Bringing Up Baby

Bringing Up Baby

1938

Director: Howard Hawks

Starring: Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant

Every filmgoer, no matter how hard they may try to be pretentiously objective and critical about the movies they watch, has a weak spot.  Maybe a certain director, maybe a certain actor or actress, maybe a certain genre.  Me?  I have plenty.  Loads, even.  And one of them, a huge one, is Cary Grant.

Cary Grant can do no wrong.  Cary Grant is reason alone for me to watch – and most likely love – a film.

Paleontologist Dr. David Huxley (Grant, the original GQMF) thinks he’s having a good day when the last missing fossil for his dinosaur skeleton is found AND he’s about to marry his boring-as-dirt fiancée Alice (Virginia Walker).  But fate has other plans and soon, while trying to solicit donations for his museum, he meets madcap heiress Susan Vance (Hepburn) who starts by stealing his golf ball, then steals his car, then rips his suit jacket, then tries to get him to take care of a pet leopard, then steals his clothes and makes him wear marabou-trimmed nighties and ill-fitting equestrian costumes. 

When it comes to screwball comedies, Bringing Up Baby might possibly take the largest piece of cake in the entire world, because I don’t think it gets much screwier than this.  All hope at sticking to a strong central and sensible plot gets thrown maniacally out the window as soon as a leopard, of all things, gets thrown into the mix about a third of the way through the film.  It was hardly tending towards sanity previously, what with ripped clothing and mad dinner parties and Cary Grant riding a side board, but a leopard?  And then a dog stealing a dinosaur bone?  And a kooky uncle back from big game hunting in Africa?  AND THEN A SECOND LEOPARD WHO IS NOT TAME LIKE THE FIRST ONE?!?!?!?  Bringing Up Baby does not do shenanigans by halves, oh no indeed.  You want screwball?  This, THIS is screwball.

Really, though, considering this was directed by Howard Hawks, this makes sense.  Hawks directed a myriad of genres of films, but even if he was making a western (Red River, Rio Bravo) or a noir (The Big Sleep) or a historical drama (Sergeant York), there is always a sense of zaniness somehow, somewhere.  Frankly, it’s something I’ve come to appreciate about his films, something I actually look forward to when I see his credit at the opening of a movie.  Hawks has a habit of embracing the crazy and being unafraid to let a situation escalate quickly and not at all realistically, and I like that.  I’ve come to the realization in the past year that I tend to prefer films that eschew reality.  I like suspension of disbelief; it’s a good friend that has served me well over the years.  You certainly need quite a bit of suspension of disbelief for Hawks’ Bringing Up Baby but if you’re willing, it’ll take you on quite the ride.

On several occasions, Bringing Up Baby’s kookiness threatens to derail completely and fall apart at the seams, but somehow it manages to maintain forward momentum, thanks both to Hawks and to its two legendary leads.  I adore Katharine Hepburn as Susan in this film because she is utterly bereft of seriousness.  Susan is all over the place, a perfectly addle-brained, madcap heiress.  She goes from zero to sixty in about two seconds and then maintains that speed for as long as the scene requires it.  Most Hepburn films I’ve seen have Hepburn playing something more serious than this, but man, is she great at playing funny as well.

And what’s more, I like Susan’s character.  I think she’d drive me crazy in real life, but that’s the thing: she doesn’t exist in real life, she’s a crazy fictional character from a movie that’s practically a Looney Toons short.  What I like about Susan the most is her take-charge attitude towards… well, her entire life.  She meets David quickly, drives him crazy, then decides that he’s in love with her, then finds out he’s actually engaged to someone else, then she immediately decides it doesn’t matter and by gum she’s going to do what she needs to do to win her perceived man.  It’s the not-so-hidden feminist in me that responds incredibly well to a film from the thirties showing a woman with a backbone.  The fact that Susan is also utterly crazy is just an added bonus. (And shoot, she goes out and catches the un-tame leopard on her own.  She’s kind of badass.)

And then there’s Cary Grant.

I honestly don’t know where to begin because it’s goddamned Cary Grant.  He’s perfection.  Utter perfection.  In everything.  Ever.  EVER.  And the fact that he spends a majority of this film with that little wayward curl falling over his forehead just makes… oh, oh no, there go my ovaries.  Blast. 

Trying to be a bit more objective, I love Cary Grant in Bringing Up Baby because he isn’t afraid to play the fool.  David Huxley spends most of the movie in over his head and dumbfounded, and Grant plays befuddled incredibly well.  David walks around in a daze, and I just can’t get enough of seeing Cary Grant – usually so damn suave and sophisticated – taking pratfalls, wearing silly negligees, and exerting utterly no control over a zany situation.  The stuttering and hapless Cary Grant, contrasted with, for example, his role as uber-serious and sadistic government agent in Notorious, is a reminder that Grant wasn’t just famous for his looks.  Dude had it in him to play such a great variety of roles.  And while I think I personally prefer my Grant suave and debonair, I do rather adore him all geeked out, bespectacled, and nebbish as well. 

Basically, as I said at the beginning, Cary Grant can do no wrong.  And him continually saying "intercostal clavicle" is like a gift from heaven.

There is little in this world I find sexier than my Holy Trinity of Classic Hollywood Actors, of which Grant is most definitely a part, and I love watching him stand absolutely no chance against the force of nature that is Katharine Hepburn in this film.  This film is fun and zany and absolutely unrealistic but for me, that is its charm.  

