Review of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019)

Review of Once Upon a Time In Hollywood

The Good, The Bad and the Careerists

“A longtime ago being crazy meant something, nowadays everybody is crazy” -Charles Manson, Interview with Diana Sawyer

“Going through life with a conscience is like driving your car with the brakes on” Budd Schulberg, What Makes Sammy Run?

Quentin Tartentino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (OUATIH) is a paean to the entertainment business in Los Angeles in the late 60s. It would be difficult to think of a more perfect union of the director’s oeuvre with this era of tumult and violence. Now the creator of the martial arts styled Kill Bill could deliver Bruce Lee in the flesh. The auteur behind the WW II inspired Inglorious Bastards could show the star of The Great Escape poolside. The writer/director of the dystopian Pulp Fiction could give his portrayal of Charles Manson and his family roaming LA looking for prey. Ironically the burden of telling an inside story of his forebears clouded Tarantino’s vision. His brand of action requires taught storylines and moral clarity. OUATIH is an interesting 85 minute film buried in a meandering 2 hours and 41 minutes of gossipy sidetracks. Tarantino put a great deal of homework into this feature and it shows. There is a heavy carefulness to all the lightness and horror. Behind the wonderful acting, exacting set design and costuming is a script that never settles on a direction. Is this a film about Hollywood? Is this a buddy film? A commentary on the past? A parable about success and/or failure?

OUATIH is brimming with wonderful sequences that recreate the TV shows, promotions and tableaux of the era. Who doesn’t enjoy DiCaprio’s character yucking-it-up with the Hullabaloo Dancers or the recreated scenes of the nearly forgotten TV Westerns Bronco and Lancer. There are also many fun filled joy rides and walks through the airport while a superbly curated 60s soundtrack blares. He chooses the magical Jose Feliciano take on California Dreamin’ rather than the universally familiar original version. Unfortunately Tarantino tries to shoehorn a couple of actual linear narratives into the mix. For those who remember the times it is fun seeing Steve McQueen gossiping about Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski. The director shot at the real location, Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion. It is all pitch perfect, yet somehow out of tune. How can anyone, connoisseur or novice, latch on to these colorful recreations? The conceit is that Tarantino wants to raise the offscreen shenanigans to the fever pitch of low budget melodrama.

In truth Hollywood in the 60s certainly had its share of “action.” Tarantino has adapted the darkest horror moment, the Manson killings, and replaced the senseless carnage with his interpretation of a “happy ending.” All the self-righteous justice of the TV cop shows and spaghetti Westerns is channeled to right the wrongs. The bad guys are the ones who are butchered and incinerated. The ingenue and her entourage, including her unborn child, are spared. The long-struggling B movie hero Rick Dalton (DiCaprio) is freed from the purgatory of commonplace stardom. He and his loyal companion, stunt double Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), now have entree to the A-lister, Polanski, whose wife they have rescued. The only problem is that Tarantino forgets that heroes or anti-heroes need to be heroic; or at least their journeys must include meaningful quests. The classic feature All About Eve, the definitive statement on reaching for the stars, has characters who put their “goodness” on the alter of fame. OUATIH, by contrast, brings to mind the Springsteen lyric, “its just winners and losers and don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line.”

The most morally compelling figure is Pitt who, literally, takes the fall for DiCaprio. In addition to being a loyal sideman he, unlike the rest of the cast, shows his chivalry on many occasions. He refuses sex with an underage Manson devotee. He tries to come to the aid of an elderly friend he feels is being taken advantage of by the Manson crew. He puts an arrogant movie star, Bruce Lee, in his place by physically defeating him and never complains when he is fired for Lee’s transgression. Strangely, Tarantino includes a plot point that undercuts all the warm fuzzy admiration the audience feels for this embodiment of brute force and justice. We learn in a flashback that Pitt is guilty of killing his wife for being annoying. The fact that Dalton sees uxoricide as a small blemish in Pitt’s character plays out in his treatment of his trusted confidant. After finding redemption as a spaghetti Western hero, Dalton replaces his buddy with an Italian spouse. The new found financial security doesn’t spare Pitt a pink slip. This is a world where everything revolves around being on the right side of the “in” and “out” crowd. This attribute makes all the players unsympathetic pawns in an abusive hierarchy. It starts to narrow the divide between those who worship a sociopathic cult killer and those who build their lives around the whims of studio executives.

