Review of: I’m Thinking of Ending Things (2020)

 Review of I’m Thinking of Ending Things

The Over-Examined Life is Not Worth Pondering

“I wonder whether your madness isn't the worst kind. You act healthy, act it so well that everyone believes you--everyone except me, because I know how rotten you are.”

― Alma, from Bergman’s Persona

“I don’t care what you think unless it is about me.”

― Kurt Cobain

 

“All boyhood friends told me I’d fail. Spend my lifetime friendless or in jail. And all the girls at the school dance… would give me a second chance….” 

― I Won’t Look Back (song), The Dead Boys 

Charlie Kaufman’s I’m Thinking of Ending Things is predictably enigmatic. It was fun to follow the non-linear, M.C. Escher-esque, time sequences underpinning the love story in his Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It was equally entertaining to see his tragic-comic artist fight the army of metaphorical windmills in Being John Malkovich. This track record of being funny, off-beat and artistically daring is the perfect sensibilty for a filmmaker wanting to translate Iain Reid’s quirky novel. Reid’s protagonist, a latter-day Walter Mitty obsessed with Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Oklahoma!, is cut from the same cloth as many of Kaufman’s anti-heroes. Unfortunately Kaufman became seduced by the foibles of Reid’s creation. The protagonist creates a world that is only accessible through his own mind. Kaufman film is for Kaufman, not a general audience.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things is composed of a horror film preceded by a twenty minutes comedic short. The opening features a new girlfriend (Jessie Buckley) meeting the boyfriend’s parents in a remote location. This opening segment possesses a masterful use of the young woman’s internal monologue. It is witty and unsparingly honest. She says what dare not be said: I am going along with the travesty of this relationship because, because…. I don’t know. The boyfriend (Jesse Piemons) interrupts her caustic internal banter at just the right moments to certify that there is no hope of a future. If only Kaufman had held firm to this wry back and forth featuring Jessie. This film could have been an interesting social touch-stone in the vein of Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. A charismatic contemporary figure manages the odd paths of American romance. Sadly it turns to the funny/horror genre in the vein of Get Out, without Jordan Peele’s command of comedy. The creepiness rises exponentially as the focus shifts from Jessie to Jesse, whose character goes by “Jake”.

This Jake is not the Jason of slasher lore. Ironically his childhood home and parents would seem the perfect ingredients to produce a psychopathic misfit. The older couple have a histrionic quality that takes them out of the real world. Toni Collette and David Thewlis play their parts beautifully but fail to match the wit and lightheartedness of initial road trip sequence. They, purposefully, overstep their oddness. Their reactions and facial expressions exhibit people primed to be inappropriate. Whereas the Jesse and Jessie have a quirky believability, the mom and dad are pure gothic caricature. The house is as over-the-top as the other-worldly couple. There are scratches on the door to the basement, which Jessie is warned never to enter. Even the family dog is off-kilter. All dogs shake, but no dogs shakes uncontrollably for, what seems like, a full minute. The stylization feeds the narrative in that this is a film about Jake. The Jessie-centric drive sequence becomes a disjointed preface. Unfortunately Jesse Piemons dissolves into the same psychosis as his parents — he tackles the role beautifully but Kaufman undercuts him by making his pathology as unpalatable as his mother and father. Behind the shape-shifting, time-bending pyrotechnics are a very uninspired creepy mavericks. The denouement arrives when Jake returns to his high school after the young couple leaves the farmhouse in a blizzard. Throughout the first two segments there are a strange series of non-sequiturs involving an elderly janitor at a high school. He turns out to be the key to this cinematic roman-a-clef.

Spoiler alert, he is everyone; or more specifically: all the people we have seen are embodiments of his projections from an un-lived life. That charming love-interest is a mirage of what might have been. That visit to the ice cream stand is peopled with former crushes. One wonders about their fate. Did Jake’s infatuation go beyond ephemeral day-dreaming? Did bad things occur in the real world? All those empty milk shake containers in the garbage at the entrance to the high school hint at something more sinister. Another disturbing clue: the forbidden basement’s secret turns out to be a washing machine filled with the janitor’s clothes. Is he washing blood stains after a night of ravishing the innocents? Is Jake a misogynistic incel lunatic bent on retribution? What is it, in Jake, that we are celebrating? The eeriness undercuts all the triumphalism of the final scene. Are we supposed to join with the audience of made-up creations in the high school gym and cheer on this ambiguous anti-hero? Is it enough to have a vivid imagination?

We can be very thankful for one of Jake’s dreams: the recreation of the eerie dance sequence from the 1955 film version of Oklahoma. This is the spiritual highlight of I’m Thinking of Ending Things. Kaufman steps away from the word-driven, proscenium-arch motif that weighs down much of the film. Even the initial journey to the parents has an endless claustrophobic feel. The close-ups are occasionally positioned outside of the vehicle as if to break up the monotony. It doesn’t. The dialogue is strong, but film is a visual medium. The dance sequence’s blast of color and movement rescues the audience from the claustrophobic car, the barn filled with dead animals and the gothic farm-house. Kaufman’s visual idealization of romance is breathtaking but no amount of choreography can mask this solipsistic loner. Jake’s actions speak louder than his imaginings. He abandons his love in a parking lot during a blizzard. He chases the bad-guy janitor, who is an incarnation of himself. The romance is secondary to his wanting to play the part of the hero. But it is important to note: he is rescuing HIMSELF. Dogs chasing their tales would seem a shallow foundation for a feature film… but Kaufman thinks otherwise. Perhaps he thought the hollow center could be masked by a veneer of cultural references.

