Film Review: Sicario

January 15, 2018 Leave a comment

Sicario (2015; Directed by Denis Villeneuve)

Before it climactically but quietly unveils its limited core critique of the drug war like a slow-handed, old-fashioned magician who’s still got the touch, Denis Villeneuve’s Sicario sears its morally-ambiguous portrait of American government agents targetting the brutal Mexican drug-dealing cartels for incisive (and not entirely legal) reprisals into viewers’ visual cortex with a litany of indelible images. Villeneuve and his master cinematographer Roger Deakins (the duo collaborated on last year’s Blade Runner 2049, one of the most consistently beautiful films of the 21st Century) show us an armored police vehicle on a raid backing through the living room wall of a dealer’s house while a cartel henchman watches TV, then the same house’s walls opened up to reveal dozens of plastic-wrapped corpses. Crowds of migrants are seated on the pavement under the fluorescent glare of a bus station; U.S. law enforcement agents stand on a rooftop near the Mexican border as the sun sets ravishingly, watching the nightly inter-cartel “fireworks” of gunfire and explosions burst out on the southern side; the black silhouettes of an armed and armored Special Forces strike team stalks in front of a painted dusk-hour horizon.

There are deeper and harder questions lying behind this aestheticization of the front lines on the war on drugs, as there are in Sicario‘s ripely imagined premise in general. But we ought to reserve some initial praise for those very fine aesthetics before pulling down this silky curtain to consider what harsh things we find there. Villeneuve’s prodigious skill at orchestrating extended, absorbing sequences and Deakins’ next-level camera work come together in a scene of crescendoing tension, as our core trio of characters – FBI agent Kate Macer (Emily Blunt), information-withholding Department of Justice task force leader Matt Graver (Josh Brolin), and the mysterious, sinister Alejandro Gillick (Benicio del Toro) – ride with a highly-armed joint U.S. government/Mexican Federal Police convoy moving a high-value cartel-connected asset across the border from Ciudad Juarez to Texas. Vehicles screech through Juarez’s winding streets, past the hanging, mutilated corpses of the hot war between Mexican police and the cartels, before a traffic jam just past the border crossing erupts into a shocking bloodbath of a shootout. It’s bravado stuff, and Sicario is never better, which is not entirely a good thing as there remains a good hour in the movie once the dust settles from this incident.

Kate is offered a spot on Graver’s task force, and accepts it out of duty-bound righteousness, as well as a desire to accomplish more than the usual low-level busts of her unit’s purview, despite misgivings from her partner Reggie Wayne (Daniel Kaluuya of Get Out) about the shady extra-legal deep-state vibe of the enterprise (which turn out to be rather prescient). Without getting too deeply into the plot weeds of the mission, Graver – and especially the increasingly ruthless Alejandro, who has a personal score to settle – are pulling at cartel-woven threads and hoping one leads them to a major honcho named Fausto Alarcón (Julio Cesar Cedillo). There are more firefights with cartel triggermen along the way, along with kidnappings at gunpoint and a largely-implied prisoner interrogation utilizing torture.

In other words, in most ways, Sicario is pretty standard, vaguely-politically-charged, drug-war action-thriller genre material, despite its occasional elevation by Villeneuve and Deakins and their evolved visual sense. What this largely means is that it depicts, and at least partially valourizes, agents of American power utilizing pitilessly violent zero-tolerance tactics against squads of tattooed, menacing Mexican vatos, regardless of the rule of law or the integrity of international borders or any species of moral code. Sicario is Zero Dark Thirty for the border narcotics conflict, complete with nighttime military-equipped assassination missions and dangerous intimations of the strategic value of intelligence gained through the torture of enemy combatants. Like that similar film, the impressive hypercompetence of the filmmaking serves to obscure the cynical, fearful authoritarianism at the film’s heart, lurking in masquerade as a bloody-minded tone of clear-cut pragmatic realism. A hard approach to deal with hard men, democracy and law be damned.

The opening sequence, with Kate’s team uncovering a house literally insulated by the bodies of cartel victims that is fruther guarded with deadly, cop-slaying booby traps, stacks the deck irrevocably. When wrestling with monsters, one must needs be monstrous. Even Kate, principles aside, recognizes the limits of her by-the-book approach and finds herself going along with the extralegal operation, seemingly to see how far it can go, how much burning the rule book can ultimately accomplish. But Sicario possesses the tunnel vision of the trenches, and cannot see far beyond the barrel of a gun to the wider causes and consequences of the drug war.

The script is by Taylor Sheridan, who also penned the far-superior Hell or High Water, which invokes genre conventions and a far cleverer premise to deliver a deeper and more potent critique of the widespread damages touched off by American capitalism. Sicario does hold a deep-cut twist at its core: Alejandro, who in del Toro’s seasoned and forever-unpredictable hands emerges as the film’s defining problematic badass antihero, is not only settling a grudge but acting as the agent of a rival criminal empire’s power grab. A sequel, out this summer from a script by Sheridan but without the direct involvement of Villeneuve or Deakins, will focus on Alejandro, exactly the sort of figure of gangland funhouse-mirror romance whose acts of cool-headed vengeful violence excite throngs of aggro young men to wish-fulfillment adulation (and holy hell, does its premise sound deeply politically problematic, if not outright terrible).

To given Sheridan a bit of credit, he does intend to question the premises of the drug war more than glorify the deadly ballet of amoral shadow men, and it’s hard to say that Villeneuve and Deakins, for all of their technical prowess and superb aesthetic summoning, glorify it either. Sicario does have a certain point to make about the capitalist superstructure standing behind (and choosing sides in) the drug war, but it tends to lose that point in the masculinized reification of tactical aggression that is (usually) sadly unavoidable in its genre of choice. Sheridan and Villeneuve alike (the former with Hell or High Water, the latter with Arrival) moved on from Sicario to more deconstructive takes on the masculine imperatives of law enforcement and the military. Let’s take Sicario‘s stronger elements as stepping stones to better visions, and hope to leave its more reactionary features out in the inhospitable desert to waste away.

