More Reviews of Films on DVD
© By John Arkelian
“Viper in the Fist” [“Vipère au poing”] (France, 2004) (A): “Birth is a lottery. To this day I wonder, was I lucky or not? Luck makes us kings or potatoes.” Whimsical, darkly funny, and poignant all the same time, this wonderful film is like an unexpected gift. It adeptly straddles the borderlands between muted humor and darker drama, as an adult narrator reflects back upon the pivotal moments of his childhood in 1926 Brittany. It was then that two boys are reunited with their parents after a seven-year absence: The death of their kindly grandmother obliges the boys’ parents to return to France from a protracted stay in Indochina. A new, younger brother comes with him. But, he’s the least of the changes. For their mother is the cold antithesis of all things maternal. Icy, imperious, and utterly devoid of any semblance of kindness or compassion, she imposes a Spartan regime, depriving the boys’ of their bedroom heat source, their pillows, and their eiderdowns; and she even confiscates the little luxuries (like fountain pens and tie pins) their doting grandmother had bestowed. Here’s a mother who embodies every mean-spirited ounce of the proverbial wicked step-mother. In a word, she’s cruel — and she is close kin to the dark queens of “Sleeping Beauty” and “Snow White.” Except that she’s not the boys’ step-mother; she’s their actual mother. The narrator, Jean (Jules Sitruk), attracts Paule’s (Catherine Frot) particular animosity for some reason. Could it be because he reminds her of her self? “You hate me, yes, but I’ll tell you this. Of all my sons, you resemble me the most,” she says with intense emotion to a shocked Jean. Could it be that there is grudging admiration between this pair of implacable foes? Paule says of Jean (in justifying her latest harshness toward him), that, “He’s hard as nails, like me.” For his part, Jean has this to say about his tormentor: “What guts, Mother! Convalescent, half-drowned, she leads the assault. I’m proud of us both.” A war between the two begins the very day Paule arrives: “By evening, we’d lost all desire to call this woman ‘Mother.’” Jean’s father is ineffectual; while he provides the prized family name, his wife holds the purse-strings: “The Rezeaus belonged to the true-blue bourgeoisie who never had to earn a living. His wife’s wealth allowed Father to put all his [time] into his life’s work: flies… He’d brought back 50 new species. Care of his children could wait.” The beguilingly matter-of-fact tone throughout is dryly ironic: Jean’s older brother’s first impression of their mother is that, “She’s got a tongue like a kick in the pants.” And when the family’s civil war is at its most bitter, young Jean muses that, “The Borgias poisoned each other. Why shouldn’t we?” Based on the acclaimed autobiographical novel by Hervé Bazin, “Viper in the Fist” was directed by Phillipe De Broca. It is beautifully written and performed, with a first-rate cast. But, what truly sets it above and apart is the sheer originality of its tone and story, telling a coming of age story with an unexpected combination of sadness, dry humor, and unvarnished nostalgia. It is a wonderful, whimsical treat, and it is easily one of the best films not only of 2004 but also of the decade. Highly recommended! For ages 16+: Brief coarse talk.
“Frances Ha” (USA, 2012) (B): Someone tactlessly tells the 27-year old protagonist of this quirky comedy that, “You don’t have your shit together.” The fact is that Frances lives in a state of perpetually suspended expectations. Part free spirit, part wounded bird, she longs to soar free. But, beset by setbacks and dashed hopes, her life, or rather, her future, is indefinitely on hold. Frances wants to work as a dancer; but there seems to be little or no prospect of her making it past the apprenticeship level at a New York dance company. And, in lieu of a home of her own, Frances shares space with a succession of roommates, in flats that belong to them. One of them, Sophie, is Frances’ best friend; but their platonic partnership is rocked by Sophie’s engagement. For her part, Frances declines her boyfriend’s suggestion that they move in together. She can’t offer much in the way of rationale. Maybe it’s just, as noted above, that Frances lives only in the present and lacks whatever it takes to plan and work toward a future. Does she have trouble committing to her own life? Or, is she just unrealistically devoted to dream values? Frances seems to have postponed acceptance of grown-up responsibilities, opting, instead, for a protracted stay in the dreamy world of a post-adolescent who is always on the verge of full adulthood. She’s on that threshold, but she keeps declining to cross it. Meanwhile, she’s carefree on the outside but subtly sad and lonely and serially disappointed on the inside. Greta Gerwig (“Lola Versus,” “To Rome with Love,” and “Greenberg”) is a thoroughly engaging actress. Here, she gives a serio-comic portrayal of a quirky (maybe even kooky) young woman and makes her quite endearing. Directed and co-written by Noah Baumbach (“The Squid and the Whale” & “Margot at the Wedding”), “Frances Ha” is a characteristically offbeat look at eccentric characters trying to find not just their place in the world but also themselves into the bargain. It skirts the borderlands of pretension and pointlessness; but, at the end of the day, it is redeemed by Gerwig’s portrayal of a young woman who is awkward and uncertain, but also full of élan. Mickey Sumner is also very good as Frances’ gal-pal Sophie. The film is shot in B&W, which somehow makes it at once immediate and fable-like. A festival-film to its core, “Frances Ha” is a nominee for Best Film and Editing at the Independent Spirit Awards. For ages 18+: Coarse language and some sexual talk.
“Fill the Void” [“Lemale et ha’halal”] (Israel, 2012) (B): Eighteen year old Shira (Hadas Yaron) is looking forward to marriage — and her parents and a matchmaker are already hard at work to find her a suitable match. Things begin humorously, with Shira and her mother, Rivka (Irit Sheleg), looking-over one matrimonial possibility (by prior arrangement) in the dairy section of their local supermarket. But, the sudden death of Shira’s older sister Esther (Renana Raz) changes everything. Esther is pregnant, and her infant survives, though she does not. Her husband, Yochay (Yiftach Klein), soon thinks about remarrying, and his likely choice is a childhood friend living abroad. Desperate not to be parted from her only grandchild, Rivka suggests that Shira take her sister’s place. What unfolds is a story about choices, confusion, pain, and love. Although it is set inside the seemingly alien world of Israel’s ultra-orthodox Hasidic community, it eschews politics and religion altogether. Writer and director Rama Burshtein had embarked on a career in filmmaking before she became religious. She is part of the Hasidic community, and she seeks to give a cultural voice to that world — a world which is too often perceived from the outside in merely fundamentalist, if not outright extremist, political hues. Burshtein is on the inside of this world, telling their story to the rest of us. And guess what? For all the differences in custom and attire, it’s a universal story, one that’s instantly accessible to viewers the world over. Yes, we can readily identify with these characters’ very human dilemmas; but, there is something off-putting about the markers of tribalism that abound in this cloistered world: The prescribed dress code for men (black coats and outlandishly oversized headwear) look like anachronistic relics of Eastern Europe in the early 20th century: All of the men sport archaic-looking beards and forelocks; all of the married women cover their heads; and in temple, the sexes are segregated. The resulting conformity of appearance and custom looks uncomfortably cult-like to an outsider. And old habits, like the older generation meeting in secrecy to discuss the marital future of a young woman, are hard to reconcile with a contemporary understanding of human rights. While Shira agonizes over her future, an alternative solution is never adequately addressed. Why not enlist her far more willing middle sister, Frieda (Hila Feldman) as the replacement bride? Frieda has been passed over by all potential suitors. (It’s not clear why, as she is an attractive woman.) But she is never seriously in contention to replace her deceased sibling: “I can’t,” says Yochay. “Why not,” asks Shira’s mother. “I don’t know,” is Yochay’s unhelpful explanation. Without some cogent reason, it lingers like a logical flaw in the story. Just as ambiguous, but far more satisfying, is this exchange between Yochay and Shira, when she is considering marrying him: (Y) “Why do you want to marry me?” (S) “For the same reasons you’re willing to.” When Yochay persists in his quest for an explanation, all Shira will say is, “It’s the right thing to do.” But, there’s no doubt that Shira is conflicted and torn about this choice. Playing an accordion for a class of kindergarteners, she unconsciously switches from a playful upbeat tune to a melancholy one that stops the children’s play dead in its tracks. That same music carries over into the next scene, in which she covers her head, as if figuratively trying the signifier of married status on for size. And Shira is never less than clear-minded about what her choice entails — giving up the hope of young love with a man her own age for a marriage born of convenience with her older brother-in-law. When a rabbi asks Shira how she feels about the possibility of marrying Yochay, she says “It’s not a matter of feelings.” The rabbi wisely replies, “It’s only a matter of feelings,” which is to say that feelings ought to trump all other considerations in such matters. It would spoil things to give away the ending. Suffice it to say that things end on an ambiguous note, leaving it to us to draw our own conclusions: Will Shira’s choice bring her happiness, or not? This reviewer imputed a very different conclusion to that final scene than the one the director has stated was in her own mind. “Fill the Void” is a gently-paced but immersive experience: It moves slowly, but it completely envelops us in a culture that is unfamiliar to most of us. “Fill the Void” won Best Film, Director, Actress (Yaron, who is not a member of the Hasidic community), Supporting Actress (Sheleg), Cinematography, Screenplay, and Make-up; and it was nominated in six other categories, including Supporting Actor The Europen Film Awards recognized the film’s cinematographer for ‘intuitive camerawork — both realistic and poetic’). And the film won Best Actress at the Venice Film Festival, as well as an honorable mention for its director — and a nomination for the Golden Lion (Best Film). DVD extras include a feature -length commentary and a 16-minute Q&A session — both of them with the director and the lead actress.
“Broken” (U.K., 2012) (B-): ‘Skunk’ is a precocious and vivacious eleven-year old girl who lives with her single parent father Archie (Tim Roth), her older brother Jed (Bill Milner), and their live-in nanny Kasia (Zana Marjanovic) on a cul de sac in suburban England. But it will be a time of innocence lost for Skunk (Eloise Laurence), as she is forced to grow up too soon in reaction to things she witnesses. It starts with a moment of sudden violence, when a bellicose and intimidating Bob Oswald (Rory Kinnear) launches a violent assault in broad daylight on a gentle, simple-minded neighborhood boy named Rick (Robert Emms). The Oswalds are a blot on the street’s sense of calm and security, with the volatile single-father and his trio of trashy, delinquent daughters intimidating — if not assaulting outright — anyone who crosses them. Meanwhile Skunk has a crush on her nanny’s boyfriend (Cillian Murphy’s Mike), a man who is going to be her teacher when she starts high school in a few days. But she’s also drawn to Dillon (an orphaned boy who’s staying with his aunt for the summer). Skunk is a bit of a tomboy. She is also the apple of her father’s eye. (The filmmakers see “Broken” as an innocent love story between father and daughter.) He, in turn, is a man of quiet decency, who happens to be a lawyer. Discerning readers may already have detected fascinating similarities to a famous novel and film: Indeed, the parallels to “To Kill a Mockingbird” are many and deliberate. But this adaptation of a novel by Daniel Clay is not meant to be a direct reboot of Harper Lee’s classic 1960 novel. Rather, it’s an intriguing tribute to that masterpiece from director Rufus Norris (who comes to the task from an award-winning background as a theater director) in his feature film debut. It’s also the acting debut of the 12-year old actress who plays Skunk, and she is thoroughly convincing as a girl with great strength of character. The result is an ensemble drama about loss of innocence and different forms of love. There are first-rate ingredients here — foremost among them, the strong performances and the intriguing echoes of the great aforementioned American novel (and movie) — but they don’t quite gel into something as successful as we’d like. There is far too much going on in the overly busy plot, with intrusions of contrivance and heavy-handed coincidences and convergences that strain authenticity. And, the film has too much artifice at play in re-imagining the Harper Lee novel, instead of daring to find and hew to the heart of the story. Despite the winningly precocious, but always very genuine, presence of novice thespian Laurence and solid work by the rest of the ensemble, there is little or no emotional engagement for the viewer with these characters or their predicaments. They intrigue rather than move: Moving an audience is, after all, the most elusive and ephemeral quality of any story and any performance. “Broken” won Best British Independent Film and Best Supporting Actor (Kinnear) at the British Independent Film Awards, where it was also nominated for Best Actor (Roth), Director, Screenplay, Supporting Actor (Murphy), Promising Newcomer (Laurence), and Technical Achievement (for music). At the European Film Awards, it was nominated for European Discovery of the Year (for director Rufus Norris). For ages 18+ only: Abundant coarse language; some sexual content; brief nudity; and some violence.
