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Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. (2022)
L O U S Y
The hardest film genre to nail is probably the faux-documentary-comedy. There's basically "This is Spinal Tap," "Best in Show," the "Borat" movies, and to a lesser degree "Waiting for Guffman" and its follow ups. The rest are stuck in that grey area in between 'fighting for naturalism' and "lousy slapstick."
If you want to see an example of how badly it can go when the director (and most of the actors) don't have a clue, try watching "Honk for Jesus, Save Your Soul," a dismally unfunny attempt to make comedy from the Mega-Church Scandal phenomenon, a subject that is already overripe with self-parody: No matter how hard this movie tries, it can't compete with the truth. ("The Real Housewives of..." franchise already creates the funniest faux-documentaries out there. If you're going to try and lambaste the manipulative rich, at least know your competition).
I love Regina Hall. "Master," her creepy horror film (about the first Black head of house at a mostly white East Coast University) is one of my favorite films of the year. She is a real chameleon and absolutely the only actor in "Honk" that seems to know what she's doing. Every glance, gesture and half-spoken aside is right on point.
But the rest of the cast (especially Sterling K. Brown and Nicole Beharie) are simply incapable of finding that sweet spot where naturalistic comedy thrives. They're all pushing too hard. And the sudden non-specific camera zooms that (clearly) first-time director Adamma Ebo uses to ham-fistedly remind us that we're watching a 'mockumentary' are just lame. After thirty minutes I got so tired of groaning that I actually had to shut the thing off.
Maybe the movie found its feet in the final hour. If that's the case...my bad. I was intending to review this thing for Art Report Today but there's no way I could
1.) finish watching it and
2.) write a published takedown of a movie that casts so many talented (but sadly misdirected) POC.
Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris (2022)
Soundtrack from Hell
Another example of a perfectly lovely movie that is utterly destroyed by the non stop chattering of its busy, busy musical soundtrack. There are about five minutes of film where the chugging, scampering and whining music stops and the relief is overwhelming. Otherwise not a moment goes by where we aren't being told exactly how to feel from second to second. Loudly. I wanted to pull my ears off my head.
Benediction (2021)
Genius
I'll be writing a review for Art Report Today so I just wanted to say: this is the best film of the year so far and Davies' finest achievement. Bring the tissues, it's a weeper. And the acting is sublime.
The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent (2022)
not funny. not anything
Clearly a first draft. It needed some serious rewrites, and then some acting talent and a director who wasn't a hack. Everybody comes off as unfunny and flat and phoning it in. I'm confused...what was this supposed to be?
Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022)
Like being assaulted
So horrible it defies description. Imagine getting mugged, then running into the street to flag down a car but instead of stopping, the car runs over you. Then backs up so they can run over you again. Then the paramedics show up and they throw you off a ten story building.
Master (2022)
Awesome and terrifying
Ignore the Boogaloo Boys' reviews. This movie is an eye opening, tense thriller. Perfectly acted and with a twisty plot that almost needs multiple viewings to unravel. It is superior to "Get Out" in that the horrors are real.
Svart krabba (2022)
fantastic film
Great and beautiful and tense and exciting. Noomi Rapace is an amazing action star. Like nothing I've seen before, which is saying something. A ballet of stunning images, quick fire action and brooding sadness. Bravo to all involved.
Belfast (2021)
Worst Film of the Year. No kidding.
After all these years Kenneth Branagh still doesn't know where to put the camera. It looks like a first year film student trying to be arty. None of the shots match up. The background actors are so aware of the camera, they look like community theatre actors in a small town production of "Oliver!" And dear God if I never hear another song by Van Morrison again it will be too soon. Ugh, what a mess. Those poor actors.
The Adam Project (2022)
Cancer Causing
Like sucking on a spent fuel rod. A vile example of corporate movie making. Not funny, not moving, not exciting, not engaging. The level of stupidity on display is like staring at an oven and wanting to blow out the pilot and take a long nap.
Red Rocket (2021)
Naked and Afraid
RED ROCKET
Watching a grown man run naked through the streets of a small Texas town, (his junk flopping around like a dead fish, his poor feet slapping on the pavement, sweat and fear and stupidity coating every inch of his pretty physique) sends a clear message about the vulnerability of the human body: God invented clothes for a reason. Without armor (even cotton or denim) we are practically defenseless.