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Categories: Film, Reviews

Film Review: Concussion

January 10, 2018 Leave a comment

Concussion (2015; Directed by Peter Landesman)

Football is America’s most popular and grandest sport, and, in many ways, its best ideological, cultural, and psychological allegory. Especially in its professional form as packaged and presented by the National Football League (NFL), American football is a living metaphor for the dominant themes of American life: the rampant aspirational consumerism and capitalist expansion and exploitation of its economy, the racial hierarchy of its society, the belligerent parochial conservatism of its politics, the aggressive militarism of its foreign policy, and the cross-cultural tension between the ruling national mythos of heroic, trailblazing individualism (see the hagiographic glorification of the quarterback position, especially if filled by a white man) and the more pragmatic reality of a collective, diverse effort at progress (it is a team game, after all).

Concussion suggests that the cultural and economic juggernaut of pro football closely reflects another feature of American life: namely, the redirecting and compromising of medical practice, treatment, and research by big-money corporate interests. The film is based on the troubling medical science revelations around chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) in former NFL players and the league’s attempts to suppress and discredit the findings that the sport can cause serious brain damage and corresponding, catastrophic psychological effects in those players. It renders the issue in biopic form with Dr. Bennet Omalu (Will Smith) as its focal point. As a forensic pathologist in Pittsburgh, the highly-educated, Nigerian-born Dr. Omalu performs autopsies with a touch both highly personal (he respectfully addresses cadavers by name and asks politely for their aid in uncovering their cause of death before cutting them open) and highly exacting.

Defended and semi-mentored by Allegheny County Coroner Cyril Wecht (Albert Brooks), Omalu claims a central role in the debate about brain injury in pro football after he performs an autopsy on former Pittsburgh Steelers all-star offensive lineman “Iron” Mike Webster (David Morse). A civic sports hero, Webster found his mental faculties and life fortunes deteriorating rapidly post-retirement, suffering through homelessness, substance abuse, and self-mutilation before dying in 2002 of a heart attack, aged 50. Over the objections of his Steelers-fan colleagues (Omalu himself, no football watcher, doesn’t even know who Webster is before he was laid on a slab in the morgue in front of him), Omalu delves deep into Webster’s body and especially his brain, which is atrophied on a microscopic but vital level undetectable on CT scans.

Shocked at the level of brain degeneration in a man of only 50, Omalu concludes that repeated blows to the head, a cascading series of “micro-concussions”, during Webster’s football career were ultimately responsible for the destruction of his brain and thus his premature death. Omalu convinces eminent local colleagues and publishes his findings, but finds the NFL’s response distinctly muted. Omalu’s conclusions about CTE become more widely known as several more prominent former players died while displaying similar symptoms of the condition, and the NFL and the football-loving public alike begin to strike back at his disturbing and sport-threatening science with a definite mob mentality. Targetted as much as a foreign outsider threatening America’s game as a doomsaying scientific Cassandra, Omalu is supported in his crusade for truth by former Steelers team doctor Julian Bailes (Alec Baldwin), and together they raise awareness of the risks of CTE in football while never quite denting the gleaming chrome facade of the NFL’s blithe corporate edifice of profit-driven unconcern.

Concussion, written and directed by Peter Landesman, does not honestly strengthen this public affairs story by running it through the Hollywood biopic alteration gauntlet. Far better for you, if interested, to seek out either of the far superior documentary films on the subject: Michael Kirk’s League of Denial for PBS’ Frontline series, or Steve James’ Head Games. Concussion dedicates more subplot time to Omalu’s personal life (especially his courtship with and marriage to Kenyan immigrant and registered nurse Prema Mutiso, played by Gugu Mbatha-Raw), but somehow leaves the viewer with a less-formed idea of the man’s peculiar personality, mind, and singular determination than do intermittent talking-head interview appearances in the aforementioned documentaries.

Smith approximates his subject’s African English accent and indeed seems initially to be on the same wavelength to the real Omalu’s slightly eccentric and flinty volubility; his introductory appearance, good-naturedly interrupting prosecutors to list off his numerous, diverse degrees while offering expert testimony in court, makes keen use of Smith’s boundless natural charisma to sketch Omalu’s own particular charm. But as is too often the case with Will Smith movies, the needs of the drama damp down his light, and his talents are hidden in a bushel of the serious and the grave. Other performances seek not to upstage the star (though who doesn’t love even a middling Albert Brooks turn, truly?), with the exception of Morse as the wildly troubled Webster, but even his steely commitment to portraying the man’s psychological and behavioural nadir without a hint of artifice or vanity unfortunately smacks of hammy scenery-chewing.

Landesman’s film in general hits the key points of the CTE public exposure narrative without any special power or productive artistic risk-taking. It displays a tendency towards compromised safety that might lengthen some ex-players’ lives, if emulated by the NFL, but does it no favours as a public-issue film. Its depiction of the stealthily-beautiful city of Pittsburgh as a depressed post-industrial Rust Belt centre enervated only by its winning football team (Pittsburgh Penguin fans must feel like chopped liver, although to be fair, most of the film’s events take place in the Pens’ pre-Sidney Crosby fallow period), driven home by numerous shots of steel skies and ore-like river waters by cinematographer Salvatore Totino, seems like a dull oversimplification, too. Yet one recurring visual motif does land with impact. Recurrent shots of the Steelers’ enormous home stadium, Heinz Field, squatting on the banks of the Ohio River like a recumbent titan, haunt the film’s canvas. During Omalu’s vital meeting with the prominent local neurologist (Eddie Marsan) with whom he will publish his explosive findings, the yellow-emblazoned stadium is loomingly ever-present in the window of the doctor’s office, as if observing and pre-emptorily judging their insights and finding them wanting when compared to its spatial and popular dominance.