The DVD’s accompanying short film is “The Way the World Ends” (USA, 2012) (C+). One morning an ordinary suburban couple wakes up to discover that the world vanished overnight. “The sun’s gone. It didn’t rise,” observes Susan (May Mackay). Sky and earth have vanished, too, leaving a flat grey plane in their place. But people, houses, cars, and chattels remain. And, there’s no mention on the radio or in the newspaper that anything is amiss. People seem a tad constrained or awkward in their manner, but no one broaches the subject that something terrible and final has happened. Nevertheless, Dave (Joseph Buttler) decides to go to work as usual, since it seems better than ‘sitting around here.’ There’s a subtle tension in the air when he gets there. But, why should he not be there, since his colleagues are? An astute observer may notice framed posters on the office walls which combine pictures of carnival rides with words like “Dreams” and “Believe.” Starting with deliberately melodramatic, retro-style titles that hearken back to 1950’s science fiction, this 15-minute short film from director Matthew B. Wolff concerns the intersection between subjective and objective realities and takes us in some unexpected directions.
“Epic” (USA, 2013) (B-/B): A teen girl goes to stay with her kooky-scientist father and finds herself drawn into the world of diminutive beings he’s somehow sure exists in the forest and about which he obsesses to the exclusion of all else (an idée-fixe that cost him his marriage). As luck would have it, the skeptical ‘MK’ is shrunk down to size (a couple of inches tall) and thrust into the midst of a life and death battle between the little people who protect the forest (the leaf-men and their queen) and a host of goblin-like “boggans.” The result is an enjoyable animated fantasy-adventure — with a nicely realized sylvan world, plenty of derring-do, moments of both romance and humor, and mostly engaging characters. Making MK’s father an over-the-top zany, klutzy, and absent-minded caricature is a misstep; otherwise, the seasoned hero, the noble queen, the irresponsible swordsman in training, the comical slug and snail chums, a cool-cat caterpillar, a ruthless villain, and the resourceful teen girl herself all keep us engaged. There’s even a nice guiding principle, namely, “Many leaves, one tree: We’re all individuals, but we’re all connected.” (All of the extras are on the Blu-ray disc only. Why do they do that?)
“Spring Breakers” (USA, 2012) (F): Three wild things and a good girl who’s bored with being good head to Florida for a rowdy bacchanalia on the beach. The sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll that ensue never amount to more than an excuse to leer at nubile young coeds. Despite its absurd pretensions at avant-garde art, it’s just a “Girls Gone Wild” video turned into an imitation of a movie. Things are improbable from the get-go, with the three inexplicably thrill-seeking girls robbing a roadside diner (armed with squirt guns, hammers, and bluff) to finance their hedonistic holiday. Eventually they hook up with a party-loving gangster named ‘Alien’ (James Franco), a creepy-looking character with corn rows and silver teeth, for a descent into real reckless abandon. Things culminate with a scene that encapsulates the monumental absurdity of what writer/director Hamony Korine has wrought: Two of the girls invade a rival gangster’s compound clad only in neon bikinis and pink balaclavas mowing down the opposing minions with their newly acquired machine guns. Presumably those neon bikinis and bright head-coverings blind the professional thugs and make the girls invulnerable to the many bullets aimed in their direction. It’s just one of this film’s many moments of wanton excess. It is filled to overflowing with extremely vulgar talk, copious consumption of alcohol and cocaine, and all-pervasive lewdness — all of which are thoroughly off-putting. But that’s not even mentioning the gratuitous oddness that masquerades as style: In one scene, two of the girls twirl with guns (and the aforementioned pink balaclavas) while Alien sings a Britney Spears anthem. And, in lieu of words worth hearing, we get pseudo-philosophical inanities like this: “Some people want to do the right thing; I like doing the wrong thing.” The result is a psychedelic train-wreck of a movie, with Vanessa Hudgens, Selena Gomez, Ashley Benson, and Rachel Korine as the girls who just want to have fun. The director describes his film as “some crazy shit.” He’s not wrong — except in his even crazier assumption that anyone would want to watch it. For ages 18+ only: Nudity and copious amounts of very coarse language.
“The Conjuring” (B/B+): In 1971 in Rhode Island, a couple with their five daughters move into an old country house. Their very first night brings stopped clocks, a “funky smell,” bruises on the wife, and a dead dog. Next up are sleepwalking and all manner of frightening bumps in the night. Someone in the story remarks that, “Fear is defined as a feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or immanence of danger…” Well, a feeling of agitation and anxiety is what this nice haunted house thrill delivers in spades. Unease looms large here and builds relentless. The first half is scariest — because the family is alone. It switches gears halfway through, to investigation procedural mode, as a husband and wife team of ghost-hunters are enlisted to help; then it changes tack again to become an exorcism story. It gets a tad too busy when some out-of-work avians from Hitchcock’s “The Birds” make an appearance. But, it’s a sheer delight that “The Conjuring” all but eschews the usual genre staples of gruesomeness, gore, and grossness. It generates most of its scares from atmosphere and from creating characters we care about. Joseph Bishara’s creepy, dissonant score doesn’t hurt, either: It is effectively nerve-wracking from the moment the Warner studio logo appears on the screen. The DVD has an 8-minute behind the scenes featurette; while the Blu-ray adds two more (totaling 21 minutes), which introduce us to the real life principals whose story (loosely, one can safely presume) inspired the movie. Director James Wan has utilized “classic haunted house horror movie tropes” here, noting that, “There’s a reason why they’re there; because when they work, they’re so effective!” They sure work here! For ages 16+: Frightening scenes.
“The Croods” (B+): “Our world was about to come to an end, and there were no rules on our cave walls to prepare us for that.” A prehistoric family of cave-dwellers has to flee geological cataclysm born of continental drift — and their journey propels them in what they have hitherto most feared — the unknown. This highly entertaining animated adventure is voiced by Nicholas Cage, Emma Stone, Ryan Reynolds, Catherine Keener, Cloris Leachman, and Clark Duke. The result is fun, funny (“We’ve gotten along just fine without brains till now”), unexpectedly touching, and impressively inventive. Uplifting and recommended.
“Requiem” (Germany, 2006) (B/B+): “Why won’t God let me be happy?” Bedeviled by epilepsy, a cold, unloving mother, and social isolation, a young woman yearns only for a normal life — with independence, friends, and romance. Michaela seems set to achieve all of those things when she leaves home for university; but her illness returns and, with it, a growing conviction that her malaise is supernatural rather than medical. But is it? It’s clear that Michaela is under severe emotional stress, and it’s just as clear that she interprets the world around her through a prism of devout religiosity that treads nigh onto superstition. Hence, her fascination for the suffering figure of St. Katharina of Biasca, who “resisted the devils and found redemption in death” at the age of 33. One of Michaela’s few friends, urges her, in exasperation and concern, to “Stop it with your stupid saint. Do you want to end up like her?” And it’s an ever so apt question. Does Michaela’s skewed sense of herself and of the world around her set her on a collision course with real or imagined martyrdom? Is her epilepsy accompanied by another, undiagnosed psychological disorder? There may be signs of obsessive behavior here. Or, is there something supernatural going on? Interestingly, the film never lets us see the demonic forces its protagonist professes to see, or hear the voices only she can hear. Is she schizophrenic? Or is she just a lost soul, made fragile by a cloistered, unhappy existence and overwhelmed by the stress of a dysfunctional family and uncertainty about how to make her way in the strange new world of everyday life? Is she pushed to a mental and/or emotional breakdown by cold objective realities, rather than by anything spectral? You can draw your own conclusions from this remarkably understated, yet quietly poignant story of a young woman struggling to stay afloat in turbulent waters. Sandra Huller delivers a strong performance. The basic premise is not unlike the 2005 American film, “The Exorcism of Emily Rose,” but the emphasis here is strictly on character. There are no special effects at all — and they’re not needed. “Requiem” won Best Actress and Director (for Hans-Christian Schmid) awards at the Berlin International Film Festival. It was nominated for Best Actress at the European Film Awards. At the German Film Awards, it won first place as Best Actress, Best Supporting Actress (for Imogen Kogge, who plays Michaela’s mother), Sound, and Costume Design; it won second place as Best Film, Director, and Editing; and it was nominated as Best Supporting Actor (for Burghart Klauftner, as Michaela’s father), Screenplay, and Production Design.
“Before Midnight” (USA, 2013) (B+): It’s trite nowadays to cite the saying that, “Men are from Mars; women are from Venus.” But the differences between the genders often do seem to transcend mere anatomy. Differences — in outlook and goals and emotional reactions — are not simply a factor of gender, of course. But gender does seem to play its role, too. And, while some differences may prompt attraction, others can just as easily repel. How, then, can we hope to form lasting relationships and enduring bonds? One cinematic pairing — between an American man (Ethan Hawke’s Jesse) and a French woman (Julie Delpy’s Celine) — has spanned 18 years. It started in 1995’s “Before Sunrise,” in which boy met girl on a train, when both were in their twenties. They disembarked in Vienna and walked and talked all night. Simply that, but it was enough for the couple to fall in love a little. But, separated by time and distance, they lost contact with each other, until an autobiographical book by Jesse caught Celine’s notice and she contrived to reunite with him in Paris, while he was there on a book tour: That second encounter is the story of 2004’s “Before Sunset.” More perambulatory conversations ensued, and it ended with the now-married Jesse and the still single Celine looking like this reunion was for keeps. Flash forward another few years, to 2013’s “Before Midnight,” and we find that the couple have indeed stayed together. In the interval between the second and third installments of their story, Jesse has divorced his American wife and moved in with Celine; and they have a pair of twin daughters from their union. As the film opens, Jesse is seeing off his 14-year-old son, who is returning to Jesse’s ex-wife in America, after a summer holiday with Jesse’s new family in Greece. In their scene together at the airport, Jesse seems to be trying too hard; he’s overly solicitous with questions and advice, as if trying to compress a lot of parenting into these parting few minutes with his son. The parting lingers with Jesse, who is troubled by all that he is missing in his son’s life. He muses about relocating his new family from Paris to Chicago; but Celine is not well-disposed to the hypothetical notion. The more they talk, the more other doubts and irritants get voiced. Do they still love each other? Are they still motivated to make their relationship work? What kinds of compromises can each make to satisfy the other? It is not at all necessary to be familiar with the previous two movies to enjoy this one; but, this latest installment follows a similar pattern. At once conversational and philosophical, the film is full of non-linear dialogue. Early on, for example, Celine’s deliberations about a possible job change jump tracks to amused banter about their secreting a half-eaten apple from the hand of one of their sleeping daughters. That, in turn, prompts an exchange of memories from their own childhood. Jesse and Celine are loquacious; indeed, they talk incessantly — about anything and everything, with topics that take abrupt turns down many highways and byways. Affectionate teasing can just as easily turn to serious disagreements, however. And the relationship, however clearly “meant to be,” is fraught with competing perceptions and divergent aspirations. There’s a lovely extended scene (many of the film’s scenes are shot as long extended scenes) with three couples and a pair of single elders at a dinner table, all of them sharing varied perspectives on love and relationships. One young woman quotes the advice left by her great-grandmother: “Her big advice was not to be too consumed with romantic love. Friendships and work, she said, brought her the most happiness.” Although a brief scene of Jesse discussing his next novel seems a tad pretentious and pointless, most of what’s talked about in the film is utterly authentic. These characters feel as real as our own friends, and their conversations are pleasingly naturalistic in content and delivery. It gives the film an almost documentary-like feel. Those who are familiar with the two earlier films will have the added advantage of having seen the same couple at three different stages of their lives. With our arrival in the 40’s often comes restlessness and doubt and sometimes regrets: “Is this really my life… Is it happening right now?” asks Jesse. “There’s no room for spontaneity. It’s all gone from our lives.” says Celine, who, late in the film, has a very good moment on the proverbial razor’s edge, poised between making one choice or its opposite. Not until an hour into the film do we learn (though it is not a spoiler to reveal it here) that Jesse and Celine aren’t actually married. But, in the midst of the sudden frictions between them, Jesse utters words that would make (and perhaps do constitute) a perfect marriage vow: “I am giving you my whole life… I’ve got nothing larger to give. I’m not giving it to anybody else.” Directed (as were the first two films) by Richard Linklater, “Before Midnight” was co-written by him and its two stars. (Their screenplay won a Hollywood Film Award.) Conversational to its very core, it has two people exploring life and relationships and each other through words — all against the lovely backdrop of old stone houses and seaside tavernas in Greece’s southern Peloponnese. The result is sometimes funny, sometimes sweet, sometimes poignant, sometimes fraught with tension, and always quite enchanting. DVD extras include a welcome commentary with the director and stars, a Q&A with the trio, and a featurette about their characters’ reunion. For ages 18+: Coarse language; sexual talk; nudity; and sexual content.
