I’m Wolverine

The last time we saw Hugh Jackman was back in March when he was singing and dancing his way into our hearts as the host of the Academy Awards.  What a magical night it was.  The highlight was the capper on his opening number.  As he climbed onto a pedestal embodying Mickey Rourke’s Randy the Ram in The Wrestler, Jackman sang triumphantly:

These are the Oscars!
And this is my dream!
I am a Slumdog!
I am a Wrestler!
I’ll rent The Reader!

Then, joyfully proclaiming his Hollywood identity to the world with, as one usually does when expressing themselves through song, overwhelming earnestness, Jackman declares:

I’m Wolveriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

And so he is.

Obviously this delightful singing and dancing side of Hugh was going to be no where in sight for 20th Century Fox’s summer tentpole X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Obviously Wolverine, the baddass-iest of all superheros, is no powder puff.  He has facial hair.  Smokes cigars.  Has a baaaaaad attitude (but, naturally, a heart of gold).  He fights in wars.  And not just any war.  All of them!  He unleashes his uncontainable rage by throwing his head back opening his arms and screaming at the top of his lungs.  At one point they (I am referring the makers of this film as “they” because rather than being a collaboration of director, writer, designer, producer and studio, it feels like someone typed Wolverine, CGI  and summer movie into a machine and this formulaic, cliche-ridden calculation popped out) even made Wolverine a lumberjack, with axes and saws.  And big trees falling, making big noises.  There’s so much manly testosterone manliness going on this comes to mind.

But how can Hugh Jack-Man be both a singing virtuoso and a brooding superhero?  Sounds confusing to me.  I bet the inside of his head looks like this:

I’m Wolverine!

I’m Wolverine!

I’m Wolveriiiiiiiiiiiiine!

IIIIIIIII’MMMMM WOOOOOOOOLVERIIIIIIIIIINE!

Did somebody say lumberjack?

Make the voices stop!  You can’t have it both ways Hugh.  How are guys supposed to know whether to have “platonic” crushes on you or to be homophobic?

As for the actual film, there’s not much to say.  The origin story is the big thing right now in Hollywood.  At first, in films like Batman Begins and Casino Royale, it provided at much needed detour from the sequel formula.  Now that we have every franchise “rebooting” with a prequel of their own they’re beginning to feel like what they actually are, fourth sequels without a number in the title. The biggest problem with prequels of course is that they are, by definition, exposition.  So the trick is making the story something that the audience cares about so they’re not just looking ahead.  On this front Wolverine fails miserably.  They cover so much ground so fast it feels like a filmed outline.

Another problem is that Marvel was clearly trying to capitalize on The Dark Knight’s success by showcasing their own intense, angry superhero.  The difference is The Dark Knight had substance.  And since they went the dark dramatic path the film is devoid of any sense of fun. There are literally a skinny jeans pocket-full of enjoyable moments.  Ryan Reynolds has about ten lines towards the beginning of the film that serve as brief comic relief.  The rest of the time, between the displays of unmotivated computer animators, we get scenes like Wolverine’s girlfriend telling a story about the Moon and some Indians that (somehow) ends up being the genesis of Wolvy’s eventual namesake.  The scene is so cover-your-eyes-embarrassingly-painful they (everyone involved, including the caterer) should be ashamed of themselves.

Basically the movie’s bad.  Don’t see it.  Wait until it’s on TNT in a year so you don’t have to squelch in your snarky outbursts like it did.

Before I close the book on Wolverine, a movie I saw four days ago and barely remember, I’d like to share the parting moment of my Wolverine experience, one I will not soon forget.  After the credits rolled there was a coda, as is the trend these days.  But instead of being a cool hint at a sequel, it was hilariously pointless.  As my friend and I got up to leave, overflowing with contempt, a guy sitting in front of us turned around and said something like “Really guys? You’re going to complain about a comic book movie?”  And before we had a chance to respond he was already walking away.  Alone.  First of all, interrupting people is just rude.  But second of all, you just walk away?  Ok, here’s my response to you Mr. I-go-to-comic-book-movies-at-midnight-by myself.  You are the reason dreck like this keeps coming out.  You keep shelling out cash for these movies and when they’re crap just shrug your shoulders and say “Hey, it’s a comic book movie.”  Maybe if you had some kind of standards and stopped seeing movies that are obviously garbage then Hollywood would start making better ones.  And as soon as I acquire the ability to resist trailers with pounding soundtracks and bad CGI that’s exactly what I’m going to do!