By the time Mikey Saber (Simon Rex) shows his moneymaker in the third act of "Red Rocket," the strip show of his loosely fitting dignity has come to an end, his shot at redemption has been jettisoned, and he's managed to tell more lies per minute than our former prez. Not since Paul Newman in "Hud," has such a callow, worthless piece of meat managed to dig his way into our hearts.
I admit that I checked out some of Rex's early 'work' - in particular a film called "Young, Hard & Solo 3" - and his 'prowess' as a performer, though somewhat 'stiff' still managed to be 'explosive'. Shame on me. It's actually a pretty great redemption story to have 'come' from the world of porn and managed to give a performance as hilarious and heartfelt as Rex gives in "Red Rocket." Especially since the role of Mikey is basically an eight-year-old child narcissist in the body of a forty-five-year-old man - the depth of the character's character is rice-paper-thin. And yet we love him. Even while screaming for Mikey to get what's coming to him.
There's not much plot, but director Sean Baker doesn't need one to bring us entirely into his world. And the cast of actors he has assembled is remarkable for their absolute authenticity. Suzanna Son, Brittney Rodriguez, Bree Elrod, Judy Hill and Ethan Darbone are all extraordinary performers. But it's the late, great Brenda Deiss, as Mikey's meth-addicted step-mom, Lil, who handily walks off with the picture: when she's on camera you can't look anywhere else. During a rare moment of warmth she asks Mikey if he wants "S*** on a shingle or chicken fried steak" for dinner and her excitement about getting to share something of herself, even with this ne'er-do-well layabout is so vulnerable and sweet I wanted to punch him for his answer.
There are third act problems (and an ending that doesn't completely satisfy) - but all is forgiven since the ride has been so much fun. And it doesn't really matter that Baker doesn't quite stick the landing, because while Mikey Saber's redemption is up for grabs - Simon Rex's is the real thing.
Ich bin dein Mensch (2021)
A Billy Wilder movie for the 21st Century
Apparently Dan Stevens speaks fluent German, just one of the surprises in Maria Schrader's romantic-comedy "I'm Your Man," (short listed for the Best International Film Oscar). And, like the humanoid robot he plays in the film, Dan doesn't seem to have aged a day since "Downton Abbey." And he's never been more alluring (that body, those eyes, the wry way he holds his mouth while teasing the all-too-human Maren Eggert).
Billy Wilder would've loved the premise of an emotionally distant academic female agreeing to live with a 'romantic' humanoid male robot for three weeks as part of a relationship experiment, (though even seventy years ago, Wilder would've gone way further with the sex jokes): It's not hard to imagine Gary Cooper and Jean Arthur in the roles.
Here, the story gets a modulated, unsentimental take from Schrader. And a beautiful performance from Eggert. Her gradual shifts in psychology are believable; her inner struggles tangibly limned. Though the movie moves through the expected steps of an odd couple romance, it still manages to surprise.
The test of a love story's resonance is felt most at the point of crisis, when all seems lost: The pain of realizing that the fragile dance of love might by necessity come to an end. Here, the desire for a happy resolution wrestles with logic and Eggert plays this inner struggle perfectly.
Bottom line: I want my own Dan Stevens pleasure-bot to declutter my house and draw me a hot bubble bath. Now more than ever.
Available on Hulu.
The Beta Test (2021)
One of the best movies of 2021
"The Beta Test" (2021) just showed up on Hulu this week and I watched it straight through in a state of mild of amazement.
It stars (and is directed by) Jim Cummings and PJ McCabe.
Cummings is an astounding physical comedian. Like a darker and more focused (and funnier) version of the young Jim Carrey. He plays a Hollywood Agent for CAA rival APE - and he nails the mixture of sycophancy, cruelty and blank indifference of every agent I've ever known. The scenes at the APE offices (in particular a conference room where execs are discussing "packaging deals" and how to destroy the WGA) are all brutally spot on. "The WGA is laughing at your starving children!" says one of the suits. - It's all so grotesquely close to reality it seems like a documentary.
The plot involves infidelity and murder and data scraping and it's a little obtuse at times. (I had to look up The Sony Hacks to figure out what everybody was talking about). But part of what makes the direction so effective is how little onscreen time is wasted: A massive plot point is doled out in a single five second shot: if you blink at the wrong moment you will miss the meaning of the ending.
