Silence (2017)

Martin Scorsese's latest film is a quiet, meditative piece about the politicization of religion and Man's relationship with God. At 2 hours and 41 minutes long, the film feels much longer; it embraces its title, having no music and rather long, drawn out sequences, all with long cuts, to emphasize the agonizing guilt that plagues Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield). 

The trailer for the film is deceiving, as are many of the early reviews. The pace of the trailer suggests a more typical Scorsese film, and the reviews posited the film as the most excruciating and violent out of Scorsese's canon. Neither of these pronouncements is correct. 

The film opens with the sounds of crickets, first barely audible, but crescendoing gradually to a rather cacophonous symphony of natural sounds. It is an effective choice, both establishing the film's setting and immediately introducing the eponymous central theme of the film: silence itself. Indeed, the central question of this film is whether remaining silent in the face of genocide is acceptable if it manages to preserve one's principles; or if one should silently go along with the persecutors' demands to prevent said genocide, but in turn violate everything one stands for. This conflict plagues Rodrigues, whose entire raison etre seems to be preserving the Word of God, no matter the consequences; his journey is learning the folly of such a goal and in the most painful way possible. 

And this pain is not entirely physical. Indeed, the tactics Rodrigues endures usually involve his watching torture and being forced to accept that he could stop it if he would only succumb to his captors' demands and denounce God. As the film progresses, Rodrigues begins to see Jesus's image in place of his own face in his reflection, and his narration quotes from the Bible more and more, all suggesting his growing perception of himself as Christ-like. The audience, though, sees how Rodrigues is actually not behaving like Christ at all. I found this motif interesting, but not rendered as effectively as it could have been. 

One of the many things I appreciated about this film was Scorsese's spotlighting a piece of history that most Americans (myself included) know little to nothing about. The film was dedicated to Japanese Christians who endured so much oppression, torture, and murder. Silence is a timely film, considering this kind of religious persecution is still present today. 

The first act of the film was probably the best part. After getting a letter from long-lost Father Ferreira (Liam Neeson), which is photographed majestically with Neeson's voice-over describing the horrors he both witnessed and endured as the audience sees these images of torture and religious persecution, Rodrigues and Garrupe (Adam Driver) both decide they must find their mentor. There are rumors Ferreira has defected, denouncing God and taking a Japanese wife. Rodrigues and Garrupe both refute this rumor passionately, and set off in search of their mentor. 

When they first reach a small Japanese village and get to know the people, and witness the later (and imminent) persecution, the film shines. To avoid spoiling anything, I will simply say that the older gentlemen who suffer in this act of the film arouse the most pathos and sympathy in a disturbing yet surprisingly not-gruesome crucifixion sequence. There are moments of power and deep emotion throughout the first act, and I was sincerely moved.

The second act, however, is perhaps the messiest part of the film and the portion that needed much more strenuous editing. The film is at least 45 minutes too long. The second act is too bloated with numerous sequences of captured Japanese Christians being forced to step on images of Jesus and Mary as an act of apostasy. These sequences become so voluminous that when the film enters the third and final act, the audience is exhausted with apostasy and has little enough remaining energy to care. 

That being said, the last half-hour was, again, profound and moving, and the ending was one of Scorsese's most powerful (at least post-2000). After the final image of the film, which was genuinely breathtaking, faded into black, the film again went silent before the growing crescendo of crickets. I sat still in the theater, as the cricket symphony continued throughout the credits, taking in all of the emotion of what I just watched. 

Silence is not an entertaining movie. It's probably the driest film Scorsese has ever made, and the lack of music reinforced this. Yet, I doubt "entertainment" was at all what Scorsese was working towards with this film. Silence felt deeply personal, and I felt throughout that I was getting more insight into the most private and personal thoughts of one of America's greatest talents. 

