Jay Ruud’s Movie Reviews
My lovely wife and I go to movies. Lots and lots of movies. And I have opinions about movies. Lots and lots of opinions. Here, I share them with you. Lucky!
My lovely wife and I go to movies. Lots and lots of movies. And I have opinions about movies. Lots and lots of opinions. Here, I share them with you. Lucky!
This week, Cinemark and Turner Classic Movies began showing the classic film Gone With the Wind on the big screen across the country, in commemoration of the film’s 75th anniversary. The movie premiered in Loew’s Grand Theater in Atlanta on December 15, 1939, and went on to become the top grossing film in history—a title it still holds, if the 1939 gross is adjusted for inflation. The film also won ten academy awards, a record for its day, and was named number four on the AFI list of the 100 greatest films of the twentieth century. In previous re-releases, the film had been shown in a converted Cinemascope projection, but for purposes of the 75th anniversary, the film was shown in its original projection, so that audiences could see it exactly as it was shown in 1939.
To write a review of a film that already has this kind of history seems an exercise in futility. But it does seem as if a revaluation of the film may be worth doing on the occasion of its reaching the three-quarters of a century mark. I was rather surprised to walk into the theater to find a completely full house, and the excitement of such a crowd and its reactions made the experience quite different than watching a DVD of the film, even the newly available 75th anniversary DVD from Warner Bros. Home Entertainment, with its eight hours of bonus materials.
I thought about reviewing the film as if it were a new release, and try to judge it accordingly, but I found this impossible because of this: the movie would never be made in today’s market. There are several reasons for this, the most practical one being the fact that no one today would make a four-hour film for popular consumption. Perhaps our attention spans are shorter than those of our grandparents in the ’30s. Nowadays, filmmakers are much more likely to take, say, a 280-page novel like The Hobbit (which, interestingly, came out the same year as Margaret Mitchell’s novel) and turn it into three two-hour movies, than to take a thousand page novel like Gone With the Wind and make it one very long movie. The cynic in me says that the contemporary way forces you to pay three times to see the whole story, while David O. Selznik, GWTW’s producer, only made you pay once. But then the even more cynical part of me answers that if Selznik had thought of it, he would have made his movie into a trilogy as well.
Other aspects of Gone With the Wind are equally archaic. Take, for example, the use of intertitles on which transitional language was placed in order to introduce new scenes. These text frames remind us as viewers that in 1939 Hollywood was only about a decade or so beyond the silent film era, and these intertitles are a holdover from that period. But more than the technical clunkiness of these, the language itself—full of overly sentimental, romanticized descriptions of the Old South—is offensive and laughable from a contemporary point of view. The opening scene of the film is introduced by these words:
There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton Fields called the Old South. Here in this pretty world, Gallantry took its last bow. Here was the last ever to be seen of Knights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave. Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered, a Civilization gone with the wind…
The idealized image given here probably struck a chord among many 1939 viewers, especially in the South, but contemporary viewers would not stand for it. Slave-owners were not cavaliers, and though they may have talked about honor, their definition of honor in this film (with the exception of the romanticized Ashley Wilkes) has nothing to do with idealized chivalry but rather with hypersensitivity to personal insult. And to imply that the relationship of “Master and Slave” was part of an idealized world, as this does by putting it into this romanticized context, is nothing short of outrageous. This kind of flowery absurdity convinces me that one of the film’s ten Academy Awards—the one given to Sidney Howard for adapted screenplay—was quite undeserved (though since Howard had died in the interim, the award may have been a sentimental one—the first posthumous award in Oscar history).
Later in the film, at the end of the war, the intertitle continues its idealized view of the confederate soldier:
Home from their lost adventure came the tattered Cavaliers…Grimly they came hobbling back to the desolation that had once been a land of grace and plenty. And with them came another invader…more cruel and vicious than any they had fought…the Carpetbagger.
The implication, of course, is that the Union army was cruel and vicious—as is the Yankee deserter that Scarlett shoots when he invades Tara—so that the confederate army was fighting a kind of holy war against those evil powers, rather than a war to protect an immoral institution, and that even after the war that struggle had to continue against the evil carpetbaggers who invaded the land. It is no accident that the carpetbagger depicted in the film is an African American. Nor is it an accident that the action taken by the men in Scarlett’s circle to “clean out the shantytown” where Scarlett was accosted, in which Ashley Wilkes is wounded and Scarlett’s husband Frank Kennedy is killed, is (though the film glosses it over) a glorified Ku Klux Klan affair.
And speaking of Ashley Wilkes: could such a character ever be portrayed on screen in a contemporary film? He is not simply a less attractive character than he may have been in 1939—a brooding intellectual with no ambition or initiative, whose only concern seems to be dwelling on the beauty that has been lost to the world with the collapse of his way of life. In creating him Mitchell may have had in mind some of the characteristics of the romantic Byronic hero of the nineteenth century, a character type who was intelligent, depressive, emotionally and intellectually tortured, traumatized, highly emotional—but she failed to give Ashley some of the other Byronic characteristics—cunning, rebelliousness, recklessness—that might have made him more believable. I have no difficulty believing his leading Scarlett on while steadfastly standing by his wife—that is a very human thing to do. But his conversation with Scarlett after the war, when he tells her that it is only his way of life that he mourns, not the end of slavery, declaring he would have freed all his slaves after his father died, is pure self-deception: To imply that his lamented way of life could have been at all possible if it were not built on the backs of slaves is absurd, and if he actually believes that he is an imbecile. Yet it seems clear that Margaret Mitchell probably believed it. This is a character that could not possibly be portrayed in a contemporary film, unless it was done with a great deal of irony.
I have less of a problem with Melanie Wilkes. She is certainly idealized, but she seems more real than Ashley. I have known individuals of great kindness, who love their spouses and their close friends so deeply that nothing the other does can change their generous view of those people. Though Melanie is “too good to live,” something of a Hollywood archetype, she’s not too good to be believed.