Review: Walking Briskly While Concerned (Taken and The International)

Ok bear with me, last week I saw “Gomarrah,” a film about the terrifying mafia organization, the Camorra, based in Naples.  Shattering the mob movie mold instituted by Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese, the film is devoid of all the glorifying gangster standards and is an incendiary look at the horrific reality of the mafia.  Or that’s what it would have been if I was able to follow it.  I went in so ignorant of the situation being depicted I could barely keep up with what was happening.  It was quite embarrassing watching a film with no exposition or contextualization, practices I have recently praised in reviews of “The Class” and “Medicine For Melancholy,” and wish for some more hand holding.  I couldn’t bring myself to write a review (though I can’t say I enjoyed myself) because I didn’t think I could discuss it intelligently.  I just simply, didn’t get it.

Well, there’s nothing like a bland Hollywood thriller to reassure wounded cinematic intellect.  “The International” is only the second Bourne imitation to hit theatres in the past month, the ridiculous “Taken” being the other.  They’re basically the same film, “The International” is more in the globe trotting political vein while “Taken” is strictly fixed in ass-kicking mode.  Each is anchored by proven leading men.  Clive Owen and Liam Neeson both capably talk sternly into their phones and walk briskly while down the street with appropriate concern (some times both at once).  And their objectives, one retrieving his kidnapped daughter, the other trying to expose a corrupt bank are treated with interchangeable importance.

The biggest difference is “The International” had a much bigger budget.  So does that make it superior?  Let’s compare the film’s finer points.  “The International” includes more helicopter shots of large buildings and sets that look like a tour of the nation’s apple stores.  In comparison “Taken” seems to be set in a series of Verizon outlets.  “The International” could also afford a female lead, regardless of whether it needed one.  Naomi Watts stands around looking likes she’s reading her lines for the first time off a teleprompter.  For someone so incredibly talented she has some brutal scenes.  The closest thing “Taken” has to a major female character is Maggie Grace, who’s biggest claim to fame is a role on “Lost” that was killed off after a season (sorry Maggie but they had the right idea).  25 playing 17, she gives one the most annoying performances I’ve seen in awhile.  Thankfully the film is about her being “Taken,” I just wish she had stayed that way.  “The International” also affords a superior supporting cast.  It’s impressive array of well dressed European businessmen and New York cops (notably a strong turn by Felix Solis in a throwaway role) are an upgrade over the bloody and bruised Albanians.

Now the important stuff.  In terms of action “The International” had the funds for an true set piece and on that front it delivers.  The sequence, set in the Guggenheim, is mildly preposterous.   You’d think there’d be some police on the Upper East Side (then again you’d also think a hired gun would know how to use one).  The building’s spiral design in creatively utilized and things are kept simple, guns, knives and no wire-aided feats.  Instead of isolated action sequences “Taken” maintains a constant stream of smaller fight scenes.  Liam Neeson basically beats the crap out of every person he sees.  Luckily they all happen to be Albanian human traffickers.  I shudder to think what happens when he goes to Trader Joe’s, think of the massacre.

There are much similarities concerning the directors as well. Both are foreign, International’s Tykwer is German, Taken’s Pierre Morel, French.  Both made well received films in their own country.  Tykwer’s “Run Lola Run” is still an elitist dorm room mainstay and Morel’s “Disctrict B13” was a refreshingly inventive action film that employed free-running before Martin Campbell used it in “Casino Royale’s” fantastic opening number (almost as good as Hugh Jackman’s).  Here, each takes a step back.  Morel has more of a future I think.  He seems to do the action thing well, it’d be nice if he were given more leash instead of being forced to watch the Bourne trilogy and then mimic it.  Tykwer was already a red flag in my book and “The International,” while completely watchable, did nothing to remove it.  His previous film “Perfume” was obscene, and by obscene I mean bordering on pornographic and not in the good way.

Though it was much more graceful, all the bells and whistles on the “The International” are just that.  “Taken” is a poor man’s version of the same film.  I say watch “The Bourne Ultimatum” again.  And again.  And again.  Until The Bourne Domination, or whatever, comes out.  If you must, check out these serviceable impostors.  They’re good for a trash fix.  Probably not as good the fix I’m about to get though.  “10,000 BC” just started on HBO, I should probably watch Antonioni’s “L’Ecplise” which is sitting on my on my blu-ray but I don’t think I can resist.  This is going to be good.

Review: Medicine For Melancholy

While reflecting on the hugely entertaining “Medicine For Melancholy” I realized I felt guilty for liking it.   As a white New Yorker who is actively aiding the gentrification of Brooklyn I can’t help but feel somewhat culpable after watching Barry Jenkins’ grossly personal film about two black San Franciscans waxing on the evils of gentrification, class and race.  And saying I felt a connection to it feels like another case of the phenomenon that some people think got our latest president elected.  Did I mention this is a romantic comedy?