This kind of trust in their product and audience is heartening, but its refusal to pander to short attention spans also explains the relatively low IMDB score for what is one of my favorite films of the year.
I have one serious quibble: the opening five minutes depict a particularly cruel murder which almost derails the whole film. I don't like to watch misogyny personified, even in a movie about objectification and male power. "We all still want to be Harvey," Cummings' character says near the end of the film. (It took me a minute to realize which Harvey he was talking about).
But at its best this movie is a comedy. Yes there are thriller elements (the unraveling of the central mystery is handled in a particularly Polanksi-esque fashion) but whenever director/writers Cummings and McCabe wander too far into horror their metaphoric power is diminished. They are two of the smartest writers working today; they don't need knives and hammers and guns to prove they have teeth. Nothing cuts as savagely as language.
CODA (2021)
I tried to resist...but CODA wore me down.
CODA is a baby harp seal of a movie. And though I have issues with the formulaic nature of its plot and the lack of surprise (except for how emotional I got at the end) I am putting down my critic's club and focusing on all that's great about this sweetest film of the year.
I'm a cynic with a heart of mush. All it takes to successfully manipulate me into a vulnerable state are good intentions mixed with truth; unexpected kindness; valiancy and the possibility of redemption. Great acting also helps. And a beautiful girl with a beautiful voice singing a Joni Mitchell classic. (If for no other reason than that it sends a bunch of young folks on a journey to discover our greatest living songwriter, CODA deserves its position on Oscar's Best Picture list).
Plus, I love a movie that shows people over fifty being sexually active. Even when (as here) it's primarily played for laughs. Marlee Marlin and Troy Kotsur make for a sexy, goofy couple. And I didn't mind their mutual carnality, even when engaging in some afternoon delight that can be heard through the walls of their bedroom, much to the horror of their 'at the end of her rope' daughter Ruby, (a sweet-natured Emilia Jones).
The story of conflict between artistic pursuit and familial responsibility is well trod. But the fact that Ruby is the only hearing member of her family - and that she is a singer (therefore her art will never be enjoyed fully by the people she most wants to share it with) - lifts CODA from the mundane and sends it into a kind of metaphoric Valhalla. And though I may have seen the ending coming from a mile away, I sure didn't see how strongly I would be effected by it.
Sometimes Bennett falls asleep on my arm and drools all over my hand- Sometimes when I'm smooching his tummy I get overwhelmed and cry all over his fur. It's good to feel things. This movie is an unapologetic weeper. I have no shame for shutting down my critical eye and being utterly ensnared.
The Tragedy of Macbeth (2021)
Unintended Camp
Over the years Frances McDormand and Denzel Washington have proven to be strong insurance against bad movies. Hearing they would be playing the Macbeths in Joel Coen's adaptation was instant catnip for me. Yes, they seemed a bit youth-challenged for the roles, but I was immediately intrigued by how they'd pull it off, because I had no doubts they would.
And things go well at first. The theatricality of the presentation mixes nicely with the 4:3 aspect ratio and the stark austerity of the blacks, whites and grays of the photography. Kathryn Hunter as the witches is a marvelously physical (if slightly annoying) screen presence; Denzel brings an unfussy intelligence to the role and Frances nails her first scene: it turns out that conniving becomes her.
But once we've entered the drab castle and seen the long shadows and the high windows and the jaunty angles, and listened to the half-lit whispered intrigues, a dearth of imagination starts to flatten out the experience: the actor's emotions, though deeply felt at times, rarely transcend the stranglehold of the director's vision.
And what exactly IS that vision? Sometimes, the photography and staging have the luminescent brilliance of Michael Haneke's The White Ribbon." The attack on Banquo and Ross's search for Fleonce through a torchlit wheat field is a stunner, as is the gathering of the troops in the Great Birnam Wood. At other times it feels like we're in an SCTV sketch about Ingmar Bergman, especially in the last third when the images start to resemble a 90's perfume ad (oh those wind blown leaves and long hallways) and the performances start to curdle into near-camp.
Coen simply hasn't made enough choices to fill the movie's 100 minute length. Again and again we are left with two actors shot against a featureless gray wall. In contrast to Polanksi's muddy, bloody Bruegelesque "Macbeth" where every inch of screen seemed to burst with (in)humanity, Coen gives us the unpopulated castle of Mel Brooks' "Young Frankenstein" where McDormand's mad scene fits tonally right next to Madeline Kahn's vamping bride. It's a hermetically sealed environment. And a boring one.