But continuing the list of aspects of GWTW that could not fly in today’s world, consider for a moment the famous scene where the jealous and intoxicated Rhett seizes Scarlet and carries her, struggling, up that wide red-carpeted staircase toward her bedroom. The film cuts to the following morning, and a Scarlet who wakes up singing, dreamily content. Really? The woman is raped by her husband and, fulfilling every misogynist stereotype, is subdued and happy about it. That’s the way to handle your woman! If she’s cranky, she just needs to get laid, and then she’ll be submissive again, as God intended. Of course, the concept of marital rape is a relatively recent legal phenomenon, and perhaps the scene can be excused as a product of its time, when the medieval concept of the “marriage debt”—the tenet that the wife did not have the right to refuse sexual favors to her husband if he demanded them—was still in effect on most levels of American society.
Such an excuse cannot be made for positive portrayal of slavery as a benevolent institution in the film. That ship had long sailed, and it was anachronistic, and a kind of pandering to Southern sympathies, to depict the institution in such a way some 75 years after the Civil War. Yet Gone With the Wind does so. Big Sam, the foreman of Tara’s field hands, may be the most egregious example of this. Happy at one point to go and dig ditches for the Confederacy, Big Sam rescues Scarlett from an assault in Shantytown, and then agrees to go back to Tara, virtually eschewing his freedom and returning to the place he had been a slave, saying “I got enough of them carpetbaggers.”
Butterfly McQueen’s Prissy, a silly, lazy, irresponsible girl, is presented as the norm of the African American: someone who, like Big Sam, would be unable to survive in a world where she didn’t have benevolent white folks like Scarlett to look after her. But the fiction of benevolent slaveholders is belied vividly in Scarlett’s relationship with Prissy, as she threatens to “take a strap to her” at one point, and at another slaps the girl hard in the face. Of course, Scarlett slaps Ashley and Rhett in the film as well, but those are not slaps given to inferiors who cannot fight back, and the slap of Prissy caused a gasp among members of the audience when I watched the film.
It is certainly likely that some slave-owners were in fact benevolent and treated their slaves as well as they could under the circumstances, and it is certainly true that there may have been some slaves who saw freedom as a difficult challenge and had some affection for their masters. But this was certainly not the norm, as GWTW depicts it, and, more importantly, as last year’s Oscar winning Twelve Years a Slave (a healthy corrective to Gone With the Wind) demonstrated convincingly, even white masters whose intentions were essentially humane (like Benedict Cumberbatch’s character) were unavoidably cruel because of the inhumanity of the system itself. One cannot for long serve ice-water in Hell.
The single exception to this absurd depiction of slaves and slavery is the character of Mammy. Hattie McDaniel is able to take what could have been a stereotypical role of a black household servant and turn it into a memorable portrayal of a woman who knows her own worth, demands the respect of those around her, brooks no impertinence from anyone, white or black, is the closest confidante of her mistress and knows her well enough to be able to manipulate her, and provides the voice of reason to her often impetuous mistress and, in fact, to the rest of the cast. Mammy is in many ways the choral figure of the drama, the character in whom the audience recognizes the responses it should be having—in her comment to Scarlett when Melanie goes to meet Ashley upon his return from the war (“He’s her husband, ain’t he?”), or her reactions to Rhett and Scarlet’s shocking mutual accusations after the death of their daughter Bonnie, for example. When I watched the film this time, the audience’s strongest reactions were when Mammy was on the screen. It may not be too much of an exaggeration to say that in many ways, Hattie McDaniel’s performance redeems the film from its own unhealthy nostalgia.
For obvious reasons, the film was strongly censured in the African-American community, and, despite her Oscar win, McDaniel (the first black actor to be so honored) was roundly criticized. Walter Francis White, leader of the NAACP, called her an “Uncle Tom” for taking part in the movie, to which McDaniel is said to have responded, “I’d rather make seven hundred dollars a week playing a maid than seven dollars being one.” In retrospect, it seems today that Hattie McDaniel was able to rise above the material Hollywood offered her and make it memorable, in the same way that Mammy rises above her position at Tara and earn the respect of all other characters in the story.
But it is in fact the performances that, taken together, save this movie. Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett is viewed by many as an iconic performance, and of course netted her the first of her two Oscars. I’m not sure it would play quite as well in today’s market: Leigh was, primarily, a classically trained British stage actress, and her acting style may be a bit mannered for contemporary film audiences. Still, her soliloquy at the end of Act I, with her powerful “As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again,” remains one of the most memorable moments in American film. And her character’s story retains its original appeal: stripped of the trappings of its absurdly romanticized setting (and the uncomfortable rape scene with its aftermath), Scarlett’s drive, her refusal to be beaten by the powerful forces of her environment that contrive to keep her down, her canny business acumen and ability to go beyond the antebellum limits and expectations placed upon her sex as she faces the reality of the postbellum world, make her an early feminist poster-child, a role that certainly plays well to audiences today.
More amenable to contemporary tastes is surely Clark Gable’s Rhett Butler. With an ease and naturalness that enables him to smirk, scowl, and banter his way into the hearts of every woman in the audience (how can Scarlett seriously prefer Ashley to him?), Gable owns this part. In one of the great travesties of Academy Award history, Gable lost the Oscar to Robert Donat (for Goodbye Mr. Chips)—a worthy actor but, realistically, Gable’s performance is a timeless and indelible example of film acting and charisma. Donat’s is forgotten.
Beyond the brilliant cast, the technical aspects of the film are remarkable. Its brilliant use of Technicolor—it won a special Academy Award for its use of color “for the enhancement of the dramatic mood”—paved the way for more and more color films to be made. Its period costumes are lavish and authentic throughout. Max Steiner’s musical score is memorable, the use of the recurring “Tara’s theme” providing an inspiration for later film composers, notably Maurice Jarre’s Oscar-winning score for Doctor Zhivago (with its recurring “Lara’s Theme”).
