Without a Press Pass

Review: "The Beguiled"

2017-06-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

Director: Sofia Coppola
Runtime: 94 minutes

"There's a war going on, out there, somewhere..." So goes the opening line of current Broadway smash Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812. Cannons and guns wreak havoc in the periphery, while a different conflict is waged in the battlefield of opera houses and parlors among those privileged enough to get out of service. A similar framing device hangs over the characters of The Beguiled as well, draped over like a protective veil made of smoke, fog, and moss. Both works exist in realms of refinement, though the latter finds its characters staving off the ugly reality bubbling just outside their line of sight.

Given that this is a Sofia Coppola film, none of this is terribly surprising. Her specialty has always been her ability to chronicle the shut-off bubbles, specifically of upper class white women. Whether haunting hotel hallways amid the skyscrapers of Tokyo, or traipsing through an unguarded mansion in Beverly Hills, the notion of isolation is the connective thread holding her oeuvre together. Her adaptation of Thomas Cullinan's novel (previously adapted in the 70s with Clint Eastwood) immediately establishes itself as more of the same, at least thematically.

But the steady progression of The Beguiled (easily her tightest work of pacing) stealthily gives way to something unexpected: a heated, simmering psychological cat-and-mouse game. Or, rather, a cat-and-mice game. Beneath the Southern hospitality and longing glances cast out of windows is a delicious, cunning genre picture ready to claw its way out at any given moment. For once, Coppola allows her female characters to have their bubble punctured, and even violated. The muffled cannon blasts pepper the film's soundscape, but a different, twisty conflict is about to erupt not on the battlefield, but in a place designed to instill manners.

It takes only a few minutes before Corporal John McBurney (Colin Farrell) collapses on the doorstep of the Farnsworth home. Headed by the steely Miss Martha (Nicole Kidman), the household's exterior suggests a lack of maintenance, and even disarray. But lessons is music, etiquette, sewing, and French still occupy the time of the girls boarded up their by their wealthy Confederate families. And, being the proper Southern ladies they are, Martha's students and their teacher Edwina (Kirsten Dunst) help McBurney inside to treat his wounds.

McBurney is obviously injured, but there's still a palpable shock for the girls (and, frankly, the viewer), when his gruesome leg injury appears. Coppola loves her introverted, wan ladies, so to see something so lurid is a bit of a jolt. Not soon after, Miss Martha is sewing up McBurney's wound, in a grisly closeup that wouldn't seem out of place in a Guillermo Del Toro drama. Amid all of this, there is a great deal of lustrous closeups of Mr. Farrell's exposed chest and just as much heaving and "oh, my" breathing from the ladies.

Coppola has dipped her toes into new territory, and while she never takes a full plunge, her restraint is measured rather than timid. With a thick coat of fog, smoke, and mist smeared across many shots, The Beguiled lands firmly in the territory of Southern Gothic storytelling, albeit with an unconventional structure and sense of pace.

Using only natural/available light (daylight, candles, etc...), The Beguiled has the painterly look of Kubrick's Barry Lyndon, albeit with a color scheme more reminiscent of Goya or El Greco. Amid all the murk, the cinematographer Philippe Le Sourd conjures up an array of sharp images. Most transfixing are the closeups, of people handling tools, utensils, or bowls. The Farnsworth Academy may be a bit Brigadoon-esque in its removal from the "real" world, but it's still grounded in a tactile sense of place and time. The fineries of life are all these girls and women have to hold on to, other than each other. And so they clasp on, never giving an inch, whether it's to a wine glass or a gun.

Inevitably, a misshapen lust triangle emerges from the fog, and Coppola finally lights the fuse that's been sitting in the corner the whole time. Coppola has shown she can generate tension (Taissa Farmiga playing with a gun in The Bling Ring), but it's never been stretched out in any of her films. The wind up is masterfully done, and when the fuse finally reaches its lengthy end, the resulting display doesn't underwhelm.

There is little outright violence in The Beguiled, despite the early flash of gore, though what occurs lands well. More compelling, however, are the little digs and power plays initiated through dialogue, glances, and gestures. Kidman, delivering an antidote to her work in Cold Mountain, takes center stage amid the uniformly strong ensemble. In every meeting (many of which involve most of, or all, of the cast), he eyes seem to be in constant motion. She's keeping tabs on Edwina, the students, and McBurney all at once. The subtlety on display is, like the film as a whole, a wicked delight. Dunst, a Coppola regular, is gently and affecting as Edwina, who wants nothing more than to get as far away as possible. Farrell, as the object of the film's Female Gaze, is excellent too, crafting an intelligent portrait of a man who goes from victim to manipulator (and then back again).

Tonally, it's not all doom and gloom and ripped bodices. There is a tart sense of humor that hangs in the air along with the perfume, sweat, and hormones. At times, The Beguiled is basically a Gothic-accented comedy of manners. That is, until certain lines are crossed, and the battle lines are drawn. The bubble must be protected after all, and it will be done with a stiff upper lip, a beautiful gown, a prayer, and a very carefully constructed recipe. With a flirty, dangerous wink, Coppola signs off with one of those gems of Southern charm that can be wielded as an invitation or a weapon: Y'all come back now...

Grade: A-

Review: "It Comes at Night"

2017-06-10T17:02:00.001-07:00

Director: Trey Edward Shults
Runtime: 97 minutes

Clear-cut answers are hard to come by in It Comes at Night. A catastrophe of some sort, manifesting in the form of a bubonic plague-esque infection, has done its damage. And based on the boarded up home of the main characters, it seems that people aren't too keen on socializing outside of their family. The story opens with a mercy killing, the kind we've seen in any number of post-apocalyptic films and TV shows. But what follows, despite some eventual bloodletting, is hardly standard issue fare. Despite the looming sense of the unknown, the film is ultimately a chamber drama that happens to unfold in a nightmarish scenario. What need is there for answers to big questions when uncertainty is sitting right next to you at the dinner table?

Any given festival circuit is full of splashy debut features. Trey Edward Shults had his at last year's Sundance, with the nervy psychological drama Krisha. Despite its shoe-string budget, the film did what any cinematic calling card should do: introduce potential. Following up on said potential is another matter entirely. For Houston-born Shults, however, lightning has actually managed to strike twice. If anything, it has struck with even more intensity than before. It Comes at Night retains the strengths of Krisha, while applying them to a more established budget and a cast of professional performers. But the film is not exactly a major leap forward for Shults, though this is not necessarily a bad thing. Rather, it's a lateral move, taking on similar issues and themes, but merely restating them in a new setting and with newfound luxury. It may seem like overkill to attempt a second impression after your first went over so well, but in the end, Shults' sophomore effort more than justifies itself.

It Comes at Night does not immediately register as a work derived from personal experience. With its apocalyptic setting, genre demands appear to be at the forefront of the film's concerns (they're certainly behind the marketing campaign). But despite the long shots of a camera gliding down a dark hallway and some gory dream sequences, Shults' film is anything but predictable. There are trace elements of what we would expect from this sort of scenario (blood dripping from a mouth, the ravages of a horrific infection, things going bump in the night), and they are indeed disturbing. But all of that pales in comparison to what It Comes at Night pulls off in its final act, which is a bleak, bruising, and haunting as anything in recent memory.

The mercy killing that opens the film is not that of an acquaintance or ally, but of a father and grandfather. It is a death hastened out of necessity, but one that also reduces a household from a family of four to a family of three. There is magnitude in this kind of loss. Each person in the house now has one person fewer to rely on. Or talk to. Or laugh with. And so it's no surprise that when Paul (Joel Edgerton), Sarah (Carmen Ejogo), and their son Travis (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) encounter a new person, they immediately go on edge.

The new person in question is Will (Christopher Abbott), caught as he tries to break in to Paul and Sarah's home for food and supplies. Like Paul, Will is a husband and father. His wife and child (Riley Keough and Griffin Faulkner) are 15 miles away, and desperately waiting for him to return. "Have you seen anyone else?" asks Paul. "No," says Will. He could be telling the truth. He could be lying. If it's the latter, what might he be concealing? It Comes at Night rarely answers questions, even when you might beg for it to give just a shred of evidence in either direction. But in Shults' capable hands, it matters gravely to the characters, but doesn't hinder engagement for the viewer.

Initially, the films seems lopsided in structure. After the ominous beginning, Shults dials down the dread and suspense, and punctures the mood with bits of levity and charm. One montage is (relatively) joyous, observing two different families working and learning together. You'd be forgiven for thinking that Shults had forgotten what type of story he was telling. But the film's steadily unnerving progression ultimately reveals that Shults and his collaborators have known precisely how to play this all from the get go. No matter how innocent or kind a person seems, few things arouse suspicion like a story that fails to fully add up. All it takes is one stray remark, and the atmosphere in the house undergoes an irrevocable shift.

Aided by a dynamic score (by Brian McOmber) and claustrophobic photography, Shults is able to conjure up a feeling of imminent disaster that could plausibly stem from supernatural or mundane sources. The ramifications of either are terrifying. If there is some boogeyman out there, then the world is even more frightening than we thought. If it's something totally normal, then it only illustrates how far humanity has fallen. An early scene involves a montage of closeups of a print of Bruegel the Elder's "Triump of Death," filled with images both surreal and ordinary. They exist side by side, feeding into each other. Is there really some singular entity out there to fear? It doesn't matter. The mere notion that there could be is all it takes for paranoia to spread.

Grade: A-

Review: "Frantz"

2017-03-11T19:33:00.002-08:00

Director: Francois Ozon

Runtime: 113 minutes

At around the 50 minute mark, Francois Ozon pulls back the curtain on the big question lingering over his latest movie. It’s skillfully handled and beautifully acted, but then you realize that there’s still an hour left. What on earth can fill up that much time? Based on Ozon’s track record, anything is on the table. The remainder of Frantz, his latest endeavor, could meander and overstay its welcome. Or, just maybe, it has something else up its sleeve to justify laying its cards on the table so early. For those who have followed the director through his ups and downs, you can breathe easy. This time he’s not only sustained his narrative momentum, but actually built one of the most carefully layered stories of his career.

Ozon’s gift and curse has always been his efficiency. Like Woody Allen, he shoots quickly and hops from one project to the next. And, like Allen, this is not always a good thing. Ozon’s prolific nature means there are plenty of entries in his filmography that, while not bad, nevertheless feel half-baked. His previous effort, 2015’s The New Girlfriend, certainly suffered from his own speediness. As did 2014’s Young & Beautiful, which had its strengths (most notably its conclusion), but still felt a bit like a sketch, rather than a fully-realized idea.

But when Ozon really puts his mind to it, his efficiency can yield powerful dividends, as is the case with Frantz. In the tradition of Swimming Pool, Under the Sand, and 2013’s In the House (his most recent full-blown triumph), Frantz showcases the writer/director’s gifts working at full power. Ozon’s own restlessness, after a few cycles of disappointments, has once again manifested in the form of crisp, surprising storytelling anchored by intelligently chosen backdrops designed to enhance and inform the spare drama on screen.

Set in the the almost immediate aftermath of World War I, Frantz opens not in France, but in a rural village in Germany. There we meet Anna (luminous newcomer Paula Beer), a young woman mourning the death of her fiance (the titular Frantz), while doing her best to maintain a normal life among her would-be in-laws. Then one day she finds flowers on Frantz’s grave from an unknown mourner. Mere hours later, she meets the man responsible: a young Frenchman named Adrien (Pierre Niney, adorned with a toned-down Dali moustache). Anna’s father-in-law to be (Ernst Stotzner) is initially abhorred by the Frenchman’s presence (in his mind, any and all French men are guilty of his son’s death), but Anna and her mother in law (Marie Gruber) are more receptive.

Ozon introduces Adrien so quickly that it’s almost a shock he waits until 50 minutes or so before the big revelation. Yet all throughout there are both clues and red herrings, rendered with great subtlety through both the dextrous script and intuitive performances. Even before we grasp the extent of what’s going on, the nimble movements on the actors’ faces speak volumes. Said volumes only increase in meaning in retrospect, when the full weight of the story reveals itself.

One can easily make the argument that Ozon is France’s answer to Pedro Almodovar, and it shows here, albeit with less florid execution. Shot mostly in crisp black and white (calling to mind The White Ribbon), there are times when the secrets and half-truths of Frantz seems like they might collapse in a heap of melodrama. But, delicate as the set up may be, Ozon uncharacteristically maintains his balance the whole way through. There are no odd diversions or subplots. The more traditional mystery gives way to a deeper, richer examination of grief and perception, all plotted with an efficiency that miraculously never undercuts the emotional depth of the story.

