American Beauty (1999)

I watched Sam Mendes's Oscar-winning film American Beauty for the first time, and rather than feeling the wait was worth it, I wish I had waited indefinitely. Of this self-indulgent morass of phony insight and at-best pedantic attempts at castigating the suburbs, there is little to admire. 

There is not really a plot, which is not a criticism. Countless exceptional films have no plots but shine because of their outstanding characters and story. American Beauty is not one of those films. 

The film revolves around bored man-child Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) and his wife, phony real estate dealer Carolyn (Annette Bening). These two selfish, upper-middle class people have a large house in a nice neighborhood complete with white picket fences and a grumpy teenage daughter, Janie (Thora Birch). Their neighbors consist of a gay couple and a new family whose peeping-tom son and Nazi, homophobic-but-secretly-gay father fuel much of the tension. Lester becomes infatuated with Janie's friend Angela, who wants to be a model and exaggerates her sexual prowess. Angela and Lester have this strange flirtation going on for most of the movie, which comes to represent Lester's frustration with his life and his determination to quit living a fake life. 

What does his rebellion entail? Why, buying pot from the neighbor's son, having sex fantasies about his daughter's friend, and working out to look hot for the girl. He quits his job in a scene that was, I believe, intended to be dark but was actually comical. Kevin Spacey is a brilliant actor, but not even his immaculate talent could save this mess of a movie. Lester is completely unsympathetic, unlikable, and uninteresting. There is pretty much no reason to feel invested in his character. None. He comes pretty close to having sex with his daughter's friend, intentionally starts working at a fast food restaurant, complains nonstop, has no relationship with his daughter, and becomes a pothead. Granted, this kind of depravity has the potential to be interesting, but in the hands of Sam Mendes and Alan Ball, this degeneration feels phony. I found nothing realistic about Lester. There was nothing sympathetic about his decline, either. His decision to start acting like a dumbass does not at all feel like a rejection of false and greedy values; it feels like an emotional regression caused purely by that character's own idiocy, not the suburbs. 

Yet, his decline is portrayed as some sort of tragic product of the lowly, decrepit suburbs. In fact, the whole point of this movie is that the suburbs are evil and will destroy everything human about you and eventually kill you. The writer (Alan Ball) tried way, way, way too hard to make his dialogue "edgy" and his characters' problems "real," but what you really end up watching is a goofy film that is completely oblivious to its own goofiness. In trying to be so serious, Mendes and Ball instead created a film that feels like a parody of the anti-suburb film. 

The one thing to admire is the acting, and with such a stellar cast there is little question why. Despite being given little to work with, Annette Bening gives a strong performance as Carolyn; in fact, hers was the one character I wanted to know more about. She's selfish and phony - to say nothing of the fact that she's having an affair - but there seemed to be a lot of pain there. Annette Bening is a goddess among actresses, and I think the only reason why Carolyn seems to have any kind of internal life is because of Bening's acting ability. In the hands of a lesser actress, this character would have been even more unlikable because there is so little to work with. 

Chris Cooper has a prominent supporting role, but his character's motives and actions are so blatantly obvious and predictable from the moment he appears on screen that it feels too generous to call the conclusion anti-climactic. His character seemed to serve no other purpose than to allow Mendes and Ball to pat themselves on the backs for their (allegedly) powerful and provocative gender politics. However, much like Carolyn, Cooper's character - whose name we don't even learn - has no internal life and feels more like a caricature. He's just...there...to fulfill yet another check on this goofy list of imperatively included items in an already bloated film. 

The one character I had anything resembling sympathy for was the daughter, Janie, played by Thora Birch. She actually felt like a person (for the most part), and I did feel sorry for the kid. Her parents were the most shallow people alive. Her best friend was a mean girl and only used her to feel better about herself, as the neighbor-boyfriend (Wes Bently) points out. She was also the only character who seemed to have any emotional depth; her motivations were understandable, as were her reactions. 

American Beauty tries to be The Ice Storm (1997), Blue Velvet (1986), and Sunset Boulevard (1950) all at once, but this film doesn't even deserve to be in the same video store as these far, far superior films. It's a stupid movie, plain and simple, and perhaps the most trite, self-indulgent nonsense I have seen in a long time. It's going to take a while for me to get this awful taste out of my mouth. 

Grade: D

13 Reasons Why (2017)

I just finished watching Netflix's series 13 Reasons Why, and in a break with tradition I will review a television series. 

For those unfamiliar with the story, 13 Reasons Why, based on the YA novel by Jay Asher (2007), is the story of high school student Hannah Baker who has committed suicide. To explain her reasons for ending her life, Hannah has left behind 13 tapes describing events that led to her decision. Each tape is directed at one person who, from Hannah's perspective, pushed her toward ending her own life. Each of these people received a box containing the tapes, and these tapes were delivered strategically, all according to Hannah's design. 

I had heard of the series a few weeks ago after seeing an article entitled "13 Reasons Why Not," which claimed the series was dangerous and would lead to more teens committing suicide due to the series' (alleged) romanticization of the act. Now, I have never been one to believe that a work of art can influence behavior like that automatically. Whether it's people arguing violent movies lead to mass shootings or people arguing a show about teen suicide leads to more teen suicide is irrelevant. To me, one would not commit murder or suicide or anything else if one were not already emotionally disturbed in the first place. When I saw a friend had posted the article warning people not to watch the series and arguing Netflix had been irresponsible, I was intrigued. I finally began watching it Monday night after work and completed the series today. 