Everyone, from grimmest slovenly hippie to the slickest Kung Fu icon, is a hustler with an agenda. Tarantino’s fails to slide these misfits into the entertainment rubric of “good guys” and “bad guys.” The scenes at the Spahn ranch are supposed to evoke the white hatted cowboy against the mob. Despite wonderful performances from Bruce Dern, as the demented Spahn landlord, and a truly terrifying rendition of Squeaky Fromme by Dakota Fanning, the set up fails to inspire anything other than passing fits of horror and glee. Spahn is getting laid. Fromme is accredited leadership status by her guru. Pitt meanders on main street, a pale ghost of Charles Bronson in Once Upon A Time In The West. It is fun to see Pitt kick ass after his car is vandalized, but what is at stake? A creepy errand boy beating wayward cult member does not make for high drama. Sadly it doesn’t make for low drama either. Whose side are we on when Bruce Lee picks a fight over, literally, nothing. There is a quick burst of adrenaline while Cliff takes down the egotistical jackass but, like the rest of the film, it never grabs the heart. The zeitgeist of pulp fiction, Tarantino’s dramatic muse, relies on simple plots and clear victories.

The moment of where one feels a heroic note is when Dalton is struggling as a guest actor on the downhill slope of stardom. He interacts with a child actress. The little girl is a monster of the overly-efficient, almost robotic, future. She is ALL BUSINESS and mean beyond her years, almost a parody Sammy in the devastating indictment of show business, Bud Schulberg’s What Makes Sammy Run? DiCaprio is vulnerable and brilliant as he digests the hard-core professionalism of the child-upstart. In spite of the endless banter and the unfortunate sharpness of the child, one feels the pain of the over-the-hill star and his outdated simplicity. It is worth the price of admission to watch Dalton tear up his trailer after woefully blowing his lines. DiCaprio’s recovery scene, in which he hurdles the child to the floor, shows the star (and the man playing the star) on the top of their game. After “cut” is called he apologizes for being rough with the she-devil of efficiency. She actually thanks him as she knows a good performance when she sees one. Dalton’s brilliance isn’t about money or status but…. dignity. He wears his own white hat and shows us how it is done.

Unfortunately even in this magnificent sequence one feels DiCaprio’s Dalton battling choices made by Tarantino. The interaction with the child could have been half the length and made twice the impact. The humiliating scene where he flubs his lines is carefully played opposite a nemesis, an actor who is rising in the ranks due to scoring the lead role. The comeback would have been more effective if DiCaprio’s brilliant retort was played against this spiritual rival. Instead Tarantino was locked into the original TV show script, which demanded a cameo. No doubt it was fascinating to see Luke Perry in his final performance but sticking to the other actor would have made Dalton’s recovery more poignant. Furthermore there is an odd amount of camera time spent on the fact that the lead actor leaves the set on motorcycle. This references the original star’s tragic motorcycle crash which left him without an arm and a leg. This fact is never covered in the film leaving yet another layer of clues for the experts of the era. All this extra padding works against the thrust of the action. It is as if Tarantino is a telling a story and constantly turning his head to gossip about inside-baseball minutia. The director sacrifices smooth clarity to the static of being cool and clever.

Tarantino is never is able to step over his narrow conceptions of the era. It is hard not to avoid the misogyny label when you make the good guy in your film a wife killer. But it goes further. Aside of the annoying child, the film is devoid of powerful actresses. That era had many important female leads, not to mention a burgeoning women’s rights movement, but Tarantino is only interested in a relatively obscure starlet whose fame is based on being butchered. Margot Robbie gives a great performance but her contributions to the films are limited to giggling in a movie theater while gauging the audience’s reaction to her work. More importantly she buys the novel Tess of the d’Ubervilles for her husband, Mr. Polanski. It is not covered in the film but he went on to create a much heralded feature based on the book. Of course that detail is exclusively crafted for those who have more than a passing interest in Hollywood.

OUATIH is not made for the general public but rather industry insiders who get the extra layer of jokes and messages. Tarantino’s denouement of the actual story, after exacting real-life detail for the first 2 1/2 hours, shows a strange defense of his own perceived demons. The Manson family descends on the house according to schedule but decides, rather than attack Tate, they will get Dalton. This affords the director to “righteously” focus his, much criticized, depictions of violence on a “just” cause. It might have been deemed tasteless to record the actual murder of Tate, her fetus and the friends. The real events included the painting of slogans in their blood all over the walls. The director, however, innoculates himself from criticism by turning the savagery on the demons themselves. It is hard to object to someone being roasted alive, or having their head bashed in, knowing the true life actions of these monsters. There is, however, a caveat to all the seemingly justifiable carnage. The director might be using this film as a way to erase his own morally dubious actions.

