It took me a while to confront this film and even longer to muster a reaction. As opposed to the epic and meandering terror composed in The Death of Mr. Lazarescu, 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days keeps its scope contained to basically one room of horror (or at least a few). Cristian Mungiu infuses each long take with unsettling flourishes of character expression and discomfort, making the entire film one long, unsettling look at slow objectification and deep ignorance. Something tells me this film will reveal even more nuances upon further viewings, if I can find the courage to sit through the it again.

Most Mumblecore films drive me nuts with their irritating characters and lackadaisical cinematic style, but there’s an undeniable artistry behind Aaron Katz’s Quiet City which defies easy categorization. The simple narrative trajectory avoids simplicity, relying on the paralleled silence of a city bustling below the surface and two youths eyeing a meaningful connection. Maybe more to follow…

A sublime slice of Southern Americana from John Sayles, a true master of regional storytelling and nuanced ensembles pieces. In Honeydripper, Sayles compliments his usual layered dialogue with an expanding visual dynamic subtly referencing the burning social contexts of the 1950’s. With the help of cinematographer Dick Pope, Sayles instills a roving sense of the past which haunts each character as they traverse through the sunny stillness of the Arkansas countryside, a place framed by blatant racism and subtle jealousy. While music (both played and imagined) helps structure the rambling story, a shared sense of place connects diverging moments of sadness and joy, highlighting the beauty and necessity of each.

Steve Buscemi’s smug D.C. journalist gets into a series of verbal fisticuffs with Sienna Miller’s It Girl actress after their initial interview goes awry, and the proceeding interlude borders on warfare. Despite booze, drugs, and innuendo, each manipulator holds their own, delivering countless barbs of potent wisdom that initially feel well-meaning. Buscemi constantly keeps us guessing as to what’s real, fabricated, or a mix of the two, and the leads perform this dance marvelously. Interview is the kind of throwback theatrical movie where two characters slither around the truth, worm into sensitive spots, and unleash a plague of vindictiveness on each other - the last wo(man) standing wins.  I haven’t seen the Theo van Gogh original, but Buscemi’s re-visioning feels altogether American - the culture of celebrity seems a perfect bedfellow for the corroding ethics of high end political paparazzi. 

After ten years of winemaking, mentoring his filmmaker children, and failing to produce stalled personal epics, Francis Ford Coppola has finally returned to the cinematic landscape. During Coppola’s prolonged absence, his fellow New Hollywood colleagues (Scorsese, Spielberg, Lucas) have experienced continued success and authorial clout, something the bear of the 1970’s American boom hasn’t achieved in a long time. With Youth Without Youth, a modestly budgeted period melodrama consumed with “experimental” stylistics and the issue of time itself, Coppola returns to the auteur’s pedestal with his most muddled and conflicted work, that at times, feels like it could go on forever.

Set in Eastern Europe during the late 1930’s, Youth Without Youth tells of an aged and guilt-ridden professor named Dominic (Tim Roth) who before attempting suicide, gets struck by lighting, barely survives, and begins to grow younger as a result. His memories and knowledge grow more potent and dynamic, not only making him a medical miracle in the eyes of his doctor (Bruno Ganz) but an object of affection for the invading Nazi’s. An intriguing setup no doubt, and Coppola injects a dark sense of menace in these opening scenes, where light and shadow often merge to highlight the unseen metaphysical forces at work. But the story ultimately disintegrates under the pressure of plot twists, character doubles, and countless dissolves, revealing a distracting artificial indulgence posing as a profound core.

Youth Without Youth is startlingly cliche considering its experimental intentions. The lost love at the heart of the film, while completely void of emotion to begin with, functions merely as an excuse to explore the reborn mind of the protagonist. His supposedly “tragic” fall from grace is neither impressive nor fantastic, but entirely muted in terms of drama. Coppola achieves a sort of twisted Avant Garde Noir, but doesn’t have the ambition to reinvent this fascinating merger in a coherent way. What was Coppola’s intentions with this parable about inaction and parallel experiences? It couldn’t have been to create an original or enticing love story, or challenge particular genre conventions at work. Coppola’s failure comes into full focus only as the subtle nuances of mystery hiding in the film’s dark corners turn out to be plastered nostalgia, an oblivious and rambling contemplation of love, desire, and doubt itching to feel important.

