A second viewing unlocked much of what I was missing in this much-revered Bresson work, his fourth feature: it was one of my first experiences with Bresson, and I was unable to grasp the unorthodox manner in which he merged his austere style with a subject as traditionally fast-moving as a prison break. Shame on me. This time around, I was struck by how deeply we get inside Fontaine’s (François Leterrier) mind as he meticulously plans his escape from the prison where he’s been condemned to death by the Nazi’s. Like in Diary of a Country Priest and Pickpocket, the protagonist narrates his actions and thoughts as the film develops. We watch Fontaine develop a method of communicating with his next-cell neighbor via wall-tapping patterns, and gamble upon trusting a stranger with smuggling incriminating messages out of jail. We see him learn the ins and outs of his cell, and begin devising his escape plan: mundane items like an iron spoon and bed springs become key cogs in his second-to-second life. At first glance, Bresson’s style would seem an odd choice for the material, perhaps even moreso than Pickpocket or Lancelot du Lac, but A Man Escaped casts a unique spell—if it’s not as emotionally haunting as Au Hasard Balthazar or Mouchette, it remains a powerful, compelling portrait of single-minded focus, discipline, and humanity. As Fontaine witnesses hope getting thinner and thinner—his wall-knocking neighbor is killed by firing squad; a getaway attempt by another inmate goes awry; Fontaine’s painstaking chipping away at his cell door hits a stumbling block—his resolve never falters. Potential obstacles like an unexpected new cell mate (Jost, played by Charles Le Clainche), whom he doesn’t know if he can trust, are handled as straightforwardly as can be—it’s like Fontaine knows God is on his side (and he does meet a Priest while doing his time…plus, Bresson’s films are always heavily steeped in faith). Leterrier, a patented Bresson amateur, has the perfect face for his role: a constant calm, focused look is ominpresent throughout. When A Man Escaped comes to its dramatic-without-drama conclusion, we feel as if we’ve lived inside Fontaine’s head for the past 100 minutes, and are trying to flee along with him.
77/100
If French master Robert Bresson’s fifth feature, Pickpocket, doesn’t quite achieve the ethereal otherworldliness of Au Hasard Balthazar or Mouchette, that speaks only to Bresson’s uncanny ability to deliver transcendent masterpiece after masterpiece like no other. Bresson is perhaps the greatest of all directors, able to turn cinematic convention on its head and achieve an emotional honesty that few are capable of. Take the frequent subject matter of his work: topics that are, inherently, tailor-made for the thriller genre. A prison break (A Man Escaped). Joan of Arc’s trial (The Trial of Joan of Arc; natch). King Arthur’s quest for the holy grail (Lancelot of the Lake). Counterfeit money (L’Argent). And a master pickpocket who’s engaged in a cat-and-mouse game with the police (Pickpocket). Using minimalistic camera techniques and narrative structuring, Bresson strips these stories of all pretense, gimmickry and glamor, instead choosing to present their thematic cores at their purest, untarnished by directorial conceit or melodrama. The result is, consistently, the subtlest of beauties, barren of any emotional manipulation. Bresson’s work is truly gorgeous in its austere, emotional simplicity.
Pickpocket opens with the protagonist, Michel (Martin LaSalle, in his first role: Bresson only used unknown actors, and rarely used them more than once), scribbling in his journal. We’re quickly introduced to Michel’s inner voice, which, throughout the film, matter-of-factly discusses why he feels drawn to pickpocketing and the uncertainty that clouds his mind (Diary of a Country Priest and A Man Escaped use similar narrative devices). Michel lives in a slovenly room in Paris with little more than a bed, table, books and dust to keep him company. He wears the same slightly worn suit and black tie day after day. And he’s uncontrollably drawn to picking the pockets of pedestrians in crowded locales—Pickpocket‘s first sequence takes place in a tightly framed racetrack, people clustered together cheering on their preferred horses. Bresson never uses close-ups of the face, but he does time and again with other body parts: here, it’s predominantly the hands. In a precursor to many of the film’s most elegant scenes, we see Michel deftly unlatch a lady’s handbag and swipe a wad of bills. As he walks away, the aforementioned inner voice narrates that he feels invincible, on top of the world. A moment later, he’s caught, but we don’t see it. The shot immediately following Michel’s internal proclamation of power is of him sitting in a police station, directly across from the chief (Jean Pélégri). By not showing Michel’s arrest—which, for most filmmakers, would usually be the sequence’s money shot—Bresson has served notice that this will be a very different sort of movie, devoid of standard drama.