The premise, on paper, is simple enough.  The film chronicles 24 hours post one night stand between two twenty-somethings.  Mr. Jenkins wastes no time with exposition and begins right in the middle of things as Micha (Wyatt Cenac of Daily Show fame) and Joanne (Tracey Heggins) stumble through the uncomfortable morning-aftermath of their dizzy encounter.   We aren’t given many clues as to what happened the night before, just that they didn’t exchange names.  Joanne, a distant, enigmatic beauty, is  at first eager to forget the incident (she even gives a fake name) but, Micha’s offbeat charm, which won me over immediately, is able to penetrate Joanne’s steely demeanor and the two become companions for the day.

Demonstrating chemistry to die for it’s not hard to fall in love with Joanne and Micha.  Wyatt Cenac, a successful stand up comedian, is another strong case for comedians being good dramatic actors (not necessarily vice versa).  Though not a comedic script, Cenac finds multiple opportunities to inject his easygoing brand of humor, even managing to slip in his brilliant Bill Cosby impression, “every black guy’s got one” he explains.  With frequent but uncontrived humor, they achieve some very rare moments where we’re laughing right along with the characters, as if part of the conversation.  The scripted comedic banter thing, a la “Sex and the City”, has always been one of my pet peeves, often ringing false.  But “Medicine for Melancholy” gets it just right and the spontaneous interactions exude the exhilaration of brand new love.  We’re discovering these characters, as they bike, stroll, chat, argue and laugh their way through San Francisco, at the same time they discover each other.

For those who doesn’t know the city (guilty as charged), we’re discovering San Francisco as well.  Dedicated to an accurate portrait, Jenkins avoids the cinematic staples we’re used to.  No Golden Bridge in a San Fransisco movie, crazy (I really appreciate this as New Yorker, it always bugs me in movies when Washington Square Park and the Flatiron Building end up on the same block).  But beyond serving as a setting, when conversations drift to the very real housing problems facing San Fransisco, the city evolves into a full fledged third character, turning the film, in the directors words, “into a love triangle.”

While debating these issues, as they do throughout, Micha constantly traces it all back to race, a topic he just can’t seem to stay away from.  It’s not without cause, only 6.3% of the city is black and rising housing costs forcing relocation is somewhat of a trend.  But for Micha it’s more than just a social matter.  For him, it seems, everything is boiled everything down to black or white.  As he explains, if using one word to describing himself he’d say he’s black before he’s a man.  This grates against Joanne’s point of view who doesn’t acknowledge labels.   To her, he’s Micha before anything else.

As these disputes progress it begins to sound like two opposing soapboxes.  Often I find a detectable agenda can bog down a narrative, for example “Crash” (I swear that wasn’t planned but it’s a perfect example).  But Jenkins’ film rarely strays into that territory.  Only once, when the camera drifts away from our protagonists to observe a small local organization does it feel a little contrived.  While the content is informative and engaging, I think Jenkins could’ve gotten what he wanted without it having to be directly explained.  Fortunately, the infectiously watchable Tracey Heggins and Wyatt Cenac are more than just vessels carrying a message and they keep the storytelling from becoming too didactic.

The look is so desaturated it’s only a tick or two above black and white, like the color has been physically drained out, giving things an appropriate mood that’s both beautiful and sad.  The film is scored with an eclectic mix of what my limited music knowledge can only describe as “indie”, giving it a very personal feel.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re listening to a playlist on Mr. Jenkins ipod.  In one particularly lovely sequence where the music strikingly enhances the action, Micha and Joanne playfully ride a Merry-go-round.  The scene plays out over the entire song suspending the fleeting, wonderful moment between the two whirling among the brightly painted equine.  When the song ends and the ride creaks to halt, giving way to familiarly abrasive organ music, the air is filled faint regret, like someone turned on the lights signalling that the party’s over.

At once funny, romantic, political and thought-provoking, “Medicine For Melancholy” is littered with moments that are simultaneously comic and disturbing.  Early on when Micha refuses Joanne suggestion they go to MOMA because, “Black people don’t go to MOMA.”  She responds, “What do two black people do on a Sunday afternoon?”  He counters,”Go to church, what to two black people not do on a Sunday afternoon?  Go to MOMA.”  When you think about the reality of that statement, it’s not funny, but I still laughed, because it was.  That’s what makes this film so confusing.  It it there to be enjoyed or contemplated?  I think, finally, it’s best not to worry and just tip my hat to Mr. Jenkins, any film that makes me feel bad for living in my apartment is well worth the price of admission.  Here’s hoping Jenkins is able to cut as close to the bone in future work.  And that at least a few of his contemporaries follow the lead.

