CriticSociety- film reviews

Review

The Visitor

Director

Thomas McCarthy

Year

2008

Rating

Reviewed by

Gon Curiel a.k.a. Groucho

Review date

Monday, March 23, 2009

A man can be a visitor in his own house, even in his own life, and Professor Walter Vale, masterfully played by Richard Jenkins, is a perfect example of that. He’s a man so alienated from everything that he’s accomplished and built for himself that he seems to have no place anywhere anymore. There’s very little this man enjoys, but it’s not like he’s having a bad time; he’s just numb. I’ve had such moments, haven’t you? Everything’s fine, nothing to complain about, but you’re not excited about it at all. This man doesn’t laugh at a good joke and doesn’t cry about a death; such reactions seem pointless.

I enjoy movies where money isn’t a factor because, unless the plot revolves around the achievement of a living, with starvation as antagonist, it becomes an annoying obstacle in the search of whatever the protagonist is looking for. So, for example, in this case, if economy is not a problem, the actual problems become not only clearer but much more powerful, such as the search for a meaning to anything, a taste of air, life, joy and music.

Professor Vale doesn’t even have to work, he does it because he’s used to it, he’s done it all his life, it’s mechanical, if he doesn’t work, what else is he going to do? He’s supposedly working on a new book, but he’s got no motivation for it. He’s written one before, but it was a collaboration, that book is not his child, it’s like a bastard, he disowns it in his mind, he’s not proud of it at all, it’s a tragedy. He’s sent from Connecticut to New York to read an essay he co-wrote, but really didn’t, he just put his name there as a favor, he doesn’t know or care about what it actually says, reading it will be the ultimate insult, the culmination of his illegitimacy.

Death is taken care of. His wife died, leaving him the questionable legacy of music enjoyment. A musician, she brought joy to his life through music, but he never quite got that that was his passion. She was perfect, we sense (because he doesn’t talk much about her), and keeping her alive is not a matter of remembering her as much as it is of remembering her music. He tries to play the piano, but fails after a few lessons, and changes teachers every time, hoping to find one that will push the right key, but he knows it won’t really happen. He can’t produce that joy. He’s worthless.

The beautiful script by director McCarthy transmits all this almost wordlessly. Jenkins is genius. He reads his lines so lifelessly it’s heartbreaking. He makes of Vale not a man who wants to die but one who wants to live. We care for this man though he’s as dull as they get. All his nuances show that he’s about to care about something but can’t get there. I don’t know how the director and the actor achieved this but simply because of that, this film must be seen. It’s the study of a man who’s so drained of life he’s almost a cardboard character, whose richness is not in what he is but in what he potentially is. I hadn’t seen anything so powerful in that sense since Kurosawa’s Ikiru.

The one teacher who pushes the right key is the most unlikely: illegal immigrant Tarek (Haaz Sleiman), who’s living in Vale’s New York apartment with his wife Zainab (Danai Gurira) thanks to a fake landlord. When Vale arrives and finds them there, and after the shock on both sides is reduced to civilized explanations, he fails to throw them out, and finds in meeting them the experience of a lifetime. It’s not a joy ride in any way, never a rollercoaster ride at all, but it changes a life around, and that must account for something. Enter Tarek’s mother, Mouna (Hiam Abbass), who adds to the poignancy and is beautiful in unexpected ways, and Walter is suddenly find means to enjoy his surroundings. And in this process, he finds his own music.

In the end, Walter doesn’t laugh till he cries, but this is not, thankfully, The Bucket List (2007). This is real.

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Review

The Reader

Director

Stephen Daldry

Year

2008

Rating

Reviewed by

Gon Curiel a.k.a. Groucho

Review date

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Cold and aloof Michael Berg (Ralph Fiennes) doesn’t care for the girl he’s with to stay longer than breakfast, and seems to be that way with everyone. That’s all we know about him, which makes it clear that something in his past haunts him. As we turn back to see his story as a teenage boy (David Kross), we understand that it was romance with cryptic Hanna Schmitz (Kate Winslet), twice his age, lonely and clearly affected, in turn, by something in her past. Much later, we go back to see what it was that did it for her. And one would expect that to be the story that matters.

