Friday, October 31, 2014

It Bleeds, It Leads: NIGHTCRAWLER

Nightcrawler is a slow burn thriller that gets the entirety of its suspense out of the electric sociopathy of its lead role. We first meet Louis Bloom stealing metal to sell for scrap. He’s desperate for employment, but possesses an eerie confidence, having pumped his head full of free online business courses, DIY sloganeering, self-help mumbo jumbo, and faux-MBA jargon. A chance encounter with a news crew starts the wheels in his head spinning. Soon, he’s roaming the Los Angeles night, police scanner running and camcorder at the ready, charging hard towards the first rung in the news business: collecting footage of accidents and violent crime for sale to the highest bidder. Because it’s clear that he’ll do anything to get ahead, and views people only as tools to either take advantage of or cast aside, this bottom-feeding can’t be good news for the rest of us. He’s a danger.

Jake Gyllenhaal plays Bloom in an intense, unforgiving performance that takes everything appealing and earnest (sometimes overly so) about his screen persona and turns it rotten. His driven, desperate mania is scary. This man is capable of the same Gyllenhaal ingratiating puppy dog eyes and easy grin, but they are made creepy by his intensity of focus and the vacant space where his ethics and empathy should be. With an arresting, unblinking calm, he walks through the picture with big bug eyes, a gaunt wiry frame, and stringy hair pulled back. He’s part Gordon Gekko, part Travis Bickle, greedy with delusions of grandeur. We don’t know what he’s capable of. He’s awkward, and that’s darkly funny, until it’s clear he could very well hurt someone.

It starts with sneaking past police tape into a home, the better to film the bullet holes in the fridge, right between the family photos he slides around to get a better shot. At a later scene, having arrived before the police, he drags a dead body into a smashed car’s headlights to get a better angle. He’s not a murderer, but that’s the only thing separating him from the serial killing cameraman of Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom. He grins as he films the bloody messes he scavenges the scanner for, sees the violence of man only as a way to make a buck. Luckily for him, the culture is ready to abet his efforts. He meets a night shift news editor for the lowest rated local news station in the area. They just might be able to help each other.

She (Rene Russo, as a shark we’re never sure whether to fear or pity, maybe both) is desperate to increase station ratings, but not so interested in hiring a new freelance film crew, until he brings her gory footage of a mugging victim bleeding out on a gurney. “Call us first,” she tells him, asking specifically for footage of rich white people wronged by people of color. (It’s what really gets the audience scared, and ready to tune in to hear more.) That’s all the encouragement he needs. He hires an assistant, a poor street kid (Riz Ahmed) who takes $30 a night under the table, to help navigate and identify crimes in progress. Together they roar down dark streets, swerving down highways and residential areas alike, chasing the sound of sirens and the distant sight of flashing lights. Their goal is to get as close as possible, as early as possible. Bloom wants better footage than his competitor (Bill Paxton). Ideally, he’ll get there before the cops to ensure that perfect, untouched, lurid Red Asphalt-style fearmongering for the morning news.

Screenwriter Dan Gilroy, who co-wrote Tarsem’s The Fall as well as such gleaming, polished Hollywood product as Real Steel and The Bourne Legacy, here makes his directorial debut. He has written and directed a spare, unsettling character study that bristles with the uncomfortable danger of madness that can sit within the hearts of desperate men, especially those warped by the American dream into monsters of capitalism, who hear “pursuit of happiness” and think “pursuit of profit,” then add “at any cost necessary.” It’s a picture of symbiotic, parasitic dynamics, a business that relies on relaying human misery that makes more money the bloodier and more frightening the footage. It’s the right place for this sociopath to make a mark. Gyllenhaal commits to the ugly irredeemable monster and Gilroy builds a world for him to stalk.