Arbitrary Rating: 9/10. 

Lost in Translation

 

Lost in Translation

2003

Director: Sofia Coppola

Starring: Bill Murray, Scarlett Johansson, Giovanni Ribisi

I need to say this straight off the bat: I can’t write a normal review of Lost in Translation.  Expect precious little of what’s to follow to be my typical attempts at any sort of analysis of the filmmaking techniques, production design, or story symbolism.  Apologies if that’s what you wanted.

Right. On with it then.

I’ve only seen Lost in Translation twice; once, in 2004 after it came out on DVD, and just a few days ago for the 1001 Movies Blog Club.  Despite the decade since I last saw it, I vividly remember that initial experience.  It was late at night, I was a little tired, my then-boyfriend-now-husband had gone to bed, and I sat down to watch this film that my friend Dyami had been gushing over.  I really enjoyed it – I knew I would – but as it came to a close, I remember being overcome by incredible emotion.  I remember sobbing my way through the final scenes, then continuing to sob rather uncontrollably for at least another thirty minutes.  Something in this film had touched a nerve, a very raw nerve, that the lateness of the hour and my tiredness only exacerbated.  In seeing it for a second time, that nerve was not quite as exposed, but still there nonetheless.

Bob Harris (Murray) is a middle-aged washed up movie actor being overpaid to promote whiskey in Tokyo, Japan.  He forgets his son’s birthday while his wife FedExes carpet samples to his hotel room.  Charlotte (Johansson) is a college grad who majored in philosophy and now finds herself married to a photographer (Ribisi) and without any idea what to do with her life now that she’s tagged along with him to Tokyo.  Both Bob and Charlotte feel completely alienated by not only Tokyo but their lives, and this is enough of a commonality for them to strike up an unlikely friendship.

Bill Murray is so wonderful in this film, and I remember, at the time, that it was such a BIG FREAKIN’ DEAL in the media.  Everyone, and I do mean everyone, was all “holy F*%@ Bill Murray can actually act and express emotions and everything!”  He was nominated for his one and only Oscar for his role as Bob Harris, but something I’ve been thinking about is that no one should have been THAT surprised.  Frankly, Murray’s filmography for the ten years prior to Lost in Translation was building up to this, a perfectly seriocomic role.  In my opinion, it all starts with Groundhog Day in 1993, then goes on to Ed Wood with Tim Burton in 1994, then most significantly on to Rushmore in 1998 and The Royal Tenenbaums in 2001, both with Wes Anderson.  The fact that Murray was specifically choosing work that defied his early slapstick routines (he also managed to be in a Shakespeare movie before Lost in Translation) was apparent.  Since Lost in Translation, he has continued his relationship with Wes Anderson, becoming in some ways a grand duke of the indie film scene, and has also cultivated a relationship with Jim Jarmusch of all people.  I give Murray all the credit in the world for clearly seeking divergent film roles, because he is just wonderful when he tones down the stupid comedy and allows the sadness to peek through.  I’m not surprised at all that a generation of younger filmmakers have wanted to use him in their work. 

I don’t often write about it on my blog, but back in 2004, I was in a PhD program doing biochemistry research.  I was utterly miserable, but I hadn’t yet realized I was miserable.  (It would take another 18 months for me to finally face the issue and leave the program, moving on to something that DIDN’T take a jackhammer to my sense of self-worth.)  Like Charlotte, I was in my early to mid-twenties and I felt adrift.  And that night that I watched Lost in Translation for the first time, this film was an enormous trigger that managed to convey some of the hopelessness and lack of direction I was drowning in.  Although I still could not completely admit it to myself at the time, now with 20/20 hindsight I have no doubt that the minor breakdown this film gave me was because I identified a bit too much with the emotional message here.  When I watched it just a few days ago, the tears at the end were caused not by a current sense of angst in my life, but of remembrance; recalling just how emotionally draining and numbing those years in the lab were, recalling just how pathetic I felt then, how utterly useless and ineffectual I thought I was because my experiments never worked (not once, not ever, not even the goddamned controls did what they were supposed to do), how much of a failure I thought myself.  Quite frankly, this film isn’t the easiest thing in the world for me to watch, not because it’s bad or horrific, but because it has a way of pulling all those old emotions out to surface. 

Which is definitely a bit of a testament to the film, because I was working in a biochemistry research lab and Charlotte was in Tokyo for a few weeks.  Not exactly the same thing.

It’s very difficult for me to be objective or analytical about this film.  This is a much more subjective experience for me, as I just watch this and feel.  I feel Charlotte’s depression as she tries to tell her friend she doesn’t know who she married only to have the friend blow her off.  I have also had a friend during this time in my life who was a bit like Bob Harris, someone who, although a generation apart from me, I connected with and who I got along extraordinarily well with and who made me forget, albeit for short periods of time, how much sadness I was really hiding.  Although an argument can be made, depending on your frame of mind, that Coppola pushes the relationship between Bob and Charlotte to the brink of sexual tension, and I honestly do not think that I ever had *that* kind of relationship with my friend, I relate yet again to understanding the feeling of respite caused by an unlikely friend. 