Review: The Class

After watching the trailer for “The Class” you may think you’ve already seen it.  Dedicated teacher writes his name on chalkboard, unruly students chide him for it, dedicated teacher cleverly retorts, unruly students laugh, dedicated teacher gains their respect.  Eventually, dedicated teacher will inspire unruly students, despite being minorities and coming from dysfunctional households, to strive for a future beyond gangs and drugs and, just to round things out, dedicated teacher will learn something about himself along the way.  Sound familiar?

This formula has been beaten to death, perhaps most memorably by Michelle Pfeiffer in the oh so 90s “Dangerous Minds” (the tagline was:  She Broke The Rules… And Changed Their Lives.  Yikes.)  Also by the desk-standing triumph of Robin “O Captain my Captain” Williams in the sadly very dated “Dead Poets Society.”  And most recently by Hilary “I either give Oscar winning performances or make terrible movies” Swank in “Freedom Writers” (which, to be fair, I have not seen, and never will).  So what could possibly be so great about this one that it deserves the Palme d’Or it won at Cannes last April?  Because it’s in french?  Sorry, you can put lipstick on a VP candidate, but it’s still going to be a pig (zing!).  Ok, I’ll calm down.  Obviously I had a lot of, perhaps unfair, reservations going into this film.  I didn’t necessarily think it would be bad mind you, but I was skeptical it could live up to it’s unanimously rapturous acclaim.  I expected a solid, well-made, superior version of it’s like-minded predecessors that didn’t cover any new territory.

How wrong I was.

Writer/director Laurent Cantet and writer/lead actor François Bégaudeau have (hyperbole alert) made the most insightful, thought-provoking film about education I have ever seen.  Before discussing, may I just say the marketing team should be ashamed of themselves.  If it hadn’t won the Palme d’Or I would have totally overlooked it, and that would have been a shame.  They are sending the wrong message, this is no story about a superhuman teacher.

François Marin, a geekier, fenchier version of Daniel Craig, played by François Bégaudeau (who wrote the autobiographical novel on which the film is derived and, based on his excellent performance, has no inhibitions playing a character so close to himself) quietly sits with his coffee.  He is framed almost from behind and his mood is difficult to read.  The quiet pensive moment could one of reflection, frustration, relaxation.  It’s as if Cantent is saying, look, this guys got a lot going on but we’re not going to tell you what.  It is the first, last and only scene to take place outside the walls of the school (appropriately, the direct translation of the french title “Entre Les Murs” is “Between the Walls”).

It’s the first day of classes at this unnamed inner-Parisian Junior High School.  At a politely uncomfortable pre-year meeting we are introduced to the faculty, a group that has their own strange a classroom dynamic.   Each member states their subject and tenure (François’ teaches French and is in his 4th year), the only personal information about them we will learn, before heading to class.

François’ has no impact on the cacophony of overlapping conversations as he enters the room and the task of getting the class silent is met with resistance, as are all tasks.  From simple requests, “why do we have to write down our names if you already know them?” to the value of the curriculum, “nobody uses the subjunctive when they talk in everyday life,” the students turn their teacher into a modern day Sisyphus.  To combat this opposition, François’ takes an informal approach.  Not unlike his cinematic predecessors he attempts to engage the students with a more conversational than didactic style in hopes of gaining their trust and forming a connection.  But whereas, say, Michelle Pfeiffer’s students eat it right up, François’ students often use it against him.  Though he may be talked to like a peer he is rarely treated like one.  And while the buddy tactic has its merits, the students laugh at as his jokes and genuinely seem to like him, it blurs the authoritative line into a thin gray one.

Any and all discipline is very difficult.  In one incident, Rachel (one of the more intriguing, prominently featured students), repeatedly refuses to read aloud in class.  When François keeps her after and demands an apology, rejecting any he deems untruthful, Rachel is unthreatened, more concerned with the infringement on her afternoon plans.  After he finally accepts her apology as genuine, Rachel quickly rescinds it as she walks out the door.  This type of infuriating confrontation is one in an unending chain that equate François’ job to pushing full force up against a brick wall.  Clearly a dedicated teacher, what motivates his stiff resolve remains a confounding mystery.

Taking place over the course of one full school year, we gradually become acquainted with the individual students and the specific challenge each poses.  The chosen method to attack these challenges, however, is in dispute.  The benefit of punishment and praise is debated throughout the film in faculty meetings where staff members support contradicting tactics.  Watching them tackle these delicate issues doesn’t instill any envy for them.  After pondering my own opinions on the subjects discussed I was forced to reconsidered the better part of my own time spent in a classroom.