Literary and pop-culture allusions dominant even the most mundane snippits of dialogue. The girlfriend, credited as “the young woman”, goes by Lucy. This revelation coincides with an in-depth discussion of the poet Wordsworth, who happens to have a series of poems about unrequited love called, Lucy. Jake’s character might be named for Hemingway’s protagonist in The Sun Also Rises. That Jake is literally castrated which metaphorically reflects Jake’s inability with the ladies. This is just the names of the central characters. It is as if Kaufman believes movie audiences are akin to people who obsess about the NY Times Sunday crossword puzzle. Unfortunately being clever is distinct from being captivating. One might spend years pondering the meaning of the red raincoat in Nicolas Roeg’s literary horror classic Don’t Look Now. Kaufman’s adaptation of Ian Reid’s novel fails to spark the interest in unraveling the mystery. It is the difference between homework and heartfelt discovery.

What is Kaufman yammering-on about? The real stuff might be found in re-watching the classic Oklahoma! . Behind the triumphant celebration song, with the refrain “WE’RE DOING FINE!!!”, lies a tale of coercion, attempted murder, spite, jealously, suicide, class-warfare… all saddled in a Native American territory at the cusp of statehood. Did I mention the evil foreigner from the Middle East? Rodgers and Hammerstein know how to make the unsettling story literally… sing. Kaufman performed a yeoman’s effort in unpacking the brimstone & treacle of America’s heartland. Sadly he carries the same fatal flaw as Jake. He lives in his head. He might want to fastidiously unpack the minutia of a deranged weirdo. A general audience, however, prefers the elan of exciting, unambiguous villains. Stephen King’s blood spattered prom night in Carrie is more entertaining than the intellectual pomposity of Jake’s graduation. No one wants to spend time with the real-life Ed Gein, the depraved human taxidermist who was the basis for the character Hannibal Lector. But people wouldn’t mind having dinner with the character played by Anthony Hopkins… as long as the spoon is long enough. No one, including the figments of his imagination, wants to be near Jake. (maybe with the exception of his mother — but that only proves my point regarding his abhorrence) Let’s hope Kaufman’s next project has less matter, more art… fewer ideas and more people. Sometimes thinking too much can get in the way of living, or making art, or making love…. Just ask Jake.

Review of Leave No Trace (2020)

 Review of Leave No Trace

Our Father, Who Art in Hell

“After all, I have just one father. I want to make peace with him”

― Marvin Gaye’s words to a friend before returning to live with the elder Mr. Gaye, who eventually shot him dead.

 

“And now and then an ample tear trilled down her delicate cheek” 

― King Lear, Act 4 Scene 3, description of Cordelia hearing of her father’s troubles, despite being banished by him. 

Do those who rebel against the world have obligations to their beloved? This is the question posed by Debra Granik in Leave No Trace. It is a seemingly straightforward narrative about a cruel world, an idealistic father and a loving daughter. In fact the story is akin to a Russian nesting doll with each reveal challenging previous assumptions. True love meshes with hideous cruelty. Unbounded freedom morphs into a narcissistic prison. The unkind world is peopled with good souls. Everyone gets what they want, yet this is a tragedy. 

The father and young daughter, Will and Thomasin, might be mistaken for a suburban family of highly skilled campers enjoying a weekend in the woods. In fact these are a pair of covert radicals eschewing  all modern creature comforts and minimizing contact with the outside. The father, due to  mental illness born of battle a tour of duty in the an army war zone, sees the world as “us and them.” Thomasin is hostage to him and his, uncompromising, dogma.  There are constant camouflage drills,  amongst other routines, to shield her from outsiders. It brings to mind the dystopian action-film Hannah, in which a hunted spy/assassin trains his tween daughter into being the ultimate fighting machine.  That might sound cruel, but at least he’s preparing her to fight the system. Will has no capacity to lay groundwork for his daughter’s future. He lives looking over his shoulder with occasional respites between watches. The future is measured in hours. Conversations with his daughter about school, dating, vocation… are a luxury that are simply out of reach on this battlefield. The pressing everyday questions are: what will we eat? And where will we sleep? Which brings forth a larger query: what kind of monster would torture his young daughter with this lifestyle? The startling dualism of the film is that Granik is able to make him more than empathetic. Despite it all Thomasin is an educated, curious, wonderful person. The qualities might have emerged sui generis but her father appears to be a mentor. What about the mother?

One of the innovative aspects of this film is Granik’s parsimonious distribution of the backstory. There is an odd opaqueness that haunts the central figures. What happened when Will went to war? How did they end up in the woods? How did the mother pass? What was the progression of  Will’s descent into madness? A lesser filmmaker would have given over the story to filling in the exposition. Granik’s whispers blurry answers. It’s a brilliant choice as it bring the audience into the mindset of Will. Everything is in the moment and plays out accordingly. The inevitable conflicts with the outside world are authentic as Will’s trauma feels akin to massive illustrations of the contumely of everyday American life. We do not flee to the woods but, given the state of affairs, many have had the fantasy. 