Yet some of the acting is marvelous: There are scenes where Denzel brings such clarity and understanding to the language, it's as if I'm hearing it for the first time. And there are long swaths where he sounds like an ESL student uttering meaningless syllables in some unknown language.
But Frances is the bigger disappointment. Her early promise, energy and fierce passion go from stiletto sharpness to butter knife dull in a performance whose shapelessness fits in nicely with the overall shapelessness of the film.
Yes, there are some startling images but they never coalesce into a working work of art. The lowest point (and one from which the movie never recovers) is Stephen Root's Porter which is unfunny, forced and painful to witness.
And yet, there is the delicious Alex Hassel as Ross: a lean, vulpine enigma who lifts the spirits every time he walks onscreen. Among a cast of fine (but mostly wasted) actors, Hassel is a masterclass.
The Last Duel (2021)
We haven't changed in five centuries
Todd Akin came to mind while watching Ridley Scott's Medieval epic "The Last Duel," the other night. A courtroom scene late in the film pits sweet Jodie Comer's Marguerite against a room full of smug magistrates. They seem very interested in whether or not she had 'enjoyed' the sex with her rapist Jacques le Gris (Adam Driver). She is now pregnant and since it's impossible for joyless sex to lead to conception, they are fairly certain that her rape couldn't possibly be legitimate.
Todd Akin died just ten days before the release of Scott's movie and his timing couldn't have been better: It was back in 2012 that he jettisoned his Missouri senatorial run by speaking out against abortion (even in cases of rape) by saying "If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down." How little has changed in seven hundred years.
The scene (which comes at around the two hour mark) supplies a welcome dose of adrenaline: seeing creepy, entitled men blandly discuss the fate of an innocent woman always makes my blood boil. And I needed something to wake me up after the previous two hours of needlessly repetitive film making.
I'd read that the rape-story was told in a Roshomon fashion from three different points of view. But what we get is the same story told from one point of view, three different times. We're led to expect that 'one of the versions is the real version.' But they're all the same. It's a crazy stunt that makes no sense on any level. It's as if Ridley Scott was trying to gaslight us and failing, badly.
When the movie stops all these shenanigans and moves into striaghtforward narrative mode, it's quite compelling. The courtroom scene and the titular 'Duel,' are both heart pounding examples of tightly constructed action. But it's too little too late.
Still, Comer is a ravishing screen presence; the details of 14th century France are meticulously rendered; Ben Affleck (who I didn't even recognize with his blonde hair and sassy goatee) seems to be having a ball, and the marvelous Harriet Walters continues to radiate her special brand of menacing magnetism (even while saddled with what sounds like a New Jersey accent).
Damon and Driver are fine. Though Damon's grumpy Jean de Carrouge looks as if he's wearing a loaded diaper the entire time.
tick, tick...BOOM! (2021)
Just Awful
It took me three tries just to get to the first song in that Netflix Horror Film "Tick Tick Boom." I kept tapping out before Mr Garfield warbled his first note. But I finally made it...
And oy that song.
It sounded like Christian Rock was being sung at such an intense level of earnestness that my cognitive brain function shut down. A few days later I tried it again. This time, just the piano and guitar intro was enough to trigger a legit trauma response.
I guess I've always reacted badly to a certain kind of generic-sounding, confessional, soft rock show tune. The ones with pounding or tinkling piano and meandering non-melodies - Typically being yell-sung by ridiculously passionate twenty-somethings. I recognize it as a genuine mental block on my part, since these shows seem to be much beloved by nearly everyone else.
I remember sensing an unfordable chasm between me and the culture of Broadway when I saw a scene from "Rent" being performed on the Tony Awards. A hate like burnt coffee started seeping up from my toes in response to "Seasons of Love." Even while people around me were weeping.
Then there was the day I sat down with Kristian to listen to the score from "Hamilton," which seemed to have as much to do with music as the sound of a garbage disposal or cats vomiting. We just couldn't believe it was real. And, though I never admitted it to my husband, I actually started to wonder if something was wrong with me...why couldn't I recognize the agreed upon genius?
