“Guinevere.” The last line spoken in Robert Bresson’s extraordinary Lancelot of the Lake, perhaps his most underappreciated and woefully unseen masterpiece, isn’t exclaimed, shouted, or uttered. Only the slightest emoting is noticeable as Lancelot falls to the ground, dead as the stones and rusty armor that surrounds him. Nonetheless, the observant viewer needs no convincing that Lancelot and Guinevere’s love is as pure as Bresson’s direction. It’s merely presented in a style not normally associated with onscreen romances. Lancelot of the Lake may be Bresson’s least religious picture, but there’s something almost holy about their love for one another. Having seen Bresson’s filmography in full (including this film twice), I’m convinced that Lancelot of the Lake is on par with his very best and most transcendent work, including his heartbreaking companion pieces Au Hasard Balthazar and Mouchette.
With Lancelot of the Lake, Bresson takes the legendary tale of King Arthur and his knights, then proceeds to strip it bare. Gone is the chivalry, the romance, the sweeping damsels off their feet. Gone are the rich celebrations, luscious tapestries, and elaborate feasts. The flash is replaced with death, coldness, and relentless closeups of armor and lower bodies. Lancelot of the Lake begins with several brutal beheadings and killings deep in the woods. No faces are shown, merely helmets and gushing blood. Music is replaced by grunts and exclamations of pain. Skeletons hang on the trees, warning both knights and viewers of impending death and decay, as well as serving notice that many warriors have already met their doom in this very forest. Finally, after about three minutes of mostly silent battle, the remaining knights gallop off on horseback, leaving a pile of dead bodies in their wake as music starts up and the opening credits begin to appear. The mood’s been set, though; this will not be a gallant motion picture, nor an uplifting one (though Bresson’s name alone pretty much assures that anyway).
One could easily argue, “well, what’s the point?” Indeed, the appeal of the legend of Camelot is its magical feel, its ability to transport the reader/viewer to another, almost mystical plane of life. I myself have always been infatuated with the medieval otherworldliness—I’ve composed poetry about it, read many books set during the time period (from Tolkien’s “Gawain and the Green Knight” to Michael Crichton’s “Timeline,” soon to be released cinematically as an abomination by Richard Donner), and frequently dreamed of dashing to the window of an imprisoned dame at the top of the highest tower, sword glistening…well, you get the idea. And yet…Lancelot of the Lake unlocked a whole new stratosphere in my view of the myth. Beneath the glitter, there’s a rotten underbelly that threatens to be ripped into shreds each day. These knights may celebrate and set off on their quests with noble exteriors, but it’s the rare warrior that truly has an untarnished heart. Indeed, Bresson foxily tells us this by using the quest for the Holy Grail as nothing more than a backdrop. Lancelot and his men fail in their search, and it quickly fades in importance, as Lancelot’s affair with Guinevere and the developing internal mutiny and feuds take over. Similarly, the Round Table itself is rendered insignificant, appearing only briefly and referred to merely in passing. By minimizing the importance of these ‘legendary’ aspects of the tale, Bresson shifts the focus to what’s truly important; the motives, nobility, and loyalty of the many characters of the times.
The subtle touches here are plentiful. A few examples:
a. Bresson’s constant shots of horses’ eyes symbolize the fear of all, men and animal, as well as being a beautiful parallel to the many shots of Balthazar’s eyes… the donkey who was forced to live his entire life in terror and misery.
b. Loyalty has always been a trademark of the time, and while Bresson never explicitly discusses the theme, it’s presented in limited doses—likely the manner in which is really existed. Only two knights remain true to Lancelot throughout the picture, despite swirling rumors of his betrayal to the King. Bresson eliminates all soapy examples of emotional fidelity but never loses sight of its actual existence, paying it a solemn tribute – precisely the type that it deserves.
c. Late in the film, Lancelot is wounded in a joust (which he wins under cloak of disguise), and takes rest at an old woman’s cottage in the forest. Before fully healing, he insists upon leaving to return to Camelot, amidst her protests. Eerily reminiscent of his initial meeting with Guinevere, he places his hand on the old woman’s knee, oblivious to her complaints. More on this in the next paragraph.
Lancelot and Guinevere’s relationship is never overdramatized, yet it’s never less than poignant, containing countless small gestures of their forbidden passion. During their first encounter (the first portrayed in the film, that is), Guinevere wears no makeup, dressed in plain clothes. She reminds him of his promise to never stop loving her, to which he responds that it’s a promise he cannot keep, for his conscience is killing him. He delicately kisses her dress before exiting. It’s a transcendent moment, establishing the businesslike exterior of their relationship that can’t fully conceal the deep feelings underneath. Yet by the finale, it’s Lancelot who refuses to give up Guinevere while she feebly protests. For in the end, Lancelot is like everyone else in Bresson’s chaotic and cold world—a man who succumbs to desire and temptation. Even the greatest of heroes aren’t spared.
