For a debut, Noah Baumbach’s Kicking and Screaming is an impressive effort, but it lacks the resonance or flexibility of his The Squid and the Whale, released ten years later. By that, I mean that Kicking and Screaming, which tells the tale of a bunch of college graduates mostly unwilling to take the plunge into the real world, would likely resonate strongly to those in that place in their lives, but feels far, far away to those who aren’t. Unlike, say, Reality Bites, there’s not enough emotional heft in Baumbach’s rapid-fire script to transcend its narrow focus (this is something Baumbach corrected in his wrenching The Squid and the Whale, then regressed in Margot at the Wedding, which also lacked anyone to really latch onto). Kicking and Screaming has a very sharp screenplay, and is, at times, quite funny, but there’s no real poignancy, and even the best written sequences drag a bit, or don’t work as well as they could or should (case in point: Baumbach test-runs his divorce plot-line, which stems from his personal experience, in a brief encounter between Grover and his father, but it winds up being merely amusing, not rich in subtext). Baumbach is still clearly finding his footing here, and while it’s an admirable opening act, it’s most notable for its hints of what’s to come (in addition to directing and penning The Squid and the Whale, Baumbach also co-wrote Wes Anderson’s hilarious-and-witty Fantastic Mr. Fox).
58/100
Has a director ever had more extraordinary back-to-back years than Kenji Mizoguchi in 1953 and 1954? With Ugetsu and then Sanshô the Bailiff, Mizoguchi produced two of the decade’s greatest masterpieces, and two of the finest films to ever come out of Japan…and the world. Picking between the two is, for me, like apples and oranges, and entirely unnecessary; it mostly depends on which I’ve seen most recently. Having just finished up a third viewing of Sanshõ, the time seemed right for a long overdue review of one of my favorite movies from a director who, when at his best, is as masterful as any filmmaker, alive or dead. Sanshõ the Bailiff focuses on dual primary themes: a thorough condemning of medieval Japan’s slave trade, and the heartrending story of Zushiõ (Yoshiaki Hanayagi), and Anju (Kyõko Kagawa), which takes the center stage for much of the picture. Ironically, Mizoguchi was forced by his production studio to make this the film’s focal point—he passionately wanted Sanshõ (Eitarõ Shindõ), the brutal administer of the slave camp where Zushiõ and Anju are sold, to be at the story’s forefront. It’s a testament to Mizoguchi’s greatness that he was able to smoothly, if unhappily, adjust to his studio’s demands and put forth such a brilliant work.
Sanshõ the Bailiff begins with Zushiõ and Anju’s father, Masauji (Masao Shimizu)—the Governor of Tango—being banished from his post by his superior officer, a feudal warlord who has no patience for Masauji’s humanistic tendencies. This initial scene does much to shape Sanshõ the Bailiff‘s trajectory. Firstly, it establishes the “noble father as a role model” angle that permeates throughout the movie: before being roughly escorted away by armed guards, Masauji tells his children that they’ll be nothing without compassion and selflessness. This worldview is heavily steeped in Japanese culture, and it emerges again and again throughout the film. Secondly, it sets in motion Zushiô and Anju’s tragic arc—with Masauji gone, their mother Tamaki (Kinuyo Tanaka) is forced to take the children to live with Masauji’s brother. After a few years of toiling in obscurity, they’re tricked by a devious priestess and sold into slavery: Tamaki is sent to Sado, and Zushiô & Anju to Sanshô’s estate. Mizoguchi films the excruciating separation on the beach with crystal compositions, and it’s not a coincidence that Sanshô the Bailiff‘s most emotional moments occur by the water: at a time when canoes were among the most advanced forms of transportation available, “departures” from lakes and oceans symbolize a goodbye of undetermined lengths, and arrivals to the shores can be seen as miracles.
