Margot at the Wedding

Quite a comedown from The Squid and the Whale, Noah Baumbach’s new film boasts distinctive performances from Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Jason Leigh (his wife) as a pair of close but equally-impossible sisters, trying to get back together -- and at each other -- after an estrangement. Leigh is getting married to not-at-all-lovable loser Jack Black, and Kidman comes to the wedding -- along with her young teenage son (Zane Pais, performing manfully) -- mainly to talk her out of it. Their relationship is believably quirky and contentious, but the rest of the film does not come off at all. So after casting Laura Linney and then Nicole Kidman as his mom, maybe it’s time for Baumbach to move on from his fraught maternal connection. This was notable as the worst-looking film I’ve seen in ages, though maybe exacerbated by dim projection. It’s set on some undefined East Coast island, but conveys no sense of place at all, either outdoors or in. I appreciate the aspiration, but Noah -- just between me and you -- this ain’t Eric Rohmer. (2007, Images, n.) *6* (MC-66.)

Sophie Scholl: The Final Days

Julia Jentsch is utterly convincing as the anti-Nazi college girl in Marc Rothemund’s meticulous recreation of the White Rose resistance movement at Munich University, through the capture, trial and execution of their ringleaders in 1943. Working from transcripts of interrogations and kangaroo court proceedings, the film offers a realistic depiction of the dialectic of heroism. Youthful idealism stands toe to toe with malevolent fanaticism -- the result is foreordained, but stirring nonetheless. This examination of conscience was as worthy a German nominee for the foreign film Oscar as the winner two years later, The Lives of Others. (2005, dvd, n.) *7* (MC-76 .)

Backward glances

Without any plan, based on broadcast or disk availability, my movie viewing has been proceeding into the past. I’m no fan of Anthony Mingella as a director, but I always like to watch Matt Dillon, so when I happened upon Mr. Wonderful (1992, *6+*) on HBO in HD, I tuned in and was rewarded with a flavorful if unsurprising romantic comedy. Dillon is a Con Ed electrician who spends his days underneath Manhattan, and wants to go in with his buddies on buying and restoring an old bowling alley, if only he could get out of paying alimony by marrying off his ex-wife, Annabella Sciorra, a girl from the neighborhood who left him behind when she went off to college. He is now with nurse Mary-Louise Parker, and the ex is having an affair with her English prof, William Hurt. Annabella is courted by a young and thin James Gandolfini, and Vincent D’Onofrio among others, but we know all along whom she is meant to wind up with. Still a lot of appealing performers convey a lot of local color, and if the story arc is evident from the get-go, there are some enlivening details along the way.

Then over on TCM, they were showing The Hustler (1961, *9*), which I’d re-watched not too long ago when it was only available in the woefully-misnamed “full screen” format. I vowed at that time to watch it again in genuine Cinemascope, and having now done so, I can completely reaffirm its classic status. Paul Newman is all that -- and more -- as pool shark Fast Eddie Felson, while Jackie Gleason and George C. Scott are indelible as Minnesota Fats and the gambler who pushes the buttons and pulls the strings, as is Piper Laurie as “Eddie’s girl,” though her story ends in a not-quite-realized scene that keeps the film out of absolute pantheon status. Robert Rossen does a great job of using the widescreen frame in claustrophobic interiors. Now I will follow up by re-watching Scorsese’s sequel, The Color of Money.

On the other hand, my earlier evaluation was not confirmed by re-watching Excalibur (1981, *6+*), as part of my intermittent Helen Mirren retrospective. Her role was not as large as I remembered, and John Boorman’s direction was not as sure-footed. Visually spectacular in parts, this retelling of Camelot is risible and incoherent in other parts. Though Nigel Terry is okay as Arthur, Lancelot and Guinivere are played by nonentities, and Nicol Williamson is a jokey Merlin. It was probably hard to keep a straight face in returning to this hoary tale after Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but the uncertainty of tone cripples the enterprise. It was amusing to see Liam Neeson, Gabriel Byrne, and others, in small roles at the beginnings of their careers, but this is no classic in need of resurrection.