A huge shrine to a beloved sport built with public funds, the stadium is a dismissive spectre that hangs over Omalu’s conclusions, no matter how scientifically provable they may be. It is a concrete embodiment of the NFL’s considerable, unchallengeable economic and cultural capital, which likewise dominates American sports and society, replacing God as holder of dominion over an entire day of the week during its season. Omalu, an immigrant and outsider, comes to conceive of his quest for truth about CTE as a righteous effort to hold his adopted country to the high standards to which it claims to hold itself, standards which drew he and his wife to its teeming shores in the first place. But the NFL’s corporate whitewash of his explosive findings, the leveraging of its power in denial of their factual and scientific basis as a matter of cynical, greedy survivalism, demonstrates different and less-lofty standards for the capitalist exploitation of America’s underclass as quickly-discarded gridiron gladiators. Concussion decides to lean into the inspiration implications of Omalu’s story rather than the hot sociopolitical outrage at the heart of the NFL’s actions. This is a mistake, and it means that the film misses out on a shot at a stronger critique of America’s core metaphorical sport.

Categories: Film, Reviews, Sports

Film Review: Spotlight

January 6, 2018 Leave a comment

Spotlight (2015; Directed by Tom McCarthy)

A crisply-written and -acted retelling of the Boston Globe’s 2001-2002 investigation into the endemic sexual abuse of children by clergy of the Catholic Church in Boston and the systematic covering-up of those abuses by the Church hierarchy, Spotlight is sturdy, solid, and sometimes earnestly powerful. But the scope and conviction of its belief in the exposure of institutional wrongs, even when encompassing the mistakes of its own crusading newspaper reporter heroes, can’t entirely capture the full faith-shaking dimensions of the church abuse scandal.

This is not to say that the film, directed by Tom McCarthy and co-written by McCarthy and Josh Singer, intends to reach for such ambitious and sweeping observations and critiques. Spotlight holds its focus on its titular investigative team at the Globe, their editors, and the various Church officials and employees, abuse victims and whistleblowers, and lawyers involved in litigation and counter-litigation regarding the scandal. It considers, in specific, the struggles of the Spotlight reporters with their lapsed faith, their family connections to the Church, and their relations towards their community in light of the abuses that they uncover. But the enormity and immutability of their gigantic target is encapsulated in the film’s thesis statement shot: one reporter interviews a local Bostonian about the story on the stoop of their walk-up apartment while the towering spires of a Catholic cathedral loom behind them with majestic, unshakeable (and not entirely non-ominous) permanence.

Spotlight is canny and penetrating about the difficulty of puncturing that permanence in its iteration of the classic Hollywood journalism narrative of the white-knight quest for truth. This difficulty is made particularly apparent in the case of the film’s setting in highly Catholic-integrated Boston and its collaborationist seats of political and economic power. The Spotlight team’s investigation – touched off by new editor Marty Baron (Liev Schreiber), who feels a deeper story lies behind a recent editorial criticizing a Catholic priest accused of molestation – is shown to not be the first story in the Globe about such abuse in the Church, and Spotlight comes around to allowing the newspaper team to grapple with their guilt and complicity in not delving deeper into reports from a decade or two decades earlier. It also shows other figures, particularly prominent lawyers hired by the Church to scrub away the stain of abuse cases before the wider extent of the taint became publically known, struggling with and, in some cases, finally overcoming their own qualms about their past actions.

What Spotlight is not is knee-jerk anti-Catholic or even especially sceptical of religion. There is no reporter character in the movie that glories in the fall from grace of the high-and-mighty Church; they uniformly react to the expanding scope of abuse (from less than a dozen accusations against priests, the number of confirmed cases rises to nearly 100 in the Boston area alone) with shock, even incredulity; one, played by Rachel McAdams, was even a dutiful church-goer (albeit more in devotion to her faithful grandmother) until the investigation shook her convictions. Spotlight is a fine (and no doubt slightly polished) demonstration of the core of doubt and rigour of confirmation and re-confirmation fundamental to establishing credibility in serious print journalism. With our contemporary public discourse about media bias and responsibility – not to mention blanket epithets of “fake news” that greet any unfavourable report in some circles – the principled thoroughness on display in Spotlight stands as a useful counter.

Spotlight is scrupulously fair to the Catholic Church even as it systematically, and with no lack of self-righteous emotion, details its unspeakable abuses. Compare it, for example, to the Netflix documentary series The Keepers, about the suspicious murder of a Catholic nun who intended to expose the sexual misconduct of a priest at a Baltimore girls’ school. An absorbing if sometimes speculative true crime whodunit, The Keepers leans nonetheless on a venerable anti-papist picture of Catholicism: sly, manipulative, and corrupt clergy exploiting the unquestioning dyed-in-wool obedience and trust of their sheep-like flock (although, if the cassock fits…). Spotlight shows the Globe team treating the Church like any other corrupt institution abusing its power and influence in a self-serving manner, albeit an institution with outsized claims to moral superiority that renders its hypocrisy that much more glaring.

Indeed, the Church’s reaction to Spotlight was muted at worst and guardedly positive at best, its general acceptance of the film’s message about the institution’s deep-seated brokenness (and its evidence-based claims about that brokenness) couched as part of a PR campaign to reform the Church’s stained image. Word even has it that recommendations to see the film and considers its lessons were pinballing around the Vatican in the wake of its release. Not that such professions of soul-searching self-regard on the part of the hierarchy from the Vatican on down can do much to sway religious sceptics. Eager for the barest and easiest fodder to discredit true believers and the churches that loom behind them, they would seize upon the unforgivable actions of priests and bishops in the abuse scandal as proof positive of organized religion’s deep, hypocritical rot.

But Spotlight understands, even if it cannot quite fully capture, that a deep betrayal of trust on the scale of what the Globe team undercovers is a broad and profound tragedy, an agonizing blow to not only the victims of the abuse (and their trauma is placed at the forefront, without a doubt) but also to those for whom the Church is central to their understanding of their community, their family, and themselves. Institutional abuse of all kinds, which a free press represented by the likes of the Boston Globe‘s Spotlight reporters work to drag into the light, can have that effect; so much of our lives reside under the aegis of institutions that even the true anti-establishment ilk cannot help but place some tacit confidence in their good intentions. But the Catholic Church is not only an institution but a whole cosmos, a moral and spiritual edifice housing millions. Spotlight recognizes that digging into the misdeeds (indeed, terrible crimes) of such institutions and exposing them to the light of public scrutiny, and doing so with even-handed intelligence and thorough, professional impassiveness, is the responsibility of a free press. But it also registers that doing this is not without cost or consequence, and that this makes it even more vitally important to get it right. Spotlight gets it right, which is all that citizens of a purported democracy can ask for.