Gilroy has cinematographer Robert Elswit shoot L.A. from unflattering angles, finding strip malls, barren expressways, and rundown parking lots to stage their crime scenes. In between we pass streetlights, stoplights, headlights, briefly providing light to the dark. It’s an unsparingly nocturnal movie, the nighttime shot in the same digital haze Michael Mann’s been working with for a decade, detailed blackness and glow. Daytime is bright, filmic textures, a different world entirely. Bloom doesn’t fit there. He’s a creature of the night. Violence is framed through Bloom’s camera, keeping it largely just off screen, mediated by screens within screens. It emphasizes the disconnectedness this character feels, and emphasizes the eerie, disturbing dispassion. We’re pulled so swiftly into an uneasy worldview that as we’re inexorably moved deeper, tumbling down the slippery slope towards exploitation and obstruction of justice, it feels only natural. And that’s what makes the suspense so effective. How far will he go? How far will we let him?

Sunday, October 26, 2014


Dear White People is an invigorating film, a sharp campus comedy that’s a powerful work of cultural observation and critique. With his debut feature, writer-director Justin Simien proves himself a fresh and vital new voice. The film understands the huge rush of intellectual sparring, the stimulation of smart talk and intellectual experimentation. A clever dissection of identity politics, it is pointed and complicated, as cool, empathetic, and impassioned as it is dryly funny. Set on a fictional Ivy League campus, it’s an unsparing look at campus politics and race relations, but creates such a wonderful cast of original characters that it’s also a sweet character study about people simply trying to assert their race, gender, sexuality, and class and finding themselves tied up in ideological knots, feeling outside pressure to conform to their stereotypes.

We meet several students whose plotlines crisscross throughout the course of the film, each representing a fascinating, vibrant, and thrillingly contradictory collection of viewpoints. It’s smartly constructed so that they’re characters first, their ideas second, but one is inextricable from the other. There’s the impassioned black student activist (Tessa Thompson) who writes tracts, makes student films (her “Rebirth of a Nation,” for example), holds demonstrations, and hosts a campus radio show called “Dear White People.” It’s filled with barbs like, “Dear White People, the minimum requirement of black friends needed to not seem racist has just been raised.” Her secret white boyfriend (Justin Dobies) tells her she should “hold up a mirror, not drop an ideological piano” on her audience. Her supporters at the black student union (led by Marque Richardson) agitate for her to push their agenda forward. Other black students, like an econ major and striving reality show aspirant (Teyonah Parris), call her “blacker-than-thou” and a “bougie Lisa Bonet wannabe.”

A more neutral party is the aimless gay sophomore (Tyler James Williams) whose afro and skin color get him a job at the school newspaper, since they all feel too white to write about this controversy. Still others, like the handsome president (Brandon P. Bell) of the historically all-black dorm about to be gutted by a “housing randomization act,” who happens to be son of the Dean of Students (Dennis Haysbert), doesn’t see what all the fuss is about. He starts to feel the activist heat when she decides to take his place. The film’s perceptive in its creation of a variety of roles for black actors, speaking from a multiplicity of experiences and backgrounds.

But this is also a movie about white people. The black student activists, but especially the radio show, annoy the white frat bros (led by Kyle Gallner) who think the hardest thing to be in American society is an educated white man. The head bro is the son of the college’s president (Peter Syvertsen) who is somehow sure racism is over, not knowing that his son’s frat party is poised to be flagrantly racist, complete with white students in blackface. They think meaning it as a joke makes it somehow okay. We sit with them and understand their perspective, even though the conclusions they draw are deeply flawed. A prologue showed us news coverage of said party before flashing back to the beginning of the fall semester, so we know it’s happening. The film is clever in slowly teasing out the campus culture that allows it to bubble up in the first place.

While that’s a lot of characters and subplots to juggle and a great thorny tangle of modern identity, Simien keeps the ensemble storylines moving along. He cares about his characters, making sure none become mere punchline, or are artificially weakened to make a political point. It’s a comedy, more of situation and recognition than snap, crackle, pop. But the dialogue is written and performed with a heightened crackling intelligence. And it never feels like Simien has them reading passages from a doctoral thesis. It’s a film about real people dealing with how they define themselves and how others define them, struggling to perform their identities as they live, love, and argue in the forge of identity that college can be.