But more notably than all of these are the brilliant and sometimes revolutionary uses of the camera in the film. Cinematographers Ernest Haller and Ray Rennahan were responsible for some of the most memorable shots in movie history: that passionate scene of Rhett carrying Scarlet up that wide red staircase into the shadows above; the shots of the hoop skirts in the dance scene in Savannah; the shadow of Melanie’s door as it closes in Scarlett’s face; and the shot that everyone remembers—the long crane shot which begins with Scarlett looking for Doctor Meade at the train station in Atlanta and then pulls the camera further and further back, showing a broader and broader area, covered with dozens, then hundreds, then what seems like thousands of wounded soldiers all lying in pain on the ground around her, finally moving back to reveal a tattered confederate flag flapping in the breeze over the scene of devastation. The film might be worth seeing for that scene alone. Well, that and Hattie McDaniel.
All of these things combine to make the film a great one despite its other shortcomings. Add to them the sheer scope of the production—Selznik used 2,400 extras, 1,100 horses, 375 other animals, and employed 50 actors with spoken parts for his four-hour epic. No, the film could not be made today, in part because of its objectionable world view, but in part also because of its sheer enormity. That such a project could be conceived and then completed is worthy of recognition. With some reservations, I need to give this film four Shakespeares.
I’ve never been a big fan of the MPAA rating system, which will give a film an R rating, for instance, because of foul language but turn a blind eye toward gun violence because, of course, the language is going to have a more profound negative effect on teenagers in the audience than showing someone blowing away anyone he doesn’t like. But Scott Frank’s new crime thriller, A Walk among the Tombstones, featuring Liam Neeson as unlicensed private eye Matt Scudder, is absolutely worthy of its R rating, and you should keep that in mind as you consider seeing it. From the early flashback sequence in which the camera scans a woman’s body in extreme close-up of what appears at first to be a sexual encounter—until the tape over her mouth and the tear in her eye reveal that this is something much darker—the film examines violence toward women in a way that may have you cringing. It follows Scudder’s investigation of the torture and mutilation of three women by a pair of killers who seem to enjoy brutalizing their victims.
Not that the violence is graphically depicted. To his credit Frank does not engage in gratuitous voyeurism of the thrill-killers’ debauchery. Nearly all of the violence in the film is implied. On the other hand, the women themselves are also only implied: not a single victim of the mass-killers is allowed a speaking part in the film. Two of them we see only in pictures. The third—the woman in the opening sequence—is shown only in those extreme close-ups, and that tape across her mouth is certainly suggestive. As one of the killers tells Scudder at one point, “Once they’re in the van, they’re just body parts.”
The objectification of and violence toward women are seen in the film as the epitome of evil, but the troubling truth is that the film itself also banks on those things to engage the interest of the audience. And curiously it seems to know that is precisely what it is doing, because there is moral ambiguity all over this movie.
The screenplay, written by Frank, is based on a best-selling novel of the same name by Lawrence Block, part of a long-running series of noir crime novels featuring the ex-cop and recovering alcoholic Matthew Scudder. Frank is known particularly as the acclaimed screenwriter of films like Get Shorty (1995), Out of Sight (1998), Minority Report (2002) and The Lookout (2007), which was also his first directing credit on a feature film. His script for this film is nicely done for the most part, with a few surprise twists and some scintillating dialogue. The story follows Block’s novel fairly closely: Scudder, as an alcoholic NYPD cop, had shot three perpetrators in 1991 after they robbed a bar and shot the bartender. After that day he quit drinking, and he is seen several times in the film at AA meetings—an important aspect of his character and one that is apparently important to Block as well.
Eight years later, Scudder, now an unlicensed PI, is approached by a rich young “construction boss” Kenny Kristo (Dan Stevens of Downton Abbey fame) to track down two men who kidnapped his wife, took $400,000 in ransom money from him, and then returned his wife to him in pieces in the trunk of a car. Scudder refuses when he learns that Kristo is in fact a heroin trafficker. But when Kristo comes to him again with a tape of his wife’s brutal murder, Scudder agrees to help, and soon finds that the same killers were responsible for two other grisly murders—also of women connected to the drug world. He knows he needs to catch these psychopaths before they kill again.
In the meantime Scudder has met and befriended T.J., a black homeless teenager who spends most of his time in the public library and helps him with his research (played by rapper Brian “Astro” Bradley from The X Factor). Their relationship is an interesting sidelight in the movie, though has little to do with the main plot. But it is T.J. to whom Scudder reveals his most private secret—the reason he resigned from the police force and gave up drinking. The day he shot the three thieves, one of his shots went astray in a crowd of people and killed a 7-year-old girl (while this is intended as a revelation in the film, the fact that it is revealed in the movie’s preview pretty much ruins any shock value it might have, and excuses me for what may otherwise have been a spoiler alert). When the killers he is tracking kidnap the 14-year-old daughter of a Russian gang lord, Scudder seems on a mission to get the girl back unharmed. Essentially, the film explores Scudder’s search for redemption after his killing of the girl eight years ago. It seems that rescuing this kidnapped girl, and rescuing T.J. from his own dire situation, are the means by which that redemption could be achieved. And so as an audience you end up rooting for the drug dealers. Did I say moral ambiguity?
There is much to admire in this movie. The gritty cinematography from Miahi Malaimare Jr. gives the whole film a grungy, neo-noir look. The score is understated and occasionally truly creepy, as when the romantic music plays over the scene with the gagged woman. And Neeson is remarkable as ever, bringing his empathetic, likable and genuine on-screen persona to the damaged, downtrodden Scudder.
Although the preview makes this film look very much like another Taken style action flick about a vigilante going after criminals with a vengeance and taking no prisoners, that is not what it is, and not who Matt Scudder is. When T.J. asks him what it takes to be a good detective, he answers “Patience. Instinct. Blind luck, mostly.” He says nothing about the “very specific set of skills” his Bryan Mils character has in Taken, nor does he really display any. This is a much more nuanced character, and one that Neeson can sink his formidable thespian chops into.
But there are some things about this film that simply don’t sit right. One of those things is the almost cavalier violence toward women which, though hardly presented positively, is still what drives the men in the movie to take action—that is, it is through the women’s torture that the film’s men define themselves. Another difficulty I had with the film is the way the climactic scene of the film is voiced over by a woman reading the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Yes, we see that Scudder is dealing with the demons of his alcoholism, but almost none of the steps are directly applicable to anything that happens in this scene or, for that matter, in the movie in general, especially since nearly all of the steps relate to spiritual guidance from a higher power—a spirituality that we never see Scudder engage in in the film, and which would, given the tormented character Neeson and Frank have created, be completely out of character.
