Review: Roma

Roma (2018): Written and directed by Alfonso Cuaron.  Starring: Yalitza Aparicio, Marina de Tavira.  Running Time: 135 minutes. 

Rating: 4/4

            The film opens with the camera staring at the ground, at the patterned tiles of a floor of some sort.  But then water tinged with soap washes over it, opening up a reflective window of the open sky above, wavering and unsteady, but there.  A plane flies across, up and away into the ether.  This duality between the Earth and sky, between the hardness and dirt and scrambling nature of people’s lives and the free openness of the sky above, is arguably the most important theme of Roma, one it touches on again and again.  This is a film of almost undefinable power, and it is one of the year’s best.   

            In its purest distillation, Roma depicts a year (give or take) in the life of Cleo, a maid working for a wealthy family in Mexico City in the year 1970.  She lives, she works, she loves, she becomes pregnant and struggles with the changes this brings to her life.  Beyond this deceptively simple narrative structure, though, is a wealth of commentary on the nature of class, of race, of rapid societal change, and of the constant, unceasing contradictions and paradoxes inherent in human existence.  Like the camera, we are bound to the Earth while constantly feeling drawn, time and again, to the sky above us. 

            More than anything else, though, it is a movie about women, and about how they are forced time and again to pick up the pieces left broken at their feet when men fail.  Cleo’s flake of a boyfriend abandons her immediately after learning she is pregnant, in a scene that is one of the film’s most acutely constructed; they are sitting in a movie theater when she tells him, and as the scene plays out, the final scenes and credits of the movie in the background mirror Cleo’s growing realization that, like the movie, something unreal has just ended.  The lights slowly come back on, and she has no choice but to return to harsh reality. 

            This is paralleled within the extended family Cleo works for; while she takes care of both the house and the children (in many ways, it feels like she’s the one actually raising them), we glimpse in bits and pieces how the parent’s marriage falls apart, until, in yet another masterfully crafted sequence, it becomes clear that this father, too, is also never coming back. 

            Once these stakes are laid out for both Cleo and her employer, it is easy to draw quick assumptions about how things will play out, but the film constantly takes turns that are never quite what we expect.  The class (and possibly also racial) divide between these two abandoned souls is unavoidable, but not entirely unbridgeable; there is a clear bond that starts to form, forged in the fires of abandonment and of the simple necessities that drive them to continue on and to once more put their lives back together.  What this builds to in the second half of the film, for both Cleo and the family, is one of the most emotionally resonant endings of any film I’ve seen this year, and I dare not spoil it, except to say that it will shatter you, in more ways than one. 

            Even though this film is already available on Netflix, it is worth seeing on a big screen if at all possible.  This is one of the most beautiful and well-crafted films of the year.  There is a clear and present purpose in every shot, every framing, each sweep of the camera.  I have already mentioned the shots comparing the ground and sky, which begin and end the movie.  I also think of the many shots of Cleo where the camera follows her as she seeks something, but we never see what she sees; she is gazing off-screen, yearning for or seeking something that is beyond our field of vision.  The way that a favored car of the family father is shot as both he and others struggle to park it in the family’s tiny garage is also loaded with symbolic imagery that can only be seen to be appreciated.  The car itself later plays a key part in one of the film’s most viscerally satisfying payoffs.   

            Something that the distance between the camera and its subjects allows is an appreciation of how precisely every scene is staged; there are very few close-ups, but also not too many far-away shots.  For the most part, the camera is in some sort of middle distance, where we can see the characters clearly but also the details of the world around them, with all the moving parts that are to be found in a bustling city, but none of them are there by accident.  This is most effectively conveyed in arguably the movie’s grandest scene, a recreation of the Corpus Christ Massacre.  I could literally spend hours doing commentary on each and every shot in this movie.  It is that detailed. 

            This movie is far more than just technical artistry, though; in Yalitza Aparicio’s portrayal of Cleo, we have one of the best breakout performances in years.  She had no formal training or experience in film acting prior to being cast, yet carries a weight and gravitas to each scene that even most veteran performers aren’t able to pull off.  The entire cast is stellar- even bit roles for relatives and friends around the family are not left to waste- but it is Aparicio who will provide much of what will, I expect, be this film’s considerable staying power as one of the decade’s best.  