This movie.  This movie was my early to mid-twenties.  The deep seated denial that I was sad (I wasn’t supposed to be sad, I was in biochemistry PhD program for crying out loud), the feelings of hopelessness and uselessness that almost consumed me, Lost in Translation brings it out in a beautiful, sadly poignant way.  On the surface, my story is not at all like Charlotte’s, but Sofia Coppola knew what she was doing, knew that her particular story of cultural alienation could really strike far deeper. 

This is not a movie I can watch lightly or “have on in the background.”  I’m in a much better place now than I was ten years ago, but the experience in the lab was a bit emotionally scarring and I still struggle with some of those feelings of loss of self-worth (and I have a feeling I will always feel like something of a failure).  Lost in Translation is a film that reminds me of that phase of my life, for better or for worse, and while it makes me happy to know I’m not there anymore, this movie has a way of reminding me just how painful those years were.

For the record, I think this movie is awesome.  It just strikes a bit too close to home for me to watch it with any regularity.

Arbitrary Rating: 9/10, and apologies if you actually wanted me to talk about the movie rather than whinging on about myself.

12 Years a Slave

12 Years a Slave

2013

Director: Steve McQueen

Starring: Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender, Lupita Nyong’o

There is something very un-Hollywood about Steve McQueen, and god bless for that. In the hands of a typical director, 12 Years a Slave would be precisely the sort of film that I would feel morally obligated to see, appeasing a deep seated sense of American guilt. It would feel like something I had to see, vegetables that accompany my dinner, something rather difficult to swallow yet somehow knowing that it is quote-good for me-unquote. But Steve McQueen is not a typical director, and what could have been a massively heavy handed and overtly melodramatic tale of slavery in the South is instead quiet, even subtle (rarely a word used to describe slavery-slash-Civil War films), but not for a moment lacking the power and anger the subject matter demands.

Based on a true story, Solomon Northup (Ejiofor) is a free black man living in Saratoga, New York, in the early 1840s.  He has a wife and two children and a very well-to-do life; that is, until he is kidnapped and sold into slavery in the American South and given the new name of Platt.  Passed around from slave auctioneer to foresting plantation to sugar plantation to a particularly brutal cotton plantation run by the brutal Master Epps (Fassbender), he learns that in order to survive, he must keep his head down and his mouth shut.  Were word to come to his new masters that he can read and write, he would certainly be killed. 

And although I often try not to discuss the ending of a film when I review it, I *will* be mentioning a bit more about the plot than normal, so fair spoiler warning.

The only other film of McQueen’s that I've seen is Shame, and that was a rare film that earned a "perfect" score of ten out of ten on its first go around. I tend not to give films perfect scores after a first viewing; perfect scores are for films that have cultivated a place in my heart, films that I have cherished for a long time. It's not that I don't think new films are good, it's more recognizing the importance of longevity. Shame, on the other hand, demanded I throw that system out the window, so resounding was its power. I mention this because it’s an exception I rarely make, and McQueen, with that film, earned my respect and then some.

I was not entirely interested in seeing 12 Years a Slave originally (even despite the immense ovary-exploding draws of Benedict Cumberbatch and Michael Fassbender combined) because of aforementioned sense of "chore." Powerful, undoubtedly, but chore nonetheless. Then I saw that McQueen directed it. And then I was much more interested.

I could not reconcile in my head how a director whose only work I had seen had been a small scale character study, a work that was all about the emotionally damaged lives of two broken people, a film shot with a devotion to long, uncomfortably quiet takes, could take on a period piece about slavery.

And indeed, McQueen delivers as atypical a piece on American slavery as I could possibly imagine.  What McQueen does in this film is essentially remove any sort of trope or expectation I associate with "slavery film," while still making a film about slavery.  It’s not at all the heavy-handed morality play with swells in plot and soundtrack that are as predictable as dammit.  Thank god. And just like Shame, there are long, unbroken takes. Many dialogue sequences are shot in one take, interrupting infrequently, somehow allowing the characters to finish their thoughts. There are a myriad of slow, lingering shots of trees, of swampland, of the sky. The most memorable moment was a quiet close up on Ejiofor towards the end of the film. He speaks no words, simply turns his face towards the camera. The shot is easily thirty seconds long. Does it further the plot in an obvious way? Not in the slightest. But it's a hugely important shot, angry in its quiet, and reminding us that Solomon's life is not at peace, that everything is wrong, that although Solomon has "learned" how to survive, although we have not heard him mention his wife and children since the opening of the film, he has not for a second forgotten them. We don't need an expository scene of Solomon explaining how much he misses his former life, not when an infinitely more lyrical close up will do the trick.

Gratuitous photo of Benedict Cumberbatch.  Because reasons.

What is also refreshing in 12 Years a Slave is, similar to above, not all characters are pure good or pure evil (a very typical approach when making slavery films and war films alike). There is Master Ford the plantation owner (played by a dreamy Benedict Cumberbatch) who is clearly compassionate but seems unwilling to stick his neck out too far. There is the hard plantation contractor who unexpectedly saves Solomon from a hanging, but then doesn't cut him down, leaving him tied and bound for hours. The white man who ultimately ventures to the south to reclaim Solomon's freedom is portrayed as shady.  Yes, there are a few ancillary characters who are allowed to be one-dimensional, but nearly anyone with more than two scenes is given an unexpected depth.