But this morning I wanted to push through my show tune phobia, so I came up with what I thought would be a solution: I started "Tick Tick Boom" again, but this time I had Elliot Smith's CD "Figure 8" cued up so as soon as Mr. Garfeild and Company started to sing about the perils of turning 30 (!?) - I could mute the movie and hear "Son of Sam" instead.
And it worked! I got through the first song. And Mr. Garfield's emphatic (yet silent) singing almost seemed natural when coupled with the caressing tones of Smith's voice and the propulsive genius of his songwriting.
Then came the scene in the coffee house which was written, directed and acted at such a high pitch of twee, sitcom gayness that my brain imploded and I threw in the towel, for good and all.
My apologies to the "TT...B" boosters. I tried. But now I'm going to watch Fassbinder's "Fox and His Friends".
Inventing Anna (2022)
Shonda + Julia = A Hard Pass
Accents are hard (and most actors not named Meryl should probably steer clear of them). Unless they are mastered to the point where they are forgotten (so that the task of interpretation and portrayal can take place) what we get instead is acting as clumsy and unfocused as a writer's first draft. Since the actor's mind is still partly distracted by the accuracy of the sounds they are attempting, the performance cannot transform into a fully realized human. Similar to acting when you haven't learned your lines: you may have moments of inspiration, but mostly you're struggling to remember, and great acting takes place in the magical arena where all the concentration and practice can be gently discarded so that something authentic and inspired can rise and transform into the fully lived.
Julia Garner may have leaned heavily into her Missouri twang on "Ozark" but it was a great fit. And she brought a level of truth and humor and pathos (and rage) to the role.
On "Inventing Anna," the weird (not in a good way) Netflix series, Julia is clearly struggling. The accent is like a slippery live trout she's trying to hang onto. Every now and then she gets a firm grip on that sucker. But the next second it flops right out of her hand. And when she loses the thread she goes from great actress to community theatre newbie in a matter of seconds, and it's heartbreaking to watch.
I spent some time listening to the real Anna Sorokin speaking via YouTube clips, and she does have a strange accent: Part Russian, part German and occasionally Swedish (?) but since she's lived with that weird soup for long enough it sounds natural coming from her. But I think even Meryl would've found this particular assignment daunting.
It's too bad that Shonda Rimes didn't take the time to pull Julia aside and say "This isn't quite working yet." Though they've clearly tried to mitigate the damage in post by cutting around her performance as much as possible, the unfortunate result being that Anna Chlumsky becomes the default center of the movie and she is mortifyingly miscast in the role of reporter.
I had never seen anything by Shonda Rimes before, so I have no idea whether "Inventing Anna" is indicative of her work. But it may be the most PreFab piece of entertainment ever made. It's like a Mad Libs version of a TV Show:
Two lines of dialogue (INSERT PLOT POINT)
Three lines of dialogue (INSERT LAME JOKE)
Another line of dialogue (REPEAT LAME JOKE)
Three lines of dialogue (GET SERIOUS FOR A MOMENT)
Two lines of dialogue (DROP A BOWLING BALL ON THE AUDIENCE)
And then repeat, repeat, repeat.
I'm not kidding: by ten minutes in I was able to recite, along with the actors, almost word for word, exactly what they were about to
say. It is a Swanson's TV dinner disguised as a miniseries:
Here's a bite of turkey and gravy,
now some mashed potatoes,
how about some peas?
Here's the apple brown Betty...
There is nothing coming down the pike that you didn't see on the tray when you took off the foil. Yummy. And no thanks.
Julia will recover from this debacle. There are moments when her trademark rage breaks through the wall of vocal nonsense (Natasha/Frau Blucher/Swedish Chef Muppet) and we can see what might have been.
But what to make of Shonda Rimes? Apparently this sort of entertainment is much in demand. I know her doctor show has been on the air since World War II; and far be it from me to take an artistic swing at someone who can land a $100 million dollar deal from Netflix. Perhaps this is how you do it: Make something as easy to assemble as a tinker toy house. And almost as interesting.
Nightmare Alley (2021)
del Toro's masterwork
"Nightmare Alley" is an absolute triumph. It defines succinctly in cruel and gorgeous imagery the essence of what America is after four years of Trump; illuminating the con job of our so-called American Ideals and the manipulation of real emotion and despair into a commodified side show: Hucksterism as the highest (and only) form of communication. The cast is flawless, especially Richard Jenkins who reaches deep into some dark hideous well of volcanic bile to produce a performance of blistering intensity. I watched the last thirty minutes with my mouth agape, giddy at the perfection of the whole thing.