“We Steal Secrets: The Story of WikiLeaks” (USA, 2013) (B/B+): “He walked out that door as [a] sort of aging student hobo. By the time he made the 50 yard walk, he was a rock star. He was one of the most famous guys on the planet.” So says someone about the peripatetic computer hacker Julian Assange. A “transparency radical,” this prematurely white-haired young Australian cyber-hippy founded WikiLeaks as a purportedly safe way for whistle-blowers to unveil state and corporate secrets in the public interest. And that was a commendable aim in the post-9/11 world of massive state surveillance of its own law-abiding citizens and the ill-conceived, open-ended war on terrorism that is being used to justify every manner of lawless encroachment on fundamental human rights. It’s a world, after all, in which a supposedly ‘liberal’ president of the United States, Barack Obama, has the shameless temerity to say that the state apparatus over which he presides is showing commendable “restraint” in wielding its unconstitutional police-state powers and that we should therefore simply ‘trust’ its countless (and nameless) minions not to abuse those unwarranted powers. Those nefarious powers include the power to intercept all of the telephone calls and emails of every person on the continent — without a search warrant, let alone reasonable and probable grounds to believe that those being indiscriminately eavesdropped upon have committed any criminal offense whatsoever. And, there’s the power to hold prisoners without charge or trial (in flagrant violation of the most basic legal guarantees), to implement assassination by aerial drone as a routine part of state practice, and to ignore the law (and common decency) by torturing prisoners. Sadly, in that world of egregious state misconduct, most of us have chosen to ignore the relentless attack on our supposedly cherished rights and freedoms. Into that vacuum come the few who still feel inclined to act on their conscience. There’s Julian Assange, who aptly remarks, “I’m fond of the phrase: ‘Lights on, rats out.” (In a free country, the lights should truly be kept on, to illuminate the wrongdoing of those in positions of power, wrongdoing that subverts our freedom and poisons our democracy at its very root.) There’s Bradley Manning, the troubled young U.S. Army private who made what very well may be “the biggest leak of secret material in the history of this particular planet” and who was improperly held in solitary confinement, subjected to systematic abuse while awaiting trial, punitively charged with the clearly inappropriate offense of “espionage” (of which he was ultimately acquitted), and sentenced to a draconian term of 35 years imprisonment — far more than most actual criminals ever face. There’s the Icelandic poet turned parliamentarian Birgitta Jonsdottir, who hopes to turn her country into a haven for freedom of information, after corrupt banking practices nearly destroyed that fair land. And, most recently of all (though he does not figure in this film), there’s Edward Snowden, who did the world a immense favor by revealing the clear and present danger posed by security state apparatus in the U.S., Canada, and elsewhere in the supposedly free West, an apparatus that began (soon after 9/11) to intercept our telephone calls and emails at the rate of 60,000 per second, turning every citizen into a potential suspect and crushing any semblance of privacy or due process. We have shamefully allowed ourselves to be cowed by the threat of terrorism into accepting the relentless erosion of the very freedoms and rights and sacred principles upon which our very civilization is founded. (Truth be told, we accepted untold foreign oppression and war in years gone by on the equally flimsy basis of our struggle against the malign ideology of communism.) The truth-tellers amongst us deserve to be lauded and supported and emulated. But turning them into celebrities is another thing altogether: Someone says of Assange, “He was kind of the new Mick Jagger. Groupies, stalkers, media, everyone had a big interest in Julian at the time. And he knew it.” Governments, too, had a keen interest in him, singling him out for verbal attack (and, it is supposed, intended prosecution) in connection with the Bradley Manning leaks, even though they chose to ignore the large traditional media organizations (The New York Times and The Guardian) which cooperated with WikiLeaks in publishing the same revelations. The howls of outrage were, instead, focused with laser-like precision onto WikiLeaks and Assange. The former was decried as “a terrorist organization.” Newt Gingrich, the former Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, opined that Assange is “an enemy combatant who’s engaged in information warfare against the United States.” Others, including the reliably histrionic Fox News, lambasted Assange as a “blackmail, extortionist, terrorist,” and as a “crackpot, alleged sex offender,” adding that “a dead man can’t leak stuff.” Even a former adviser to Canada’s Prime Minister made an incendiary remark urging that Assange be assassinated by the state. Such splenetic displays of venom in the public discourse were grossly abusive, disproportionate, and unjustified. For his part, Assange may at times be guilty of poor judgment, arrogance, and an alleged propensity for playing the prima donna. When other journalists pointed out that the Manning leaks might endanger the lives of Afghans who had assisted the U.S. led coalition forces in Afghanistan, Assange is alleged to have dismissed the concern, likening those in danger to collaborators or informers: “If an Afghan civilian helps coalition forces, he deserves to die.” Such an attitude smacks of callousness, arrogance, and an ideological bias that few benign critics of Western policies would support. People of good will, people of conscience, want to correct the mistakes and deliberate misconduct of our governments and our countries; but we do not seek to harm either. Assange’s disturbing callousness put his own benevolence into some question. But it takes more than one offensive remark to take the true measure of a man; and, one thing is certain: WikiLeaks, or other outlets like it, is serving a vital public interest. Only an informed public can make informed decisions. Only an informed public can hold its own government (and private sector power brokers) accountable. By their determined undermining of fundamental rights, our own governments have rendered themselves untrustworthy. It is not their so-called “restraint” that we must rely upon, but rather our own zealous scrutiny of their covert actions that will safeguard our liberty and our battered democratic way of life. As George Orwell said, “During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.” Written and directed by Alex Gibney, who won an Academy Award (Best Documentary Feature) for 2007’s “Taxi to the Dark Side,” “We Steal Secrets: The Story of WikiLeaks” is a gripping story of ideas and personalities in collision. There’s hubris here, but there’s also courage — heroism, even — in those who seek to inform the public of what every free people has an absolute right to know, including the real costs of the wars being waged in our name (witness the infamous “Collateral Murder” video of an Apache helicopter gunship mowing down innocent civilians in error in Iraq) and the unprecedented but very deliberate development of nascent police-states in the very heart of the free world. Such efforts need to be widely and vigorously supported and emulated, even if those who spearhead them sometimes have clay-feet like the rest of us. Dealing, as it does, from its first word till its last, with such vital, pressing issues of the day and with such oft-colorful personalities, this fascinating documentary is a must-see for all thoughtful people. DVD extras include some deleted scenes and a portion of the audio of a statement made by Bradley Manning at his trial, which was covertly recorded and smuggled out of the military courtroom. For ages 18+: Coarse language.
“The Hunt” ["Jagten"] (Denmark, 2012) (B+/A-): “It wasn’t supposed to happen.” So says a child, whose ill-conceived (and untrue) accusation against her father’s best friend unleashes a maelstrom of suspicion, accusations, anger, and hostility upon the head of an innocent. For it is clear from the outset that Lucas (Mads Mikkelsen) is utterly innocent of the sexual abuse accusation that gathers force and assumes all the proportions of a social tsunami. A beloved teacher, he is adored by the kindergarten kids who are in his charge. They delight in laying in wait for him, setting an ambush, and then springing upon their prey in happy laughter: “Get him! Get him!” they shout. To which their mock prey replies, “You are too many,” as he pretends to collapse under their onslaught. That mirthful pantomime is a prophetic harbinger of what is to come: An entire community — friends, colleagues, storekeepers, and perhaps even the new woman in his life — are about to make Lucas the prey of their metaphorical (and at times even literal) bloodlust. And why? Because the child to whom he is closet of all, the precocious young Klara, utters a few accusatory words in a moment of jealousy, when Lucas gently tries to deflect the child’s crush on him. When school authorities question the girl, they ham-handedly break just about every rule in the book, putting words in her mouth and ideas in her head, ascribing meanings she never intended. And when things take on a life of their own, a full-fledged witch-hunt is unleashed, making it all but impossible for a confused young child to retract the few short words that created the frenzy in the first place: “They say you did things to me,” she says in her confusion. Ironies abound: Lucas hurts Klara’s feelings by doing precisely what is (obviously) the right thing (rebuffing her inappropriate expressions of affection for him); and Klara is only even aware of the sexual matters she speaks of because she was fleetingly shown a pornographic image, in a moment of mindless irresponsibility, by her boorish teenage brother and his friend. Few, save his own son, stand by Lucas, and he is reduced, without just cause, to the status of hated pariah: “They’ve gone raving mad,” says his sole remaining friend. And therein lies the dark human stain at the heart of this story — the human capacity, nay, need, to unleash a vicious bloodlust, hatred, and gleeful desire to victimize the socially designated ‘other.’ The appointed object of persecution may be an individual or it may be a minority. What remains is the ease and enthusiasm with which people can sometimes turn on their fellows. As a phenomenon, it is as old as mankind, and our ready capacity to fall into its waiting grasp may be at the root of all evil. It’s not just the prejudice toward another, or even a willingness to neglect another, that is the problem (though both are warning signs); rather, it is the fervent, aggressive transformation of the other to someone who ‘deserves’ to be victimized, about whom others feel ‘good’ about tormenting, that is the ultimate degradation of the human soul. Few works of fiction choose to peer into this particular heart of darkness; but those that do — like Shirley Jackson’s classic short story “The Lottery” or the 2003 film “Dogville” (also by a Danish director) — leave an indelible impression. “The Hunt” is in that tradition, and its enigmatic ending seems to suggest that not all wounds can be readily healed. Directed and co-written by Thomas Vinterberg, “The Hunt” is a gripping drama and a all-too-believable parable about man’s inhumanity to man. Mads Mikkelson delivers an award-caliber performance; and he is ably supported by the young Annika Wedderkopp (as Klara), Thomas Bo Larsen (as Lucas’ erstwhile friend Theo), Alexandra Rapaport (as Nadja, the girlfriend who doubts Lucas), Lasse Fogelstrom (as Lucas’ son Marcus), and Lars Ranthe (as Lucas’ sole remaining ally). “The Hunt” won Best Actor and the Ecumenical Jury Prize at Cannes, where it was also nominated for the Palme d’Or (Best Film). It won Best International Independent Film at the British Independent Film Awards; and it was nominated as Best Foreign Language Film at BAFTA. And, it won Best Screenplay at the European Film Awards, where it was also nominated as Best Film, Actor, Director, and Editing. Regrettably, the DVD has no extras. It would have been instructive to hear the director’s thoughts about the film, which is easily one of the best of 2012. For ages 18+: Brief sexual content; brief coarse language; brief violence, and adult subject-matter.