Categories: Film, Religion, Reviews

TV Quickshots #36

January 3, 2018 Leave a comment

Halt and Catch Fire (AMC; 2014-2017)

A frothy, semi-desperate attempt to replicate the critical and cultural success of AMC’s acclaimed drama Mad Men when its first season aired in 2014, Halt and Catch Fire lost its network predecessor’s relatively robust audience in its early, imitative days but responded in its final three seasons by becoming one of American television’s finest, truest, and most emotionally well-tuned dramas of the social connectivity consequences of our modern technological reality.

Opening in the early 1980s in Dallas, Texas’ Silicon Prairie and running through the mid-1990s internet explosion in the San Francisco Bay Area, Halt and Catch Fire follows five primary core characters as they navigate the computer boom, forever chasing the next big frontier of development while struggling through office politics, life struggles, and relationships romantic and platonic. Husband-and-wife engineers and on-again/off-again tech entrepreneurs Gordon (Scoot McNairy) and Donna Clark (Kerry Bishé) open the series toiling as lower-mid-level cogs in corporate machines. Donna balances subordinate tasks at Texas Instruments with motherhood (their two daughters, Joanie and Haley, are background children for the first two-plus seasons but move closer to the core of the cast as teenagers in the closing act), while Gordon nurses the disappointment of his fallen ambitions (he and Donna designed a computer together that failed to win investment or distribution) at a company called Cardiff Electric under Texan good-old-boy senior VP John Bosworth (Toby Huss).

The Clarks’ fortunes change (though not immediately or even entirely for the better) when Bosworth hires a hot-shot former IBM sales exec named Joe MacMillan (Lee Pace). A hyper-driven, semi-sociopathic maverick with a closet full of secrets from his past, Joe is (at first, anyway) a microchip-age Don Draper who manipulates Cardiff’s product development direction with passion, vision, and frequent dishonesty and bullying, elevating Gordon to the lead on a team aiming to produce a portable IBM clone personal computer. He brings in Cameron Howe (Mackenzie Davis), a brilliant programmer with a prickly personality and punk-rock anti-establishment attitude, to program the operating system as well, though that is partly because they’re sleeping together.

As mentioned, the initial period-specific, workplace-focused, anti-hero-driven focus of Halt and Catch Fire faded after its first season, as Joe’s self-destructive, edge-seeking behaviour and principles alienated prior collaborators and burned previous professional bridges. Pace is superb at registering how Joe’s brush-torching actions, and the connections he builds with Cameron, Bos, and the Clarks despite them, exact a real and permanent toll. While it’s reductive to pigeonhole Jon Hamm’s excellent work in Mad Men this way, his Don Draper was allowed to reset the board time and again, suggesting that none of the pain he caused or felt stayed with him or changed him fundamentally in any way, even in the end (this was also a result of the general character philosophy of Matthew Weiner and his writers on the show: people do not change). Pace’s Joe becomes more fragile, more fallible, more human, just as his fellow cast members do, despite the stock-figure nature their characters begin with. This is especially true of Davis and Huss, who craft one of the most endearing relationships in recent television. Bishé was doing surprisingly nuanced work from the get-go and soon enough takes over a great swath of the show from the inside, and although McNairy’s Gordon goes through long arcs of being a pathetic twit, even he rallies near the conclusion.

Ultimately, Halt and Catch Fire became, prior to its perfectly-pitched and subtly moving finale which aired last year, a more endearing and humane take on the themes of David Fincher and Aaron Sorkin’s The Social Network. It leaps off from the core irony of that film – that technology brings us closer together while holding us inherently apart – but takes its time drawing out those themes while treating them with none of the smugly superior boomer-generation disdain that creeps into Sorkin’s script. Halt and Catch Fire is about the relentless, unforgiving bleeding-edge forward momentum of American capitalism and its human costs, yes. But it is also about connecting with others (and breaking with them) via technology and in person, and how similar and different, how satisfying and insufficient, each of those scenarios can be.

 

The Night Of (HBO; 2016)

Based on the 2008-2009 BBC crime drama Criminal Justice, HBO’s The Night Of follows a single defendant through the American criminal justice system, from arrest and police investigation to incarceration and trial. The defendant is Nasir “Naz” Khan (Riz Ahmed, who won an Emmy for his performance), a college student and son of a Pakistani-American cab driver whose abortive attempt to attend a Manhattan party lands him instead in a desultory drugs-and-sex evening with a free-spirited young woman (Sofia Black-D’Elia). When Naz awakes to find her dead but with no recollection of what happened, the wheels of justice begin to turn, providing Naz (and the audience) with a detailed (if hyper-dramatized) view of the inner workings of the interlinked system including the police, the courts, and the prison.

Written by Richard Price and Steve Zaillian and directed by Zaillian and James Marsh, The Night Of is superbly crafted and incorporates examinations and critiques of not only the criminal justice machine but also peeks into other American pathologies, from media fervour to economic discrimination to anti-Muslim sentiment. Many of these perspectives come via Naz’s on-and-off again lawyer John Stone (a wonderful John Turturro), an exzcema-afflicted low-rate huckster barrister who customarily makes a living on plea deals for hopeless offenders. He’s well over his head in a high-profile, complex, politically touchy, and increasingly ambiguous murder trial, as is big-firm junior associate Chandra Kapoor (Amara Karan), who takes the lead in court after her boss unexpectedly drops out of a publicity-minded handling of the case.

Through Stone as well as through soon-to-be-retiring investigating detective Dennis Box (Bill Camp), who leaps on the surplus of evidence pointing in Khan’s direction at first but begins to entertain doubts as to his guilt, The Night Of delves more deeply and more ambiguously into American justice than is usual on television, with the forensics-and-profiling-heavy moral certainties of its big-ratings police procedurals. It even outflanks the increasingly common, superficially grey-zoned, moody neo-noir troubled-detective genre springing up on channels and streaming services around the globe (largely influenced by detective noirs of Scandinavian television).