Finally, the film’s conclusion simply seems out of place. A story that has brought us through subtleties of character and complex moral ambiguities suddenly turns Hollywood. Anyone familiar with the novel knows that the book ends in a completely different way, though apparently one that would ratchet up the violence factor. Why Frank backed away from it is a matter of conjecture, but the ending as it is destroyed, for me, any chance for Scudder’s redemption in this film. His life remains unsettled and his morality ambiguous. Perhaps that is what Frank wanted, but it left me feeling unsatisfied.
In the end, while I’d like to give the film a higher rating, because I would probably go to it again, there were just too many things that bothered me. I’m going to go with two Jacqueline Susanns and half a Tennyson for this one.
In his 2009 novel This Is Where I Leave You, Jonathan Tropper included significant passages of stream of consciousness that involved flashbacks about Judd Foxman’s relationships with his older brother Paul, as well as memorable scenes that take place only in Judd’s mind. The difficulty of translating those kinds of things to film seems to have been what compelled Topper to leave them out of his script of the film version. Trouble is, without them the story is simply a clichéd portrayal of another dysfunctional family brought together by a domestic tragedy. And it’s been done much better quite recently—in last year’s August Osage County, for example.
Thus the movie’s premise—four siblings come back to their hometown for their father’s funeral, and their mother reveals that their atheist father’s dying wish was that they perform the Jewish custom of sitting shiva, thus forcing them to interact for seven days in the same house—seems somewhat worn. Not surprisingly, the siblings have issues with one another. The film’s protagonist, Judd Altman (changed from the novel’s “Foxman”), is divorcing his wife, whom he walked in on having sex with his boss in the beginning of the movie, but tells everyone she is not there because of a bulging disc. His sister Wendy (Tina Fey) is married to a stereotyped businessman who is constantly on his cell-phone and gives her no help taking care of her two small children. Older brother Paul (Corey Stoll), who has stayed in town and run their father’s store, is having marital difficulties caused by infertility issues, and the baby of the family, Phillip (Adam Driver) is a hapless screw-up who seems to have gotten lucky by getting a wealthy older woman—his therapist—to fall in love with him. How did these kids’ relationship lives get so messed up? The film gives us one possibility: their mother Hillary (Jane Fonda) is a popular psychologist who made a fortune on her best-selling book Cradle and All, in which she detailed all of her children’s growing pains for the whole world to see. But that is only a small suggestion, and doesn’t come near explaining all that is going on. We are put in the middle of a family “dramedy” (as the blurbs call it) in which there are intimations of weighty events in these characters’ pasts—but they are events we are never made privy to.
This is not to say that there aren’t worthwhile moments in the film. The critical mass of thespian talent in the film prevents it from sinking altogether. Bateman is solid and sympathetic as Judd, even if occasionally one gets the feeling he is channeling his Michael Bluth character from Arrested Development as the only functional member of a dysfunctional family. Fey transcends her comic roots and convincingly plays the frustrated wife who is still in love with her high school sweetheart, Horry (played in a brilliantly understated way by Timothy Olyphant), who lives across the street from her parents’ house and whom she left after an automobile accident damaged his brain so that he still lives with his mother. Fey’s scenes with Bateman are believable and spot-on depictions of adult brother-sister interactions if those siblings are still fairly close. Stoll, memorable for his campy performance as Hemingway in Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, is believable and sympathetic as the solid older brother, and Driver (best known from television’s Girls) is so perfect as the hapless Phillip that it is hard to take your eyes off him.
In addition to Olyphant, some of the other secondary characters’ performances are noteworthy as well: Rose Byrne (Bridesmaids) is charming as Judd’s new love interest, and Connie Britton—known chiefly for television roles in Nashville, Friday Night Lights, 24 and American Horror Story—gives a surprisingly sympathetic turn as the therapist in love with her patient.
But Oscar-winner Jane Fonda is given little to do, and what she is given simply seems unbelievable, in particular the strange deus-ex-machina ending she springs on her children, which ends up not really explaining anything at all. And one wonders why, though a mother and a psychologist, she seems almost completely unconcerned about all of her children’s many problems. Nor did I buy the fairly gratuitous scene in which Paul’s wife Alice (Kathryn Hahn) slips into bed with Judd.
What caused the rift between the brothers in this story? Why is Phillip’s life so aimless? Most importantly, what was Judd’s relationship with his father? At one point the family members are sharing memories of their father, and Judd can’t come up with a single thing. An accident later in the film reminds him of one incident, but we have no way of knowing why it was significant, or why he can’t remember others. There is simply too much left out of this story.
Nor is the tone of the film consistent. Sure, life has funny as well as sad moments, but this particular “dramedy” seems to have some difficulty deciding what it wants to be, and that is probably the fault of the director. Shawn Levy, best known for films like Night at the Museum and The Internship, at times lets the atmosphere of those movies intrude on this one, so that he seems at times to be directing a sit com and at others a Lifetime movie. There are moments of sincere emotion here as well as moments of sometimes boisterous, sometimes black humor. But I’m not sure how a three-year-old’s throwing feces around the living room, or a scene in which a married couple’s having sex is broadcast via baby monitor to a room full of mourners, is appropriate in any of those categories.
In the end, I can only wish that this film had been better executed, or that I knew more about these characters’ pasts. Maybe I just should have read the book—and maybe you should too. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that my wife liked this film better than I did, and so if you’re like her you might too. In deference to her tastes, I am giving the film two Jacqueline Susanns and half a Tennyson.
Lonely and laconic bartender Bob Saginowski’s life seems to take a turn for the better when he finds a wounded puppy in a trash can in the yard of a woman named Nadia. He adopts the dog and begins a very cautious and tentative relationship with the woman as well as the dog. It seems that he, Nadia, and the dog are all wounded animals who need a lot of time and space to trust anyone new in their lives. It’s no coincidence that the Dennis Lehane short story from which The Drop was adapted was called “Animal Rescue.”
