Penultimate recap of 2021 films

A number of Oscar nominees for Best Picture came to HBO in March, which prompts this post, which will be my interim report until the year’s final awards are given, the Academy’s and my own.

I had a wide range of reactions to Steven Spielberg’s West Side Story (MC-85, HBO), having grown up with the original cast record on the Victrola, and having recently re-watched the 1961 film for my remembrance of Natalie Wood.  First off, I certainly enjoyed revisiting the musical, and seeing it take to the streets, both choreographically and sociologically.  I thought that’s what the original needed, beyond the exhilarating outdoor opening, but here I had qualms about the mixing of stylized and realistic violence.  Remembering every word of the lyrics, it was fun to see what Spielberg and company could make of them, notably taking “Somewhere” out of the mouths of Tony and Maria and giving it to a new character created for Rita Moreno, sixty years on from her Oscar-winning role in the earlier film version.  Most aspects of this production are impeccable, but I couldn’t help comparing the characters to earlier incarnations.  The new version certainly earns points for more authentic ethnic representation, but as demure and pretty and tuneful as Rachel Zegler may be as Maria, my heart belongs to Natalie (the Russian “Puerto Rican”), even as she lip-synchs.  Ansel Elgort as Tony is an improvement on weak-link Richard Beymer, but not by much.  Ariana DeBose as Anita steps neatly into Moreno’s shoes.  Mike Faist and David Alvarez are edgier and more genuine than Russ Tamblyn and George Chakiris as the leaders of the Jets and Sharks.  And the framing of the story in the period when their respective turfs were being demolished for the construction of Lincoln Center adds a level of historic irony, as well as new perspectives on immigration and class conflict.  The question whether a remake made sense was answered for me by Spielberg’s dedication in the closing credits, “For Dad.”

I can’t fairly assess Drive My Car (MC-91, HBO) after a single viewing (compromised by a capricious subtitle interface on Roku, which necessitated re-watching the conclusion on my computer), but I can confidently assert that Ryusuko Hamaguchi is a masterful filmmaker and deserves any of the four Oscars he is up for.  This film is so dense, detailed, and multilayered that it warrants not just a second look, but exploration of its context and background.  I for one needed to brush up on Chekhov, to take in the dimensions of the multilingual production of Uncle Vanya that the main character is directing in Hiroshima, and on the geography of Japan to appreciate the resonance of the restorative road trip that he and his young female driver take.  Patient and observant, the film takes its time (over three hours) and becomes tremendously moving without ever raising its voice.  The acting is superlative across the board.  Having seen this and Happy Hour, I’m committed to seeing all of Hamaguchi’s work, as a challenge to Hirakazu Kore-eda’s status as my favorite living Japanese director.   So accomplished and prolific at the age of 43, he puts me in mind of Fassbinder.  I’ll have more to say on Hamaguchi in the future.  For now, I’ll just mention that I caught his Asako I&II (2019, MC-68) on the Criterion Channel, and while I was happy to see it, in the context of the length and depth of his other work this tale – of a woman choosing between her absconding first love and the doppelganger she discovers as replacement – seemed little more than an anecdote.

Not a big fan of Wes Anderson, but occasionally he hits my sweet spot, and as a lifelong subscriber to The New Yorker, I was tickled by his parody of the magazine in The French Dispatch (MC-74, HBO).  As is typical of Anderson, this film is designed to within an inch of its life, and moves at dazzling kaleidoscopic speed.  Catch as much as you can while it races by, then maybe take another look to register all the detail.  Mirroring the first fifty years of the NYer, this foreign supplement to the “Liberty Kansas Evening Sun” is presided over by the benevolent tyrant of an editor played by Anderson-regular Bill Murray.  A commemorative final issue is produced upon his death, from which the four following segments are derived.  In the first, Owen Wilson narrates a Talk of the Town-like piece while riding a bike around the magazine’s base in Ennui-sur-Blasé.  In the Arts section, Tilda Swinton lectures on the installation of a massive work by an imprisoned artist played by Benicio del Toro, discovered and promoted by art dealer Adrien Brody.  Next, Frances McDormand reports on the French student uprisings in May 1968, with Timothée Chalamet as their leader.  As a culinary reporter, Jeffrey Wright channels James Baldwin with a dash of A.J. Leibling, to recall the story of the great chef who worked for police commissioner Mathieu Amalric, when the latter’s son was kidnapped in a Keystone Kops caper.  Keep your eyes peeled and you’ll see all the director’s regulars, with a lot of major stars passing through in minor roles, almost unrecognizable in character.  Wes Anderson is always arch and cheeky, but in this case the subject is a perfect match to his antic tone and style.

