Review: Bad Times at the El Royale

Bad Times at the El Royale (2018): Written and directed by Drew Goddard.  Starring: Jeff Bridges, Cynthia Erivo, Dakota Johnson, Jon Hamm, Cailee Spaeny, Lewis Pullman, Chris Hemsworth.  Running Time: 141 minutes. 

Rating: 3.5/4  

**this review may contain mild spoilers for the movie.  It is highly recommended to see it as cold and without expectations as possible for maximum effect**

            There came a point, maybe about halfway through Bad Times at the El Royale, when I discovered to my considerable surprise that I’d really, really missed seeing this sort of movie.  I didn’t know I’d had a longstanding, unfulfilled desire for a pulpy mystery yarn set very solidly in the color vibe and aesthetic of the early 70’s and seeped in Catholicism metaphors.  And yet, here we are; clearly, I did, and Bad Times at the El Royale unearthed that obscure sweet spot and hit it just right. 

            The latest cinematic work by Drew Goddard is, in so many ways, a spiritual successor to his earlier masterpiece of artistic symbolism, Cabin in the Woods.  It sets itself within a very particular sort of genre film, one that comes with a host of assumptions most audiences will carry with them into the theater, and then proceeds to undermine or outright defy each of them in turn, making the dangers the characters face even more harrowing and the breakout scenes all the more refreshing. 

            After a brief opening establishing a mystery about a certain bag buried beneath certain floorboards, our extremely colorful cast of characters, each one with something to hide and more to them than they willingly let on, slowly gather in the foyer of the El Royale, a niche hotel with a long history of banking on its curious architectural feature of straddling the state border between Nevada and California, meaning that each half it run by its own rules and regulations and has its own layout and design.  This is explained to us by the severely misused and hapless concierge, Miles (Lewis Pullman), who is apparently the one and only employee left in the entire establishment after the expiration of its liquor license led business to sharply decline.  Our band of misfits include Dwight (Jon Hamm), a loudmouthed Southern vacuum-cleaner-salesman, Father Flynn (Jeff Bridges), a wandering priest, Darlene (Cynthia Erivo), a singer headed to a Vegas gig, and a strange woman (Dakota Johnson) who refuses to offer her name or indeed anything at all about her. 

            Something is clearly off about all of it- some of the initial cover stories we get are immediately discernable as lies- but it’s not until each person is alone (or so they think) in their rooms that the separate mysteries of their backgrounds and the collective mystery of what, exactly, the El Royale is, start to slowly be revealed to us, bit by bit.  I will try to refrain as much as possible from further details, as this is a movie worth seeing as cold as possible, though there are certainly a few story turns the experienced moviegoer may have no trouble calling. 

            The El Royale is a place with a fantastically rich production design, allowing each room and hallway to have its own distinct character while all still feeling like the same place.  There is a garishness to so many scenes, a starkness to the colors, that really strikes the eye; the glow of the hotel sign in a heavy rain, a field of swaying, golden wheat, a dining/casino hall suffused with golden browns, the utterly shabby gray of a maintenance hall.  The movie also goes the extra mile by suffusing its soundtrack with time pieces that, at times, play an excellent role in furthering the themes of the story, including one sequence set to “You Can’t Hurry Love” that features some of the sharpest editing I’ve seen all year. 

            This is obviously a cast dripping with talent, and everyone pulls their weight.  Of course Jeff Bridges is perfect as a priest losing his mind, and clearly the bombastic salesman with a dark secret is a spot-on fit for Jon Hamm.  Chris Helmsworth as a swashbuckling, bare-chested, seductress of a man is…well, Chris Helmsworth as a swashbuckling, care-chested, seductress of a man, so, yeah.  For me, though the standouts were easily Lewis Pullman as the concierge and Cynthia Erivo as a talented singer down on her luck.  Both are fairly new to the movie scene, and both take roles that could easily slip into stereotype or be relegated to irrelevance or damsel-in-distress status and elevate them into memorable, unique characters.  In an insane third act, it’s Erivo who gets to deliver one of the most badass dressing-downs of a villain I’ve ever seen.  She’ll also be featuring in Steve McQueen’s upcoming Widows, so I would advise everyone to keep a sharp eye out for this lady.    