With its big twist planted squarely in the middle, Frantz risks coming off as two separate stories vying for attention. But Ozon’s playfulness with structure continuously reveals itself to be a tremendous boon. The two halves of Frantz clever play off of each other, with the latter functioning as an inversion of the former. And in the second half, Ozon avoids mere repetition, and instead deepens both his characters and their existential quandaries. Ozon refrains from directorial theatrics, focusing instead on simply telling a story full of movement with exceptional control.

Aside from one character’s change of heart in the first 20 minutes, everything in Frantz flows together authentically. These are ordinary scenes in the hands of a gifted storyteller with the skills to bring out the extraordinariness lying just under the surface. So often with Ozon’s work, the lack of immediate passion in one’s response signals that a viewer is shrugging off a well-crafted yet hollow provocation. Here, however, the delayed response is only a tease, with the real treat lying in revisiting and replaying the conversations that oh-so-delicately prop up this sumptuous exercise in melodramatic classicism.

Grade: A-

Frantz opens in NY and LA on March 15, 2017.

Review: "Logan"

2017-03-11T18:50:00.003-08:00

Director: James Mangold

Runtime: 135 minutes

In Hugh Jackman’s 17-year tenure as Wolverine we have had two Batmans, two Supermans, two Hulks, two James Bonds (the most recent of whom is soon to be done), and now three Spider-Mans. Even Jackman’s co-leads in the X-Men films like Patrick Stewart and Halle Berry have seen other actors play their younger selves. In that span, superhero movies dug themselves out of their graves and burst forth as key priority for the major studios. Before X-Men‘s release in 2000, a sequel (let alone a franchise) was anything but assured. Now, we have interlocking stories being planned and scheduled through the start of the next decade. With all of those seismic shifts, the end of Jackman’s time in his star-making role is momentous in its own way. The character will always outlive the actor, even if that actor is how most envision said character.

The very good news, however, is that this swan song for the Australian actor corrects the mistakes of past X-Men films, while also building on the promise of a previous installment. After the enjoyable but run-of-the-mill X-Men: The Last Stand (2006), the next film in the franchise was a prequel centered on Wolverine’s origins. It came out in 2009, and it was a bit of a mess. Redemption followed with 2013, when James Mangold (Walk the Line, the 2007 3:10 to Yuma remake) helmed The Wolverine, chronicling the clawed mutants exploits in Japan. But The Wolverine‘s success came with an asterisk: it was a big step in the right direction in many way….until the third act, which went heavy on cartoony effects at odds with what came before.

Yet ultimately The Wolverine did enough to pave the way for Logan, so we owe it that much. With Mangold back in the director’s chair, and the freedom of an R-rating, the third time really is the charm for the cigar-chomping anti-hero. It is a Wolverine story that has its own look, its own feel, and despite references to events in other movies, enough narrative confidence to stand on its own.

Opening in 2029, we first meet Logan sleeping in his car, drunk out of his mind. His hair is greying, and his body, though still imposing, looks worn. The character used to be able to heal from nearly all injuries, and now he looks like a man on his last legs. In a world where most mutants have been eradicated (and no new ones have been born), the likes of Logan and Prof. X (Patrick Stewart, also bowing out of the franchise) are relics. They live modest lives, hidden away from general society. No coordinated costumes, no fancy lairs, no custom jets.

Dafne Keen and Hugh Jackman

And then along comes a One Last Job opportunity, which our hero reluctantly takes just for the money. At first. The task is to escort a young, “gifted” girl named Laura (Dafne Keen) from the Texas/Mexico up to North Dakota. Naturally, there are obstacles, including a scheming scientist (Richard E. Grant) and a mercenary with a robotic arm (Gone Girl‘s Boyd Holbrook). At its heart, Logan is a Western-tinged road movie, albeit one with a stray few sci-fi elements.

But its also a movie that generally takes as much care with its interpersonal scenes as it does with its carnage. The characters are often on the move, but it’s rare that Mangold’s storytelling feel rushed. This is heightened by the surprising plot structure, which builds to a major moment that could serve as an ending, only to launch immediately into that story’s sequel. But it doesn’t feel jumbled or inelegant. Mangold is in his element here, crafting a story that has its share of action (a vehicular chase is the standout of the first half), but isn’t afraid to throw in the occasional long stretch of quietude.

It’s easy to sneer at idea of a script being a valuable component of a superhero blockbuster, but a good deal of credit belongs to the foundation Mangold and his two co-writers set. Logan takes into account the past stories of the X-Men, while also demythologizing them. In the film’s world, a comic series about the mutants exists, and one key scene involves Logan telling Laura that most of what’s on those brightly-colored panels is bullshit.

But even if the mutant exploits have been exaggerated, they stem from a shred of truth, even if it’s a truth that Logan would rather avoid: he has gifts that he (and others) can use to help the defenseless. That rediscovery is crucial to the character’s development. It’s certainly been done before (perhaps one too many times), but in Logan the arc comes across as a genuine priority, rather than an obligation.

This is never more clear than when looking at the work from the cast. No one’s here to just fool around, pose, and collect a paycheck. The central trio of performances (Jackman, Stewart, Keen) are excellent and unexpectedly moving. For the two gentlemen who have been with these characters from the outset, it’s a chance to bid farewell to a role (and the audience that came with it) with conviction. Wolverine/Logan in his normal state can be one-note. But this figure, who shows actual signs of wear and tear, allows Jackman the chance to put some emotional weight behind the gruff exterior. That the villains are a bit pedestrian ends up not mattering much. The more frightening enemy is the ravages of time, making themselves felt on a character who spent over a century never fearing them. Who knows, maybe Cormac McCarthy ghost wrote a draft of the script.

Logan is undoubtedly striving to be something “adult” and “grounded,” and it succeeds because when it has a chance to go big, it subverts expectations and goes small. Even when Logan goes into full, R-rated berserker mode, it doesn’t last forever or totally save the day. This is a superhero movie with limitations and consequences (many of them involving dismemberment).

The violence and the special effects are there, but they are always in service of a story where violence continuously bequeaths violence, and takes no prisoners (including children) along the way. It is solemn, but with a few flickers of levity to prevent portentousness. There are references to cinematic influences both subtle and overt (at one point several characters watch Shane on TV), but the tributes have been assembled to tell a story that uses familiar settings and tropes to create a tale with its own identity.

Will Logan/Wolverine rise to fight another day, with another face? Almost certainly. With iconic characters like Superman or James Bond, certain faces stick with roles more than others. But new casting does allow for variations on how a noteworthy role is portrayed (contrast Connery’s suaveness with Daniel Craig’s Bourne-like grit) can reflect changes. Few, however, have played a character through so many stylistic evolutions and remained a constant. So, to the person tasked with filling the shoes with nearly 2 decades of work from Jackman, I can only say: good luck; you’ll need it.

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "Get Out"

2017-02-25T19:20:00.001-08:00

Director: Jordan Peele
Runtime: 103 minutes

Ambiguity is the name of the game for so many horror classics, especially those involving a domestic setting (Rosemary's Baby). Is the central character really dealing with evil and/or the supernatural, or is it - to some degree - all in their head? That first act ambiguity is a powerful part of what helps so many movies land their big twists. And yet, it's not the only way. In the new film Get Out, we know something is "off" with the environment the protagonist wanders into. The question, then, revolves around the degree of maliciousness lurking beneath the placid surface. The answer, courtesy of Key & Peele's Jordan Peele, could not be more satisfying.

Peele's background (he started on MadTV before creating the aforementioned sketch show with Keegan Michael-Key) would suggest that his point of view is best limited to the short bursts provided by the late night format. Yet with Get Out, Mr. Peele has proven himself more than capable of taking a timely premise and stretching it to its appropriately absurd endpoint without losing steam.

So what, pray tell, is this thing about? Well, it all starts when Chris (Daniel Kaluuya, of Sicario and the "Five Million Merits" episode of Black Mirror) goes with his girlfriend Rose (Girls' Allison Williams) to meet her upscale parents (Catherine Keener and Bradley Whitford). Some would suggest going in as cold as possible. I, through luck, read a draft of the script last summer. Yet even knowing where every twist and jump scare was located, I nonetheless found myself white-knuckling my way through....even as I was cringing or laughing hysterically. As others have pointed out, the story is essentially Look Who's Coming To Dinner crossbred with The Stepford Wives. But even with those obvious influences, it's hard to deny that Get Out is its own thrillingly unique piece of work.

In the past few years, the issue of race relations has been thrust into the American consciousness in uncomfortable ways. As marginalized voices utilize modern tools, our (by "our" I mostly mean white people) understanding of the degrees of systemic and cultural racism have been burst wide open. It's not just a matter of MLK vs. the KKK. It's all everything from flat-out declarations of racism to the understated, yet equally insidious, actions often referred to as micro-aggressions. You think the KKK is bad? Congratulations, but that doesn't mean you've never engaged in or benefited from other mutations of racism.

If all of this makes Get Out sound like a harsh lecture, fear not. It's entirely possible to enjoy Peele's story-telling based on thrills and scares alone. But I'd also argue that one's enjoyment would only increase by directly engaging with the assertions (both serious and tongue-in-cheek) of Peele's film. The subtext is not tacked on as a cheap play for socio-political relevance. It's a necessary part of telling this story, as outlandish as it becomes, well.

And what a story it turns out to be. After two acts of planting hints and making sinister suggestions, the homestretch arrives, and it's nothing short of a masterstroke of racially-charged satire. To call the film's finale "bonkers" would do it a disservice. It's certainly insane, but built so organically off of everything that came before that it all feels wholly earned. Peele's direction is nimble, even when dealing with exposition. His actors, meanwhile, are uniformly excellent. Mr. Kaluuya is effortlessly compelling as the story's anchor (one hopes this is the film that will catapult him onto the A-list), never more so than when undergoes a session of hypnotherapy with Ms. Keener. A marvel of directing, staging, and acting, the sequence hinges on Kaluuya's emotional nakedness in the moment, and he nails it, without ever straining for a false sense of dramatic importance.

But, at least for white audiences, the real shock here is Williams. Rose is much more than the cheerful girlfriend, and Williams handles the character's shifting allegiances without ever falling out of step with the carefully-balanced tone. Imagine Williams as her character from Girls, and the whole thing somehow becomes even funnier and dead-on. Marnie can be astounding in her lack of self-awareness. By contrast, Rose enables Williams to play a multifaceted character with an outside acknowledgement of her biases and prejudices. Rose may not always "get it," but Williams clearly does, and the results are riotously good. The old adage goes "art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." From a white viewer's perspective, it's through Williams that this notion hits home. I was tense, I laughed out loud, and yet somewhere deep down, I was left vaguely nauseous. We're meant to identify with the millennial, "woke" girl who has no issues whatsoever dating a black guy, and is embarrassed by her parents' forced hipness with black culture. By the end, those implications are deeply funny. They're also scary as hell.

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "20th Century Women"

2017-01-07T19:27:00.003-08:00

Director: Mike Mills
Runtime: 118 minutes

It has taken six years for Mike Mills to make another film. When we last saw him, he delivered Beginners, a touching ode to his father, who came out after decades trapped in the closet. Yet even though that film was all about the father, one of the most intriguing peripheral characters was Georgia (Mary Page Keller), a stand in for Mills' mother. Now, over half a decade later, Mr. Mills is back to put Georgia (now named Dorothea, and sublimely portrayed by Annette Bening) in the spotlight she deserves.

Set in 1979 in Santa Barbara, 20th Century Women both exists as a maternal counterpart to Beginners while also standing firmly on its own. The film is just Mills' third full outing as a director, and his voice has only grown richer in the too-long gap between new work. Beginners charted a man's relationship with his father late in life (in which Mills got to be represented by Ewan McGregor; we should all be so lucky...). 20th Century Women, by contrast, takes the writer/director back to his childhood. Mills' new avatar is Jamie (Lucas Jade Zumann), the teen son of newly-single mom Dorothea. Aptly, the film opens with the never-seen father's car catching fire, thus firmly severing the last symbolic ties with the past.

As we're seeing a boy/young man in a highly formative stage, 20th Century Women uses Jamie's place in life to examine those around him. In some ways, it calls to mind another 2016 release - Moonlight - in that it traces a child's growth by embracing a nurture over nature (to a point) idea of how our complete adult selves form. We are largely blank canvases coming into this world, and the people present in our lives at critical moments of change affect our growth in ways both obvious and subtle.

And so, early on, Dorothea enlists photographer tenant Abbie (a wondrous Greta Gerwig) and childhood friend Julie (Elle Fanning) to help raise her son. "Don't you need a man to raise a man?" asks Julie. To which Dorothea, nonchalantly, replies, "...no, I don't think so." "I think you're what's going to work for him," she says at another point. And even though there is an adult male presence in the form of handyman William (Billy Crudup), the three women turn out to be more than up to the task, in their own ways. The film may set itself up as Jamie's coming-of-age story, but the true subjects are the richly drawn women who lead him through that evolution.

