Arrival (2016)

The latest film from director Denis Villeneuve is eerily timely - eerily in the sense that there is no way the producers could have predicted how desperately their film's messages would be needed on the cusp of the Trump administration. 

Based on Ted Chiang's short story "The Story of Your Life," Arrival tells the story of linguistics professor Louise Banks (Amy Adams) and her role in decoding the language of an alien species that has arrived on Earth. The creatures have arrived and set up massive structures that resemble sky-scraper versions of monoliths in 2001: A Space Odyssey. These creatures live inside of these structures, and Louise works slowly to understand their language. 

I hesitate to remark any further about the film's story, for it is a slow burner full of twists. Indeed, any attempt to summarize the film's major plot points will destroy its mystery and beauty. For the sake of discussion, though, I will say the film takes some unexpected turns, and they are executed in the kind of slow, mounting manner in which I prefer my science fiction. 

This film has almost no "action," but that is its strength, actually. Rather than relying on worn-out plot points we have come to associate with science fiction lately, Villeneuve builds suspense purely through character and imagery. It is a riveting story, and I watched much of it with my mouth open. It is at once about love, interpretation, war, culture, and language - with language perhaps playing the biggest role. 

The film asks what exactly is language, what does it mean to "speak," what is communication, what does it mean to understand? There was a sentence diagramming scene that I adored, to say nothing of the building suspense as the language themes expanded. Language is connected with every other facet of human existence in this film; it is a film about what unites people, what commonality we are able to share due to both language and, more importantly, communication. The film is about how delicate human relations are due to this very simple and basic need: to communicate. I was moved to tears in a few places by the end. 

Amy Adams's acting was in top-form, although she has a rather quiet part. This film is a slow burn, certainly, but that slowly creeping pace rendered the climax that much more powerful. Her facial expressions and even the way she moved and carried her body revealed what Louise was thinking or experiencing, which was imperative as there is not much dialogue in the film. There is already some Oscar buzz about her performance for good reason. 

Villeneuve is one of my favorite "new" directors, and to me he's four-for-four: Prisoners, Enemy, Sicario, and now Arrival are all exceptional productions, although each of them is very, very different - even down to the cinematic style. For Arrival, the color palette is mostly blue, but not in that saturated style like most of Clint Eastwood's films. The blue in Arrival has a light, dreamy look to it that becomes more important as the film progresses. Villeneuve is also not afraid of silence, something that I think a lot of directors today do not understand. He takes his time in showing a sequence, and the film is all the better for this patience. 

There is much to say about this film, but it would be impossible to do so without spoilers. I will simply say that this film and its explorations of war, compassion, and language may prove the most prescient and poignant of the year. I can think of no other film I have seen this year that visually expresses such a meaningful message with such skill and power. 

Grade: A

Joy (2015)

Joy is easily the deepest and most powerful movie David O. Russell has ever made. Building on his success with The Fighter, Silver Linings Playbook, and American Hustle, Russell takes a more focused and intimate approach to telling the story of Joy Mangano and the Miracle Mop.

Russell's previous efforts have been enjoyable, but none have been as daring as Joy. Russell inverts many tropes associated with success stories - and even tropes established within Russell's own canon. 

Robert De Niro plays Joy's (Jennifer Lawrence) father; in an inversion of his loving father character in Silver Linings Playbook, De Niro's character is perhaps the most despicable person in the film, but Russell reveals this gradually. In a similar vein, the most loyal and compassionate character is her ex-husband Tony (Edgar Ramirez). 

By now, most people expect a certain level of sweetness and romance in a Russell film starring Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper. Joy, however, does not really have any romance in it, but there is a romantic feel permeating the entire film. Although there are no romantic relationships, there is an emphasis on the essence of romance: the guileless effusion of emotion, dreams, and magic that is so fragile, yet so intrinsic to childhood - and is so easy to lose in adulthood.

One of the key visual motifs in the film is memory and the process of resurrecting memory. The film opens with a curious prologue, which is actually a scene from a soap opera that we learn soon after is one of Joy's mother's obsessions. Buoyed by the opening to Eric Clapton's "I Feel Free," which functions as a bookend to the opening and closing of the film, the film then cuts to Joy as a child playing in the snow. Her grandmother (Diane Ladd) narrates the film, which posits the narrative as a story of childhood and, more important, of maturation whose process depends solely on never forgetting the bright-eyed dreams of childhood.  