Even before A Prophet took the festival and indie circuits by storm, earned a 2010 Oscar nomination for best foreign film, and, in general, earned ecstatic reviews everywhere it opened, I was excited for its completion. Because I’ve been a big fan of Jacques Audiard’s past two films—the Hitchcockian Read My Lips (2001), and the snappy The Beat That My Heart Skipped (2005). In both films, Audiard showed a superb grasp of pacing, editing, and, perhaps most interestingly, a keen interest in sound as a dynamic in building suspense and tension. Read My Lips—whose protagonist was a deaf lip-reader used by a criminal to gain an edge—and The Beat That My Heart Skipped, which focused on a pianist and his corrupt family, used both silence and noise expertly to create emphasis. A Prophet, which is the most ambitious of the three works, gracefully continues this trend. In particular, the film’s most powerful sequence—a savage, multiple-person assassination shot in close-up in an armored minivan on the Paris streets—manipulates the intensity exceptionally well with an extended, chilling hush, followed by fuzzy white noise as the protagonist temporarily loses his hearing. Intensity and brutality are two of A Prophet‘s trademarks, and while one viewing hasn’t convinced me it’s fully worthy of the revelatory accolades it’s received (which imply a masterpiece), it’s consistently engaging and full of subtle undertones. It’s also possible that my previous admiration of Audiard kept A Prophet‘s strength from being at all surprising to me.
A Prophet hurls the viewer right into the fray: 19-year old Malik (Tahar Rahim) is tossed into a French jail with a six-year sentence (one that Audiard hints may be illegitimate —the only reference to the actual crime is a feeble mumble from Malik that he didn’t do anything). Malik arrives with nothing. No family is ever referenced, and he can’t read or write. All he has in his pocket is a cigarette, lighter, and crumpled-up 50-euro note. Malik is sorely in need of some sort of guidance, and he finds it in the person of César (Niels Arestrup), a Corsican mafia kingpin who dictates everything that goes on inside the cells. Malik gives a few half-hearted attempts at resistance, but quickly gives up. What follows often feels like HBO’s seven-season prison drama Oz—a no-holds-barred initiation into the corrupt prison system. And I mean no-holds barred. A throat is slit by a razor blade concealed in the mouth; heads are repeatedly pounded into walls. The prison is bitterly divided between the Muslims and the Corsicans. Malik, handpicked by César to be his lackey, is in the thick of it, and his role grows when César’s most trusted men are transferred elsewhere. Like Oz, A Prophet occasionally feels a bit repetitive, especially in its first half: 15 minutes probably could have been shaved off the 149-minute run-time to make a tauter, trimmer film. But this is a minor quibble, and really my only one, because there’s lots bubbling under A Prophet‘s surface, and much of it explodes onto screen in the second half.
Malik gradually grows to accept his role as César’s first mate, but he never fully embraces it. He aggressively learns to read and write, taught by the Muslim Reyad (by the end, he’s fluent in Arabic and, via lots of listening, able to speak and understand Corsican as well), and develops a heartfelt affection for Reyad, who seems to have overcome testicular cancer and dreads a relapse—he has a wife and newborn son on the outside. As A Prophet progresses, we see Malik begin to forge his own identity. When he earns occasional leaves from prison for good behavior, César demands that he use them for nothing but his dirty errands, but Malik, who owes no cultural loyalties to César—only loyalties derived from fear—sneaks in his own visits as well. This leads to one of A Prophet‘s more interesting themes: Malik’s cultural & religious identity, or lack thereof, and its evolution throughout the picture. When asked early on if he prays, he gives a confused non-answer, and there’s no evidence that he believes in anything. While he can never really “be” a Corsican, he has no alliance to the Muslims either, until near the end. Malik is, in many ways, a blank slate, and we’re given nothing to work with regarding his past—it’s left up to us to fill in the blanks.