The performances are top-notch.  Nominated for three acting Oscars for Ejiofor, Fassbender, and Nyong’o as cotton plantation slave Patsey, everyone is strong.  Ejiofor carries the film with a heavy heart, Nyong’o shines playing a character full of strength and spirit who has been depressingly beaten down, but for my money, Fassbender steals every scene he’s in.  His Epps is insane in a way not often shown.  Clearly the film’s main antagonist, Epps is the “Evil Plantation Owner.”  What’s interesting is that Epps is mad, mad with brutality and sexual obsession, but only a little mad.  He’s a “believable” mad.  I can see how society would let someone like this exist, would let them get on with their lives, would even allow them to come to some prominence because they have money.  Fassbender is not off the deep end, but he’s about waist-deep and slowly wading his way over.  It’s a very good restrained evil genius.

One of the most interesting aspects of 12 Years a Slave is the theme of guilt, a theme also heavily examined in Shame. We watch Solomon make several choices in the film that are ugly choices but born of necessity. In an early instance, another black woman who has been kidnapped into slavery is sold, while her young children remain to be sold to different owners. Rather than fight to help the mother stay with her children, Solomon takes up a violin and starts playing a jaunty tune in an attempt to drown out the wails. It is this that Ejiofor portrays so painfully well, this sensation of being driven to horrible acts of compliance in order to not be killed and how it eats away at his soul. When the film hits its climax, where Solomon is finally rescued by his friends from the North, there is more of a focus on his abandonment of Patsey and the other slaves on Epps’ plantation rather than the joy or triumph at his wrong being righted.  Really, this is what makes this film so fascinating to me. There is no triumphant finale where Solomon cheerfully returns to his home. How can there be? What he has gone through has eaten at his very humanity, least of all because of the hard labor. Although the film certainly celebrates his ultimate return to freedom, it is utterly lacking in pomp. Indeed, Solomon asks for forgiveness upon his return. Forgiveness. The guilt at not always helping, at sometimes turning a blind eye, at abandoning the others on the plantation... Of course he is grateful for his newfound freedom, but this film recognizes that one man’s success is hardly a significant win for making real progress on the issue.

There is still a slight sense of “eating my vegetables” while watching 12 Years a Slave, but it is mostly kept at bay.  Smart directing choices by McQueen and standout performances from the cast turn what could have been a meat-fisted over-the-top guilt-fest melodrama into something far more potent, powerful, and inexplicably subtle.  I’m pleased that such a complex film is getting the level of attention being heaped on it during this current awards season.

Arbitrary Rating: 9/10

Rebecca

Rebecca

Director: Alfred Hitchcock

Starring: Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, Judith Anderson

1940

The only film of Hitchcock’s that the Oscars saw fit to recognize, Rebecca is certainly one of Hitchcock’s strongest works.  Not quite up to his true genius of the decades to come, however, and it is really such a shame that the Academy only recognized this, and not more layered and phenomenal films like Rear Window.

Joan Fontaine plays a young, timid, shy ladies’ companion vacationing with her brusque and societal leech of an employer, Mrs. Van Hopper.  While in Monaco, she meets Maxim de Winter (Olivier), a tortured widower seemingly trying to forget the drowning death of his much beloved wife, Rebecca.  The two fall in love and marry quickly, then Maxim takes her back to Manderley, his expansive estate back in England, where she soon realizes the strange hold that the first Mrs. de Winter seems to still have over both the house and all the servants, staff, and indeed, her husband.

It’s funny – this is a scary film.  Sort of.  It’s Hitchcock, to be sure, and immensely suspenseful, but in a very untraditional manner.  It’s practically a period piece, even though it was set during current times.  Manderley is such a character in the film, it makes the entire film feel as if it came from a different era.  There’s a dreamy quality that emanates from this strange estate, a feeling established in the opening shot of the film which, indeed, is revealed to be a dream sequence through a voiceover.  The house is immense, hollow, expansive, and of another era.  It’s easy to see how it could get inside your head, start playing games with you.

As if the house itself wasn’t bad enough, there’s Mrs. Danvers (Anderson), the housekeeper.  Brrr – this is not someone I’d want hovering around while I’m living in a joint!  Cold and imperious from the first, she utterly dominates everything and everyone around her.  It’s revealed that she was devoted to her first mistress, Rebecca.  It’s not difficult to extend this devotion to more of an infatuation, or even obsession.  Mrs. Danvers, with her no-nonsense bun and perfectly straight shoulders, seems just the sort of person who could easily flirt with the edge of insanity.  Anderson plays the role to the hilt as well, spewing thinly disguised insults and manipulations from her very first entrance.

The intimidating Mrs. Danvers and the cavernous Manderley play host to The Second Mrs. de Winter, Joan Fontaine’s character.  Fascinatingly, she is not given a name.  I’m certain that Mrs. Van Hopper introduces her once to Maxim de Winter at the beginning of the film, but that is the only time she’s given a name, and even then I’m not so sure.  Even IMDB lists her character as “The Second Mrs. de Winter.”  Her identity itself is tied up in being the Second Wife After Rebecca.  Once she arrives at Manderley, she is constantly haunted by the shadow of the first, indominatable mistress.  Fontaine plays her role as a baby foal trying to walk for the first time.  All breathlessness and wobbly knees, here is a woman who is very much in love with her new husband, but extraordinarily out of her element in this new environment.  She was not raised in society, nor does she does not know how to fit into society, a fact that Mrs. Danvers is all too aware of, as well as something that only prompts disgust from the staunch housekeeper. 