Frankly, Paul Schrader’s Washington D.C. drama about a high class male escort named Carter Page (Woody Harrelson) who gets embroiled in a murder investigation isn’t so much bad as it is tepid and inconsequential. Schrader doesn’t descend into his usual sexual explicitness or violence, instead choosing constant innuendo and toned down threats as a guide through the political power plays and manipulations of his characters. This approach continuously flounders, irking out dialogue as if coined by a reformed lobbyist looking to even the score. The corruption, disloyalty, and fluidity at the core of The Walker and it’s sleazy high class expose speak to a human conflict between honor and respect, something Schrader has addressed to much better effect elsewhere, namely in the struggles of the lower class in Blue Collar and Affliction. I’ve found Schrader doesn’t do well when addressing the trials and tribulations of the wealthy elite. For me, Schrader needs the grit and grime of working class anti-heroes to fully explore the harsh themes at the heart of much of his work, which in turn reveals the humanity within a director not especially known for such a trait. 

Give director Denzel Washington credit for tackling some heavy imagery, especially since the film’s young adult protagonists witness these horrific acts of brutality suddenly and without warning. Lasting visual trauma’s become an interesting narrative core for an otherwise standard and safe offering, one that neither threatens the status quo of Hollywood biopics nor completely falls prey to their linear views of history. 

When faced with a catastrophic terrorist attack, should one trust their personal instincts or the mass rhetoric passed on by the first responders in the name of public safety? According to Chris Gorak’s Right at Your Door, a grim, apocalyptic vision of Los Angeles under attack by multiple dirty bombs, either way you’re screwed. It’s a horrifying pessimism that, taking into account our government’s handling of Hurricane Katrina, feels entirely justified.

The film focuses on a regular, if not disengaged thirty-something couple named Brad (Rory Cochrane) and Lexi (Mary McCormick), who wake up one sunny morning, go through an obviously uninspired routine, and set off on their separate ways. He’s a struggling musician and she’s a successful workaholic. When the shit hits the fan, both are rocked to the core by the epic carnage that befalls the city, Brad in the safe confines of their home, Lexi out in the thick of it all, i.e. the freeway. The radio quickly calls the attack chemical, and Brad seals up the house from the inside. Of course, Lexi returns, covered in hazardous debris, demanding to be let it.

The inherent situational drama never lives up to its potential in terms of emotional range and pacing. As the script tries to shove the context for each character to the forefront, even the fascinating and ghastly situation can’t repel the clichéd moments. But the film really isn’t trying to be original in terms of storytelling. In Right at Your Door, the menace of uncertainty and distrust rules the roost, consuming personal relationships, making them seem fleeting, disorienting, and false. It’s a film that confronts a national fear, namely when does mass protectionism outweigh individual needs. Where does each of us fit in to the government’s grand scheme of containment, or sacrifice during such an event? Fraught with spatial peril, Right at Your Door speaks to a disturbing confusion of message during times of domestic crisis, both in terms of communication and ideology. It witnesses an America where entrusted institutions turn faceless in the name of “national security” and the “public’s best interest”, where cynicism and anger fuel a collective unrest. And the result isn’t pretty.

