Last of the best of last year

Resuming my tardy quest for the best films of 2018, I start with Xavier Beauvois’ The Guardians (MC-81, AMZ), a film I would have been happy to program in support of a Millet or Pissarro exhibition at the Clark, for its portrait of rural labor in pre-industrial France.  The film cycles through the years of World War I, as the women take over the title role of maintaining a family farm, while all the capable men are away at the front.  And what women they are!  Nathalie Baye is the matriarch (I’ve admired her since she played the script girl in Truffaut’s Day for Night) and her daughter in reel as well as real life is Laura Smet (they did an excellent episode of Call My Agent together), but the revelation is Iris Bry, who had her career in library science derailed when she was recruited to play the role of the luminous red-haired orphan who is reluctantly hired as help on the farm, much to the benefit of both agriculture and cinema.  Painterly is the inevitable description of the film, and for some it may seem like watching paint dry, but for me it was rich and involving, worthy of comparison to one of my all-time favorite films, Tree of Wooden Clogs.

What does it all mean?  Hard to say, but Burning (MC-90, NFX) makes the question fascinating, and has the patience not to offer an answer.  Until a divisive ending, that is, which separates those who find Chang-dong Lee’s film great, from those who find it only very good indeed.  I was not aware of the source material, a Murakami story out of Faulkner, and was not familiar with the actors, and did not know what I was in for, with this high-rated film.  But I loved it for much of its somewhat-excessive length, just taking in the observant empathy of the Korean writer-director of Secret Sunshine and Poetry, sociologically as well as psychologically acute.  A captivating young woman, sensual and spiritual; a would-be writer consigned to working his family farm; a mysterious Porsche-driving tech entrepreneur.  These three people connect in a way that is anything but a conventional triangle.  Who is leading whom on?  To what end?  Sit tight, and watch. 

You won’t find Juliet, Naked (MC-67, Hulu) on any “Best of 2018” lists, not even mine, but I really enjoyed it.  It’s not easy to find a rom-com that doesn’t insult your intelligence, so this adaptation of a Nick Hornby novel stands out, most particularly for the performances of Rose Byrne, Ethan Hawke and Chris O’Dowd.  If you enjoyed High Fidelity and/or About a Boy, this is definitely worth a look.  O’Dowd is the fanatical mega-fan of the vanished singer-songwriter played by Hawke; Byrne is disenchanted with her long-time partner and his obsession, but happens into an epistolary relationship with the elusive hero.  Jesse Peretz directs in workmanlike fashion, but many hands make for a script of literate froth, and the three stars are at their most appealing and convincing, which is delightful.

On the other hand, I found Robert Redford’s swan song in The Old Man and the Gun (MC-80, HBO) to be pretty disappointing all round.  I’m no fan of writer/director David Lowery, whose work I generally find oblique and empty.  I didn’t object to the “way we were” retrospect on Redford’s career, and welcomed the presence of Sissy Spacek, and even Casey Affleck, but never felt there was anything interesting going on here, either emotionally or visually.

That was the first DVD I’d watched in almost a year, having gone exclusively to streaming, but I happened upon it at the local library, and also few other films that haven’t reached any of my streaming channels yet.  I thought that The Favourite (MC-90, HBO) might figure among my favorites, but no way!  There is much to admire in the film, but director Yorgos Lanthimos will never be on my wavelength; his sensibility seems antithetical to mine, with his general misanthropy and disdain for historical accuracy, along with tendencies that go beyond quirky to downright annoying, such as use of fish-eye lenses and deliberately aggravating music.  Still, Olivia Colman has been justly praised for her portrayal of sickly Queen Anne, Rachel Weisz is quasi-regal as the Duchess of Marlborough, and though miscast, Emma Stone has moments as the ambitious young woman who supplants the Duchess as the Queen’s favorite.  Turning the political struggle into a lesbian triangle (and inferior to Gentleman Jack at that), and dotting the screenplay with anachronistic language and actions, detracts from the overall excellence of the production design.  Having just returned from those haunts, I was prepared to love a film that begins with the Queen giving the Duchess the present of Blenheim Palace, and then has parliamentary scenes shot in the Convocation House and Divinity School of Oxford’s Bodleian Library, but in the end the film neither moved nor tickled me.

On the other hand, I had few expectations for First Man (MC-86, HBO), but was won over by Ryan Gosling’s subdued portrayal of astronaut Neil Armstrong, and I always admire Claire Foy, who plays his wife.  Director Damien Chazelle follows up La La Land with another impressive technical achievement, which still seems somewhat superfluous after The Right Stuff and Apollo 13, not to mention Gravity.  The film does put you convincingly in the driver’s seat of Gemini and Apollo capsules, and recapitulates the history of the space program with an array of familiar faces in supporting roles, and impeccable special effects.  But still, the only scene that truly grabbed me was a kitchen-table encounter the night before the moon mission, when Armstrong is forced by his wife to have a (farewell?) talk with his two young sons.  As a whole, the film is watchable, but not unmissable.