And that’s what makes conversations about societal expectations, stereotypes, cultural appropriation, “ironic” racism, and code switching all the more powerful. Where else but college do you have the freedom to talk about these ideas and live them at the same time? It’s an authentically collegiate experience, with kids grappling with the big issues while living out a microcosm of the world at large. Some of them want to hold court and get in philosophical debates in the cafeteria. Others just want to study, or hook up, or smoke weed.

This is a fun ensemble comedy with characters I cared about, every major role expertly inhabited by a well-cast performer. It also happens to be one of the most politically vital works of pop filmmaking in quite some time. It takes a long, hard look at the variety of ways we interact with a variety of identities, spotting prejudiced aggressions big and small, in the context of a funny, romantic, sometimes moving entertainment. It’s not often a movie comes along that’s so hugely satisfying and so intoxicatingly intelligent.

Simien is a welcome new voice, using his talents to create one of the smartest, liveliest films of the year. He's a promising first-time director, excited to be playing with technique, with slow zooms, chapter headings, and voice over for emphasis and structure. Perhaps most effective is the way he takes certain confrontations – a conversation between the president and the dean, say – that could be filmed in a simple two shot and instead cuts back and forth between characters speaking in profile towards each other. This emphasizes the disjunction, how quickly honest discussion of race becomes pointless. They’re trapped in their own boxes, talking past each other.

Dear White People is about the hard work of breaking down those boxes, finding barriers where they usually can’t be seen, and especially as people run into differences between the way they want to be seen and how others see them. Identity is more than a collection of signifiers and affectations, no matter how convenient it is for media, corporations, institutions, friends and neighbors to reduce you to them. Here's a movie that says it's okay to love Spike Lee and Taylor Swift. (Whew.) Simien writes wonderfully complicated characters in a film that gives them space to be themselves, to argue and grow. It doesn’t solve problems or wallow in them, but serves them up in the context of a story well told. It’s a powerful, nuanced work of cultural critique that’s also a fun time at the movies. 

Saturday, October 25, 2014


At the corner of anxious depression and artistic frustration is Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance), an emotionally and physically claustrophobic backstage comedy of sorts. It stars Michael Keaton as an actor on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He plays Riggan Thomson, an actor whose stardom peaked two decades ago with his role as Birdman in a series of superhero movies and now sees his mental state rapidly deteriorating as his passion project comeback – writing, directing, and starring in a Broadway play based on a Carver story – nears opening night. If the first part of the conceit sounds a lot like Keaton, who two decades ago left the Batman series and is now in what’s being touted as a “comeback role,” lets hope his psyche’s in a better state.

The film floats through lengthy Steadicam takes from master cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki edited to look (nearly) like one long fluid shot. Hardly novel, Hitchcock made one film look like one shot all the way back in 1948 with Rope. But it’s a trick so few attempt that it retains an impressive power. It’s transfixing, sliding through rehearsals and previews with smart elisions of time as the camera roams in and around this New York theater on the week leading up to the opening night. As characters zip in and out of scenes with expertly timed dialogue and blocking, I sometimes sat back from the proceedings, simply enjoying the logistical satisfaction of so many moving parts coming together. It’s a little better than a gimmick, effectively trapping the audience in the film’s headspace with no down time. The pressure is high. The walls are closing in.