I cannot recall the last time a work of art--for this series is art--affected me emotionally to the extent 13 Reasons Why has. When I finished the final episode, I sat, frozen, in the same position for about ten minutes. I was unable to move. I just sat there, absorbing what I had just watched. 

First, I wholeheartedly denounce this idea that the show is promoting or romanticizing suicide. This claim that the show will make teens die is about as stupid and reactionary as the idea that watching a Quentin Tarantino movie will turn you into a psychotic killer. It's offensive to people with functioning minds, and it's essentially another form of censorship. For censoring anything "unpleasant" that features children is the real thing these people are after. I can't think of a more profound and aggressively ignorant interpretation of art. 

Make no mistake: 13 Reasons Why is raw. It's raw and ferocious and completely unapologetic and unflinching in its authenticity. I myself was bullied in high school, and I cannot begin to describe how severely I was ostracized and rejected in college--and even more so in graduate school. Watching this show made me revisit the diaries I kept in high school and college, and re-reading them made me weep. I wept for the pain hidden behind happy words in my high school diary. I wept for the utter darkness in my college diaries. I wept for the teenage girl who was in so much pain that she too understood Hannah Baker's decision. As hokey as it sounds, I wanted to go back in time and embrace my younger self. And I can tell you that this series nailed the emotions, duress, and self-loathing that haunt so many young people during their most formative and often most traumatizing years. 

The main character of the show is actually not Hannah, but a nerdy boy who had a crush on her: Clay Jenkins. The show alternates between the present and flashbacks, each episode focusing on one tape. We hear Hannah's voice over as Clay listens to the tapes, and we learn Hannah's story right alongside him. I thought the two lead actors, Dylan Minnette (Clay) and Katherine Langford (Hannah) were outstanding, but the supporting cast was just as great. 

The stories we learn about each teen were painful to watch, particularly one girl whose sexual assault becomes a focal point of the show. I was impressed with the show's subversion of the teen genre by making the characters three-dimensional. Time after time, we the audience are told to think one thing about the characters, only to have to question our rush to judgment when we learn what issues the kids each have. For the sake of avoiding spoilers, I won't elaborate, but suffice it to say that I felt unable to judge any of the characters (well, with one glaring exception). 

This show also owes a debt to David Lynch for its Twin Peaks-esque feel. Although the signature Lynchian quirkiness is nowhere to be found, the focus on the death of a young girl and the ways it rocks this nameless American small town are straight out of Lynch, as is 13 Reasons Why's exploration of the darkness beneath small town America's smiling facade. 

The lighting is brilliant: the flashbacks have a softer, glowing look, while the present scenes are shot in extremely harsh lighting--a metaphor, undoubtedly, for facing reality. 

13 Reasons Why also has a deeply philosophical look at physicality. What does it mean to love someone? How does love survive if the person, or more specifically the body of that person, does not? As the series progresses, there are so many scenes in which Clay, on his journey to understand how his secret love came to end her own life, travels to the places Hannah describes, and we see their bodies, often in clashing lighting, come so close to touching that the impossibility of it reinforces the depth of the tragedy. Clay will be observing the event Hannah describes and will be near to her--but he's only near to her in his imagination. His quest is fascinating in that he's trying to make right what he perceives to be his contribution to Hannah's death, but we as the audience know it's far more complicated than Clay allows. 

And it is this complexity that makes 13 Reasons Why such an important and profound work of art. I have never seen a show or movie that explored suicide with such rawness. The series is unflinching in its depiction of how suicide affects everyone, particularly Hannah's family. Yet, the show is also emphatic that your own actions can have (often) unintended consequences. At its heart, 13 Reasons Why is really about honesty and personal responsibility. Some have complained that the show puts the burden of suicide on others, but I feel that misses the point. The way the kids at the high school treated Hannah is disgusting and is something that happens all the time, every day. Yet, it's also clear that Hannah had no school activities, no clubs, no siblings, and no real friends. I think it's also important to note that we only get Hannah's story from her perspective. There are hints that she may have distorted some of the stories, one example being that she claims one boy threw away a note she wrote him, yet the boy actually saved the note and keeps it in his wallet. I actually appreciated the way the series dropped some hints that Hannah may have had some mental health issues, but kept the focus on how Hannah herself felt. I think people decrying the series have entirely missed that point: this show is about taking a suicidal girl's thoughts seriously because no one else did. The message, which I thought was clear as crystal, was that no one should wait until the child is dead to listen; listening is an active process and one that needs to become a mainstay both in education and in friendship. 

I also think Netflix has gone out of its way to handle this material delicately. The series has a TV-MA rating, which suggests no one under 17 should watch the series. The first episode also has an announcement appearing at the beginning that states the show will feature violent and disturbing material, and some subsequent episodes have similar warnings. There is also a website, 13reasonswhy.info, created specifically for viewers who are triggered by the images or story and need help. Honestly, I'm not sure what else people expect--other than outright censorship. 

There is so much I want to say about this series, but that would be impossible without spoiling the myriad revelations that become so central to the viewing experience. I'll end by saying that, although the material is disturbing, watching this show is imperative. I don't think every teen should watch it, at least not without an adult whom they trust. However, I think material like this can be a way to have serious conversations about suicide, death, and sexual violence that are so desperately needed. If you have a teen, especially a daughter, then I recommend watching it with her. If you don't, watch it for yourself; you may find, as I did, a sense of catharsis in seeing your own pain and experience put on screen with such unapologetic realism. 

Grade: A+

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