So, why does Michel do what he does? He’s constantly searching for meaning in his life: thievery fills part of a deep void, but opens up another. His friend Jacques (Pierre Leymarie)—who knows not how Michel ekes out a livelihood—attempts to get him some regular work, but Michel finds himself unable to take the opportunities in front of him, even if he recognizes deep down that he should. The shame in Michel’s soul over his way of being spills to the surface. His mother (Dolly Scal), whom he thinks knows nothing about his line of work, is on her deathbed, but Michel is so racked with guilt over his weakness of self that he can’t bring himself to visit her, preferring instead to leave money with her attractive neighbor and friend Jeanne (Marika Green), whom he’s developed complicated romantic feelings for. When Michel’s mother eventually passes away, her service reveals where Michel’s life of isolation came from—Jacques and Jeanne are Michel’s only company in the room. Watching a confused Michel stare blankly into space devastates in a manner that nobody but Bresson could put forth.
As Pickpocket progresses, Michel falls in with more sophisticated thieves who take him under their wing and teach him advanced techniques: Bresson uses an array of graceful tracking shots—never from too close in—to illustrate the extraordinary skillset the field requires (Michel hints at this in an earlier conversation with the Chief where he casually hypothesizes that if one has a gift that happens to be illegal, it should be morally acceptable). Why does Michel really do what he does? Because it’s all he’s good at—he believes its his chosen path because he’s never been shown another by a higher power. But Bresson can depict spiritual redemption like no other, and Michel is a prime example—his feelings for Jeanne, so restrained throughout, gradually peek through the clouds and burst through in the fabulous closing line: “Oh Jeanne, what a strange path I had to take to find you!” I will resist completely giving away everything in this review and won’t detail the final moments in their entirety, but Michel’s first real outburst of emotion is fully earned, the outpouring of pent-up misery and suffering that’s finally found an outlet and given long-lost meaning to his life. Poetic seems too weak a word to sum up Pickpocket‘s extraordinary arc: that it achieves so much in so short a time (75 minutes) is almost other-worldly.
Really, Clint? Eastwood’s work has been on a downward spiral since Million Dollar Baby in 2004—aside from Letters to Iwo Jima, his recent work has been uninspired at best and insipidly cloying at worst. Invictus represents the worst we’ve seen of Eastwood, and one can only hope he’s bottomed out. The topic matter—Nelson Mandela’s uniting of post-Apartheid South Africa through the wildly popular (with whites) national rugby team—certainly lends itself to saccharine treatment, but Eastwood’s reputation would lead one to expect a layered, respectful film. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be: the script is a steaming pile of schmaltz and sports clichés, and Morgan Freeman (as Mandela) and Matt Damon (as rugby captain Francois Piennar) stumble through without any energy, but with plenty of butchered accents. Invictus lacks any spark whatsoever; it’s difficult to believe it’s even an Eastwood picture. The matches are lifeless and dull, the score swells with unyielding frequency, and the depictions of the fractured country that Mandela united are shallow and without soul. Only a single moment with Piennar’s family housekeeper has any quiet warmth and meaning to it. A worthless, hokey film that doesn’t come close to doing justice to a beautiful story. The sooner it can be forgotten, the better. Let’s just hope Eastwood is capable of regaining his mojo, because I’m close to giving up on him.
Director James Gray is rapidly establishing himself as one of America’s up-and-coming filmmakers, one of those for whom you eagerly await his newest release. Gray really has the pulse of Brooklyn down pat: the vibe of the streets, the eclectic mix of cultures, the sense of family values. This last point appears to be particularly important in Gray’s work (it’s omnipresent in the excellent Two Lovers, which takes his talents to another level), and it’s the backbone of We Own the Night‘s narrative arc. A brief plot summary: Bobby (Joaquin Phoenix) runs a nightclub in Brighton Beach—a heavily Russian part of Brooklyn—where he snorts coke and parties until the wee hours with his gorgeous Hispanic girlfriend Amada (Eva Mendes) & best friend Jumbo (Danny Hoch). Despite his happy-go-lucky ways, Bobby mostly stays out of the way of the Russian mob, who frequent the club on a regular basis: Marat’s (Moni Moshonov)—the owner of the club, and Bobby’s business mentor—nephew Vadim (Alex Veadov) is one of their dirtiest members. Unbeknownst to everyone except Amada, however, Bobby’s family are major players in the NYPD: his father Bert (Robert Duvall) is a famous police chief—”We Own the Night” refers to a motto on the NYPD badges—and his brother Joseph (Mark Wahlbergh) has just been promoted to Captain (Bobby uses his mother’s maiden name, Green, to avoid recognition). When Bobby discovers that his family is part of a mob hit list, he’s forced to choose sides in an all-out war.