Keaton, one of our finest actors when it comes to exploring the wilds between id and ego, does a terrific job holding down the increasingly mad center of the film. His character is a pitiable narcissist who has bitten off more than he can chew. He’s doing this to be relevant, to be loved, and to make art, definitely in that order. He’s frazzled, overwhelmed by the multitasking asked of a multi-hyphenate, his only solace talking to the voice hallucinating inside his head egging him on for better or usually worse. Surrounding him is a fine collection of showbiz types. There’s the exasperated producer (Zack Galifianakis), the leading ladies (Naomi Watts and Andrea Riseborough), the preening Method actor (Edward Norton), the ex-wife (Amy Ryan), a critic (Lindsay Duncan), and stagehands (including Merrit Wever). Best is Emma Stone as Keaton’s ex-addict daughter working as his assistant, a non-showbiz voice in rooms of people rapidly disappearing up their own egos.

The parts are performed with great precision, words spat out in rapid-fire monologues and tense dialogues that harmonize with the all-drum-solo score from Antonio Sanchez. Together they’re an endless clanging keeping the entire experience off balance and driving forward. The cast is free of the usual shot/reverse shot coverage, allowing them greater control over the rhythms and pauses, the psychological space as well as the physical. They create a world of people symbiotically clinging to each other as both a career move and an artistic expression, acting out their interpersonal dramas in the wings and dressing rooms before sublimating those energies into performances on stage. Their banter is as crisp and funny as it is painful, and the laughs start to choke off the more desperately the sweat appears. Narcissism and insecurity make a potent mix, one the film is unrelenting in conjuring.

At first it appears tonally different and a stylistic outlier in Iñárritu’s oeuvre. It’s lighter, more fluid, and about a feeling of emotional constipation and professional frustration that, though deeply felt and important to the characters, pales in severity to the violence and misery on display in his Very Serious Dramas Amores Perros, 21 Grams, and Babel. I appreciated those film’s miserabilist impulses, but he hit a wall with the dire Biutiful, luxuriating in signifiers of importance without much more to say with them. So on the one hand, Birdman’s relative lightness on its feet is a much-needed artistic rejuvenation. On the other, it’s as deeply pessimistic as anything he’s made. It loathes, thinking artists are egomaniacs, Hollywood is hollow, critics are lazy, and audiences are stupid at worst, gullible at best. The core of rage in Keaton’s performance, playing a character who feels most upset that after all this effort he may not receive affection for it, plays off this omnidirectional frustration that assumes the worst out of everyone.

Birdman’s bravura cinematography is also a reflection of this cramped, thematically repetitive expression, as pressure mounts and the play stumbles on its way to opening night, the drums clanging, the camera ceaselessly swirling, the cast executing their tightly choreographed blocking. It plays on the surface pleasures of the backstage drama, threading it with humor sometimes so dark it borders on gallows. By the end, it’s miserable. Still, it’s hard to look away from such a high wire act on the last nerve’s edge tension between comedy and tragedy. You get the sense Riggan’s entire existence depends on this play going well. And given his, and the film’s, tendency to assume the worst, the outcome looks bleak, indeed.

Man of Action: JOHN WICK

The set up is standard revenge action stuff. A dangerous guy has put aside his history of violence, but then a bad thing is done to something he loves. Violence ensues. In the case of John Wick, the dangerous guy is John Wick (duh), a retired contract killer. His 1969 Ford Mustang is stolen and, to make matters worse, his dog is killed by the stupid son of a mob boss. This makes John Wick very mad. Not since 2005’s martial arts picture The Protector sent Tony Jaa looking for his stolen elephant has so much violence followed a wrong done to a beloved pet. In Wick’s defense, the dog is a great movie dog, perfectly behaved out of the box and cute as all get out. I wanted to wipe off the fake blood and take it home myself. But Wick’s especially ticked off because the dog was the final present from his recently deceased wife. And since he can’t very well get revenge on the disease that took her, the punks that clubbed his dog will be the next best thing.