Set in post-WWII Germany, the plot, threads and overall mood evidence the big red wound that the horrors from the Holocaust left in Germans. It’s not only a matter of having survived a war that they lost and figuring out how to deal with the reconstruction of their country and their honor, but mostly of understanding their guilt and coping with it. It must have been tremendous and I hear it still affects some people from later generations, though others rather feel that they’re not to blame and shouldn’t carry the burden anymore. That applies to some who were alive during the time and even participated actively. How wrong were they, if their whole world told them they were right?

As the first half advanced, however, I found little need to know what the point was. I didn’t know anything about the story beforehand, so before the war was mentioned I was enjoying this young man’s venture into passion with such a peculiar woman and felt as excited as he, and as eager to expand the experience. They could’ve left me in the dark as long as the male character was developed, because the introduction of his older self had been intriguing enough.

But that wouldn’t last, naturally, and what came later kept the film going because Michael’s evolution is finely realized. Kross’s performance is admirable because he does seem a kid first and then a young adult later, in every nuance. Then he meets the mysterious Hanna again, after her abrupt disappearance from his life, and this encounter unleashes many important things: the power of the past, from a romance to the whole Holocaust; the power of a lie, or an omission, or an uncured pain; and the power of pride.

In the last regard, which is what became the film’s actual goal, core and point (scripted by David Hare from Bernhard Schlink’s novel), the tale fails. If I said more, I would spoil it badly, so I’ll just mention it as the secret that Hanna kept, not the one that should’ve haunted her, and probably did, but the one that was unmentionable because it made her feel perhaps inferior or maybe plain stupid. What’s stupider, then, I ask? Not to improve oneself, or to stay like that and be willing to go to jail for the rest of this incarnation just to spare a few minutes of embarrassment? If I could believe that someone like her could be so incredibly proud, I would’ve probably bought it, but if that be the case, I think she would’ve done something before it came to such a deadly choice. Pride isn’t that powerful, I believe. Not everyone is British.

Yet, considering how that plot point works in favor of the character of Michael, I was still willing to go ahead and see what happened. They lost me with Hanna though, which ironically made me appreciate Kate Winslet even more, since she had to play with such shallow, incomprehensible and unexplained character. Michael, who is in the position of revealing Hanna’s secret to save her, but decides against it, could have become someone as interesting as any great character. Instead, he became an incongruous bore. Meeting with a character played by Lena Olin, who somehow represents the pain from the past, he makes a fool of himself. Are we supposed to be affected? I was not.

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Review

Blue Velvet

Director

David Lynch

Year

1986

Rating

Reviewed by

Gon Curiel a.k.a. Groucho

Review date

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

One cannot write about Blue Velvet as one would about any other film because it’s exceptional. Whether David Lynch’s idea was exactly to make something different than anything done before, or that was simply the result, we probably won’t ever know, but it sure speaks of the deeply rooted eccentricity of a man who clearly doesn’t see things as most of us mortals do. If only for that, I’ll take off my hat.

You just see his frames, with such bizarre design, but nothing really unnatural about them at first sight, and realize that there’s something special about them. What’s so haunting about an old colorful living room with a couple of fat girls and a weirdo, for example? It is, perhaps, the context: the place is supposed to be a brothel attended by a psycho who has kidnapped a man and a boy to blackmail the wife and mother into perverted sex… in picture-perfect 1950s Anytown, U.S.A.

That’s more or less the idea and the way it’s played. Lynch goes back and forth from happy settings to excruciating ones, and from the get-go we’re not sure which are worse: those where people seem to smile forcedly or those where they live out their darkest inhibitions though these include pain and fear. Either way, it’s hard to feel comfortable watching the combination, particularly as photographed, also in extremes, by Frederick Elmes. It’s special, to say the least, but hard to bear. This is not for all tastes, but a must-see.

I suspect the main character is based on the writer/director. Having left to college, apparently leading a dull life, Jeffrey (Kyle MachLachlan) is forced to return to his hometown after his father has suffered a seizure and is hospitalized. The collapse is played out in such a way that foreshadows what it will trigger: perfection has come to an extreme and the man doesn’t seem to stomach it, falls down, and is soon joined by a thirsty mad dog as he lies on top of (the camera zooms to reveal) vicious insects. The son, quite unable to show emotion, perhaps a reaction of growing in such an artificial scenery, is disturbed, as are we, by the sight of a severed human ear which he takes to a police detective. Jeffrey is advised to stay away from the case, rather as a child is from films like this. But such kid is curious, and sometimes sneaks into the TV room at night to take a peek.