            This is a real treat of a film, and given the glut of big-name features coming out this fall I worry way too many are going to overlook it.  I have no doubt that this will find its audience, but I would rather it happen sooner than later, so that more studios are willing to support deserving original material like this.  Make time to see this one in theaters.  You owe it to yourself. 

-Noah Franc

Review: 22 July

22 July (2018): Written and directed by Paul Greengrass.  Starring: Anders Danielsen Lie, Jon Oigarden, and Jonas Strand Gravli.  Running Time: 143 minutes.  Based on the book One Of Us, by Asne Seierstad. 

Rating: 3/4

            The filmmakers of the two (!) major films coming out this year about the 2011 terrorist attacks in Norway have done future filmgoers no favors by giving their movies nearly identical names; U – 22 July was the Norwegian production by Erik Poppe, released earlier this year, while the newer Netflix release helmed by Paul Greengrass goes by 22 July.  Such similarities of name and the fact that they both tackle the same event belie how fundamentally different both films are from each other.  Poppe’s was by far the more technically and thematically ambitious, a brutally immersive single-shot achievement, laser-focused on the immediate experiences of the victims to the exclusion of all else. 

            Greengrass, established veteran of similar faux-docu-films like Flight 93 and Captain Phillips, takes a far more standard approach.  Most of the first act does cover the attacks themselves, but the rest is devoted to examining the bigger picture of what led up to the attacks and what the various kinds of fallout in Norwegian society were.  It tries to strike a balance between micro-details about the attacks, the attacker, and the victims, with a macro, bird’s-eye view of a society struggling to reconcile the ideals of representative and free society with the capacity of people to abuse that openness to commit horrific acts.  It mostly succeeds, but not entirely, though even its missteps are well-intentioned ones. 

            The main thrust of the narrative compares the views and life of the attacker and Viljar, one of the survivors (unlike the Poppe film, whose characters were fictional amalgamations, all the named characters in the Greengrass film are real people).  Both Viljar and his brother survived the attack, although Viljar did not escape physically unharmed- he just barely survives five different gunshot wounds leaving him partially paralyzed and blind in one eye, with a few remaining fragments just deep enough that they can’t be removed and are, to this day, a constantly present threat of death if they shift too much.  The combined physical and psychological scars tear at him and his family, and the burden of trying to overcome them to regain some semblance of a normal life is passionately conveyed by Jonas Strand Gravli’s performance, easily one of the film’s finest. 

            The attacker, meanwhile, is focused on manipulating his trial and defense strategy so as to use it as a platform to further broadcast his heinous ideology- he starts right off with a Nazi salute before he’s said his first word in court, in case anyone missed the subtle signs of what his ilk really are.  This sparks a fierce (and very much justified) debate within Norwegian society whether or not this is proper, and to what extent the courtesies of free speech can and should extend to criminals and proponents of genocide, but for Viljar, the fact that the attacker is getting his own platform gives him and other survivors a determination to create their own , and his recovery efforts are lent an added urgency as his date to testify approaches. 

            The film is at its absolute best when it engages directly with Viljar, his struggles, and the conflict over free speech around the trial.  It stumbles when it tries to aim higher and provide a 360-degree look at the issue, including showing how the attacker’s defense lawyer (required by law to take the case) is also harassed and discriminated against even though he’s literally following the law, but this is never fully developed or established enough in the narrative to have much effect; he gets a big line in a final scene about beating evil, but it feels rather forced and unearned, which puts it at great odds with Viljar’s court scene, which very much is earned. 

            The Prime Minister of Norway also pops in and out, but like with the lawyer, what was clearly meant to be a broader-view-including side story ends up feeling too disconnected from the rest of the narrative to justify its inclusion.  I understand that Greengrass wanted extra scope to give the film greater length, but a more concentrated focus on Viljar and a few other survivors would have made for a much more impactful and lasting film. 

            Nonetheless, this is a remarkable film, and definitely merits viewing and careful discussion every bit as much as Poppe’s film does.  If only a movie about these crimes didn’t have to feel so painfully prescient and relevant to our society today.  If only. 