Watching Bob and Nadia together, it’s hard not to think about Rocky Balboa and Adrian, or Brando’s Terry Malloy with Eva Marie Saint’s Edie Doyle in On the Waterfront. It’s the same old tough guy with a soft heart stepping carefully around damaged feminine novelty. Add to that the incredibly manipulative ploy of the cute wounded puppy, and put both the girl and the puppy in danger, and it sounds like The Drop is a mishmash of the hackneyed and the mawkish that might make for a mildly entertaining but forgettable couple of hours if you were in the mood for a dark crime drama some evening.
But wait. It turns out that the film’s somewhat clichéd premises are far more complex than they first appear, and as strata of story and character are peeled away slowly, layer by layer, as the film develops, the artistry of Lehane’s script, Michaël R. Roskam’s direction, and Tom Hardy’s brilliantly understated performance as Bob turn what could have been a so-so film into a memorable cinematic experience.
Lehane, whose novels Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone, and Shutter Island have made highly successful films, and whose T.V. work on The Wire and Boardwalk Empire have prepared him for the crime-drama film genre, begins The Drop with the premise the throughout Brooklyn are certain “drop bars,” one of which is designated periodically to receive all the mob’s cash for that particular week. The designated bar shifts randomly in order to prevent anyone from getting ideas about pilfering those millions. Bob, who insists throughout the film that he is only a bartender, works at a bar called Cousin Marv’s, a drop bar once owned by Bob’s actual cousin Marv (James Gandolfini in his last feature-film role). Marv, who still runs the place, was forced to transfer ownership of the bar to the Chechan mob eight and a half years earlier—a situation that continues to rankle him.
The action of the movie is triggered when Cousin Marv’s is robbed of $5,000 and the Chechen mobsters imply that Marv will be held responsible if the money is not recovered. In a parallel plot, the new puppy’s former owner, a frighteningly psychotic figure believed to be responsible for a ten-year-old murder in the neighborhood, begins stalking Bob, and it gradually starts to look as if that unsolved decade-old murder is in some way connected to the current problem at Marv’s bar.
The complexity of the characters makes this movie more about character than plot, however. And stellar performances by the film’s chief characters make us care about the people they portray. “We all have our secrets,” Bob says at one point, and that is revealed consistently as the plot progresses. Why, for instance, does Bob attend 8 a.m. every morning—and why does he avoid taking communion every time? Gandolfini, as the mob-connected bar owner (not a great stretch for Tony Soprano), earns our sympathy when we learn how difficult it is to keep up with the payments that keep his comatose father on life-support month after month. Nadia (played by Swedish actress Noomi Rapace, best known as the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), makes us wonder why her self-esteem dropped so low that she took a potato peeler to her own throat. There is even some depth to the psychotic stalker, Eric, played with subtle precision by Belgian actor Mattias Schoenaerts (who starred in Roskam’s 2011 film Bullhead, nominated for the Best Foreign Film Oscar that year).
But for the most part, the questions about Marv, Nadia, and Eric go unanswered, and this is one of the flaws in the movie, since we are left wondering about so many things, But the film belongs to Bob, and Hardy’s performance wins our sympathy and to some extent our affection. We think we know what motivates him. We think we know what troubles him. But there is something off about him and we can’t be sure just what it is. And Roskam’s direction ensures that, after two or three unforeseen developments along the way, the final and devastating plot twist comes as a shock, but not really a surprise. It seems perfectly consistent with Bob’s character from the beginning.
So here’s why you should see this movie: 1) Tom Hardy is certainly one of the best actors to appear on the scene in the past five years or so, with turns as varied as Eames in Inception (2010), Forrest Bondurant in Lawless (2012), and Bane in The Dark Knight Rises (2012), and he does not disappoint as Bob; 2) James Gandolfini’s last big role is worth seeing. While his performance here is not as memorable as his brilliant turn against type in last year’s Enough Said, he is wonderful as the heavy that you can’t quite completely hate; 3) Lehane’s script has enough twists and turns to keep you guessing throughout; and 4) Belgian director Roksam, who burst on the scene with his 2011 Oscar-nominated Bullhead, here directs his first American full-length feature. He creates a noir-like atmosphere of Brooklyn at its grittiest. As a debut film it shows the promise of great things to come, and should make people eager for his next film, The Tiger, a thriller with Brad Pitt due to be released later this year.
John Michael McDonagh’s Calvary, the follow up to his 2011 triumph The Guard, finally made it to central Arkansas after some weeks of limited release in the United States. The film premiered at Sundance early in the year, and opened in Great Britain and Ireland in April, where it won the IFTA (Irish Film and Television Awards) for best film, best screenplay (by McDonagh), and best performance by an actor for Brendan Gleeson as the Irish priest James Lavelle. Gleeson is, as always, outstanding, as he was in The Guard and as he was in In Bruges (2008), the work of McDonagh’s talented brother Martin.
While The Guard was essentially a comedy, Calvary is a devastating movie. That’s not to say there isn’t some very dark humor in the film. But the humor is like cinematographer Larry Smith’s beautiful scenes of the bright Irish landscape and coastline: it contrasts vividly with the bleak and depressed lives of the people of Sligo, where the film is set and was filmed.
Calvary opens with a shocking scene, set in the confessional and filmed completely in closeup of Gleeson’s face. He listens to a confessant tell him that from the age of seven he had been raped on a weekly basis by his parish priest. As the confessant’s story continues, Gleeson’s face subtly displays compassion, anger and hopelessness when he learns the priest is dead and cannot be brought to justice, frustration at not being able to do anything to help the confessant and finally puzzlement and fear when the confessant declares his intent to murder a priest in revenge. Not a bad priest, though, but rather Father James himself, whom the confessant knows to be a good priest. No one would take note of the death of a bad priest, the voice says, but the death of a good priest will make people notice. The voice gives Father James one week to get his affairs in order, and says he will meet the priest at the shore on the morning of “Sunday week.” “Certainly a startling opening line,” Gleeson deadpans in response.
The point of killing the good priest—if it has a point in the mind of this very disturbed individual—seems to be that the Church as an institution is to blame, presumably for covering up the abuses and for protecting the abusive priests instead of the abused children. The Church has lost its integrity to the extent that even the innocent priests are tainted by association with it. Thus the film’s title, Calvary: the hill on which the sinless Jesus Christ died for the sins of others becomes the symbol of Father James’ predicament.