Indeed, childhood is the key theme of this film and in many ways its star. This opening memory of Joy playing in the snow is also how all of the principle characters in her family are introduced, suggesting a connection among snow, family, childhood, memory, and success. When Joy describes a paper house she designed and created herself, we see that this early childhood impulse to create is not only Joy's defining characteristic but also one that she has lost as an adult. In perhaps one of the most moving shots of the film, Joy's grandmother explains to child Joy that one day she will be a success; this idea, we come to see as the film cuts to adult Joy, is truly the driving force of this film - not the mop or even the monetary success she enjoys later. Joy is about success as a continuous process, one that begins early and that must be revived in adulthood if one is to achieve it. 

Throughout the film snow is a sort of shorthand for childhood, success, and memory, and all of these elements appear sequentially, usually prompted by something as simple as a Christmas light or a snowflake. Indeed, most of this film occurs in the snow, and the snow imagery becomes ubiquitous as Joy's invention grows more successful. This metaphor is not about success itself, but about Joy's reclaiming of her childhood dreams and aspirations. Additionally, the snow imagery appears increasingly in the context of Christmas, which again functions as a shorthand for childhood dreams and magic; what is more magical to a young child than Christmas? 

Easily the most moving sequences in the film - and the ones that have stayed with me since first viewing Joy in the theater back in January - are Joy's dreams in which her childhood self essentially asks her adult self when she abandoned them. Russell's use of dream sequences and visual imagery is a new step for him, and he handles it with beauty and emotion. These sequences felt reminiscent of early Ken Russell in their embracing of visual symbolism and fantastical imagery. Truly, David O. Russell's films have always been realist, which is ordinarily a trait I have enjoyed: Part of the beauty of Silver Linings Playbook, for instance, is its ordinariness. Joy has a similar universal relatability, but it also isn't afraid to skirt the supernatural or the eccentric. The grandmother, known simply as "Mimi," narrates the film posthumously; at her funeral, she appears at Joy's side and holds her hand for a moment. These touches brought an emotional pull to the film that is definitely new territory for Russell. 

Jennifer Lawrence's acting is in top form, and she is surprisingly quiet in this film. In direct contrast with her characters in Silver Linings Playbook and American Hustle, her portrayal of Joy relies mostly on her eyes and her whispers. Indeed, when Joy is angry, her voice drops to the point where it is barely audible. I found this far more effective than any yelling or crying could possibly be. 

Another satisfying trait of this film is the emphasis on women and matriarchy. The film is bursting with veteran actresses: Susan Lucci, Isabella Rossellini, Diane Ladd, Virginia Madsen, and even Melissa Rivers playing her late mother Joan. Changing generations of women, and what each woman has passed on to Joy in her life - including her daughter - is another key theme that is woven into the fabric of this childhood theme. Although Joy has a son, he is almost absent from the film; instead, Joy's daughter is with her throughout this journey, as are her grandmother, half-sister, and mother. In almost every scene, Russell has a shot of the daughter's reaction, and it represents a powerful bond between Joy and Christie and, more important, between generations of women. Joy apparently puts even more pressure on herself to succeed not only to revive her childhood self, but to show her own child that dreams are not foolish and can be attainable no matter the circumstances. 

Joy was marketed as a comedy, and I have no idea why. There is little to laugh at in this film; it is almost completely humorless, which is again quite a departure for David O. Russell. To me, Russell is a throw-back to Golden Age Hollywood, his films reminiscent of George Cuckor, Frank Capra, and Billy Wilder. Of course, it is important to remember that each of these directors, especially Wilder, made subversive comedies. No matter how cheerful or hilarious a Cuckor or Wilder or Capra film might be, there is always an underlying seriousness. It's a Wonderful Life might be the ultimate Christmas movie, but its whole plot encompasses a man who has decided to commit suicide on Christmas Eve. Adam's Rib might be a sly comedy about two lawyers, but it is a ferocious critique of 1940's gender politics. And as for Billy Wilder...well, every film he ever made bordered on the dark and the cynical, no matter how light (Sabrina, Some Like It Hot) or dark (Ace in the Hole, Sunset Boulevard). Russell is certainly following in this tradition, but he is also bringing his own style to the table, one that continues to evolve with each film. 

