The Beguiled (2017)

The latest film from Sofia Coppola is an atmospheric remake of Thomas Cullinan's The Beguiled. Part costume drama, part horror film, part Southern Gothic, The Beguiled is a suspenseful, meditative film on the dangers and fragility of human passion. 

Set in a girls' school in rural Virginia in 1864, the story opens when one of the girls, Amy (Oona Lawrence), discovers a wounded Yankee soldier, John McBurney (Colin Farrell) in the woods. She brings him back to the school, where school mistress Miss Martha (Nicole Kidman) takes him in. The school has only five students and one teacher, Edwina (Kirsten Dunst). As his recovery progresses, sexual tensions and rivalries crescendo into a rather disturbing climax in the second act. The rest of the film is a straight-up horror movie, and perhaps the most finely done suspense I have experienced in a film for quite some time. 

What makes this movie so effective is Sofia Coppola's focus on the unspoken. Film these days is so often incredibly dialogue-heavy, which actually runs counter to the very essence of film: it is first and foremost a visual medium. Coppola's style is edgy and distinct, and her storytelling is purely visual. The sexual tension in this film is almost suffocating, Coppola intensifying it with unexpected cuts and lingering shots on objects or imagery whose purpose feels at first opaque. Indeed, her style is actually very European in that she takes her time to tell a story--something that is undoubtedly not appreciated these days. The photography in general was gorgeous, the beautiful Southern landscapes contrasting with the mounting horror within the school. 

I found the way the story unfolds to be refreshing and engaging in equal measure. There is one scene, for instance, in which Miss Martha bathes John while he is unconscious. The length of the cuts--alternating from long and slow to quick and nervous--gave the scene an erotic feel, which only intensified the pulsing tension already present in the scene. There are so many moments like this, in which Coppola again and again mounts tensions and anxieties simply through her choices of shots. I am not overstating when I say this film had some of the finest pure cinematics I have seen in a movie in a long time. 

The acting was strong as well. I have admired Kirsten Dunst for her entire career, and she certainly does not disappoint here. She plays a probably virginal, repressed Southern lady well--even if her accent was not exactly the most authentic Southern accent I've ever heard. To be fair, though, no one used an authentic Southern accent, and I can't say it's too common to hear one performed well at all. I give the film a pass in that respect. 

The performance that stood out the most to me was Colin Farrell's. His character was an Irish immigrant, so he used his real accent. His character's motives felt ambiguous, and I enjoyed trying to guess when, if at all, his character was being sincere. You never really know, which only added to the film's already mounting tensions. 

My one complaint is that the film had almost no music. Relying solely on diegetic sound was actually effective in some scenes, but there were others that would have been so much stronger with the emotional pull of music. Again, though, movie music is at an all-time low. This is not at all Sofia Coppola's fault, but I do think there could have been some more thoughtful music. 

In all, The Beguiled is a well-made film that combines genres and basks in the ennui. There is an intelligence to Coppola's films, and she only gets better with each movie. I look forward to viewing this again long after I've had time to meditate over the disturbing and "beguiling" imagery I've just absorbed. 

Grade: A

Wonder Woman (2017)

This afternoon, I finally joined the rest of civilization and saw Wonder Woman at the theater. Although continuing to receive stellar reviews and ecstatic praise, the film left me wondering if these critics and viewers were not so hungry for a female-centric action film that they overlooked some glaring flaws and missed potential in this underwhelming addition to the DC canon. 

On the surface, Wonder Woman certainly delivers: female heroine, female director, feminist themes. Yet, the film ultimately left me cold and slightly bored. The first act and third act were the strongest points, but the second act was a colossal mess of such sweeping proportions that it damaged the rest of the film. Nevertheless, there were elements that deserve praise. 

For one, the film got the character right. Here I must confess to knowing very, very little about the Wonder Woman comics. My brother, however, who accompanied me to the film, was most knowledgeable and reassured me that the film was true to Wonder Woman's character. Considering how grotesquely the DC universe perverted Superman's character in the unwatchable Man of Steel, this faithfulness is definitely worthy of celebration. 

