Review: The Social Network (2010)

18 10 2010

Friends have a keen ability to point out the ironies in one’s life.  For example, a few weeks ago a friend noted that my having watched The Social Network alone, while borderline pathetic, is far more ironic.  I was happy for this opportunity to swap the “Loser” label for the more chic and intelligent “Irony” patch.  After all, watching a movie about friends without friends certainly strikes me as more ironic than pitiful (and my friend agrees; she is a very dear friend).  And I’m in good company because The Social Network is a film about the irony of one Mark Zuckerberg, the founder of Facebook, who does not have three friends to rub together to make a fourth.

Below all its legal wrangling and share-holder percentages, The Social Network tells the simple story of a young man who desperately needs a friend and fails to see the byte on his line while fishing for two on the World Wide Web.  How much of the film’s story is actually that of Mark Zuckerberg’s is hard to say; however, whether fact or fiction, The Social Network makes excellent fodder for thought and discussion.  The filmmakers’ balanced storytelling approach proves to be the key ingredient in creating an empathetic environment less about right and wrong or good and evil, and more about the stuff of true friendship.

During the film’s rapid-fire opening scene, the Mark Zuckerberg character utters a line that quickly gets lost in the dialogue volley for match point but proves to be the single most important line in the entire film.  He says to his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend, “I don’t want a friend” in response to her cliché “Let’s be friends” statement and in so saying sums up the entirety of that which is to follow.  What we think we want often couldn’t be further from the mark of our true need.  The final scene with Mark friend-requesting his ex-girlfriend not only perfectly bookends the film, but leaves us with the ironic twist of a man who finally recognizes his need for a friend yet reaches out through a tool (Facebook) that led to the downfall of true friendship.

I have little doubt that The Social Network will stand as one of the most important films of the first quarter of the 21st Century.  A brilliantly rendered film that asks the right questions of a generation that has the world at its fingertips, but has lost touch with the people living under the same roof.  Special recognition belongs to Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross who provide a moving and poignant score, to Editors Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall whose work make compelling what otherwise would have been a talk-fest, screenwriter Aaron Sorkin whose masterful script had my head spinning (in a good way), and to Director David Fincher who worked his vision to perfection.

While the irony of watching The Social Network alone is no longer lost on me, for my second viewing I took a friend.  I recommend you skip the irony, grab your best mate, and see this film today (and then hit refresh).


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Review: The Town (2010)

18 09 2010

Like any art form, film has no one purpose or end.  Some viewers approach movies looking for a good time, while others want to escape, and still others simply like film background chatter to underscore cookie-baking or shirt-ironing.  A seemingly small few, however, look for film to hold up a mirror to their lives . . . to challenge them to see the goodness and badness of their own hearts, attitudes, and actions.  For these few, film has the power to change life.

Now, surely, we are multi-faceted beings who laugh, cry, feel adrenaline in our veins, and seek quiet places to dream.  We probably shouldn’t always look for film to change us; sometimes we would do well to have a good hard laugh or be scared out of our seats.  Still, this said, the problem with modern cinema (particular of the American sort) is the creation of too many films that aim no higher than to elicit a set response from their audience instead of telling a story and letting the viewers sort themselves out.  Of course, herein lies that always present clash between business and art, a worthy subject in its own right, but not my purpose here.  No, today, I am challenged with writing a response to the film The Town and somehow conveying why my frustration with this movie echoes a growing exhaustion with this brand of American cinema.

To begin, the title – The Town – references Charlestown, Massachusetts – a neighborhood in north Boston known as a hotbed for armed robbers and bank thieves.  Not surprisingly, the film’s story details the attempt of one hometown boy (played coolly and unsympathetically by Ben Affleck) to find his way out of the thieving lifestyle.  Of course, our “hero” must run a gauntlet out of Town lined by his friends, the neighborhood kingpin, and one very adamant FBI agent.  Oh, and if you hadn’t guessed it, our hero’s love for a woman is a major motivating factor in his seeking a new life elsewhere.

Can you already feel the tension?  The filmmakers are counting on it because it’s all they have to work with here.  The film’s story is so cliché and unoriginal that selling tension is the best the creators can hope for in differentiating The Town from the hundreds of films that have blazed this well-worn “leaving the crime life” trail.  Now, I have considerable respect for Ben Affleck because both starring in and directing a film takes great energy and skill; yet, I wonder if this would have been a better movie if Affleck did not divide his attentions.  He showed his talent as a director in Gone Baby Gone and, unfortunately, The Town seems at best a horizontal movement in his directorial career.