            When considering the character of Cleo, though, the question of whether or not Cuaron is the right person to tell this story has already come up in some discussions; Cuaron dedicates the film to the maid who, he has said in interviews, provided for and raised him when he was a child much in the same way Cleo does; the title comes from the name of the neighborhood in Mexico City where he grew up, and one of the boys in the family seems to be a pretty clear stand-in for himself.  He is still in contact with her and spoke with her regularly while writing and producing the film, which does lend the film added authenticity.  However, it is still worthwhile to consider whether a man can ever be in a position to properly tell this sort of story, especially one that specifically focuses on particularly underrepresented groups like the indigenous minority both Cleo and Aparicio herself are from. 

            One reviewer, Richard Brody from the New Yorker, delved into this question in detail, and is of the opinion that, intentions aside, the film blots out or ignores Cleo’s perspective, given that we very rarely directly hear from Cleo what she thinks or wants.  For him, this is a fatal flaw that undercuts what the film is trying to do, but after much thought, I’m not sure I agree.  Not to knock on someone with Brody’s pedigree (or indeed anyone else who takes issue with the film), but I consider it rather better that Cuaron tried to go for a more general approach, one more focused on nostalgic memory than natural realism.  It would, perhaps, have been even more arrogant and privileged for him to assume that he could tell a film that tries to explicitly explore the inner thoughts and feelings of Cleo.  We see her experience so much without directly saying anything, but Aparicio’s performance and bearing in the role provide reams of silent information for us to consider and ponder.  I usually tend towards the opinion that the greater films are the ones that try to say less, and instead present more, letting us mull things over for ourselves rather than telling us outright what to think. 

            Regardless of what one ultimately thinks of it, though, this is that rare masterpiece that deserves to be seen and contemplated by everyone, regardless of their background.  I would say they don’t make ‘em like this anymore, but the truth of the matter is that this kind of artistic achievement has always been a rare feat; most filmmakers have never made one like this, but Alfonso Cuaron has, and you owe it to yourself to experience it. 

-Noah Franc

Review: The Ballad of Buster Scruggs

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (2018): Written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen.  Starring: Tim Blake Nelson, James Franco, Tyne Daly, Brendan Gleeson, Zoe Kazan, Liam Neeson, and Tom Waits, but sadly, neither John Goodman nor Josh Brolin.  Running Time: 133 minutes.  Based on the absurdist cowboy fantasies of the Coens’ hivemind collective. 

Rating: 3/4

            Part of what makes the Coen Brothers such uniquely excellent and special filmmakers is their seeming inability to produce a movie that can be easilt dismissed from the mind.  Even their “lesser” works- and by “lesser,” I mean “Ok, it’s no Fargo, but it’s still better than most of this year’s other films”- contain something unforgettable, something that indelibly stays with you and doesn’t let you forget that you just saw a Coen Brothers film.  It could be a sequence of scenes, bits of dialogue, a particular performance, or even as simple as the Bear Man from True Grit, or the quiet desperation of Ralph Fiennes in Hail, Ceasar!  There is always a particular pleasure for a movie lover in watching the work of people who thoroughly know their craft inside and out, are willing to go the extra mile in molding together every last detail, and who don’t particularly care to hold your hand and explain in detail the wanderings of their strange minds. 

            And thus we return to the Wide, Wide West, a setting that the Coens have seemingly returned to several times over the course of their careers, each time producing something considerably different from what came before.  This time around, we are treated to an anthology series, a set of six short films united by nothing more than the literal storybook they are read to us from and the fact that each one is preoccupied with death in some manner, be it comic, tragic, meaningful, senseless, or something else altogether. 

            We start with the titular story of Buster Scruggs (Tim Blake Nelson) a wanted “misanthrope” who insists that all he wants is a fair game of poker and to not be contradicted.  And by “contradicted,” he means, “one cross word to me and I will literally shoot you to pieces.”  This whole first segment by itself ranks as one of the strangest and most jarring mashups of comedic tone and on-screen brutality the Coens have created in a career FULL of jarring tonal mashups.  Are we supposed to be laughing?  Are we supposed to hate Scruggs for being a sociopathic murderer?  Neither are easy reactions, and the film doesn’t much care to help us choose. 