Overall, Joy is a deep, thought-provoking film that probes into the most sheltered and suppressed yearnings of its characters and its audience. There is a profound emotional connection within this film that cannot be overstated. I am excited to see what Russell creates next, but I also think Joy will be remembered as a classic and a turning point in Russell's canon. 

Grade: A+

The Revenant (2015)

When I was leaving the library yesterday afternoon, I noticed The Revenant was available, so I checked it out. I was eager to see it, having found no one who would go to the theater with me when it was out. Late last night I watched it alone, and disappointment and disillusion were the main emotions I felt - presuming this film made me feel anything.


The Revenant is the cinematic equivalent of a late Henry James novel or a Faulkner novel. James and Faulkner (and Cormac McCarthy, for that matter) both wrote long, meandering, garden path sentences, often a paragraph long, and these monstrous sentences formed the bulk of their prose. The result? Their novels are tiresome to read, and any interesting or moving ideas are buried within the prose. The Revenant is much like this.


I think at this point everyone knows the "plot" of the film: Hugh Glass (DiCaprio) is left for dead after a bear attack, so he recovers in the wilderness and seeks revenge. The bear attack looked real - in fact, the violence throughout was realistic - but there was no emotion. The attack happens early in the film, and there has been no effort prior to it to develop or reveal anything about his character. We see some interesting flashbacks in Glass's imagination that involve his (presumed) wife and his son as a baby; there is some thought-provoking imagery involving stacked bones and soldiers burning huts. Honestly, I found the story hinted at in the flashbacks far more interesting than the blandness that was supposed to pass for a story within the main narrative.


That being said, the two women in the movie occupy perhaps the most boring cliches possible: the dead wife, who always appears in Glass's imagination with a smile and wind blowing her long hair; and a nameless woman whom Glass rescues while she is being raped. Neither of them have lines, other than Glass repeating some stoic proverb the wife told him long ago about trees and strength. And it is this stoicism that pervades the characterization of the Native Americans.


The Native American actors in the film don't do anything other than: attack white people, trade with the French, be stoic. That's it. They serve no other purpose than to evoke pity. I found this insulting and gross, especially when compared to films like Dances with Wolves or Last of the Mohicans. None of them even have names. I have no idea why this film was touted as being sympathetic to Native Americans when they essentially fulfill a "How, White Man" stereotype that has plagued Westerns for far too long.


Writer and director Alejandro Inarritu relies on similar camera work in his other Oscar-winning film Birdman: every scene is a series of long tracking shots that sweep across the scenery and the actors in a broad, focus-less way. There is no focal point to most of the scenes; you as the audience are expected to take in these long, sweeping shots and absorb everything without any clue as to what you should be watching. As a result, there is almost no emotion in this film - well, no genuine emotion. There are a few forced scenes with Glass mourning his son and dead wife, but, as a film without character development or story, it left me cold and slightly irritated. I cared next to nothing about any of the characters, let alone the protagonist.


I am convinced Inarritu has no idea how to film action, nor how to create tension in a scene. The film opens with Glass and Son (he only calls him "Son" throughout in some kind of attempt at being McCarthy-lite) are stoically hunting a deer, then it sharply contrasts with the Americans' dirty camp. About 90 seconds into the film is a violent attack from Native Americans, but it may be the dullest action scene I have ever seen in a movie. There is no emotion, nothing at stake. You have no idea who the characters are, so you really don't care whether anyone lives or dies. And, unlike Last of the Mohicans, you don't have the Native Americans' perspective on the attack; all you know is that white people are in jeopardy.


The music was horrible. I think I counted about four different notes used throughout the entire "score," if "score" is not too generous a word, and there was a great deal of percussion, as in Birdman. While the percussion - and camera work, for that matter - served Birdman well, it actually hurt The Revenant. The music should elevate the story, not reinforce its blandness.