We learn fairly quickly that Father James had recognized the voice and knows which of his parishioners has threatened to kill him. He sees his bishop about the threat, but will not reveal the man’s name or call in the authorities. The bishop provides us with a view of the Church bureaucracy—concerned with the legalities of the situation and the specific rules governing the confessional, and seemingly oblivious to the human spiritual suffering involved in the situation, he never stops eating his lunch during father James’ first conversation with him.
The film follows Father James through his week, as he goes about his pastoral duties visiting, counseling and sometimes confronting his parishioners and others in the community. We are at first chiefly interested in which one of the characters has actually threatened to kill Father James. But we soon become involved in their own pained lives and wonder whether they will be able to shake off the burdens of their existence and find any kind of salvation. There is Veronica Brennan (Orla O’Rourke), who is carrying on a fairly open affair with an Ivorian immigrant, the mechanic Simon (Isaach de Bankolé), in the face of her butcher husband Jack (Chris O’Dowd). Father James tries to discover whether it is her husband or lover who has been beating her.
The priest also tries to talk the awkward and lonely Milo (Killian Scott) out of joining the army, where he wants to be able to kill others. He visits an aging and depressed American expatriate writer (M. Emmet Walsh), who asks Father James to bring him a gun so that he can kill himself. He meets with a drunken millionaire (Dylan Moran) who wants to give money to the Church because he thinks he ought to seem to be penitent for driving people into poverty while making a fortune himself. Father James agrees with the local bankrupted pub keeper (Pat Shortt) that the bankers whose actions put Ireland into the economic depression evident in the film are guilty of sins as black as any. And he puts up with the jibes of the atheistic doctor (Aiden Gillen), at least until the doctor pushes too hard with a story of a helpless and terrified three-year old who awakes from an operation deaf, mute and blind and cannot communicate with or receive comfort from anyone—an allegory, perhaps of an abused child.
One thing that becomes clear as the week goes on is that Father James’ rural Irish parishioners, though most of them still attend mass, have nothing but contempt for the Church as a human institution that has failed to protect the weakest and neediest among them. The Church has lost its moral authority. As the pub keeper tells Father James, “your time has gone and you don’t even realize it.” But Father James does not believe this is true. He continues to perform his priestly role. He comforts those who need comforting. He confronts those who need confronting. He argues with those who he believes are wrong in their thinking. He is certainly judgmental and admits it. But he never stops trying to bring people comfort when they are in need. In one scene, he visits a convicted murderer in prison, one despised by everyone else because of the heinous nature of his crimes. While he refuses to allow the killer to excuse his deeds, or to pretend a false repentance, he defends his visit to the prison when others challenge him, saying “no one is beyond redemption.” Certainly this is a large part of his motivation in continuing to work with his parishioners, even the one who has threatened him.
Two other scenes underscore Father James’ motivations and the movie’s thematic concerns. In one, he gives last rites to a Frenchman killed in a freak accident. In an eerie parallel to his own potential situation, the Frenchman has died for no purpose, and in a discussion with the victim’s wife (Marie-Josee Croze) he mentions that such random accidents often cause survivors like herself to abandon their faith in God. The Frenchwoman replies that their faith must have been pretty shallow to begin with, and Father James agrees that most people’s faith really is simply fear of death. The priest, looking at death himself in a few days, will have his own faith tested this way.
The other scene involves Father James’ daughter, Fiona (Kelly Riley)—James had answered a call to the priesthood after his wife died. Fiona, herself a failed suicide with her own demons to grapple with, resents his absentee parenting. Father James tells her that he feels there has been “too much talk about sins” in people’s lives, and “not enough talk about virtue.” What is the greatest virtue? Forgiveness, Father James says, “has been highly underrated.”
For what was the original Calvary about if not forgiveness? That seems to be McDonagh’s underlying theme. Few reviewers of the film have made much of the headnote from Saint Augustine: “Do not despair: One of the thieves was saved. Do not presume: one of the thieves was not.” But this dichotomy provides the structure for the entire film, as Father James visits with his parishioners, all of whom are either despairing or presumptuous, and we cannot help but consider which of the characters might be saved and which might not. Certainly Father James has his own Gethsemane moment in the film, when he seems to give up on his people and his faith, but ultimately, since the priest believes that no one is beyond redemption, he offers them all forgiveness. Who does and does not take it in the end is the legacy of the story.
McDonagh has been quoted saying that with all the global uproar over abusive Catholic clergy, he wanted to do the opposite of what was expected: He wanted to make a film about a good priest, a film about forgiveness rather than condemnation. I definitely recommend you go to the theater to see this quiet gem of a film, so that you can judge for yourself how well he has succeeded.
I’ll admit up front that when I heard about how Richard Linklater’s new film, Boyhood, had been filmed over a period of twelve years to follow the life of a fairly typical American boy, Mason (played by the remarkable Ellar Coltrane) from first grade through college orientation, with the same actor playing the boy over through the entire time, I was impressed by the audacity of the concept and the difficulty of completing such a task, but my expectations for the film itself were not high: filmed in such a way, it was likely to be virtually plotless and probably tediously overlong. After seeing the film, I can report that my expectations were largely correct. But despite those defects, the film is a triumph anyway.
Anyone who has been paying attention knows that Linklater’s film has been virtually universally lauded by film critics, and loved as well (though not quite so unanimously) by average theatergoers. While I can’t quite agree with assessments that call this the greatest coming of age story ever told, or the closest thing to real life ever put on film—that kind of hyperbole will fade once we get a little distance from the shiny moment of the film’s bursting upon the scene—I will agree that it is a triumph of realism and an astounding tour de force. It’s not quite that nothing like it has ever been done before: Linklater’s own previous trilogy (Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight), which follows a couple through their initial love affair through marriage and the disintegration of marriage, using the same actors and a real-life space of some nine years between each film, are a step in the direction of Boyhood. Other film projects, like Steve James’ Hoop Dreams (a documentary looking at five years in the lives of two African-American high school basketball players) and the British “Up” Series (in which director Michael Apted followed the lives of fourteen British children from 1964 until 2013, catching up with them every seven years) must certainly have influenced Linklater’s vision in this film.