The last and least likely “Best Picture” nominee was Bohemian Rhapsody (MC-49, HBO), which I watched in spite of the reviews, and was not sorry to do so.  I’m nothing like a fan of Freddie Mercury, though I have a passing acquaintance with some of Queen’s ear-worms, but the novelty made this standardized music biopic more interesting than I expected.  Rami Malek creates much of the interest, onstage and backstage, suggesting the performer’s magnetism.  But overall, acting and production values were good, even if the whole thing was more predictable than penetrating.  So the film’s climax did lead me to YouTube for footage of actual Live Aid concert, to confirm how closely the movie recreates the event, which in turn made me realize that a good documentary might have been more satisfying.  (I think, in particular, of docs on Leonard Cohen and Tom Petty that drew me much deeper into their music than I’d been before.)

Free Solo (MC-83, Hulu) was certainly a worthy Oscar winner for documentary feature.  I expected spectacular and vertiginous cinematography of mountain-climbing in Yosemite, but was surprised by the depth and intimacy of character portrayal in this film.  Free solo climber Alex Honnold granted the filmmakers access not just to his exploits but to his psyche.  No film could really explain why he does what he does, ascending sheer walls of stone like El Capitan, alone without any ropes or other margin for error, but this one digs deeper and climbs higher than I could have imagined.  With nary a misstep, thankfully.  Alex may be nuts, but you have to appreciate the majesty of his quest, and the quirky approachability of his personality.  I took the film as a direct rebuttal to myrecent essay propounding a “philosophy of radical ease.”  Alex is rad for sure, but his whole life is a flight from the easy approach to existence.

This time around it wasn’t a scandal when the latest Frederick Wiseman film wasn’t nominated for the Best Documentary Oscar.  Monrovia, Indiana (MC-77, PBS) is middling Wiseman, not in his top 10, or even top 25 probably, but that still makes it one of the most interesting films of the year.  Candidly, his films can be boring to watch – in this case, a high school teacher lecturing his indifferent students on the school’s legacy of basketball supremacy, a Masonic ritual, a Lions Club meeting about donating a bench to the public library, a town council meeting on fire hydrants, old men at the diner discussing their ailments, hairdressing, pizzamaking, tattooing, not to mention the everyday business of taking cows and pigs and corn to market – but through selection, sequencing, and duration, the scenes become indelible, so that connections and meanings emerge in reflection after viewing.  Even settings that seem ripe for incisive commentary or satire – a gun shop, an auction of farm equipment, a sad street fair, a wedding, a funeral – are presented in extended deadpan.  The choice of subject matter after the 2016 election suggests that we will be examining the mindset of Trump-Pence voters, and indeed we are, but their names are never mentioned.  Cumulatively fascinating on its own, this film grows more complicated and expressive in juxtaposition to all of Wiseman’s other films.  Seen in comparison to Belfast, Maine or In Jackson Heights, for example, it takes on added dimension in an overall survey of the institutions of modern American life.

Sally Potter’s The Party (MC-73, Hulu) is a black & white chamber piece for seven woodwinds, excellent instrumentalists all:  Kristin Scott Thomas, Patricia Clarkson, Timothy Spall, Cillian Murphy, Bruno Ganz, Cherry Jones, and Emily Mortimer.  KST is not just hostess of the party, but a leader of the British opposition party, just named Shadow Minister of Health, I gather.  The guests are a mix of political operatives and intellectuals, ostensibly friends but very prickly ones, with one wild card in the mix and the missing eighth guest becoming the crux of the matter.  With a stagey mix of melodrama and brittle comedy, the film covers some ground and uncovers some backstory, but at 71 minutes does not overstay its welcome.

For me Widows (MC-84, HBO) was an afterthought, in more ways than one.  Steve McQueen follows his award-winning 12 Years a Slave with this heist film, meant to be crowd-pleasing but thought-provoking, but falling between two stools.  I am less than thrilled with the thriller genre, and this film’s feminist and political overtones do not overcome my lack of interest, despite star power and filmmaking facility.  Viola Davis leads a group of four struggling women, finding a way to make it on their own.  Liam Neeson is her criminal husband, who disappears with the other husbands, one of many well-portrayed bad men, on both sides of the law.  So the women are forced to make a final score on their own, to get out of the hole their men have dug for them.  The result is more serious than it needs to be, but thereby less convincing than it ought to be, more defeated by genre than elevated above it.