Ahmed is a huge part of the show’s success; Naz is physically transformed by his ordeal, gaining muscled bulk, tattoos, and a shaven head while in prison, but Ahmed holds himself differently, walks and speaks with subtle gradations of hardness, as experiences work themselves upon him. Even so, when put on the stand in the trial (usually a huge defense no-no that Stone hasn’t the power to talk Kapoor out of), Ahmed summons the essentially decent and frightened young man trapped in a whirlpool that threatens to drag him down. Like The Wire (which it resembles in a more limited way and, like many HBO productions, shares a few cast members with), but perhaps more so, The Night Of couches its depiction of systemic machinations in bare human drama, grounds its sociological observations in expressions of empathy.

Categories: Reviews, Television

Decalogue: Top 10 Films of 2017

December 30, 2017 Leave a comment

Like 2016, 2017 was a year of odd distress and roiling anxiety. The reality of U.S. President Donald Trump proved no better than the promise, as his Administration brought regular troubling developments, painfully moronic statements, melodramatic chaos, suggestions of corruption and foreign collusion, and emboldening of reactionary extremists to the pinnacle of power of world’s remaining superpower. Deadly disasters, natural and gun-related, continued to wax in intensity in America as well, as the nation’s economic, political, and social resources seemed helpless to stop hurricanes and lone disgruntled white men with guns from devastating its citizens.

Meanwhile, the male-dominated spheres of entertainment and politics were convulsed with unprecedented demands for accountability for the serial abuses of sexualized power. Kicked off by revelations of decades of sexual harrassment (and thuggish bullying to cover it up) by Hollywood power-broker Harvey Weinstein, a cascade of similar abuses made public righteously felled movie stars, directors and producers, comedy heroes, and senators, decisively turned an Alabama Senate election, and further wounded a prodigiously problematic presidency. The burgeoning #MeToo movement has already transformed the social and political landscape, but the longer-term effects are yet to be glimpsed.

As they so often do, the movies of 2017 reflected and contextualized the forces shaping current affairs. For the rising tide of women reclaiming the fallen brass ring of triumphal feminism in the face of a barrage of hostility and criticism, there was a female superhero standing strong and proud against the literal bullets and shells of a mad war of another time. For minorities struggling against resurgent, arrogant revanchist conformism, there was a ravishingly gorgeous romance between a mute woman and an amphibious humanoid. Sequels to cerebral science-fiction classics and popular space adventures respectively wondered what it meant to be human and compellingly encapsulated enduring generational conflicts and unaddressed social and political impasses. Independent and foreign films interrogated the art world and social etiquette, the economic and psychological precariousness of the working class, and the morality of mass meat production. And standing astride the calendar year, an expertly-crafted, nuanced, and challenging literal and metaphorical demonstration of the “sunken place” of racial discrimination against African-Americans built into a genre-bending comedy/horror/thriller. These are the top movies of 2017, and they give us a particular view of the world of 2017.

1. Get Out (Directed by Jordan Peele)

Get Out is a consistently unsettling horror-thriller genre piece whose creepy central concept likewise functions as a resonant metaphor for anti-black racism in America. […] It’s masterfully poised and finely calibrated, the work of an assured filmmaker whose control of narrative, tone, tension, and visuals conveys his desired ideas and emotions with impressive effectiveness. […] Get Out is a masterful genre exercise that amplifies a vital political message about racism in America and beyond. But it doesn’t tell us that it will all be okay if we all come together (whatever that’s supposed to mean), and it doesn’t flatter us by allowing us to imagine that we can view through the eyes of another. […] Get Out doesn’t flatter its audience with the suggestion that such rapprochement, such intimate empathy of perspective, is possible. It opts for stark recognition instead.”

Review – 3 April 2017

2. The Shape of Water (Directed by Guillermo del Toro)

The Shape of Water [is] del Toro’s most magical, absorbing, and ambiguously moving work since his shamanistic career peak of a decade ago, Pan’s Labyrinth. […] The Shape of Water [is] a film of such textual and visual complexity, of such exquisite beauty and potent thematic heft, that it eclipses its genre film origins and inspirations and leaves us gazing in awe-struck wonder at the cinema screen. […] It’s also a wonderful, transporting film, an entertaining and heartening work of popular art by a singular artist, and a new classic.”

Review – 12 December 2017

3. Blade Runner 2049 (Directed by Denis Villeneuve)

“The first thing worth knowing about Blade Runner 2049, and quite frankly the last thing as well, is that it is incredibly beautiful. Directed by Quebeςois prestige-film dynamo Denis Villeneuve and shot by the venerable English cinematographical master Roger Deakins, the 30-plus-years-hence sequel to Ridley Scott’s seminal, influential, and lingeringly divisive 1982 science-fiction opus replicates and indeed surpasses its feats of visual invention, forward-looking production design, and neo-noir neon-infused chiaroscuro mood lighting. […] This is a grand nightmarescape of structural decay and physical alienation evocative of social, political, and psychological dislocation. […] Blade Runner 2049 crafts tall white fountains amidst its dystopian dark, and provides a heartening illustration of how deriving meaning from those comforting structures, which gain significance and dimension of feeling through our engagement with them and not through the separate intentions embedded in their design and manufacture, shapes our identity amidst the unceasing torrent of a hard world.”

Review – 29 October 2017

4. Dunkirk (Directed by Christopher Nolan)

“Nolan’s Dunkirk is predicated on a certain visual and functional incongruity from the hard-edged realities of the Second World War even while it strives to replicate the unbearable sensory tension of the war-zone experience. […] This is not to say that Dunkirk is not excellent, potent, inherently impressive filmmaking. Or that its metronome-ticking rhythmic shifts between uneasy anticipation and smothering intensity are not, in their way, accurate representations of the lived experience of war. […] Dunkirk […] is highly superior at drilling deep into the experience of a single, defining episode of [World War II] and rendering it for a modern audience with powerful, intelligible clarity.”

Review – 6 August 2017

5. The Lost City of Z (Directed by James Gray)

“An example of resolutely old-fashioned cinematic storytelling with clearly-drawn characters and straightforward themes, The Lost City of Z may not be interested enough in anything other than its absorbing story to accurately be described as “important” or “compelling” or “powerful”. But James Gray’s handsome, thoughtful, expertly-crafted screen adaptation of David Grann’s acclaimed and popular non-fiction book about an English explorer determined to locate the remains of a lost civilization in the Amazonian jungle draws you in with sturdy seductiveness.”