Tarantino’s Manson monsters have a confrontation with Dalton at the foot of Tate’s driveway. They recognize him as their childhood TV hero. One of them suggests perhaps they should turn their murderous rage on the TV god that “taught them how to kill”. In this light Tarantino might defend his own track record of onscreen violence as merely being the product of an apt pupil. All the gore in his own work has been past down from past masters. His Manson clan are abandoned on the driveway by the very member who made the suggestion to perpetrate VT violence against the TV good guy. The actress playing that part is Maya Hawke. She is the daughter of Tarantino’s former leading lady, Uma Thurman. During the filming his Kill Bill feature the director bullied Thurman into performing a dangerous car crash sequence. She was seriously injured. This obviously put a damper on their relationship as she went public about his abusive, nearly fatal, behavior. But she never took formal legal action against him. Furthermore she tweeted support for her daughter’s appearance in OUATIH. It is reported that her former husband, the actor Ethan Hawke, help secure the part for Maya.

Most people would have qualms casting their daughter in film by a director who nearly killed her mother, your ex-wife. Most children might avoid working for someone that put your mother’s life in danger. Most people would avoid praising the work of someone who nearly killed you. Many parents would think twice about their child being part of the production given Tarantino’s track record. Many people would feel squeamish about appropriating gruesome real life events to buttress personal demons. But these people will never make it Hollywood. It is a land peopled by those who play the parts of rescuers, Calvary riders and good people in white hats. But all this is ON SCREEN. Their real life actions are equally ambitious and shocking, but not melodramatically captivating. Audiences want Superman, not an in depth look at the process of become a cosplay Superman. Tarantino never fully understands that the off screen sourness cannot be excised with clever plot twists, fancy art direction and a wonderful soundtrack. He thinks that his formula of flash and violence will mask the hollow center. It might have worked for 85 minutes. But not for over two and a half hours. Note: more of the dreams; less of the dream factory.

Mother! (2017)

Mother! 

Who’s Afraid of Hieronymus Bosch?

“What a perfect escape the return to the womb was. Better by far than Religion or Art or the South Sea Islands. It was so snug and warm there, and the feeding was automatic.” 

― Nathanael West, The Day of the Locust

“The writer's only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the "Ode on a Grecian Urn" is worth any number of old ladies”. 

-William Faulkner, Interview with The Paris Review

“Lee was such a fine, high-class boy. If my son killed the President he would have said so. That’s the way he was brought up.”

- Lee Harvey Oswald’s mother.

After viewing “Mother!” I considered contacting social services to report the writer/director Dareen Aronofsky for domestic abuse. Judging by the final cut of the film his off-screen romantic partner, Jennifer Lawerence, must have spent days screaming in pain at the top of her lungs as his ingenue . She is the consummate professional and shines as THE VICTIM! Not since the auteur Lars Von Trier’s “Breaking the Waves” has a heroine been so savagely beaten as a sacrificial lamb for the pleasure of a deranged spouse. Aronofsky’s villain has an Iago-like opaqueness. This is the problem with connecting to this dense allegory. The storyteller has descended to a private world of grimness and despair peppered by allusions to Catholicism, classic horror films and Star Trek Next Generation. There is one terrifying takeaway: Mr. Aronofsky might be so isolated as to believe that the nastiness of celebrity culture is something that is unknown to the public at large. How else can one explain the laboriousness of relentlessly hitting the same note for two hours? When you peel away the special effects and first rate performances, there is a dull realization: superstar artists are narcissistic socio-paths who feed off a deranged, vacant fanbase. However there is scarier thought: Aronofsky might enjoy this private power-trip to the dark side. 