-Noah Franc

Review: Werk Ohne Auteur (Never Look Away)

Werk Ohne Auteur (2018): Written and directed by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck.  Starring: Tom Schilling, Sebastian Koch, Paula Beer, Oliver Masucci, Saskia Rosendahl.  Running Time: 188 minutes. 

Rating: 3.5/4

            It’s now been over a decade since von Donnersmarck’s landmark film, Das Leben Der Anderen (The Lives of Others) captivated audiences worldwide, landed an Oscar, and became one of the definitive films to date chronicling life under the repressive East German government of the Cold War.  Now he is back with another massive historical drama (we agree to pretend that The Tourist never happened), one that seeks to find the connective threads between 30 years of German history, set through the prism of a single artist struggling to find his vision of the world. 

            This artist is Kurt Barnert, loosely based on the real-life story of Gerhard Richter.  Growing up in Sachsony prior to the war, he is treated to regular trips to the art museums of Dresden by his Aunt Elisabeth to support his already clear artistic gifts.  The clouds of war and National Socialism soon come knocking at his family’s door, though; Elisabeth, diagnosed with schizophrenia, is caught up in the dragnet of the Holocaust as part of a concerted effort to institutionalize, sterilize, and eventually murder those with social or neurological disorders.  As someone with an with Down’s Syndrome and an autistic brother, there will likely be no other moment in a film this year that will impact me as profoundly as the scene where Elisabeth is led along with a group of other patients to the gas chambers. 

            The murders in Dresden are carried out under the management, and fiercely stern gaze, of Professor Carl Seeband (he INSISTS on the Professor title), a gynecologist and an obsessively self-centered villain of a man, played to a T by Sebastian Koch.  At first he appears to be a diehard Nazi ideologue, but we are soon shown that his loyalty to any group or idea extends only insofar as it offers him an ego-stroking path to power and prestige.  National Socialism, Communism, Capitalism, in the end it doesn’t matter; he passionately advocates for each until circumstances make it advantageous to change sides, and each time he does so without so much as a wink. 

            The firebombing of Dresden and occupation by the Red Army soon follow, and Kurt grows up into an aspiring artist under the dominating eye of the GDR.  He is effortlessly talented, respected by officials, teachers, and peers alike, and soon finds the love of his life when he meets Ellie Seeband (Paula Beer).  Her father is, of course, that selfsame Professor who killed Kurt’s aunt.  Kurt doesn’t know this, of course, but the audience very much does, lending a threatening air to their every exchange with each other.  They are studies in contrast; in one particularly interesting sequence, the film lays this bare via parallel sex scenes.  First we see Kurt and Ellie having sex in their room; the light is warm, the music happy, the vibe is one of happy fulfillment, of two people meant to find each other.  Then we cut to Seeband cheating on his wife with the family dance instructor; the light is cold, the movements fast, harsh, and utterly without emotion or passion.  No other conjugal shot in a film this year struck me as more pathetic or depressing.  The horrific link between these two men remains a secret to them both until very nearly the end of the film.  How this is revealed, I will not say, except that it is one of 2018’s most visually and audibly striking scenes. 

            Tom Schilling is a bit of a cipher in the lead role; the struggles his character experiences are less of him growing and learning and more him coping with what outside circumstances force upon him.  He’s passable, but does not transcend the text of his role to the same extent that Koch and Beer do, or even his late-in-life art teacher, the enigmatic van Verten (Oliver Masucci), who also gets a killer of a scene all to himself in the third act. 

            This is the sort of grand historical fiction that used to be bread and butter for major studios, but is rarely made today.  It is a great film, an experience to see (it’s over three hours, yet never actually feels that long), and a genuine work of art that, I think, people will be talking about for years to come every bit as much as we still speak of Das Leben Der Anderen. 

-Noah Franc

Review: A Star Is Born

A Star Is Born (2018): Written by Bradley Cooper, Eric Roth, and Will Fetters, directed by Bradley Cooper.  Starring: Bradley Cooper, Lady Gaga, Sam Elliott, Dave Chappelle, and Andrew Dice Clay.  Running Time: 135 minutes.  Based on previous adaptations of the same name from 1937, 1954, and 1976. 