As Jeffrey excitedly pokes his nose into the case, he’s introduced to a world of perversion, sadomasochism and crime which he finds magnetic. Simultaneously, he romances the detective’s daughter (Laura Dern), one that perfectly fits the 50s’ mold and speaks as in a sitcom from that era, and though she’s excited by Jeffrey’s antics, doesn’t seem much into them, but rather curious in a teenage fashion, that which makes us all do stupid things that we regret the next day if something goes wrong. Jeffrey, on the other hand, finds no end to his inquisitiveness, and only finds any logic in his relationship with Sandy through the investigation that he shares with her.

But it is in his discoveries that he finds the two elements that likewise fill Lynch’s oeuvre: a badly humiliated woman who lives in the shadow of a threat and finds herself inevitably attracted to such lifestyle, and the monster that enthralls her. She’s played by Isabella Rossellini as if in perpetual trance, half-naked at best, sensual and dirty, suffering and enjoying, hating and loving; a masterful portrait of a woman who’s perhaps confused or maybe in bliss. Dennis Hopper is as unforgettable as ever as the man who has put her in that position, who seems at times capable of the worst, and at others completely vulnerable, perhaps the real victim of the situation.

The disappointment comes when there doesn’t seem to be a point to any of it. It turns out to be a display of shocking contrasts, a study of perversion in an unlikely setting, perhaps a satire of seemingly perfect towns and the people who foolishly enjoy living in them, or those who hide secrets as dark as we can only imagine, finding catharsis in improbable ways. As I said before, I must encourage a viewing of this, but I cannot pretend to having loved it.

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Review

Changeling

Director

Clint Eastwood

Year

2008

Rating

Reviewed by

Gon Curiel a.k.a. Groucho

Review date

Friday, March 06, 2009

What can be worse than losing your child? The answer is simple: losing him or her and finding no support, no help, insults along the way, and further humiliation. That is, in a nutshell, the true story of a woman in the midst of crime, corruption and disbelief, and it’s only tolerable for one reason: she’s a tireless fighter.

The fact that it’s based on a true story makes this story hard to tell. Not because that’s a rule of true stories, but because it involves so many things that can’t be left out, that it makes it impossible for screenwriter J. Michael Straczynski to economize or take creative licenses. Straczynski, by the way, famous for creating and writing the show “Babylon 5”, has done a remarkable job. He has researched this amazing story that had mostly been lost in the memory and has put it together outstandingly. Even despite the unevenness of the storytelling because of the many threads that are involved, as I said before, the output is masterful. Even researching must have been quite an exhausting task. I can’t imagine how putting it together was.

The focus that he chose for his story (his, after such colossal work) is that of a woman who comes back from work to find her young son missing and walks into a living hell, never suspecting how bad it can get, since every time it gets worse it’s as bad as is conceivable. For starters, she calls the police and is told that a 24-hour period must have passed before they can send help.

I’ve seen that 24-hour policy in other movies, even ones set in more modern periods, so it didn’t quite surprise me, but Angelina Jolie, in the role of Christine Collins, made it clear that it’s not only an absurdity but an insult. Her reaction to that answer is the first instance of Jolie losing herself in Collins, completely absorbed by that real-life woman’s ordeal. Not much of a tabloid-reader or showbiz-news-watcher, I had no difficulty forgetting who Jolie was, as others apparently did. To me, Collins herself was on the screen every time.

Clint Eastwood still surprises me: he has become one of the best and most reliable directors and seems unable to miss anymore. Once again, he moves us, turning emotional material into a straightforward peace of people dealing with awful realities and doing so like real people would: never breaking when unnecessary, always true to their beliefs, pursuing their goals constantly, becoming someone they never expected, a welcome change that helps them cope. I read that Christine Collins was always cold and straight with the corrupt police, and she’s played that way. This constraint surely gave Angelina Jolie the extra edge that was both a challenge and, done right as it was, a triumph: she must simultaneously show angst and constriction. She’s far from invulnerable, but she appears to be, no matter how bad things get. What a woman.

I love the music Clint Eastwood composes, don’t you? So simple, yet so moving. He’s certainly not as good a composer as he is a director, but he’s perfectly frank in his musical work, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. With a few simple tunes, he accompanies his scenes beautifully. The world of Changeling is so real, you can touch it, with mesmerizing costume and production design; ol’ L.A. is recreated in such a way that you want to be there, and then, when you find out how the law worked, you really don’t.