Aronofsky put his heart into “Mother!”, along with the part of his brain that houses his “id” . It is a film filled with passion… signifying… what? It’s certainly chockablock with MEANING! The action of the film is entombed in a creepy mansion. It is a latter day “Long Days Journey into Night”. Eugene O’Neill’s mother was sacrificed for art and now Aronofsky’s partner will be. “Mother!”’s house invokes Norman Bates’ house… but on steroids. It is as isolated as an Edward Hopper mansion. There are no paths or roads - it simply springs from the landscape. It literally comes to life at the beginning of the film, then returns to a burned out shell amidst the ashen trunks of a charcoal forrest. Then it rises again. The talisman that makes this all possible is a crystal heart… found in the debris with each passing cycle. The film is bookended by highbrow camp, retrieving/restoring the the magical glass. The in-between is an a play about terror, which mistakes itself for horror.   Aronofsky is clever enough to understand the kistch. This director has produced first rate entertainment such as the “Black Swann”. ““Mother!” shows him to be as cut off from the world as the other lead in the story, a writer played by Javier Bardem. The idea of an isolated author twinned with a abused spouse in a spooky house might bring to mind Kubrick’s “The Shining”. They both use the trope of the house as a grand puppeteer and the characters as hapless marionettes. Aronofsky’s writer is a success with the general public whereas Kubrick’s author is a hack who is driven mad and ends up producing pathologically repetitive art. Strangely Aronofsky himself is stricken by the same affliction. The film endlessly oscillates between quiet family moments and the 9th circle of hell. Perhaps two scenes of a doting spouse morphing into an insatiable egoist would suffice. But after the 10th reenactment of Lawrence tolerating unforgivable abuse the action loses power and becomes boring. Bardem’s well played “werewolf” is less disquieting than Lawerence’s rendition of a beleaguered, bewildered and brutalized spouse. Add to this Mobius strip of dysfunction a never-ending stream of set piece characters. They are, like the director, imbued with passion and the suggestion of story. There is the “doctor” and his jaded wife played by Ed Harris and Michelle Pfieffer. They are a sort of matching pair of marriage gone awry akin to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” The difference is that their children, despite the alcoholic rage, are real… or as real as the parents. The siblings are a ready made Cain and Abel. The primordial murder reenactment in “Mother!” yields an army of one dimensional worshipers. They falsely claim to be funeral mourners but are revealed as celebrity-stalkers.  They grow and grow and disappear, then grown again and take over. They are a mob re-creation of the group that arrives at the end Nathanael West’s “The Day of the Locust.” Their “swarm” is markedly more destructive and, once again, completely opaque. West gives us a maddening crowd fueled by being swindled by a failed American Dream. He was making an honest statement about average people being devoured by a heartless ruling class. Aronofsky’s army are simply zombies, born of no particular grievance. They hate, devour and worship as automatons while they tear the mansion board by board. The audience is mesmerized by the first rate choreographed horror, but it unfortunately reveals itself as meaningless spectacle. Our poor heroine is the only thing that possesses any hint of humanity. Sadly her suffering is exhaustive, rather than redemptive. 

Jennifer Lawrence’s is a chimera of characters from various high/low neighborhoods in the cultural landscape. At times she is reminiscent of Catherine Deneuve in Polanski’s “Repulsion”. This horror classic portrays a beautician who finds those who are attracted to her… repulsive, in the extreme. Her mental illness creates a creepy meshing with her surroundings. Her apartment actually comes to life. Her dark manifestations are in her head but the body count, born of her slashing her suitors, is completely real. Aronofsky gives us a mirror image of the mad lady of swinging London. Jennifer Lawrence is beautiful, stand-by-your-man, modern spouse who is a cook and house contractor. She will take care of everything while Bardem tends to his literature. He has no appreciation of her slaving away as a baker, carpenter, plumber, caretaker… She, unlike Deneuve, wants to consummate her relationship not only with her aloof spouse, but, more importantly, with the house itself. Whereas the walls of the apartment in “Repulsion” grab and abuse, Lawrence spends many moments caressing the plaster. This leads to the revelation that the house itself has an actual beating heart. Lawrence, unlike her spiritual forebearer in London, is completely passive.. until the final scene.  Her timidity in face of the hordes of cannibalistic fans and worshipers brings those behind the fourth wall to the brink of exasperation. She is Penelope, in the Odyssey, failing to reign in the unruly suitors. That frustration is brought to an epic scale, without that epic’s greatness. The culmination of “Mother!” is, yet another, borrowed moment from a Polanski horror classic, “Rosemary’s baby”. Once again Aronofsky plays characters in reverse. Satan’s spawn becomes the sacrificial lamb. It takes the slaughter of the innocent for our heroine to put her foot down. This audience member felt the breaking point an hour and 45 minutes earlier. The claustrophobic, steady-cam cinematography had the feel of a National Geographic documentary about insects. It might be important to highlight the intricate mechanics of an ant’s mandible in the context of a science film. Unfortunately the super-close up camerawork obscured this cast of humans.  

