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.

A slow burn of pure terror (spoilers included)

 

(SPOILER ALERT)

I was having trouble deciding whether to watch this brilliant Danish horror film, because I couldn't tell if it was sub-titled, or dubbed. Full disclosure, I am a bit of a snob when it comes to dubbing, and, in the words of the great Laemmle Twin arthouse theater in Los Angeles, I am "not afraid of subtitles". Turns out, that is one of the things that makes this film so effective: the two couples are from two different countries -- Holland and Denmark -- and, since neither speaks the other's native language, they communicate almost entirely in English.

And therein, as Hamlet would say, lies the "rub". Miscommunication lies at the heart of the story here, or, at least, if one couple understood better what the other was saying they might have not only extricated themselves, and their daughter, from a fate literally worse than death, but might have also avoided the somewhat horrifying social awkwardness that almost steals the show, here.

A couple from Denmark are vacationing with their daughter in Tuscany, and meet another couple (with an odd son) from Holland who are staying at the same Pensione or Villa. Really, things start going "bad" from the very beginning, as the Holland couple are just strange, and their son is unable to speak properly due to a tongue having been malformed (or cut out?). As one reviewer pointed out, the lengths to which the Danish couple will go to accommodate -- that is not embarrass themselves socially -- the weird Holland couple provides a horrifying reality that nearly overshadows the truly gruesome nature of the "big reveal" in the end.

For example, after being invited to stay the weekend with the Holland couple, upon their return, the Danish couple feel like they can't refuse. They say to one another, "how bad could it be?" Turns out, very bad. After making their way over eight hours by car (and Car Ferry) to the Holland couple's low-rent house in the Dutch woods, they are subjected to various social affronts, including having to watch the Holland couple do a very sexual dance in a sketchy Roadhouse (like something out of a Tobe Hooper or Rob Zombie flick), and having the Danish wife experience the other couple's husband doing "number one" in the bathroom while she is taking a shower.

The plotting of Speak no Evil is so effective that, about halfway through the film, enough is enough and the Danes escape at dawn, only to return to retrieve their daughter's seemingly lost stuffed bunny. This is the classic horror movie trope where the protagonists go toward the axe-wielding villain, not away. Here, awakened, the Holland couple confronts them and puts social pressure on them to stay. Uh, oh.

From here things go downhill fast. That night the Danish father discovers a cabin where the souvenirs from previous victims -- cameras, camping equipment -- are hanging like trophies, and then comes across the Holland couple's son, Abel floating dead upside down in a hot tub. It all becomes very clear, very quickly that the Hollands are a serial killer couple, who maim and kidnap other couples' kids, and kill the adults. Within only a few minutes of the film's elapsed time, their daughter is seized and mutilated by a mysterious third stranger, and the couple are stoned to death in a lonely quarry. That's it, end of story.

Or is it? The last scene has the Holland couple, now with the dead Danish couple's tongueless daughter driving up a hill to a classic Italian villa, searching for their next victim.

Yikes.

Sort of a deconstructed "Stand by Me"

 

I am not a big fan of Blumhouse, mainly because, based on critical and fan ratings, most of their films don't seem to be very good. I have watched a few, and that is the impression that was confirmed when I did.

The Black Phone, however, is a whole nother story. Literally. Based on a short story, this unique thriller-horror entry focuses almost exclusively on the POV of the young people who are affected when the Serial Killer known as "The Grabber" is wreaking havoc on Suburban Denver in the not so recent past.

A word about the Killer. I will literally watch anything that Ethan Hawke makes, and this is no exception. Hawke can do Drama, Comedy, High Arthouse and Horror equally well. Even though I agree that Sean Penn is probably our best American actor, Hawke is probably our most versatile. Here he chews the scenery as the mask-wearing Grabber who seems just crazy enough to drive around in a "raper van" wearing a magician's top hat (and, strangely, not get noticed); and just deadly serious enough to grab young men and keep them in his basement until he is ready to kill them.

The latter is not a spoiler, as the main plot of The Black Phone concerns a young man named Finney-- very well played by Mason Thomas -- who is trying to navigate Adolescence while also trying to avoid being grabbed. Unfortunately, he is, and the heroism he shows in trying to escape is aided by a strange phone which allows him to receive calls from The Grabber's previous victims. The top notch ensemble cast of young actors and actresses, and the storyline concerning their adolescent dreams and desires layered over the riveting Silence of the Lambs style hunt for The Grabber makes for some good film-making.