The acting was so-so. Although, to be fair, the actors had little substantive material to work with. As a Leo fan, I felt nothing but dismay knowing he finally won his Oscar for this. He does little besides look angry and cold. The Wolf of Wall Street was a tour-de-force; this was just an exercise in wild dedication, like eating the bison liver. Tom Hardy is difficult to understand, but I thought he gave a performance the movie deserved, which brings me to another point.


The word "fuck" was not used as a swear word or intensifier until the early 20th century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. Yet, Tom Hardy's character says it all the time. That irritated me to no end.


The one good thing I can say about this movie is the cinematography was exquisite. Emmanuel Lubezki deserved his Oscar; in fact, he was the only person from this film who truly earned his awards. The photography was beautiful and did bring some desperately needed richness to an otherwise lackluster production.


When the race for the Oscars grew more contentious and the world seemed to be pulling for Leonardo DiCaprio to finally get his due, I had remarked rather cynically that the Academy would reward Eddie Redmayne because his film The Danish Girl was more politically correct. Having now seen both films, I must retract that statement. Eddie may have been the more deserving one after all.


Grade: C

The Intern (2015)

Starring Robert De Niro and Anne Hathaway, The Intern is the latest from writer/director Nancy Meyers. Known for her sharp and sly style of romantic comedies, Meyers's filmography is varied in terms of quality, but usually one can expect a good, fun ride. The Intern begins this way, but loses its impact in a third act that is drowning in cliches and loose ends. 

Ben Whittaker (De Niro) is a 70 year old retired widower living in New York. His son lives in San Francisco, so Ben rarely gets to see any of his surviving family. He is engaged in many "senior citizen" activities, like Tai Chi, in an attempt to be around people and feel relevant. Upon seeing an ad for a seniors internship program, Ben feels he has found something that could bring some happiness and much needed connection to his life. He soon becomes an intern at a new online fashion company started by Jules Ostin (Hathaway). The relationship is rocky at first, but they soon become confidants and best friends, Jules becoming the daughter Ben so desperately needs, and Ben the father figure Jules never had. 

The first hour of this movie is terrific. De Niro gives a moving performance as a man who is wise to the world and sees things in his young colleagues that they themselves are oblivious to. There are humorous moments--my favorite being when Ben gives the young guys dating advice. Truly, the first act is full of meaningful and moving testaments to the realities of aging and changing generations. One of the saddest scenes is when Ben goes to a funeral, and it is pretty much the main social event for him and his friends. This scene resonated with me after watching this same situation happen to my grandmother. I truly loved Ben's character and found him both so sad and so loving. De Niro gives an already terrific character some substance. (I mean, it is Robert freakin' De Niro....)

Jules shows Ben how to use Facebook.

Anne Hathaway is well cast as the ambitious Jules. She's a bit of a hot mess, always forgetting her schedule and in great need of someone to appreciate her success and hard work. I found Jules very relatable, especially in her main conflict: her husband, Matt, is a stay-at-home dad to their daughter; as a result, he feels like Jules is spending too much time with her company and has encouraged her to hire a CEO to take over her company, alleviating much of the stress she endures. The depiction of marriage felt very true until the third act, which I will get to soon. We see Jules coming home and trying to put her daughter to bed, only to fall asleep as the girl reads to her. She and Matt are usually out of sync about spending time together or having sex. In addition to this, Jules faces harsh scrutiny from fellow mothers, co-workers, and CEOs she interviews for being a working mother. Soon into his internship, Ben becomes her driver and observes much about her life--the most upsetting being his witnessing Matt meeting a girlfriend. Ben gives her advice and respects her in a way no one else in the film does--not even her parents. He encourages her to reject this CEO idea and take credit for her own success. It's a beautiful relationship and what is really at the heart of this film. 

Truly, The Intern is wrestling with a number of important and timely issues: aging, gender, generation gaps, traditions, the changing economy, and feminism, among many others. I enjoyed the first half and laughed heartily at some of the antics--ones that can only come from Nancy Meyers. I was moved deeply by Ben's compassion and his wisdom. All of that being said, though, this film has too many loose ends and just does not gel in the third act. 