Perhaps one of Will’s most endearing qualities is the strict adherence to being polite and seemingly cooperative. We feel his anguish as his world is crushed by the endless absurd demands of living conventionally. The social worker admits that Thomasin is far ahead academically but points out that school is more than socializing. Then the audience witnesses Will’s humiliation by being put through a battery of psych tests that evoke the worst excesses of modern institutional interaction. In Will’s mind socialization, being a good soldier, is at the root of his troubles. Will is not going to be a team player. He will not listen to phone trees, stand in line at the Motor Vehicles, haggle about a deliveries, take surveys, argue with insurance companies, banks, mortgage companies, landlords, school teachers, social workers, cops, government officials, friends, neighbors, strangers… He rejects all tenants of living as a connected American adult. Granik’s interesting take on Will’s obstinacy is to give the evil system a strange grace. This isn’t a malevolent One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest bureaucracy.  The psych evaluation might be an intrusive demand from a heartless system , but the person administering it clearly cares about his charge. He is gentle and probably risks his own standing by bending the rules and giving Will a pass. This motif, the world is filled with compassionate people willing to help DESPITE the system, ironically plays throughout the film.

A man at war with everyone and everything encounters saints wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. Every step of the way each “helper” tries to lessen his load by giving him, by conventional standards, the keys to the kingdom.  He is allowed to raise his daughter. He is given a job. He is given a home. He is courted by the locals. Yet he refuses all the benevolent coercion. He wants to be left alone; not literally, he needs his daughter. There’s the rub. It is not sanctioned to raise a teenage girl in complete isolation while foraging for supplies; not to mention involving her in other illegal activity. The father’s income is greatly supplemented by his illegal sale of his VA distributed medications. Once again the genius is Granik’s ability to have the audience cast a sympathetic eye on his struggle. 

Perhaps we are cheering an uber-patriot who trumpets the very American “city on a hill” myth. Maybe we are siding with a mafioso who lives by his own code. Many of our heroes are outlaws who don’t wait on line.… they form their own.  But then comes the challenge of Thomasin’ s journey. She is the opposite of the loner strongman, but equally compelling. She is the daughter of our dreams.  In Will’s case his mental illness amplifies the common parental struggle of “letting go.” His battles, in his mind, will ALWAYS be hers. Thomasin, fortunately,  has reached the age where she develops an unvarnished world-view. Sadly that means accepting hard truths about Will. Granik threads the needle in making everyone seem sympathetic when it would have been far easier to demonize. 

Is more anger in order? Given the world Granik’s paints, the answer is, absolutely not. The film is consistent in being believably realistically, unrealistic. This is not the world we live in. This is illustrated by an online review from a young woman who was raised by a homeless, mentally ill, father. 

I think it's absolutely wrong to attempt to manipulate the audience into emotionally enabling this man, and people like him, to continue inflicting his pain on others.  - Charity Ava, online Amazon customer review of Leave No Trace.

The point is well taken. Ms. Ava’s pain is real but their is another side to the “emotionally enabling” accusation. Leave No Trace is a prose-poem about a father and daughter, rather than a heartfelt look at social justice issues. This doesn’t excuse the criticism but it’s important to appreciate the unorthodox motif. Granki’s artistry shows her to be not only a keen writer but a director who makes careful choices. Surely someone with this degree of sensitivity would acknowledge the omissions are purposeful in order not to cloud the narrative. Some of the unrealistic portrayals failed to convince. Despite brilliant casting, strong storytelling there is a odd “do-gooderness” about the supporting cast. Our two protagonists encounter uniformly supportive people; even amongst those charged with correcting “wrongs.” It is as if they live in Mayberry North Carolina instead of the darker edges of the Pacific Northwest. Misogyny and objectification are other taboos. Thomasin is an extraordinarily beautiful teenage girl and yet there is never any challenges with her navigating the plethora of strange people. At first glance it might seem de rigueur to explore this unfortunate aspect of  every girl’s journey. In hind-sight, however,this hot button issue might have consumed the narrative. Granki gives us an idealization of how beautiful young women should be respectfully viewed in the world. It might offend some as a poor choice that downplays women’s struggles. It should, however, be understood as an artistic decision by someone who has done a great deal of reflection on how to present this narrative.

This is a solid film made by a steady hand. A blemish in the artistry is a lack of levity. A little treacle is needed to counter Will’s brimstone. We could have used more scenes such as Will viewing the church dance performance; or Thomasin viewing the man taking selfies on the train. The title is also somewhat foreboding, but cleverly chosen.  “Leave No Trace” has the ring of a classic mystery or horror film. In a sense one might see this family saga in that light. The expression actually comes from an ecological ethos formed in the 50s that is rooted in setting a mindset to preserve our vanishing wilderness. It is incumbent on the visitor to avoiding marring the scenery with their detritus. Once again Granik does the opposite and delivers a film that makes the unpleasant human debris the center attraction. In relation to the unconscionable brutality that surrounds us this seemingly self-inflicted pain might seem trivial. Can this story rise to the sense of outrage one experiences in viewing the news? No. But films without overt blows can make it harder to forget. Perhaps we do ourselves a disservice when we amplify the horror to assuage our collective pain. The film Hannah, has slick fighting choreography and an innovative device of having a young girl playing Rambo’s part. But it is all a blur compared to Thomasin and Will’s struggles. Thomasin leaving behind two beloved small plastic horse statuettes in the refuge, as not to offend her Dad. The father hiding while in the thrall of a war-flashback; hiding his pain from others so he can preserve his job and stay with his daughter. In the end she knows he means well; he knows the moment has arrived. The next time someone bitterly disappoints I will try to recall Thomasin gently saying, “I know you would stay if you could.” All those small moments with these two broken people leave a an impression infinitely stronger than any of Hannah’s drop kicks. Thanks Granik for recognizing Thomasin and Will’s strengths, and Hannah and Rambo’s weakness. Action/adventure is for easy villains and callow heroes. This film is a bridge to the strengthening stillness of a walk in the forest during trouble times. This film shows us that the quietness is found inside, not out. You might not leave a trace, but you will be affected by the journey.