PRO (+)
A second viewing of Clint Eastwood’s somber psychological study eliminated many problems I had back in October. Initially, the mystery (which is often clumsily handled, overly reliant on coincidence and suspension of belief) took too much of my attention away from the characters: the real stars of Mystic River. While Sean Penn’s work has garnered the most acclaim, it’s Tim Robbins’ subtle portrayal of Dave that really holds Mystic River together. It’s astonishing how every movement Robbins makes sucks us more deeply into the chaos and turmoil of his head. Note the wearied and haggard look in the picture on the right, the blends of emotional exhaustion and uncertainy of direction. Robbins mixes everything together to form a potpourri of despair that’s really heartbreaking. Mystic River wouldn’t succeed without his presence; Penn’s excellent (per usual), but doesn’t have nearly as complex a role to fill (his Jimmy follows the pretty routine path of cockiness to tragedy to redemption, against the backdrop of a criminal background to enhance all of this). Kevin Bacon does adequate work as the cop Sean, but his role could have been filled equally well by dozens of actors. Most of the supporting work is fine, though Marcia Gay Harden (Dave’s wife Celeste) isn’t particularly convincing in her naiveté.
The story revolves around three childhood friends (Dave, Jimmy, Sean) bound together by a tragic incident of youth. At age 11, Dave was taken off in a car by two sickos impersonating policemen while Jimmy and Sean helplessly watched from the Boston sidewalk. It was four days before a molested and abused Dave managed to escape, his psyche shattered, his friendships lost. Fast forward 25 years to the present—the three still live in the same New England town, but have become little more than casual acquaintances. But suddenly, Jimmy’s 19 year-old daughter Katie is murdered, sending the community into turmoil and reuniting the three friends in a strange series of events (Sean is assigned to the case, while Dave was at the bar where Katie was last seen on the night of the killing). As the trio’s unavoidable attachment deepens, the true repercussions of that day in the car begin to crystallize and haunt – Dave’s psychological makeup eerily mirrors Jimmy’s deepening mental disintegration, and Sean’s forced to balance his past bonds with his current investigation.
Mystic River‘s primary flaws are tied to the mystery itself. Plenty of characters affect the story, like Katie’s boyfriend Brendan—the two were planning to elope to Vegas the coming weekend. His father happened to be an old enemy of Jimmy’s, leading to disdain and distrust in both the present and past. While this impressively mirrors the timeline theme, the problem with it—and others—is that it’s just too coincidental. Frequently, people are tied together in ways that seem to exist only to aid the narrative structure. This takes a lot away from the emotional heft, particularly on the first viewing…a good deal of the encounters and ties lack the authenticity for them to pack any kind of real punch. There’s also a subplot with Sean and his wife that’s clumsy and pointless, its minor positive impact on a thematic level greatly outweighed by the clichés and cheesiness, and the epilogue alternates between important symbolism and silliness. I’m harping on the negatives a lot because most people will only see Mystic River once, and the flaws need to be addressed. However, for those with patience and the desire to delve deeper into the mystic…
Eastwood cleverly leaves Jimmy’s future in Sean’s hands and refuses to give us a clear answer, allowing the ambiguity to force us to consider what’s right and wrong. Many of the conclusions and questions that Mystic River raises are so far from black and white that you really do reevaluate many issues, from societal acceptance to mercy to grounds for loyalty. Despite its problems, Mystic River paints a powerful portrait of grief and psychological despair, one that’s enhanced by the somber cinematography and appropriately subtle score as well as the aforementioned outstanding acting. Eastwood’s direction, aside from aspects of the second half, is correctly restrained—he doesn’t try to stamp Mystic River as a Clint flick, content to step back and let the storyline and performances carry the show. The shot of Dave’s first arrest, hauntingly the twin to his intitial kidnapping right down to the camera angle, sums up Mystic River‘s effectiveness and power. A tale of tragic misinterpretation, Mystic River requires deep focus on the multiple tortured souls to fully be harnessed. Push aside the mystery, and perhaps you can reel it in.
Considering its grand critical reception (numerous Top 10 lists and awards), The Station Agent represents 2003′s biggest disappointment. The small-town setting always appeals to me (my New York blood makes it a learning experience much of the time), and I loved David Gordon Green’s All the Real Girls, a similar picture in scope and atmosphere. Alas, The Station Agent doesn’t come close to lyricism or reality at any time during its irritating 88 minutes. It opens with implausibility, picks up some absurdity along the way, and concludes with a nice dose of silliness. That the execution of all this junk avoids melodrama and includes some excellent photography doesn’t make a whit of difference in the end. It’s a dull and obvious film posing as a subtle character study.