            The rest of the movie doesn’t try to make any more sense, although the crass nihilism of the first few parts slowly give way in the second half to something slightly more sympathetic to us humans and our pitiful plights on this Earth.  From Scruggs, we first see the pathetic haplessness of James Franco’s would-be bank robber, and then the vulture-and-prey-like relationship between Liam Neeson as a traveling showman and his “show,” a legless and armless orator played by a staggeringly good Harry Melling.  From there we watch as Tom Waits plays a prospector despoiling a piece of untouched land in search of that most base of human desires; gold.  This is followed by the endless struggles of a lonely woman left abandoned and penniless in the middle of a great caravan to Oregon, and concludes in a stagecoach, where the meanings of life and death are discussed by a hodgepodge of peoples representing various life philosophies. 

            Something that struck me repeatedly while watching this movie was the contrast between the vast, beautiful expanse of the landscapes, the infinite stretch of the natural earth, and the absolute smallness of petty human fairs in comparison, preventing us from seeing the light around us.  Tom Waits’ section as the prospector is perhaps the most explicit part of the film in this regard; he comes across a valley of simply stunning color and variety of plant and animal life, a place “untouched by man,” but all he is there to do is literally stick his face in the mud, sifting out tiny flecks of a metal compound that human markets place a high price on.  The scene begins and ends with the presence of a large, antlered deer, seemingly a symbol of the ability of nature to return in site of our best efforts. 

            This is a stunningly shot film (Bruno Delbonnel did the cinematography), overwhelming in its presentation of the size of the world, matched by an excellent score from longtime Coen veteran Carter Burwell.  Even the small details stick with you; I will never forget the image of Tim Blake Nelson patting himself down after entering a tavern, leaving behind a cloud of starch in the exact shape of his body, Looney-Toons-style.  It’s the sort of cartoon-translated-directly-into-reality stylism that very few filmmakers can pull off, with the Coens and Wes Anderson being among the exceptions. 

            Mileage with each of the segments may vary per viewer, and the degree to which the whole affair comes together will likely divide viewers.  There’s something here for everyone to enjoy, but I personally had a hard time coming to grips with the bleak despair that grips many of the segments.  True, the Coens are rather famous for poking the mind into contemplation of the potentially very empty nature of existence, but their better works are more creative and genuinely thought-provoking that Buster Scruggs manages to be, or at least the first part is; I do feel the second half is eminently stronger in its setups and payoffs. 

            This is not to detract from the strength of the film as a whole- though it will never make my upper ranks of their filmography, Buster Scruggs is another expertly-crafted and memorable work by one of the greatest filmmaking duos in cinematic history.  It is a must-see for any fans of their style, and for anyone hankering for a fresh spin on the Western. 

-Noah Franc

Review: The Guilty (Den Skyldige)

The Guilty (2018): Written by Gustav Moeller and Emil Nygaard Albertsen, directed by Gustav Moeller.  Starring: Jakob Cedergren.  Running Time: 85 minutes. 

Rating: 4/4

            The Guilty, from Danish director Gustav Moeller, is a case study on how to draw cinematic greatness out of the most barebone of building blocks  It is minimalist in the extreme, yet despite that- or, perhaps, very well because of it- it is one of the best films in a year filled with great films, precisely because of how masterfully it uses every shot, every line of dialogue, and every twitch of the main character’s face to build an entire world out of a headset, a desktop, and a flashing red light.  Utilizing a set of just two rooms (one of which is almost always in darkness) and only one on-screen character (the handful of other named players are only heard over the phone, and even then only sporadically), Asger, The Guilty takes a deceptively deep dive into the ways our biases and bigotries- about gender, ethnicity, mental health, law enforcement, and more- can color our responses and reactions to the world, especially in times of crisis, and how costly that can end up being. 

            Asger has been shifted to the graveyard shift at the emergency call center, fielding calls as they come in and forwarding them to the response units in the field.  There is a very specific reason for this, but it is only gradually that we learn why.  That something isn’t right is clear from the start, though, as he clearly loathes being stuck on desk duty, enough that he can’t just forward a call and move on; he has to comment to the caller on where, why, or how they screwed up, and even after forwarding the calls he tries to tell the receiving unit what they should/shouldn’t do to handle each case. 

            Thus, we know right from the start that Asger is, in part, a rather egoistic prick with a massive superiority complex, but as with everything else in the film, this is a bit of a feint.  Each initial impression- the audience’s of Asger, Asger’s of other people, and of the nature of right and wrong, lawful and unlawful- proves to be slightly off in some way, just one small part of a larger, far more messy and complex truth.  As the film is ostensibly about Asger coming to terms with his own shortcomings as a cop and what is required of him to make things better, so too does it challenge the active and attentive viewer to reconsider their own previous assumptions about life’s muddled good/bad spectrum. 