Based no the POV I was reminded of the iconic Rob Reiner film "Stand By Me" based on a Stephen King (novel?) and thought that The Black Phone kind of deconstructs that film. In Reiner's film, a group of chums growing up in a rather innocent small town in Maine discover a dead body, in The Black Phone, the time and place are less innocent, and the kids basically have to save themselves. If they can.

Kudos to the various adult actors, including the always wonderful Jeremy Davies as Finney's alcoholic, child-abusive Dad. If you have never seen Davies's weird but wonderful performance in Stephen Soderbergh's Solaris, check it out. Or just check out Solaris, because it is excellent.

More atmospheric than scary. But, that's good.

 

J.A. Bayona is in the news a lot lately because he is a key figure in the new Lord of the Rings series on Amazon. Depending on your point of view (expecting to love it, expecting to hate it, etc.) that might lead you to, or push you away from, this atmospheric thriller/horror entry set in a remote area of Spain.

I had seen this before and decided to watch again, and had the same reaction. When the kid disappears, what starts as a straight-up horror film morphs into a thriller. Or does it? The conclusion (no spoilers) reminded me of why I liked it the first time. I'm not giving anything away by saying this is a "surprise ending" story, like The Sixth Sense, or The Others. But the surprise comes pretty much out of Left Field.

The framing tale involves an Orphanage in a creaky old house on the Coast of Spain. Not the sunny, Ibiza coast in the Mediterranean, but the creepy Coast farther North, I think. A young girl is adopted out of this seemingly forgotten children's home, and years later she, her husband, and their adopted son return to try to turn the former Orphanage into a home for developmentally disable children.

But, as is said, the kid disappears, and sets in motion a frantic search, months of waiting, and, eventually, the desperate, trope-y hiring of a Paranormal expert to try to determine if the ghosts of dead children are haunting the house. Think Stephen Spielberg's classic Poltergeist, but in Europe.

What happens next, as I said, would spoil it if you plan on watching. If you love ghost stories, thrillers or horror films you many or may not like this mélange of all three. I know I did.

The Fluidity of Gender?

 

It is possible to ask whether a film can be "important" and also ask that it be well-made. It might even only be useful to ask the latter question, but, where "The Sound of Identity" is concerned, the former almost over-shadows the latter. But not completely.

TSOI is certainly important, as the documentary concerns the US debut of Trans Opera Singer Lucia Lucas in, of all places, Tulsa, Oklahoma. Full disclosure, lo these nine years I am a happy transplant to  this surprising city, and in rooting for it events like Lucia's role as Don Giovanni have a special place in my heart. Leaving that aside for a moment, I think the film is broadly important at a time when LGBTQ+ rights -- so hard won in recent decades -- are under attack. In particular in the same state where Tulsa is located.

And, it is well made. Despite some perhaps unnecessarily long sections -- the scene at a favorite Japanese Restaurant, Jinya, comes to mind -- the technical accomplishments of the film are solid. Camera work is very good, and overall the Editing works. There is a lot to cover in a film that is both about what it means to be Trans, and what it means to play Don Giovanni.

But ultimately TSOI is about Lucia, and Lucia is a special person. As with Trans people I have known, she is supremely self-confident to the point of having literally no (blank)'s to give what you think of her. Why would she, given the courage she has shown both in being true to herself and undergoing a very difficult transition. 

She is also not a bad singer, as the film shows in small, and large ways. Hearing her warm up and rehearse it is clear she is the real deal, which is not easy to be in the small and colloquial world of Opera. What is remarkable is her taking on one of the great roles in all of Opera, Don Giovanni. As is pointed out, Giovanni is the supreme example of "toxic masculinity" while himself having a fluidity to his gender that makes having a Trans singer attempt it all the more fitting, and ironic.