Fin (Peter Dinklage) is a dwarf who moves into a station house in rural New Jersey after his only friend and business partner passes away. Fin hopes for a life of solitude but instead finds himself run off the road (twice) by a pushy woman named Olivia (Patricia Clarkson), who insists on barging her way into his life. A coffee vendor named Joe (Bobby Cannavale) sells Fin a cup soon after his arrival, and also tries to invoke a friendship with the standoffish hobbit. Fin initially resists, but eventually becomes attached to both people, as well as a young librarian Emily (Michelle Williams), who’s developed that adorable schoolgirl crush. Oh yes, and there’s the little black girl who asks him to speak to her class at school. Stunningly, he initially refuses and eventually shows up! Who woulda thunk it? But more on these types of contrivances (of which there are plenty, believe me) later…
The Station Agent focuses on loneliness and the quest for acceptance, and wastes no time in telling us so. Things open with Fin’s friend dying and never steer from the most predictable direction. Now, that can still make for a fine film if the story feels realistic, if the characters give us something to grab on to. It can still be charming, if not always sublime. Peter Sollett’s Raising Victor Vargas (a simple NYC coming-of-age story) never aspires to rise above simplicity, but its heart and Sollett’s quiet direction make it a poignant experience anyway. The Station Agent is its polar opposite, presenting us with a stream of ludicrous scenarios and expecting us to bite. Most of these situations could be accepted in the frame of a more acceptable narrative, but taken a a complete package, it’s impossible to swallow without suspending belief to an inordinate level.
The relationships are heavy-handed and clichéd. Why does Joe, a perfectly attractive young man with an outgoing personality, feel so inclined to befriend a coldhearted midget who he’s met just two minutes before? Olivia showing up at Fin’s doorstep with an apologetic bottle of champagne (for running him off the road) is understandable; her insistence on coming inside and spending the evening is not. Their constant pushing and prodding is irritating. Nothing beyond the shallowest reason (they’re lonely; boo-hoo) is given for their unrelenting insistence that Fin be their buddy. Most of us have been lonely at some time or another, but that doesn’t mean we beg the first available person to give a damn, completely ignoring their anti-social persona or other issues.
Equally frustrating is the social depiction of Fin’s condition. There are plenty of assholes out there, no doubt, but it’s a bit of a stretch to envision everyone that crosses his path to make comments or poke fun. In general, there’ll be plenty of folks who’re mature enough to accept seeing a dwarf without starting in shock. There’ll be plenty who think something but keep it to themselves. Then there’ll be the few who can’t control themselves or are just plain dickheads, and unleash a verbal tirade. In The Station Agent, however, almost everyone who appears in a shot with Fin is seen staring rudely, or cruelly insulting him…except Joe and Olivia, who go the opposite extreme, proudly walking alongside him. Example: about 25 minutes in, Joe gets a visit from two cool-looking friends (another reason why his desperation to forge a relationship with Fin makes no sense). Instantly, I saw the entire scene play out in my head…friends tease Fin when he emerges from his home, Joe comes to his defense, etc, etc. And sure enough, that’s precisely what happened. One could argue that Joe wants more socially-accepting buddies than these pricks, but he’s clearly capable of finding them without resorting to pleading with a midget. Olivia and Fin’s relationship is packed with similar moments. Her ex-husband shows up at her doorstep just as Fin is leaving her house (what a lovely moment! No manipulation there or anything…), resulting in the usual self-doubt and questions. Yawn. Anything here that hasn’t been done a trillion times before?
The capper; while Fin’s at a bar drinking away his misery, Emily shows up, having met Fin just twice before. She sits next to him, strikes up a conversation, and then announces out of the blue that she’s pregnant. Anything seem a bit off here? Admittely, she’s in High School (and who among us didn’t do some silly shit back then?), but it’s a tad much to expect her to tell this incredibly personal fact (oh yes, nobody else knows yet) to someone she hardly knows. Immaturity be damned, that doesn’t happen in any world I know, and The Station Agent sure didn’t convince me that I’ve just been repressed. Of course, this (along with the usual encounter with her boyfriend whose mistreating her blah blah blah) all leads to them making out in a tender-as-can-be moment. Blech.
It may seem like I’m being a bit harsh (okay, very harsh), but I despise falseness in cinema, and The Station Agent is rife with contrivances and manipulation. I haven’t even touched on the presence of the token black girl, mainly because The Station Agent has enough problems without opening that can of worms (incidentally, I don’t think this is a racist film by ANY means, but the singular black child IS yet another example of McCarthy’s overbearing directorial style). I can’t say with complete conviction that the numerous implausibilities here are completely impossible, nor can I say that plenty of them wouldn’t have worked under a different context. Here, though, they cause a well-intentioned picture to fall flat on its face.