We Own the Night, Gray’s third feature, starts off like gangbusters—the first hour is expertly crafted. 1988 New York was a rough-and-tumble place, with criminal activity running rampant, and the police were often overmatched: Gray captures this perfectly. Thanks in large part to Phoenix’s superb performance, Bobby’s conflicted loyalties—his love for his father & brother vs. his rebellious nature and desire to break free of his ‘natural’ path—really shine through. That expectation of following in your family’s footsteps is deeply embedded in Brooklyn culture, and Gray does a great job of nailing Bobby’s internal strife over his life direction. As Bobby tries to decide whom he can count on, a 25th Hour-esque sense of distrust peeks out at the viewer (which would be decidedly welcome; Spike Lee expertly handles the palpable sense of unease in his 2002 masterpiece).
Unfortunately, that sense never really materializes: the second half of We Own the Night is much spottier than the first, with several predictable “twists” and too many climaxes. Gray seems unclear on how to wrap things up, and concludes the film in herky-jerky fashion. It’s never dull—in fact, We Own the Night is exciting and entertaining throughout, due in large part to stylish-yet-controlled camerawork, appropriately dark color schemes, and editing—but the promise of the first half never comes to fruition, despite several powerful sequences and an expertly-shot, exciting car chase. The supporting performances are mostly solid, if unspectacular—Veadov is the standout, while Mendes is the weakest link. If We Own the Night is flawed and somewhat choppy, it served notice that Gray, once he refined his technique and developed a more consistent directorial flow, would be a force to be reckoned with in the cinema world. And judging by the power of Two Lovers from start to finish, he’s well on his way to reaching his immense potential.
There seems to be a severe critical split regarding the work of Jason Reitman (Thank You For Smoking, Juno), generally in the form of initial fawning followed by a serious backlash. Personally, I think Reitman is a witty director who sometimes gets too clever for his own good. That’s definitely the case with his latest film, Up in the Air, which focuses on sensitivity to impending layoffs in the workplace—a particularly resonant message during our nation’s current economic troubles—and the loneliness of high-paying-but-frequently-traveling careers. George Clooney turns in a solid performance as Ryan Bingham, who spends 3/4 of his days flying around the country firing people for companies who don’t have the balls to do it themselves, but he’s more dynamic in Fantastic Mr. Fox. The supporting women—Alex (Vera Farmiga), a female version of Ryan who’s easily turned on by power, and Natalie (Anna Kendrick), an ambitious, young up-and-comer who initially wants to revolutionize Ryan’s job but soon learns that even high-powered technology has its limits—are more layered characters. Up in the Air does a nice job of capturing America’s fear and angst during our painful recession, but large chunks of the movie feel contrived: it lacks real spirit and creativity despite a script that’s sharply written on the surface. I’d like to see Reitman step away from his usual schtick and try to delve more deeply into his character’s souls—the surface is stylishly done, but Up in the Air‘s underbelly is strangely and unfulfillingly hollow.
There are some terrific moments here, but Jackson is mostly caught in an in-between world himself, uncertain of what tone to use at any given time. The result is a mostly heavy-handed, frustrating movie that could have been really interesting had a more subtle touch been applied to the subject matter. Jackson’s problem with his last two films is that he’s tried to apply a Lord of the Rings-level scope to topics that simply don’t warrant it. Obviously, King Kong requires something closer to it than The Lovely Bones, but both could have been much improved with some streamlining and different choices. Saoirse Ronan has gotten a lot of praise for her performance as Susie Salmon, but I found her overly breathy and pretty annoying. Stanley Tucci is excellent as her killer, though. The rest of the cast mostly muddles through in passable fashion. The best sequences occur in the in-between when Jackson unleashes his visual eye: they may not flow into the rest of the movie especially smoothly, but they’re luscious in and of themselves, with assistance from a lovely score. Tucci’s moments of silent orchestrating, which aren’t weighted down by a heavy script, also shine. Somewhere inside The Lovely Bones lurks a fascinating film about redemption vs. moving on, but unfortunately, Jackson proves unable to deliver it.