No one should go to this film expecting some kind of graphic gore-fest. In fact, there is little violence at all in this film. The torture is mostly people hanging, tied, from crosses or being tossed into the ocean wrapped in bamboo mats and held underwater until they drowned. There is one scene in which a man is beheaded, but the camera cuts away quickly. Scorsese emphasizes the emotion and consequences of this violence, not the gruesomeness of it. 

That being said, there is a great deal of internal violence, which puts Silence more in the company of The Age of Innocence within Scorsese's canon. I found this approach refreshing, actually, and very Catholic, for this film is obsessed with guilt: guilt as penance, guilt as blackmail, guilt as motivation, guilt as redemption. Guilt is one of the most prevalent themes of the film, and the way Scorsese ties this guilt to genocide and persecution is fascinating if not wholly efficacious. 

Indeed, as I stressed earlier, Silence is a meditative film. The absence of music forces one to listen instead to the film's sounds and the film's narration. I can't say this was completely effective, but Kudos to Scorsese for doing something different and stepping far outside of his comfort zone. 

Overall, Silence does not meet the promise of its initial praise nor the possibilities offered by the talent involved. It is a disappointing film, but mostly because a film with Scorsese's name on it holds so much potential. Nevertheless, Silence is worth seeing and its questions will stay with you long after the final credits. 

Grade: B

The Heiress (1949)

This week's film is William Wyler's 1949 masterpiece, The Heiress, starring Olivia de Havilland, Montgomery Clift, Ralph Richardson, and Miriam Hopkins. 

Based on the 1881 novel Washington Square by Henry James, The Heiress was adapted into a stage play before becoming a film. Olivia de Havilland was actually encouraged to see the play and told that it would be a perfect vehicle for her; after she saw it, she immediately contacted William Wyler, who upon seeing the play remarked, "Let's do it."

James was inspired to write Washington Square by an incident he heard about involving a manipulative but handsome young man who courted an introverted, "dull" young woman simply for her money. Rather than craft a predictable, melodramatic tale of an unsuitable suitor, however, James instead created a far more complex story, mostly due to his cultivating a less obvious but more cunning, malicious, and grotesque villain: the father. The film of The Heiress follows the novel's themes and story closely, and it is this unexpected characterization that fuels the drama and emotions of the film. 

The story, set in the 1840's, is deceivingly simple: Catherine Sloper (de Havilland) is a young, awkward woman whose deceased mother has left her $10,000 a year; her father, Dr. Austin Sloper, played to perfection by the late-great Ralph Richardson, promises to leave her an additional $30,000 per year on the prerequisite that she marry someone he approves of. Enter Morris Townsend (Montgomery Clift), a man we the audience are never completely sure we can trust. Morris and Catherine's courtship comes to a devastating and heart-wrenching end in one of the most memorable scenes in the film. 

Olivia de Havilland's performance in The Heiress is perhaps her most popular, rivaling only her role as Melanie Hamilton in Gone with the Wind. Celebrating her 100th birthday this year, de Havilland is the last surviving cast member of Gone with the Wind and enjoys a carefree life in Paris. In this film, the way she uses her voice is one of the most enduring aspects of her performance. In the beginning, she is exceedingly awkward and shy, but also exudes the desperation Catherine feels simply to be loved. Her reactions to her father's increasingly direct cruelty are realistic and at times painful to watch. Similarly, the rapture in her face and especially her eyes when Morris courts her is both moving and painful - painful when one knows the outcome awaiting Catherine. In the most moving sequence of the film, when Morris has abandoned her after promising to return in a few hours for their elopement, Catherine's cauldron of emotions - hurt, humiliation, shame, anger, and despair - culminate in the growing tension in de Havilland's face and the explosion of emotions as the clock strikes. The look on her face as she lurches up the stairs the next day, the sight of the morning sunrise visible from the upper window, is cutting to watch. After that scene, the sweet lilt to her voice is gone along with her innocence; by the end of the film, Catherine is a woman one can hardly recognize. It is a terrific performance and definitely my favorite de Havilland role. 