Review of A Ghost Story (2020)

Review of A Ghost Story

Giving Up The Ghost

“I must rejoice beyond the bounds of time...though the world may shudder at my joy, and in its coarseness know not what I mean”

― Jan van Ruysbroeck (Christian Mystic)

“Yeah when I get to heaven, I'm gonna take that wristwatch off my arm. What are you gonna do with time after you’ve bought the farm?”

― John Prine, When I get to Heaven

We understand life as a linear narrative driven by the passage of time. But what if death involved seeing our story as an open panorama? What if you could experience any moment in any order? This is what David Lowery presents in A Ghost Story. It is a horror movie; or more precisely: it is a horror movie? Lowery is nothing if not subversive. What else can you say about a director who places his central character under a bedsheet for a vast majority of the film. That’s right Casey Affleck, the talented actor, is completely obscured by the cheapest homemade Halloween costume imaginable: a white cotton covering with two cut-outs for eyes. It is an amazing performance, even though his expressions are completely opaque. I checked and Casey himself was under wraps for most of the performance.Yes, it mattered. I can’t explain why. What do you expect from a “horror film” that borrows more from Andy Warhol’s deadpan rather than George Romero’s gore, Wes Craven’s slashing or Stephen King’s creepiness.    

Lowery is interested in “to be AND not to be”. This is a reflecting on action movie. Rather than stalking, molesting, entertaining or cajoling, this poor soul watches and contemplates. Casper the friendly ghost is now the soul-mate of Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener. Please repeat in a soft monotone: “I would prefer not to be funny”. Nicholson’s character in The Shinning now puts down his ax and plaintively watches his family… for months. No work and no play makes Jack a very pensive boy. Suspended animation rules the day. The few deadly moments are presented as after-events with muted sound. Adding to the seeming blandness comes the bare storyline. The “action” centers around a single location, a drab house, which contains a secret. The wife, prior to the husband’s death, places a note in the crack in a wall. The ghost spends his time trying to retrieve that small piece of paper. The phrase “spends his time” has a radically different meaning in the context of the afterlife. Whereas the living are harnessed to the clock, the afterlife is, literally, eternal. Looking for the contents of the note takes places over… DECADES. Once again this endeavor, from the point of view of the temporal, is absurd. When seen from the infinite, however, it is sublime. The stillness is captivating. 

Thematically the film is akin to Richard McGuire’s graphic novel Here, which illustrates the goings-on in a specific location for a millennia. Each two page spread signals a time shift in an identical location. Lowery, however, is more narrowly focused on the self-realization of his protagonist. Our hero rejects the light-filled portal and roams under his mortuary sheet mantle. He decides to stay in the metaphorical foyer of the present world. He now has the comfort of physically experiencing his familiar surroundings, but without the agency to meaningfully participate in the drama. Think of Emily’s return to earth in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. Lowery’s ghost discovers the same disappointment as Wilder’s Emily going back as a spectator to her own twelfth birthday party. Being dead amongst the living is as much fun as being alive in a sea of corpses. 

“Living in the moment” is an ideal philosophy when faced with the conundrum of being happy in a ruthlessly uncertain world. The Gospel of Matthew ask us to consider the lilies of the field “that toil not.” Be in a playful excursion, rather than lost in the drudgery of the treadmill. In this mindset the incidental, rather than the momentous, becomes extraordinary. Sadly our heroes paradigm shift occurs in the afterlife. Our ghost fixates on what the living would consider obscure passing moments; a small embrace, an empty room suddenly filled with his girlfriend devouring food to drown her sorry, the never-ending quest to dig out the mysterious note…. A living being might focus on hallowed moments such as births, graduations, promotions, holiday dinners, romantic first encounters…. But from the eternal balcony, life is made of less showy stuff. If one of these specters kept a photo album it might be filled with images of empty rooms or people meandering at insignificant moments.  It is endless, forgetful movements which take center stage. Even the revelation, or lack of discovery, of the contents of the note, expose the larger force of life/death at work. In the end the ghost reads the note and that triggers…. A disappearance. What does this mean?

Lowery carefully avoids weighing in on greater meaning. This is a sketch of a foyer, rather than a depiction of heaven or hell or Hades or the larger circle of life. This film is not a book of revelations or even a book of the dead. He eschews heroism for the quotidian. Our “hero” is an everyman confronting the everyday. Our contemporary way of life has little time for reflection. In this context an “average Joe” is suddenly cast into the waiting room of life. He chooses to metaphorically stare at the ceiling. The door to the rest of the journey is before him, yet he stays in the never-ending dead-end loop of what has gone before. This brings to mind the Beatles lyric in Nowhere Man: “doesn’t have a point of view, knows not where he’s going to. Isn’t he a bit like you and me.” The unfortunate punishment for those who refuse to move on… the exponential growth of feelings of displacement. Angry ghosts are broken people who ignore root causes and lash out at those in front of them. Poltergeists are road-rage drivers, not supernatural incarnations of evil. 