While I agree that decrying a film for being unoriginal has little value since every filmmaker stands on the shoulders of giants, the problem with The Town is not that it doesn’t add anything new, but that it rests on its laurels.  The filmmakers know that the movie’s formula will work on most audience members and they are satisfied to serve it up as is.  Certainly, not every film can be a Citizen Kane, Vertigo, Godfather, or Matrix.  My frustration with the majority of American films is not that they aren’t revolutionary, but that filmmakers are seemingly satisfied with regurgitation.  Perhaps the more painful truth is that we, the audience, are happy to pay billions of dollars for “the same, only different.”  Until we as viewers demand more of our film, we will have to suffer the creation of ever more uninspired movies like The Town.


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Review: Summer Hours (2008)

5 09 2010

Recently, while out walking on a sunny summer Sunday, I found myself strolling through a cemetery.  I can’t necessarily explain how I landed there, but as I surveyed my surroundings I noted the graveyard’s amazing lack of color.  Brown grass and grey gravestones consumed my field of vision and not a single flower or flag offered relief.  Clearly this was a very old cemetery and the souls resting here had long since been forgotten.  As I made my rounds up and down the aisles, what began as a sadness at the edge of my heart bubbled up into deep grief as I considered the hundreds of lost stories lying six feet below my feet.  A dead child; a death on the battlefield; a young bride’s life cut short . . . stories so close yet out of my reach, gone.

Bearing a heavy ache, I struggled homeward and found my thoughts turning to the French film Summer Hours by the popular writer/director Olivier Assayas.  The film tells the story of three siblings who must decide what to do with the country estate and other objects left to them upon the death of their mother.  While outwardly a narrative about sibling relationships and life in the globalized 21st Century, at its heart the film poses important questions about what it means to remember one’s past and respect one’s own history.

The brilliance of the film lies in Mr. Assayas’ ability to tell a seemingly benign story all the while indicting us for our disregard of our own personal histories.  Perhaps “indict” is too strong a word here, since we feel a measure of grace from the filmmaker who clearly appreciates that we live in complicated times.  It seems his attack isn’t so much on his viewer then, but on a hurried, throwaway culture that celebrates youth, motion, and looking forward and makes little space for the elderly, rest, or a historical mindset.

The final scene of the film captures perfectly the tension between past and future when we find the granddaughter of the woman who has died holding a wild party at the quiet country estate.  As she runs down near the pond, she has a brief reflective moment remembering her grandmother’s words promising that she too will one day bring her grandchild down to that pond; a reality that will never come to pass due to the sale of the estate.  While her eyes moisten at the memory, she quickly recovers and history passes away as she runs back to the party with boyfriend in hand.

Summer Hours does not demand that you stop and pay attention to life’s grave markers.  You can certainly hurry through the film on your way to your next activity; yet, for those who pause to see, to listen, and to reflect, they alone have the unique opportunity to usher in a resurrection – the continuance of life after death.


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Review: To Save a Life (2009)

30 08 2010

When it comes to watching films, I have two simple rules: no horror and nothing Christian (might these be one in the same, you ask?).  Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I have found myself drawn to Jesus films as of late.  The devil on my left shoulder says that I watch them to fuel the flame of my disgust for their message-driven drivel (true, like any good critic, I sometimes love to hate).  The angel on my right, however, suggests that perhaps the next film will be “The One” I’m waiting for . . . where Jesus isn’t the destination, but the journey (hope springs eternal).  When it comes to the movie To Save a Life, angels rule and devils drool; while certainly far from “The One,” the film may be the best in a growing line of misguided Christian morality tales.

Now, to be fair, the filmmakers behind To Save a Life would not call it a “Christian movie” because they never use the name “Jesus.”  Yet, a sheep in wolves’ clothing is still a sheep.  Actually, if we sheer this particular lamb, I think we’d admit it looks a lot more like an After School Special than anything else.  From school violence and teen pregnancy to suicide and peer pressure, the movie hits on just about every hot button high school issue.  Granted, it does so with far better writing and acting than your average made for TV movie.