Throughout this movie, I felt I was watching a first draft of a classic. There was so much potential here, considering the themes, conflicts, and talent involved. Yet, there are too many story lines introduced and not followed through. Rene Russo plays Ben's love interest, but she's only in the film for maybe ten minutes. Jules's mother is cruel to her, and Jules has a rocky relationship with her parents; yet, we only hear two conversations between Jules and her mother on the phone. We don't even see the mother, let alone learn what lies beneath this conflict. All we do know is Jules's parents are sleep researchers, and Jules appears to have a serious sleep disorder. Neither of these elements is ever developed enough, though, and end up feeling tacked on. 

To me, the plot device that rang the least true was with Matt. The fact that he was having an affair felt very real, and I was actually glad Meyers decided to go that route. It brought another layer to Jules's inner conflict and enriched the drama of the film. Its resolution, however, was less believable: Matt returns to Jules, and their marriage is restored. While this may feel satisfying on some level, the film actually contradicts itself here. Jules already knew about the affair before Ben tells her. They discuss it while traveling to California to meet a potential CEO. When Jules says she just wants her marriage to go back to what it was before, Ben cautions her that that is not possible; he tells her he has almost never heard of a marriage surviving cheating. Why have this deep conversation only to wrap up the marriage with a bow? If Meyers had written this situation more truthfully--maybe have them agree to counseling, at the least--it would have felt more believable. As it stands now, it feels forced and cheesy. There is nothing in the movie to suggest Matt feels guilty or remorseful. In fact, there is little to suggest he even respects his wife and her success. 

The flaws aside, The Intern is worth seeing. If you're a fan of romantic comedies or just enjoy a sweet, light-hearted movie, then this is for you. It has a lot to offer in spite of its shortcomings, and the first two acts are really great. 

Grade: B+

The Apartment (1960)

Although he's not discussed much any more among film buffs, Billy Wilder was truly one of America's greatest directors, and The Apartment is one of the most exemplary of his works. Here is the trailer:

From 1960, The Apartment stars Jack Lemmon, Shirley MacLaine, and Fred MacMurray in what is undoubtedly a raw and emotional film about loneliness, suicide, and sex all dressed up as a romantic comedy. As Wilder fans know, a Billy Wilder movie is always tinged with darkness no matter how light the subject matter. Sabrina, Stalag 17, Sunset Boulevard, Some Like It Hot, Ace in the Hole - all of these films, while technically comedies, are laced with darkness throughout (especially Ace in the Hole and Sunset Boulevard). The dramedy is common place today, but Wilder kind of invented it. 

C.C. "Bud" Baxter (Lemmon) works at a massive New York insurance company and has trouble saying "No." Four executives at the company have bribed him into lending them the key to his apartment where they each bring girls from the office over to have sex. Baxter's neighbors assume he is a wild gigolo, and there are some humorous - if not icky - complaints about all of the "noise" his neighbors are sick of hearing. Baxter clearly hates his situation, but also does not know what else to do; if he refuses any of these men, he will lose his job. As a result, his apartment has a reputation throughout the company as a safe place for trysts. 

This situation balloons when the president of the insurance company, J.D. Sheldrake (MacMurray), offers Baxter a promotion in exchange for his own personal key to the apartment. Never one to say no, Baxter goes along with this. To make matters more complicated, the woman Baxter is in love with, Fran Kubelik (MacLaine), who works as an elevator girl, is having an affair with Sheldrake and goes with him to Baxter's apartment. 

The levels of conflict in this film are almost suffocating, as are the sexual conundrums. Think about it: the object of Baxter's affection is not only having sex with his boss but in his own bed. This would be considered racy today, and no doubt was shocking in 1960. Although Wilder does have some comedic elements in this situation, the film takes a serious and dark turn quickly. In fact, for a comedy, there is actually very little to laugh about in this film, which I think is one reason to admire it. Making an already sad and distressing situation sad and distressing is not really that interesting. Finding the humor, though, in something sad and distressing, and using that humor to make some very serious statements about gender, sexuality, and power takes skill, which Wilder had in spades. 

The acting in this film is excellent across the board (as usual in Billy Wilder movies), but the true revelation here is Fred MacMurray, who soars in a very, very different role for him. Known for "father knows best" sort of roles in Disney movies like The Shaggy Dog or the television show My Three Sons, MacMurray's acting in this film is jarring, to say the least. His image as "the dad" from so many films is shattered as he plays a lecherous, cruel, and narcissistic brute who savors controlling his employees and thrives off of seducing women. The first time I saw this film his performance surprised me the most. It was a brilliant choice in casting that actually works in the film's favor; you don't expect him to be so sadistic based on previous expectations. When you realize how disgusting his character is, you are just as shocked as the characters in the film are. Imagine Hugh Grant playing a serial killer and that should give you some idea about how jarring it was for audiences in 1960 to see MacMurray in this light. 