Strangely our protagonist actually encounters another ghost who is less angry, but equally confused. She is adorned in a fancier sheet, suggesting an older woman. They discuss things telepathically. She is a character out of Samuel Beckett’s existential masterpiece, Waiting for Godot. Our hero asks her what she is doing. She is waiting for something, but can’t remember the details. The moment of release for both ghosts come out of the ether or more precisely as part of the ether. Their sheets collapse and they are gone. What was in the note? What was it that triggered their decision to start the journey elsewhere? These are questions for the living. Logical meaning is reserved for temporal space, reality is opaque. There is a wonderful moment where a character, billed as “the prognosticator”, gives an absurd, albeit accurate, prediction. He gives a pompous monologue to a crowded party. Everyone is going to die and everything is meaningless. Our hero ghost weighs in with the counter argument. He blows the house’s fuse. The party falls into spooky darkness. 

The ability to come out of the darkness and be in the moment is not for everyone. To fully understand life’s meaning, or lack thereof, is reserved for those who choose to overcome the shadow of distraction. Like many truths it is unpalatable to most people. A Ghost Story’s box office was minuscule. Then again, so was the budget. It is unfortunate, however, this small gem failed to catch on in the same manner as other low budget horror films such as The Blair Witch Project. Then again this could never be a movie for a general audience. Thornton Wilder puts it best in his answer to Emily’s question in Our Town:

EMILY: "Does anyone ever realize life while they live it...every, every minute?"

STAGE MANAGER: "No. Saints and poets maybe...they do some.” 

Lowery knows “that undiscovered country” is all too familiar. It turns out that “conscience does make cowards of us all”, even after death.  In the end A Ghost Story is a real horror movie. You need not fear darkness. Be scared of not seeing the light. Just ask the man under the sheet. He’s closer than you think.

Review of 1917 (2020)

Review of 1917

A Good Film of the Great War

“I believe that perfection handicaps cinema”

Jean Renoir, director of La Grande Illusion

“The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men ”

Henry David Thoreau

“We are not youth any longer. We don’t want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing from ourselves, from our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces.”

Erich Marie Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

Sam Mendes’ 1917 was inspired by his grandfather’s experience as a front line soldier in World War I. Artistically this is both the film’s strength and weakness. The emotional bond to the material parallels the storyline. A brother seeking to save his brother from certain peril embarks on a seemingly suicidal mission. The military planners knew no soldier in their right mind would stay the course unless he had his family’s blood on the line. In the end the brass might view the result as favorable, but the brothers’ might see a pyrrhic victory. Artistically the same might be said of Mendes. No doubt the result is impressive, but did the director’s family allegiance blur his vision?

Subverting expectations drives the script which is wholly appropriate for a film about WW I, “the war to end all wars.” Seasoned military leaders thought the fighting would cease in a matter of weeks and deployed cavalry horses. The war ground on for nearly half a decade with trenches of soldiers obliterating each other with newly designed airplanes, tanks, flamethrowers and chemical weapons in a macabre stalemate. Mendes’ heroes, two infantrymen, are tasked with the impossible: a critical trek across enemy lines at the height of conflict to deliver a message to save a battalion of soldiers (1600) entering enemy territory.

Rather than raging machine guns, they are met with eerie silence and a vast apocalyptic landscape of carnage evoking Goya’s prints of dismembered bodies in The Disasters of War. In real life the ferocity of the battle can be illustrated by the present day Zone Rouge. This is a 500 square mile area in France that is STILL uninhabitable due to the munitions used in this conflict. While traversing this end-of-days backdrop the audience experiences the metaphorical landmines of unexpected plot twists just at the moment of repose. Our heroes discover the booby trap in the tunnel before it’s too late, then calamity strikes. They take a respite on a peaceful farm, then the unthinkable occurs. The unconvinced follower morphs into the committed leader. The refugee mother and child, are unrelated. The waters’ calm in the heretofore raging river reveals, a pile of corpses. Nothing is settled. The audience must keenly study the rubble for clues knowing they can never anticipate the reveal.

Kudos to Mendes for meticulous attention to detail. The film creates an endless meandering journey though miles and miles and miles of trenches, mess tents, holding areas, battlefield ruins, abandoned buildings, blown-up infrastructure, sylvan farms, orchards…. All is presented with the smooth glide of cameras that following everything in real time. The entire action is revealed in less than a day with a cast of hundreds of English & German soldiers and civilians caught in the middle. The expertise in World War I is twinned with a knowledge of cinematic history. Mendes applies the technique forged by Hitchcock’s Rope, a virtual one take movie, into the battle arena. There a myriad of references to other war classics such as the trench scenes in All Quiet on the Western Front, the river sequence in An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge and the singing sequence in Kubrick’s Paths of Glory.Perhaps this last reference best illustrates a shortfall in this otherwise outstanding film.

One of our heroes comes across soldiers in the woods listening to an angelic singer. The troops are about to be led into a disastrous battle and Mendes’ presents a moment of pure innocence. The voice of God temporarily pushes back the gates of hell. Compare this with the closing Kubrick’s masterpiece where a young German girl is dragged up in front of a drunken hall of French soldiers who cat-call her into performing. They are also on the cusp of battle and demand some raucous entertainment. The young women quietly starts to sing, it is barely a whisper. The crowd quiets. The men slowly morph into lonely lost boys. The yearning for bawdy sex is swept away by the sweet soothing melody. It takes the soldiers back to their lives before when they were sons, husbands and brothers. The dogs of war are tamed. There isn’t a dry eye in the house as they quietly prepare to return to hell. Mendes’ song was beautifully rendered and wonderfully portrayed but it was merely tender. We were pulled into the beauty amidst the hell-scape, but never lifted to heaven.