This is not to say Lawrence et al weren’t fantastic. They were superb as was the supporting cast and technical crew. They did EXACTLY! what Aronofsky demanded. The problem is the director seemed possessed of the same pathological narcissism as Bardem’s character. There is no upside to throwing your lot with a deranged sociopath. The writer/director proves the point. Just not in the way he intended. “Worship the art, not the artist” is a lesson that requires a simple story rooted in familiar themes. “Mother!”’s aphorism is a completely abstract internal affair. It is as if the bible’s story of loaves and fishes was illustrated by a group of billionaires failing to secure the proper number of limousines for an A list event. Everyone experiences charismatic egoists who corrupt. Few people carry the burden of fandom. An even more exclusive group are romantically involved with the object of this misplaced adoration. Aronofsky, Lawrence and the supporting cast suffer these problems. The rest of us can only imagine the horror of waking every morning knowing that a crazed fan might smash your window in order to slice you to pieces. They might devour you on the spot or sell your morsels on Ebay. If you think this is hyperbole, consider the two gentleman who were arrested in the home of Joss Stone. They carried a samurai sword, hammers, knives and a body bag - the plan was to decapitate her and carry off the body. “Mother!” does nothing to forge a bond of empathy between us mortals and gods of stage and screen. 

An example of a thematically similar work that successfully bridges the gap would be a Star Trek Next Generation episode entitled, “Man of the People”. It features a magical diplomat with a god-like ability to charm and create peace. This correlates with Bardem’s literary seduction of his followers. Both character’s rely on psychically and physically devour a female partner to power their “beautiful” magic. Both callously dispose of their spouses after they have been sated. The difference between these two modern vampire tales is motivation. We can clearly see the reason behind the diplomat’s predilections because they are carefully delineated. He single-handedly untangles various Gordian knots of hatred and wins legions of fans for, literally, bringing peace to the world. Aronofky’s beloved villain reminds the audience of Kurt Cobain’s lyric, “I’ve found my friends, They’re in my head”. There are no clues to answer such questions as: Why does Bardem care about fame? What is at the heart of his writing that gives calm to the dystopia? Why is Lawrence so passive? Why are the hordes attacking his house?  The logic might have been self evident to superstars in the prison of privilege. The audience, however, is left as outsiders pushing their noses against the glass, desperately trying to decipher the entrails… at least for the first 15 minute. The cardinal question that goes answered is, what is this film about?

Boosters of “Mother!” see a brilliantly crafted warning against the current zeitgeist, where self-promotion and aggrandizement are mistaken for virtues. Others see it as a revival of an obscure French theatrical movement that centers around cruelty being a force to move the audience out of complacency. Aronofsky has stated the film is about global warming. This brings to mind Grant Wood’s managing of criticism of his painting “American Gothic”.

Eyebrows were raised when the public felt the woman was far too young to be the farmer’s spouse. Suddenly Mr. Wood spoke of a portrayal of a, “father and daughter”. “Aronofsky” is seeking cover, consciously or not, in the issue of our time, the destruction of the planet. It makes sense to want to hide the personal musings behind his creation. It seems self-evident the film has much more to do with male egos feeding off the subjugation of their partners. The structure of the house, with it’s heartbeat and menstrual cycle stained floors, stands as the matriarch whose indulgence gives rise to this diabolical “momma’s boy.” The house-mother is always forgiving, - no matter how many bodies are left strewn in the ruins. She graciously gives space so that the monster can begin the cycle again. It is a bleak topic that might have been interesting but the director seemed lost in reveling in the endless carnage. Imagine if Spielberg, when making “Lincoln”, extended the exquisitely rendered Civil War battle scenes, at the expense of Daniel Day Lewis’ performance as the President. Lawrence gives her soul to lifting the film from the grotesque.In the end she is overcome by her partner's myopic vision. 