Fontaine’s character is simply no match for her new world.  As if the house and the creepy Mrs. Danvers weren’t enough for this poor girl (and she really is only a girl) to contend with, soon her husband starts behaving oddly as well.   Laurence Olivier – always a force of nature – is phenomenal as the brooding and mysterious Maxim de Winter.  When we meet him in Monaco, he seems more bemused by Joan Fontaine than in love with her, which makes his very sudden marriage proposal somewhat confusing.  Then, once he’s married her and brought her back to Manderley, he starts to fall into tempers, become withdrawn, or flies off the handle at the tiniest mistake.  Really, what has this poor girl gotten into?  Is Rebecca really that a strong a force that she controls the housekeeper, the house, and her husband, all from beyond the grave?  Well, it certainly seems so, but Rebecca has some tricks up her sleeve yet.

Hitchcock photographs the film brilliantly.  Reminiscent of Otto Preminger (I was forcibly reminded of Laura several times during the course of the film even though I know Rebecca came first), there is a romantic gothic sensibility to the photography here, fitting for the novelist Daphne du Maurier’s work.  We get long lingering shots of the house, showing the caverns of each room, the high ceilings, the long staircases in beautiful shimmery black and white.  The cinematography draws out the mystery, making gauzy window curtains seem as though they may contain a ghost.

There is a central mystery to Rebecca, but unraveling it here for you makes it no fun.  There is a quiet beauty, something very unostentatious about this film.  And really, it’s very creepy, but for very different reasons than any other traditional horror or suspense film.

Arbitrary Rating: 9/10

Musings on Mandela, Philomena, American Hustle, and Nebraska.

I’ve been struck with the unusual-for-me desire to get my butt to the cinemas to enjoy the pickings for 2013.  In these, the first three days of 2014, I’ve done two double-headers at my favorite cinema that shows current releases.  And, because I’m still me, I can’t simply “watch” these movies, I have to also think about and analyze them.  But four 1000-word-plus reviews is a bit too daunting, especially when my blogging skillz are a bit rusty.  So I figured I’d do a briefer review of these four flicks.

Up first:

Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom

2013

Director: Justin Chadwick

Starring: Idris Elba, Naomie Harris

The utterly inevitable movie of Nelson Mandela’s life hits the big screen with brilliant casting being the best thing going for it.  As my students are wont to say, not gonna lie, the only reason I went to see it was Elba.  Idris Elba as anything is automatically worth it; the man is a force of nature, and him as Mandela seemed too good to pass up. 

The film follows a mostly straightforward biographical movie outline, starting with voiceover reminiscences to golden memories of youth, then plunging us almost immediately into young man Mandela’s difficulties and following, in a linear fashion, through the imprisonment we all knew was coming, as well as the release and election.  We also follow the life of Mandela’s second wife Winnie (Harris), who stands by her man while he’s in prison by continuing to lead the revolution movement, even to the point of becoming militant.  Director Chadwick makes an effort to humanize the mythic Mandela, showing him as a red-blooded young man who was a hound dog with the ladies and not exactly husband of the year to his first wife.

Elba does not disappoint as Mandela, filling the screen with rage, righteousness, and then powerful pacifism, and he is easily the strongest aspect of the film.  Harris is also very good as the sweet yet steely Winnie who must also weather great injustices in the family-lead fight to end apartheid.  But the performances are all I can truly recommend; the story feels too disconnected to my liking.  Years pass, peoples’ opinions fundamentally change, and we are given little to no reason for it.  The resolution of the film feels like a hasty mash-up, as if the director realized he had painted himself into a corner of racial warfare and had no idea how to get out.  Now granted, this was undoubtedly a similar situation to the feeling in South Africa at the time, but the 180 that this film pulls feels more than a little incongruous.

Worth it for the performances, but not a hearty recommendation from me.  I will add, for honesty’s sake, that biopics are really not my thing, not in the slightest, so I was predisposed to not being completely moved by this one to begin with.

Arbitrary Rating: 6/10

Philomena

2013

Director: Stephen Frears

Starring: Judi Dench, Steve Coogan

After my final statement about Mandela having a strike against it simply because it wasn’t my type of film, I will now own up and say that going in, I knew Philomena WAS my type of movie, and after seeing it, yes, most definitely, it’s my type of flick, for sure.  Objectively, though, I do believe Philomena is a stronger film (although, probably not as much stronger than Mandela as my rating will reflect).

Judi Dench plays the titular character, a silly, elderly lady who loves her salad buffets with toasty croutons, snacks on the road, and frivolous romance novels.  But Philomena’s secret of fifty years, that she gave birth to a baby boy when she was just sixteen years old at a Catholic nunnery in Ireland who was then later adopted against her will, is gnawing at her.  With the help of recently-unemployed big time journalist Martin Sixsmith (Coogan), who needs a human interest story to set him back on track, she goes about finally trying to track down her long lost son. 

Everyone knows that Judi Dench can act circles around pretty much anyone, but what’s unusual in her performance here is how utterly ordinary and regular Philomena is.  I’m used to Judi Dench playing either someone of great esteem (a la Shakespeare in Love) or someone with something unusual about them (a la Iris).  Philomena is neither.  Yes, you can certainly argue that having a long lost son is unusual, but after seeing the film, Philomena still feels ordinary.  She’s just a fussy, aging Irish Catholic woman who colors her hair and wears old lady clothes, and Dench does her proud, giving her grace and humanity and a full range of emotions alongside all her silliness.