And neither is The Bishop’s Wife (1947, *6*), which TCM showed on Christmas eve as an alternative to the ubiquitous It’s a Wonderful Life. In this one, Cary Grant is the angel who comes down to help out David Niven, playing an Episcopal bishop who has lost his way in trying to build a new cathedral in a generic, studio-set Manhattan. The bishop has fallen out of touch with his wife, Loretta Young, as well as his vocation, in pursuit of wealthy donors. Cary woos her back, but for the bishop or for himself? Though the charm is largely manufactured, Cary’s definitely got it, whether angel or not (he’s certainly better as no angel in Only Angels Have Wings), and makes the sentiment not a chore to watch.

Breach

Director Billy Ray follows his Shattered Glass with another true-life tale of deception and mendacity, this about an FBI mole who for two decades was passing secrets to the Russians while passing himself off as a pious Catholic straightshooter. The always-interesting Chris Cooper plays Robert Hanssen in the months before he was caught in early 2001, with Ryan Phillippe as the mole’s mole who serves as his clerk and driver, and Laura Linney as the latter’s FBI case agent in bringing down the former. The film has an impressive tenor of D.C. institutional veracity (the clerk’s real-life model was an on-set technical advisor), with authentic performances, especially by Cooper, and understated but gripping suspense. For example, instead of a car chase, the film features a scene of ratcheting tension in gridlock on the parkway. All it really lacks is some final insight into what made Hanssen tick, though its reticence about coming to a simple explanation is probably a virtue. (2007, dvd, n.) *7-* (MC-74.)

Foreign excursions

Lately I’ve been watching a random assortment of foreign films, which I will take note of but not review in any detail. Foremost would be Ridicule (1996, *8*), part of my “In Amorous Fashion” film series at the Clark, which showed to great advantage on the big screen, confirming Patrice Leconte as one of the post-New Wave French directors to watch (like me, he was born in 1947) -- type his last name in “search this blog” box at top of this page to see my reviews of his recent films. This well-made film has the appeal of movie romance, lovely and witty, as well meticulous period depiction of the pre-Revolutionary court of Versailles.

Alain Resnais, along with Eric Rohmer and Claude Chabrol, represents the remnant of the old New Wave that continues to lap against our shores refreshingly. Filling in his filmography, I watched Muriel (1963, *7-*) for the first time, though Resnais made it right between two of my favorites, Hiroshima Mon Amour and Le Guerre Est Finie. The subject matter is not as substantial (though the Algerian War figures largely as backstory), but the method of depiction is striking in its own right, and surprising in that it has not been emulated more (though today it might be compared to music-video style) -- the picture is a mosaic made of shards of action, discontinuous but chronological, that you have to piece together in your own mind, but that add up to strong images of place -- Boulogne -- and character -- Delphine Seyrig is an antiques dealer who accepts a visit from an old flame, who in turn brings a “niece” who falls in with her stepson, with confusion and deception ensuing among the quartet -- in a lively if inconsequential chamber piece.

I am struck by how often, when I give an old film a second chance based on its citations as a classic, my long-ago first reaction is reaffirmed by a re-viewing. I remember my lack of enthusiam for The Conformist (1970, *6*) back in the day, but I’ve grown in appreciation of Bertolucci over the years, so I thought it might be a revelation. It remained, however, gorgeous but nonsensical. Eye-popping in many scenes, there is not a plausible motive or emotion in the motion picture.

Zhang Yimou remains one of the world’s great filmmakers, though these days he seems to alternate between spectacle and sentiment, without the bold critical intelligence that first made a name for him in the West.
Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles (2005, *7-*, MC-73.) is in the vein of Not One Less or The Road Home, folk-tale-inflected depictions of contemporary Chinese peasantry, rather than the martial arts fantasies of Hero, et al. It is notable for surrounding Ken Takakura, known as “the Clint Eastwood of Japan,” with nonprofessional actors, amid astounding locations in Yunnan province, reminiscent of the Rockies and Bryce Canyon out West. Takakura is the impassive father of an estranged but dying son, who takes it into his head to connect with him by going to China to film a folk-opera (titled like the film) for a documentary the son will now never finish. After much low-ley comedy of mistranslation, Takakura goes to fetch the young son of the imprisoned opera singer he wants to film, and predictably, they form a heart-tugging surrogate relationship, though not speaking a word of the other’s language. If a cute kid melting the heart of a crusty old guy, along with breathtaking picture postcards of fascinating foreign terrain, is enough for you, then you should see this movie. Though beautiful, it’s a little overt for me, with an underlining voice-over.