Marc Forster’s well meaning but flawed adaptation of the best selling novel by Khaled Hossieni goes for the emotional jugular, taking this tragic story of lost innocence and forgotten honor framed by 20 years of turbulent Afghan history and tying it into together with a nice, sentimental ribbon. I’m a fan of Marc Forster’s earlier pictures, especially Finding Neverland and Stranger Than Fiction. But those films walk a fine line between sugary sap and honest sentiment, whereas The Kite Runner doesn’t concern itself with such balance. Almost every scene contains crescendos of music, blatant audio flashbacks, and teary-eyed close-ups, all guiding the viewer by the hand toward an easy, Hollywood ending. Its all supposed to add up to something “important”, paralleling the guilt-ridden conscience of one man with that of a country lost to religious fanaticism. Instead, The Kite Runner stumbles over its good intentions and doesn’t explore the psychological facets of this fascinating and complicated story.

My original (and unenthusiastic) review for We Own the Night can be found here. But seeing James Gray’s cop thriller again, I feel it’s better than originally thought and worth discussing a bit more. During my initial theatrical viewing, the film came across as dynamically stylish and light on character, extremely watchable and engaging but disappointing in the end due to its reliance on silly plot devices. The second time around, Gray’s construction of tragedy really hit home for me. The rapport between Joaquin Phoenix and Mark Wahlberg’s conflicted brothers caught on separate sides of the law became more authentic and palpable beyond genre convention. Their respective dramatic compromises, both played out significantly in the final scene, resonate greatly with Gray’s motif of familial sacrifice. While I still reserve the right to roll my eyes during a number of outlandishly implausible scenes in We Own the Night, it’s a work filled with interesting moments of tension dependent on performance and genre. 

I was thoroughly taken with Tamara Jenkins’ The Savages, a smart and affecting independent film about two middle-aged siblings (Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman) tasked with handling their estranged father’s descent into dementia. It’s the kind of film that sneaks up on you, transcending typical “indie” themes of self doubt and guilt by focusing on layered characterizations defined by what’s unsaid. In fact, we only get a momentary glimpse of the past trauma’s these two characters went through during childhood, and that’s via a staged recreation written by Linney’s character. The Savages might initially come across as a depressing take on familiar downer material, but it quickly becomes a first rate drama dealing with the lasting impressions of memory. During it’s stunning final shot, The Savages produces a glaring and innocent image of hope after nearly two hours of rain drenched darkness, a coup in itself. 

I wonder if this film’s detractors realize it’s just a beautiful slice of fantasy and not some realist take on teenage pregnancy? At least Juno has the guts to center a vibrant coming of age story around a strong, vulnerable, and smart young woman (Ellen Page in a great performance), unlike Judd Apatow’s Knocked Up which is primarily concerned with the male ego in terms of female expectations. Sure, the script goes uber hipster at times and the quirkiness overwhelms the senses, but the genuine heart beating underneath the gloss is something to cherish. Just look at the final shot where Juno and Bleeker perform a duet on his front porch. There’s a somber longing to this moment ripe with subtext and substance and worthy of further anaylsis.

Mike Nichols’ problematic and exciting treatment of Congressman Charles Wilson, who single handily helped fund the Afghan Mujahideen against the invading Russians in the 1980’s, is the kind of historical revisionism Hollywood loves - heavy on dramatic weight and light on History. But the film has an energy (mainly due to the first rate performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman as a smarmy and dedicated C.I.A. agent) that’s hard to deny, even when the screenplay and direction seem overt and preachy. Hoffman and Tom Hanks (as Wilson) share a haunting final scene where the disgruntled spy tells the big wig politician of the impending extremism rising up in Afghanistan. The writing of terrorism is on the wall, but the American Government seems too busy celebrating its momentary victory to foresee the horrors to come.

Note: This weekend I caught up with many of the films from 2007 I missed in theaters, which should explain the influx of posts. So on to it.  Instead of trying to describe the altogether strangeness of Lars and The Real Girl, I’ll just suggest you see it and revel in the sublime and subtle performance by Ryan Gosling, the best young American actor working today. Credit must also be given to writer/director Craig Gillespie for not explaining every psychological nuance of Lars’ past trauma, which makes the character and in turn the film even more complex and engaging.