Boyhood, though, is an even bolder concept than these previous films, since, as a fictional story, it must hang together in ways that a documentary need not. There must be a script, and ultimately one that shows the arc of a story In the end that story is extremely loose, but there is the arc of Mason’s coming of age, his up-and-down relationships with his sometimes absent father, his sometimes ineffectual mother, and a duet of unsavory stepfathers; as well as the ups and downs of his own love life, which seems to be looking up somewhat in the end. It’s something of a miracle of scripting—and even more so of editing—that there is any coherence at all to the plot.
And what an act of faith it must have been for the actors to sign on for a twelve-year project. Some characters come in and out of the story, but the four lead actors—Coltain, Ethan Hawke (as Mason’s father, Mason Sr.), Patricia Arquette (as Mason’s mother Olivia) and Linklater’s daughter Lorelei (as Mason’s older sister Samantha)—made a commitment in 2002 to devote time to this project on an annual basis until 2013, an unheard of dedication in so ephemeral a business as filmmaking. And watching these actors is one of the great delights of this film Linklater was extremely lucky in the children he chose in 2002: the 7-year-old Coltrane seems to have been a natural talent, and in the unaffected genuineness of his performance through the years he is able to avoid the cloyingly obnoxious artificiality that develops in many child actors. As for Linklater’s daughter, the director may be accused of a kind of nepotism in putting her in the film, but in fact it was quite shrewd to use a child actress over whom he knew he would have some sway for the twelve years of the project. In fact the younger Linklater is as natural and unaffected, and convincing, as Coltrane is. Hawke, of course, is used to working with Linklater, having starred in the Before… series, and while at times he seems to be reprising his character from those films, he matures in a way that is in perfect harmony with this character’s maturing in the film over the twelve-year period, and is convincing and memorable in the role.
But for my money the most fascinating performance was turned in by Arquette. In full disclosure, I must admit that I have never been impressed by Patricia Arquette as an actress and in the first scenes of the film I felt that we were simply getting a reprise of her incredibly wooden performance in her long-running television series Medium. But as the film progressed, her performance became more nuanced, she showed more genuine emotion and more subtle understanding of her character. It may be, of course, that that development was planned from the beginning, either by Linklater or Arquette; on the other hand, it may be that the twelve years of filming actually records a growth in Arquette’s own range as an actress.
But where Boyhood shines particularly is in its realism. Linklater tends to be something of a classicist: his Before films, for example seem very deliberately to follow the classical Aristotelian unities of time, place and action. That is, the time covered in the films is close to the actually running time of the film, or at least is concluded within twenty-four hours. There is a single plot—the conflict between the two main characters—and everything takes place in a single location. For classical writers, adherence to these unities enhanced the verisimilitude, i.e., the appearance of truth, of the drama. In Boyhood, the spirit of the unities seems behind the decision to keep the same actors in their roles over a twelve-year storyline. The movie displays a verisimilitude in that the actors age naturally in front of us: They do not need makeup or special effects, and there is no need to replace the children with different actors and ask the audience to suspend their disbelief and pretend that, as in Star Wars, for instance, Hayden Christensen is a more grown-up Jake Lloyd—or for that matter that James Earl Jones is a more seasoned Hayden Christensen.
Linklater is also influenced by the concept of the “slice of life” realism that developed among French naturalist playwrights more than a century ago, but that resurfaced to some extent in some television plays of the 1950s. Usually the term suggests a somewhat arbitrary depiction of events in a central character’s life, lacking traditionally recognizable conflict, plot and resolution. Thus the perceived weaknesses of the film are the natural byproduct of its style and genre. Even some of the connections that occur in the movie seem completely arbitrary: At one point, for instance, a gardener whom Olivia has told to go to college reappears years later as assistant manager of a restaurant and thanks her for giving him the advice. At the same time, details that we long to have resolved are left hanging at the end of the movie: Olivia takes her children away from an abusive stepfather, but has to leave the man’s own two children from a previous marriage in the home. We never discover the fate of those children. But this kind of arbitrariness, it must be admitted, is precisely the way life is. So lifelike is this film that in one scene, when one of the characters asked for a stick of gum, my wife reached for her purse.
This is a film that will astound you, more for the boldness of its concept and the deftness of its execution than for any particularly moving or gripping scenes. It is a film more for the head than the heart, and will certainly go down as one of the great achievements in filmmaking, though I can’t quite concur that it will be remembered as one of the greatest films of all time. But it’s a film you really ought to see, because it’s what everybody will be talking about all year long.
Two things you can put your money on every summer: the Cubs will not make it to the World Series and Woody Allen will release another movie. As he has every year since Annie Hall in 1977, the 78-year-old Allen has provided us with another film—his 44th—to balance out the superheroes, sequels, and assorted “blockbuster” trivialities that light up screens in the overcooled movie houses of July and August. And two things you can count on from a Woody Allen film: the characters will speak actual lines of dialogue, as opposed to one-liners that occasionally interrupt the 3D special effects and interminable battle scenes of even the best of summer action films (i.e. Guardians of the Galaxy); and that you will actually be able to hear and understand that dialogue, because it’s not whispered and mumbled by shadowy figures in darkened landscapes that you can’t see. But maybe I’m just showing my age.
But more than this, Allen’s dialogue also tends to be about ideas, not simply plot points, and even though those ideas are generally ones that Allen has been obsessed with for 45 years, as they are in his latest feature Magic in the Moonlight—specifically, the question of whether the universe consists solely of physical phenomena and existence is therefore meaningless, or whether there is a realm of the spiritual that underscores this veil of tears with metaphysical significance—they are questions that few other filmmakers are asking.