For such an ambitious debut, fashion designer-turned-filmmaker Tom Ford’s A Single Man is better than it has any right to be: as a depiction of grief and emotional baggage, the picture is moderately successful, buoyed by a powerhouse performance from Colin Firth as George, a Los Angeles professor who recently lost his gay lover Jim in a snowy single car accident. A Single Man spans one day, soon after the crash, and Ford utilizes flashbacks to illustrate just how much Jim meant to George, and how his entire life is now devoid of meaning: George spends most of his time futzing around the house, bloodlessly laying out identical white shirts for the next day, or getting drunk with his best friend Charley (a haggard-yet-strangely-sexy Julianne Moore), a divorcee—and fellow Brit—who still harbors romantic feelings for George despite his having made his sexual preferences abundantly clear. Misery loves company, as they say. A Single Man is set in 1962, smack-dab in the middle of Nuclear Weapons-mania & Cuban Missile-hysteria, and fear is the pervasive element behind everything: paranoia that America could be blown up by the Soviet Union runs rampant, and it serves as a running metaphor for the rest of the film, especially homosexuality and the societal pressure that accompanies the lifestyle. One of George’s students—complete with a token girlfriend right out of 1960′s Godard, cigarette and heavy eye shadow included—gradually works up the nerve to come on to his Professor. Charley wallows in her self-pity day and night. A neighbor discreetly tells his young daughter that George is, “light in the loafers” (luckily, children tend to be incapable of keeping secrets). Most of these supporting storylines are fairly simple and one-note in their execution, but Firth’s excellence keeps things interesting. As for Ford, he deserves kudos for recognizing what he has in Firth, stepping back and giving him room to work. His camera technique is more of a mixed bag: at times, the excessive slow-motion and stylized shots bog things down. A Single Man feels very much the work of an aggressive-and-talented first-time director feeling his way (which would be more acceptable, I suppose, if he weren’t adapting such a beloved novel). Still, there’s enough here, mostly driven by Firth’s Oscar-caliber performance, to make it worthwhile viewing, if not close to compulsory.
At last, Guy Ritchie has found the perfect vessel for his sugar-rush, hyper-kinetic style of filmmaking. The director of the hit-or-miss Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch—as well as the supposedly unwatchable Swept Away, unseen by me—absolutely nails Sherlock Holmes, staying true to the classic Arthur Conan Doyle characters in spirit while imbuing them and the film with his ADD-eque energy and unique style. And really, what better fit for Ritchie than an opium-addicted, violin-strumming genius who’s incapable of sitting still for more than a moment at a time? Riding a lights-out performance by Robert Downey Jr. as Holmes and an outstanding supporting turn from Jude Law as Watson, Ritchie steps on the pedal from the opening shots and doesn’t take his foot off the gas until the credits wrap up. Aside from perhaps Inglorious Basterds, which is an entirely different sort of picture, Sherlock Holmes is the most entertaining movie of the year. It pulsates with energy, vim and vigor.
Set in the usual London haunts, Sherlock Holmes tells the tale of Holmes’ battle of wits with Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong), the leader of a cultish order who hopes to use the aura of black magic and fear to control England, then the world. Sherlock Holmes isn’t a deep movie (nor does it presume to be: it’s completely comfortable in its own cinematic skin), but it offers plenty of fun tidbits to munch on during the excitement. Using jazzy editing techniques, Ritchie cleverly depicts, without disrupting the rhythm, how a truly great mind slows everything down and processes at hyper-speed. The always-tumultuous question of faith vs. practicality rears its head, as do political subtexts of passivity vs. aggressiveness in one’s worldview and humanity’s tendency to, at times, blindly follow-the-leader. None of this is earth-shattering stuff on its own, but Ritchie manages to seamlessly blend it with non-stop action and intrigue, which keeps the audience engaged on multiple levels from start to finish.
The acting, as suggested in the opening paragraph, is fantastic. Downey dives headfirst into Holmes and emerges fully immersed: every facial tic and rapid-fire monologue is pitch-perfect (plus his lithe, sculpted body is an ideal match for Holmes’ renowned physical prowess). Law isn’t far behind as Dr. Watson—the two have superb chemistry, and Law successfully captures all of Watson’s quirks: his simultaneous infatuation and exasperation with Holmes, his difficulty in balancing his personal life & desire for some sense of stability (I.E. a wife) with his insatiable thirst for the hunt that Holmes provides, his jealousy of Holmes’ wit and the pleasure he takes when Watson’s semi-advanced thought processes earn him kudos from Holmes. The other actors range from good to very good, save for the miscast Rachel McAdams as Holmes’ sexy-and-smart-as-a-whip nemesis Irene Adler: McAdams just doesn’t have the screen presence to match up with the big guns here. But perhaps what’s most impressive is how Ritchie stays true to the source while making Sherlock Holmes a Guy Ritchie movie in every way (in the past, that might not have been a positive, but it sure is here). The whole cast makes an appearance, from Holmes’ clucking Landlady to the devious Professor Moriarty to Adler, and Holmes & Watson’s mannerisms and ways of thinking are spot on. But Sherlock Holmes‘ tempo, editing, and fast-paced, witty script set it apart from anything resembling a banal adaptation. The film’s run-time flies by, and when it wraps up, you’ll want to do little more than holler to the cameraman, “run it again!”