Lets start with the good. Every character in The Golden Compass has an “animal demon”, or a parallel soul, spouting off advice and keeping them safe from harm. It’s an intriguing plot device and wonderfully realized by the filmmakers. However (now for the bad), this fascinating foundation only takes The Golden Compass so far. The CGI visuals, choppy script, and downright lame pacing make the film an awkward beginning to the now abondoned trilogy. It’s like one side of a triangle trying to stand on its own, then falling flat because the lack of depth the material needs seems to be completely absent.  

Peter Hedges’ dramedy about a columnist/widower (Steve Carell) attempting to maneuver around the pain while losing control of his three daughters works best as a singular character study of a man in transition. Carell’s good natured Dan doesn’t quite realize how rapidly the world is changing on him, and as his entire family starts feeling like alien caricatures, the film reveals some pretty interesting revelations about the process of moving on. The “family retreat” setting, already deeply mined in films like The Big Chill and The Family Stone, is pure fluff and ridiculously executed at times. But Carell’s fine lead performance keeps the sentimentality in check, giving Dan in Real Life a charming perception all its own.

Heartbreaking performances from Joaquin Phoenix and Jennifer Connelly (her “realization of guilt” scene is astonishing) can’t save the tired script or generic plot elements on display.

A fun and clever homage to the expansive Disney universe, anchored by the incomparable Amy Adams, whose smile and warmth remains infectious from beginning to end. In the land of No Country For Old Men, There Will Be Blood and Zodiac, where menacing characters and landscapes often define the horizon, Enchanted offers a playful, joyous, and necessary respite from all the darkness.

It’s not enough for Hollywood to simply make films about the various layers of the Iraq conflict by pandering to one side of the political aisle or the other. In my mind, to be successful the productions dealing with this complicated and wide-ranging topic must engage the complexities of the matter (social, economic, militarily) in a meaningful way, attempting at the very least to initiate a dialogue between contrasting views, opinions, and stereotypes that might clarify the muddled air. Easier said than done. Only Haggis’ In the Valley of Elah comes close to putting a personal face on the human cost of the war (admittedly within a blatantly Hollywood construct), while countless others (Redacted, and now Lions For Lambs), diligently preach at the very worst moment to do so. Director/Star Robert Redford’s foray into the political hotbed of Iraq consists of three interlocking stories, taking place at the same time, and showing various points of view on the situation. Meryl Streep’s veteran journalist candidly interviews Tom Cruise’s smug GOP Senator, Redford’s wise professor professes to a smart but wasteful student, and Derek Luke and Michael Pena’s special forces team gets shot down implementing a new plan of attack in Afghanistan. All are connected by policy, history, and (in)action, although none of the three stories thankfully overlap. Redford’s cliff notes version of our current quagmire revels in the obvious points of interest, chasing its tale around the issues just like the impotent policy makers it wants to expose. The most devastating and ultimately interesting theme in Lions For Lambs is the idea of wasted youth, via apathy and war. However, the film’s overhanded jockeying for respect/honor unfortunately limits the scope of these strong ideas, making for a very ordinary and compulsory examination of familiar tragedy. But then again, subtlety has never been Redford’s strong suit as a director. 

Paprika works best while consuming the vast overlapping dreamscapes of its characters’ minds, layering deep into past traumas, guilt, and cinematic imagery. But while the film hypnotically builds a visual scheme in relation to visceral instinct and motivation, the characters themselves never quite compliment Kon’s kaleidoscope of iconography. Ultimately, the hollow nature of the end result outweighs the ambitious and fantastic effort by the filmmakers toward realizing a fusion between technology and dreams.