Audiard’s depiction of Malik suggests an intelligent man, one who’s hungry for knowledge and, to a lesser extent, power, something he’s never had. But he’s also a compassionate one: when Reyad’s cancer recurs and is deemed incurable, he asks Malik to take care of his wife and son, and Malik doesn’t hesitate in accepting. Which desire is most powerful? A thirst for some sense of normalcy in a life that’s seen nothing but emptiness, even if it comes from his only real friend’s death? Or the lust for authority that he’s gradually earned? The final two sequences of A Prophet hint at the moral dilemma: Malik stands up to (a somewhat weakened) César for the first time in person—he’d already set the wheels in motion with a prior savvy move that I won’t give away here—one moment, and is released in the very next scene, walking away from the jail with Reyad’s wife and child. As they walk away, three large cars begin to follow them, shot with an ominous prominence that’s indicative of the uncertainty of Malik’s life going forward: is he safe? Even if he chooses a non-violent path, can he escape the seeds he’s already sowed? The questions A Prophet doesn’t neatly tie up are fascinating to ponder, and help make this gritty movie deserving of many of the accolades it’s received.
Doug Liman’s films always seem like they’re jacked up on speed (Go, The Bourne Identity, etc), and Swingers mostly fits the Liman mold, though in a slightly different way. The pacing is brisk, with lots of parties and characters playing off each other. People move from place-to-place with startling frequency. But there’s a more intimate side to Swingers than the other Liman works I’ve seen: I’d certainly call it his most sophisticated movie. The story—which predominantly focuses on Mike (Jon Favreau), one of a gaggle of friends who moved to L.A. with dreams of acting, but who’s currently only managed to secure a stand-up comedy act at a downtown bar—is a very pleasant portrayal of what happens when you try to be someone you’re not. Mike’s inability to get over his ex, whom he left in New York when he took off to Hollywood, and his struggles with balancing heartache and the need to move on, should strike a chord with most men and women who’ve been through something similar: it’s a universal story, and Favreau’s mannerisms and enunciation are very convincing. He’s helped by a solid supporting cast, most notably Vince Vaughn as his bachelor-forever best friend who cares for him, yet has a very limited emotional palate and appears incapable of really understanding Mike’s heartache and what’s at its core—the fear that he blew his chance with “the one.” Mike’s multiple attempts to stray outside his comfort zone as a man, as a suitor, backfire badly, and he eventually realizes that listening to his circle of friends—all of whom play video games and drink beer like it’s still college—won’t get him the love that he needs. Eventually, he discovers his niche. It’s not the most creative of plots, but it captures a generation and the down-on-your-luck-in-so-many-ways motif effectively: it’s like comfort food, with more heart than Liman usually provides.
I’m not sure there’s ever been a director who’s more adept with shadow or framing than Orson Welles. The camera always seems to be in the exact right place to bring out the proper energy in the composition. He uses shadow for truly ominous sequences—such as near The Stranger‘s conclusion, when Charles Rankin (Welles), bathed in darkness, peers down a ladder—or to enhance a more subtly dark scene, like Mary (Loretta Young), Charles’ confused and scared wife, drawing the curtains to create an air of privacy. Welles is so technically proficient that even his second-tier works are well worth seeking out, and The Stranger belongs to this category. It’s not at the masterful level of Citizen Kane or Touch of Evil, and I don’t even think it’s as rich a work as The Magnificent Ambersons: the first half of The Stranger is a bit up-and-down from a pacing perspective, and some suspension of belief is required to buy into Charles’ decisions at times (the script can’t touch Kane et al). Still, it generates tension in a similar manner to Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt, using a woman’s vulnerability and deep love to manipulate, play off fears and avoid detection—though in The Stranger, we know the truth from the beginning, whereas Shadow of a Doubt conceals it until the final ten minutes—and the suspense is greatly aided by Welles’ aforementioned technical wizardry (he also turns in one hell of a performance here, as does Edward G. Robinson as the plucky, pipe-smoking detective dead-set on revealing Charles’ true identity to his wife and the rest of their small, sleepy town). And kudos to Welles for tackling such a hot-button topic—Nazis on the run—so soon after World War II. An imperfect work, but one with many more strengths than weaknesses.