“Aliyah” (France, 2012) (B): “I’m going because no one’s asking me to stay.” So says Alex Raphaelson, a 27-year old Parisian Jew who has decided to “make aliyah,” that is, to claim citizenship in Israel on the strength of his heritage and move there to start a new life. Alex is motivated neither by religion nor by any sentimental attachment to Israel. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, Alex is solely a secular Frenchman, and Israel is an alien land for him. But Alex wants to change his life, and making a complete break with his current one seems to offer a chance to do just that. As the film’s director and co-writer, Elie Wajeman, points out, “Many people who make alijah don’t do it because of ideology or religion, but simply to run away — from troubles, sorrows, disappointments, or sometimes the law. It’s as simple as that.” There is no guarantee that things will get any better for them when they reach Israel — quite the contrary. But some people feel compelled to make the departure anyway, perhaps in the desperate hope that a change will be as good as an improvement. Alex (Pio Marmai) is estranged from his father, and he longs to be free of his manipulative older brother Isaac (Cedric Kahn), who is constantly asking Alex for money and other favors. Alex resents his brother’s barrage of requested favors, but his deep and abiding love for his brother leaves him powerless to deny him anything. Alex’s longtime ex-girlfriend Esther (Sarah Le Picard) is engaged to marry another man; and Alex feels stuck in a dead-end occupation as a drug dealer. When he hears that a French relative plans to open a restaurant in Tel Aviv, Alex decides to buy his way in as an investor and partner. One more drug deal should provide the requisite financing; and, in an ironic scene, Alex listens to Hebrew lessons while packaging cocaine — studying for his new life while still very much engaged with his disreputable old one: “Good idea, selling dope to get to the Holy Land,” observes his friend, Mathias (Guillaume Gouix). Fortunately, Alex’s age will exempt him from mandatory military service, though not from reservist status in the event of war. Still, his impulse to seek a new life in a troubled land he doesn’t know (and to which he feels no religious or ethnic connection) surprises those who know Alex. His brother calls Israel “the land of the mad,” while his ex-girlfriend says, “We said our life was here. Jews, but Parisian Jews. That place wasn’t for us.” But Esther goes on to say something that may hold the key to Alex’s enigmatic decision: “Your fortune was so bright. You could have done anything. But you deal [drugs], and now you’re off to Israel.” Unrealized potential and a dearth of dreams can prompt a yearning for sudden and complete change. And so it may be for Alex. To qualify for immigration to Israel, he has to establish his “Jewishness,” which sets him on a search for family records, which is also a more figurative search for his roots. But his resolve to go is sorely tested not only by the difficult break it will entail with his brother, but also by a new and unexpected relationship. Alex meets and falls for a non-Jewish woman, Jeanne (Adele Haenel). She despairs that Alex’s quest for “serenity” abroad will make their love impossible. But Alex suggests, on the contrary, that, “once he has done something good in his life, then he can be loved.” They are hopeful words, but the few scenes that follow seem ambiguous and non-committal about Alex’s prospects. Despite his occupation as a drug dealer, Alex is a decent enough human being to engage our sympathies; and his story is a surprisingly low-key character study with solid performances and a novel storyline. For ages 18+: Some coarse language, and brief drug use.
The DVD’s accompanying short film is “On the Road to Tel-Aviv” (Israel, 2008) (B+). Based on real events, this 15-minute short from director Kenh Shalem is a study in mistrust, fear of the other, and irony. It takes place in Israel in the heyday of suicide bombings. Indeed, one such crime briefly opens the film. But then we join a young couple as they rise from bed and leave for work. When a young Arab woman enters the same bus, carrying a large bag, the Israeli passengers make a panicked exit from the bus. Suspicious and angry, they demand that the driver eject the Arab. But he desists, calmly telling them, “There is no terrorist here. She’s a human being.” To a loud and nearly hysterical woman, he says, “What if someone pointed their finger at your daughter?” Do we suspect and fear all those whom we designate as other? Surely not, at least if we are to call ourselves civilized and humane. But in a place where some people on opposing sides — sides drawn by ethnicity, religion, language, ideology, or by simple resentment over real or imagined past wrongs — are prepared to use lethal violence to express their rage or their perceived powerlessness, in such a place, a risk does exist. Maybe irrational fears aren’t so irrational in a place in which anybody could be a suicide-bomber. (Sadly, there are far too many such places in the world.) But, how large is that risk? And, how do we respond to it without sacrificing our humanity or victimizing innocents? Not all risks can be anticipated and safeguarded against. Do we therefore acquiesce in police-state measures to “protect” ourselves and to “control” those whom we fear? Do we succumb to fear and hostility, becoming a mob without anything but mere ‘proof of otherness’ to justify our actions? This fascinating little morality tale takes us in unexpected directions, flipping our expectations on their head time and again. It offers no tidy answers to the problem of sudden violence or the fear it inculcates. But the questions it raises cry out for consideration.
“Kon-Tiki” (Norway/U.K./Denmark/Germany/Sweden, 2012) (B): In 1947, a young Norwegian anthropologist by the name of Thor Heyerdahl resolved to demonstrate the thesis he had already spent ten years researching, namely that the islands of Polynesia in the western Pacific were settled, 1500 years ago, by the pre-Incan people of Peru, and not by Asians as previously supposed. Heyerdahl was convinced that those early South Americans had made that 5,000-mile voyage atop balsa-wood rafts, navigating toward the setting sun (which represented their sun-god Tiki). Heyerdahl was determined to prove to a skeptical world that, for those ancient mariners, who lacked conventional boats, “the oceans were not barriers, but roads; not impediments, but pathways.” There was only one sure way to prove that it was possible, and that was to construct a raft using only the same techniques and the same materials that existed 1500 years ago, and to cast off into the Pacific, relying on wind and ocean currents to take the raft and its human passengers to Polynesia. With five brave companions (two war heroes, a childhood friend, a Swedish ethnographer, and a restless refrigerator salesman who had a background in engineering), Heyerdahl managed to persuade the president of Peru to finance this quixotic journey. And, off they set, in April 1947, on a journey which, if successful, would take them 100 days to complete. This account of men prepared to test their own courage and endurance is based on that true story. With very little sea-going experience between them, the adventurers quickly encounter leaning pains: Some don’t know even which side of their vessel is starboard; and their dauntless leader has to be reminded to take the lens cover off the motion picture camera he brings to document their journey. And Heyerdahl, who cannot swim, has to overcome his own fear of water (born of a near-drowning in childhood). Their plans for regular radio contact with the world are dashed early on when a pet parrot bites through the cable holding their balloon-suspended antenna aloft. And for days and days, they float helplessly in the wrong direction, unable to steer. But Heyerdahl projects absolute certainty in the rightness of his theory and boundless optimism about the ultimate success of his venture: “Believe everything will be okay, and it will be.” The man has the confidence of a visionary. As his wife says, “If you fell in the water, you’d float by sheer will power.” But his companions’ nerves start to fray, after a close encounter with an ocean-going leviathan, hair-raising attacks by sharks, worrisome signs that their wooden raft is becoming waterlogged, and a punishing storm that threatens to hurl them into the sea, if it doesn’t demolish their floating refuge first. There are moments of high suspense and mortal danger for these six men, and there are stretches of tedium — into which doubt and worry interpose themselves like the water that sloshes between the tied-together logs of their raft. “People who think they have worries should try this,” says one of these wry adventurers. But there are also moments of transcendent beauty and wonder, such as a nighttime sea aglow with strange phosphorescent creatures. “Kon-Tiki” is a story of adventure, endurance, fear, perseverance, and friendships forged and tested. It’s about the human spirit and its ceaseless quest for what lies beyond the horizon. It’s a captivating account of exploration, with striking cinematography; and, it has moments of both stress and humor that make its characters universally accessible. It was nominated as Best Foreign Language Film at both the Academy Awards and the Golden Globes. At Norway’s “Amanda Awards,” it won Best Actor, Production Design, Visual Effects, and the Audience Award; and it was nominated as Best Film, Director, Cinematographer, Editing, and Sound Design. It was also nominated for the Audience Award at the European Film Awards. Kon-Tiki was filmed simultaneously in a Norwegian version (at 118 minutes) and in an English version (at 96 minutes). Both versions appear on this two-disc DVD set, along with two featurettes. The film contains brief violence.
“Still Mine” (Canada, 2012) (B+/A-): Here’s a quiet, gentle, low-key love story about a man and a woman who’ve been together for over 60 years. It takes the challenges of growing old in its calmly self-possessed stride, offering a lovely metaphor for aging in the form of a hand-crafted wooden harvest table that was fashioned with love and endures, despite a lifetime of nicks and scars: “But as the years went by and the scars added up, the imperfections turned that table into something else. That’s the thing about pine: It holds a lot of memories.” Craig and Irene live on their family farm in New Brunswick. He raises strawberries and a few cattle and operates a small sawmill; she tends to the garden. But her memory is starting to fade, and Craig realizes that a smaller, one-story house has become a necessity for his wife’s well-being. And so he embarks upon a project to build her a new house with his own hands. With a wealth of experience handling wood, Craig knows what he’s doing; but the local building authorities see things differently, insisting on permits and plans, and then finding a myriad of technical infractions. When they affix a stop-work order on the house that love is building, and threaten prosecution, it is never clear whether they are motivated by pettiness, spite, or sheer bloodymindedness. But Craig is not one to be daunted by bureaucratic busybodies: He forges ahead, never letting his age (87) impede his hard work or his resolve to prevail over the meddlesome powers that be. Irene’s gradual decline gives the movie (which is based on a true story) a bittersweet tone. But no one here succumbs to hopelessness or despondency! On the contrary, “Still Mine” is about the extraordinary qualities of resilience, loyalty, and dogged determination that can be found in ordinary people leading ordinary lives. It’s the quiet, humble sort of day-to-day heroism that’s part of the human spirit at its best. Its protagonists are undaunted by obstacles (be they declining health or officious bureaucrats) as they resolutely carry on: (C) “So you can’t remember a couple of things. So what! We’re still here. We have each other. And isn’t everything else a bonus?” (I) “I hope so.” You know what scares me?… What if I forget everything?” (C) “You’ll still be my Irene.” (I) “Promise?” (C) “I’ve never broken a promise to you yet.” It’s an award-caliber performance by the lanky James Cromwell (who is still fondly remembered as Farmer Hoggett in 1995′s “Babe”), with an understated performance from Genevieve Bujold as Irene. Campbell Scott appears in a supporting role. Written, directed, and produced by Michael McGowan (“Saint Ralph” and “One Week”), “Still Mine” won Best Actor at the Canadian Film Awards, where it was also nominated as Best Film, Actress, Screenplay, Original Score, Cinematography, and Editing. It was also nominated for Best Director and Editing by the Director’s Guild of Canada. Accented with wry humor, it’s a gently-paced, tender love story that reaffirms the strength of the human spirit and the enduring power of love. It’s one of the best movies of 2012. The DVD’s useful director’s commentary discusses the humor, intimacy, and connection between Craig and Irene, and points out Craig’s “tactile relationship” with the world.