1917, despite its mind-blowing acting, direction and set design, fails to cross the into the sublime. Of course there are searing moments of horror and compassion but the protagonists are chained to the majesty of the moment. Strangely their status is anchored in their goodness. The central characters of other war classics follow the dictates of battle and engage in what civilians would consider immoral behavior. The central figure in All Quiet on the Wester Front kills a soldier in an offensive maneuver with his bare hands. Kubrick’s Col Dax executes the innocents. Renoir’s Rauffenstein kills his beloved French prisoner. Mendes’ heroes never commit the sins of war. The soldier who lies peacefully in the field in the opening and ending sequence of 1917 is more scarred, more experienced, but unsullied. The changes relate to acquisition of wisdom, rather than regrets. He will probably cherish holding this medal, unlike is badge from Verdun. Despite the unworldly, terrifying journey through the 9th circles of hell, his saintliness remains intact. Even after witnessing the death of a beloved friend he never engages in retribution. He is given ample opportunity but he chooses not to kill, even going so far as to avoid shooting an enemy soldier whom he encounters in a dark, barren cityscape. This is admirable and surely speaks to the beloved grandfather whom Mendes rightly honors. Perhaps, from an artistic perspective, a major thematic subversion of expectations was in order. Maybe the protagonists could have exhibited a chink in their moral armor. There are many cowboys with white hats, but people remember the one who wears a mask.

Mendes beautifully illustrates the evil nature of war. His exacting gaze showed us honorable men doing their best in conditions beyond our darkest imaginings. But strangely our heroes are impervious to the temptation in a land that has renounced all semblance of humanity. It is a journey of white knights on a quest. They give comfort to the enemy, endure the contumely of their superiors and even give sustenance to the innocents. It is both electrifying and inspiring, to a fault. It will bring tears in the theater, but maybe not in reflection in the following days. It is an excellent film, but misses greatness. Strangely heroes with less inspiration can be more inspiring. The evil of war isn’t born of devils, but angels who have fallen. The journey was captivating beyond all imagining, but in a worldly manner. We all know that gold doesn’t rust. But war should remind us of the possibility that it can. What if the friend wantonly killed others in revenge? What if cowardliness took hold? What if the brother blamed the friend? Your grandfather would never believe it, but this is when it is important to politely smile and say, “you wouldn’t, but others might.” In truth the elder Mendes might nod with a knowing glance. It took him decades to breach the subject of the physical horror, perhaps others moral decay should stay on the battlefield. The director gives a celebration of righteousness. He does his family proud. But maybe that is only part of the larger story of war. Just look at the faces of the soldiers as they sing along with the German maiden in Paths of Glory. They join and hum as they recognize her as more than the enemy. In Mendes recreation everyone sits in silent adoration. The voice is untouchable, angelic; maybe too much so. Perhaps a soulful visit in the other side must be part of the journey. Heavenly beings deserve our admiration but they shouldn’t mask a disquieting truth: good men can do bad things. Just ask the ghosts in the Zone Rogue.

Review of Knives Out (2020)

Not the Sharpest Knife in the Drawer

“Four Conversations are three too many”

Lillian Hellman, The Little Foxes

“Remember… to tell them… it was only a bloody game”

Milo Tindle, closing lines in Sleuth

The close of the second decade of the 21st century showcases technological dystopia, ecological collapse and global fascist resurgence. Paradoxically this is a perfect time for Knives Out, an old-timey, family who-dunit feature film. It has received critical praise coupled with financial success. Sadly, light comedy requires heavy lifting. The creators didn’t do the work.

Rian Johnson’s Knives Out revolves around the death of a family patriarch, professionally rendered by Christopher Plummer. The character has made his mark as a mystery writer. This plot is akin to the classic 1972 film Sleuth, where another detective novelist delves into a real life murder. Whereas Lawerence Olivier and Micheal Cain battle to the death in a precise, virtuosic display of writing and acting, Plummer is left out in the cold. Knives Out’s script did him in. He was surrounded by a cast of gothic family-horribles that, unintentionally, stumble through a plot that centers around the question of who killed the Paterfamilias. It is reminiscent of the board game Clue, where all moves relate to exposing the murderer within the confines of a house filled with suspects. The 1985 film version of this rainy day staple of my youth was uninspired… even with the multi-endings released in different theaters which highlighted different characters as the villains. The novelty failed to hide the same problem that plagues Knives Out: the hook is confused with the reveal. It is fine to have the goal of discovering the guilty party. However, the real driving force of the narrative is never who, but why. You can lure an audience to the theater by promising to capture the criminal, but it will be an unsatisfying excursion if the bad guy defined, solely, by their deed. The characters become tokens in a game of Clue, rather than real life bad guys.

The bright spot in Knives Out is Jamie Lee Curtis’ performance. This is a hard-bitting, daddy-defender daughter born of the dynamic gothic families of the defeated South. One can see this tough “dame” stepping into classic blood battles such as Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Hellman’s The Little Foxes. These playwrights were wrestling with issues of the acceptance homosexuality or the price familial loyalty. Their stories went beyond the stated plot device of seeking money and power. Curtis, with every sharp riposte and gesture, shares this attribute of stretching the meaning of her actions. Her anger goes beyond the smallness of criminal mischief and blazes on into the realm of existential purpose. Sadly Johnson uses her sparingly and includes Daniel Craig in nearly every scene. It is difficult to convey the hollowness of his performance. It is as if Johnson’s direction was encapsulated by the instruction: “you are in a regional theater and you need to pretend to be a combination of Atticus Finch and a professional wrestler… now go out there and tear up the scenery”. If the Screen Actors Guild were to issue criminal warrants for crimes against acting this offense would garner the current “most wanted status”. Don Johnson, who plays Lee’s spouse, would join him on the list. Both have, heretofore, delivered solid performances in feature films (Johnson A Boy & His Dog, Craig in The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo). One can only assume they matched the laziness of the script with the ennui of phone-it-in caliber work.