What a fascinating world Hartley has created with Henry Fool and its sequel Fay Grim. Both are linked by similar conflicts and familiar characters, yet are defined by completely different genres and tones. With Fay Grim, Hartley shifts his focus toward the spy genre, wonderfully inserting his conflicted characters into a vastly contrasting world of espionage and violence, but basing this shift within the overarching story concerning Henry’s eight volume confession. Fay Grim is like a candy store for Hartley/Henry Fool junkies, opening up new portals of viewer investment with more plot enigmas and character possibilities. Hartley smartly focuses his attention on the timeless Parker Posey and her boldly expressive facial ticks, allowing her to embolden a character who in Henry Fool feels left out, but in Fay Grim (hence the title) gets to jump head first into the expanding cat-and-mouse game. Fay’s quest gives Henry a haunting ending of disappointment and regret that makes their lives together both tragic and affirming, entwined and broken. Hartley’s great achievement lies in having created two cinematic siblings that convincingly feed off one another without feeling carbon-copied or tired, a feat rarely achieved these days. 

Robert Zemeckis’ recent foray into animation boggles the mind. Both The Polar Express and Beowulf are clunky, wooden, and sophomoric attempts to bring classic literary adaptations to the quick-cutting MTV generation and each fails miserably. Beowulf is a particularly worrisome piece of work, relentlessly violent, macho, masochistic, and simple. It’s hard to believe this is the same director who brought us Back to the Future and Cast Away, two Hollywood films that transcend genre in fascinating ways. Like many of Zemeckis’ 90’s films (What Lies Beneath, Forrest Gump), Beowulf panders to the lowest common denominator of a certain genre, in this case the historical epic. The film is a series of blunt force traumas to the viewer’s senses, using a ridiculous “realistic” animation approach to the bloody story of Beowulf (Ray Winstone) fighting off Grendel (Crispin Glover) and his demon mother (Angelina Jolie). With the exception of Grendel’s horrifying appearance and Glover’s incredibly wicked incarnation of the monster, every character in Beowulf screams, seduces, and slithers with overbearing intensity, slaying subtlety in the process. 

The best film of 2007 no one saw. Danish director Susanne Bier makes her American debut with this intricately human drama about loss and redemption, two themes that often get simplistic treatment from American films. Things We Lost in the Fire separates itself from other movies dealing with tragedy in the modern day suburban family, including downer fare like House of Sand and Fog, by respecting the emotions of its characters. Specifically, Bier uses Tom Stern’s fluid hand held images and Johan Soderqvist’s classical score to heighten the complex relationship between widowed housewife Audrey Burke (Halle Berry) and her husband Brian’s (David Duchovny) heroine addict childhood friend Jerry Sunborne (Benicio Del Toro). The two are thrust together after Brian’s tragic murder, both floundering under the pressures of life without the man they both loved. Bier treats each scene with a sincerity for the material, seamlessly building Jerry’s interactions with Brian’s children (Dory and Harper) and neighbors without pandering. The film is so strong at eliciting feeling from the simple moments: Dory ducking his head under water for the first time, Harper shooting a basketball, or Audrey’s longing for a familiar sleeping position. Even though these people fall apart emotionally, the film never lets them descend into gratuitous disarray.  Berry and Del Toro produce a chemistry which transcends romance and ends up closer to necessity. Both have never been better. By the end, Things We Lost in the Fire leaves you with a sense of strength and appreciation for the process of life, and not being completely consumed by death as the end result. 

David Slade’s stylish and incredibly gory tale of vampires slaughtering an entire Alaskan town during a month long darkness starts off strong, showing some intimate and gruesome demises, but gets completely undermined by one of the worst endings in a movie last year. For horror fanatics only, and even then it’s a stretch to find redeeming material. Death by buzz-saw perhaps?

A disquieting if not simplistic morality play from South African Gavin Hood about the global ramifications of U.S. foreign policy, specifically a practice entitled “extraordinary rendition.” This particular post 9/11 tactic enables the C.I.A. to ship a terror suspect out of the country to be tortured under a foreign government where human rights become mute. Hood’s three interlocking stories and characters hit dramatic points with little originality or convincing tension for such highly charged subject matter (Reese Witherspoon has more emotional heft in Legally Blonde). But Rendition deals with temporality in fascinating ways, mirroring the viewers assumptions and expectations with that of the characters’ tragic decisions in dealing with love, family, and sacrifice.