Shirley MacLaine gives a moving performance as Miss Kubelik. Her scenes with MacMurry are painful to watch because her face reveals her character's emotions with such rawness. No matter how many times I've watched it, the scene at the Chinese restaurant still brings tears to my eyes. Her character's journey also takes an unexpected turn in one of the most moving sequences about a drug overdose you will ever see. 

Jack Lemmon is, of course, perfection. Seriously, the man never made a bad movie. He could do anything - comedy, drama, farce - and we get a taste of his range in this film as Baxter's conscience develops. He clearly resents his neighbors' assumptions about his character but does not know how to reverse it - to say nothing of how disturbing it is that his superiors at work use his bed for sex almost every night. He is extremely lonely, and the film hammers this home in a moving, if humorous, way when he tries to watch television after a long day and eats a nasty TV dinner. 

The cinematography is gorgeous in black and white. With a clever use of lighting and shadows, Wilder is able to make an already dark and unsettling situation that much more moving. I personally prefer black and white movies, and The Apartment is one example of why. Every scene is exploding with emotion because of the way they are lit. Even as I watched it tonight, I felt anxious and distressed throughout much of it despite knowing what was going to happen. That is Wilder's power as a director. 

One thing that should be noted is 1960 was an excellent year for movies: Psycho, La Dolce Vita, The Time Machine, Elmer Gantry, The Entertainer, BUtterfield 8, Inherit the Wind, Spartacus, The Alamo, Sons and Lovers, The Virgin Spring. Truly, 1960 rivals 1939 as one of the greatest years for films, and The Apartment is a worthy addition, winning five Oscars for Best Director, Best Original Screenplay, Best Film Editing, Best Art Direction (B&W), and Best Picture. It really is a perfect movie; I can think of nothing that should have been done differently or would have improved it. 

Although there are comedic elements, The Apartment as a whole is an intense and moving film about suicide, living alone, and sexual exploitation. Truly, you would be hard pressed to find another film from that era that takes such bold and adult content and presents it so movingly. Without a doubt, The Apartment is a work of art and one of Billy Wilder's best. 

Grade: A+

Chariots of Fire (1981)

You know the theme song. The riveting bass, the lilting melody: no matter how unfamiliar one is with Chariots of Fire, one knows the music. 

A (slightly fictionalized) story of Britain's 1924 Olympic track team, Chariots of Fire still stands as not only one of the great sports movies, but also as one of the great costume dramas. For the uninitiated, here is the trailer: 

As a child, I adored Chariots of Fire. My father first showed it to my brother, sister, and me when I was about 6 years old. I loved it so much that I used to tell people I was going to be a track star like Eric Liddell when I grew up. When playing in the backyard, I would take my mother's garden shovel and dig a small hole like the runners do in Chariots of Fire prior to their races. I was convinced Eric Liddell was the greatest runner of all time. When my dad informed me Liddell's records had been broken, I was crushed. 

It has been years since I last watched this film--more than 20--and seeing it again as an adult was a true treat, especially because so much of the film's sociopolitical issues went way over my head when I was a child. 

A story of two rivals, Harold Abrahams and Eric Liddell, this film is really about the loneliness and exploitation that come from being an outsider. 

Harold, a Jew, yearns to be accepted as an Englishman, but the anti-Semitism of upper-crust British society holds him back. As he tells his girlfriend (and later wife) Sybil, "They lead me to the water, but won't let me drink." From the moment we first see Harold, he is berated, gently but cruelly, for being Jewish. Yet, he does not accept this treatment at all. For him, as for Liddell, who I will get into momentarily, running is both a balm and a defense. Harold's talent as a runner, his heretofore unsurpassed speed and agility, are as he himself puts it a "weapon" against the stigma and prejudice directed toward him for being a Jew. That is, his talent is unsurpassed until he races Eric Liddell. 