The entire film is devoted to Wick’s attempts to get to the mob boss son, killing his way through set pieces in which the bad guys line up to stop him and end up shooting galleries. Sometimes one of the anonymous muscled guys holds his own for a moment and we get some tight, bruising hand-to-hand gun fu combat. There’s really not much to the plot beyond these nicely done spurts of violence involving guns, knives, cars, and the occasional random object deployed for clever effect. There’s no frills, no fat, just lean, efficient, bloody action filmmaking that takes time to linger on the pain and confusion of the violence. Wick stops to get patched up after one particularly close scrape, asking the doctor doing the stitching how active he can be with such an injury. The doc casually hands him some pills and warns him that he’ll tear if he overdoes it. But, hoo boy, is he about to overdo it. He’s only halfway through the runtime!

It’s a pretty dumb action movie, but awfully smart about its dumbness. It starts with a solid center, casting the always-reliable, often unfairly underrated, action movie centerpiece Keanu Reeves as Wick. It’s not entirely coincidence he’s ended up in so many memorable actioners over the last twenty plus years, from Point Break and Speed to The Matrix and Constantine. He specializes in characters who keep their cool, are stoic, sardonic, professional, and seemingly unflappable, making it all the more impactful when he’s flapped, as he often is at some point. Here stuntman Chad Stahelski, making his directorial debut, is guiding the project. He works Reeves’ spacey distance for dramatic effect, making us feel the hyper-confident man beneath his mournful, detached, and determined present state. It could easily be a role filled by Liam Neeson (if he wasn’t making A Walk Among the Tombstones at the time) or Denzel Washington (ditto The Equalizer), but Reeves make it something uniquely his own. He has an eerie calm and smooth remove bubbling over with pain as he grits his teeth and goes back to work.

As Reeves races through the film’s action paces – a gunfight in a nightclub here, an attack on his glass-filled home (the better to shatter during a fight) there – he encounters an ensemble of familiar faces in bit parts. They’re the kind of small flavoring performers who turn up a few times throughout and only need to show their faces to suggest richer inner lives and backstories than the movie has time or need for. There’s the mob boss (Michael Nyqvist) and his son (Alfie Allen), their lawyer (Dean Winters), their hitmen (Willem Dafoe, Adrianne Palicki), and other assorted helps and hindrances (Ian McShane, Clarke Peters, Lance Reddick, John Leguizamo). They add distinctive spices to their scenes, which are propelled along by Reeves and his sense of mission, which Stahelski smartly foregrounds every step of the way.

I liked the film’s straight-faced goofy B-movie conception of New York-based contract killers as a chummy clubhouse society with codes of conduct, secret doorways, and where everybody knows each other’s name. They even use the same shady industrial waste company to quietly clean up the bodies. That’s a dryly funny detail. So is the hotel that seems to cater exclusively to their kind. They all know what's coming. Before the action kicks in, Nyqvist asks Leguizamo whom his son has wronged. At the sound of the words “John Wick,” his face falls as he quietly prepares for the shoot-‘em-up he can see forming before his very eyes. Stahelski and crew deliver on that promise, Derek Kolstad’s uncomplicatedly effectual screenplay providing a variety of contexts for proof of John Wick’s deadly competence. It’s a modest, effective, action flick that hits the right buttons. Its style is simple digital photography, slick but unadorned, catching every well-choreographed kick and shot. Its every action hits with impact. It knows what it wants to do and does what it does well.

Thursday, October 23, 2014


There was something wrong with Kat’s mother. She cried at strange times. She behaved awkwardly around guests. And one day, when Kat came home from school, her mother was napping in her daughter’s bedroom, all dressed up in gown, heels, and pearls. But Kat was busy finding love with the neighbor boy and hanging out with her friends. They didn’t have time to dwell on such peculiarities. Then, just as Kat was coming into her own, exploring more mature facets of herself as she prepared for graduation and adulthood, her mother disappeared. Now she and her father go about their routines dazed, the case growing cold as life moves on.