Early on, it's tempting to dismiss the set up as scattered. But as Mills settles into his story's rhythm, the film blossoms. Both as writer and director Mills has grown considerably. His tendency to intercut archival footage and stills into his own material, at times grating in Beginners, feels purposeful and elegant throughout this new endeavor. Mills' films are not necessarily about compartmentalization, but his framing and editing choices (as executed excellently by Leslie Jones) present memories as little moments to be treasured and isolated in curio cases. The lighting accents this notion as well, often capturing moments of stillness by isolating an overhead source of light, so as to catch the subject as if they were occupying a museum display.

Where Mills' figures differ from museum oddities, however, is in their vibrancy. The voiceovers frame the characters in the past, yet while on screen they are thrillingly alive, even at their most ordinary. 20th Century Women can be brittle and caustic, but there is an underlying warmth at the core that practically floods the screen. And yet, in that tremendous warmth also lies clear-cut honesty. Mills and his characters don't sidestep the painful realities of life, whether it's those experienced by a parent or a child. But in that honesty, the film finds its transcendent moments. Those slices of life can be as significant as addressing a childhood trauma, or simply flailing your arms as you try to dance along the music around you.

Grade: A-

Review: "Silence"

2017-01-02T20:21:00.003-08:00

Director: Martin Scorsese
Runtime: 161 minutes

Martin Scorsese has been grappling with his Catholic faith for his entire career, even when it seemed the least obvious. The intensity of his religious convictions, as well as the intensity of his questions and severe doubts, have manifested in ways both literal (The Last Temptation of the Christ) and abstract (Taxi Driver). Catholicism (or, in a sense, any faith) is the third pillar at the foundation of his filmmaking, seated right alongside masculinity and violence (and all of the intersections among the lot).

Though Scorsese remains an impeccable craftsman, often invigorating his material with dynamism of someone decades younger, he has recently started to run on fumes when dealing with story's beyond their basic text. The Wolf of Wall Street tackles excess, but to the point of becoming excessive itself. Even Best Picture winner The Departed, though powerfully acted and edited, comes up short when one looks for something to chew on beyond the bloody bodycount.

The apparent exhaustion of two of Scorsese's thematic pillars (well, for now) has left a clearing for capital F Faith to grab the spotlight all for itself. After an on-and-off journey of roughly 30 years, Scorsese has taken Shusaku Endo's novel "Silence" and brought it to life on the big screen. Here, the man who almost became a priest turns his camera to meet not just his maker, but the ideals and practices of those serving in his name. And, while not without its faults (largely at the outset), Silence ultimately proves itself to be a worthy landmark moment of the latter stages of Scorsese's career. Regardless of your religious persuasion (or lack thereof), there is a tremendous amount of value in the issues raised in this exhaustive and exhausting work of Catholic cinema. Though not the director's most polished or lush work, it more than compensates with its staggering devotion to crafting a drama filled with ideas about the earthly and the transcendent.

Yet much like the film's journey to the big screen, Silence is not without its hiccups. The earliest passages, concerning Jesuit priests Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield) and Garrpe (Adam Driver) seeking out a former mentor in 17th century Japan, come off as stilted. Despite some striking, simple visuals, Silence begins by playing things in a strangely safe manner. At times, it even seems shockingly amateurish. Even longtime Scorsese editor (and basically co-director) Thelma Schoonmaker isn't immune, and turns in some of her weakest work to date. Simple conversations change angles with a frequency at odds with such contemplative subject matter. And Mr. Driver, though an intriguing casting choice, can't quite master what is supposed to be a Portuguese accent (the Portuguese characters speak in English). Early on, a few lines escape his throat like a squawk from a goose raised in the Bronx. Garfield generally fares better, though even he is not without his stilted moments. It's not an auspicious beginning, especially for a film that is so clearly a labor of passion.

But the further the two Jesuits step into the so-called "swamp of Japan," the more Silence finds its footing. The beauty of Endo's novel, which Scorsese has wisely left intact, is its refusal to sugarcoat or simplify the conflicts at hand. And what conflicts they are. On the surface, Silence's tale involves priests administering aid to Japanese Christians living under persecution. In less enlightened times, such a socio-political conflict would have likely been sanded down to lift the Jesuits up as Christ-like figures. Scorsese includes such a moment, though it's hardly presented as sincere. Alone and starving, Fr. Rodrigues finds himself confronted with his reflection. After a moment, the face transforms into a familiar sight: a Goya painting of Christ's face which we've been shown as how Rodrigues imagines the Lamb of God in his prayers and meditations. Garfield, with his thin features and his hair grown out into a magnificent mane, makes a fitting vessel for this sort of transfiguration.

The moment, alas, does not come greeted with a moment of intervention or inspiration. Rodrigues bursts into unsettling, hollow laughter. In his manic, dehydrated state, he seems ecstatic with such a vision, but the tone and timing suggests the sort of madness one would find in a 70s-era Herzog drama. Yet Scorsese curtails the sequence before such madness turns hallucinatory. Rodrigo Prieto's images, even at their most painterly, have an air of reality to them. The staging thrives on ordinariness, rather than elaborately constructed tableaus.

All the better, then, to enable the film to cut to the heart of its conflicts. Somewhere towards the middle (I think) of the film, Silence shifts from acting as a drama about the faithful, and morphs into a searing interrogation of men of the cloth and their motivations. Rodrigues meets a number of foils among the Japanese, chief among them a translator (Tadanobu Asano) and the inquisitor Inoue (Issei Ogata). Though radically different in their approaches, the two men proceed to challenge not just Rodrigues' convictions and his mission, but the core of Catholicism itself, as well as its place in a country like Japan.

And it's here, when it's most bound to simple scenes of people talking, that Silence finally grasps the intangible profundity it's been reaching for the whole time. Asano and Ogata make excellent philosophical adversaries for Garfield's Rodrigues, with Ogata in particular relishing every word (among his most notable jabs: "the price for your glory is their suffering.") So many faith-based films use Christian conviction as a crutch, including this year's Hacksaw Ridge, which also planted Mr. Garfield at the center. With that baseline established, a film like Silence becomes all the more remarkable. Here is a drama with source material from a Catholic writer (albeit a Japanese convert, and not a European), directed by a passionately Catholic director, that avoids turning its protagonists into the one-note martyrs they secretly wish to be.

The most magnificent wrench of all, however, comes in the form of Fr. Ferreira (Liam Neeson, thankfully not even attempting the accent). In addition to administering to the persecuted faithful, Rodrigues and Garrpe have snuck into Japan to seek out their former mentor, who has been rumored to have renounced the faith and taken up life as an ordinary member of Japanese society. Ferreira's eventual return to the narrative (best left unsaid) gives Silence a final headbutt of ambiguity, heightening the specificity of the film's conflicts, while simultaneously making them all the more universal. Neeson, in his all-too-brief screen time, is nothing short of mesmerizing. In such quick moments, he conveys Ferreira's decades of work in Japan, and the toll it took on him. Ferreira's exploits could have easily been their own film, and the way Neeson takes the bones of Scorsese and Jay Cocks' script and turns it into its own meal is nothing short of astonishing. It's a masterful moment of teaching both for Rodrigues and the viewer, the complexity of which has stayed with me long after the lights went up in the theater.

In my four years at a Jesuit-led high school, one of the theological ideas that I remember most is that faith without room for doubt is not really faith, but merely blind obedience. That remarkably nuanced notion, standing in such stark contrast to the right wing extremists now posturing as 21st century moralists, has stayed with me even as whatever religion I had slipped away. And, whatever my personal beliefs now, that Catholic and Jesuit identity (hello, Catholic guilt, you old bastard) is still etched, however faintly, in my being. To see that same sort of depth is a monumental intellectual achievement, one that overrides the vagueries that somewhat plague the central role of Rodrigues (he is both an individual and a representative of the faith as a whole, though not quite to the degree where it feels possible to empathize with him enough). With such a long wait, it would be tempting to hold Silence to the standard that anything less than a masterpiece would be a letdown. To do so, I think, would be to dismiss the tremendous accomplishments on display. Rodrigues and Garrpe may find themselves starving, but their story is veritable feast of ideas, the strengths of which are made all the more powerful by their existence alongside the flaws.

Grade: B+

Review: "Jackie"

2016-12-03T19:14:00.001-08:00

Director: Pablo Larrain
Runtime: 99 minutes

Though it features only the briefest moments of blood and gore, there is something so deeply immersive and unsettling about Jackie that made me queasy. The lives, legacies, and tragedies of the Kennedy clan have been in the public consciousness for decades. Movies, miniseries, plays, novels, and conspiracy theories about the Kennedys have congealed into their own industry, and that industry has taken hold as its own sub-genre of American culture (Kennedy Kitsch? Kennedy Camp?). Yet none have pierced through shield of the Kennedy mythos quite like director Pablo Larrain. A native of Chile, Mr. Larrain's English language debut, despite centering on American royalty, feels as fresh and urgent as his film's directly tied to his homeland's socio-political conscious.

Even though Jackie opens with a familiar framing device (the subject is being interviewed, with length flashbacks filling in the gaps), Larrain is quick to distance himself from decades' worth of mythologizing and hagiography. Before Jackie O (Natalie Portman, astounding) even appears on screen, the viewer is jolted by the otherworldly strains of the score. There are no patriotic tunes of either the upbeat or mournful variety. Instead, avant garde composer Mica Levi (who also wrote the haunting music for Under the Skin) floods the soundscape with a swirl of alien notes and tones. The score, which seeps out like a frozen, enveloping embrace, is disorienting to brilliant effect.

The Kennedy brothers (Jack is Caspar Phillipson, Bobby is Peter Sarsgaard) make their appearances throughout Jackie, but Larrain and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim keep the focus on the titular First Lady of Camelot. With whole life thrown into chaos, Jackie finds herself being unravelled at all angles, and Levi's music does an overwhelmingly powerful job of communicating her emotional discord. There are no elaborate swooping camera moves in Jackie, but Levi's music and Stephane Fontaine's images mix like vodka and Xanax. It's off-putting, then hypnotic, and climaxes with a sense of dissociation that leaves your nerves exhausted, your mind numb, and your innards hollow and tumultuous.

Jackie sustains its limited premise through its craftsmanship, but it's thanks to Portman that it transcends. It's a brilliant example that proves finding the right actor to play a historical figure goes beyond (and can even exclude) exact likeness. Portman's features have some glaring differences, and there appears to have been no use of padding or prosthetics to bridge the gap between artist and subject. Yet the instant those rounded words glide out of Portman's mouth, all doubt vanishes: it's her.

Of course, vocal inflections and the right hair do not a rounded performance make, and Portman and Larrain are well aware of this. Oppenheim's screenplay, aided by Sebastian Sepulveda's editing, positions the various flashbacks like an orchestra of mirrors. They reflect and refract, with Portman functioning as the story's anchor more so than the scenes involving the journalist (Billy Crudup). Even if everything had been handled with an emphasis on linearity, it would do nothing to diminish Portman's work, which takes Jackie O through so much complex emotional territory and distills it into a character both deeply empathetic and not quite of this world (often at the same time). In short, it makes Portman's Oscar-winning performance in Black Swan look like amateur hour.

The driving thesis of Jackie, which is pointed out early on, concerns reality's relationship with historical narratives and fairy tales. Portman, Larrain, and Oppenheim repeat the idea a few times (perhaps one too-many), but consistently find new ways to play it out in scenarios that feel possible and plausible, even if some liberties are taken in the name of drama. Did Jackie O ever try on a bunch of her clothes, sashay through the White House in a drug-and-booze addled stupor with the soundtrack to Camelot blasting out of the record player? I'm perfectly content never knowing the answer. Reality and history make strange bedfellows, and that discomfort lies at the heart of what makes Jackie sing so beautifully as a film. Larrain, whose dramas sometimes squander great set-ups on drawn-out, overwrought execution, could not have been a more inspired choice.

Larrain's perspective is a thrilling compliment to the American iconography on display, and he guides Jackie's journey with masterful control of timing and tone (Oppenheim's script includes some welcome moments of mordant and mournful wit). Few scenes this year will merge great writing, acting, and directing the way Jackie does when the First Lady appears to break the news of JFK's death to her children. It is mesmerizing, stomach-churning, white-knuckle intense, and ultimately shattering. Larrain's guiding hand, Portman's face, and Oppenheim's words (and silences) take two horrendous moments (one personal, one political) and blow them up to operatic proportions: The President is dead...My husband is dead...My husband the President is dead. Those unspoken statements hang there through all of Jackie, and their weight only increases with time. When Crudup's journalist asks Jackie if she has any advice, she replies, "Don't marry the President." After spending just over 90 minutes in Jackie's head, you'll understand why.