Liddell, the film's dual protagonist who is also an outsider, is a Scot who must run for Great Britain. A pious man, Liddell's principles are put to the test in one of the more moving scenes of the film. After arriving at the Olympics and learning his race will take place on Sunday, Liddell refuses to run. He is forced to meet with several aristocrats - the Prince of Wales among them - who all attempt to coerce him to run despite his principles. In the end, Liddell's teammate Lord Lindsay offers to swap races with Liddell. While it is easy to dismiss Liddell's reasoning as religious zealotry, his religious beliefs actually have little to do with the actual conflict. His being Scottish puts him at odds with the British aristocracy's expectations; his status as an outsider fuels the tension here, but is also the true source of the stigma he receives, much like Harold. 

These two characters and their relative experiences as outsiders within British society - and more specifically on the Olympic team - are at the heart of this film and are what drives the emotional pull. 

Harold replays the loss over and over...

Truly, one of the most moving scenes of the entire film and one that has stayed with me since childhood is when Harold loses to Liddell. It is Harold's first loss, and we first see the race in real time. After that, the glorious Vangelis score nails the overwhelming self-flagellation Harold puts himself through as he recounts the race over and over. The sound in this sequence is brilliant, allowing the audience first to hear the actual sounds of the race, then silence just before the Vangelis music crescendos. This brief moment of silence allows us to feel the utter distress Harold feels as he loses. After that, the repetitive sound of the arena's chairs being closed up echo over the music. Harold is the only person in the arena as this sound grows louder, making his replaying the race in his head that much more palpable. At the risk of overstatement, I cannot think of another film that captures so movingly how it feels to lose. 

The film is framed like a memory. The opening scene is of Harold's funeral in January 1978, and Lindsay is giving the eulogy. As Lindsay says, only he and Aubrey Montague remain of the 1924 team, and only they remember the true Abrahams. It then shifts to that famous and magnificent slow motion scene with the theme: 

Soon after, the film goes to Aubrey, who is writing to his parents from Paris just before the Olympic games begin. In yet another layer, the film shifts to 1919 when Aubrey and Harold meet as they arrive at Cambridge as freshmen. These many layers to the film's narrative in a way excuse the historic errors (Liddell learning of the Sunday races when he's getting on the boat, Harold marrying Sybil Gordon instead of Sybil Evers, etc.) as they can be accounted for by the narrators' now nostalgic memory. Moreover, one of my favorite scenes is when Harold has dinner with Sybil for the first time. Although in real life Harold married another woman named Sybil who also happened to be a singer and met her ten years later than the movie portrays, the tension between movie-Sybil, played with elegance, grace, and intelligence by Alice Krige, and Harold fuels a large part of the drama and enriches the film's themes--the losing scene being one of the best examples. The fact that it is recounted through so many layers of memory actually makes the drama richer, for we as humans tend to remember younger days with fondness and romance. 

Beyond the characters and conflicts, this film stands out in every aspect of cinema. The costumes are perfection, for which Chariots of Fire rightly won an Oscar. The acting is also stellar, especially Ben Cross, who captures Harold's arrogance and insecurities with gusto, bringing some passion to a character that could have been just another dude in a sports movie. Cross's portrayal of Harold is layered and matures so beautifully as the film progresses. 

Ian Charleson, who played Eric Liddell to such infinitesimal preciseness that he even mimicked Liddell's breathing style as he ran, died of AIDS in 1990 when he was only 40 years old. Since his death, British theatre presents an annual Ian Charleson Award that recognizes new actors under the age of 30. Named in his honor, the award is most prestigious. His performance in Chariots of Fire is memorable and offers a sensitive yet noble counter to Cross's more fiery Harold. 

Altogether, Chariots of Fire is an immaculate experience. More than just a sports movie, the film encompasses several genres at once - biopic, costume drama, coming of age story - and manages to combine so many disparate yet joined themes that explain what it means to be human: love, winning, losing, proving one's worth, holding to principles, and yearning to belong. 

Grade: A+

Last of the Mohicans (1992)

The Last of the Mohicans has been adapted several times, including as a play, a silent film, a 70s television miniseries, and a film in 1936. None, however, have been as successful nor as well made as Michael Mann's 1992 film. 