“Love is All You Need” ["Den Skaldede Frisør"] (Denmark/Sweden/Italy/France/Germany, 2012) (B): Here’s a truly international effort — a Danish movie, with a British male lead, set in Italy! As a romantic comedy, it is lighter territory than most of director Susanne Bier’s best-known dramatic work (2004′s “Brothers,” 2006′s “After the Wedding,” and 2010′s “In a Better World”). It tells the intersecting stories of an English widower and a Danish woman, whose paths (literally) collide. Philip is a businessman (played by none other than 007 himself, Pierce Brosnan) who runs a agricultural produce company from a headquarters in Copenhagen. Having lost his beloved Danish wife years ago, Philip has made her native land his own. But he has thrown himself utterly into his work, inoculating himself against further heartbreak by becoming stern, solitary, and brusque: “I’m a guy who has chosen to be by himself. Simple as that.” But the impending marriage of his son forces Philip out of his rigidly-embraced comfort zone of avoiding any and all interpersonal relationships. Meanwhile, the mother of the bride, Ida (played by the beautiful Trine Dyrholm) has just completed a course of treatment for a life-threatening disease. Awaiting word on the success of that treatment, she learns that her supposedly loyal husband has taken up with a much younger woman. Reeling from that blow, she doggedly sets out for Italy, and, as (a somewhat overly-convenient) fate would have it, she has an auto mishap with Philip (the two have never met) at the airport. Their first impressions of each other are not very favorable: Ida comes as scatter-brained and emotionally fragile, while the glowering Philip is taciturn almost to the point of being dour. But the pair grow on each other. And who wouldn’t, given that their breathtakingly irresistible destination is Sorrento, on Italy’s fantastical Amalfi coast. The betrothed young couple have opted to be wed at Philip’s long unused villa, and its gorgeous panoramas of the sea, mountains, and adjacent town are simply ‘to die for!’ With its cliff-side views, seaside grotto, and acres of lemon orchards, the place would, in the real world, only be affordable by a billionaire. But who cares! It’s the magical kind of setting (like the Greek isles) that is made for romance. Philip’s cool reserve starts to crack under his growing tenderness for the sweet Ida. Interestingly enough, the film’s dialogue (along with almost all of the cast) is Danish. But Brosnan doesn’t speak a word of Danish, which obliges the others to speak to him in English. Initially, that puts actress Dyrholm at a disadvantage, insofar as she seems slightly stilted in English. But as the film gets past those linguistic growing pains, we develop a real fondness for its central relationship. A subplot involving another character’s confused sexuality is a weak link: For one thing, it is hard to imagine that such confusion would suddenly arise at this particular moment of a young man’s life. Worse still, it is telegraphed to the audience in such a heavy-handed, clumsy fashion that the big revelation comes as no surprise at all. (The only thing that is surprising is that no one in the story sees it coming a mile off!) The same-sex attraction subplot is both an off-putting distraction and a clumsy plot contrivance. Another awkward element comes in the person of Philip’s shrewish, brashly overbearing sister-in-law Benedikte. She has helped raise his son, and she gives Philip some good advice: “You can never get nor give enough love.” But, she’s also obnoxiously loud, selfish, and in hot pursuit of Philip for herself. Paprika Steen is a highly talented Danish actress (witness 1998′s “The Celebration” and 2009′s “Applause”), but even she cannot give enough range to a character that comes very close to being a discordant caricature. And Ida’s husband, Leif, comes across as too much of a lout, showing up at the wedding with his brand-new girlfriend in hand. But, perhaps those seemingly over-the-top characters and behaviors are intended as comedic touches. In truth, the best thing about the story is its tender romantic relationship; it makes one forget (until we are jarringly reminded) that the film is both a romance and a comedy. As the director has said, finding the right balance between the story’s “sadness and comedy [is] hugely challenging.” The result may not wholly achieve that delicate balance; but it has far more to commend it than not. Molly Blixt Egelund makes an impression as Ida’s daughter Astrid; but one wishes there was more substance to her part, which founders on the aforementioned sexual confusion of her fiance (Sebastian Jessen’s Patrick). The Danish title of this movie translates as “The Bald Hairdresser,” for reasons that become clear as it unfolds. “Love is All You Need” won the ‘Robert Award’ (from the Danish Film Academy) as Best Actress, as well as the Audience Award as Best Comedy; and, it was nominated there as Best Film, Director, Screenplay, Supporting Actress (Egelund), Editing, and Production Design. It was also a nominee for the Audience Award at the European Film Awards. DVD extras include a commentary with Pierce Brosnan and the director; a Q&A with the two leads, the director, and the writer, a behind the scenes featurette with Trine Dyrholm, and interviews at the Venice Film Festival. For ages 18+: Coarse language, brief nudity, and brief sexual content.
“At Any Price” (USA, 2012) (B+/A-): Henry Whipple (Dennis Quaid in a career-best performance) is a farmer who supplements his income by selling seeds for a big agricultural corporation. His Iowa farm has been family-owned for four generations, and Henry is always on the hunt to increase its 3,700 acres, wholeheartedly embracing the “Expand or Die” mantra of Big Agra. Indeed, as the film opens, Henry is at a funeral, not to pay his respects for a farmer he didn’t know, but rather to make an early pitch to buy the deceased man’s 200 acres. Henry’s younger son Dean (Zac Efron) is uncomfortable, telling his father that ‘it’s not right,’ and another interested party agrees, scornfully calling Henry a “shark.” And, truth be told, Henry is every bit the capitalist: “When a man stops wanting, a man stops living.” Fiercely competitive, he likes to win, and he expects his sons to follow in his footsteps, just as Henry has emulated his stern father (Red West’s Cliff Whipple). But one (unseen) son is climbing a mountain somewhere in South America; while Dean has his heart set on the NASCAR circuit. Dean is disrespectful to his father; he wants to be racing cars, not staying down on the farm. It goes against the grain (pun intended) for Henry. At first, he is openly dismissive of his son’s ambition: “You’re not going to make it in the big leagues. Just take the land. It’s in your blood. And the sooner you understand that, the better.” But Henry is sensitive enough to see, feel, and regret the increasing discord between them; and he gradually tries to accommodate himself to his son’s passion. It’s a touching character arc in miniature, one note in the bigger composition that is Henry’s life. A former football quarterback, Henry is having an affair with the former head cheerleader (Heather Graham’s Meredith), though, strictly speaking, the two actors don’t appear to be close enough in age to have ever shared a football field at the same time. Henry’s loyal wife, Irene (Kim Dickens) knows that he’s being unfaithful: “I love you Henry. And you make me feel like an idiot for it every day.” Bit by bit, Henry’s self-satisfied life starts to spiral out of control: Business dealings of questionable legality put him under suspicion with his ruthless pay-masters at Big Agra; while a sudden personal tragedy threatens to throw the family into a crisis from which they can never recover. Always the grinning, glad-handing salesman, Henry has a serious of genuine moments on the road to his reevaluating what really matters in his life. One comes at the racetrack, when he tells Dean that he’s proud of him. Another comes when he looks at Dean’s racing trophies, perhaps for the first time, and a photograph of his two sons. And Henry forms a very touching paternal relationship with Dean’s parentless girlfriend Cadence (Maika Monroe, who makes a strong impression as the precocious teen). For a time, she takes on an impromptu role as Henry’s seed-selling apprentice, a role he own son has scorned, and she shows an instant knack for the job. Henry even confides in her when his practice of cleaning and reselling surplus seeds (something he is contractually forbidden to do by the manufacturer of genetically modified seeds) gets him into dire legal and financial jeopardy: (C) “So, kind of like bootlegging DVDs?” (H) “Yes, but there’s a lot more money at stake here. These guys didn’t just copyright movies; they copyrighted life.” When things are at their worst, Henry has to choose between conflicting moral imperatives: Should he do a wrong thing to protect a loved one? It has to do with taking responsibility for events that have hurled violently out of control and with making the best of the imperfect choices on offer, in order to minimize the harm in a no-win situation. “Am I a happy man? How can I not be?” Henry asks at one point. As the story progresses, his superficial happiness (born of material success) is displaced by something like wisdom and a deeper love for others: He learns what’s truly of value in life. It’s a lovely performance by Dennis Quaid, one that gives us glimpses of the sensitivity, conscience, and vulnerability that lie beneath a glib, self-confident demeanor. And he is ably supported by the rest of the cast, including Clancy Brown as a decent man who is Henry’s business rival. Directed and co-written by Ramin Bahrani, “At Any Price” was a nominee for the Golden Lion (Best Film) at the Venice Film Festival. DVD extras include a commentary with the director and Dennis Quaid, a Q&A, and some rehearsal footage. For ages 18+: Coarse language and sexual content.
“The Deep Blue Sea” (USA/U.K., 2011) (B+/A-): “I love you so much.” For some of us, those words have the power of life and death. So it is for a woman in 1950 London, a city still bearing its unhealed wartime wounds and coping with material shortages through rationing. It opens with the woman turning on the gas in her flat to kill herself. And, for ten minutes, we swirl through her memories of a bloodless marriage and of the sudden, inexorable infidelity that’s born of an overpowering love for a man who is not her husband. All the while, the tragic strains of Samuel Barber’s “Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, Op. 14,” set the emotional tone. Apart from flashbacks, all of writer/director Terence Davies’ romantic drama takes place in the hours following his tragic heroine’s failed bid to put an end to her life. Based on the 1952 play by Terence Rattigan, the story is about the discovery of passionate love — the type of love that brooks no compromise, the kind of love that is all-consuming. Hester Collyer (Rachel Weisz in an award-caliber, career-best performance) is married to an older man. Sir William Collyer (a quietly affecting performance by Simon Russell Beale of 1999′s “An Ideal Husband”) is gentle, selfless, patient, and kind. He’s a good man, and he loves Hester, but he’s a stranger to physicality. Once Hester finds a more visceral kind of love, in her passion for Freddie Page (Tom Hiddleston), it becomes impossible for her to countenance settling for anything less: William argues that, “It’s infatuation. There’s more to love than… physicality.” ”Well, there isn’t for me, anymore,” replies Hester. And so she leaves her husband, a well-off, well-respected judge, to move in with the flamboyant (but ceaselessly restless) ex-wartime pilot, with whom she has so little in common in term of breeding, education, and outlook. But the most compelling disparity between the two of them is that Hester loves Freddie more — more completely, more irretrievably, more strongly — than he loves her. She knows that from the get-go, but she is helpless to desist: “Do you honestly think I can tell you in sober truth what it is I feel for Freddie? Lust isn’t the whole of life, but Freddie is, you see, for me, the whole of life. And death.” Once his initial anger has passed, William hopes that his feigned indifference will hurt Hester’s vanity and bring her back to him. When that, too, fails, he offers to be there for her in whatever capacity she sees fit. There are many nice touches, starting with a movingly effective use of song — in a pub (a flashback to Hester’s happier times with Freddie has them joining in with others in a pub singing “You Belong To Me”), and in a subway (where Hester and William take shelter during a wartime air raid and those gathered there sing “Sweet Molly Malone” to keep their spirits up). Those are fine moments of cinematic storytelling at its most tender and affecting. A crusty old medical man, Mr. Miller (Karl Johnson of “Lark Rise to Candleford”) makes a strong impression in his two scenes: “I give my respect to those who’ve earned it. To everyone else, I’m civil.” So do: Ann Mitchell, as the salt of the earth landlady Mrs. Elton (“A lot of rubbish is talked about love. You know what real love is? It’s… changing the sheets when they’ve wet themselves. And letting them keep their dignity so you can both go on.”), and Freddie’s friend Jackie (played by Harry Hadden-Paton), who is a decent bloke who is less volatile than Freddie. And Barbara Jefford likewise does first-rate work as Collyer’s disapproving, condescending, and endlessly critical mother. Her disdainful remarks about ‘pleasure’ and ‘passion,’ and her seeming inability to approve of anything her son or daughter-in-law do, make it clear where William’s emotional limitations come from. And, for her part, Hester is often attired in a scarlet coat — is it a literary ‘scarlet letter’ writ large? Hester is a bold figure, a woman determined to make her own choices in life — choices that are not defined by the dictates of men (either her vicar father or her high court judge husband) about morality and decency. As the director has pointed out, she has thrown off a marriage that has proven to be “bankrupt of any joy.” It was not precisely a loveless marriage, but it was a platonic one; and Hester wants, nay, needs, more. Does her relentless pursuit of that something more make her a self-destructive heroine, like literature’s Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary? Perhaps. Does she not, after all, put her entire raison de vivre into the none too reliable person of Freddie, a man whose life stopped, frozen in amber, in 1940, a man who longs for the “mixture of fear and excitement” that enlivened him during the war years? Davies compares Hester to Blanche DuBois from Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire.” Does her passion for Freddie amount to a Heathcliffian monomaniacal obsession? Is it truly romantic, or is it ultimately self-destructive? The answers to those questions will be in the eye of the beholder. One thing is certain: “The Deep Blue Sea” is a richly compelling romantic drama — with marvelous acting and a literary theatricality. Its characters possess multiple facets; and ultimately, although Freddie does behave badly at times, there are no villains here, only people who come together and fly apart again according to the vagaries of overpowering forces of attraction and repulsion. “The Deep Blue Sea“ was nominated for Best Actress at the Golden Globes; and it won in that category at both the New York and Toronto Film Critics Awards. DVD extras include a commentary, interviews with Rachel Weisz and Tom Hiddleston, a ‘making of’ featurette, and a “master class” with Terence Davies. For ages 18+: Brief coarse language and mild sensuality.