Yes, I've seen the original, many times, it's a classic. But del Toro's version is something riper and wilder and altogether new. It's dark and gripping and creepy. And hands down the most entertaining film of the year.
Ghahreman (2021)
Perfection
This is turning out to be the best year for movies in a long time.
Asghar Farhadi ("A Separation") has a new film called "A Hero" that's available free on Amazon Prime and it is a stunner. The construction of the plot is sublime; each scene brings a new revelation that deepens the conflict: it's a master class in how to build a story.
Plus, leading man Amir Jadidi is beautiful, with soulful eyes and a tightly wound body that responds to every ray of hope and set back with visceral impact. In one scene he drives through town with his fiancee in the passenger seat wearing a smile of such love and pent up desire on his face I felt positively giddy.
And Farhadi manages to bring empathy and balance to the most unforgiving characters while showing that even the 'heroes' of the piece are capable of terrible decision making. It's farce played as tragedy where redemption keeps getting kicked down the field. It's a great film by a great director and not to be missed.
Spencer (2021)
Stewart amazes; Movie = headache
Kristen Stewart all but disappears into the role of Princess Diana in "Spencer." It's an amazing physical transformation to be sure, but the real genius of her performance lies in how completely she inhabits the psychological terrain of this saddest of royals. From the very start, Stewart announces the richness of her portrayal, a DNA level inhabitation that goes beyond mimicry or studied precision. It's truly breathtaking. The voice, the carriage, the mixture of despair and mild flirtation; the joy that rises to the surface when she sees her children, the loathing whens she sees her husband; the utter hopelessness when she sees the queen.
Best of all are her scenes with Sally Hawkins, an actor who has (on occasion) ridden roughshod over my nerve endings. Here she provides a gentle note of comfort and sweetness, both of which are in short supply anywhere else. Without her this ice bath of a film would be pretty unbearable.
And though the boys who play her boys are charming and nuanced, no one else registers much of a presence. Even the dependable Timothy Spall can't seem to break through the rigid parameters laid down by director Pablo Larraín. Spall is allowed one note, and it's an unpleasant one. As for the rest of the Royal Family, they have all the allure of performers in a reenactment scene in a true crime TV doc.
Fantasy elements involving Anne Boleyn (and one grotesque/marvelous dinner scene involving a much loathed pearl necklace) lift the movie into near Buñuelian surrealism, but the overall tone is one of dire misery that seems to never lift. And please, if I ever see another scene of a woman in a gorgeous dress gorging and purging over a fancy toilet I will throw up. Seriously. I know it seems to be Diana's bête noir but with all the other liberties Larraín takes with the story, couldn't he have left these icky moments to our imagination?
Yes, the costumes are pretty, the locations (the bedrooms!) are lovely, the food (when not being upchucked) is ready to grace the cover of Bon Appétit. But everything else remains inert (especially the hideous migraine-inducing musical score by Jonny Greenwood. As perfect as his soundtrack is for "Power of the Dog," here he actually works against any chance to become emotionally connected. His score is the sound equivalent of nausea).
But then there is Kristen Stewart who achieves that rare alchemy of cinematic perfection. Without a single false move. And though I never want to see this movie again, to have witnessed her emergence as one of the greatest actors of her generation is almost worth all the free jazz saxophone meandering and bulimia porn we're subjected to.
The Card Counter (2021)
Oscar Isaac at his finest
"The Card Counter" has moments of genuine brilliance but it is certainly not for everyone. There are flaws (Tiffany Haddish is slightly out of her depth here)- yet overall it's a riveting and at times emotionally lacerating film about my favorite subject: redemption.
Oscar Isaac and Tye Sheridan are both terrific playing locked down men wrestling with extremely toxic pasts. And Haddish, though not entirely believable in her role, has at least one scene of pure transcendence while she and Isaac flirt over cocktails. Her response to his line "I like you," is as fresh and unexpected as anything I've seen this year. And thankfully the two have genuine chemistry and supply a much needed dose of sweetness that tempers the dread and regret on display for most of the movie.