I really wanted to like John Lee Hancock’s The Blind Side. In fact, I wanted to love it. I wanted to cry my eyes out over one of the most amazing rags-to-riches, real life stories I’ve heard. And I even liked Hancock’s The Rookie a decent bit, a film in a similar vein. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. That parts of The Blind Side would be overly sentimental was, perhaps, unavoidable—this is Hollywood meets made-for-Hollywood, after all—but what wasn’t inevitable was the sheer blandness of Hancock’s direction, script, and editing. The Blind Side is awkwardly put together, meandering from one sequence to another with no cinematic verve. A surprisingly strong-and-sassy Sandra Bullock as Michael Oher’s (Quinton Aaron) evangelical savior/adoptive mother does her best to boost the film’s energy level, as does an out-of-nowhere Tim McGraw as Leigh Anne’s supportive-and-submissive husband, but they’re not nearly enough. The most emotional moments are the real-life footage of the 2009 NFL draft, which you can find on YouTube or ESPN.com. Occasional scenes offer glimpses at what could have been (to be clear, that means this could have been a very solid, touching mainstream picture, nothing more), but most of The Blind Side lacks the punch such a powerful tale warrants. At least it’s not as sappy as it could have been…
Though listed on IMDB.com as a 2005 release, Aleksandr Sokurov’s dazzling The Sun has only now made its way to American shores, and cinephiles everywhere should be thankful that it has—The Sun is a uniquely wonderful film that’s fascinating, provocative, educational and haunting all at once. Sokurov is fond of churning out pictures which require (or at least, greatly benefit from) some serious external knowledge, be it cultural, as in Russian Ark, or historical like his trilogy on surrender (Moloch and Taurus focus on the downfalls of Hitler and Lenin respectively). The Sun, the latest and final installment, tells the story of Emperor Hirohito and Japan’s submission to the United States in 1945.
Few directors are as gifted with their mis-en-scene as Sokurov (Russian Ark is one majestic, sweeping shot through Russia’s Heritage Museum: the film is nothing if not visually inspired), and he begins The Sun using tight framing and intense close-ups as we peek into Hirohito’s constricted soul. We find a man without the slightest bit of responsibility for his minute-to-minute actions, whether it’s buttoning his shirt or planning his daily schedule. The most mundane details are compulsively handled by his servants, leaving little time for him to forge an identity of his own: the most powerful man in Japan is so accustomed to being waited on hand and foot that when he’s about to leave General MacArthur’s bunker midway through the picture, he stands awkwardly in front of the door, unsure of the next step that’s second nature to the rest of the world. Hirohito’s lack of self-assuredness is intense—indeed, haunting in its isolation from humanity as we’re accustomed to it. The early portions of The Sun are almost nightmarish in their cold shots of Hirohito trudging slowly through bleak hallways, coiffed to a sterile perfection.
As The Sun progresses and we begin to see more of Hirohito the man, the mis-en-scene opens up with him. Shots gradually inch out to long distances, often drowning him in space. His loneliness and unease in his role becomes more and more evident. His empress is a non-entity until the film’s final sequence. His obsession with marine life gives us the only glimpse of normalcy into his deity-esque existence—Hirohito even moves his lips like a fish as he speaks, though his strange manner of speaking could also be attributed to his societal discomfort and trouble with communication, a calligraphy of the lips. By the time MacArthur begins delicately nudging Hirohito towards a bloodless surrender, the two men are drowned in the austere emptiness of the General’s quarters and Sokurov’s masterly compositions.
The Sun would be nowhere near as affecting without the staggeringly restrained performance of Issei Ogata as Hirohito. Every movement, word, and gesticulation feels perfect. Robert Dawson as MacArthur is a more-than-worthy second in command, and the various servants and soldiers turn in strong supporting work. I’ve already spoken glowingly about Sokurov’s visual genius, but the subtle score—especially the manner in which it alternates with appropriate silence—deserves major kudos as well. One doesn’t need to be an admirer of Sokurov’s previous works to find The Sun immensely affecting and powerful. In fact, its vast number of strengths lead me to label it borderline unmissable.