Grade: A

Review: "Allied"

2016-11-26T10:49:00.000-08:00

Director: Robert Zemeckis
Runtime: 124 minutes

All's murky in love and war, especially when you and your spouse have both spent time working the international espionage racket. So goes the world of Robert Zemeckis' Allied, which oscillates between Casablanca homage and grim antidote to Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Despite a twisty set up, generally strong production values, and solid performances, Allied comes up short when it's time to wrap up its mission.

While much of what we see on screen has a welcome Old Hollywood gloss, Zemeckis' recent love of visual effects starts Allied off on a distractingly modern note. A rather embarrassing opening shot follows a hilariously fake parachute landing into a desert landscape that's only marginally more convincing. Emerging from the fakery is Max Vattan (Brad Pitt), who has arrived in French Morocco to meet up with a French resistance operative to take out a Nazi ambassador in Casablanca. The operative turns out to be Marianne Beausejour (Marion Cotillard, in full Golden Age glamor mode), who helps Max pose as her (fake) husband prior to the assassination. For Marianne, the trick lies in keeping the fakery of their work grounded in some kernel of authenticity.

It's notion that Cotillard pulls off beautifully, making it all the more frustrating that the film around her often fails do follow suit. Allied's sets and costumes are richly designed, but there is often a certain sheen to the imagery which goes beyond romanticism and into fakery. An early scene set in a Casablanca plaza looks the part at first glance, but the longer you soak it in, the more it appears to take place in a vacuum. Tilt the camera the wrong direction by just an inch or two, and the framework of the soundstage would make an unwelcome appearance.

Thankfully, things improve once the action moves back to England. Max and Marianne's fake relationship blossoms into a genuine one, and they settle down and have a baby. Then, right on schedule, the other shoe drops: British intelligence informs Max that Marianne may be a deep cover Nazi spy, and that he'll need to set up a trap to prove her innocence or guilt.

The answers that eventually come our way, courtesy of screenwriter Steven Knight, largely prove satisfying. Whatever quibbles one might have with the plot's internal logic, Allied boasts enough first rate design and star power to allow for comfortable suspension of disbelief in the moment. But while Knight's story is a fun guessing game, Zemeckis' direction often gets in the way. Allied's opening passages are punishingly slow, with the build up to the assassination taking up far too much time. The Casablanca scenes lay the necessary groundwork with clues and red herrings, but Zemeckis directs on autopilot through much of it. Spycraft lives or dies by the details, but in Allied, those details exist as exposition that need to be trudged through before getting on to the good stuff.

By the time Allied finally introduces the question of Marianne's innocence, you might be ready for the story to just end already. But wait, there's more! The superior second half, when finally given room to take off, is no faster than the opening, but it moves with more confidence and better sustains the intrigue. Act 1 is an overlong obligation, while Act 2 gets to the heart of the matter. Livening things up are short performances from a strong group of supporting performances filled out by the likes of Jared Harris, Lizzy Caplan (kudos for including an LGBT character), Matthew Goode, and Simon McBurney.

Without enough genuine character development to support the film's star power, however, the bulk of Allied never consistently catches fire. The twists, thankfully, give the story more heft by providing questions worth considering (as opposed to derailing the plot, which they easily could have). Allied's eventual conclusion is convincingly solemn, in large part thanks to Cotillard's multifaceted performance. The story's lack of focus, coupled with Zemeckis' lack of verve, leaves you with the feeling that you've just witnessed a halfhearted take on what could have been a tense mix of romance and thrills. At least Cotillard provides the fizz in an otherwise flat concoction.

Grade: C

Review: "Nocturnal Animals"

2016-11-25T19:03:00.001-08:00

Director: Tom Ford
Runtime: 116 minutes

It's perhaps not the greatest sign that the scene that has stuck with me the longest from Nocturnal Animals is the one that absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the plot. A mesmerizing series of grotesques set to Abel Korzeniowski's lush score kicks things off in a way that would make David Lynch proud. What follows, sadly, has the basic blueprints for a mesmerizing Russian Nesting Doll of a story, yet struggles to get beneath the artifice to something worth savoring. Fashion designer Tom Ford, in his second feature, continues to showcase his hidden gifts as a director (following the achingly beautiful A Single Man 7 years ago). And he's assembled a cast of talented actors to make it all sound convincing. But what gets in the way of Ford's Nocturnal Animals is Ford himself...or at least, his screenplay.

Adapted from Austin Wright's novel "Tony and Susan," Nocturnal Animals is either three stories in one or one story fragmented into three volumes. In the first, we meet Susan (Amy Adams), an art gallery owner trapped in an increasingly hollow marriage to a philandering Ken Doll of a husband (Armie Hammer). Susan is jolted from her sterile LA lifestyle when she receives a manuscript for a novel from her ex-husband Tony (Jake Gyllenhaal). As she reads through the draft (also titled "Nocturnal Animals"), she traces the connections between it and her relationship with Tony, which ended under less than pleasant circumstances.

What transpires is, on paper, a compelling slice of modern noir punctuated with heavy doses of a grimy Texas-set revenge thriller. Working with many of the same technical collaborators from A Single Man, Ford has crafted another luxurious cinematic experience, ranging from the aforementioned music to the chameleonic photography (and of course, the clothes). It looks the part, sounds the part, and even adds a few new tricks to Ford's directorial skill set. The dramatization of Tony's novel (in which Susan imagines Tony in the lead role) kicks off with a terrifically staged car chase on an empty West Texas road, and builds to a chilling climax.

But what's missing from Nocturnal Animals is the psychological acuity that gave such weight to A Single Man. There's a lot of external activity on screen, but precious little of it gets beyond the surface of the beautiful faces on screen. What transpires often enthralls in the moment, but dissipates soon after. You'll likely find yourself wanting to be investing in these people, but Nocturnal Animals too often refuses to even meet you halfway.

Credit then, belongs to the actors for filling out these roles as best they can. Adams, coming off Arrival, turns in another quiet, introspective performance. But while Arrival allowed the actress room to take her character on a journey, Nocturnal Animals too often relegates her to the same position as the audience: a watcher. She is pushed to the margins, and spends more time staring out of windows and taking off her (admittedly killer) reading glasses than she does contributing to the story.

Gyllenhaal, though occasionally pushed to go over the top, is also effective in both of his grief stricken forms, while Michael Shannon nearly steals the show as a sickly sheriff in Tony's novel. Taylor-Johnson is suitably menacing, though eventually his backwoods terrorizer schtick becomes repetitive. Actors like Hammer, Andrea Riseborough, and Michael Sheen do what they can with limited time, while Laura Linney makes the most of her 1 scene cameo as Susan's imperious mother.

Just about everything in Nocturnal Animals is at least watchable, and for large stretches it's perfectly engaging. But while the narrative's structural divisions are admirable, their proportions are all off. So much time is spent bringing Tony's novel to life that Susan's current existence and her past life with Tony feel like add-ons struggling to justify themselves. And yet, if you were to cut them out, Tony's novel on its own wouldn't be enough to justify a full film. Ford spends so much time figuring out how to cobble the story together that he seems to have neglected to make even the faintest point out of everything. For all of its beauty, it's the ugly imperfections that linger longest. Nocturnal Animals pretends to get its hands dirty, but upon closer inspection, there's never a speck of dust under its immaculately manicured fingernails.

Grade: B-

Review: "Things to Come"

2016-11-25T18:03:00.000-08:00

Director: Mia Hansen-Love
Runtime: 101 minutes

A deceptive mundanity permeates Things to Come, the latest feature from France's Mia Hansen-Love. The central character, philosophy teacher Nathalie (Isabelle Huppert), undergoes a series of disruptions to her everyday life, yet Hansen-Love refuses to portray any of them as end-of-world scenarios. Though it takes place over considerably less time, Things to Come in some ways recalls Boyhood. It's not entirely a shock; like Richard Linklater, Hansen-Love is fixated on people's various relationships with time, ranging from major life events to the connective tissue that fills up everything else. Yet from the mundanity of Things to Come emerges a whisper of transcendence. The ordinary is not inflated to become something greater than it is. Instead, it's handled with a mix of sensitivity and level-headedness that leads to something warm and wise.

Like Elle, another striking vehicle for Huppert (an actress continually finding new ways to be excellent), Things to Come technically hinges on a life-altering incident. But then it pulls back and forces its protagonist to cope not by putting all of their energy towards it, but by tending to it while still moving along with all else that adult life entails. Elle, with its violent rape and hints of sadomasochism, takes the darker, naughtier route. Things to Come, meanwhile, moves gently, thought not without purpose. Nathalie's life, turned upside down by her husband's affair, proceeds without too many major detours. She still has lunch with her kids, teaches class, counsels former protege Fabien (Roman Kolinka), and deals with her increasingly senile mother (Edith Scob).

Plenty of films have been made involving middle-aged men and women reinventing themselves, but few do so with the wisdom and lack of sentimentality on display here. Following the sprawling dance music saga Eden, Hansen-Love has scaled back her narrative ambitions, and emerged as a more precise storyteller. For a film composed of scene after scene of what amounts to daily life (with a few diversions), it moves with remarkable assurance and focus. It's not exactly hypnotic, but it's gently compelling in its honesty in a way that makes you want to get lost in it all. You may not share Nathalie's age, socio-economic status, or family set up, but her experiences touch on the universal without coming across as a series of bland boxes to be ticked off.

Then again, it's hard to be too bland when you've centered your movie on Isabelle Huppert. The actress is at her softest and gentlest here (compared with her ice-queen work in films like Elle, The Piano Teacher, White Material, La Ceremonie, etc etc), but she remains as galvanizing a screen presence as ever. The ups and downs of Nathalie's life are charted with the precision of an X-Acto knife, yet there's never a moment of the performance that comes off as overly calculated. Huppert has made a career out of playing characters with whom one can empathize, but not always sympathize. In the case of Nathalie, she has both, and the scenes in which her face, a mask of severity and poise, cracks, are breathtakingly moving.

So, as Nathalie moves from one moment to the next, Hansen-Love (who also wrote the beautiful script) follows her with an easy-going refinement that's all too rare in slice-of-life dramas. Even in the film's darkest moments, Hansen-Love keeps it all thrillingly alive. People bicker, people chat, people discuss philosophy, take care of their ailing parents, and sometimes they chase after their obese house cats...such is life (incidentally, between this and Elle, 2016 has been a fantastic year for those who enjoy Isabelle Huppert sharing the screen with felines). Things to Come manages to have it both ways: it celebrates the chance for reinvention, while still placing it in the context of the vast ocean of experiences and routines that define our every day existence. You don't need to be a philosophy expert to find something worth cherishing.

Grade: A-

Review: "Evolution"

2016-11-25T07:43:00.000-08:00

Director: Lucile Hadzihalilovic
Runtime: 78 minutes

Brevity is the soul of wit. Turns out that it also lies at the heart of head-spinning psychological thrillers. At just 78 minutes, Evolution, the second film from French director Lucile Hadzihalilovic, accomplishes what similarly themed films struggle to over vastly longer durations. Favoring a steady drip of ambiguous clues over dense plotting and explanation, Hadzihalilovic's first film in over a decade is the cinematic equivalent of a near-perfectly delivered short story that lingers due to the questions left unanswered.

It's not long after we first meet young Nicolas (Max Brebant) that we stumble upon the first of several puzzling, gently unsettling sights. On a morning swim, Nicolas comes across the corpse of a boy his age, with a red starfish fixed around his stomach. Understandably alarmed, he rushes home to his village, a cluster of white buildings isolated along the coastline of black rocks and sand. He informs his mother (Julie-Marie Parmentier), eventually goes under the water to see for herself. When she resurfaces, she comes holding the red starfish, and tells Nicolas and the other boys in town that there never was a dead body. In the meantime, other families, composed of male children and female adults, mill about by the water.

Hadzihalilovic, from the outset, displays an extraordinary sense of cinematic time, and proportions her film accordingly. Though Evolution would qualify as slow, its pacing is taut, never dawdling for too long before nudging its story into (and then deep down) the rabbit hole. The routines of the village dwellers, which include the adults feeding an inky black mush to the boys as part of a treatment, are shown enough for us to understand their place in the characters' lives, but not so much that the film leaves us thinking "oh come on, not this again."