I don't know when the idea of American Exceptionalism began to tarnish. Or if it ever really existed outside the minds of crazed patriots clutching the rotting corpse of dead ideals. Certainly the abu ghraib photos were undeniable proof that something sickening was going on at the heart of the lie that "America cares". I've avoided knowing too much about that incident because torture is something I don't want to think about, let alone see images of.
What Paul Schrader deftly and sensitively accomplishes in this film is to find a way to talk about that grotesque turning point in a way that doesn't exploit it or become unwatchable. There are a few images and sounds from inside the hallucinatory memories of William Tell (Isaac) that bring us into that mordant abattoir, but Schrader lets our imaginations do the dirty work, most effectively in a monolog delivered by Isaac (in perhaps the finest five minutes of acting this year) about how a human deals with becoming inhuman.
The film looks great, the scenes of poker playing are tense and exciting, the cocktails look inviting (when Haddish orders a Manhattan and Isaac says he'll have the same, I sat there hypnotized, waiting for those drinks to arrive). And the music from Black Rebel Motorcycle Club lead singer Robert Levon Been is near perfection. When he sings "...in my lonesome aberration..." it seems to be emanating from the ruined center of Isaac's unredeemable soul.
2021 continues to be a landmark year for film.
The Gilded Age (2022)
the music is so annoying I gave up
Really, what is it with the frolicking nauseating score? After three minutes I wanted to put my head through the TV screen. I tried watching with the sound off and the subtitles on but I couldn't even look at it. Diminishing returns. I may go back and give another try at some point but for now. It looks and sounds like old soup.
Phantom Thread (2017)
GENIUS AT WORK
I'm not usually a Paul Thomas Anderson fan. Though I loved Boogie Nights (except for the gay bashing scene) - Magnolia, Punch Drunk Love and There Will be Blood all left me feeling rather nonplussed.
Phantom Thread, however, which I finally watched the other night, is a brilliant film. Gorgeous to look at, with performances that scald and chill and mystify; a ravishing score by Johnny Greenwood; and an utterly haunting ending that I don't quite understand, or perhaps understand all to well. It left me exhilerated and with a desire for an immediate second viewing.
A meticulously rendered look at the world of high end fashion in London during the fifties, it's a luxurious, satiny caress of a movie with a particularly unsettling cruelty bubbling just under the surface. It lays bare the inherent selfishness and myopia that comes with being a 'great' artist as it fearlessly examines the consequences (and cost) of using others for inspiration (emphasis on using).
Daniel Day Lewis is of course flawless as Reynolds Woodcock (apparently inspired by designer Charles James), but the movie really belongs to Lesley Manville. The two main characters (Lewis and his protege, subtly played by Vicky Krieps) get into staring contests at various points in the story, but Manville (as Lewis's sister Cyril) employs the most chilling, dread-inducing stare of all. The moments when her perfectly controlled shell is broken are as lacerating and terrifying as a horror film.
And then there's Harriet Sansom Harris as millionaire Barbara Rose (based on Heiress Barbara Hutton). Onscreen less than five minutes, she brings such bottomless depths of self-loathing to her role it's hard to watch. When she looks at herself in the mirror and says "I'm still so ugly," the agony is devastating.
The dresses, the fabrics, the interiors, the tea and toast and cocktails - The Welsh rarebit with bacon AND sausages. The Bristol 405 that Reynolds drives so vigorously through the fog-laden back roads of England. - The giant papier-mâché elephant that is paraded through an eye-popping New Years Eve scene. The army of seamstresses who toil all night to repair a ruined wedding dress. - again and again Phantom Thread provides raptures of sensation.
Available on Netflix.
Passing (2021)
Do not PASS go
I've been trying to figure out why Rebecca Hall's directorial debut "Passing" didn't work (for me). It has everything I usually look for in a movie: Great acting, especially Ruth Negga's incandescent performance made of equal parts joy and regret; beautiful black and white photography from Eduard Grau that brings to mind jazz age photos of New York; and a compelling subject that is both mysterious and slightly transgressive (it's right there in the title).
But there's something going on with the sound design: Every scene, whether shot indoors or out seems to have the same muted tone. It's as if the dialog was all rerecorded post production. This lends a feeling of unreality that pervades the entire movie. Add to this the slightly stilted (though still effective) quality of most of the performances, the artificial-looking locations (the movie never feels as if it is taking place in a real world) and the 'on the nose' quality of the dialog (where literally everything is literal) and it's no wonder that becoming immersed in what should be an emotionally immersive experience is nearly impossible. Throughout the film I felt at a distinct remove from the devastating story. It's gorgeous to watch, it feels important and valid and everyone is working hard, and yet it does not transcend the screen.