Wow, I did not expect Licorice Pizza (MC-90, AMZ) to be so bad.  Of the directorial Andersons, I’m generally more receptive to Paul Thomas than to Wes, but this one struck me as a stinker.  I didn’t get the title, I didn’t get the film, and I don’t get this Metacritic rating.  Was this movie supposed to be funny, was I supposed to care about the characters, was any aspect of the filmmaking supposed to be admirable, aside from a few bravura camera moves?  Maybe the music selections?  I’m guessing it’s a generational thing, for a certain cohort this may be what American Graffiti or Dazed and Confused are to myself or others, time capsules that reflect the flavor of a particular era’s youth.  For me it was utterly inert, just lying there on the screen, not stimulating to the brain or any other organ.  The pair of first time actors (Cooper Hoffman, Philip Seymour’s son, and Alana Haim, rock musician) earned praise as an unlikely couple, but did not register on me at all.  Rarely have I felt so out of step with informed opinion.  Your mileage may vary.

Guillermo Del Toro’s Nightmare Alley (MC-70, Hulu or HBO) came with Oscar expectations, given his track record and an all-star cast, and did get a proforma Best Picture nod, plus some technical noms, but did not catch fire with critics or viewers.  There are unquestionably good elements to the film, but it hardly holds together.  Pan’s Labyrinth and The Shape of Water somehow earned their dark vision of humanity, while this just seems to adapt the noir-ish viewpoint of its 1947 precursor (which I haven’t seen), a carny world of geekdom.  Bradley Cooper does okay as the central figure, as does Cate Blanchett as his foil, and more notable players than I can enumerate.  But beneath the accomplished playacting I did not find much personal truth.  There was some interesting dialectic on the comparable skills of mentalism and psychoanalysis, but it was superseded by the distasteful pile-up of bodies, and the overall lack of plausibility or cohesion.  An exercise in style, with little in the way of real world resonance or relevance.

There’s one solid reason to watch the social media catfishing drama Who You Think I Am (MC-70, AMZ), and her name is Juliette Binoche.  She plays a middle-aged French literature professor who’s been abandoned by her husband, and takes up with younger men.  When one demonstrates his unavailability, she starts stalking another online, creating a much younger persona for herself.  Interspersed with scenes with her therapist, we see her getting deeper into a virtual relationship based on an assumed identity.  Then we witness the story she creates out of the encounter, and finally return to the reality of her situation.  Safy Nebbou’s film is a rather mixed affair, but the star makes it highly watchable.

Since this post turned out to be heavy on the “Home Box,” let me mention two older films I was happy to watch again on HBO Max.   Love & Basketball (2000, MC-70, HBO) definitely held up as the precursor to the outstanding AppleTV series Swagger, with Gina Prince-Blythewood following the twists and turns of a competitive-romantic relationship between a neighboring boy and girl all the way from a childhood playground to the pros, played winningly from teen years on by Omar Epps and Sanaa Lathan.

Similarly, Moonstruck (1987, MC-83, HBO) held up for me, with its performances by Cher and Nicholas Cage among others, its writing by John Patrick Shanley and direction by Norman Jewison, and its broad ethnic humor among Sicilian types in Brooklyn.  It remains a plausible romantic comedy in an age where the genre is on the verge of extinction.

And for more worthwhile viewing on HBO Max, check out the well-done new hour-long documentary Frederick Douglass: In Five Speeches (MC-92), derived from David Blight’s award-winning biography, with excellent actors reading the Douglass speeches, interspersed with commentary and context.  Too bad we can’t make Trump watch this program, so he’d actually know who Douglass was and “recognize more and more” what an “amazing job” he’s done.

After the Academy Awards have had their final say, I’ll be back with mine.