Review – 20 May 2017

6. Star Wars: The Last Jedi (Directed by Rian Johnson)

“Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi is what it looks like when Star Wars makes a concerted, serious effort to put away childish things. It isn’t always pretty or consistent or clean, but it’s a fascinating, invigorating, and often powerful attempt. […] Under Rian Johnson’s steady eye and intelligent storytelling mind, this is a Star Wars film that understands and thinks as an adult: with pain, regret, doubt, and memory, and ultimately with a wisdom only earned with experience of a difficult and unromantic world. And with that wisdom comes a tempered but resilient hope, a wounded and wavering but never squelched sense of the persistent value of progress. In trying times, The Last Jedi steps forward to be the Star Wars we need it to be.”

Review – 18 December 2017

7. The Square (Directed by Ruben Östlund)

“There is plenty to like about The Square. The performances, often semi-improvised at the director’s urging, are uniformly good. As a filmmaker, Östlund has a wit both verbally sharp and visually sly, and many of the film’s best gags are placed out of the centre of focus in the frame, to be discovered by the sharp-eyed. […] The Square can be scabrously funny and definitely thought-provoking. […] The Square is often not acceptable or digestible, to its superficial credit. But it can be a bit too hard to choke down, too. Is that more of a censure on its creator, or on the movie audience whose prejudices and assumptions he conceives himself and his film as challenging?”

Review – 19 November 2017

8. I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore (Directed by Macon Blair)

I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore references, in both its title and its overall thematic direction, a generalized, frequently-invoked, amorphously nostalgic sentiment that things are getting worse than they once were. This sentiment has gained the calcified certainty of a set ideology for many Americans, especially older and more conservative ones. […] But this striking, oddly riveting, and very darkly funny film makes a potent case, in emotional philosophy terms if not in rational ones, for a downward decline in the norms of American society from the point of view of the young. It’s getting worse, sure, but it’s not clear why or who precisely is responsible, which accounts for the greatest share of the frustration.”

Review – 31 July 2017

9. Wonder Woman (Directed by Patty Jenkins)

Wonder Woman is a dynamite entertainment with surprising thematic and emotional heft. […] Jenkins ends our heroine’s climactic dark night of doubt, struggle, and deep loss with a sunrise suffused with hope and goodness. And Wonder Woman, despite its sops to genre convention and big-budget compromise, not only succeeds but thrives and delights because it holds that sunrise in its heart. There’s an earnest joy and desire to protect goodness and improve situations of injustice at this movie’s core that sets it irrevocably apart from its incoherent, ugly, and smug DCEU predecessors. […] Wonder Woman has ideals, and it thunderously upholds them.”

Review – 4 June 2017

10. Okja (Directed by Bong Joon-ho)

“The extremely campy and surprisingly moving social-commentary satire of Okja turned its director, Bong Joon-ho, into a vegan (though only temporarily), and an easy, surface-level assumption would be that the Korean/English film’s aim is to turn you into one, too. But such a glib summation would be manifestly unfair to Okja‘s at-once playful, cauterizing, and nuanced critique of contemporary capitalism, of mass production and consumption of meat, and of the limits of both revolutionary activism and human empathy in resisting corporate exploitation. […] Like a lot of critiques of this particular socioeconomic system, Bong’s suggests that the injection of a bit of humanity could go a long way in righting its wrongs. Unlike a lot of such critiques, it doesn’t flatter the capitalist superstructure by even entertaining the possibility that any moral rectitude […] could conceivably overcome the lucrative temptations of capital obtained by whatever means necessary.”

Review – 7 December 2017

 

 

Categories: Film, Reviews

Film Review: Murder on the Orient Express

December 28, 2017 1 comment

Murder on the Orient Express (2017; Directed by Kenneth Branagh)

The one true highlight, and by far the most successful feature, of Murder on the Orient Express is Hercule Poirot’s mustache. Fulsome and florid, it curves across the upper lip of Kenneth Branagh – who plays Agatha Christie’s refined and fastidious master detective as well as directs this new screen version of his most famous case – and curls ever-further up his cheeks like a garter snake cradling a bird’s egg. This is no thin, manicured pencil-stache, but a deep and broad explosion of expressive facial hair bursting with life and silvery truth. This mustache is a powerful river surging over a cataract, a shining band of precious metal, a swelling mountain range rising from the flat surface of a topographical map. It’s fascinating, mesmerizing, all-absorbing. A magnificent magum opus of a mustache. You can lose yourself in it, find yourself plunging into its hirsute abyss until all sense of self, of being, of past, present, and future, are swallowed by its compelling oblivion.

Somewhere in the wavering mists beyond the Mustache to End All Mustaches, there is a movie, too. Branagh’s Poirot, the famed Belgian master detective sought the world over to untangle the thorniest mysteries and riddles of the fashionable 1930s, is first shown theatrically solving a missing-relic conundrum involving clerics of the three Abrahamic religions before the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. This cold open is hardly Christie canon, having been invented by screenwriter Michael Green in adapting the popular 1934 detective novel, but it fulfills a clear purpose: it slickly introduces the fussy but brilliantly perceptive Poirot (who insists with obsessive-compulsiveness on his breakfast eggs being exactly the same height, but benevolently declines to blame the Arab boy who rushes them to him for it) to a modern film audience perhaps unaccustomed to his personality and to his Sherlock Holmes-like clever deductions.

That personality and those deductions get a thorough workout on board the iconic titular luxury train, which conveys Poirot and a rogue’s gallery of mismatched but increasingly interconnected passengers across Europe from Istanbul to Calais on the English Channel. Snowbound after an avalanche in the Balkan mountains derails the train, Poirot must unravel the secrets of his fellow passengers to resolve a confounding murder with a dark connection to one of the most notorious crimes of the age.