The most disturbing character is Marta, the angelic hispanic nurse companion. She is solidly played by Ana De Armas but the performance failed to hide the creative problems. Johnson wanted to give Knives Out a pastiche of social commentary. In keeping with the rest of the script the result is the opposite of what was intended. The film has a solidly progressive bent on the evils of money and the horrors of inequality. Sadly, presenting an updated “noble savage” stock character does little for illustrating the sin of avarice or the real oppression wrought by racism. The film Deathtrap is an example of a feature that incorporates the devilishness of greed in a family murder mystery. The direct action of the film, not the spoken word dialogues, give the audience a parable to ponder, in addition to heartfelt laughs. Marta, on the other hand, is merely a saintly guide amongst nefarious family factions. She and the patriarch are, ostensibly, wearing the metaphorical white hats. Unfortunately there is an opaqueness that surrounds their motivations. (spoiler alert) In the end, when Marta glances down on the family from the veranda, what is she thinking? Retribution? Justice? Comity? Rage?

As this is simply light comedy, what does it really matter? Here lies the heart of the matter. The film goes to extraordinary lengths to delineate the denouement with a careful verbal re-telling of all events that exactingly explain the “ingenious” plot to kill the man in charge. Sadly the human heart is built on emotion, not ingenuity. Clever plot twists can only reveal concrete answers which might help win a game of Clue. They will never make an imprint on the heart. My half century old childhood memories of Sleuth are clear. Ditto for Deathtrap. My impressions of Knives Out seem to fade with every passing hour. No doubt the creators will point to box office and some critical praise. It’s a “hit”, what more can anyone ask? Answer: a taut, funny, interesting comedy that learns the lessons of previous filmmakers who’ve tackled the same material. Audiences should expect more than lazy distraction. All the accolades are a sign of the craving for a reprieve from current events. Maybe boardgames will stage a comeback.

Review of Joker (2019)

Review of Joker

Joker Isn’t Wild 

“Violence! Violence! It’s the only thing that will make you see sense”

Mott the Hoople, Violence

“Better to be king for a night than schmuck for a lifetime”

Rupert Pupkin, The King of Comedy

“I have several children who I’m turning into killers. Wait till they grow up”

David Berkowitz, The Serial Murderer know as ‘Son of Sam’

The advertising campaign for Todd Phillips’ Joker suggests a downscale revamp of the demonic Hannibal Lector in Demme’s iconic The Silence of the Lambs. In reality this monster starts as a lamb, the wolf’s clothing follows.  The film, despite the pr blitz promoting deranged violence, is a portrait of mental illness run amok via cruelty and negligence. The gory, disturbing moments are merely garnish. The main entree is a bevy of serious social commentary touching on income inequality, gun control, government attitudes towards the underclass, the treatment of the indigent… Joker has more in common with political science than comic book fiction. And yet this seemingly “serious” movie made nearly $100 million in domestic box office receipts on its opening weekend. The reason can be summed up in two words, Joaquin Phoenix. The mesmerizing actor, this generation’s Jack Nicholson, has honed the portrayal of off-kilter madman to perfection. The track record speaks for itself, from the cruel cult leader Freddie Quell in The Master, to Joe, the loner serial assassin inYou Were Never Really Here. No matter how crazy the part, Phoenix rises. The momma’s boy, rent-a-clown, Arthur Fleck, becomes a disturbing force of chaos, the Joker.  

Physicality is the key to Phoenix’s rendering of the future Batman villain. Phillips takes a conventional approach to filming many of the violent sequences. The repose, the quiet, solo moments are this film.  One meditates on the breathlessness after the storm. The subway murders are conventional film gruel. The refuge in an abandoned bathroom, with the green florescent lights flickering, is the birthplace of the Joker. The soundtrack is inspired by Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, the touchstone for melancholy classical music.  The cello plays a classical riff and our terrifying monster-clown rises above his lowly station. The movements evoke ballet, tango and Martha Graham as the beautiful, malevolent spirts embody the heretofore forgettable Fleck. The romantic string notes vanquish the dinginess of a life spent scribbling gibberish while playing the fool. Each arm twist and careful foot step crushes the darkness of his “real” home, a dirty tenement apartment which he shares with his elderly mother. This is someone who is going places. The goofy clown, being ignored while waving the ‘liquidation sale’ sign, is now on the path to being the silent “rock star” acknowledging the cheering throngs, while standing on the hood of a taxi. This film has a decent script and wonderful set design, but it is the dancer who makes the story move. 

Phillips’ cloaks the arc of the journey in a homage to the rough and tumble New York City of the late 70s and early 80s. Kudos to the set designers whose attention to detail brought back the ill-fitting cop uniforms, grubby green diesel buses and graffiti covered subways and side streets. It harkens back to Martin Scorsese’s seminal Taxi Driver, where a psychotic  loner also becomes infatuated with gun violence as a vehicle for recognition. The films also share protagonists fantasizing about public acts of violence to bolster their manhood in addition to make-believe girlfriends. 