Magic in the Moonlight does not reach the heights of last year’s splendid Blue Jasmine. As a romantic and nostalgic European romp it does not have the charm of Midnight in Paris. And it is far too light to carry the existential angst of Match Point. But if we resist the temptation to compare it to Allen’s own triumphs, it stands up pretty well as an entertaining and thought-provoking way to spend a summer afternoon. Beginning in Berlin in 1928, the film introduces the world-renowned conjurer Wei Ling Soo, who, we discover backstage, is the stage persona of the Englishman Stanley Crawford (Colin Firth), He is prevailed upon by his longtime friend Howard Burkan (Simon McBurney) to come to the Côte d’Azur in southern France to help him expose the beautiful young psychic Sophie Baker (Emma Stone) who, with the backing of her greedy mother (played by Marcia Gay Harden, who, curiously, has almost nothing to do in the movie), is attempting to scam a rich American widow, Grace Catledge (Jacki Weaver) who longs to communicate with her dead husband. Burkan and Firth stay at the Catledge’s villa, where young Brice Catledge (Hamish Linklater), an inconsequential ukulele-playing twit—but a rich one—complicates matters by proposing to the winsome clairvoyant. Stanley, who prides himself on his rationality to the point of egotism, snobbishness, and blatant rudeness, and who takes great pleasure in discrediting phony spiritualists, is determined to expose Sophie for the charlatan she is.
Thus a dichotomy is set up between the rational and skeptical on the one hand and the emotional and romantic on the other; between male intellectualism and female emotionalism; between the establishment personified by the rational Stanley and the new society represented by the spiritual Sophie. Once these poles are established, it is fairly easy to predict the outcome. This is, after all, a romantic comedy, and the two people who start off hating one another always end up together. But if the plot is predictable, that is not necessarily a flaw: the plot deals with archetypal forms and patterns, and in large part that is what makes it appealing. Besides, the final twist provides enough of a surprise to please most viewers, if they don’t see it coming in quite that way.
No, what I object to most in the film is the characterization of Stanley and Sophie. Stone is perfectly lovely and appropriately sassy regarding her occupation while at the same time ingénue-like when it comes to matters of the heart, but she’s somewhat flat and has little depth. Allen, known for eliciting brilliant performances from his lead actresses (like Cate Blanchett’s Oscar-winning turn in Blue Jasmine) has given us more of a simple cliché in Sophie. As for Firth, I found his character disappointingly unlikeable. He has the kind of bullying, rational egotism of a Henry Higgins, but Rex Harrison was so much more likeable, perhaps because he was more humorous and elicited more sympathy in his longing for Eliza, than Firth is able to muster in this film. Firth’s character is more deliberately insulting and hurtful, and his conversion, though hinted at once or twice, is much more abrupt and seemingly unmotivated, so that I was taken aback by its clumsiness. I don’t know whether it was Firth’s acting (he is one of our finest actors, but his performance here will not soon make anyone forget his exemplary turn in The King’s Speech or his brilliant tour de force earlier this year in The Railway Man) or Allen’s script—perhaps a combination of the two—but I never understood why Stanley was the kind of person he was, or why he was so susceptible to change on what was, when one consider it, rather flimsy data: there is a scene between Firth and Stone in a restaurant midway through the film, in which she astounds him by revealing things about him that, presumably, she could not possibly have known. I had the urge to shout out to him “have her tell you something about that woman sitting at the next table! Somebody she could not possibly know!” Maybe that’s just me, but it did seem that this extreme rationalist might have thought to make such a demand.
The other problem with the film is this: if the contest is between skepticism and faith, then the odds are not fair. Stanley, despite his obnoxious personality, may be said to fairly represent skepticism, but Sophie, the spiritualist, is a kind of straw man as a representative of faith. As a medium and conductor of séances, it is clear from the beginning that she is a fake, because that is simply what such spiritualists are, whether Stanley can find the way to unmask her or not. So it is not a true contest.
What mitigates this problem, however, is Stanley’s Aunt Vanessa, played by the superb Eileen Atkins (veteran of the Royal Shakespeare Company but seen in films like Last Chance Harvey, Cold Mountain and Gosford Park). Vanessa, whose own life has been shaped by romance and whose attitude toward Stanley’s brittle rationalism is good-natured irony, is a more subtle and substantial spokesperson for the romantic position than Sophie is, and she advocates that position with a much lighter touch. The scenes with Atkins light up the film, and the extensive penultimate scene between her and Firth, in which she maneuvers the blustering Stanley into confronting his own real emotions, is the best scene in the film, and the one in which Firth, too, is at his best.
The striking scenery of the south of France is beautifully shot in 35 mm by Darius Khondji, who also was director of photography for Midnight in Paris. And in contrast to the pulsating contemporary white noise that hip-hops its way through most contemporary movies (my age again), this film’s wonderful score alternates classical music from Beethoven, Ravel and Dvořák with period pop songs like “You do Something to Me” and “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows” (the latter performed in a quirky scene with ukulele accompaniment by Linklater), in a way that reflects the serious and rational on the one hand and the silly and emotional on the other.
There are some things about the film that will inevitably provoke some viewers to make connections with Allen’s personal life: It is well known that he began his show business career as a magician before turning to comedy, and his own views about the mystical are no secret, so that reviewers will inevitably see Stanley as a clear, if unflattering, projection of himself. And, of course, the nearly 30-year age difference between Firth and Stone—an obvious incongruity never once alluded to by any character in the film—is notable. But if he is the archetypal representation of rational age and she of passionate youth, then their ages may be fitting. In any case, the film should stand on its own without viewers trying to make it into fictionalized autobiography. In the end, romance does win out in the film, as it must in a comedy. The world may still be ultimately meaningless when it comes to metaphysical questions, but love can give individual lives meaning. And that is worth hearing. You may not like everything about this film, but it is still better than the vast majority of what is out there in the theaters.
Ruud Reviews Movie Rating Scale
This is a great film.
You need to see it, or incur my wrath.
This movie is worth seeing.
I’d go if I were you. But then, I go to a lot of movies.
2 Jacqueline Susanns
If you like this kind of movie, you’ll probably be entertained by this one.
I wasn’t all that much.
1 Robert Southey
This one really isn’t worth your money. If you’re compelled to see it anyway, at least be smart enough to wait until you can see it for less money on Netflix or HBO. If you go see it in the theater, I may never speak to you again.