Maybe more surprising than Dench playing such a regular character is the fact that Steve Coogan can play a straight man (in the comedic sense, not the sexual sense).  For everything that Philomena loves about ordinary, middle-class comforts, Martin is used to the finer things.  As a former international political journalist, Martin is an Oxford-educated, BMW-driving, boutique-restaurant-frequenting perfect foil to Philomena.  Watching her get on his nerves and under his skin is half the film, but it’s an enjoyable relationship to explore, as Dench is careful to never let Philomena get too silly, just as Coogan is careful to keep Martin from being too snobby or curmudgeonly. 

Because ultimately, silly caricatures aside, this film has tremendous depth of heart.  The story that is explored, about the long lost son, is done so with as few clichés as I’ve ever seen.  When you think you know where the story is headed, it throws you an enormous curveball, one that requires both lead actors to show us new aspects of their characters, or expand tremendously on ideals that have already been established.  It’s sweet and funny but never cloying, never overly sentimental. 

To reiterate, this is very much my kind of film.  The wry British sense of humor is on full display, it touches without manhandling you, and who knew Steve Coogan could hold his own against powerhouse Dench. 

Arbitrary Rating: 9/10.

American Hustle

2013

Director: David O. Russell

Starring: Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence

Perhaps the buzziest of the films I’ve seen recently, American Hustle is certainly riding a wave of good press and award nominations. Without necessarily meaning this as an insult, American Hustle is the type of film meant to appeal to Academy voters.  I won’t use the term Oscar-bait due to its negative connotations, but American Hustle feels exactly the sort of edgy, flashy, seriocomic film that the Academy can feel terrifically justified in nominating.  “Look how hep we are, we’re recognizing American Hustle!” they proclaim with glee.

Overweight and balding Irving (Bale) is a con artist working out of New York who falls madly in love with Sydney (Adams), a beautiful creature who eagerly joins him in his cons.  The fact that Irving is already married to Rosalyn (Lawrence), a slightly crazy hausfrau, is a minor hiccup.  But when they are nabbed by an FBI agent (Cooper), they both agree to his terms of running a con to bring down some politicians in exchange for a reduced sentence.  But really, when politicians, the mob, the FBI, and con artists are all thrown into the mix, who’s conning who?

The style of American Hustle was probably my favorite part.  The late seventies, in all its glitzy, superficial glory, is on full display, and we have our fill of overdone hair, polyester shirts, and New Jersey accents.  Amy Adams is terrifically sexy in shirts and dresses that plunge to her navel, and Jeremy Renner as a Jersey politico happily prances around in pale blue tuxedos with frilly sleeves.  The film is dressed in golds and browns, giving the entire story an air of wistful nostalgia, as though our con artists are recounting their glory days.

The performances are, again, top notch.  Particularly delightful was Jennifer Lawrence as Rosalyn.  Unhinged yet manipulative all at the same time, Lawrence pulls it off and then some.  She’s definitely making a strong case for being up for the big prize for a second year in a row.

However, there’s something that never quite coalesces in American Hustle.  Like Mandela, the finale feels somehow inadequate to the tremendous build up it is given.  Is it about the con or is it about the drama of the characters at hand?  Frankly, the film waffles on this question, and ultimately, I felt there were unanswered issues on both of those sides.

I enjoyed American Hustle, but not absolutely.  It is a good film, a strong film, but it didn’t blow me away.

Arbitrary Rating: 8/10

Nebraska

2013

Director: Alexander Payne

Starring: Will Forte, Bruce Dern, June Squibb

Full disclosure: I am a slavering little Alexander Payne fangirl, due in no small part to the fact that I’ve now met him twice, have his autograph, and a picture with him.  I’ve even spoken to him about his filmmaking style.  I enjoyed his films before I met him, but now?  Now I’m a devotee for life.  Given that he only makes a film once every two to three years, it was an utter no brainer for me to see his latest.  Spoiler: I loved Nebraska.  But then, frankly, I was always going to love Nebraska.

David Grant (Forte) sells speaker systems and electronics in a strip mall in Billings, Montana.  His father Woody (Dern) is an alcoholic and not altogether with it retired auto mechanic.  When Woody gets one of those magazine promo letters proclaiming that he’s won one million dollars (provided his number matches and he buys some magazine subscriptions), all he sees is the one million dollars.  Convinced he just hit it big, he becomes obsessed with the idea of getting to Lincoln, Nebraska, to claim his winnings, and ultimately, a harassed David agrees to take him.  On the way, they stop in Hawthorne, Nebraska, the tiny near-ghost town where Woody grew up.  Woody visits with his old family and friends, all the while spreading the news about his apparent good luck.

There are so many things I adore about Alexander Payne, and this film has them all.  I was amused as the credits rolled at the end, because Nebraska was precisely what I expected it to be given what I know about Payne’s filmography.  I don’t think this is a bad thing; on the contrary, I think it means that Payne knows clearly who he is as a filmmaker and can deliver his message in a vivid and consistent manner.