To Save a Life tells the story of an all-star high school basketball player whose life takes a sudden left turn when his childhood best friend commits suicide.  Oh, and of course, his girlfriend also gets pregnant and his parents file for a divorce (to name a few other cliché happenings).  With his life reeling, the young prom king finds the King of Kings and by the film’s end every last stone has been rolled away in time for the protagonist’s resurrection.  Still, flaws aside, the film works surprising well when compared to its brothers in the Christian cinema flock for two main reasons: (1) the filmmakers don’t want to convert you and (2) the actors play characters not caricatures.

Yes, the title “To Save a Life” may have a double meaning, but one does not get the sense that the filmmakers are trying to get their audience to fall to their knees and say the Sinner’s Prayer.  God does enter in, but only as a side story to the greater story of a particular young man’s response to teen suicide.  Certainly, the film has a message, but it goes down much smoother than your typical Jesus film because we believe the characters.  Which brings us to the actors (particular leads Randy Wayne and Deja Kreutzberg), who do a first-rate job of portraying believable characters who say believable things.  While the dialogue doesn’t always work, we thankfully never sense these gifted thespians are reading directly from queue cards or Christian tracts.

To Save a Life will never rank high on any list of great films, but in the world of Christian cinema one could hardly do better.  If you disagree, take it up with the angel on my shoulder.


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Review: The Messenger (2009)

21 08 2010

Earlier this week, the combination of unusually hot weather at night and my lack of air conditioning found me attempting to induce sleep by reciting last year’s nominees for the Best Picture Oscar. I was working my way quite quickly through the list when an unusual thing happened: I got stuck on the winning film.  All I could come up with was “The” . . . “The ‘Something.’” For the life of me, I couldn’t think of it.  At the time, I took this as proof that the film wasn’t worth remembering (which, I’ll now admit, seems slightly illogical).

As I lay there, sweat drenched, rattling through every conceivable “The” movie I saw last year, The Messenger came to mind.  How curious that the title of another war themed movie from 2009 did not escape my memory?  I had to posit that perhaps The Messenger simply had more worth remembering.  Compared with “The Something” film, which had a single note (“War is a drug”), The Messenger asked significant questions like: What makes a hero?  What is a helpful response to grief?  Is opening your heart to love worth the risks?  The film’s answer to these questions had the unique ability to rouse both my mind and my heart.

The Messenger tells the story of US Army Staff Sergeant Will Montgomery (portrayed by Ben Foster who further solidifies himself as one of the finest actors of his generation) who has recently returned from Iraq and is reassigned to a Casualty Notification Team.  We follow Sergeant Montgomery and his more seasoned partner Captain Tony Stone (played by the always surprising Woody Harrelson) as they notify families of the death of their loved-ones.  As they undertake the military’s most challenging job, both Montgomery and Stone must learn again, or for the first time, to live from the heart.

Special credit belongs to the director and the supporting cast for making each instance of notification its own rich and nuanced story.  While many forms of grief are portrayed, we recognize common themes from our own life stories and, in so seeing, feel intrinsically tied to the narrative as it unfolds.  And therein lies the key difference between The Messenger and that Best Picture I can never remember.  While the latter invites the audience to experience war through impressive visuals and tense action sequences, the former demands that we move beyond seeing and step into the heart of war.

I highly recommend The Messenger, but do not recommend thinking about it as a catalyst for sleep.  Thankfully, sleep did come . . . right after I decided to buy an air conditioner.


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Review: Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010)

15 08 2010

Prepare to be TKO’d.  Scott Pilgrim vs. the World may just be the most groundbreaking piece of live action visual storytelling to hit cinemas since the Matrix.  An ocular feast deeply rooted in its graphic novel origins, the film’s plethora of angles, cuts, split screens, and videogame-referenced eye candy is enough to provide any film-geek with a full life bar.

Sure, the movie borders on the frenetic and inane, but it never crosses the line into meaninglessness.  The filmmakers clearly have a strong grasp of their genre and lack fear in taking the necessary risks to realize a world where anything goes, but always within the bounds of their source material.  Embracing dual player mode, Editors Jonathan Amos and Paul Machliss deserve special recognition for their tag team effort against the Donkey Kongian-sized editing requirements of this film.  Not only do they reunite the hero with the lady, but do so in Oscar-worthy fashion.