The mother’s absence informs the rest of White Bird in a Blizzard. Based on the novel by Laura Kasischke, it’s the latest film from writer-director Gregg Araki, whose work narrows in on emotional displacement in a variety of contexts. His work as an early-90’s indie provocateur has, over the course of his career, been distilled into pure moody energy with his prankish spirit tamed but present. He’s been able to mellow his mischievous impulses into mannered, languid considerations of people who are unmoored, searching for answers about who they are and where they’re going. In the last decade, he’s given us a thoughtful, empathetic child abuse survivor drama (Mysterious Skin), a hilariously spacey pothead comedy (Smiley Face), and a raucous paranormal pre-apocalyptic college sex farce (Kaboom). Talk about range.

In White Bird in a Blizzard, the least of his recent features but interesting all the same, Shailene Woodley stars as a girl who is jolted by her mother (Eva Green) simply vanishing without a trace. She finds her boyfriend (Shiloh Fernandez) pulling away, her dad (Christopher Meloni) putting on a brave face, her best friends (Gabourey Sidibe and Mark Indelicato) ready to talk, a psychiatrist (Angela Bassett) lending a compassionate ear, and a detective (Thomas Jane) investigating the disappearance and creepily flirting with her, too. Woodley moves through her relationships with an open body language that betrays her confidence-covered insecurities quick to appear when she’s pained. It’s another of her fine-tuned emotional teen roles (after The Descendents, The Spectacular Now, and The Fault in Our Stars), and here, in perhaps her most vulnerable performance, she finds a similar core of strength and determination to make the best of a bad situation.

As Kat moves on with her life, Araki threads flashbacks of her mother’s eccentricities into the aftermath of the sudden void. She was loving, sometimes distant, excitable, but prone to melancholy. Green’s performance is wild-eyed scene-chewing, dominating even in its absence. But the absence becomes normalized, just another thing to deal with in a busy teen life, like the haunting dreams of Kat’s mother emerging from a snow storm that repeat with ominous regularity. Araki gives the film, past and present alike, a hazy mood in a locked down camera and cinematographer Sandra Valde-Hansen's near-Sirkian color palate. It’s a period piece – 1988, to be exact – but, though it gets details right, it feels closer to sickly 50’s melodrama, the kind where the rot’s showing through the surface shine. Something is not right here, a dangling unsolved mystery. The initial shock has worn off, but the pain remains.

The film has tender character work in a somnambulant plot. Kat moves forward, the ensemble (fine performances all) relating to her in a variety of mostly normal ways as she finishes high school, chooses a college, and moves away. All the while, the mystery remains, a nagging thought in the back of her mind, and ours. Where did her mother go? There comes a point when Araki’s direction signals the answer so far in advance of the characters learning it that the final scenes feel agonizingly empty, a wait for an underwhelming reveal to make itself fully known.

Until then, though, it’s a minor key work of small gestures and controlled style, nothing overwhelming, but quiet, insinuating, and full of stunned pain, stunted rebellion. Being on the cusp of adulthood is confusing enough under normal circumstances. Here, that confusion is magnified by the missing person mystery, making coming of age an all the more uneasy process.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


It’s easy to see Jason Reitman’s ambition for Men, Women & Children to be a big statement about How We Live Now. The film is a Very Serious ensemble drama about a cross-section of characters living intertwined melodramas a la Crash or Babel. In this case they’re a bunch of high schoolers and their parents in suburban Texas – though really a vague Modern Anytown, USA – who live disconnected from their feelings and each other. We see lives of quiet desperation mediated by screens showing digital spaces that alternately soothe and exacerbate their problems. Fair enough, but despite fitfully operating as effective drama, it’s clearly a movie built thesis statement backwards into character and incident, frozen by its own sense of importance. Worse, there’s not much to its thesis, which is as muddled as it is trite, developing its emptiness with a heavy hand.