Evolution may be light on plot and character development, but it counters beautifully through its stoic performances, beautiful lighting, and masterful command of mood. Much of what takes place defies easy explanation, but the questions that Hadzihalilovic leaves unanswered come from a place of assured filmmaking. The director has the answers and knows all of the rules, and uses ambiguity to push the viewer, rather than as a cop out. And the actors, though often blank in expression, all commit to the material with chilling directness. Though young Nicolas is the film's lead, the most nuanced turn comes from Stella (The White Ribbon's Roxane Duran), a nurse (or someone dressed as a nurse) at the island's medical facility. Initially just another face overseeing the "cure" of the local boys, Stella's facade cracks in an unexpectedly tender way, throwing a wrench into our perception of what the hell is going on.

There's a razor thin line between compelling ambiguity and head-scratching emptiness, and Hadzihalilovic never falters. Her story has literal and symbolic implications, with issues of gender dynamics, societal manipulation, and bodily autonomy all intersecting over the course of Nicolas' journey (not unlike 2014's Under the Skin). It's a muted mix of abstract sci-fi thrills and low-key body horror with a less-is-more approach only amplifies its deeply unnerving psychological impact the longer it swims around in your head.

Grade: A-

Review: "Elle"

2016-11-23T10:26:00.003-08:00

Director: Paul Verhoeven
Runtime: 131 minutes

It's not every day you see a movie that opens with rape and then, mere minutes later, prods you to laugh uncomfortably. Assault and rape are tricky to tackle in a visual medium, given the thin line that separates honest discomfort and repugnant exploitation (look no further than high end cable dramas like Game of Thrones and Outlander). Leave it to Paul Verhoeven, then, to craft a psychological thriller/black comedy like Elle that occupies the elusive intersection of melodramatic noir thrills and pop-psychology.

Which is not to say that this is the first time Verhoeven has waded into these waters. This is, after all, the same man who gave us Basic Instinct and Showgirls. It's been a decade since Verhoeven's last film (the Dutch drama Black Book), and above all else, he remains an effective provocateur. Yet in Elle, adapted from French novelist Philippe Djian's "....Oh," Verhoeven reveals that he's moved on from hollow shock value. His new film is a silky smooth, Hitchcockian exercise buoyed by a sharp script and a mesmerizing lead performance.

Verhoeven and screenwriter David Birke provide a sufficiently intricate framework, but the real heavy lifting comes down to the actress who plays Michele, the story's protagonist. In the hands of French actress Isabelle Huppert, it all looks astonishingly effortless. That sort of acting prowess is necessary given the psychological hoops Michele jumps through over the course of the film's two hours. So many (too many) similar female characters have been confined to victimhood in the aftermath of a rape, and Michele is a wonderfully complex corrective. Rather than wilt, Michele does her best to go about her usual routine. So much so, that you'd be forgiven for wondering if the incident had phased her at all.

Verhoeven plays the long game with Elle, and though it can sometimes be a bit bewildering, the approach helps the film standout and surprise. The evolution of Michele's "relationship" with her masked assailant is given as much screen time as her affair with her friend's husband, her garish mother, and the various oddballs and jackasses at her video game company. The revelation of Michele's childhood trauma further throws a wrench into how everything fits together.

Elle has a lot of pieces in its puzzle, but Verhoeven and Birke keep the story flowing along smoothly. At times, certain scenes beg the question "ok, why are we here/where is this going?" Ultimately, the mundanity of some of the narrative works in the film's favor. In giving so much focus to the regular aspects of Michele's life, Elle is able to smoothly compartmentalize its story the way its protagonist does. The story presents dozens of opportunities for Birke's screenplay to take the mawkish, "oh why me?" route with Michele's journey, yet the writer sidesteps them all.

The biting sense of humor is an equally valuable component of Elle's success. Rather than cheapen the gravity of Michele's trauma, the stabs of comedy elevate the film into a richer, more nuanced exploration. The blend of tones reaches its apex in a fantastic dinner party scene, where humor and tragedy collide in subtly breathtaking ways. It's all a high wire act that would fall apart in the hands of a less daring performer.

Yet even those who know Huppert's work might be taken aback by the way the actress' fearlessness manifests in this performance. In films like Haneke's The Piano Teacher, Huppert demonstrated her prowess through fiercely contained bursts of emotion. Elle, though no less complex, doesn't boast the shame type of obvious expressiveness. But just when it seems like the actress might be coasting, she throws out some little jab of black humor or murky despair that brings the whole balancing act into focus.

The performance is so strong and so consistently intriguing that it would be easy to dismiss the behind the scenes contributions. First and foremost is Verhoeven's elegant direction, which toes the line between high end psychological drama and paperback thriller. The faded, fall-into-winter color palette works well by casting even the most innocent moments in a murky mood. Anne Dudley's melodramatic score is a standout as well, lending scenes the right touch of menace and mystery without becoming intrusive. Despite the heavy nods to cinematic styles of the past, Verhoeven's stamp on Elle ensures that it all manages to still come across as forward-thinking. Whatever your thoughts on the director's previous work, he at least deserves credit for finding new ways to tease and provoke.

Grade: B+

Review: "Arrival"

2016-11-13T20:36:00.002-08:00

Director: Denis Villeneuve
Runtime: 116 minutes

There is a moment in Arrival in which an observation about language caused me to freeze in my seat. If I was shocked, it was due not to some sensational revelation. For a "big moment," it is played with an almost disorienting amount of elegance and reserve. And yet this delicate, seemingly banal line about the nature of languages (or rather, one language in particular) left me in the same state of awe as the climactic passages of 2001, Solaris, or Stalker. It serves not as a copout, but as a mind-warping enrichment of everything that comes before and after.

Adapted from Ted Chiang's acclaimed short story "The Story of Your Life," Arrival's set up is hardly novel. Aliens land, and it's up to us to figure out what they want (and, in the worst case scenario, to fight back). So it's all the more astonishing that, Arrival has been allowed to exist in its present form. As written by Eric Heisserer and directed by Denis Villeneuve (Prisoners, Sicario), Arrival represents the most extreme opposite of bellicose blockbusters like War of the Worlds or Independence Day. Though the special effects are impressive, they pale in comparison to what is achieved through the enigmatic storytelling, and the haunting lead performance from Amy Adams.

Adams plays Louise Banks, an expert linguist called upon to help the US government following a global incident. 12 UFO's, which look like elongated obsidian eggs, have touched down across the globe, including one in America's backyard, Montana. At the forceful request of Col. Weber (Forest Whitaker), she is rushed out to US-bound spacecraft, and paired with theoretical physicist Ian (Jeremy Renner) to decipher the aliens' intentions.

Global tensions, understandably, run high, and yet the plot's trajectory never fails to subvert expectations. The linguistics conversations are not an entryway to a standard thriller plot, but rather the launchpad for a richer tale of time, memory, and communication. Deciphering a language, much like editing a book, is not a process that lends itself to screen-drama. And yet, somehow, Heisserer's screenplay often does what so many others struggle to accomplish. The writing is devoted to explaining various connections and theories, but never allows them to grind the narrative to a halt.

And even when the dialogue becomes purely expository, it is gracefully complimented by Villeneuve's overall grasp on the material. Since making the leap from Quebec, the Canadian helmer has become a first rate director of the sort of mid-budget, adult-targeted dramas that are so hard to come by in Hollywood. With each new project, Villeneuve moves to different genres and settings, yet maintains a devotion to keeping his stories grounded in the authentic. Arrival has far loftier intentions than Villeneuve's previous work, and it works because of, not in spite of, its fantastical elements.

With so much emphasis on ideas and plot trickery, one might understandably fear that the human element of something like Arrival would be an inconvenience. But what ultimately gives Arrival its tremendous impact comes down to its refusal to separate the emotional and cerebral components. The eventual intersection of the large and small scale conflicts, which could have so easily derailed the film, builds to an ingenious series of developments that drastically alter the stakes, but in the most unexpected ways.

Louise is at the center of all of Arrival's plot threads and themes, and Adams is nothing short of stunning in the role. Much like Emily Blunt's protagonist in Sicario, Louise is often quite withdrawn. She is a reactor, not an actor, but that doesn't make her a blank slate. For all of her guardedness, Adams is still tremendously expressive throughout. The movements of her face and eyes appear to hold several lifetimes worth of emotion. Louise is out of her depth, yet somehow has all of the answers. She has moments of understanding, yet can't figure out how she got from point A to point B to begin with. Despite playing the put-upon hero of sorts, Adams delivers the antithesis of a star performance; her work is defined by introspection and nuance.

Renner and Whitaker are reliable, though of the humans it all comes down to Adams. The Heptapods (our name for the aliens) are appropriately enigmatic, as if the monolith from 2001 sprouted legs and communicated through inky hieroglyphs. Tech credits are excellent across the board, with the score and editing standing out in particular.

Yet even with the Heptapods and their spaceship, the images (photographed by the outstanding Bradford Young) that seem to linger most in Arrival are among the simplest. A shot of an empty house, two people embracing, Louise's eyes lighting up as she connects the latest series of dots. Or, in one case, the way the camera holds on Adam's exhausted, solemn expression as the spaceship sits in the background, obscured and out of focus. The utter stillness of the moment crystallizes everything that's beautiful about Arrival. Here is a science-fiction story defined not by promises of effects-driven chaos, but by a paradoxical mix of melancholy and hope in the face of the great infinite beyond.

Grade: A

Review: "Loving"

2016-11-06T17:48:00.002-08:00

Director: Jeff Nichols
Runtime: 123 minutes

Despite building towards a Supreme Court decision, it would be a mistake to label Loving as any sort of courtroom drama. Director Jeff Nichols (Take Shelter, Mud, and this year's Midnight Special) has taken a slice of history and made it less dramatic. There are no long, tearful speeches or impassioned arguments about right and wrong. But the film is called Loving, not Loving v. Virginia, and Nichols avoids the legal aspects for as long as possible. Nichols opens his film with Richard Loving (Joel Edgerton) and Mildred Jeter (Ruth Negga) sitting together on a porch. In the moment of stillness, there are no worries of racial injustice or threats to their safety. It's just two people who love each other and want to lead ordinary lives.

Extra emphasis should be placed on the word ordinary, as Nichols deftly avoids turning his leads into simple martyrs. Loving is a love story, but it's one where the central couple is already deeply in love at the start. If only those around them would just leave them be. Yet even with run ins with the local sheriff (Marton Csokas), Richard and Mildred's scenario is consistently handled with sensitivity and a bit of distance. In between legal troubles (the couple's county of residence forbid interracial marriages), they race cars, go to family gatherings, and work on the local farmland. Were it not for the pesky law, the Lovings would be in their own Eden.

Though the message seems simple (Lovings good, racist law bad), Nichols and his actors do a beautiful job of conveying the Lovings' struggle without becoming redundant. The performances from both Edgerton (a native of Australia) and Negga (of Irish/Ethiopian descent) are so quiet, yet they positively radiate with warmth and tenderness. Early on, Richard takes Mildred to an empty parcel of land. Mildred questions her husband with neutral curiosity as to why he's brought her to such a place. And then he tells her that this is where he plans to build them a house. Mildred hesitates, her eyes flicker, and she looks around again, as if she's suddenly been transported. The moment, like many others, is so simple, so gorgeously evocative of the love between husband and wife.

Whether experiencing a moment of triumph or a setback, Edgerton and Negga keep their performances 90% internalized, and to watch react with such modesty is a thing of beauty. Edgerton, keeps his head down through much of the film, which makes his few displays of distress that much more haunting. When he drunkenly whispers "I can protect you...I can protect you," it comes loaded with the weight of a lifetime of frustration. While Edgerton deflects, Negga does the opposite. She holds herself up as best as she can, never a damsel in need of man's rescue. To look into her silent moviestar eyes is find yourself bombarded with wave after wave of emotion. The body language of the actors is an integral part of their performances, rather than a show-offy crutch to fall back on ("wow, he put so much effort into slouching!").

Despite the loveliness of Richard and Mildred's scenes together, the time does come for the legal portion of the story to intervene, and Nichols integrates it all seamlessly. We are shown as little as possible, and no scene is devoted to dense legal strategizing. A few meetings with the lawyers are all Loving has time for, and next thing you know it's time for opening statements at the Supreme Court. All the while the Lovings move around, have kids, and do their best to carry on as if nothing was wrong. Tales of social justice and civil rights are often exercises of fiery passion. Loving opts for nothing more than humility over the course of its stately two hours, but that certainly didn't stop it from making my eyes well up at the simplest of gestures. The Lovings' ordinariness is a wonder all on its own.

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "Christine"

2016-10-23T21:04:00.001-07:00

Director: Antonio Campos
Runtime: 115 minutes

My apologies to Stephen King, but the name 'Christine' belongs to Antonio Campos now. Or at least, it initially belongs to Mr. Campos and screenwriter Craig Shilowich, as they dramatize the downward spiral that led Christine Chubbuck to shoot herself on live television. But move beyond the architecture of Christine, and the same belongs, appropriately, not to Mr. King, Mr. Campos, or any man at all. Instead, it finds note-perfect ownership in British actress Rebecca Hall, who sits at the center of this compelling character study built around her towering performance.