In the films last third, where it most resembles a traditional narrative, the challenges facing the administration become more complex.   Souleyman, at times a promising but frequently impertinent student, charges out of class, after François physically attempts to stop him, and inadvertently injures another student.  To complicate matters, before the incident François, in a moment of frustration, insulted two girls during a heated exchange.  The fallout tracks the decision of whether to expel Souleyman.  François’ involvement throws an additional wrench into the mix as he and his fellow staff members weigh the consequences expulsion will have on the boy’s future given his tenuous life at home, against the consequences of allowing him to remain in class.  Despite the outcome, ethically, there is no clear solution and that is the conclusion Cantet and Bégaudeau are after.  There is no right answer.

This inconclusive subject matter is perfectly married with the film’s unique look and feel.   Forgoing the conventional use of wideshots to establish a scene within a time and place, there are no inter-titles denoting the season or how much time has passed.  Cantet sets the camera up close on the actors faces, rarely any wider than a midshot, and keeps the action in the classroom.  This creates an unrelenting pace that flows from day to day leaving little space to breathe in between.  With no scenes cluing us in on François’ hopes and dreams or the details of Souleyman’s violent father, Cantet merely presents the events of the film without putting them in any sort of context.  This not only makes the 128 minute running time fly by, but by not commenting it forces the viewer to be objective.  Surprisingly by the films end, despite this arms length approach, the attachment that wasn’t being forced upon you has been deceptively instilled.  For a film seemingly so adverse to sentimentality, it yields some very moving ineractions, particularly in the final encounters.

At the center of this bold style are the, across the board, splendid performances from a group of non-actors playing versions of themselves (all the characters keep their real names).  The classroom scenes in particular have a striking feel of vibrant spontaneity (much of the film was improvised) where not a single moment rings false.  Credit Cantet for creating an environment that, with three cameras going at once, allowed these kids to perform at such high levels, to produce a multitude of fascinating moments.

But fascinating as it is, this vivid reality they’ve created doesn’t really generate a thesis, and it doesn’t intend to.   “The Class” is more of an open examination that only asks questions.  And while some of the questions may have been asked before.   Never, in my experience, have they been so clearly illustrated.  I think, particularly, teachers who have lived the reality this film depicts will appreciate that.  I was constantly reminded of a friend of mine, while watching this film, who at one time taught 10th grade English at a High School in the Bronx.  Furiously passionate about his job he would recount to me his frequent feelings of futility.   “I have a “Dangerous Minds” moment at least once a day,” he’d explain. “Someone will come up to me after class and say ‘Mista, you’re the only teacher I’ve ever had who really believes in me’.”  “And then the next day” he continued, “they’ll come in not having done their homework.”

Damn.  If only he could’ve gotten them to stand on their desks.

Review: Of Time and the City

The immaculate row of suspended brick apartments stand confidently, symmetrically and beautifully constant amidst the fog and condominiums.  They serve as a harrowing visual throughline in Terence Davies introspective “Of Time and the City” wherein he dissects his beloved home town of Liverpool (and himself).  Closer to a documentary than any other genre, the blend of archive footage, poetry, classical music and sardonic baritone narration is more mosaic than film.   Mr. Davies chronicles the Merseyside Borough through much of the 20th century heaping on a heathly serving of personal exhibition and social commentary.

While driven by non-linear collages of sight and sound the narrative structure is actually very straightforward, beginning with the Liverpool as Mr. Davies experienced it in his childhood.   Exuding a nostalgia both through the musings of the narration and the grains of the celluloid, this Liverpool is lovingly represented as a simpler time by a series of iconic images.  Overflowing boats cozy up to the ports and lumbering trains snake about their railways as they pour souls into the city.  Hard-working men and women (heavy labor and laundry respectively), and blissfully carefree children make up the model blue collar family (for which Mr. Davies clearly has sympathies for).  Gatherings of fellow Liverpudlians, a football stadium packed with frenzied, white towel waving devotees and the stunningly photographed Grand National (an equestrian-like steeplechase) with leaps that both terrify and amaze, portray Liverpool as a scrappy tight-knit community.

This is interspersed with personal recollections some fond, others painful.  The long carefree days at the beach with “sand in the egg salad” give way to Davies tenuous relationship with Catholicism.  Clearly suspicious of religion from the outset it wasn’t until homosexuality surfaced during adolescence that faith posed a direct contradiction.  This discovery is outlined in a deeply personal segment featuring underground wrestling matches like the ones he secretly attended with guilty fascination.