The build-up to the Performance is a steady drumbeat, involving the "PR" aspect of Trans, Tulsa, Mozart. At the same time Tulsa Opera is a business, and if they don't sell enough seats they will lose money on the Opera, regardless of how many Karmic points they score. Personal details like Artistic Director Tobias Picker's own history as a Gay man growing up with Tourette's Syndrome are very powerful. You can't make this stuff up, folks.

This adds a certain non-Operatic drama to the story which makes the overall effect of The Sound of Identity quite pleasing. No matter which way you net out on Trans rights, or even Opera, this is a well made documentary, and worth the watch. Currently streaming on Showtime Anytime.

When's that baby due?

 

Well, well well. I had read some fairly negative reviews of this mildly insane thriller from Ex Machina and Annihilation helmer, Alex Garland. And some reviews that proclaimed it "important" as a feminist "Get Out".

Yeah, it is something. Not sure what, though. Garland is a skilled film-maker, so, as a piece of film craftpersonship "Men" is solid, if not excellent. A perfectly self-contained story, set in a trope-y English country village, with good acting by Jessie Buckley and Penny Dreadful's Rory Kinnear. Its like a good Crème Brule or something.

But, did I want Crème Brule? Or, did I even want desert? The problem with "Men", if there is a problem, is that it appears to be a scathing (withering?) indictment of Toxic Masculinity, perhaps along the lines of the equally insane "Titane" by Julia Ducournau. Or a deconstruction of hetero-normative relations, like the moderately insane, and brilliant, "The Lobster" by Yorgos Lanthimos.

Buckley plays a youngish Londoner who has escaped to the Countryside to mourn (?) the death of her Husband. Said death is told in flashback scenes of increasing depth that attempt to frame the current story, which starts out creepy and just goes downhill from there.

She arrives at an English Country house owned and Airbnb'd by the buck-toothed Jeffrey, played with scenery-chewing relish by Kinnear. As Jeffrey shows our heroine around the home, he seems just a bit too familiar, a bit too awkward and way too toothsome.

The expressionist hair and makeup for Jeffrey pre-sages one of the more harrowing techniques in the film. All of the male characters -- the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker (no really, the bar owner, the priest, the cop, etc.) -- are all played by Kinnear. In order to not make that too obvious, each character has some over the top aspect of their appearance that seems to initially set them apart. With Jeffrey, the teeth. With the Priest, the hair.

This all becomes problematic when she encounters a young punk of a boy that seems to have had Kinnear's face painted on him with CGI. That is either very scary or very hilarious. And how you view that will largely determine how you judge "Men." The Third Reel asks the viewer to believe, in fact, that all of "the men" she has encountered -- and, who all seem to want to kill her -- are actually the same man.

Is this some fever dream as she wrestles with guilt over hubby's death (no spoilers)? Or, do quiet English villages actually feature, many worlds style, multiple versions of the same toxic male, who all want to kill our heroine? These questions, and more, may be fun to ask. Again, depending on your view of Garland's film.

The Many Worlds Theory

 

I have been dabbling lately in the current state-of-the-art in Quantum Physics - a little thing I like to call the "Many Worlds" theory. Ha ha.

I have been reading, though, about Everettian mechanics, and getting my head pretty blown. Basic idea is that given the messiness of Quantum Physics, the only way to fix it is to posit that measurement of anything, including sub-atomic particles, creates an infinite number of branches, or worlds. Not necessarily "timelines" as SciFi likes to theorize.

So, what a diversion this ambitious, yet somewhat confusing take on, well, Reality is. Critics ranged from raving praise to dubbing Belgian helmer Jaco Van Dormael's perhaps overlong meditation on time, space and love a complete waste of time. But, with Many Worlds, time can't really be "wasted". See how I did that?

Oscar-winner Jared Leto is pretty good as Nemo Nobody, a 118-year-old man reflecting on his life, and most importantly on the decisions he made that created his own "branch". Most of this in an unchallenging heteronormative fashion involves which girl he chooses, or doesn't chose to spend his life with. Nobody, you see, is the last living mortal person alive at a time when mortality has been nearly wiped out by infinite cell regeneration. But, that's for another film. Really, as Dormael spends literally no time explaining how the world got to where it is.

The risk of such a far-reaching premise is that it collapses under its own weight -- which the film ultimately doesn't -- or that you never get "everything explained" in the end, as in the Big Reveal. Did Nobody actually live two, or even three simultaneous existences? Is it possible to wind Time backward once the Universe reaches its fullest Big Bang expansion?