            The reckoning that comes is heralded by a strange call that comes in from a woman in distress, alluding that she might have been kidnapped and taken away from her children.  Asger gathers what information he can from her and forwards it to the local department, but there’s something about the whole situation he just can’t shake.  Soon, instead of waiting for other calls to come in, he’s jotting down notes, doing database searches, making his own deductions about what he thinks is happening, and tries to badger officers from several different departments into chasing down his leads. 

            Though this is a Danish film set in Denmark, and thus no perfect analogue to policing in the United States, in so many ways the movie feels like a thematic commentary on the struggles of modern policing.  Asger is not a deranged, violent, heartless bastard- he operates out of a genuine belief in the existence of right and wrong, a desire to help victims of crime, and of the necessity of enforcing what’s right even if it’s uncomfortable- but he has never before tried to really consider how his own weaknesses can lead to him making things worse, rather than better.  It’s almost as if the film is trying to offer an answer to the bitter question over how someone in law enforcement can seek to be a good person and a good cop without falling into the trap of simply reinforcing existing inequalities and meting out violence to those least deserving of it.  I would be absolutely fascinating to watch the movie again with some American police officers and hear their thoughts on it afterward, though for obvious reasons I can’t see myself getting that chance anytime soon. 

            The film is a slow burn, but paces and builds itself effectively with each passing minute of its runtime.  No shot, no second of filming, no bit of dialogue is wasted, and Jakob Cedergren gives one of the year’s great understated performances in allowing us to see Asger’s thinking change, bit by bit and little by little, until a final revelatory moment where he is forced to confront all at once something he’d desperately been trying to avoid for a long, long time.  The film has been making its rounds internationally and may be shortlisted for the Oscars next year, but there’s no telling where distribution will take it, so make sure to see this one however you can as soon as you can. 

-Noah Franc

Review: Girl

Girl (2018): Written by Lukas Dhont and Angelo Tijssens, directed by Lukas Dhont.  Starring: Victor Polster.  Running Time: 100 minutes. 

Rating: 4/4

UPDATE: After being made aware of very sharp criticisms of this film, which ultimately made me less supportive of the film that I originally was, I wrote a follow-up piece on what changed my mind.  Please click here to read it.  The review below is unchanged from when I first wrote it.  

            From the Low Countries comes, courtesy of the annual Queer Film Festival in Weiterstadt, one of the most searing and deep engagements with the many physical and psychological hurdles of gender transition to come out in years.  Girl, written and directed by Belgian director Lukas Dhont, delves deep into the day to day existence of Lara, a young transgirl in the process of her medical transition.  Since she’s experiencing puberty and growing at the same time, this already-complex process is even more delicate and potentially fraught.   

            While she is clearly blessed with an immensely loving and supporting family and a host of engaged and capable doctors handling her medical procedures, day-to-day teenage life as a transperson is relentlessly brutal, with Lara all too aware of how so many of her classmates and ballet partners see her as more of a curiosity to be poked and prodded rather than a person worthy of respect and dignity.  Her sense of alienation leaves her feeling isolated and alone even though her father desperately tries to reach out and offer his support.  Over time, this alienation grows into a desperation that blinds her to much of the love and support around her, leaving her increasingly incapable of seeing the healthy ways through her struggles.  The climax this builds to includes a moment that induced me to look away from the screen entirely for a bit, the first time in years a film has managed to push me that far. 

            Lara’s alienation, her unending fears and anxieties, are powerfully captured through the use of shots that focuses for extended cuts on her face, setting her apart from the normal scenes of daily teenage life that surround her.  We often see her stand, silent, at a window, watching “normal” teenagers below talking, laughing, making out, and through ’s performance, Lara’s longing is made achingly palpable.  There is a biting authenticity to so many of the scenes featuring Lara’s often rather tortured interactions with people her age. 

            Lara’s father is equally powerful in how earnest and clear his love for his daughter is, and how acutely aware he is that he simply can’t protect her from the worst, even though he wants to.  It is a remarkably acted film through and through. 