“Three Worlds” [“Trois Mondes”] (France, 2012) (B+): Three lives collide and become entangled in utterly unexpected ways in a story about
cause and effect, the imperatives of conscience, and conflicting points of view. Al (Raphael Personnaz) is young, handsome, successful, and engaged to be married. When he marries his fiancée in ten days’ time, he’ll take over management (and part-ownership) of her father’s high-end car dealership, where he has worked long and hard to earn his position as the business’ star salesman. On a boys’ night out to celebrate his impending marriage and promotion, Al collides with a pedestrian while driving under the influence of alcohol. At the urging of his friends, and out of fear for the consequences, Al flees the scene of the accident. But, unbeknownst to him, the accident has been witnessed from a nearby balcony. Juliette (Clotilde Hesme, who very
much resembles Canadian actress Carrie-Anne Moss) is a pre-med student. She is in the early stages of pregnancy, but she’s not ready to commit to her boyfriend, putting off his urgings that they move in together and get married. She’s in the midst of a disagreement with him, when she steps out onto her balcony and sees the accident occur across the street. Concerned for the fate of the badly injured stranger, she goes to the hospital to check on his condition, where she meets his wife. Vera (played by the Kosovar-Albanian actress Arta Dobroski) is, like her stricken husband, an illegal immigrant from the former Soviet republic of Moldavia. Her comatose husband’s spine is broken; if he survives at all (he is still in very critical condition), it will be as a paraplegic. But, their illegal status means that they have been working under the official radar, without the benefit of the pay-stubs they need to establish their eligibility for public medical and rehabilitative coverage. Beset from all directions, Vera clings to Juliette for moral support, and their lives become interconnected. And then, one day, Juliette thinks she recognizes Al as the hit and run driver, when his troubled conscience impels him to visit the hospital to check on the man whose dire injuries he caused. He kneels by the bed of the unconscious man and says, “You have to live. You have to live. Please. You can’t die.” Juliette sees Al sob in anguish on the hospital elevator, then follows him to ascertain his identity. Without revealing her discovery to Vera, she goes to Al and confronts him, demanding that he take responsibility for the suffering he has caused. Even before their encounter, Al’s life is starting to unravel, bit by bit. He is tormented by feelings of guilt and remorse and torn between his natural instinct to do the right thing and his fear of losing everything he’s worked so hard to attain: “It’s like someone’s else’s nightmare. I’m not a bastard.” His turmoil increasingly becomes Juliette’s, for some intangible something is drawing her to Al (and vice versa). She can’t bring herself to turn him in, but neither can she resist the mutual attraction that is developing between them. At Juliette’s urging, Al resolves to get money to Vera to help with the otherwise impossible bills. But he cannot legitimately access the money he needs to help her. Is it fair game to steal from his crooked prospective father-in-law for a good cause? There are interesting subtexts in the film about financial class and about ethnic status. When hospital officials approach Vera about the hypothetical possibility of organ donation, she says she’d want to be paid. Her rationale is not solely mercenary; rather, she is affronted by the intrinsic inequality — between the comfortably off and the poor, between the French citizen and the illegal immigrant: “You get paid don’t you? Why not him? He’s not as good as you? He’s providing the main thing [the organs], right? At home, a kidney is 30,000 euros!” And clothes are presented as tangible symbols of socio-economic status in two separate scenes. Al comes from humble origins. His mother used to work as a cleaner in the very business to which Al is going to ascend to part-ownership. But her consciousness of her status relative to her prospective inlaws makes it hard for Al’s mother to attend her son’s wedding: “I’ve worn [the boss’ wife’s] hand-me-downs. Facing her now is too much,” she says. Al replies that, “You don’t work for them now. You’re just like them.” Do clothes (or the money and the material success that they represent) make the man (or woman)? Vera has similar concerns. She blames herself for wanting to come to France to improve the material lot of her husband and herself: “My mother had [only] two dresses. I wanted to change dresses every day. I didn’t want my mother’s life.” Al’s conflict with his two erstwhile friends from work (one of whom, Franck, is played by Reda Kateb, who starred as the kidnapper in “A moi seule” and also appeared in “A Prophet”) is a somewhat heavy-handed plot device. The same goes for his run-ins with a pair of Moldavian heavies. And we may wonder if Al would have come across as sympathetically to Juliette if he’d been middle aged and overweight? But, the film combines very convincing performances (Adele Haenel also makes an impression as Al’s fiancée, Marion), strong writing, and abundant food for thought. What ought we to do to make amends? Are right and wrong always immutable and clearly discernable? Why do we love who we love? When should we listen to inner doubts about making commitments — in love, or in our professional lives? Can experiences, even bad ones, change us for the better? Moral questions play out in the lives of three people who are thrown together by fate, or misadventure. The changes wrought by their interactions are profound: “It swept everything away. I can’t live the same way anymore. I tried to protect something that I’ve lost now. I’ve lost everything. I’m sorry.” Directed and co-written by Catherine Corsini (who also directed 2009’s “Partir,” about a woman who sacrifices her marriage for love), “Three Worlds” was nominated for “Un Certain Regard” at Cannes. For ages 18+: Brief coarse language.
The DVD’s accompanying short film is “The Piano Tuner” [“L’accordeur”] (France, 2010) (B/B+): A gifted young pianist sees his dreams collapse around him when he fails to achieve the prize he has long sought: “Last year, I was a prodigy. I had a brilliant career ahead of me. For 15 years, all my efforts tended to one goal… I failed. That day, my life collapsed. I stayed alone, haunted by my defeat, sucked into a black hole.” Adrien (Grégoire Leprince-Ringuet) survives as a piano tuner. He feigns blindness to enhance his appeal for that work: “They think my other senses are more developed, that I have a perfect musical ear.” He gets better tips, and, behind his sunglasses, he sees secret things, like a dancer client dancing in her undergarments. But, one day, he stumbles into a frightening situation in which he truly sees something he shouldn’t. Written and directed by Olivier Treiner, this 14-minute short film plays out to music by Schumann and Rachmaninov. It has won several awards including a César as Best Short Film. It’s a nice, compact monument to irony, fitting of Rod Serling’s “The Twilight Zone.” For ages 18+: Coarse language.
“Amour” ["Love"] (France/Germany/Austria, 2012) (B+/A-): Two of the great actors from French cinema — Emmanuelle Riva (1959′s “Hiroshima, mon amour”) and Jean-Louis Trintignant (1956′s “And God Created Woman”) — are united, at the ages of 86 and 83, respectively, in a story about the abiding, steadfast love between a man and a woman.. Anne is an elegant woman, an accomplished piano teacher whose past students include some who have attained greatness. And when Georges tells her, “Did I tell you that you looked very pretty tonight?” it is no exaggeration. She has retained her beauty, grace, and refinement. For such things truly do not fade. Anne and Georges live quietly and contentedly in an apartment surrounded by art and music and books. Their love finds contentment in each other’s company, as they share the quotidian routines of sharing meals, memories, and music: ”It’s beautiful… Life. So long. Long life,” muses Anne as she looks through the photo albums that chronicle their years together. But human lives are finite and happiness ephemeral. One night, there are faint sounds of restlessness, and Georges asks “What’s wrong?” Anne replies, “Nothing;” but it’s a foreshadowing of what’s to come. After Anne is stricken by a stroke, she is paralyzed on one side, but she can still speak and mostly fend for herself. However, she foresees worse times ahead and dreads what the future will bring: “There’s no reason to go living… I know it can only get worse. Why must I inflict that on us? On you and me?” (Georges) “You inflict nothing on me.” (Anne) “You don’t have to lie, Georges.” (Georges) “It’s improving everyday.” (Anne) “I don’t want to go on. It’s touching, all you do is make it bearable, but I don’t want to do on. For my sake, not for you.” Anne makes Georges promise to never take her back to the hospital. And he bravely keeps that promise, even when a second stroke renders Anne helpless. Their concerned daughter Eva (Isabelle Huppert) is well-meaning, but she lives far off and has other troubles to divide her attention. Georges tell her that, “Your mother’s in a bad way. She’s increasingly like a defenseless child. It’s sad and humiliating for her and me. She doesn’t want anyone to see her. … You have your life and that’s fine. Leave us ours…” “What will happen now?” asks Eva. Her father replies that, “What happens now is what’s happened until now. It will go steadily downhill for awhile and then it’ll be over.” Georges’ unshakeable devotion to Anne is matched by his calm acceptance of the painful spectacle of the woman who is his wife, his partner, and his love reduced to a stricken shadow of her former self: “None of that deserves to be shown,” he says of the daily indignities of Anne’s deeply diminished life. Writer and director Michael Haneke (“Caché,” “The White Ribbon,” “The Piano Teacher,” and “Code Unknown”) has fashioned one of his more accessible films; it’s a quiet story (don’t look for histrionics here) that unfolds at a very gentle, measured pace. It’s about devotion and loyalty and romantic love. After her second stroke, Anne keeps uttering the word “Pain.” It may be only a random reflex vocalization, but the word seems to encapsulate and crystallize the psychic and emotional pain that their ordeal inflicts on both Anne and Georges. It’s a sad story (and an emotionally harrowing one, in a very subdued, understated way), but there is comfort to be taken from its depiction of unbreakable, unflinching love. “Amour” earned a great many nominations and awards. Among them are these examples: It won the Palme d’Or (Best Film) at Cannes. It won Best Foreign Language Film at the Academy Awards, where it was also nominated as Best Film, Actress, Director, and Original Screenplay. At the Cesar Awards in France, it won Best Actor, Actress, Film, Director, and Screenplay; and it was nominated in five other categories. At BAFTA, it won Best Actress and Best Foreign Language Film; and it was nominated as Best Director and Screenplay. At the European Film Awards, it won Best Film, Actor, Actress, and Director; and it was nominated as Best Cinematography and Screenplay. It also won Best Language Film at the Golden Globes and the National Board of Review. DVD extras including a “making of” featurette and a Q&A session with the director. Very brief coarse language.