The real problem with this film is honesty. When you are a powerful, well connected artist you can manipulate friends in high places to participate in private thrills that are better left behind closed doors. You can seduce your crowd with the promise of being included in your hip statement about the horror of being privileged. You can shield your selfishness with a panache of “making a grand statement”. Unfortunately the work speaks for itself. This should be a warning to all Hollywood executives regarding personal projects. Ask the question, “does your mother like your work”. If the answer is, “She’s my biggest fan”, just smile and say, “NO!”. "Mother!" is a tired Saturnalia of misogyny, gore and camp designed to please a very isolated artist. There is the old adage that “scoundrels take refuge in the flag”. It is also true that momma’s boys, no matter how seemingly tough and powerful, always end up screaming for….. MOTHER!

The Gift (2015)

The Gift (2015)

Not Using His Gift

““You don't learn to walk by following rules. You learn by doing, and by falling over.” 

― Richard Branson

Jason Bateman is scary. The established comic actor plays against type in Joel Edgerton’s psychological thriller “The Gift”. There is no nudity, foul language or bloodshed and yet the people at MPAA decided to give it a R (Restricted) rating. Bateman is good at being bad… or to be more precise, creepy. The supporting cast also hits their marks and give this pedestrian genre film more octane than the trailer would suggest. Mr. Edgerton, who wrote the screenplay, also successfully carries one of the leading roles… a down and out veteran with a past that involves the central character. His acting is stronger than his directing which is stronger than his writing. Edgerton can technically be called an auteur but he lacks the most crucial attribute, a personal vision. He is still under the spell of Hitchcock (Strangers on a Train, Psycho, Frenzy ),Roman Polanski (Repulsion) and Adrian Lyne (Fatal Attraction). The end result is a suspenseful 70 minutes, more than half hour of downtime and, most significantly, no afterthoughts. In hindsight this film is professionally bland and forgettable despite the in-theater thrill

“The Gift” possesses hints that Edgerton’s had grander ambitions. The ending seems pat and abrupt as the wronged party successfully gloats in revenge triumph against the bully. This sudden denouement leaves many loose ends that undercut film’s successful early sequences.The story revolves around a upscale couple that relocates to the husband’s childhood hometown. There is an inordinate degree of parsing of the troubling events that led to the move. The wife, a victim of depression/drug addiction, suffered a miscarriage. Given the arc of the plot it appears the careful detailing of this backstory belonged to an earlier manifestation of the script. It certainly would have added a dimension to the film had the credibility of Rebecca Hall been an open question to other’s within the story (Gaslight) or those in the audience (Repulsion). The final rendering, however, spends an inordinate amount of time illustrating her trauma without justification. Edgerton is too precise a filmmaker/writer to simply incorporate a ‘dead end’ storyline. Note: in the first encounter with the couple the nemesis casually stands within ear-shot as the sales clerk confirms an a address. This quick moment was probably missed by a vast majority of casual movie goers but obviously the director is not indifferent to small details. Surprisingly the wife’s dark history and the motivation for the move are incidental to the unfolding events. Would it have mattered had the wife been trouble-free and the couple changed locales due to her husband’s promotion? The portrait Jason Bateman is more troubling as it is incongruous, rather than superfluous. This is clearly a dedicated husband who stood by his partner during difficulty exclusively triggered by HER demons. These actions are in sync with his being former high school leader and all around ‘good guy’. But how does all this jibe with his other behavior? Do popular Student Council Presidents torment underclassmen? Do sociopaths support their troubled spouses without ulterior motives? More importantly is it credible that the wife was oblivious? Perhaps she had ulterior motives regarding her personal safety or financial security. Strangely she is utterly bewildered by all the revelations. Does she really not know? Once again had these themes been plumbed the memory of the final film might last beyond the parking lot of the movie theater. As it is, the audience is saddled with unbelievable characters performing improbable acts. This undercuts the well executed moments of tension. They are merely splashes of brilliance unanchored to a meaningful larger narrative.  