Now, we should be clear that the film relates a quest far from Zeldaian proportions. The gist of the plot is that Scott Pilgrim must defeat seven evil exes in order to win the hand of the multi-hair-colored damsel Ramona Flowers.  The film’s thespians, led by the always tongue-in-cheek Michael Cera, are perfectly adequate to relate a story with so little genuine heart (or dialogue) that one has only a sliver of concern with how it all works out in the end.  Sadly, both the talented Anna Kendrick and Kieran Culkin end up as little more than glorified speech bubbles in the film.

Perhaps a more important element of the movie than even the actors is the soundtrack.  A strong metal sound led by Pilgrim’s band “Sex Bob-omb” (songs written by Beck) lend a serious kick to the film’s visuals while songs sung by Beck himself as well as the Broken Social Scene add a quieter touch to the less intense sequences.  I’ll happily admit that some of my favorite scenes in the movie show Cera rocking out on the bass (ala Guitar Hero) with accompanying visual depictions of the bass line chest bumping the viewer.

So then, is Scott Pilgrim vs. the World the “epic of epic epicness” it claims itself to be?  From a story standpoint the answer is a most empathic “no”; yet, the film’s advances in editing and its cutting-edge adherence to graphic novel storytelling elements do make it a first-rate study for current and future filmmakers (and a considerable amount of fun for the viewer).  It’s an even split then, 1-1.  Bring on the post-Pilgrim graphic novel follow-up film.  Game on.


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Review: The Kids are All Right (2010)

12 08 2010

Several years ago, I received a painting as a gift.  At first glance, the picture pleased the eye with attractive hues and compelling scenery, and I said as much to the well-intentioned givers.  Later, however, when I had the chance to get alone with the picture, I discovered the proportions were off, the colors not so much “attractive” but “expected” for the scene being depicted, and the content more iconic than alive.  The painting suggested life and vibrancy, but behind the trimmings I could locate no beating heart.

When I first saw the trailer for The Kids are All Right, I immediately recognized that here, finally, was an atypical summer film.  At long last, a movie about something.  The promise of a rich topic (two teenage siblings with lesbian parents seek their sperm donor dad with compelling results) and solid acting (via Annette Bening, Julianne Moore, and Mark Ruffalo) had me purchasing a ticket opening week.  Like a prized piece of art from the hands of director Lisa Cholodenko, I came prepared to receive this important cinematic gift.  Sadly, I walked out of the theater holding little more than a forgery.

To be sure, The Kids are All Right has all the pieces and parts to compose a brilliant picture, but the proportions are wrong.  Annette Bening and Julianne Moore don’t work.  We don’t believe them as a couple and with this doubt the entire film feels off-kilter and somehow “untrue.”  The colors and set decoration, which could at least distract us from the movie’s disproportions, are so dull that one wonders if the director realized she was telling her story visually.  Even the characters themselves seem one-dimensional (with the exceptions of the “dad” played by Mark Ruffalo and the teenage daughter portrayed wonderfully by Mia Wasikowska).  The net result is a piece of “art” that seems important, but has no beating heart.

Film critics have seemingly swallowed the bait.  Many were dazzled by the film’s facade.  But the filmmakers didn’t fool the middle-aged lady sitting in front of me who leaned over to her friend after the showing and said with little conviction, “that was interesting.”  And while she very well may have been interested (although, I doubt), she should have been moved.

Even more significant than the this failure to engage the heart, the story itself seemingly lacks truth.  The kids are not all right, anything but.  They want a dad, and while the dad they get isn’t the person they deserve, it doesn’t negate the desire.  The filmmakers ask us to applaud these mothers who remain committed to each other through the storm, but seemingly fail to see that below the surface the ship has hit a glacier and is taking on water.  The kids may seem fine, but without further aid could very well sink.

I sometimes catch myself looking at the painting that was given to me in belief that this time I will certainly find life there.  I still haven’t.  You likely won’t here either.


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Review: Inception (2010)

2 08 2010

in·cep·tion/ [in-sep-shuhn] – noun.  1. beginning; start; commencement.  That moment in time when something begins – the shot of a starter’s pistol, a confession, a cornerstone, an idea.  Of the latter, where does it begin and how does it successfully take root so as one day to grow into an action?  This is the question that writer/director Christopher Nolan looks to plumb in his latest mind-bending cinematic confection.