“To the Wonder” (USA, 2012) (B/B+): A Terrence Malick film is a work of art: Lush, poetical, drenched in imagery and symbols, the writer/director’s latest film follows the stylistic pattern set by his brilliant “The Tree of Life” in 2011. That film juxtaposed the history of the cosmos with the fate of one family in 1950s Texas, in an eon-spanning search for meaning. Now, as then, Malick has created an impressionist painting come to life, one that all but eschews traditional storytelling and conventional narrative in favor of a torrential waterfall of brief scenes which are more intended to convey feelings than to tell a story. His camera swoops above and below his characters, as we fly through a kaleidoscopic array of fleeting, fragmentary scenes narrated by whispered sentence fragments. Feelings are given poetic voice in a stream of consciousness meditation that has the heartfelt urgency of a prayer that’s confided to the mysterious universe that surrounds us. It’s a mood-poem, as elusive as a will o’ the wisp, which draws us into a dreamlike reverie, a contemplative inner monologue of the soul that takes on tremulous, fragile, ever-shifting form. Dialogue is at a minimum; indeed, there are stretches with none at all. In its place is a full body immersion in the prancing joyful exuberance of new love and the gnawing unbearable pain when love slips away. It’s about love and loss; and it’s also about our ceaseless search for meaning. Along the way, there’s the bitterness of failure, the exhilaration when two become one emotionally and spiritually, and the counterintuitive comfort we can take in the sheer immense fecundity of the living world that surrounds and cradles us. It is part inner meditation, part prayer to the divine; part confession, part striving for wisdom. In short, it’s an audaciously original, utterly unconventional, and stunningly ambitious attempt to embody emotions in pictures and brief snippets of spoken words. It opens in France with Marina (Olga Kurylenko): “Newborn… a spark… You brought me out of the shadows. You lifted me from the ground. Brought me back to life.” She is in love with Neil (Ben Affleck), though she had given up hope of finding love: “Love makes us one. Two. One. I in you. You in me.” Marina swirls and prances and positively pirouettes with joy: She is always in motion. It’s the exuberance of happiness, unlike Neil’s more restless, pacing, and mute demeanor. What has drawn the pair together? We never know. It is enough that they love. Marina and her young daughter Tatiana (Tatiana Chiline) travel back to America with Neil: But rural Oklahoma may as well be another world. It seems, at first, “a land so calm. Honest. Rich.” But the soil, the very dust in the schoolyard, is poisoned with cadmium and lead. And a vague discontent lurks at the edges of their lives until it starts to infiltrate their consciousness: “We need to leave. Both of us. There’s something missing,” says the young child. They part from Neil for a time, and Jane (Rachel McAdams), a woman from his past who has experienced losses of her own, comes back into his orbit. The local priest, Father Quintana (Javier Bardem) offers good counsel even as he struggles with a different sort of loss — the loss of his faith: “Everywhere you’re present. And still I can’t see you. You’re within me. Around me. And I have no experience of you. Not as I once did. Why don’t I hold on to what I’ve found? My heart is cold. Hard.” The very cosmos seems encapsulated in these ordinary people — as powers of attraction and repulsion determine their orbits and dictate their destinies. These characters are always searching. For what? Why, for meaning, it seems. As if to make their restless quest tangible, the camera keeps moving in toward various scenes — giving expression to the fitful, tentative series of approaches (to relationships, to emotional connections, to places, to life-choices) that these characters experience. If Malick’s film tantalizes like a dream, it also punishes like one. Its meaning is elusive; it offers an experience but provides no firm answers. Its characters make one choice, then another, at times with what seems like fickle arbitrariness. We are never told what motivates them, let alone what animates the discord that arises between them. Clearly, we aren’t intended to know. Instead we are meant to feel what they feel without the mediation of expository plot or more than fragmentary language. It is, as we have said, a mood-poem. It may enchant, or it may confound, or it may do both at once. Some will be transported by its poetical imagery; others will loathe its seeming lack of structure, story, and sense. Is it incomprehensible? Maybe, if one is looking for conventional storytelling. But it aspires to something else altogether — it seeks to embody intangibles like the soul’s longing, to conjure the most ephemeral manifestations of our mind, body, and spirit in a poetical flight of fancy. The result may not be entirely successful (the woman dances too often — in fields, in supermarkets, atop beds; while the man remains a dour cipher); but there is something astonishing about its attempt at capturing the sublime on celluloid: “We climbed the steps… to the wonder.” “To the Wonder” was a nominee for the Golden Lion (Best Film) at the Venice Film Festival. The Blu-ray disc has a look behind the scenes; but why no commentary? For ages 18+: Brief nudity.
“Arcadia” (USA, 2012) (B): Early one morning, at dawn, a father loads his three kids into the car, and they head off on a 2800-mile cross country road trip. They’re leaving the east coast behind as they head west toward Tom’s new job in California. Tom (John Hawkes of “Winter’s Bone”) promises 12-year old Greta (Ryan Simpkins), 9-year old Nat (Ty Simpkins), and 16-ish Caroline (Kendall Toole) that their unseen mother will join them there. He’s vague about why she isn’t coming with them, and why they left the beloved family dog at the curb of their hastily vacated home. And there’s no mention of what’s no become of their household belongings, all of which appear to be in place in the home they are so abruptly quitting. In their place, there are promises of a new start, with palm trees and a backyard swimming pool: “Smile. You’re headed for sunshine 365 days a day.” We get up close and personal with this quartet on the road — there’s family banter, singalongs in the car, and a succession of diners and motel rooms. There are lots of close-ups — of faces and hands — with the result that we often see only one person at a time, and frequently only a part of that person at that. But, the (presumably) hand-held camera draws undue attention to itself by darting here and there quickly and often — a technique that is not altogether pleasing but may be intended to convey spontaneity, rapidly shifting centers of attention, and the claustrophobic sense of being confined to a car for hours on end. The story unfolds through the eyes of the middle child, Greta. She still carries her inseparable stuffed rabbit, named Harrison, but she’s on the cusp of adolescence. She is becoming self-conscious about her body’s changes; she doesn’t play with her younger brother the way she used to; and she’s slowly but surely starting to question her father’s glib account of what’s going on. Why didn’t her mother accompany them? Why can’t they talk to her on the telephone? What do the snatches of angry conversation she half overhears between her father and someone on the telephone signify? And for all his effusive bonhomie, something seems to be bothering Tom. At unpredictable moments, his affability disappears and is replaced by anger and impatience. He drags them out of a diner after provoking a dispute with a waitress; and when an incident with another driver ends with an exchange of blows, the family ends up in police custody. With his kids watching, Tom tells a bald-faced lie to secure his release — later telling them that, “Sometimes you have to lie.” It’s a worrisome lesson to be imparting to children. There are some problems. One has to do with casting: John Hawkes left no doubt about his talent as a rough, tough hillbilly in “Winter’s Bone.” But some of that darkness persists here; and one is left with the unsettling concern that he is dangerous in some way. Has he murdered his wife? It’s not clear that writer/director Olivia Silver intends for us to perceive Tom as being sinister or malevolent; yet, undercurrents of that suspicion are there — in this feature film, though not in the short film which inspired it. That is the result of an actor who carries more baggage with him that this role is meant to bear. Also, the dialogue doesn’t always sound quite authentic; instead, it sometimes sounds written. And, Tom’s frequent use of pet-names for the kids (Nat is “Natman” and “Nattie;” Greta is “Griz” and Grizmeister”) grates somehow. But, maybe it’s meant to. Maybe its insistent intimacy is meant to get on our nerves a little bit to conjure the sense of four people being stuck in close quarters together for hours on end. It may also be meant to be a clumsy stratagem by Tom to ingratiate himself with his charges and keep them compliant on the long journey. Either way, it feels like fingers on a chalkboard at times; but maybe that sense of too much intimacy is a deliberate device by the screenplay to convey the stifling claustrophobic closeness of the family road trip. The kids all deliver naturalistic performances, with Kendall Toole reprising her role from the same filmmaker’s 2008 short film version of the exact same story, “Little Canyon.” But pride of place goes to Ryan Simpkins; for this is really Greta’s coming of age story. And Simpkins delivers an understated, quietly nuanced performance of a girl who’s no longer at ease in her own skin, a girl who is crossing from childhood into adolescence, a girl who comes to challenge her father’s vague explanations and to demand the truth. Oddly, though, she’s very prone to wandering off — including alone to a county bar at night, stuffed bunny in hand. On the other hand, there’s a very effective scene of a family meltdown in the car, a blow-up that leaves young Greta stranded by the side of the road for several minutes — utterly alone in the midst of the Arizona desert. The success of the movie depends on our finding the four characters likeable or at least interesting. Twenty-five minutes in, the jury was still out — on both counts. But patience is rewarded: These characters (and especially Greta) grown on us, and we become invested with their fates. It’s a simple story, perhaps a tad underwritten, but for the most part, it has the air of authenticity. And, while its understated tone (the emotions are mostly pretty low-key) deprives it of big emotional moments (excepting the aforementioned meltdown), it does get points for naturalism and simplicity. Like its father figure, it doesn’t “have all the answers,” but the journey it takes us on is worth the bumps in the road. Arcadia, by the by, is the name of the town in California that is the family’s destination. The family won a Crystal Bear at the Berlin Film Festival as “Best Film — Generation Kplus” (a category for films about children and young people). For ages 18+: Some coarse language.
The DVD’s accompanying short film is “Little Canyon” (USA, 2008) (B): The same writer and director, Olivia Silver, tells the exact same coming of age story that she went on to tell in 2012’s feature length film “Arcadia,” in this 20-minute short film, which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in 2009. All of its incidents, from a family’s cross-county road trip, and most of its dialogue were used verbatim in the later feature. It might be argued that the slender nature of the story is better served by a 20 minute treatment than it is by the later 91 minute version. And, the shorter version feels even more authentic someone, pared down to its essential core. There are a couple of interesting differences: In the short film, we see the fate of 12-year-old Greta’s inseparable companion — a stuffed rabbit named Harrison, who is a tangible emblem of the last holdout of her childhood. And, in this version, the promised swimming pool in California proves to be a mirage. There’s an entirely different cast in the short film, excepting Kendall Toole, who plays the older sister Caroline in both films. As to the rest, Tessa Allen plays Greta, Kevin Jacobsen plays the dad, and Aaron Refvem plays Nat. Very brief coarse language.