I suppose muddled moralizing speaks, even accidentally, to our societal ambivalence towards technology. It’d be an interesting idea around which to build a drama, but Reitman, adapting with Erin Cressida Wilson a novel by Chad Kultgen, creates a series of events that reflect bland reprimand, concerned handwringing, or vacuous same-as-it-ever-was resignation, sometimes all at once. Caught halfway between scolding and shrugging, it has a view of the Internet that feels so outdated and incomplete I almost expected to hear a modem dial up on the soundtrack. Plot threads involve infidelities, romances, repression, self-harm, painful yearning, and a variety of questionable decisions. Each is filtered through and aided by the Internet. That’s what gives it a patina of timeliness around which it spins rather empty, cliché stories saved only fitfully by strong acting across the board.

The best plotline, perhaps because it draws best on the small character work Reitman did well in better movies like Juno and Young Adult, involves two high school kids dealing with emotional issues. She (Kaitlyn Dever, of Short Term 12 and ABC’s Last Man Standing) is a loner, bookish, sweet, and under the surveillance of a technophobe mother (Jennifer Garner). He (Ansel Elgort, of The Fault in Our Stars) is a football player who quit the team when his mom left the family, leaving his dad (Dean Norris) inattentive to his son’s depression. The kids forge a connection that feels genuine, and twists around the tech in a reasonably convincing way. Other stories aren’t as successful. A bored married couple (Rosemarie DeWitt and Adam Sandler) each secretly turn to the web to find affairs, a plotline that’s a weird blend of shame and forgiveness and, unfortunately, does not turn into a “Piña Colada Song” situation. Their son (Travis Tope) is addicted to porn. His real-life crush is a fame-hungry cheerleader (Olivia Crocicchia) whose mother (Judy Greer) lets her start a modeling website. Meanwhile, a fellow cheerleader (Elena Kampouris) suffers from body image problems brought about by bullying and egged on by online friends.

With a sprawling Message Movie format, there is unevenness built into the structure. Individual stories or scenes work well, but the big picture is a muddle of good intentions, flawed observations, and bad decisions. It’s all tied together with arch narration (by Emma Thompson, speaking in a voice not too far from her Stranger Than Fiction storyteller) that prattles on against the backdrop of space, speaking about Carl Sagan as NASA hardware floats by. Then she’ll dip down with an edit into quotidian explanations about character thoughts and actions, drolly telling us details we can plainly see before us. Reitman’s repetitive screenplay includes heavy-handed, awkwardly inserted, digressions reflecting on 9/11 and “my, how much the world has changed.” Yes. And? It’s a dash of self-serious muttering.

The film’s worst tendencies are reflected in Garner’s character, who has a keystroke logger on her daughter’s devices and hosts fearmongering info sessions for fellow parents. She starts as a humorless paranoid scold who means well. Over the course of her storyline, she goes from spying on everything her daughter does to stopping cold turkey. In the world of this movie, it’s all or nothing, ignoring both the very real benefits of parental oversight and the virtues of trust and flexibility. It’s too uncomfortable lingering in grey areas, too eager to wrap up conflicts. So much so that for all its overt exploring of the screen-saturated culture’s impact on individuals – I liked a recurring image of crowds, everyone looking at screens, their apps hovering translucently above them like a cloud of distraction – the worst events any characters go through happen entirely (or almost entirely) offline.

The movie seems to want a Big Statement, but isn’t sure what to say. In some way’s it’s progressive, acknowledging that sometimes lonely, socially isolated people can find solace online that can improve their real world well being. And it’s certainly true that one can get lost in the muck of the web’s worst tendencies. Our world is complex. But every story in this movie that resolves wraps up neatly with a pat Internet-good-for-this, Internet-bad-for-that judgment. Other storylines drop off without resolution, maybe for the best, since I don’t think the filmmakers, though they bring the subjects up, had meaningful discussion of body image, sexual fantasies, or sex work in them. What’s here is an attempt to pass off well-intentioned fumbling in the shallow end as an important deep dive.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Love and Death: THE BOOK OF LIFE

Inspired by Mexican legend, The Book of Life is a computer-animated film that gives itself the freedom to make its own distinct visual style. Where other CG family films are content with plasticine cartoony versions or finely detailed approximations of our world, this energetic creation unfolds as a constant and consistent visual marvel all its own. Director Jorge R. Gutierrez and his team of artists invent a world of the imagination, a 19th century Mexican village populated by archetypes and passions sitting atop a fantasy realm. The character designs look like carved wooden puppets, hinges for joints, clothes and facial features painted on. It’s a unique look, a blend of 2D and 3D that places computerized bounce and expressiveness over ancient techniques. This tension in the style helps animate a story explicitly about history, about remembering, about myth and fate.