But it’s not all reminiscence and reflection, nor is it without humor.  As the city matures so too does our host, and with adulthood comes cynicism.  Withholding no disdain for Liverpool’s best known export he openly mocks the Beatles professing his preference for classical music.  He also skewers the royal family in entertaining fashion.  Over footage (color now) of the Queens gaudy coronation Davies quips “The trouble with being poor is that is takes up all of your time.  The trouble with being rich is that it take up everyone elses.”  As the condominiums begin to sprout, the city, like the increasingly pixelated footage, becomes less personal for both Davies and the viewer.  And as we venture into the unemployment crisis of the 70s and 80s what was once a tribute feels more like a cautionary tale.

But Davies does not intend to brand his film with any sort of thesis or message.  Both a love letter and a condemnation it never delves into the indulgent moralizing that can befall passion projects such as these.  “Of Time and The City” is more of an examination of a relationship, that all of us an recognize, with place and time.  And, as it is for everyone, when places change and time passes the connection is more with a memory, concurrently distorting and enriching, than with any tangible object.  Most will categorize this film is as a lyrical poem, and I would have to agree.  Though as times teetering on the edge of self-seriousness, finally, Mr. Davies film is one of deliberate whimsy.   As he recites T.S. Elliot with intense conviction during the opening.   You think, “Is this guy for real?”  The answer, suitably, is yes and no.

“Of Time and the City” is now playing at Film Forum through February 3rd.

Review: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

With a great trailer and the reuniting of Brad Pitt and David Fincher, whose last effort was the now classic “Fight Club,” anticipation was high for “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.”  Not being a huge Brad Pitt fan and wary of over-hyped Oscar vehicles, I was wary and kept my expectations in check.

Very loosely based on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story chronicling the life of a man who ages backwards, the film is told mostly in flashback by an elderly Cate Blanchett.  On her death bed (inexplicably as Hurricane Katrina approaches), she recounts via dairy a previously untold portion of her life to her daughter (Julia Ormond, still smarting from “First Knight”).  The tale begins in lively 1918 New Orleans with the birth of baby Benjamin at age 75.  Following his mother’s death, his widowing father abandons him on the front steps of retirement home (irony!).  Resembling a raisin with extremities, Benjamin is discovered by the gentle Queenie (a fantastic Taraji P. Henson) a kind black woman who works at the establishment, which is full of doddering white folk.   With almost no apprehension to his “curious” appearance she takes to raising Benjamin as her own.

By the time Benjamin reaches about three odd digital renderings of Brad Pitt’s familiar features start to creep in.  A composite of body doubles, Brad Pitt’s face and CGI stand in until Mr. Pitt himself is able to take over.   The look is strange and, perhaps appropriately, off putting.  Highlights of his adventurous youth include getting drunk and laid, as well as receiving advice much earlier than appropriate for his actual age.  But the most significant encounter during this period is with the crimson-haired Daisy, who will one day grow up to be Cate Blanchett and his primary romantic interest.

At eighteen, looking fifty, he sets sea and the film enters full sweep mode.  Benjamin’s adventures sprawl 70 years and include a wide array of people and places.  The art department is more than up to the task recreating them all in wide shots and large crowds.   Overall, the production design in terms of scope and detail is ravishing.  Enhanced, not overwhelmed, by digital effects, the various sets and costumes are impressively realized with the amber tinge as of an aging photograph.

While the stories outcome is never in doubt, (Benjamin’s gray hair will turn gold, his wrinkles will beget a flawless complextion and he will morph into Brad Pitt) the how proves to be intriguing enough to keep one engaged as they wait for the inevitable.   Particularly in witnessing the stunning incarnations of Benjamin, and Daisy, as they age inversely are staggering, especially in their youth.  In the age of “Transformers” special effects struggle more and more to impress when CGI has unmasked all remaining mystery of movie magic.  The rendering of Cate Blanchett as a professional caliber dancer at 23 is so believable it’s frightening.   The camera is too close to be a body double but not far away enough to be faking the dancing.  It truly begs the question “how did they do that?”

Mr. Fincher has always been adept at enhancing his visual storytelling by utilizing these tools, he did so in last years “Zodiac” as well as the immortal “Fight Club.”  But aside from it’s visual grandeur and specificity this ponderous story is a departure from Fincher’s earlier efforts.  It is much easier to recognize the hand of screenwriter Eric Roth who also penned “Forrest Gump,” comparisons to which are inevitable.  Both title characters are not concerned with leaving their but mark on the world, just finding their place in it.  Thus their quests are not pursuits of success but of acceptance.  These consistencies are not detriments mind you, (though they will be for some).   Tonally, the films are quite different, “Forrest Gump” is told with more whimsy while “Benjamin Button” is more of a mediation.