If the plot summary seems circumspect, that’s because whodunits like Christie’s deserve a minimum of pre-exposition to lay out their web of clues and revelations to maximum effect. Christie’s detective fiction is an elaborate period-specific pastiche of Arthur Conan Doyle’s more legendary Holmes stories (and Murder specifically draws liberally from the torn-from-the-headlines case of the Lindbergh baby), but its clever clockwork surprises merit the respect of an absence of spoilers at least. Green’s script and Branagh’s direction trust in the witty labyrinth of breadcrumbs left by Christie, embellishing minimally. Some of these embellishments, such as quick chase sequences, tussles, and climactic gun drama, flatter conventional modern audience sensibilities and offer easy tension and frisson in predictable but hyper-competent forms. Other embellishments, such as parenthetical references to (the thoroughly sexless) Poirot’s lost love Katherine, present as extremely tacked-on, or, in the case of flashbacks to the projection of what appear to be 1930s home movies (?), completely unrealistic.

Such criticisms should not be construed as being dismissive of Branagh’s direction, which is generally strong in technical and aesthetic terms. His camera impressively conveys sweep and scope and dynamism to a scaled-up locked-room mystery set almost entirely on board a luxurious but claustrophobic train (which, for much of the movie, isn’t even moving). The luxury is depicted with a lush vignette-montage of tableaux of polishing and arranging, while the claustrophobia is emphasized in a single-take overhead shot which allows the examination of the crime scene like a schematic diagram, and is equally overcome with long horizontal tracking shots through or alongside the train cars. Branagh uses the camera smartly and expertly to maximize his mid-range budget and triumphantly surmount the potential feeling that Murder on the Orient Express might be merely television-level in scope, a smallish product inherently unworthy of cinematic scale (let alone old-fashioned, widescreen-friendly 65mm cameras, which Branagh and cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos used to shoot the film). This is a film so well-made and well-shot that one cannot but laugh off and forgive an indulgently over-clever choice like Branagh’s  self-conscious reference to a seminal work of visual art in the climactic reveal scene (you’ll know it when you see it, I would wager).

But for all of Kenneth Branagh’s keen and professional work behind the camera to help Murder on the Orient Express succeed, he often can’t help himself, can’t help Branaghing, behind but especially in front of the camera. Branagh’s youthful burst of popularly and critically successful Shakespeare film adaptations in the late ’80s and early ’90s are far enough in the cinematic past to be semi-forgotten, but then so is the preening, egocentric excess of their director and star boldly self-evident in them. It’s taken Branagh two decades to work himself back into Hollywood’s good graces as a profitable filmmaker after the misbegotten Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and his indulgent four-hour Hamlet in the mid-’90s, helming blockbuster fare like Thor and Cinderella like a dutiful soldier while rebuilding his on-camera performance cred with his starring role in the moody Norse-noir grit of the BBC detective drama Wallander. He even allowed himself to be seen to laugh at the heroic, self-involved golden-boy persona he built his fame upon (no wonder his chest-beating Henry V is so good, after all) as the foppish, self-promoting Gilderoy Lockhart in the second Harry Potter movie.

But Kenneth Branagh making movies with all of his toys and all of his gold can be a fraught proposition. In a lot of ways, Murder on the Orient Express should be a perfect fit for Branagh’s toolset at the moment: it allows him to tap his established skills of historical recreation, balancing literary origins with cinematic language, familiarity with the detective genre, and recently-won confidence with CG effects. And, honestly, in many ways, his Murder on the Orient Express is a success, not least of which is his use of his international all-star cast (Branagh has always been good with ensembles, no doubt a holdover from his theatre days). Branagh is canny enough to tap into Daisy Ridley’s poise and self-possession, to trust Penelope Cruz’s eyes to do the work which her mouth (when it speaks English, anyway) can never quite manage, to let Willem Dafoe fruitfully pivot from duplicitousness to impassioned decency, to work Josh Gad into a nervous sweat, to incorporate young talents like Tom Bateman and Leslie Odom Jr. alongside decorated acting vets like Judi Dench and Derek Jacobi, to realize that Johnny Depp is really only useful as a despicable slimeball anymore, and to cast Michelle Pfeiffer in a damn movie already!

But, you know, Branagh gotta Branagh. Holy Mustache aside, his perfectly well-played Poirot sticks pretty closely to the textual model and thus is barely differentiated from the iconic screen version of the character crafted by David Suchet for years on television. But Kenneth Branagh is directing a movie starring himself again, and beneath Poirot’s prim, sophisticated manifestation, his glee at being the centre of attention again is palpable. Agatha Christie’s mysteries are often just as interested (if not more so) in the eccentric figures clustering around an unsolved crime than the archetypal detective trying to solve it, but this Murder on the Orient Express is thoroughly Poirot-centric, and therefore thoroughly Branagh-centric as well. Poirot is always the smartest boy in the room, but is just odd and self-effacing enough (he is, after all, Belgian) to transcend the arrogance and presumption that status entails. In Murder on the Orient Express, as in his peak-period Shakespeare adaptations, Kenneth Branagh is once again the smartest boy in the room. He revels in it, and wants us to know that he does. In such conditions, the work itself suffers, inevitably. Like Poirot’s mustache (here we go again with the mustache-as-metaphor for the larger film!), Kenneth Branagh is just a bit too much for the movie he’s a part of.

Categories: Film, Literature, Reviews

TV Quickshots #35

December 22, 2017 Leave a comment

Stranger Things – Season 2 (Netflix; 2017)

The much-anticipated Halloweentime return of Netflix’s buzziest binge-watching favourite about paranormal happenings and the pitfalls of growing up in the fictitious town of Hawkins, Indiana rewarded and frustrated in alternating measures. When last we peeked in on the Duffer Brothers’ 1980s genre-film revivalist homage Stranger Things, young Will Byers (Noah Schnapp) had been rescued (though far from unscathed) from the shadowy, creepy alternate universe of the Upside-Down by the efforts of his family and friends, while Eleven (the poised-beyond-her-years Millie Bobby Brown, perhaps the chief child actor here likely headed for greater things in adulthood), the mysterious young girl with psychokinetic powers, vanished after destroying not only the Demogorgon monster who had snatched Will (and others) but also the sinister Hawkins Lab government agents who had imprisoned her.