The pacing is part of the problem. Not that it's slow, I like slow. It's that there is seemingly no tempo variation whatsoever. Even when the main characters go to a speakeasy, listen to jazz, dance and drink booze, the film follows the same steady metronomic pulse.
But what I suspect is the real problem, and here is where talking about race gets dicey, so I hope you will forgive me if my ignorance gets the better of me: Neither Tessa Thompson or Ruth Negga seem like they would be able to get away with what the movie takes for granted, which is to "pass" for white in 1920's New York. Early on there's a scene where the (woefully one-note) Alexander Skarsgård throws around the 'N' word while hanging out with the two female leads in a hotel room. We are supposed to believe that he believes that both women are white, the movie depends on this. And yet, not for one second was I persuaded that he didn't know all along their true identities. It's this disconnect that nagged at me for the entire film. The reason "Boys Don't Cry" is so shattering is because we buy Hilary Swank as male. She passes. And when her secret is revealed, the shock connects because even though we know her secret, we can see how others were taken in. But that doesn't happen in "Passing."
For most, this is probably not a deal breaker, and frankly, Ruth Negga's performance is one of the finest of the year and for that alone, the movie is worth seeing. But the conundrum of how to have this marvelous cast AND make them convincing in the roles is, sadly, one that hasn't been solved by Hall. Perhaps it's unsolvable.
Mass (2021)
not bad
There's an Alanon joke at the beginning of Fran Kranz' "Mass" that for better or worse, clouded my opinion of the film. An example of toxic comedic sophistry, the movie posits the idea that an Alanon group is more likely not to clean up after themselves than an AA group. As a grateful member of both Alanon and AA, who has attended hundreds of in-person meetings and who has NEVER witnessed either group leaving a chair out of place or the trash un-emptied, this kind of cheap laugh doesn't belong in a small, smart film aimed at adults. It's the kind of nonsensical joke that sounds funny but has no basis in reality. On the stage of the Taper it would no doubt bring the house down. But on the TV set in my bedroom it curdled.
The movie would be best watched, I think, with no knowledge of its subject matter. The first thirty minutes setup the engine of the plot, dropping hints with studied delicacy; but because I was already familiar with what was coming, I didn't experience it as an unfolding of a mystery, but rather as a carefully crafted schematic. It's a dilemma: "Mass" (perhaps) needs its provocative subject to sell tickets but would be more emotionally resonant if seen blind. Either way - it's worth seeing, though the limitations of a novice director keep it from having the emotional impact that a more seasoned hand might've leant to the proceedings.
Of the four adults who gather in a small church room for a 'recovery' meeting, Reed Birney succeeds best in bringing the most nuance and pathos to the role. Stuck playing a man in an untenable position, with a point of view I couldn't begin to understand, he manages to humanize the least engaging character in the story. Jason Isaac has the most volcanic moments and handles them well, but is more effective when he keeps his emotions in check.
The women are the real show, though. Martha Plimpton, whose work I had never seen (though, full disclosure, I did meet her once outside the Zephyr theatre on Melrose after she and Robbie Baitz came to see my play "Wife Swappers." They had both been so offended by the language in the show that they canceled dinner plans with me, lying about having an early flight the next morning. They then proceeded to have dinner in the same restaurant the cast and I went to and so were caught red handed) does a fine job. It's a muted and not particularly subtle performance: there are only a few notes to it, but they are relatively effective. (I must admit my prior awful experience with her DID color the way I watched her work, however).
Ann Dowd, as she does in every film she's ever been in, makes it difficult to look anywhere else. I saw her first in "Compliance," a movie so harrowing I can't really recommend it (even with her breathtaking final monologue).
Here she does her trademark mixture of folksiness and heartfelt; exposing emotional wounds so raw they threaten to tear the screen in half. Though after playing villains so effectively in Handmaid's Tale and Hereditary it was hard not to anticipate her turning evil at some point. Thankfully, she doesn't. In fact, it is her character that provides the emotional left hook near the end of the film, that finally managed to wring some tears out of my tired old jaded eyes.