Speaking of genre films that manage to achieve some cultural cachet, I was finally inclined to give the cross-cultural rom-com Crazy Rich Asians (MC-74, HBO) a chance, and I didn’t dislike it as much as I probably should have, “lifestyles of the rich and famous” blah-blah-blah.  But the actors were appealing, the Singapore travelogue was spectacular, the direction nimble and the writing not an embarrassment.  Beyond fulfilling the time-honored (and –dishonored) demands of the genre, the mostly-English-language film is an effective showcase for a disparate group of Asian actors and actresses.

Once I give Roma a second look, and maybe track down a few additional highly-acclaimed titles, I’ll recap my favorites of 2018, but The Hate U Give (MC-81, HBO) will make my best-of list, and I’m happy to close out this post with a strong recommendation.  Adapted from a bestselling YA novel with an intelligent script, and effective direction from George Tillman Jr., plus a standout supporting cast, this film is centered by the transcendent performance of Amandla Stenberg in the lead role.  She’s a 16-year-old living a divided, code-shifting life, coming from a rough neighborhood but attending an overwhelmingly white prep school.  The film starts off as a biracial, bicultural teen romance, but soon expands into a serious portrayal of the roots and reasons of the Black Lives Matter movement.  It could have gone wrong in so many ways, but threads the needle of an entertainment with a serious purpose, without pandering or special pleading.  And Ms. Stenberg is a lovely revelation – we can expect great things from her.

Netflix originality

Since 2000, the majority of my film viewing has come through Netflix, first from their “long-tail” DVD-by-mail service, and subsequently from their streaming service.  By now, however, and by strategic plan, comprehensive selection is a thing of the past, and almost the only thing I watch from Netflix is original programming.  The compensation is that so much of it is so very good.  The profligacy of their spending leaves a margin for genuine artistry.

Films like Roma, Private Life, and Mudbound, or series like The Crown, GLOW, and Russian Doll, are really must-viewing, as much as HBO or any premium cable channel, and more than any network offerings.  As Netflix throws its money around, Medici-style, some of it spills into truly worthwhile and otherwise infeasible projects.

Case in point, Ava Du Vernay’s When They See Us (MC-87, NFX), which initially seems superfluous after the Ken Burns-&-family documentary of The Central Park Five, but as with dueling O.J. Simpson series a few years ago, two high-quality productions complement each other.  And where in the Simpson case, the race card is played to let a guilty man go free, only to end up in jail anyway, in this one innocent children are railroaded and vilified on a racial basis, sent away for years, only to be freed when the actual guilty party confesses, backed by DNA evidence.

In this series of four hour-plus episodes, the first recreates the taped interrogations that led to coerced confessions from the isolated teens, and having seen the actual tapes in the documentary, one might wonder whether that’s necessary, even though the boys’ acting is excellent.  The second episode recounts the trial, in standard if upsetting detail.  In the third episode, families visit the four boys in juvie facilities, which dissolve into scenes of their various difficult homecomings, played by different actors.  The fourth episode follows the one 16-year-old tried as an adult (who was only involved because he accompanied his friend to the police station that fateful night), as he spends 13 years of incarceration shuttling between Rikers and Attica and other grim facilities, much of it in solitary confinement, for his own protection. 

All nine actors are well-matched and very good, calling to mind the boys of the pinnacle fourth season of The Wire.  Among the adults are many well-known actors, too numerous to list, but the casting as whole gets a big thumbs up, along with other production values.

The series is companion piece and follow-up to Du Vernay’s superb documentary 13^th, about race-based mass incarceration as slavery by other means, and puts a very human face on it.  It’s essential viewing, if by no means a fun watch, emotionally harrowing and intellectually enraging.  And timely, when you consider that the bigot who took out full-page newspaper ads calling for the boys’ execution now occupies the White House.

One more product of Netflix largesse is another Bob Dylan documentary from Martin Scorsese, Rolling Thunder Revue (MC-86, NFX), following the 1975 tour of that name.  A fascinating time capsule, with electrifying concert footage, the film is partially derailed by the director trying to follow the performer’s lead, as elusive and allusive sleight-of-hand trickster.  The result is not so much a documentary as an elaborate and unnecessary hoax, as well as overlong.  But still, if you grew up with Bob Dylan, or even if you did not, you will want to revisit these live performances.