Inception tells the story of Cobb (played lethargically by Leonardo DiCaprio) who has been hired to surreptitiously plant an idea in the mind of a recently christened energy mogul in return for a free pass through US customs and a reunion with his children.  Cobb assembles his A-Team of professionals (including an always sharp looking Gordon-Levitt and a forever monotonic Ellen Page) who look to dream dive in order to plant the thought.  Of course, it stands to reason (at least in Nolan’s mind) that an idea has to be buried very deep for it to have any hope of seeming genuine, and of “oneself.”  Thus commences the viewer’s journey into dreams within dreams within dreams (to the fourth or, perhaps, fifth power).

Sound confusing?  Well, yes, the film does become so and exasperating a times, but it is never dull.  As Nolan continually moves two steps ahead of the viewer to extend his labyrinth, we are convinced of three things:

  1. We inherently trust Nolan to both build the maze and lead us out of it;
  2. We have never seen anything like this before; and
  3. We are having lots (and lots) of fun.

Regarding numbers two and three above, I have nothing to add other than to say, “Go see this film.”  Of number one, however, it would be an interesting study to see exactly where this idea came from.  Did it appear on some dark night during a period of insomnia?  Is it perhaps because Nolan’s prestige fills an unconscious cinematic void in a world once populated by a happening Shyamalan and a Spielberg who knew better than to leave his crystal skull lying around?  Of course, I speculate here.  I don’t know where the idea germinated, but somewhere down deep in the layers of my cranium is a little thought that equates “Nolan” with “amazing.”  The result of such a belief is that when I next hear his name, I will purchase a movie ticket.   Mission accomplished.


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Review: The Ghost Writer (2010)

19 07 2010

If it is true that storytelling in all its forms is an attempt by the author to work out the questions of his or her life, one wonders what conclusions Mr. Polanski draws in The Ghost Writer?  Here, after all, is a story about a man (Prime Minister Adam Lang, played by Pierce Brosnan) who finds himself fighting against a shrinking world and decreasing international respect.   A man stuck looking out large bay windows at a stormy future while marooned on an island off the coast of Massachusetts (obviously not personally shot by Polanski).

I think it a far more than ironic coincidence that Roman Polanski found himself working on the final edits for The Ghost Writer while under house arrest in Switzerland.  Certainly at the time he selected this as his next film, Mr. Polanski had no idea he would be detained there; yet, I wonder whether he saw even more clearly how much this film’s story reflects the arc of his life since that horrendous act in 1977?  For we find in The Ghost Writer a character whose pride has blinded him from seeing the chain (noose?) around his own neck and how increasingly small his cage has become.  It is noteworthy, however, that while one man (Mr. Lang) ignorantly charges forward with grave results, the other (Mr. Polanski) flees responsibility with seeming success.  Yet, as the film itself demonstrates, what appears to be is not always what is.

As for the quality of the film, one would be hard pressed to find its equal since the great master Hitchcock himself.  A pressure-cooker of a movie, Polanski masterfully increases tension scene-by-scene until the film explodes in the final frames.  In recent memory, I cannot recall a film that so deftly uses location and weather to create a canvas on which all other action depends.

In addition to his brilliant use of space, set decoration, and the natural elements, Mr. Polanski excels here at cutting all needless fat.  There are no wasted frames.  Everything is important.  Mr. Polanski has a great deal of respect for his audience demanding that we pay attention to every scene, no matter how slow or seemingly irrelevant; the result: a crowd posed with expectancy and fully engaged.  Bravo.

Who knows which ghosts, if any, Mr. Polanski was attempting to dispel in The Ghost Writer?  Perhaps here is his veiled admission that his actions of thirty-three years ago have produced a storm of remorse that daily billows within confining him to the ever-shrinking island of his soul.  Or maybe he simply wanted to deliver a compelling story well-told?  If the former, might I be so presumptuous as to suggest that sometimes to go back is to go forward.  If the latter, success.


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Review: Winter’s Bone (2010)

11 07 2010

Your average filmgoer has no interest in the forest.  He is happy to experience individual trees (films) as they come, saving the more esoteric rhetoric for those in the academies of higher learning.  For what, after all, does theory have to do with entertainment?  Joe Blow movie watcher plunks down his $9.50 because he expects to see something transporting or moving; something to help him forget, or dream, or laugh.  He does not want a point, but an experience.