Indeed, the strongest part of the film was the introduction to Wonder Woman's world. The film opens like a tale of Greek mythology, which I found inviting and interesting. Diana (Wonder Woman) lives with her mother on an island inhabited only by women. As a result, the world she knows is completely devoid of war or violence. Again, I stress I have not read the comics, but I was struck by the film's perhaps purposeful reference to Charlotte Perkins Gilman's Herland with its focus on femininity as strength within a world only inhabited by women. The photography was beautiful, and the inclusion of Greek mythology (and classic literature!) was refreshing.

I enjoyed Gal Gadot's performance as Diana immensely. She brought a combined vulnerability and strength to the role, her brown eyes expressing many conflicting emotions within Diana. Her athleticism was impeccable as well. 

When Steve Trevor (Chris Pine) enters the world, the film does become more exciting. I have to say, Chris Pine's acting was excellent, and his performance was my favorite in this film. The man absolutely needs to do more comedy; he has a natural gift for humor, even in scenes that were not intended to be humorous. I also completely disagree with some self-important editorials claiming the movie did not need him. All superhero movies have a love interest and some kind of goofy sidekick character (or fool); Pine's Steve Trevor fulfills both. He brought energy to his part that kept the movie going, even when it took a turn for the worse. 

The second act, as stressed earlier, was hands-down the worst part of the film. Descending into horrible, cheese-ball jokes and plot turns that made absolutely no sense, the middle section of the film was boring, silly, and above all stupid. The secretary character was obnoxious and made no sense. If Steve is a spy and no one can know his identity, why does she loudly announce who he is and do, as she puts it, "everything for him"? This was even sillier than Money Penny in the Bond films. 

One sequence in particular that made my head hurt was when Steve takes Diana shopping. The entire sequence felt like a parody of Mr. Selfridge (which is a fine show). It reached a point where I almost expected Jeremy Piven to pop out and ask if they were enjoying his store. It was ridiculous and boring, and it added nothing to the story or characters. There were also a number of heavy-handed attempts at feminist commentary, such as having a group of men question why a woman was allowed in their meeting, but it felt forced and didactic. 

The third act was exciting, and I actually liked the group of side characters introduced as part of Steve's team. The actors each brought some humor to the film and enriched the character development (small as it was). I also appreciated the film's embracing traditionally feminine characteristics as sources of strength. Protecting loved ones, preventing violence, treasuring children and innocents, these were all values Diana embodied, which strengthened the film's sociopolitical content. 

The fight scenes were decent--nothing spectacular, but not so poorly cut that the action was impossible to watch. Each act has a major battle sequence, giving the film some symmetry. The first battle, however, which takes place on the island felt ridiculous on reflection: why would all of these soldiers who just discovered a beautiful paradise completely populated with beautiful women scantily clad in leather who are shooting arrows at them simply go along with it? Wouldn't they be at least some what surprised? It was silly, truly, but to be fair one can only take a movie about a godlike woman with a magical lasso only so seriously. By comic book movie standards, the battles were entertaining, but the music was the stuff elevators were made for. Dull, dull, dull. Again, however, to be fair, there are no strong movie scores any more, so Wonder Woman is hardly alone. 

The main letdown for me was the film absolutely did not earn one speck of its emotional content. When Antiope (Robin Wright) dies, the boring, sad music appears, but I felt nothing. Frankly, her death was predictable the instant her character appeared on screen. As readers probably know by now, my most hated character trope is "The Character Who Is Obviously There to Die." It's the worst. It's nothing more than a cheap attempt at provoking emotions, but there is nothing to warrant any emotion at all. I was extremely disappointed that the film went there. The romantic plot felt forced, perhaps even more so. I did not feel the heat at all between the two leads, and the conclusion to their relationship again left me feeling nothing. Frankly, for me the only comic book film with genuine pathos is Spiderman 2, starring Tobey Maguire. But that is for another review. 

Is Wonder Woman worth seeing? Absolutely. It's easily the best of the DC films so far, offering three clear acts with three well-done action sequences. The acting is solid, as is the direction. There is little fat on this film; there was not one bit of gratuitous action. In fact, the action was rather limited, considering the genre, which was refreshing. I enjoyed watching the film and appreciated it for what it was. That being said, this was definitely not the masterpiece the Internet has made it out to be, but it's still worth a view. 

Grade: B

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