Dead to Me (MC-68, NFX) falls somewhere between watchable and not-unmissable, unless like me you’ve had a little crush on Linda Cardellini since Freaks and Geeks.  Here she pairs with an equally - if differently - engaging Christina Applegate, as odd-couple black-comedy friends who meet at a grief support group, after losing their mates.  Apparently, that is, because each of the ten half-hour episodes strives to add twists to the tale, in Netflix’s trademark binge-watch style, reviving the traditional serial cliffhanger.  But any mystery involved pales next to the shifting relationship between the two women, which is spiky and funny and touching, full of lies, evasions, and genuine affection.  You can see why Liz Feldman’s series was renewed for a second season as soon as it came out.

Documentary Now (MC-88, NFX) may not be a Netflix original, but all three seasons are now available there.  This is niche programming at its best.  Each episode is a spot-on parody of a famous documentary, which means barely known to the general public.  Bill Hader and Fred Armisen were among the creators, and frequently star in episodes, but by the third season heavyweights like Michael Keaton and Cate Blanchett put in appearances.  This is a series of serious spoofs.  Start with episodes that parody documentaries you know, or at least know of, to appreciate the knowing humor of the half-hour remake, but don’t hesitate to explore unfamiliar episodes, which might even lead you back to the documentaries themselves, almost all of which are well worth viewing.

Enthroned

Upon return from England, I watched the finales of three highly-regarded series, one of which I loved and two of which I tolerated.  The first is unspoilable, because it is unique and fully-accomplished, so you’ll only find out how good it is by watching for yourself.  The other two are unspoilable, because they’re so predictably unpredictable and widely discoursed upon.  So be forewarned, spoilers will abound in this commentary.

Phoebe Waller-Bridge is the heart and soul of Fleabag (MC-96, AMZ), and what a heart, what a soul!  She’s anything but a goodie-goodie, bit of a pistol actually, but she maintains a wonderful intimacy with the viewer.  “Breaking the fourth wall” is getting to be a thing – vide current series Vanity Fair and Gentleman Jack – but nobody does it better than Phoebe, letting you into her reactions with a glance or an eyebrow, grin or grimace, or tossed-off aside.  Much more than a gimmick, it becomes a window into character and a revealing pact with the audience. The second season is even better than the first, and it’s a shame it seems to be the last.  The show certainly stands as rounded off after twelve half-hour episodes, and after this series and various stage incarnations, all acclaimed, you can see why she’d want to give the material a rest.  She’s certainly capable of much more, in different veins.  In the second season, she tries to clean up her act after the grief-driven debauchery of the first, going so far as to fall in love with a priest (Andrew Scott, aka Moriarity of Sherlock), while trying to reconcile with her sister and father.  It’s all deliriously funny and penetratingly real, swift and deep as a river in flood.

Two HBO shows recently completed their long runs to wide notice.  I’m glad I won’t have to watch any more of either, though I don’t resent the time I spent on them.  I’d given up on Veep (MC-87, HBO) after creator Armando Iannucci left the show, and it descended from the hilarious Shakespearian invective of its British precursor The Thick of It into mere raunch and shock.  But Julia Louis-Dreyfus comes back from a life-threatening illness to revive Selena Meyer’s quest to regain the White House.  With the intervening change in real-life administrations, however, what once seemed like over-the-top, gross-out satire now seems like documentary realism.  Yes, that’s really the way it is in Trump World, revolting as it may seem.  Woe is us, and laughter provides some relief.

Another HBO quest for power, Game of Thrones (MC-74, HBO), relied on spectacle and fan-service to complete its story.  Having run beyond the source material, the conclusion of the series abandoned many of its thematic dimensions and nearly all of its plausible character development, and relied on episode-long battle sequences and manufactured encounters between characters to round off story arcs.  All hail the Starks, I guess, but I doubt that any lasting peace has come to Westeros.  As was said of the Romans, and perhaps all empires, “They make a desert, and call it peace.”

Luckily, with these flagships sailing over the horizon, HBO has quite a bit of interest in the pipeline.  I’ve relished Gentleman Jack (MC-76, HBO), written and directed by Sally Wainwright, filmmaking bard of Yorkshire, known for Happy Valley and Last Tango in Halifax.  Suranne Jones plays Anne Lister, an unabashed lesbian in 1830s England, going her own way, managing her own estate, and courting women for purposes of “marriage.”  Based on her voluminous and encoded diaries, the series has a modern vibe to go with its period-perfect settings and costumes.  Ms. Jones is superlative, and the rest of the cast rises to the occasion, including Sophie Rundle, Gemma Whelan, and Gemma Jones.  The whole series is funny and subtle, rousing and touching, and definitely worthy of its just-announced renewal for a second season.