I've been a fan of Hall's work ever since her first breakthrough, as a love interest for Christian Bale in the thriller The Prestige. Amid starry names like Bale, Hugh Jackman, Michael Caine, and Scarlett Johansson, Hall managed to make her mark in what could have been a throwaway role. Since then, she has largely stuck to smaller fare (including the lovely Please Give, in which she's excellent), never quite forcing her way into the conscience of the American movie-going public. Hopefully Christine, arriving 10 years after The Prestige, changes that.

Chubbuck's story is an easy one to mine for cheap tragic theatrics, but Christine makes the wise decision to dramatize the reporter's life, rather than attempt to recreate it. That leaves Campos, Shilowich, and Hall tremendous room to mine what we know of Chubbuck's life for an absorbing look inside a complex woman who is defined by more than her tragic end. Gangly and stilted, Hall's Chubbuck is not the warm, easy-going type. A perfectionist to a fault, she clashes regularly with her station manager (Tracy Letts) at the local Sarasota news station, never letting up even when she should take a hint and back off. When we first see her, she's practicing for an imaginary interview with President Nixon, and asking a co-worker (Maria Dizzia) if she nods her head "too sympathetically."

Amid the shifting landscape of TV news, Chubbuck struggles most with the knotty dilemma of how we present ourselves to each other, and how we feel others perceive us. Though Shilowich's screenplay is sporadically on-the-nose, it largely provides a gripping series of obstacles that push Christine to her breaking point. Such a straight forward march toward death may sound like a grim slog, but Shilowich finds moments of awkward humor that keep the film from drowning in depressive moods. A perky, bubbling score contributes to the flashes of levity as well, without becoming distracting or overbearing.

Yet even if Christine were a tonally one-note exercise in misery, it would still be worth it thanks to Hall. With her rigid posture and grating voice, Chubbuck isn't an easy protagonist to latch onto, but Hall is transfixing throughout. Lesser films and performances would be all about the look and the voice, but Christine pushes right past that, and subtly digs into the underlying mental health issues that eventually took hold. Whether fighting with her hippie mother (J. Cameron Smith) or trying to pitch a news story, Chubbuck is a hard presence to ignore. Hall's unwavering stare, coupled with her unsteady mask of a face, keeps up an icy front while allowing bottled up emotions to flood out. It's immensely subtle, yet still hauntingly expressive.

Only at the story's end do the limitations of the script become apparent, although not to the point of undoing the film's accomplishments. This is a performance vehicle through and through, with the larger issues of mental health, self doubt, and workplace sexism only marginally explored as they suit the story's needs. There's also the matter of the film's final 10 minutes or so, which end Christine on a puzzling note. Rather than conclude with either solemn remembrance or bitter irony, Christine's ending takes a stab at, well, I'm not quite sure. There's a "point" in there somewhere about the role of TV and entertainment and news, but it never really lands. It's a bizarre pivot for a film that seemed to understand its limitations. You had me at Rebecca Hall giving the best performance of career...no need to push for more.

Grade: B

Review: "The Handmaiden"

2016-10-23T20:13:00.001-07:00

Director: Park Chan-wook
Runtime: 142 minutes

Is it really a "return to form" if you never really tumbled from grace to being with? That was the question that lingered in my head as I realized that I was starting to fall for The Handmaiden, the latest opulent melodrama from South Korea's Park Chan-wook. The director's last film, Stoker, was a rare English-debut that was, to me at least, a success despite a few wobbles. That film received mixed reviews, with some questioning if Park to lose his edge. Now, three years later, the director is back with a roaring statement that he's still a force to be reckoned with. Most surprisingly, he accomplishes this not by doubling down on his tendency towards sensationalized violence, but by turning his attention an an intricate web of double and triple crosses.

Adapted from Sarah Waters' novel Fingersmith, Park transplants the story from Victorian England to 1930s Korea, putting himself back on his home turf. Not that he needed to, seeing as his highly stylized directing is as forceful and confident as ever. Like an immense German cuckoo clock, The Handmaiden is full of little pieces that are exhilarating in their intricate connections to each other.

In the straightforward opening, a young maid named Sook-hee (Kim Tae-ri) arrives at a lavish manor for a reclusive noblewoman and her powerful uncle. But just as Sook-hee gets settled for her first night in service of Lady Hideko (Kim Min-hee), Park pulls the rug out from under us. Sook-hee is not just a maid, but a trained con-artist. Handpicked by fellow con Count Fujiwara (Ha Jung-woo), Sook-hee sets out to push Lady Hideko into sham marriage to secure a share of her immense fortune (the majority of which will go to the Count).

If the 10 minute mark of a 142 minute movie seems too soon to break out the big story-telling moves, fear not. Park hasn't gotten impatient to played his hand too soon. He's just laid one of many traps that will steadily contort the narrative in ways that even the most accomplished Cirque du Soleil troop wouldn't attempt.

This dedication to such dense plotting is a big part of what makes The Handmaiden such a thrilling success. Melodrama, in which plot takes precedence over emotion, is sometimes thought of as being lesser. Drama takes the form of Ibsen plays and Philip Roth novels, and melodrama manifests as what we sometimes refer to as "airport novels." Lots of plot, lots of twists, but perhaps lacking in authenticity. But, like Gone Girl (and many of Park's own movies), The Handmaiden makes an emphatic case for dropping the pretense of introspective drama, and just telling a labyrinthine yarn. Right on, man.

And despite plot being of greater importance than character development, Park remains adept at drawing engaging performances from his actors. Most enjoyable, perhaps becuase of the layers of deception at hand, is Kim Min-hee's work as Lady Hideko. Initially cast as a sheltered woman-child defined solely by her naiveté, she eventually takes hold of the film's most thrilling sequence of narrative reversals and switchbacks.

Every bit as compelling is Park's attention to the world his colorful characters romp around in. Regardless of your feelings about his filmography, it's hard to deny that he's an aesthetic magician. Sets and costumes are all sumptuous, and Chung Chung-hoon's restless, prowling camera drinks up every square inch of Hideko's mansion, a beguiling fusion of English and East Asian architecture. Like Hideko's mansion, everything in The Handmaiden is expertly designed to pull you in and take you just up to the point of being scandalized, without ever fully crossing the line into exploitation (well, barring a few scenes). Guided along by Jo Yeong-wook's majestic score, The Handmaiden glides along like the elegant page-turner it originated with.

To go too much further in depth into the three part structure of The Handmaiden is to spoil it. So, to avoid giving away too much, I'll simply throw out a few choice elements and let your imagination do the rest. Ingredients in The Handmaiden include, but are not limited to: unreliable narrators, mercury, a giant octopus, lesbians, Japanese erotica, and an insane asylum. How do all of those fit together? Discovering that for yourself is all part of the fun. The Handmaiden is the cinematic equivalent of one of the clubs recommended by Bill Hader's Stefon character. "This place has everything!" And then some.

Grade: A-

Review: "Moonlight"

2016-10-22T16:36:00.002-07:00

Director: Barry Jenkins
Runtime: 110 minutes

The events that would otherwise consume a standard coming-of-age tale - deaths, brushes with the law, drug addiction - all happen off screen in Barry Jenkins' Moonlight. Jenkins' adaptation of Terrell McCraney's play "In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue" is narratively uneventful on the surface. And yet, for all of the radical events and cultural shifts that happen offscreen or in the background, what's most arresting is the apparent simplicity of the three-act story. Like its central character, Moonlight often hesitates to speak, yet the roiling emotions under the surface nevertheless make themselves known and beautifully felt.

Set over three defining periods in the life of Chiron (Alex Hibbert/Ashton Sanders/Trevante Rhodes), Moonlight uses its intimate specificity to construct a mesmerizingly textured essay on identity, masculinity, sexuality, and self worth. Chiron's youth is littered with elements that could easily come off as cliche (an abusive mother, bullies, drug dealers, gangs), but are so precisely inserted into the story that they all feel vital to defining who Chiron is and who he'll become. Jenkins refuses to turn up the volume of his story and his protagonist's state of mind. Instead, he acts much like Chiron's father figure Juan (House of Cards' Mahershala Ali), providing gentle guidance without ever intruding.

Chiron's story unfolds over such a short period of time (each section comprises only a few days), yet it registers deeply. It is both a slice of life, and an intimately epic portrait of young adulthood and hidden desires. Though its setting (not to mention ethnic makeup) could not be more different, Moonlight in many ways resembles last year's Carol. It is a film of stolen glances, barely perceptible reactions, and simple gestures that come loaded with volumes of feeling that defy articulation. In the middle section, featuring the one instance of sexual exploration, Jenkins' conveys the confused, heated passion of a first kiss not by jamming the camera in the actors' faces, but by focusing on teenage Chiron's hand clenching the sand underneath it. If at first it seems a bit distant, give it time - the final third has the hushed tension of the best tales of "forbidden" romance.

And despite the similarities shared with Haynes' masterful film, Jenkins' direction puts its own firm stamp on the thematic material. Mixing fluid long takes (the opening shot practically involves the camera making figure eights around the actors) with jumbled, earthy handheld work, cinematographer James Laxton gorgeously captures the Miami setting in all its washed out pastels and pulsing neons. Whether showing the vivid motion of young boys playing, or the solemn stillness of an uncomfortable conversation, Jenkins and Laxtons images are a beautiful mix of post-card prettiness and rapturous mundanity.

The hushed tones of the sound work are equally critical, effortlessly putting us in Chiron's stiflingly introverted headspace. Chiron's seeming lack of place in the world is magnified by the distancing effect of the muted sounds that make their way in from the world at large. The minute sonic details of the real world are, instead, supplanted by a small soundtrack and Nicholas Britell's achingly beautiful string score.

Yet even though there are moments where the stylistic flourishes threaten to overstep, Jenkins keeps his performers front and center, perfectly positioned within his artful abstractions. The three actors who play both Chiron and on/off friend Kevin (Jaden Piner/Jharrel Jerome/The Knick's Andre Holland) are all wondrous in their own ways. But while the youngest actors often play second fiddle to the adults like Chiron's mom (Naomie Harris), Juan, and Theresa (singer Janelle Monae), their development never loses focus. In truth, they are a bit blank, in the way young kids are; they're still waiting to discover themselves while being shaped by those around them.

Moonlight is, in many ways, open-ended, yet it's also a masterclass of how to fragment a narrative and have each section perfectly build on what preceded it. It's not a fast process, but as boyhood becomes adolescence, and adolescence becomes manhood, the characters only become richer. When Chiron and Kevin reunite as adults in a Miami diner, Jenkins' film reaches full bloom, and it's magnificent to watch. Rhodes and Holland are spectacular together, and I wouldn't have minded watching their segment continue on for another two hours. But just as soon as Moonlight reaches another moment of dramatic intensity, he lets it slip back into the steady flow of time. In watching these characters transform, we see how they evolve as people, with entire lives stretching out both behind them and off into the distant future. I can only thank Mr. Jenkins and his actors for allowing me to have even a few disparate chapters of their stories.

Grade: A

Review: "The Innocents"

2016-10-16T15:38:00.001-07:00

Director: Anne Fontaine
Runtime: 115 minutes

Regardless of a story's basis in reality, a film still has a duty to make sure "real events" stand on their own. All too often, films that proudly proclaim that they're "based on actual/true events" use reality as a crutch. They live solely on their connection to reality, often forgoing legitimate drama. This is most often the case when it comes to biopics, particularly those that chart a notable figure from cradle to grave. "All of this stuff happened, isn't that something?" Well, sure it is, but how that stuff gets presented still matters. Truth can be stranger than fiction, but that doesn't mean it's automatically more compelling.

For an example of "based on true events" filmmaking done right, one need look no further than Anne Fontaine's exquisite The Innocents. First released in the US in the spring, the film is finally available to rent, own, or stream. Be warned, however. Watching this one on a laptop or TV (even a big one) will have you kicking yourself for missing out on seeing it in a theater.

Set in the immediate aftermath of World War II, The Innocents opens with a group of Polish nuns singing hymns. Despite the ravages of war, the nuns' rituals open the story in a moment of prayerful serenity. Everything is business as usual...almost. A far off scream punctures the atmosphere, at least for one member of the faithful, and she scurries away to a different part of the monastery. Turns out, one of her fellow Brides of Christ is in labor. Not long after, the monastery enlists the help of Mathilde (Lou de Laage), a French doctor stationed in town, who soon discovers that the situation extends beyond this one incident.