Call me greedy, but I want both.  I love a film that takes me on a ride and has a destination.  Now, I haven’t seen enough film nor do I have enough intelligence to line up toe-to-toe with your average film theorist concerning whether “good cinema” (whatever that is?) should have a meaning.  In my viewpoint, where there is a story, there is a message (whether the author intends so or not).

I share all of this as an introduction to my review of Winter’s Bone, another film that falls squarely into that critically beloved, gritty, challenging, “independent” film category. Like Frozen River, Undertow, and most of the Palme d’Or winners in the last decade, Winter’s Bone tells the story of difficult lives and hard circumstances.

The film follows Ree Dolly, a teenager living in the Ozark Mountains, who abandons school to help raise her two younger siblings in the face of the disappearance of her drug-dealing father and her mentally-incapacitated mother.  As if life wasn’t hard enough, Ree must find her father in time to save her home since he put it up as collateral for his bail.  I’ll spare you the play-by-play and say that a lot of gruesome things happen along Ree’s journey to find her father (and yes, a few sweet moments sprinkled in to make the picture palatable).

As I considered this film over the last few weeks, I regularly returned to one central question, “What was the point of this story?”  You may think that is the wrong question to ask, and that I should instead focus on the tree.  From that standpoint, I will gladly line up with the other critics who applaud Jennifer Lawrence’s brilliant performance as Ree or note the beauty of the film’s backdrop.  Yet, for all my efforts, I can’t shake the confusion caused by a view of this film from above.  At the end of the day, what was this film trying to say?  That life is hard?  That no matter how screwed up the situation, family is important?  Perhaps one, both, or neither of these things, or maybe it doesn’t matter and I should just let the awfulness of Ree’s realities wash over me.  Perhaps I’m supposed to focus on the small graces in the midst of it all?

To be fair, Winter’s Bone is not a terrible film (far from it).  Maybe I’m just weary of my aerial view of films and need to find a soft place to land for a while (comedies perhaps?).  If this film’s title is any indication, there is little comfort to be found here.  Yet, even this could be a matter of perspective.


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Review: Madeo (Mother) (2009)

16 05 2010

Mother may not always know best or so it would seem in this whodunit, Hitchcockian Korean film.  Mother tells the story of a woman seeking to absolve her son of a murder charge.  With single-mindedness she undertakes this task, revealing that neither her crime-solving ability nor her parenting skills are what one would label “best.”  Like buckshot, her accusations haphazardly strike wrong targets or no target whatsoever.  All frenetic energy and no wit, the mother quickly discovers that her best may not be good enough as she searches for the killer and discovers a far more horrific truth that will unhinge her.

Whether intended or not, the film plays very much like a cinematic graphic novel with shot compositions, bizarre locations, and oft times inexplicable character actions flipping by like panels in a person’s mind’s eye.  Don’t get me wrong, the filmmakers have a genius ability to mix comedy, sex, and violence into perfect frames almost demanding static visual renderings.  Many of the shots are hauntingly beautiful, but tend to border on distraction when they cease to move the story forward.

The movie also brilliantly (but subtly) works at blurring the line between reality and fiction, normal and abnormal, leaving the audience off kilter.  While the effect of this effort proves successful in creating an almost surreal quality to the film, it also creates a barrier between the viewer and the characters.

Beyond its impressive cinematography and overall film composition, Mother has strong acting led by Hye-ja Kim playing the mother with an awe-inspiring blend of passion, fear, and comedy.  One could easily make an argument for why her character is more comedic than serious, and it is Ms. Kim’s ability to straddle that line with perfection that makes for a riveting performance here.

For all its positive qualities, Mother left a distaste in my mouth . . . or more aptly my heart.  It reminded me that when we demand our end or outcome to a situation and in so doing forego truth, we often get what we want but sacrifice peace (and likely a whole lot more).  How natural it is to grasp each other (especially our children), failing to recognize that it is only when we open our clenched fists that we are able receive a potentially greater prize.  Perhaps the moral of the story is that mothers in general do know best, but sometimes they too are led astray.


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Review: The Art of the Steal (2009)

9 05 2010

A friend and I recently watched the documentary Babies, which I found little more than a human version of the Avian-themed picture Winged Migration.  Neither film left much of an impression on me.  While one might see this as further proof that the outcome of throwing pearls before swine varies little with time, I digress here.  My point in sharing this recent outing hinges on a conversation this same friend and I had earlier today.