In fact, I liked it enough to follow up in two directions, watching an earlier BBC version of The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister (AMZ), interesting as a compare and contrast exercise but not in the same league, and another series starring the hitherto unfamiliar Suranne Jones, Doctor Foster (NFX), for which she has won a number of awards.  She’s good, the series is not.  Stick with Gentleman Jack.

Documentaries are another strength of HBO, and I was absorbed by What’s My Name: Muhammed Ali (MC-86, HBO), directed by Antoine Fuqua.  Ali was definitely one of the most mediagenic and emblematic public figures of my youth, and it was a pleasure to relive those years from his perspective, over the course of almost three hours, even if the approach is heavily ring-centric.  It’s amazing how many of his bouts I remember, since I never took much interest in the ludicrously-named “sweet science” of boxing.  But in a brutal sport, he was, and remains in memory, not just the greatest boxer of all time, but an heroic figure of honesty and principle, wit and charm – pretty, too, as he was quick to tell you.  And tragic in his persistence, to the point of brain damage.

I’ll hold this post open long enough to review Big Little Lies, though after one episode of season two, I will say that Meryl Streep is fucking amazing, in the way she builds each of her characters from scratch, without relying on the tricks and good will she has accumulated over the years.

And I use that sort of language in homage to David Milch, who after 13 years and a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s somehow managed to return with Deadwood: The Movie (MC-87, HBO), still inimitable in his melding of the highfalutin’ and the scabrous, winners and losers, good and bad, comic and horrific.  Now this is fan-service done right, providing the long-delayed conclusion to one of the best tv series ever, in a manner that was totally satisfying.  I’ve often thought about going back and watching the whole series all over again, but with this perfect resolution I don’t feel the need to, though I may look in on a random episode or two, for the before and after effect.  I can’t recommend that you start with this postscript, but do suggest you give the series a try from the beginning, assured that it’s good to the very last drop, managing to conclude with an ending reminiscent of Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller or Huston’s (i.e. Joyce’s) The Dead.  Almost all the leading players from the series return – as the story leaps forward ten years, to the day of South Dakota statehood in 1889 – having played enriching roles in the interim (for example, Timothy Olyphant brings a little Raylan Givens back to his Seth Bullock; as his wife, Anna Gunn now carries Skyler White’s baggage; Ian McShane, however, remains indelibly Al Swearengen).  Deadwood itself – which grew through three seasons in the same organic progression as the characters and story, and the unfolding of prolix and profane dialogue – is now a town with brick buildings, several competing hotels, and an actual telephone.  For more than decade, Deadwood fans have lamented the series’ premature cancellation.  Now we can rest easy, having completed so many story arcs, and not feel either exploited or pandered to.   

P.S.  Though a new head plans to take HBO in a different direction, in more direct competition with the big three of streaming, they continue to present premium series for varying tastes.  Years and Years (MC-77, HBO) is one that suits mine, a speculative domestic drama that follows a group of siblings through the next ten years in Britain.  HBO rightfully features Emma Thompson in their promos, but in fact she is a background character, who the real main characters see periodically on TV, as she rises from neophyte politician to prime minister, with her know-nothing but supposedly straight-talking, populist-xenophobic approach.  (Sound familiar?  Spoiler alert: Trump gets re-elected, and hell continues to break loose).  The creator of this co-production with the BBC is Russell T. Davies, a TV veteran whose work is totally unfamiliar to me, but some of the actors were pleasingly familiar from British sitcoms.  Two brothers and two sisters, with their respective families, form the chorus who react to the larger forces impinging on their home lives.  The series is soapy without being stupid, and well-made overall, though it goes seriously off the rails in the last two episodes, after killing off one of the central characters.

And I also enjoyed HBO’s flagship of the moment, Big Little Lies (MC-82, HBO), though I hardly take it as meaningful.  Much like GoT, as it gets beyond the source material, it thins out and devolves into fan service, but I’m a fan of all these women, so I’m satisfied if not convinced.  How could you not want to watch the “Monterey Five” plus Meryl Streep, who gets to confront each of them in turn?  Apparently the series was taken out of the control of director Andrea Arnold, and consigned to a team of editors.  She’s an auteur who probably had something to say, but the final product is a jagged mishmash.  Still, with these actresses and this setting, this is definitely a watchable series, which shouldn’t be stretched any further.

I hope Succession doesn’t lose focus like Lies in the upcoming season, because I’m looking forward to it.  One further bit of HBO programming I want to highlight is the stand-up routine Ramy Youssef: Feelings (HBO).  I’ve already highly recommended Ramy, his eponymous series on Hulu, but this routine makes a nice complement in its thoughtful and funny observations, from a very distinct viewpoint.