Alas, these big questions aren't really answered. But the Ride is pretty entertaining thanks to some of best Film Editing you'll ever see. A team of Editors (I think including Dormael) must have worked for months to splice together the multiple threads of the story. If, a la Christopher Nolan, you are a fan of film technique then Mr. Nobody is for you. If you want your stories a bit more well-explained, and wrapped up, then you might pass on this one.

Or, maybe the Branch You doesn't pass on it. Ha ha. Sorry...

Love and (Not) Rockets

Well well well. Perhaps the long-in-the-tooth Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) has some life after all. I have read recently that Disney has milked the legendary comic book-cum-film franchise, quite literally, to death. In the name of profit, perhaps.

Once again, the great Taika Waititi saves the day.  It wasn't that long ago that the MCU -- with Disney only recently having bought Marvel Studios -- was gasping a bit for air. Enter half-Maori (Te-Whanau-a-Apanui) creative Waititi who sends us Thor-Ragnarok, which was not only a stunning visual entertainment, but funny in only the way Taika can do funny. I can't even say "Korg" without laughing.

Thor: Love and Thunder has perhaps toned down the dire stakes and visual feast of Ragnarok, in exchange for an intimately personal story about love, family...and of course Thunder. And it is damn funny. Who else would have one of the central narratives of the story be a a God weapon that is jealous of another God weapon, so much that its God-owner, Thor, has to coo to it to make sure it doesn't emit a "janky Bifrost" (LOL) at a key moment in the story.

And the story here is that Thor, wherever he is on the rather complex timeline of the MCU has been languishing and growing a "Dad bod" as he pines for his lost friends, and most importantly, is lost girlfriend, Jane Foster. All is certainly not well, but to steal a phrase from a Shakespeare professor I had at Cal State Northridge, we do need a real "threat" to move things along.

Enter a God Assassin, played with scenery-chewing relish by Christian Bale. Purely out of spite against Gods, he not only threatens the Universe, but does so while kidnapping a bunch of kiddoes from the village/themepark thingy that Ragnarok has become after its destruction in...well, I forget which MCU entry managed that neat trick. That's it, that's the setup.

The storylines mostly concern those that have loved, and lost. In particular Thor and Jane. What Thor doesn't know -- what he can't know -- is that Jane has Stage 4 something-Cancer and is not well. But, she manages to get Thor's Hammer to reassemble and literally becomes Thor, while Thor himself settles for a second rate weapon, nonetheless forged out of a dying star, or some such MCU nonsense.

Following a brief, and perhaps unnecessary detour to visit the rotund Zeus, played by the rotund Aussie actor Russell Crowe and steal Zeus's Thunderbolt (oh, I see what you did there, Taika) the apocalyptic scene plays out in due course. And, things end in both a satisfying, and sad fashion. No spoilers.

Overall, Thor: Love and Thunder delivers the kind of action, visual spectacle and humor that we have come to expect from some entries in the series (Guardians of the Galaxy, anyone?). And of course it has Korg, which is worth the price of admission.

What just happened

 

I read reviews of this film before, and after I watched. I love the Clickbait web pages that promise to "explain the ending" but never do. Spoiler alert, they don't. Mainly, my complaint about Sundown is I have no idea what happened at the end.

The beginning, and middle, are pretty interesting. I love Tim Roth -- although am becoming convinced every character he plays is Tim Roth -- and he, of course, has to carry the film or it fails. He is very good. Roth plays a British fellow on Holiday with his family. From the beginning you aren't sure about a lot of things, including if the woman (played by Charlotte Gainsbourg) is his wife. Apparently, that is director Michel Franco's gig - obfuscating what might otherwise be clear.

OK, I buy that. But at some point it ought to be a bit clearer. Is it? Kinda yes, and kind no. The woman's mother dies, the family returns to London -- minus Roth's character -- and everything gets pretty interesting. A existential drama turns into a love story, and then a crime thriller.

Then, what? The final frame features a shirt draped over a chair with waves breaking in the background. Huh? I like ambiguity but this was a bit much for me. But, the critics loved the film. So, who am I to judge.