The story presents plenty of opportunities for one-sided lecturing, but Fontaine avoids the temptation at every turn. Rather than set up science vs. faith debates, the screenplay forgoes contrived clashes and allows characters to reveal their ideologies with mesmerizing restraint. Some of the justifications for the nuns' actions and beliefs may seem absurd, but Fontaine refuses to condescend. Mathilde, thanks to de Laage's lovely performance, is there to help, even when that means acquiescing to the sisters' faith or making compromises with it.

Faith-based films tend to fall into two categories: simplistic endorsements of religion, and scathing indictments. The Innocents, however, finds a beautiful middle ground, similar to the way last year's Spotlight did. It points out hypocrisies, and subtly challenges them, but never tries to show off. Faith matters to many of the women on screen, so it matters to the film as a whole. Despite the presence of some standard-issue Catholic guilt, the film is filled with surprising nuance.

This is echoed in everything from the performances, which are uniformly excellent without pulling focus from the larger storytelling concerns. Mathilde could have easily been pushed front and center as a traditional hero, but Fontaine keeps the story's perspective community-oriented. The French doctor is integral, but she can leave the screen for significant periods of time without leaving the film adrift. Some of the nuns aren't terribly complex, defined more by their situation than their personality, but the handful Fontaine zeroes in on are magnetic to watch. Agata Kulesza's (the alcoholic aunt in the Oscar-winning Ida) stern mother superior is a brilliant combination of conflicted faith and self-aggrandizing martyrdom. Her subordinate, Sister Maria (Agata Buzek), led a previous life as party girl with several lovers. Whether sharing a scene or operating separately, these two characters are masterfully composed studies in subtle contrasts. Buzek, in particular, is a revelation as she peels back the layers of Maria's past and present lives.

And even with such loaded material, Fontaine is able to inject a surprising amount of energy into the narrative without going overboard. The camera often gently moves across and around the actors, adding movement to what could have been a flat, heavy handed experience. Rather than leave all the heavy lifting to the actors, Fontaine does a remarkable job of framing and positioning her actors in the minimalist sets cradled in pale winter light. There are dozens and dozens of shots that have the attention to placement of a Vermeer painting, albeit one with a chillier color scheme.

Every facet of The Innocents is so thoughtful, and so gorgeously rendered that, by the time the end titles appeared, the fact that this was based on a true story was the least interesting part of the whole enterprise. Rather than let truth get in the way, The Innocents uses factual basis as a springboard to not merely recount a story, but to dramatize it with a haunting beauty that makes it all actually worth telling.

Grade: A-

Review: "Certain Women"

2016-10-15T17:55:00.002-07:00

Director: Kelly Reichardt
Runtime: 107 minutes

A truck runs off of the road. Someone has an affair. A routine legal case escalates into a hostage situation. Characters from disparate stories cross paths. All of these occur in Kelly Reichardt's Certain Women, yet they're hardly what lingers after an unhurried hour and 45 minutes. Instead, Reichardt, one of American indie cinema's most reliable poets, draws attention to the breaths that take place in between words and actions. The small gestures take center stage, and what Reichardt pieces together, despite starting slow, builds to a series of gently moving conclusions.

Arriving two years after the more accessible eco-terrorist thriller Night Moves, Reichardt is back in more familiar territory with her latest. Adapted from the short stories of author Maile Meloy, Certain Women elegantly weaves together the lives of three different women, and those around them, as they do their best to stake their claim in the world.

Despite the vast emptiness of Montana setting, there are any number of obstacles, most of them in some way intangible. For Laura Wells (Laura Dern), it means dealing with men who either won't listen to her, or who only enter her life when they need to use her. Laura's client (Mad Men's Jared Harris) refuses to take her legal advice until he hears it from a male colleague, while the man in her life (James LeGros) only needs her as an escape from the tensions in his marriage. Elsewhere in the Treasure State, Gina (Michelle Williams) scouts for raw materials for a home she hopes to build. And lastly, Native American rancher Jamie (Lily Gladstone) strikes up a friendship (and possibly more) with a night school teacher (Kristen Stewart).

So much of what happens in Certain Women is mundane, but Reichardt manages to stealthily craft a delicate, sensitive tribute to the ordinariness of her character's lives. Aided by beautiful, rough-hewn visuals, the writer, director, and editor paints an understatedly rugged portrait that hits home in surprising ways. Rather than force an "everyone is connected" overarching narrative, Reichardt is content to merely have her various characters brush shoulders at most. Each little reaction and movement counts, even if it seems inconsequential at first.

Even at their most accessible, Reichardt's stories never move with urgency, and she doubles down on the approach here. But patience is rewarded once the Gladstone/Stewart part of the triptych guides the film into its second half and mini-finales. Carol director Todd Haynes is credited as a producer on the film, and that shines through most evidently in the third story. The inciting incident is almost random, but from the moment Stewart wanders into Gladstone's line of sight, an inexplicable sliver of tension slips in. A few conversations later, juxtaposed with Jamie's repetitive duties on the ranch, and the intensity of unrequited affection blossoms into something astoundingly realized.

The third segment could easily have been its own full feature, yet it never feels shortchanged by being forced to share time with two other stories. Yet by placing the most complete section at the end, Reichardt is able to construct a master arc encompassing three small stories that each have their own starts and finishes. The least developed of the three is Williams' story, which feels more connective and symbolic, but nonetheless is still a worthy addition. Parts 1 and 3 focus on women dealing with situations and emotions they can't completely control, while Williams' Gina is her own boss (and likely the breadwinner of her household). These women are all distinct, yet they're all cut from the same multi-textured cloth.

So much of what drives Certain Women rests on Reichardt and her behind the scenes team, but the women in front of the camera are equally vital. Even though we know precious little about these people, Dern, Williams, Gladstone, and Stewart are all constantly adding shades of depth without interfering with the reserved tone of the film around them. There are deep wells of desire, frustration, and exhaustion coursing through these women, all in ways that feel authentic and lived-in. Even when Reichardt flat out states a Talking Point in dialogue, she does so with elegance and brevity ("...if I were a man, people would listen and say, 'ok.'"). The men aren't too shabby either. LeGros brings gentleness to what could have been a detestable character, and Rene Auberjonois is quietly heartbreaking as an old man sought out by Gina. And, in his final scene, Harris brings unfathomable nuance to his part through only a handful of perfectly chosen words.

And while Dern, Williams, and Stewart all have the most name value, but it's Gladstone who ends up shining brightest among the women. Her low key kindness seamlessly transitions into deeply felt moments of longing without missing beat. It's star-making turn, only without all of the flashy theatrics that usually come with such a "moment" for a performer. Like the film around her, Gladstone's performance is founded on introspection and empathy. While it may not jump off of the page as traditionally exciting or entertaining, those traits are what make Gladstone's work, and Certain Women as a whole, such a tender triumph. And all without a single car crash or shootout in sight.

Grade: A-

Review: "The Girl on the Train"

2016-10-09T15:57:00.000-07:00

Director: Tate Taylor
Runtime: 112 minutes

Sometimes book adaptations get the filmmakers they deserve, and sometimes they don't. Unfortunately, for The Girl on the Train, aka Gone Girl: Gaslighting Edition, the film adaptation has fallen into the latter camp. Roughly two years ago, David Fincher's twisty, black-hearted Gone Girl showcased a filmmaker capable of handling (and cinematically elevating) juicy source material. Train director Tate Taylor (The Help), on the other hand, can barely keep up with Hawkins' novel or Erin Cressida Wilson's adaptation. Even an ensemble of reliable actors can't give this one the consistent spark (and malicious allure) it desperately needs.

Chief among the actors trying to hold Taylor's film together is a terrifically committed Emily Blunt, as the story's less-than-reliable narrator. Blunt's Rachel used to have it all, but an ugly divorce has caused her to implode. Now, she's an unemployed alcoholic mess who's only stability in life comes from her commute to and from Manhattan each day. Left alone with her thoughts on the train, she develops an obsession with a seemingly perfect couple (Luke Evans and Hayley Bennett) living in the house next door to her ex-husband and his new wife (Justin Theroux and Rebecca Ferguson). One night, Rachel's evening commute, combined with a convenient blackout after a heavy bout of drinking, ends with her covered in blood, some of which may not be hers. And then Bennett's Megan is reported missing.

Rachel is a fantastically set-up character, and Blunt dives headfirst into the unstable messiness inherent in the role. If only Taylor were more adept at capturing and maintaining control of her performance. Despite the visible effort Blunt exerts, Taylor has a habit of filming his leading lady in ways that threaten to work against the performance. In her moments of black-out drunkness, Blunt looks less like a mentally unstable alcoholic, and more like a woman experience a light bout of demonic possession. These extreme pieces of Rachel's personality are hammered home so clumsily at the outset, that after the first 20 minutes or so, Blunt runs out of nuances to dig up.

Taylor's odd ability to direct the film on autopilot while still making the proceedings overwrought is fascinating in all the wrong ways, and that applies to the way he handles the rest of his cast. Evans, Theroux, and Edgar Ramirez (as Megan's therapist) are given little to do (even when playing out the fantasies in Rachel's head), while Laura Prepon and Allison Janney are utterly wasted in throwaway roles. Of the three central women, Bennett largely gets by unscathed, seeing as her role is basically just a rehash of Rosamund Pike's flashback scenes in Gone Girl. Also, Lisa Kudrow stops by for two (two and a half?) scenes that - a ha! - wind up being the key turning point of the mystery.

Poor Rebecca Ferguson (and her wig), on the other hand, is completely let down on all fronts. After being such a delight in last summer's Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, Ferguson is oddly cast as the blindly loyal Emma. And though Ferguson tries her best to make the most of the part, she can't quite overcome the character's near-total uselessness, even during the story's most critical scenes. Ferguson and Blunt wind up as opposing extremes, the former wasting away with nothing to do, while the latter is forced to go full-throttle from the opening scene and never let up.

Below the line credits do little to help create a sustained sense of narrative intrigue. The visuals range from competent to ugly (when in doubt, avoid Dead Leaf Brown for your color scheme), while the great Danny Elfman turns in one of the most mechanical, anonymous scores of his career. There's some minor elegance to the film's jumbling of perspectives and timelines, but there are times when you may groan and wonder why the whole thing couldn't have been assembled more linearly.

Yet even Taylor's clammy grip on the story isn't enough to dilute a few of the film's twists and revelations. By the time Kudrow inadvertently steers the film towards its conclusion, it's hard not to be minimally engaged as the various lies and manipulations finally wash away. But a few nifty shocks and some paper-thin commentary on abusive relationships aren't enough to justify either the overheated opening or the punishingly mundane middle acts. When The Girl on the Train was initially published, it (and the instantly greenlit adaptation) was hyped as the next Gone Girl. But I get the sense that, if either David Fincher or Gillian Flynn see Taylor's film, they won't be losing any sleep.

Grade: C

Review: "The Birth of a Nation"

2016-10-08T17:41:00.004-07:00

Director: Nate Parker
Runtime: 110 minutes

President Woodrow Wilson has been (falsely) quoted for decades as describing D.W. Griffith's landmark cinematic epic/paean to white supremacy The Birth of a Nation as being "like writing history with lightning." Regardless of the quote's actual attribution (or total fabrication), or the film's hideous messages, it's hard to fault the line as inaccurate. The film was, on a technical level, a groundbreaking push forward for cinematic techniques, particularly in the editing department.

Now, roughly a century later, actor-turned-director Nate Parker has admirably set out to rewrite history with lightning. In sharing a title with Griffith's KKK epic, Parker's The Birth of a Nation acts as a historical and cinematic corrective. The story of Nat Turner's bloody slave rebellion is one that hopefully makes Griffith turn in his grave. A shame, then, that such worthy subject matter and contextual significance is spent on an altogether amateurish endeavor. Nat Turner's story and its relation to American race relations is important, but that can only carry a film so far.

Arriving three years after Steve McQueen's 12 Years a Slave, Parker's film is not without merits, but comes off as pale imitation of bolder, richer narratives about our country's great shame. As is often the case with historical biopics, the protagonist's rougher edges have been sanded down to make him an archetypical hero. The same goes for just about everything else in Birth, which proceeds through a checklist of Signifiers of Slavery on its way to the end of a tepid Great Martyr story.

In fairness, there are times when Birth hits home, whether due merely to its content or the film's tackling of said content. A scene involving a slave being force fed (it involves clearing out some teeth) is harrowing stuff any way you slice it. And there are other moments that speak to broader truths about the silent community that built up among slaves on a plantation. After Nat (Parker, pulling triple duty) is whipped for disobedience, the camera pulls up to reveal that, in the hours since the whipping, the other slaves have put out candles in front of their quarters as a sort of secretive vigil. And, in the film's most impressive moment, the camera pulls back from a close up of a black boy's face to reveal that he's one of six or seven slaves who have been hanged together on a tree in a hauntingly still tableau.