He boldly approached me to confess how deeply impacted he was by the film.  My reaction was an internal double-take, “Is he talking about the same movie I saw?”  “What deep point did I miss, yet again, that he somehow mined from this seemingly inane film?”  Only while walking home following my viewing of the deeply moving film The Art of the Steal, did the point become clear – art can cut deeply, if we let it.

Something in Babies struck a chord with my friend . . . a chord that just happens to be missing in my instrument (or perhaps deeply repressed or damaged).  The note played by The Art of the Steal, however, continues to resonate throughout my body as I seek to understand the injustice done to subject of this film, a Dr. Albert Barnes.  Here is a man of independent spirit, clearly rough around the edges, but desperately seeking the approval, respect, and, dare I say, love of his peers.  A man who had a revolutionary vision for art that was deeply personal and enduring.  Well, at least, it was meant to be enduring.

The Art of the Steal tells the story of how Dr. Barnes’ world-renowned collection of post-impressionist and modern art currently housed in The Barnes Foundation five miles outside of Philadelphia will soon make its move to the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in downtown Philly.  The heart of the controversy lies in those three simple words “five miles outside.”

In the early 20th Century, Dr. Barnes displayed his collection in Philadelphia for a group of his peers.  For Dr. Barnes, this was not just the display of a few random paintings he bought with his hard earned fortune, but an opening of himself to his peers . . . the unveiling of the soul of a curmudgeon.  He had invested years of his life studying modern art and purchasing paintings of both personal worth and those that best represented the period.  His peers responded with derision, scorn, and a total lack of appreciation.

Rebuffed, Dr. Barnes moved his collection to a small, but beautifully situated, building outside of the city where he could arrange the art according to his knowledge and set up a school for art education.  He then carefully drafted a will that forbade the loan, sale, or moving of his collection.  The Art of the Steal tells the story of how Dr. Barnes’ personal will, as set down in a meticulously drafted legal document, is picked apart piece-by-piece over the course of half a century such that every last wish is undermined and dismissed.

Without a doubt, The Art of the Steal is one of the most compelling, moving, and heart-breaking documentaries I have ever seen.  With precision crafting, the filmmakers arrange their story such that with one final jab at the end our hearts are out of our chests and beating wildly in our own hands.  How I desperately wanted to throw mine at the screen or the Mayor of Philadelphia, the Governor of Pennsylvania, or any of the myriad of people who disregarded the expressed desires of a dead man for their own personal gain.

As I walked the streets of my city trying to stuff my heart back in my chest and get a grip on my anger, confusion, and deep sadness at the brokenness of humanity, I came to the conclusion that neither dispelling nor embracing my horror would do; instead I must do my own work to undermine those injustices happening around me right here and I must open my hand to trust that there is Someone who will set right all things in the end.


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Review: Så som i himmelen (As it is in Heaven) (2004)

27 03 2010

I recently stood before a large audience and told on myself.  I spoke about my true feelings and sheepishly removed the veil covering a deep brokenness.  Some say it took courage to undertake such a feat, I say it took desperation.  Meaningful relationships and true love come at such a price.  I think it a small cost to pay for the richness of knowing and being known.  What a joy to slip into each others’ lives like we do into a comfortable bath rob.  Naked beneath, pretense fled, leaving honest dialogue and a deep sense of belonging.  At its core, this is the story of As it is in Heaven.  A place where voices blend, people are seen, and love abounds.

A Swedish language film nominated for an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, As it is in Heaven tells the story of Daniel Dareus, a physically and emotionally broken world famous conductor who returns to his hometown to learn again how to breath and to love.  As he settles into a town where no one remembers him, the local church choir solicits his help and he reluctantly accepts.  The result is a harmony far greater than that of voices; it’s the joining of lives and the development of rich community.

With an outstanding cast and powerful music, As it is in Heaven’s true success rests in its ability to tell a story that tears down the facades so common in religious communities (all communities, really) to celebrate flawed individuals while elevating our oneness.  Powerful portrayals of honesty and coming to terms with difficult truths abound in this film, yet it never feels heavy or too much for the audience to bear (to which I credit the music).  I again bow in homage to European cinema for casting the best actors for each roll and eschewing the need to fill the picture with the most physically attractive people who enter the casting room.