Edgerton has honed his craft and can make an audience squirm in anticipation of something that never happens. Conversely he can make you jump from your seat when events explode with no foundation. This professionalism might be born of his years of working as an actor/writer. Cleary he has tenacious drive . A first time director receiving wide-scale distribution and mainstream financing faces daunting odds. It is unfortunate that the perseverance failed to deliver work that never rose above the glut of half hearted corporate endeavors. Perhaps he was worn down by merely arriving at the gate and surrendered artistic control. He played it safe as he delivered a more than watchable feature that has grossed four times the meager budget. Great for his career, not so for an audience member.  There is a worn dreariness to the production. The sparseness was palpable.“The Gift” feels small in the manner of a student-film. If a director, due to penury considerations, must limit locations and actors, then compensate with innovation. Certainly he is familiar with Hitchcock’s Rope or Lifeboat.  This material substituted competence for audacity. Despite all the glass, the house felt claustrophobic in a budget conscious way. Maybe the director will feel less artistically inhibited with his next project. Perhaps Mr. Bateman can reprise his bad guy. The confrontation with his high school friend and the “get over it’ soliloquy hints at what might have been. Maybe it is a harbinger of things to come. Edgerton has a gift. “The Gift” only reveals it at the edges. 

Carnage (2011)

Roman’s Holiday

Roman Polanski is a force. Whatever one believes about his private life there is no erasing his mark as a director: Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, Macbeth... to list just a few. Directing is only one of his talents. He’s been acting and producing for decades as well. Unfortunately old age has seen a sad inverse relationship grow between his output and his notoriety. Having recently ducked a significant prison sentence for fleeing trial decades ago he returns to the screen with “Carnage” - a terse comedy of manners.

“Carnage” is an interesting choice for its minimalism. The “action” is confined to a few rooms and it moves in real time lasting an hour and a third. We see four seasoned actors playing two sides of the upwardly mobil divide. The plot centers around an incident where one of the couple’s middle school son assaults the other couple’s boy with a stick; resulting in the loss of two teeth. Jodi Foster and John C. Reilly play two strivers. He is a successful high end appliance salesman and she is a want-to-be writer who has global social concerns. Kate Winslet and Christoph Waltz are successful banker/lawyers who are higher up the ladder who can barely hide their scorn at John and Jodi’s provincialism. The fact that their son as the aggressor makes them disposed to being amiable - but the facade seems to crack from the start.

Polanski’s choice of having the incident appear under the opening credits cleverly plays into the trivialness of the event which sparks the adult firestorm. There are dozens of intelligent, well meaning people who find themselves in violent confrontations over parking spaces, places on line, seating arrangements etc. This film is a homage to our pettiness which plays nicely against our belief in our superiority. Upwardly mobil Brooklynites are certainly fertile ground for funny social commentary. Oddly, given the credentials of all the principles, this project misses the mark.

Polanski knows a great deal about theater, acting and film. I personally watched him perform the lead in Amadeus in Paris and can attest to his skill beyond directing. No doubt he is familiar with the constraints of translating static, dialogue driven narratives to the large screen. Ironically his first major feature, “Knife in the Water”, takes place on a sailboat with three characters. This work is a triumph of directing and should be viewed by any filmmaker interested in making the most with limited space and personnel. “Repulsion” and “Death and the Maiden” were less successful artistically but once again Polanski did wonders with actors in small spaces. Unfortunately the master forgot his lesson; or didn’t bother to prepare for class. “Carnage” is claustrophobic and unfunny. Three of the four actors did their best. Christoph Watz performance was sub-par. This failed to aid the cause but the shortfall of the piece should be squarely laid on Polanski’s shoulders. Perhaps the veteran director fell prey to the idea that “light” comedy requires “light” preparation; or maybe Polanski isn’t that funny. It’s hard to know. Maybe he deserves kudos for trying something new rather than resting on his laurels. When a master stumbles - it’s important to examine the terrain. It strange but perhaps this hard-nosed erudite European, who has seen more in his lifetime than most, should have spent time with Seth Mcfarland. No doubt the creator of “Family Guy” and “American Dad” could teach him about social satire; in turn maybe Seth could learn something about real culture. It’s an odd pair but given Polanski’s extracurricular activities one sense they’d have a fair amount in common.

PS - I found it odd that Jodi Foster would choose to work with Polanski. I vividly remember watching her performance in “The Accused” - a heart-wrenching story based on actual events. A disadvantaged woman was gang raped in a bar and prosecutors balked at bringing charges. I’m not equating this tale with the accusations against Polanski. But there is no doubt that, given a cursory facts of the case, Mr. Polanski failed to act in the best interest of a young female child. Ms. Foster doesn’t need to publicly denounce him - but she doesn’t need to support him in a collaboration; ditto for Mel Gibson. Then again maybe it’s a sign of good character to come to the aid of friends who are in trouble. It’s hard to know.