No Country for Old Men

This is undeniably accomplished work by the Coen brothers and their usual creative team, but what exactly is accomplished by it? It’s apparently a faithful adaptation of the Cormac McCarthy novel, but I am no fan of his. It allows Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, and Josh Brolin to put effective flourishes on various macho stereotypes, on the way to delivering blood, mayhem, or their aftermath in nearly every scene. It uses all the resources of film to elicit suspense and dread, but ends up leaving nothing for our pains, or rather our pleasure at the pain of others. If you need more info than that, it’s a story about a big drug deal gone horrifically bad in the Texas desert, the hunter who stumbles on the result and makes off with the cash, and the various guys who come after him to get the money back. Violence ensues, in various quirky and horrific ways, graphic when it wants to be, and show-offy subtle when the point has been made (e.g. a longshot of the hit man coming out of a house and checking the bottom of his shoes for blood, after his latest unseen murder.) Well-made enough to have had an impact if it managed to bring itself round to a meaningful conclusion, the film ends with the shrug of a recounted dream that really left me feeling that I had been had. I have to admit I was along for the ride, but I had no use for the destination. (2007, Images, n.) *7---* (MC-91.)

Factory Girl

As in real life, Edie Sedgwick (Sienna Miller) is a tragic charmer, who is let down by the two men with whom she shares the screen of celebrity. Guy Pearce is mostly believable as Andy Warhol, though the film emphasizes the emotional vacancy over the sly wit. Hayden Christensen is utterly vacant (where’s my lightsaber?) as the foil, a supposedly passionate folksinger who is lightly fictionalized -- here’s a hint: he wears this harmonica contraption around his neck and is reckless with motorcycles. I think we can infer that “Like a Rolling Stone” was written about Edie, but that this film couldn’t afford the music rights or the libel exposure to Dylan himself. Maybe a real actor (Cate Blanchett perhaps, though I have yet to see I’m Not There) could have created a credible simulacrum of that very familiar figure (I just caught on tv a replay of his potent Newport performances from 1963-65), but that big hole in the screen robs the film of significance, and makes it laughable in parts. But come back to Sienna Miller -- this is a star-making performance if I ever saw one. The premise of the film rests on her -- that this poor damaged girl could be a captivating presence -- and by herself she salvages George Hickenlooper’s overreaching film. (2007, dvd, n.) *6* (MC-45.)

Diabolique

I finally caught up with the film Henri-Georges Clouzot made between Wages of Fear and The Mystery of Picasso, two films of particular interest to me, and I was surprised that I had no recollection whatsoever of the film, though the title was so familiar. Just as well, so the suspense was undiluted, even though I did anticipate the final twist, probably because it has been imitated since. Hitchcock is the inevitable point of comparison here, starting from this film’s adaptation of a novel by a pair of French authors who then penned the source of Vertigo. Clouzot is similar not just as a master of cinematic suspense, but as a cold eye with a taste for kinky sexual subtexts, which are ultimately autobiographical. While Hitchcock plays out his murderous erotic fantasies with bland, blond beauties, Clouzot goes one better by casting his dark, fragile wife Vera as the victim of his tale. So presumably he himself is much like the sadistic headmaster in the film, driving all around him to have murderous thoughts, till his desperate wife and icy mistress (Simone Signoret) conspire to remove him from their lives. If you don’t know what happens next, then I won’t spoil it for you, though the twisted view of human nature might qualify your enjoyment of the twists of the story. (1955, TCM/T, n.) *7*