The cast that accompanies Jolie is top-notch: John Malkovich plays a Reverend that seems to be the only one willing to help, and does so without much flare, but constitutes such an important figure that we believe in him; Amy Ryan is excellent as a woman who shares a particular problem with Collins; Michael Kelly is a breath of fresh air as the one good cop; Jeffrey Donovan unforgettable as the main bad one; and Jason Butler Harner almost steals the show as a man accused of several murders.

This is a complicated motion picture, one that seems longer than it is, not because of overlength but because of its irremediably episodic structure, which is nevertheless glued together by the admirable determination of a true heroine, Christine Collins, and the one who plays her, Angelina Jolie.

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Review

The Wrestler

Director

Darren Aronofsky

Year

2008

Rating

Reviewed by

Gon Curiel a.k.a. Groucho

Review date

Thursday, March 05, 2009

I find it impossible not to love such a fortunate combination of elements in a film: script, cast and execution, all flawless, and together, even better. Narrowing it down, Robert D. Siegel’s script couldn’t have found a better actor to play its leading character than Mickey Rourke, a down-on-his-luck performer who once topped credits and was a box-office magnet, and now, after a bumpy road during which he left Hollywood and took up boxing, has come back with a face as bumpy, tired and drained, but willing to give his all. Few times in life does an actor resemble a character so well; it just has to be noticed.

Unfortunately, the character, Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a wrestler who has quite lost his track, never quite gets the opportunity that Rourke has got, but the magic is Rourke seems to have lost all opportunities even if he becomes a grade-A actor now, because his wounds are apparent both in a superficial and an internal level. Heck, it’s probably not the case, but that’s how it seems, and it works in pro of the movie, as it gives the Ram even more depth, not that it really needs it, so the character ends up being monumental.

Loved by fans, even after so many years, the Ram is penniless and decadent. He lives in a trailer, works intermittently in a supermarket, and has no friends except the kids in the trailer park and an exotic dancer that frequently gives him lap dances for the usual fee, during which they have what at first seems to be chit-chat but later is revealed to be a series of cathartic confessions from him.

The study of this man never even attempts to imply that wrestlers or lap dancers are decadent and that’s one of its virtues: for example, she, Cassidy, played by the remarkable Marisa Tomei, is the best at her work and supports a child (as so many lap dancers do, I have come to find out), and even shies away from getting involved with a customer. As for him, the reasons why he’s lost his path so drastically have very little to do with wrestling.

Wrestling, in fact, is shown as quite a difficult and demanding profession, unlike the growing notion that it’s not hard at all because it’s all an act. We all know it’s an act, but fans go with the flow; however, not all “acts” are the same: it’s easier to act than to risk your life doing it, constantly injuring yourself and others for the sake of entertainment, one with such a demanding audience that claims more blood every time.

The wrestling scenes are masterful: bloody, gory, and constantly tragic. They’re also contrasting, as the fellow wrestlers, many of whom are real-life wrestlers in cameo roles, are shown as compassionate individuals who care as much about their colleagues as they do about themselves. Speaking so calmly about new ways to hurt each other, and hugging each other after they’ve done it, no doubt requires more effort than the fights show.

The Ram is so into his career and his pitiful existence that he doesn’t really see anything wrong with it, or doesn’t want to see it, until something happens which threatens his existence in a definitive way and makes him revise his life and his profession like he never did before. This leads him to value Cassidy (real name Pam) for the first time as a human being, realizing at last that she’s the only person in his life, but not the only one he cares for; she makes him see soon enough that he must call his estranged daughter, a daughter he had already talked to her about, most likely during a lap dance…

I had already found the film rather tearful, but Randy’s attempts to get near his daughter, Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood), did it for me. After that, it was just one strike after the other, some crude, some bright, all real, until the inevitable denouement, a perfect one, and perhaps the only one that would make sense.

The fact that this really is the first big role of Mickey Rourke after his absence and some years in smaller and sometimes insignificant roles helps give the Ram so much realism. After two seconds, I forgot this man was Rourke and was sure he was Robinson, that ol’ wrestler good-for-noth’n who somehow kept smiling and joking and trying to have fun, never hurting a soul, at least not willingly. Few words are really spoken, and of those, few are profound, but his story is constantly bursting out of the screen: he’s in pain, has always been, and will always be. And much of that is self-inflicted. And I’m not talking about wrestling.

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