Starring Daniel Day-Lewis as Hawkeye, Madeline Stowe as Cora, and Wes Studi as Magua, Mann's Last of the Mohicans is a complex, moving, and historically rich film, albeit one that is only loosely based on Cooper's novel. There are deviations, certainly, but the changes made are undoubtedly improvements on both the themes and characterizations, most of which in the source material are at best "quaint" by today's standards. 

As a period drama and an action movie, Last of the Mohicans proves action films don't have to be mindless morasses of explosions. There is surprising depth to this film, and in spite of my having watched this movie more times than I can count, I was still able to detect the many layers in this richly American movie. And I stress "American" because the very essence of this film is about the myriad clashes that took place with the germination of this country. The colonials' rising resentment of British rule; the collision of white settlers, Native Americans, and the British and French governments; the clashes between European and guerrilla warfare; the erosion of Native American culture: all of these themes intersect in the most moving and exciting ways in the hands of Michael Mann. 

Mann is often a hit or miss when it comes to directing. He has the skills, certainly, but his movies do not often reflect his talent. Last of the Mohicans and Heat, however, represent Mann at his best--although, Mann has done much to sabotage this. 

The theatrical cut of Mohicans was released on video tape in the early nineties, and it is the best version. However, Mann refuses to put this version on DVD or Bluray. In the early 2000s, Mann released what he called the "Director's Expanded Edition," which could not have been a more dishonest title; the so-called "Expanded Edition" cut nearly all of the best one-liners from the film, some of the music, and even some scenes, resulting in a clunky dud of a movie. I still remember watching this version when I (foolishly) purchased it as a teen. I yelled "No!" the entire time and truly considered writing Michael Mann a letter. Evidently Mann saw the error of his ways (not one human being preferred that edition) and then released his "Director's Definitive Cut" on Bluray. This version does restore many (but not all) of the lines from the theatrical version, and it brings back the beautiful Clannad song ("I Will Find You"), but like its predecessor has a few places that feel clunky due to Mann's using different takes in a few scenes or editing the dialogue in a way that simply does not make sense. As I watched it tonight, I felt annoyed by the changes. Nevertheless, the "Definitive Cut" is the closest you can get to the theatrical cut. I have no idea why Mann refuses to put out the true version of his best movie, but there you go. 

The production value of this film is astounding. The score itself is magnificent and one of my favorites; the scenery could not be more lush and beautiful; and the acting is excellent. I would like it to be known that I consider Wes Studi's performance as Magua one of the best movie villains of all time. The fact that he was not even nominated for an Oscar must rank as one of the most colossal Oscar-snubs in history. He plays Magua as a complex man driven by anger and hatred that he has allowed to poison his very soul. Without a doubt, Magua is a victim of colonization, which is made clear when he recounts his suffering at the hands of "the Grey Hair" to French General Montcalm. Yet, he has allowed his anger to define him completely, and in the end he is completely consumed by it--all to his own detriment. It is a fantastic performance and one of my favorites. 

In some slick and imaginative casting, Mann cast Indian rights activist Russell Means as Chingachgook. As one of the many improvements on the novel, Chingachgook here is a father figure to Hawkeye. In the books he's more of a "gentle savage" who is always subordinate to Hawkeye/La Longue Carabine/The Deerslayer/and all of the other nicknames he has in the books. I read The Pathfinder a few years ago and was struck by the massive difference in characterization. Means plays him with dignity and depth, which again enriches the film's themes.  

The battle sequences are probably one of the best things about this movie. When it comes to building tension before an action sequence, few surpass Mann. The two massacres are still enthralling to watch, and the violence is realistic (especially the scalpings). 

The final 15 minutes or so of this film should be required viewing for anyone interested in film making. Without dialogue, Mann employs pure cinematics to tell the story's conclusion. The placement of the shots in this scene is still moving to watch (despite how many times I've seen it). This scene is among the finest in terms of pure visual storytelling as it captures visually the emotions, action, and themes that simultaneously climax in this sequence. 

In short, Last of the Mohicans is a stirring, exciting film. Michael Mann has never surpassed it in the 24 years since it came out, and he will not cease to suppress the true version. For the time being, the "Director's Definitive Cut" must suffice. 

Grade: A