Rating: 2.5/4

            Thinking it over after I left the theater, I found it particularly fitting that this re-re-re-telling of a classic Hollywood tale would come out now, right smack in the midst of the upheaval that is #MeToo and our current attempted reckoning with white, male privilege and all its many, insidious forms.  This is a movie that, in the very foundations of its characters and how they are presented within the context of the film (at least at first), is positively dripping with assumptions of privilege and power surrounding the male lead, and once I picked up on that, it became impossible to shake even when the film hits its stride in the second act.  Not that the film is not without many saving graces.  Given my longstanding animosity towards Bradley Cooper, this film is certainly much better than I expected, though it kneecaps itself too often to reach the level of greatness it clearly strives towards. 

            If you are not familiar with any of its past iterations, A Star Is Born is that eternal story of two artists, one an older man past his prime and in sharp decline, the other a young woman brimming with talent but in need of a lucky break, who meet and fall in love but soon find both their lives tested by the different personal trajectories they are on.  This time around the artists in question are aging rock star Jackson Maine (Bradley Cooper), who always performs either drunk or high or both, and the young, talented, and thus far undiscovered Ally (Lady Gaga).  In search of a drink after a show, he happens into the bar where she’s performing for the night.  Instantly taken with her and amazed by her natural musical talent, he starts pushing her to tour and perform with his band.  This eventually garners the attention of producers, and Ally is soon on her own trajectory to fame and recognition, but with Jackson unable to shake his addictions and struggles with his own personal history, it soon becomes an open question of whether their relationship or careers can survive much longer. 

            Although the fact that this movie was conceived and created solely as a vehicle to win Bradley Cooper an Oscar will never not rankle me, this is considerably better fare than either American Sniper or any of his collaborations with David O. Russell.  Much of that is due to the music, though with all the songs being written by Lady Gaga combined with a bevy of collaborative artists that should really be no surprise to anyone.  The musicals numbers fit well within the film, with none feeling shoehorned in just because, and in a couple key moments the lyrics provide insightful meta-commentary on the story itself (and there is A LOT of meta-ness packed into every inch of the film, almost too much).  They are all expertly produced- I was hesitant when I first heard Cooper would be directing, but he and his crew at least knew what sort of look would best fit the film and pull it off remarkably well.  The rest of my issues aside, there are certain shots here and there I know I will never forget.   

            The undisputed shining light, though, and the primary reason the film is as good as it is, is Lady Gaga herself, although Sam Elliott is a very, very close second in a small, yet remarkably pathos-filled turn as Jackson’s older brother and quasi-manager.  There is always an inherent danger in cross-casting a major star from another artistic field in a movie where they effectively play an alternative version of themselves (like I said, whole lotta meta here); in the worst cases, the whole thing comes across as an absurd vanity project, with the on-screen character overwhelmed by the real-world persona of the figure playing them.  Lady Gaga, thankfully, proves herself as natural and authentic-feeling on the big screen as she is on-stage, and she leaves no doubt in anyone’s mind that, if she wants to, she can build an acting career as varied and impressive as her musical one. 

            In a way, though, her brilliance is also emblematic of the film’s most fatal flaw, which is centering the bulk of the movie on Bradley Cooper’s drugged-out Jackson.  This is one of those baseline assumptions undergirding the whole affair that I never really could make my peace with.  One certainly could have a very lively debate about how self-aware the film is in terms of Jackson’s character and whether or not Cooper was deliberately trying to make him a tragic figure, but the overwhelming focus on Cooper’s character just struck me as rather egotistical. 

            Given that Lady Gaga is giving a more interesting performance and has the more compelling character arc, not having her as the focus and really directly experiencing her own views about her life, music, and choices, the film is robbed of what could have been truly great depth.  There is much about Ally that we are either told in awkward expositions dumbs by Jackson or are left to guess at.  We hear quite a lot about “her voice” and “all the things she has to say,” yet somehow the film never really gets around to letting us know what any of those things might be from Ally herself.  The definitive trailer moment of the entire film- the moment where Ally sheds her caution and goes out on stage with Jackson for the first time- is so rushed and clunky and without proper buildup that, while the scene as a performance is certainly effective, the lack of context as to why this was ever an issue in the first place holds it back from being something truly amazing.  It is a credit to Gaga’s performance that she is still able to convey worlds about her emotional state using just her face (while still singing!), but she deserved getting more to work with. 