            Films, as Roger Ebert loved to say, are machines that generate empathy- the best of them take us out of ourselves and allow us to see, think, and understand as other people in ways that are otherwise next to impossible to achieve.  Girl is one of the year’s finest examples of how film can achieve this, by so perfectly and sensitively delving into how we define gender, both individually and as a society.  It peels back the layers of gentility we like to use in the West to pretend we’ve already created the perfect world, when in fact we still so very far away from one.  No one deserves to experience the humiliations and pains that Lara is forced to endure.  Girl reminds us of why continuing the fight for a world where our Lara’s can exist without fear is so essential, why we can never allow ourselves to let up. 

-Noah Franc

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

Review: Mackie Messer- Brecht’s Threepenny Film

Mackie Messer (2018): Written and directed by Joachim Lang.  Starring: Lars Eidinger, Tobias Moretti, Hannah Herzsprung, Robert Stadloper, Joachim Krol, Claudia Michelsen, Britta Hammelstein.  Running Time: 135 Minutes.  Based on the opera of the same name by Bertolt Brecht. 

Rating: 2.5/4

            The opening texts of Mackie Messer inform us that what we are about to see is inspired by “a film never made.”  What follows are essentially two separate films mashed together in ways designed to make a joke of the very notion of a fourth wall.  The first deals with the meteoric success of Brecht’s Threepenny Opera upon its release (which he cheekily refers to as an attempt to match the “dumbing down” of the German opera scene).  Talk of a film adaptation starts up right away, and Brecht and his co-artists soon sign a contract with a production company.  However, Brecht’s vision and ideas for the movie grow wilder and wilder, until the company, worried about its bottom line, tries to cut him out.  He sues in retaliation, and both the long legal process and the rising power of the Nazis eventually lead to his ideas being shelved and him fleeing the country.  Thank God such studio-artist clashes NEVER happen these days. 

            Parallel to the real-world drama, we see what was supposedly his vision for the film, the story played out in broad strokes (I imagine there were far more details in the opera left out for time’s sake).  Brecht takes both friends and foes alike into his vision (literally!) for the Threepenny film, with Brecht appearing around the characters, on balconies, or in windows, to describe what we are seeing to the skeptical paper-pushers he’s trying to get on board.  It is a fascinating way to both allow Brecht himself to narrate the proceedings (most of his lines are direct quotes from various writings of his) and to work as a way to actually bring his vision as near as possible to what he had hoped the film could be.  And the film’s daring in refusing to stick to any form of logic, in how it jumps in and out of time and space, using all sorts of fun gimmicks to transition between the Opera and “real world,” is a joy to behold. 

            For all its flaws, then, this film is a notable and touching tribute to the power of the individual artistic vision, and a sign that even when more “mainstream” societal forces seem to have won the upper-hand, in the long view of things, art has a way of continuing on and surviving past the pettiness of its origins.  I admit that I am not nearly as well-read in Brecht’s works as I ought to be, so there may very well be an additional value in watching the film for Brecht devotees who are much more deeply versed in the history of this part of his life than I am. 

            But there are, in the end, too many ways the film kneecaps itself needlessly for me to call it a “great” film.  Using direct quotes from Brecht is fine, and Lars Eidinger does a fine job of conveying the presence of someone twice as smart as everyone else in the room, but smartass social critiques that sting wonderfully on paper rarely ever sound like something you would hear in everyday conversation.  And since such statements make up about 98.42% of all of Brecht’s dialogue, the result is that Brecht comes across as less of a character and more like Classic German Literature’s version of Deadpool, good for one-line zingers and not much else. 

            There are also undertones of, if not sexism, then at least assumed masculine superiority in the interactions between Brecht and his fellow artists, including three women who seem to orbit around him like moons.  It is mentioned that he has kids from each of them running around, but we barely see them.  They seem to provide for him and run his house while he writes with brow furrowed, and while he appears to fully respect and treat them as artistic equals, at the end of the day, it’s not them being photographed and quoted by the papers.  What this stems from I can’t say.  Perhaps it’s a case of the film seeking historical accuracy in its gender relations.  Maybe the screenplay was cut down and space to develop the women was left hanging.  Maybe the director just never thought of it.  But it was something I never could stop noticing while I was watching, even though the film never does anything other than entertain. 

            This film will confuse many who do not already know the Threepenny opera or the drama surrounding its origins, so there are likely a great many viewers who will feel too left out in the cold to really like this film.  While I certainly belong to the ranks of the ignorant, though, I found it a fun, daring experience.  I would rather see a dozen films with nerve like this than a hundred from the standard studio fares of today. 

-Noah Franc