Hollywood system that, like many other Patriarchal institutions, kept him in power for far too long, looked the other way when abused women spoke out, and more.

Getting back to the film, again, I like She Said because it focuses on one story: how two journalists pieced together the story of Weinstein's evil doings and (finally) obtained the on-the-record commentary that makes any big Investigative piece have its credibility. The two actresses who play the main characters are excellent, which certainly helps the cause, here.

One final word. I recently saw a documentary called The Witness about the infamous Kitty Genovese stabbing in Queens in the 1970s. It becomes clear over the course of this well-told piece that the might New York Times occasionally -- perhaps often -- gets it wrong. The filmmakers even gave Abe Rosenthal the opportunity to admit it, on camera, and he wimps out.

So, score one for journalistic heroism. Deduct a half point for the Grey Lady, who is certainly not, herself, blameless in the main.