As it is in Heaven does not move at a blazing speed and the story is not without its formulaic elements, but pushing through those minor concerns will yield a happy harvest of joy for having seen a film that captures the truth of heaven like few others.  The aroma of eternity is found in the grace and right relationships so well displayed in this picture.  Don’t take my word for it, see Heaven for yourself.


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Review: New in Town (2009)

7 03 2010

I made a mistake.  I picked up New in Town thinking I’d find a heartwarming, redemptive tale of girl meets boy ending with a happy twist.  Ten minutes into the film, I knew I had something else entirely on my hands.  New in Town is a vapid movie that attempts to cull together all the “right” elements (i.e., brand named actors and a romcom storyline ala The Proposal) only to discover its heart is missing and it doesn’t have anything new or different to say.

New in Town feels very much like a storyboarded film where the director gets lost in making sure all the appropriate romantic comedy scenes are present, but forgetting that what the audience really wants is to fall in love with the characters.  Whether we admit it or not, most of us can live with a subpar plotline if we care about and are invested in the characters.  This film never invites us to care.  For me at least, it’s the small things that help me connect with a film’s characters.  You know, the little idiosyncrasies we all have from the way we brush our teeth to how we prepare our coffee.  These tiny moments are completely missing in this film and their absence spells doom.  Well, that and its terrible acting, uninspired cinematography, lame soundtrack, and limp script.

You must be wondering why exactly I continued watching this film beyond its first ten minutes.  Fair question.  I could lie and say it’s because I believe in seeing a film through to its end credits before I review it, but truthfully it’s because I’m a romantic at heart and wanted to believe that it would get better and redeem itself.  It does not.  I implore you not to see this film, ever.  A friend of mine noted that Renee Zellweger’s name above the title should have be warning enough, and while that may be true, I was sucked in by good cover art and the promise of more.  Don’t be a fool like me.  New in Town is a 100% certified, 90-minute mistake.  Run.


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Review: Il y a longtemps que je t’aime (I’ve Loved You So Long) (2008)

21 02 2010

One summer during college, I worked at a youth camp. At the end of each two-week camp session, our resident bakers would prepare a special dessert. This culinary masterpiece — the Baked Alaska — contained a base of warm cake on which sat a decedent layer of cold vanilla ice cream followed by a topping of meringue. This dessert par excellence overwhelmed the taste buds with flavor and demanded slow savoring from its audience. Like pearls before swine, however, the campers scarfed it down with little regard for the Michelangelo before them.

Not I, however. In fact, near the end of the summer, I went to the kitchen to watch the creation of these true delicacies and there I discovered the painstaking labor required to bring about the balance of temperature and flavor that is the Baked Alaska. Like a precision clock, the bakers moved the warm cakes from the oven, applied the ice cream, and blow-torched the meringue to perfection.

I’ve Loved You So Long is cinematic Baked Alaska. A piece of film-making assembled with precision; slowly crafted to bring about a climax of rich goodness that demands savoring. Kristin Scott Thomas gives a tour de force performance as Juliette Fontaine, a woman recently released from prison for murder who moves in with her sister and her family. Every glance from Scott Thomas, every facial movement, speaks volumes more than her painstakingly extracted words. Like watching the creation of those exquisite desserts is this story of a woman beginning again to breath . . . and love.

Don’t expect a fast turning plot line with this film, but do anticipate the gradual creation of a masterpiece. The story itself may lose points for originality, but it more than makes up for it with its ability to couch scenes in the stuff of ordinary life. Never once did I catch myself saying, “Oh, please, that would never happen!” Change occurs over time and in the daily activities of life. We may not see it at first, but with each new smile, touch, or word spoken a gradual turning is revealed. And in I’ve Loved You So Long, that turning is mainly toward life and not death. A character in the film does choose the way of death and it stands in stark contrast to each decision Juliette makes toward life.

I have never hidden my love for films with a happy ending. Life is hard enough without having to maintain a steady diet of stories of suffering. Sure we may have to go down to go up, but by Jove what a pleasure to receive a Baked Alaska at the summit and not a shove down the next hill. I’ve Loved You So Long may require some descending, but the ascent will seem like all joy when you finally reach its rich conclusion.


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