I have decided that Alexander Payne is in love with the American working class, but he is also determined to show them as they are, not as they think they are or wish to be.  There is so much truth in Nebraska in this regard that the number one criticism I have seen leveled at the film is that Payne is mocking the small town folk of his film.  I could not disagree more.  There are some less-than-positive characters and moments in Nebraska, but nothing ever feels as though it is played for cheap laughs.  Instead, everything feels… real.  Painfully real, but thoroughly real.  I went to college in an area not unlike those shown in Nebraska, and I visited friends’ homes who lived close by whose families behaved precisely – and I do mean PRECISELY – like the family in Nebraska.  That’s why I don’t think there is any mocking meant here; I’ve seen these scenes before, I’ve seen these places before, just never on the big screen.

Furthermore, Payne himself is from Nebraska.  He shot his first feature Election (the film that made me a fangirl of his to begin with) in Nebraska, and when I’ve heard him speak, he always spoke lovingly of the area in which he grew up.  A year ago when I last saw him, he announced this film and I could hear how excited he was to make a film about his home.  I see affection, not mocking, in Nebraska, culminating in the gently poignant yet utterly devastating finale sequence.  There is so much love in the ending of the film that, while Payne undoubtedly calls out the less than savory characters in the story, showing them for the superficial assholes they ultimately become, he also knows there are heroes in his story, and they are glorious.  Mocking?  Not in the slightest.  Loving yet careful not to romanticize?  Absolutely.

Apart from the simple characters who reek undoubtedly of truth, my favorite aspect of Payne’s work is his production design.  Or perhaps, lack of production design.  What I passionately adore about Payne is his devotion to filming on real locations, locations that haven’t been meticulously manicured.  He uses real houses, real motels, real bars, real chain restaurants, and his extras are real people.  When he does need to film on a set, more often than not, the set is modeled on an actual house or room.  There are knick knacks everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, cracks in the driveway, leaves in the pool, and scratches on the linoleum.  It’s not that his films are dirty or dank; it’s that they’re fucking REAL.  The living room looks like a real living room, warts and all.  I’ve always noticed and responded to this in his films, and it’s what I had a chance to ask him last time I saw him.  When I mentioned this to him, that I loved that he uses real places, I remember so vividly that he smiled broadly, and responded with “I don’t understand why we need to prettify everything.”  Indeed.

While Payne plays the utter ordinariness of the world around his characters in most of the film as flat and banal, he also shoots the film occasionally with great beauty.  When the film reaches its emotional climax, suddenly the everyday locations around seem majestic.  Payne lingers on a shot of a wide open field, the sun breaking through a magnificent cloud formation.  Because truly, there is extraordinariness in the everyday.

Bruce Dern as Woody is brilliant in quietly showing us a sad old man desperately clinging to one last wish for glory.  Are we annoyed with Woody or do we pity Woody?  Well, both, sometimes at the same time.  As David discovers more about his father on this road trip, we see far more in the simple facial expressions than the curmudgeonly drunk we meet at the beginning.  Will Forte is easily an unusual casting choice, as he is known almost completely for broad comedic work, playing a caricature of a caricature.  Here, though, he carries off a decidedly downbeat performance, following in the footsteps of Jack Lemmon in The Apartment.  It’s not as brilliant a performance as Lemmon’s is, but I can see the influence, and I imagine Forte being inspired by Lemmon in this role. 

I knew what to expect from Nebraska, so when I found myself sobbing rather uncontrollably at the quiet finale of the film, I wasn’t surprised in the least.  I was happy, though; happy that Payne had delivered once again on a simple human story, relatable to the last, that kept me happily engaged throughout its entirety and then packed an inevitable punch at the end.

Arbitrary Rating: 9.5/10.  The only thing I can level against Nebraska is that the pacing isn’t always as tight as it could be, and it drags a bit in the middle.  But in terms of what I want from Alexander Payne, Payne proves that he knows how to deliver it in a mature and confident manner.  I also recognize that if Payne’s previous films haven’t floated your boat, you will undoubtedly find Nebraska incredibly grating.

Up next for Siobhan: eagerly looking forward to Her being released wider next weekend.  I might make an effort to see Inside Llewyn Davis as well.  Might try to catch Gravity when it comes to the second-run theater in town.  And of course, whenever The Grand Budapest Hotel finds its way to my local theaters, I’ll be there with bells on.  I’ll also be looking out for Blue is the Warmest Color playing any wider, and I’ve got my eyes peeled for whenever Walesa: Man of Hope plays around here.  Because I NEED to see that movie.

Frankly, it’s been rather lovely seeing some more current release films in theaters again.  I do love this time of year for current releases, when the theaters are full of films trying their hands at Oscar nominations, when small character-centric comedy dramas are the order of the day rather than big blow ‘em up action flicks. 

In terms of 1001 Movies, my job is… more under control now than it was in the fall.  I’m looking to recommit myself, in the non-sanatorium sort of way, to blogging and The Club. 

Oh, and in a personal plug, I’ll find out end of January/beginning of February if my proposal for presenting at a national conference this summer was accepted.  Personally, I think my workshop idea is pretty darn awesome, but still, wish me luck. 

OH, and my old laptop finally started crapping the bed in December, so this entire review is coming to you from my bright, shiny, brand new touch screen Asus laptop.  No optical drive, so it’s gorgeous and light and doesn’t overheat every hour and doesn’t need to be constantly plugged in (thus defeating the point of a laptop).  YAY CHRISTMAS YAY NEW TOYS!!!