The screenplay by Gutierrez and co-writer Douglas Langdale is a set of nested episodic stories. We start with a museum guide (Christina Applegate) leading a tour group of silly kids through a display of Mexican history, preparing to tell them an old story about a special Day of the Dead, the November holiday for remembering those who have passed on. And so back we go into a mythic, exaggerated past Mexico where, in a small village, two little boys are in love with the same girl. One of them might just marry her. The rulers of the underworld, a calavera-faced doll with a candle-topped sombrero for a queen (Kate del Castillo), the other a snaky, bearded, winged sorcerer king (Ron Perlman), make a bet on which boy will get that chance. The film then plays out on two planes of existence, a mortal realm where the trio grows into young adults turning friendship into potential romance, and a supernatural realm populated with spirits, ghosts, and magical beings.

Warm voice performances flesh out the central romantic triangle, with a conflicted bullfighter who’d rather be a singer (Diego Luna) and a town hero with a magic medal (Channing Tatum) vying for the attention of the kindhearted mayor’s daughter (Zoe Saldana). In a refreshing change of pace, the jealousies aren’t too fraught and the girl makes clear she’s not even sure if she needs a man in her life, and certainly not one who’d hold her back. Eventually, fate steps in and traps a character in the afterlife, forcing a scramble through phantasmagoric imagery alluring, morbid, and madcap to resolve plot threads in a way that can bring living and dead together to make things right. Imagery includes skeletons, deities, flames, buffets, floating walkways, waterfalls, flickering candles, a rolling labyrinth, and a sentient book, to name a few.

Told in typical family animation style, the movie has fast paced romance and daring do, zippy throwaway gags, musical numbers, and lessons about believing in yourself and loving your kith and kin. But under Gutierrez’s direction, the film is more eccentric than the usual CG family friendly fare. The musical numbers are a collection of sweet new ditties and preexisting tracks from a bizarrely diverse group including Biz Markie, Radiohead, Elvis, and Mumford & Sons. But it’s really the copious cultural specificity that sells it, from those songs played in a fun mariachi influenced style, to the thick accents, luchadores, bullfighting, and authentic Mexican touches in every corner of the design. It’s worth seeing just to marvel at the sights, appreciate the attention to detail, and to hear an endless parade of wonderful Spanish and Latin American voices (Hector Elizondo, Danny Trejo, Placido Domingo, Gabriel Iglesias, Cheech Marin, and more).

But it’s not just a delight to see and hear. The story has genuine weight and wonder, ultimately moving in its portrayal of familial and cultural history and the restorative power they can bring. The love story is broadly appealing and sturdily constructed, and the trapped-in-the-underworld plotline has mythic resonance while being a great excuse for beautifully imagined fantasy. I was invested in these little CG wooden puppet people’s lives and wanted to see them work their way to a happy ending as brightly colored, briskly paced, and vividly fantasized as their trials and tribulations.

Best of all is the tenderness with which the subject of death is treated. It treads lightly and compassionately in creating a fantasy about life and death that respects old traditions and meets its target audience on their level. It’s an exuberant and gentle macabre tone that’s entertaining and weirdly comforting. Death is natural, it says, but the lessons and love left behind by the dead can provide you the strength and courage to keep on living. Their stories can help you write your own. That The Book of Life can do that and be fast, funny, and stylishly involving as well makes it feel all the more welcome.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...