But these are grace notes in a movie that often feels too caught up with its main character (and thus, it's star, director, and writer) to speak to bigger concerns. By casting Turner as a semi-prophetic shepherd of slaves, the actual man's mark on history becomes diminished. When Turner's wife Cherry (How to Get Away with Murder's Aja Naomi King, who's excellent) whispers that hundreds of blacks have been killed in retaliation for Turner's rebellion, it almost feels like an afterthought. Yes, slaveowners exacted terrible vengeance on people, but at least Nat Turner got to have one last conversation with his beloved and then die for our sins. Oh, and to cap it all off, the last thing Turner sees is an angel with classic feathery white wings smiling down at him. Pile on the overeager score (which would be a better fit for a Spielberg-directed historical romance), and the film reveals its lack of finesse. There's a difference between flinging down lightning bolts hoping that something leaves a mark, and wielding them with eloquence.

Grade: C+

Review: "American Honey"

2016-10-01T16:49:00.005-07:00

Director: Andrea Arnold
Runtime: 162 minutes

More than any other country, America loves to put itself in the titles of movies. American Sniper, American Hustle, American Beauty, American Graffiti, American Gigolo, etc etc etc... At this point, movies with "American" in the title are as American as baseball, apple pie, and really uncomfortable discourse about race. That there are two new movies due out this year bearing the "American" flag in their title isn't surprising. The fact that both are directed by Brits, however, is. Adding to the intrigue is that both films, Andrea Arnold's American Honey and Ewan McGregor's American Pastoral, depict such radically different slices of American life. Hollywood spends so much time inflicting its ideas of other cultures on the cinematic landscape that it's only fair for the tables to get turned now and then.

Which brings us to Arnold's Honey, the first of the two to land in US theaters. Following generally positive response out of Cannes (and the Grand Jury Prize, the fest's equivalent of 3rd place), Arnold's vision of American decay and poverty is quite a wallop. But even though the director and her collaborators offer up a handful of bravura, inspired passages, they are drowned in a nearly three hour journey that covers lots of physical terrain yet rarely goes anywhere. Adjectives like "sprawling" and "freewheeling" seem like inevitable parts of the conversation about American Honey, yet the film earns neither. It's simply too much fat wrapped around a less-than-filling piece of meat.

From her Oscar-winning short Wasp, Arnold has been preoccupied with the lives of the impoverished and the lost, and American Honey is no different. Despite hailing from across the Atlantic, Arnold's vision of lower class America feels spot on. It's not sugar-coated or fetishized, despite the abundance of it that fills the cramped framing. Working with regular DP Robbie Ryan, Arnold turns scenes of spontaneous action into memorable, pseudo-mythic images without sacrificing the grime and grit beneath the surface. Despite the absence of meticulous framing or composition, there are any number of shots and sequences of American Honey that have been seared into my memory. Even something as simple as a close up of the main character's thumb, stuck up to hitch a ride, coated in cracked pink nail polish, lingers thanks to the texture that Ryan's lighting brings to each moment.

Arnold also continues her hotstreak of mostly untrained actors, and getting performances out of them that ring true. Front and center is Dallas native Sasha Lane, making quite a debut, even when she's stuck in a role that eventually runs out of steam on page. Whether concealing a smirk or calmly taking in some strange new sight, Lane is a find on par with Katie Jarvis, the lead of Arnold's Fish Tank. Lane's character Star begins promisingly. A well-intentioned misfit from the rough side of the tracks, Star bolts at the chance to get the hell out of dodge and hitch a ride with a traveling group of wayward youths crisscrossing the country and selling magazine subscriptions.

Despite the wide array of characters, Lane makes a more than able lead, even when going toe to toe with the experienced actors of the bunch. Her on/off chemistry with Jake (Shia LaBeouf) is palpable and messy, and she holds her own against icy group leader Krystal (Mad Max: Fury Road's Riley Keough). The other kids piled into the white van with Lane are all effective in small doses, and Arnold creates an aura of unforced camaraderie among the bunch in the many scenes in which dialogue floats from one end of the vehicle to the other.

But there's only so much Arnold, her cast of misfits, and a killer soundtrack (including the eponymous Lady Antebellum track) can wring out of American Honey's set up. Lane's performance never wavers, somewhere in the second hour her development stops being an arc and turns into a circle. By the time American Honey lurches to a close, it's Keough's Krystal who emerges as the most compelling character, if only because we get the sense there's something more behind her facade. Arnold gives us so much of Star (and even Jake) that she outgrows her status as protagonist. Characters like Krystal leave us with questions and possibilities, while Star and Jake eventually exhaust and exasperate.

And so, for 162 minutes, American Honey casually careens from one episode to another, never quite finding a steady-enough rhythm to become a melody. It's not too much of a good thing, but rather just too much. The exhilarating final minutes, pitched perfectly between bittersweetness and ecstasy, prop up American Honey enough to keep it from collapsing under its own weight. But what those final minutes are tasked with supporting, despite its highest of highs, is too unwieldy to justify the sum of its parts.

Grade: B-

Review: "Don't Breathe"

2016-08-28T18:17:00.002-07:00

Director: Fede Alvarez
Runtime: 84 minutes

The title of Fede Alvarez's Don't Breathe is a command, one heeded by the two protagonists of this horror thriller. Yet it also doubles as a challenge to the audience. Fair enough, Mr. Alvarez. The film is 84 minutes, but feels much longer. And that's not because it drags. Quite the contrary. It's because once the plot kicks into gear, you'll spend so much time holding your breath and clenching your armrests that you'll feel like the two leads: trapped in a nightmare that goes on and on, seemingly without end. That may be bad news for the characters, but it's something worth celebrating for viewers looking for extended sequences of knuckle-whitening tension.

Alvarez made a splash a few years ago when he remade Sam Raimi's Evil Dead. Though Don't Breathe has its share of R-rated violence, it's hardly covering similar ground or style. There's no campy, tongue-in-cheek excess here (well, relatively speaking). Don't Breathe may not reach the controlled, art-film highs of The Babadook, It Follows, or The Witch, it passes with flying colors as a tightly wound nerve-shredder.

Like It Follows, Alvarez's film takes place in the ruins of modern-day Detroit. Many homes are abandoned, and those that aren't don't seem terribly inviting (or clean). The post financial collapse gloom that swamped the Motor City is at the root of why three young adults have turned to robbery to finance their eventual getaway to the West Coast. Rocky (Suburgatory's Jane Levy), wants to take her little sister away from her trailer trash mother and her sleazy live-in boyfriend. Less-than-stellar boyfriend Money (Daniel Zovatto) is ready to join her. And, reluctantly, so is Alex (Prisoners' Dylan Minnette), in part because he clearly has deeper feelings for Rocky.

And so our three young malcontents decide to make their last heist the robbery of a reclusive Gulf War veteran (Avatar's Stephen Lang) rumored to be sitting on a $300K settlement from the death of his daughter. Two details only make the mark more appealing: every other house on his block is empty, and he's blind. Sure, his giant dog is a bit of a terror, but nothing could possibly get too out of- oh OK you know it does, otherwise there isn't a movie. The break-in gets off to a smooth start (windows stealthily broken, alarm system disabled)...and then the Blind Man walks in on them mid-ransack. The uncomfortable silence that follows is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Imagine the climactic showdown of The Silence of the Lambs (Buffalo Bill stalking Clarice in the dark, aided by night vision) stretched to feature-length, and you get the idea.

Victims revealing themselves as predators is hardly new territory, but Alvarez dives into his set up so smoothly that the standard horror tropes barely register. Making the most of the fantastic set-up, Alvarez and cinematographer Pedro Luque nimbly dart around the decrepit homestead, ensuring that every footstep and every creaky floorboard registers as a potential death sentence. Roque Banos' score ratchets up the tension without overwhelming the impeccable sound work, sustaining an undercurrent of dread throughout each development. I spent most of Don't Breathe like Rocky at the outset: curled up in a ball, terrified to make a sound.

Performances of high caliber aren't required in this situation, though the cast come across well. Levy makes a spunky heroine (think Emma Stone with a more sardonic edge), and Minnette is grounded and sympathetic. Lang, outfitted with some milky white contact lenses, is compelling even when fast asleep. He gives the Blind Man the physicality of a wounded wolf: raw, unpredictable, and in possession of frighteningly quick (and brutal) reflexes.

The work from all departments is so solid (and in cases, truly exemplary), and Alvarez doesn't drop the ball when steering the plot through its final passages. There are a few twists (one more surprising than the other), and a glaze of psychological depth painted on to juuuuuussst barely elevate this thing above "people scream and die" horror shenanigans. But given its nastier surprises and R-rated funhouse structure, what really seals the deal for Don't Breathe is that it never strains to be something "important." Its a magnificently twisty ride, perfectly content to leave you exhilarated, exhausted, and begging for more. That is, after you take a few hours to get the knots out of your insides.

Grade: B+

Review: "Hell or High Water"

2016-08-27T21:29:00.000-07:00

Director: David Mackenzie
Runtime: 102 minutes

August, like January, is considered a dead zone for movies (albeit moreso for big studio releases). With such a dour summer movie season, August 2016 was being set up as a true wasteland. And yet, in this strange, topsy turvy year, the summer's final act is shaping up to be its redemption. August kicked with two delightful family-oriented outings (Disney's Pete's Dragon remake and Laika's stop-motion Kubo and the Two Strings), and is now beginning to deliver high end material for older audiences as well. Case in point, David Mackenzie's Hell or High Water, a modern western thriller that takes the cat-and-mouse plotting of No Country for Old Men and makes it more accessible, without being watered down.

Set in the sun-baked small towns of west Texas, Hell subverts our expectations from its opening shot. After a fairly standard bank heist, the story immediately takes us to another one taking place only hours (minutes?) later. Rather than clue us in from the beginning, the script by Taylor Sheridan (Sicario) drops us in the middle of a plan that's fully in motion. There are no montages of plans being made or tools being acquired. Like bank-robber brothers Tanner and Toby Howard (Ben Foster and Chris Pine), the whole movie just keeps on going.

In retrospect, it makes Mackenzie look like an odd choice to sit in the director's chair. The UK-born helmer has never been afraid to jump genres. But nothing in the sci-fi romance Perfect Sense or prison drama Starred Up indicated that he'd be capable of delivering such a propulsive and distinctly American effort. But with Sheridan's deft, often humorous script as a foundation, Mackenzie is able to push himself into new territory and pull it off with the confidence of an old pro. Even when the characters throw out cliches (ranging from tired colloquialisms to "that's what she said" jokes), the actors carry it off so effortlessly that it feels perfectly natural amid the more natural, human moments.

Mackenzie's strength has always been his ability to work with actors, even when guiding them through uneven material, and Hell or High Water is no exception. Pine and Foster are both excellent as the Howard brothers, convincingly passing as family while also intelligently illustrating their differences. Pine's role is lowkey compared to his swaggering, womanizing James Kirk, and it's refreshing to see him quietly nail such different material. Foster, meanwhile, is electrifying as the live wire of the two. Despite having the flashier role, he never plays to the camera, and maintains an unshakeable immersion in his role without self-consciously Acting. Jeff Bridges does fine work as well as the crotchety deputy on the brothers' trail. He also has a great deal of fun trading insults with his partner, the half-Native American, half-Mexican Alberto (Gil Birmingham, a dry-witted delight).

The supporting cast is stacked with solid performances as well. Everyone involved seems excited to be working on such a project, even when they're only given a few lines. Dale Dickey (Winter's Bone), Katy Mixon (TV's Mike and Molly), and Marin Ireland (as Pine's ex-wife) are all welcome presences (I assume the only reason Margo Martindale never showed up was because her schedule was just too crowded). The MVP of the supporting players, however, might have to go to the leathery waitress who tends to Bridges and Birmingham in a small-town steakhouse. She delivers a small rant with timing that many aspiring comedians would kill for.

And just as it seems the script might lose its way when forced to wrap things up, the film surprises yet again. Various family issues are sorted out and motivations are clarified, but Sheridan never goes overboard with the details. We know enough about the characters and what they want, and Sheridan doesn't break the spell with long-winded idealogical monologues, even when touching on issues like predatory lending. There's a rich treasure trove of ideas and emotions swirling underneath the surface, but the lush western visuals and delicate score keep things cinematic. What could have been a pretentious, tonally-erratic drama is, instead, a thoughtful story mixing finely honed character dynamics with elegantly-woven suspense.

Grade: B+