The themes of the movie are complex and definitely do not align with expected Hollywood stories, neither from the 1940's, nor today. Frankly, it's even less likely for a movie in today's market to have the daring and aggressively anti-Hollywood ending that The Heiress handles so deftly. 

For one, the question of materialism and class is central to the film's actions and emotional content. Is Morris simply a fortune hunter, or is there genuine feeling on his part? To what extent would it matter? Thanks mostly to Montgomery Clift's acting, we can never completely trust or distrust Morris. His affection seems genuine, but his actions are at best dubious. Does he abandon Catherine because she tells him she has disinherited herself, or is he panicked about his role in disinheriting her, or does he want to try to make his own fortune? We never really know. The film suggests the answer is complicated and involves a bit of each of these suspicions. William Wyler, who was a master at the deceivingly simple, places the camera in the first two acts so that we only see Catherine's face when she speaks to Morris. In her last conversation with Morris, the camera and the actors' positions finally shift so that we see Morris's reaction. This simple but provocative shift is so subtle that one might miss it on the first viewing, but it sends a strong message to the audience, almost subconsciously. Likewise, Catherine's treatment of Morris in the end is both disturbing and satisfactory, the final scene never ceasing to give me chills. This again speaks to the dual story lines in Henry James: the surface, and beneath the surface. On the surface, Morris is a fortune hunter and a rake, but beneath that is a far more sinister plot involving a far more sinister villain: the father. 

Ralph Richardson plays Austin Sloper with arrogance and cruelty. His malignant grin and cold sneer are but a few of the elements that makes one despise this character. He purposely interjects himself into Catherine's relationship with Morris, supposedly because he is concerned about her future. Yet, Austin constantly compares Catherine to her dead mother, complaining that she will never compare to her mother's beauty, grace, intelligence, or charm, which leads to deeper questions of his motivations: why does he care so deeply about Catherine marrying Morris? Does he truly worry about his fortune going into Morris's hands, or is there something darker behind his motivations? 

It is worth noting that both Morris and Austin are materialistic characters; in fact, Austin may be even worse because the one thing he cares about above all else is his money: more than his estate, his patients, his family, and even more than his own daughter. In one of the most chilling scenes of the film, Austin announces to Catherine that her one and only virtue is her money. In his words, "there are a thousand girls who are prettier, a thousand more clever." Think about: Austin has told his own flesh and blood that she has absolutely no redeeming qualities beyond the money, which he controls. Considering Morris is at least kind to her and does make her feel good about herself, it is little wonder that she falls for Morris. This revelation drives a permanent stake in Catherine's relationship with her father and is difficult to watch. 

When one takes a moment to think about the story taking place beneath the surface, The Heiress is actually quite a creepy tale of a father and a suitor each trying to "own" Catherine as a possession, a symbol of their respective statuses and wealth, a token to be won. This conflict between Catherine and Austin is tinged with a sexual undercurrent in that Austin wishes to recreate his deceased wife, but is angered by his daughter's inability to fill this role. 

It should be noted that Aaron Copeland composed the magnificent score, which adds even more depth and emotion to an already deep and emotional film. Although Wyler was never a director known for obvious "camera tricks," his directing is exacting and calculated. Each shot, each image, each actor is placed deliberately, as if each shot were a painting. 

Truly, The Heiress is a film in which everything came together perfectly: acting, production design, story, music, directing. Olivia de Havilland won her second Academy Award for this film (the first was for To Each His Own from 1946). Montgomery Clift, who had almost immediate success with two films in 1948 (Red River and The Search), cemented his status as a leading man with his subtle and intelligent performance here. Clift was a brilliant actor and was also the first American Method actor on film, not Marlon Brando, who had his breakout role in 1950 with A Streetcar Named Desire. Inconceivably, Clift was also yet another incredible talent who never won an Oscar.  

In short, The Heiress is a masterpiece and a film that begs to be watched over and over, its power and complexities never dulling over time. 

Grade: A+

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+