Unlike Mr. Gump though, here the title character is really more of a prop than anything else, albeit a spectacular one.  There’s an emptiness to Pitt’s that keeps his Benjamin at arm’s length keeping him from becoming more than a story-telling device.  This is not to say he does bad work, his charisma alone is enough to carry such a film.  It’s just that such a vast narrative may have warranted delving a little deeper.  Contrary to Pitt’s enigmatic reserve, Balncett’s Daisy injects the film with a much needed vibrancy and serves as the life blood of the story.  A confirmed superhuman performer, Blanchett is completely believable as someone waiting a lifetime for.  In one enchanting sequence Daisy attempts to seduce Benjamin, dancing in moonlit silhouette.  It’s a perfect marriage of performance and filmmaking.  Fincher brings the sumptuous imagery but, like the mist hovering above the lake behind her, Blancett makes it emanate off the screen.

In perhaps the most memorable section of his travels, Benjamin encounters Elizabeth Abbott (Tilda Swinton), a lonley diplomat’s wife, and has a affair.  This is one of the most beautifully crafted sequences of the film largely due to Swinton’s lovely melancholic presence that intrigues Pitt’s quiet Benjamin.  Developed over a succession of sleepless nights drinking tea this relationship is built on loneliness stemming from Benjamin’s hopelessly unrelatable condition and Elizabeth’s life of personal regrets.  Thinking him a contemporary she confesses her disappointments to the impressionable Benjamin, (making one ponder the wisdom that could potentially be imparted if similar connections could be made in everyday life).  This candid encounter proves vital to Benjamin’s unique understanding of mortality.

Death surrounds Benjamin, particularly in his formative years at the retirement home.  Potentially giving him unparaelled insights into the human psyche.  Unfortunately in the end there is little evidence that his life was any more fulfilling as a reult.  Thus, his odd circumstance is an intriguing, handsomely told yarn rather than the life affirming epiphany it hopes to be.   This lack of substantial revelation may seal it’s fate, for some, as a disappointment.  But you would be wrong to dismiss it on such counts.  Yes, it’s elaborate scheme poses no answers to any of life’s great mysteries, but it’s pleasures are rich and plentiful.  The world of Benjamin Button was one in which I was happy to spend time and one I am eager to revisit, regardless of whether it had a point.

Review: Silent Light

I saw my first new release of 2009 today.  Originally released at Cannes in 2007, I have been hearing about “Silent Light” for almost two years before getting a chance to see it (and I live in New York.)  It’s always daunting going in to a film with so much acclaim.  I don’t mean “Slumdog Millionaire” acclaim, I can prepare myself for that.  I’m talking serious cinephile cred.  “Silent Light” was on both Manohla Dargis and A. O. Scott’s top 10 for 2008 (I don’t know how they fit it in that year if it came out in ’07).  It also appeared on the top 10 of the renowned J. Hoberman from the Village Voice.  That is a must-see if I ever heard one.

The past 2 Januarys have yielded the previous year’s Palme dO’r winner.  After the slew of quality films cramed at the end of the calender year to quality for the Oscars it serves as a nice palate cleanser before the doldrums of January (Film Forum repertory time!).  Both films, “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” in ’08 and “The Wind That Shakes the Barely” in ’07 had the similar acclaim and anticipation (“4 Months” was on A. O.’s top 10 of ’07) and both delivered in spades.  Check them out if you haven’t.

So here was “Silent Light”, not a winner of the Palme (that honor went to “The Class” which will be released at the end of the month) but it was named as the “Jury Prize” winner (I don’t know what that specifically means but it’s Cannes so I’m sure it’s some form of illustrious.)  Having never seen a trailer or read a plot synopsis for “Silent Light” I was going in cold.  All I knew was what I recalled from a NY times podcast why back from Cannes in 2007 when Manohla and A.O. described the first shot of the film, a sunrise, as a breath of fresh air that gladly slowed the pace of the bustling festival.  So there’s a sunrise, that’s all I had.

Well, it was some sunrise.  Holy crap.  The opening of this film is a genuine “wow” moment that will be hard to top this year on the basis of asthetic alone.  It’s good few minutes long, beginning with a black startlit sky and panning down on a faint horizon that appears at first to be a slight discoloration amongst the blackness.  That morphs to a discernable dark blue which then continues through an entire box of crayola crayon colors as the sky, trees, grass and enitre world are illuminated.  Nothing short of breathtaking.

I should mention that this film is directed by Mexico’s Carlos Reygadas, only his 4th feature.  The slowing of time, forcing the viewer to focus on some of life’s everyday happenings is applied throughout.  The story centers around a farmer, Johan (Cornelio Wall), a devoted husband father to his wife and large family yet deeply in love with another woman whom, he says, even compared to his wife when they first met, would have been the better choice. Ouch.