A year later, the still-haunted Will is experiencing frightening visions from the dark-mirror Upside-Down of a looming, terrifying being that is the terrible, mind-conquering power behind the Demogorgon(s) and an imminent threat to Hawkins and the world. As his mother Joyce (Winona Ryder), her new boyfriend Bob (Sean Astin, hilariously avuncular and squarely decent enough to justify the period-reference joke of his casting), and Will’s best friend Mike (Finn Wolfhard, a good young actor whose name sounds like a discarded line from the cult-fave MST3K Space Mutiny bit) try to work out what’s affecting Will in semi-cautious interactions with the kinder-gentler Hawkins Lab administration of Sam Owens (Paul Reiser, an inspired piece of casting while also a 1980s gag), his brother Jonathan (Charlie Heaton) and Mike’s sister Nancy (Natalia Dyer) seek out a reclusive, free-spirited anti-government conspiracist (Brett Gelman) who they hope will help them wring out and spread the truth about the disappearance of Nancy’s wet-blanket best friend (and almost-inexplicable Season One fan favourite) Barb (Shannon Purser). Meanwhile, local sheriff Jim Hopper (David Harbour) is secretly keeping Eleven in hiding in a cabin in the woods, though her chafing at confinement and desire to learn about her past will not allow this situation to endure long. Also, Mike and Will’s best buds Dustin (Gaten Matarazzo) and Lucas (Caleb McLaughlin) are dealing with a fast-growing amphibian/reptile creature (named Dart by Dustin, after D’Artagnan from Alexandre Dumas’ The Three Musketeers), the new girl in town (Sadie Sink) and her bad-boy stepbrother (Dacre Montgomery), and the bumpy road of puberty.

There’s plenty happening in Stranger Things: sci-fi/horror action, suspense, and CG effects, silly jokes and melodramas, superficial themes and metaphors, and relentless period-specific pop-cultural allusions. The Duffers shuffle and recombine their cast members, looking for productive chemistry sparks and sometimes finding them in unexpected places: Harbour and Brown take big meaty chunks out of their tension-filled surrogate father-daughter approximation subplot, and the copiously charismatic Matarazzo strikes up an unlikely partnership with Joe Keery, who plays Nancy’s jock sometimes-boyfriend Steve Harrington.

Stranger Things is a good time and consistently compulsively watchable, although the penultimate episode’s sidetrip with a former lab-mate from Eleven’s past, played by Linnea Berthelsen, simply doesn’t work, despite the bravery of the Duffers to cut away from the main action. But it remains a bit of a mess that is simultaneously over-plotted and under-plotted. Consider Dustin’s adopted pet Dart, who grows into a juvenile dog-like Demogorgon: the creature whiplashes from cute to menacing and then vanishes for much of the building and climactic action completely; it is given a moment of emotional redemption with Dustin and an absolutely heartbreaking ending, but the series can’t decide if it ultimately wants Dart to be cute or scary or both at once. Plenty of more important characters are likewise handled this way, too (Wolfhard’s Mike rallies around the afflicted Will and hangs around until the telegraphed reunion with object-of-affection Eleven), while others (like Montgomery’s greasy jerk Billy, whose bullying nature is patly explained late in the season) remain nothing but gimmicks.

In a saturated television series landscape where even boilerplate mainstream network sitcoms and dramas feature rich veins of implication and meaning, Stranger Things‘ complete dearth of subtext can be galling, as well. It’s even more frustrating when the Duffers gesture towards such subtexts and then don’t bother to follow through. This is the case in Season Two, in which the fall of 1984 presidential election between Republican incumbent Ronald Reagan and Democratic challenger Walter Mondale is established as significantly upcoming but never materializes into anything more than background detail, a set of in-universe jokes about which Hawkins homes would have which candidates’ election signs on their lawns. Stranger Things is already (very) nominally about a disturbing shadow world lying behind the safe white-bread image of 1980s suburban Middle America. It would have been uniquely positioned to build to a subversion of the cagey, disingenuous optimism of the Reaganite “Morning in America” political propaganda, but it misses this golden opportunity and furthermore seems blithely unaware of it. In this and other ways, Stranger Things is an entertaining but shallow potboiler that you just find yourself wishing would reach for more.

Dark (Netflix; 2017)

If you find yourself yearning for compelling, mind-scrambling conceptual reaches and roiling thematic subtext from a Netflix-produced sci-fi genre thriller, however, give the German-language drama Dark a whirl (do yourself a huge favour if you do: leave aside the English-dubbed version and choose German audio with English subtitles instead). Superficially similar to Stranger Things – odd quasi-dimensional happenings emanate from the high-security-science-facility-adjacent woods, embroiling families from a nearby small town – Dark is nonetheless very much its own strange and unique trip.

One hesitates to say too much about Dark‘s plot, characters, and challenging timeline ourobouros, as spoilers diminish its impact more than is the case with most texts. But suffice it to say that Dark is about disappearing children in a small German town in three time periods precisely 33 years apart, and how time-travelling quests to prevent, reverse, or solve the sinister abductions instead make the troubling events inevitable and worsen their multi-generational blows.

The co-brainchild of Swiss writer/director Baran bo Odar and Jantje Friese, Dark is built out of the dramatic ironies of time-travel theories (the hoary old grandfather paradox forever haunts the margins) and more dense, significant allusions to quantum physics, nuclear power, electromagnetism, existential philosophy, Christian scripture, and classical myth than in any television work since Lost. The family connections through time can become confusing (the show’s Wikipedia page features a handy branching hereditary tree, though be warned There Be Spoilers), and the unfamiliar cast of German actors does not aid in differentiation (I personally had only seen Oliver Masucci before; he starred as Hitler in the sly satire Look Who’s Back). But in truth, this only serves to sink the viewer deeper into the enigmatic swamp of Dark. And while it is never explicit about it, there are resonant echoes of recent German history in a story of the dangers of meddling with the past. What Dark does well, it does very well, and in a streaming TV landscape where surface-level entertainments like Stranger Things huff much of the oxygen, a deep and enigmatic work that breathes mystery in and out is extremely welcome.

Categories: Reviews, Television