There are numerous moments when Phoenix metaphorically acts out DeNiro’s infamous clarion call for all disaffected, macho, incels:  “you talking to me?”  Joker is also tied to another DeNiro/ Scorsese collaboration,The King of Comedy. Both films feature misanthropes, who fancy themselves as stand-up comics, whose path leads them to fixate on beloved talk show icons. Ironically Deniro, in this incarnation, plays the host himself, rather than the antagonist. His character, Murray Franklin delivers a marvelous performance that recreates the avuncular New York talk show legend, Joe Franklin. The Joker himself is hiding from a cop who bears a remarkable resemblance to Detective Sipowicz from the 90s cop drama NYPD Blue. Adding to the list of the never-ending Big Apple references is the seminal crime the Joker commits. It is a mirror recreation of an actual 1984 subway shooting that rocked the city and spurred a furious debate about vigilantism vs. heroism.  In the Bernie Goetz incident four underclass African Americans were wounded by a white working class businessman. Joker turns the tables and targets three yuppie Wall Streeters. This overt act of terrorism against the rich certainly bears down on actual current events where the income divide is a central issue in Presidential politics.  Entertainment juggernauts are even more wary than mainstream corporations in their interest in being seen as taking sides. No doubt Warner Brothers took note of Phillips’ story choices. 

The Batman storyline is clear regarding the rich pedigree of its heroes. Batman’s father, Thomas Wayne, figures prominently in Joker. He is a wealthy businessman whose bid to be Gotham City’s mayor is rooted in demonizing the poor and restoring “order”. The Joker and his young son Bruce, the future caped crusader, face-off through the wrought iron gates of his mansion. Thomas, a caricature a self-entitled blue bloods, is detestable.

Unfortunately for the director, lionization of the Joker himself creates problems for the Batman franchise. The larger storyline clearly paints this character as an unredeemable villain. Warner Brothers stepped in and forced an ending to the film which clearly shows justice has been served; or at least evil has been contained. The previous scene, which I believe to be Phillips’ choice of the ending, neatly mirrors the opening sequence and fits into the triumphal arc of the storyline: the Joker has risen and is uncontainable. The “corporate” ending inoculates Warner Brothers from the accusation of glorifying a psychopathic killer. But their efforts didn’t stop there as the spin machine created a false public dialogue regarding the appropriateness of the Joker as a character. One suspects the hand of a publicity machine at work as It Chapter Two, a sequel in a slasher/horror film featuring a bloodthirsty clown, opened the month before with no debate about deranged funny men. The corporate flack diverted the public discourse to the tired hobby-horse of “violence in movies” rather than killing the rich. Obviously it isn’t the gore but the direction of the bloodlust that sparks concern for those in charge. Vengeance against the 1% is an untenable storyline for a Warner Brothers’ product. The concerns about the Batman brand and the companies reputation led to muddled choices, marring the director’s vision that go beyond the contradictory endings. Why is the vengeful mob carrying “resist” signs? Is the Joker a leader of a movement with legitimate grievances? Should he be free to be a rightful avenger? Or does that moniker link him too closely with Batman, the dark knight?

Phillips is clear that his Joker begins as a sympathetic bully betrayed by the system and his family. His initial moments of violence, although unjustified, are linked to betrayal or, in the case of the yuppie subway trio, chivalry morphing into self-defense. The director carefully omits gratuitous gore that would overtly turn the audience against the misguided clown. The fate of the “girlfriend” and her young child is never revealed. Unfortunately the empowerment of violence becomes an end in itself. Phillips never ventures into the realm of seeing the Joker aligning with others. This is a solitary figure without an agenda beyond feeling happy for the next 5 minutes. He feels genuine surprise that anyone thinks he matters. This is the stuff of lotto winners, not arch villains. It would be a leap of faith to believe the character in this film could successfully recruit others in any sort of organized endeavor, a trajectory clearly marked by established Batman history.  This is the portrait of a mascot, not a mastermind. 

The framework of this character was never built  for the weight of serious discourse. The studio’s lackluster artistic support didn’t help. Despite all this, Joker has glimmers of brilliance.  Unfortunately even its strongest attribute becomes an Achilles heal. There can be too much of a good thing. Phoenix is masterful, but how many times do we have to hear that unnatural, natural laugh? It is as if the director, overburdened by decisions about his hero, left the perplexing question of humor to hang over the audience. What is funny? How much does our fascination concern the gallows, rather than the gallows humor.  It is reported that many audience members attended Lenny Bruce performances to watch an arrest. Do we share in this dubious attribute when we read news stories for sickening carnage? Kudos to Phillips trying to make a larger statement of “what is happening is not funny”. He’s right. In the words of his hero: “She (the Joker’s  mother) told me I had a purpose to bring laughter and joy to the world”. This is spoken before the cringeworthy stand-up routines in which he violates the cardinal rule of comedy: he takes out a notebook and READS his jokes. This is the awkward voice of every disenfranchised mass shooter. The general unkindness of the world morphs into personal grievance. The solitary torture of these lonely souls knows no place of solace in our time since caring communities are the only known cure. Instead the offer on hand is a suggestion of compassion. The heartless underfunded bureaucracy of social workers bulldoze through “clients” as prominent members of society repeat bromides about self reliance and taking responsibility. This is a formula that turns meek clowns into mass killing cult leaders. In a world such as this the only cure is the coming of a caped crusader. Time to flash the bat-symbol in the sky. This goes beyond Gotham. The joke is on us.