It takes about half and hour for even this much information to reach the viewer.  I could recount most of the plot for this 136 minute film in about 10 sentences.  But do not let that deter you.  The magic of Silent Light is it’s ability to make you lean in an appreciate not just the beauty of a landscape but also the beauty of a father shampooing his daughter’s hair.  Reygadas gives equal attention to all aspects of his world whether it is a father and son heart-to-heart or milking cows.  Every shot of this film could have 5 seconds chopped off it, every one!  You would not lose any information regarding the narrative.  But that extra hour, or whatever all those extra 5 seconds add up to, is where the meat is. The environment, and more importantly, the atmosphere is the driving force of this film.

Played apparently by non-actors, the performances carry a stiffness that feels appropriate for characters who are not adept at expressing themselves.  I will admit though, their restrained communications coupled with the pacing was at times frustrating.  I’m not used to working this hard while watching a film.  I am used to being told what’s happening, not shown.  And on that coin I will say, this film will not be for everyone.  The previous “prize winner’s” I mentioned earlier are film’s of action.  The goals are clear, as are the motivations of the characters.  “Silent Light” is not a film of action, well, not a lot of action, it is a film of stoicism.

That said, if you stick with it you will not be disappointed, as I was most certainly not.  An investment in “Silent Light” will be paid off in the end, and it ends, as spectacularly as it begins.

Review: The Reader

The flaws in the reader are glaring.  A trial examines a character’s involment in the holocaust setting up themes of morality and shame that drive the second half of the film.  How do you come to terms with caring for someone who committed such atrocities?  How does a nation cope with the guilt?  Apparently by exchanging platitudes in a law school classroom debate (led by a competely wasted and bored Bruno Ganz) where the lead character decides to remain silent.   It’s regretable that these flaws serve as the downfall for this film rather than an extension of it’s mediocrity. They would be much easier to swallow that way.  Since the first half of The Reader centers around the most effective human romance story of the year (WallE was a robot).

In 1958 Germany,  fifteen-year-old Michael Berg (a strong David Kross) meets Hana Schmitz (the impeccable Kate Winslet) a kind, stern woman of about 40.  A random act of kindness prompts Michael to nervously return to Hanna’s apartment where she catches him a sneaking a peek at her nylons (ah to be young) and it sends him running.  With no real intentions, or at least no concept how to act on them he returns a second time.  This strange courtship continues until she suddenly makes a pass so forward on paper it would read like a bad porn.  Preposterous, but executed with just the right balance of awkward, erotic and bizarre to make it believable, the lovers embody all the giggling and gasping excitement of a forbidden romance.  Some of the scenes are so explicitly intimate they induce guilty feelings of voyeurism.

Other than the joys of the flesh the activity the two enjoy is literature.  Michael reads his prep school assignments (hence the title) to Hanna in a familiar but very effective montage featuring the luminous face of Winslet absorbing Micheal’s tales.  This serves as a their romantic throughline and is ultimately redeeming in the latter parts of the film.

When summer ends and the relationship fizzles Michael finds himself in Law School.  The “progressive” environment of the 60s takes precedence over what is eating Micheal’s insides.  Sadly, that preference is never returned until we are barely interested anymore.

While sitting in on a Nazi trial for class, Hanna reenters Micheal’s life.  It seems she was a guard at a Nazi camp and she and a number of her compatriots are finally getting justice.  This is where the aforementioned derailment takes place as Micheal is reduced to a slumping prop.  In the presence of a tour-de-force testimony (Winslet resists the usual territory for these types of scenes) without Micheal’s perspective the film turns it’s attentions to the holocaust and it’s affect on the characters and the country.  All this was already on the periphery, I don’t see what was gained by drowning out Michael’s voice.  The scenes border on didactic and are far too on the nose.

The next time Micheal commits any actions of consequence he’s aged into Ralph Fiennes and Hanna is in prison.  With some gestures that could induce gags or sniffles depending on your mood (sniffles for me) the last act is simultaneously compelling and maddening as it turns into a piece about reflection and regret.  It is ironic that the first half of the film shot with shimmering nostalgia and swelling music seemed the most immediate.

Finally, this is a frustrating film that will be categorized with some of the other handsome productions that fell short of their lofty expectations, including Ms. Winselt’s other endeavor “Revolutionary Road,” “Doubt,” and “Frost/Nixon.”

I enjoyed all of these films and would happily revisit them all.  But I generally agree with the consensus that they where just a little too careful to have any lingering impact.  I give more credit to “The Reader” though.  It reaches at some more delicate, ambiguous areas, or I should say approaches them more delicately.  The rush of Michael and Hanna’s first encounter is one I’ll not soon forget.  Or maybe I’m just giving it a pass because I’m in love with Kate Winselt.