All the President's Men

 

All the President’s Men

1976

Director: Alan J. Pakula

Starring: Dustin Hoffman, Robert Redford, Jason Robards

I will forever think of my mother whenever I watch anything with Robert Redford.  I know I have a fairly wide fangirl streak running through me that, although it may go through periods of dormancy, can erupt at any moment in full blown fervor (as my recent mania obsession fascination with Sherlock attests).  After a bit of analysis, I believe I inherited this from my mother.  I still remember watching her eyes go all glassy the first time she told me, passionately, about her lifelong crush on Bob Redford.  And this, All the President’s Men, is one of her favorite films.  For Redford, yes, but besides Redford, it’s also a damn fine film.

Opening with the break in at the Watergate Hotel, Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward (Redford) attends the arraignment of the five burglars and starts to smell a story.  Post editor Ben Bradlee (Robards) also puts fellow reporter Carl Bernstein (Hoffman) on the case, and together, Woodward and Bernstein start chasing down leads.  Problem is, no one seems to want to talk to them, especially when it becomes clear that somehow, the Committee to Re-Elect the President, aka CREEP, seems to be involved.  But Woodward has a source inside the White House, the infamous Deep Throat, and that, paired with singular stubbornness, keeps the two reporters following the money all the way to the very top.

  

All the President’s Men plays out as a thriller, which is rather unusual considering that everyone knows how the story ends.  How, then, does it manage to make the plot compelling?  How does it manage to be so damn engaging that I actually sat up to the edge of my seat in the last twenty minutes and shushed my husband next to me, despite the fact that 1) I know Nixon resigned, and 2) I had SEEN the movie before?  My theory is that the film plays on the fact that you know how it must end, and instead, strings you, the viewer, along as it slowly, ever so slowly, builds towards the inevitable conclusion.

It is the very certainty of the conclusion that makes the viewer righteously frustrated and, therefore, invested.  We know what’s going to happen; we want to watch HOW it happens.  And All the President’s Men is so good at drawing out the suspense in the logistics of the investigation.  Right from the first time Woodstein (as Bradlee calls them) try to publish a story that dares to make larger connections beyond the simple Watergate break in, their editor Bradlee immediately delivers a metaphorical knockout punch to the two for having soft sources.  Realistically, this is not to punish the characters but instead to instruct the audience.  This simple exchange teaches us, the viewer, that Woodstein need to have strong sources and solid facts for the story to run, not simply the sketch of a cover up.  A sketch won’t do, it must be concrete.  And from this point on, all the tension in All the President’s Men is about scrapping for tiny bits of concrete evidence in a sea of reticent witnesses.

Every time Woodstein visits a possible source, we hold our breath.  Will this be the person that finally speaks?  Every time they get a door slammed in their face, or a person who says they can’t say anything, or someone who clams up at the mention of The Washington Post, it’s frustrating.  And it’s here that All the President’s Men manages to build the tension and become a legitimate thriller.  We KNOW this story will break, it HAS to break, so for crying out loud, WHEN WILL IT BREAK? 

I love how quiet this film is.  There’s precious little soundtrack music ever, as the film in general restricts itself simply to in-story dialogue and sounds, and that works here.  It puts the focus on the dialogue exchanges, which is precisely where it should be in such a fact-heavy story.  Yes, it’s a talking heads movie, but I tend to really like a good talking heads flick.  The long takes also put our focus squarely on the conversations; take, for example, a phone call scene where Woodward first starts to realize that there is a link between the Watergate burglary and CREEP.  The exchange, which involves at least three separate phone conversation, never cuts once.  We simply watch, in a fairly tight close up, as Robert Redford talks on the phone.  And yet, that’s all we really need.  No music, no swelling score, no percussive beats, no fancy cuts, just a few phone conversations of enormous import, plain and simple.  Granted, I don’t think this technique always works, but it works here.  Less is more.

  

The production design of the film is interesting.  Made in the seventies and set in the seventies, naturally it’s all about that particular era.  And yet, the production design is markedly restrained.  Woodstein visit many people and that involves several sets of people’s homes, yet there is little that feels overtly, loudly seventies.  Instead, there’s a lot of classic, almost standard furniture and wardrobe that, while it doesn’t make the film feel timeless, again serves to keep the focus not on the sets but on the dialogue exchanges.

I did notice one thing about the production design, however: the frequent use of three colors.  Ironic, really, that a film about the toppling of the American president should focus in on red, white, and blue.  Nearly all the interiors – and exteriors, for that matter, given that a good deal of the film was shot in Washington DC – are white.  White wallpapers, doors, ceilings, etc.  The brightness of the background makes the pops of color very noticeable, so when we get the very bright red of the chairs and desks in the Washington Post workroom, it’s noticeable.  When we get the bright blues, it stands out.  Nearly every set is awash in white with pops of either bright red, bright blue, or navy.  This can’t be a coincidence, instead underlining the ironic nature of the statement.  Woodstein and their supporter, Bradlee, never once feel like traitors or as if they are spreading an anti-American message, but the red white and blue undercurrent serves as a reminder that yes, they are in fact in the middle of shaking down the very core of the American government.

But perhaps, ultimately the most astounding thing about All the President’s Men, is that it was released a mere two years after Nixon’s resignation.  The entertainment sector is certainly always quick to jump over a juicy story, but this story is something else altogether.  It’s provocative and pulls at threads many would rather weren’t touched at all.  And what’s more, the film is good.  It doesn’t feel as if it was rushed to press in the slightest.  It’s taut, thrilling, and genuinely engaging.  My mom has good taste.

Arbitrary Rating: 9/10