            Which brings us, at long last, to the dynamic between Cooper and Gaga’s characters and how Goddamn creepy and privileged Jackson is.  The decision to have one moment after another, many of them happening in sequence literally right after Jackson meets Ally, where he awkwardly touches her eyebrows, her nose, her ankle, or sucks rings off her fingers (not kidding!), and film it in bizarro slowmo is so incomprehensible to me that I’m honestly still baffled as to who thought it was a good idea.  Their extended introduction to each other gives a whole new meaning to the word “Pokerface.” 

            Now, yes, I know this is supposed to be sweet and romantic and a sign of how fast they are falling for each other- and to be sure, Ally is a strong-willed person who can take care of herself- but there was an air of assumed privilege to much of these moments, especially given the power that Jackson, being a celebrity, inherently brings into all his interactions with people that left me genuinely unnerved.  He’s Jackson Effing Maine, so of course if he asks a woman he just met if he can stroke her nose or rub her eyebrows, she’ll let him.  If he sets his chauffeur to literally stalk her around her home, it’s all good as long as she comes to the concert.  If he’s already decided a woman is going to quit her job, jump on a plane, and come on stage for the first time to sing her own song despite vehemently saying she can’t, of course that’s what she’ll do.  Never mind whether or not she may have very valid reasons or fears about being on stage that hold her back.  He doesn’t need to ask about that, because if he’s decided you need to sing with him, that’s that. 

            Counteragument: what if he has no ill intentions and only means the best by all that?  Possible, yes.  I very much believe Cooper had nothing but good intentions with the film.  HOWEVER- isn’t one of the core points of #MeToo about not just going after the more overt forms of sexism and misogyny, but also questioning the more passive, casual, “nicer” ways in which guys allow certain assumptions about their interactions with women to go unchallenged and unquestioned?  Why is Jackson so unassuming that everything he does is ok?  Why is it so obvious in retrospect that Lady Gaga is naked on camera but Bradley Cooper isn’t?  I can’t help but feel that Jackson, and by extension the parts of the film connected to him, perfectly embodies the sort of unconscious, “charming” sexism that is, in its own way, every bit as harmful as conscious discrimination. 

            The absolute nadir of this takes place the morning after their first performance together.  Ally is home, sleeping in her bed, and a figure (clearly male) walks up to her, only his hands and chest visible.  Cut to Ally waking up, a shocked look coming over her face, who then says, “How did YOU get in here?” 

            Oh but it’s ok, it’s just Jackson (her Dad let him in) come to give her a hug and a kiss.  Here again- it’s supposed to be sweet, it’s meant to show their developing relationship, and nothing in the film hints that something might be off about this, but in my mind the Psycho strings were starting up. 

            Now, to reiterate, one could certainly argue that the film is very much aware of this and that Cooper is in no way (at least consciously) trying to make Jackson a hero or role model in any sense of the word.  And I while I don’t wholly agree, I can certainly see that.  I definitely think that the film gets much better in the second half in this regard; although we never get as much focus on Ally as I would have liked, there is a clear respect and parity between them, and the film becomes much more explicit in examining just how thoroughly messed up Jackson has become and how damaging that is to him and everyone around him.  The final sequences, for me, had all the weight and emotion that the early “big scenes” clearly wanted to have but lacked. 

            Maybe I’m making mountains out of molehills here.  Maybe I’m just not able to get over my rather negative issues with Cooper’s previous films.  Mostly, I just feel tired.  Tired that we once again have a Bradley Cooper vehicle out that is good, but not great, that is being fawned over by the masses, and which is overwhelmingly likely to garner huge numbers of nominations and awards at the expense of smaller, lesser-known, more daring films, and which most people will have completely forgotten having seen in a year or two. 

            But I will work to not hold that against this film, because the poor bastard doesn’t deserve that.  Lady Gaga herself is amazing, and around her, A Star Is Born is fine.  Really, it’s fine.  This is fine. 

            It’s fine. 

-Noah Franc