Ace in the Hole

This is Billy Wilder’s most personal and consequently most cynical film. He wrote and produced, as well as directed, so he took the hit when the film flopped, and retreated into presold, collaborative material for the rest of his career (and impressively so -- though I am not among those who count Some Like It Hot as the greatest of screen comedies, The Apartment made a deep impression on me when it first came out, and has remained a potent milestone in my filmgoing history.) Here Kirk Douglas makes for a memorable baddie as an unscrupulous reporter who digs up a great human interest story, and then excavates it to his own advantage and to the fatal disadvantage of his subject. A man is trapped in the cave-in of a cliffside pueblo in New Mexico, and Douglas exploits the accident for maximum coverage, in a forerunner of the media circus we have come to know so well. He hooks up with the trapped man’s wife, a bleach-blond party girl (Jan Stirling) who is trapped in the marriage and schemes her escape. This is noir under the baking desert sun, dark as pitch, with dialogue as hard-boiled as a 20-minute egg. There’s nothing like a sympathetic character in the film, Douglas is a little too much of a journalistic louse for us to believe or care about, and the pace staggers to a prolonged conclusion, so it’s not quite a lost masterpiece but it is awfully tasty and provocative for most of its length. (1951, TCM/T, n.) *7*

Superbad

Not supergood. Maybe I’m getting too old for high school grossout humor. This carries the Apatow brand (and features his repertory company) but wasn’t written or directed by him so maybe there’s an element of Uncle Judd’s maturity missing in this raunchy juvenile slapstick. Here the inmates have taken over the asylum, with the script written by Seth Rogen and his childhood buddy Evan Goldberg, about a character named Seth (Jonah Hill) and his buddy Evan (Michael Cera.) Rogen has a large, maybe too large, supporting role as one of the cops who is more childish than the party-mad kids, on their crazy quest to buy booze to get girls drunk enough to make a mistake -- “And we could be that mistake!” Humiliation is the order of the day, with perhaps a redemptive glimpse of humility. Greg Mottola directs, without any great regard for plausibility and with some distinct misogyny. There is a little poignant truth as well as a lot of raucous humor in the film’s celebration of male teen mania, but nothing one hasn’t seen before and better. (2007, dvd, n.) *6* (MC-76.)

The Railroad Man

Reminiscent of Bicycle Thieves in its neorealist look at a troubled working class father through the eyes of his young son, this film is a station on Pietro Germi’s way to his late, broadly satiric style. He plays the railroad engineer patriarch himself, as his life falls apart from one Christmas to the next, driving his older son and daughter away from home, losing his job through bad luck and excessive homage to the grape, and testing the resolve of his saintly wife. The younger son takes in all this family drama from his partly comprehending perspective, moving through sorrow to a fragile redemption. In the end it might have seemed sentimental or melodramatic, if not for the honest naturalism of character and detail. This is a good but nonessential specimen of later Italian neorealism, flavored by the influence of John Ford; I can’t find fault but I can’t get excited about it either. It does, however, make me glad that my own father made the conscious effort to move beyond the traditional boozy, autocratic style of our Italian forefathers. (1956, dvd, n.) *6+*

The Namesake

I’ve liked all of Mira Nair’s films, so I had high expectations that this film did not fulfill. Its ultimate effect on me was as illustration for an absent text, rather than a film complete in itself. I have not read Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel, but now I’ve seen the movie, and I’m not impressed. There are many good things in the film, but it did not engage me in any profound or sustained way. Pretty people and pretty places, mostly fine characterizations and well-tuned locations, but they just do not accumulate to any focused effect or affect. Bollywood stars Irrfan Khan and Tabu are excellent as a couple who, after an arranged marriage, emigrate from Bengal to the outer boroughs of New York, raising a family through the ’80s and ’90s. The story comes to rest on the slightly shaky shoulders of Kal Penn, who graduates from dope-smoking student (like his Kumar in quest of White Castle) to novice architect, and from a rich WASP princess to a not-so-nice girl from back home. In the process he tries to come to terms with his bifurcated heritage and to choose his real name, between the unlikely literary moniker his father gave him, Gogol, and a Hindu name that is conveniently Anglicized to Nick. The years (and relationships) zip by, and the parents do age convincingly, but it’s just one thing after another -- birth, death, love, grief -- that do not add up to any particular end. (2007, dvd, n.) *6+* (MC-82.)