“Catfish” (USA, 2010) (B+): “When you really want something to be true, you’re willing to overlook any detail that does not agree with that.” Those words are at the heart of this marvelously unique story about the odd intersection between reality and make-believe. But, my goodness, it’s well-nigh impossible to say a thing about this film without spoiling its surprises. It is part road-trip, part mystery, part cautionary tale, and part journey of discovery into the human psyche at its most enigmatic. They say truth is stranger than fiction, and “Catfish” is, it can be revealed, more or less a documentary. But it never feels like one; rather, it plays out like something else, something that’s at once simple and mesmerizing, something that constitutes a category all its own. It starts with Yaniv “Nev” Schulman, an earnest 24-year-old photographer in New York City. In August 2007, one of his pictures appears in The New York Sun. Three months later, he receives a parcel in the mail: It contains a painting based on his photograph, and it is signed by one Abby. She is introduced by means of an emailed video as a precocious 8-year-old living in northern Michigan. Nev takes her on as a kind of artistic benefactor, encouraging Abby’s irrepressible enthusiasm for art. An innocent, well-intentioned pen-pal relationship ensues between the man and the vivacious child; letters, emails, and telephone calls are exchanged between Abby’s family and Nev, as Nev gets to know her mother, Angela, and her older sister Megan. In due course, he falls (from afar) for Megan, a gorgeous blonde singer, who has all the makings of a kindred spirit (and did we mention that she’s a knockout?). An online romance is kindled; but, it’s not all in cyberspace. They talk by phone, and she, and Abby, and Angela send Nev parcels, more paintings, pictures, and a recording of one of Megan’s songs. Filmmakers Ariel “Rel” Schulman (Nev’s brother) and Henry Joost cajole a reluctant Nev into making a documentary about these online relationships. But doubts creep into Nev’s hitherto unquestioning acceptance of what he knows about Abby and her family; and the filmmaking trio embarks upon an unannounced cross country road-trip to meet their correspondents in person. What ensues conjures a kaleidoscope of changing emotions. There’s a palpable sense of unease at one juncture: When they do a reconnaissance drive-by of Megan’s dark and lonely farm in the middle of the night, one of the young men observes that, “This place gives me the creeps.” Things get stranger, so much stranger, as these cosmopolitan big city sophisticates go outside their comfort zone and journey into a world of intricate artifice where the border between reality, illusion, and delusion melts away, leaving our travelers – and ourselves — in a state of utter, astonished bemusement. At the end of the film, someone explains that catfish are shipped with cod fish to Asia to keep the cod agile: “And there are those people who are catfish in life. And they keep you on your toes. They keep you guessing; they keep you thinking; they keep you fresh. And I thank God for the catfish. Because we’d be droll, boring, and dull if we didn’t have somebody nipping at our fin.” To say more would be telling; but discover for yourself the power of a simple real-life story to utterly engage, mystify, and fascinate. “Catfish” was nominated as Best Documentary Film by the Online Film Critics Society; and it was nominated for Best Sound by the Motion Picture Sound Editors of America. Brief sexually suggestive dialogue.
“The Girl” (USA/Mexico, 2012) (B+): Ashley works at a big-box department store in Texas; the sort of soulless place that adorns its blank-faced staff in colored aprons. She lives in a bleak trailer park; a place that suffers by comparison to the manicured, green surroundings of the foster home where Ashley’s five year old son, Georgie, has been placed by the state. Her provisional loss of custody is the result of her driving while impaired (with her son in the car); but Ashley is determined to lay blame elsewhere. She is poor and bitter and bitter about being poor: “I don’t care what anyone says. You gotta have money….” It’s not hard to see where she has gleaned those attitudes. Her truck driver father, Tommy (whom Ashley wishes would reunite with her mother, now that her mother has quit “the car-wash guy”), has found a way to supplement the money he earns by hauling freight across the U.S./Mexico border: He’s started carrying some illicit cargo, in the form of illegal immigrants. This is blue-collar America; and it’s a distinctly unpretty corner of it, at that. Ashley is sullen, resentful, and irresponsible: She wants her son back, but she’s not doing him (or herself) any favors by nursing resentment against all and sundry. Her life’s as disorderly and neglected as the home she sulkily describes as a “box.” Full of self-pity, she sees herself as a victim — of life, of circumstance, of other peoples’ indifference — and she’s developing an idée fixe that her impecuniousness is the root of all her problems: “You find a poor person in Texas who doesn’t have the same problems as me.” It’s little wonder, then, that she suddenly decides to follow in her father’s footsteps by embarking, out of the blue, upon a little impromptu human smuggling of her own. The suddenness of Ashley’s ad hoc plunge into a life of cross-border crime puts some strains on the story’s credibility; but we go along with it, more or less, because it is presented as a crime of opportunity. Ashley certainly hasn’t thought the whole thing out: Her first venture proves to be her last; it goes badly wrong, and she finds herself as the unwilling custodian of a young girl, Rosa, who has been separated from her mother as a result of Ashley’s ineptitude. Her first, second, and third instincts are to ditch the child: “It ain’t my fault your mama didn’t hold onto you.” And Ashley’s father urges her to do just that: (T) “Oh boy. She’s not going to let go. Before you know it, you’re going to be her… damn mother. Once they get hold of you… You’re going to spend the rest of your life taking care of that little girl. You walk away. You don’t look back…. You drop her at the corner.” (A) “Is that how you do it?” (T) You’re damn right. You can’t worry about the whole world…. You gotta think about yourself.” That exchange speaks volumes about these characters, because, in effect, it encapsulates Tommy’s own lifetime of imputed neglect of Ashley. It also touches upon the nicely understated racism that peeks into the story from time to time: Tommy lives with a Mexican woman, yet he calls the little girl, Rosa, a “wetback.” More subtly, Ashley has a thoughtless confidence that seems born of national or racial superiority, when she pushes her way to the front of a queue at a Mexican shelter or recklessly drinks (and flirts) with Mexican men in a low-end bar. Perhaps it doesn’t occur to her that she is unsafe, because, after all, she is an American, while they are just Mexicans, even poorer than herself. But Tommy’s words are most meaningful in their harsh admonition to “think of yourself,” for that is precisely what Ashley has always done — until now. Slowly, bit by bit, Ashley comes to bond with the child; and what she first regards as a bitterly unwelcome intrusion (doing the right thing by this little girl) gradually transforms into a sense of a freely accepted duty. It’s a transformative character arc that sees Ashley take responsibility — for her own actions and for the welfare of another person — for what may very well be the first time in her life. When, late in the film, Ashley, turns and sees herself reflected in a framed mirror, is she seeing herself for the first time? Or is she seeing herself transformed? Has she acquired heightened self-awareness, or objectivity, or a new-found emotional maturity and calm, or all of those things at once? For the first time, she tells the truth — to Rosa and to herself — about the reasons she lost custody of her son, “I guess I didn’t take care of him the way a mother should.” It’s a sad moment, but also a healthy one, because Ashley has become a mature, responsible adult — by acknowledging her own mistakes and by putting the needs of another above her own. It’s a lovely performance by Australian actress Abbie Cornish (“Somersault,” “A Good Year,” and “Bright Star”), who facially resembles Charlize Theron in this role. She plays a woman who’s not particularly likeable at the beginning; but she takes us with her on a redemptive journey. Tommy is played by Will Patton; and young Maritza Santiago Hernandez plays Rosa. “The Girl” was written and directed by David Riker, who also wrote this year’s documentary film “Dirty Wars.” The film won Best Film at a festival in San Antonio, Texas and was nominated as Best Film at New York’s Tribeca Film Festival. The DVD (distributed in Canada by TVA Films) boasts an eminently artful cover but (alas) no extras of any kind. For ages 18+: Brief coarse language.
“The Gatekeepers” (Israel/Germany/France/Belgium, 2012) (B+/A-): “In the war against terror, forget about morality.” So says one of the six former heads of Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service (the better known Mossad handles external intelligence), who are interviewed in this fascinating documentary. They discuss 1967′s Six Day War, which suddenly brought one million unwilling Palestinians (in the Occupied Territories of the West Bank and Gaza) under Israeli military rule; the Lebanon War in 1982, and the First and Second Intifadas, in which, they say, “a nation rose up and tried to launch a revolution to kick us out.” The surprising thing is that most or all of these important figures from Israel’s long quest to secure its security and the safety of its citizens now believe that it was (and is) a grave mistake not to talk seriously with the Palestinians about peace and to find a way to detach the Occupied Territories from Israel. One says he agrees with one Professor Leibowitz, an early Israeli critic of the Occupation, who wrote, in 1968 that, “A state ruling over a population of one million foreigners will necessarily become a Shin Bet state, with all that implies for education, freedom of speech and thought and democracy. The corruption found in every colonial regime will affix itself to the State of Israel. The administration will have to suppress an Arab uprising on the one hand and recruit Quislings, or Arab traitors, on the other.” As one of the Shin Bet sextet says, there is no alternative to talking (and making) peace; but, “You can’t make peace using military means. Peace must be built on a system of trust.” Instead, as the six point out, Israeli regimes of all political stripes have continued the same policies — of ignoring the Palestinians and either tacitly accepting or openly promoting the creation and enlargement of Israeli settlements on occupied territories: “What’s the difference between Golda Meir and Begin? Nothing. He didn’t visit the Arabs. She didn’t either.” Erecting settlements on occupied land makes the achievement of a peace agreement infinitely harder; and they cater to the views of the right-wing branch of Israel’s political spectrum, whose radical fringe demonized and assassinated Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin for his tangible efforts to make peace with the Palestinians: “Some punk of an assassin [a Jewish radical], with a pistol that could barely shoot, could eliminate hope, an entire peace process. He could change everything.” Those of similar ilk plotted to blow up the Muslim ‘Dome of the Rock’ in Jerusalem; they were apprehended by Shin Bet, and some were convicted, but all were granted clemency by the government — for planning an act of terror that would probably have precipitated all-out war against Israel by the Muslim world. These men talk about the cycle of revenge, a succession of tit for tat strikes that have no end. They mourn the loss the Israel they once knew, a nation that has been supplanted by one torn by venomous internal division and extremism. They note that at one time in their organization’s not so distant past, “There was no such concept as an illegal order.” They talk about collateral damage: How many innocents and bystanders is it acceptable to kill to eliminate a wanted target? Are targeted assassinations moral? Are they effective? The answers these men — who have engaged in such activities — give will surprise you? And they ask, ‘where do such tactics end?’ If it is deemed justifiable to kill the man who comes to kill you, what about the man (or woman or adolescent) at the furthest end of the chain of causality — the man who simply preaches the idea that inspires the man who comes to kill you? Such questions matter in Israel; but they matter just as urgently in the West. Since 9/11, we, too, have invaded and occupied the territory of perceived enemies; we have used brutal methods to fight insurgencies; and we have inflicted dire “collateral damage,” including countless deaths of innocents. As one of the six points out, the Americans dropped a bomb on a wedding in Afghanistan, killing 70 people “and no one knows if the [intended] target was killed.” Targeted assassination by drone attack has become a routine part of Western policy and practice, vastly accelerating under a president who was (perversely) awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Our governments covertly eavesdrop not just on suspected terrorists, but on everyone else — all of us. They imprison suspected enemies indefinitely without charge or trial. And they create an unending supply of new enemies by using the very tactics most likely to inflame hatred and extremism. For some of Israel’s most intransigent foes, the concept of “victory” has become so degraded that it now means simply “to see you suffer.” It’s a bleak, nihilistic objective born of hopelessness: It is the same noxious mental arithmetic that purports to “justify” the unjustifiable deployment of suicide-bombers against innocent Israeli civilians — on the grounds that ‘Israel has fighter jets, and tanks; but we have suicide-bombers.’ The stark issues that face Israel also face the rest of us: In part, they have to do with “‘the banality of evil’… Suddenly, the processes become a kind of conveyor belt. You ask yourself less and less where to stop.” Will our legitimate desire for security continue to serve as an all-purpose rationale for massive human rights abuses and the incremental erosion of freedom, in Israel, or in the West? One of the film’s interviewees is pessimistic: “The future is bleak. It’s dark, the future… It’s a very negative truth that we acquired… I’m afraid to say it…. We’ve become cruel, to ourselves as well, but mainly to the occupied population, using the excuse of the war against terror.” The film uses gripping visuals from wars, uprisings, and targeted assassinations (we get a bombadier’s viewfinder perspective before the missiles incinerate targets on the ground). And in one arresting sequence, the use of sound effects and camera movement creates the impression of a still photograph transforming into a live reel of an unfolding event (the apprehension of a hijacker who was later beaten to death off-camera). Directed by Dror Moreh, “The Gatekeepers” was nominated as Best Feature-Length Documentary at the Academy Awards (giving “Searching for Sugar Man” a run for its money). The U.S. National Board of Review named it as one of the year’s Top Five Documentaries. And it won the Cinema for Peace Award in Germany. The result is utterly arresting, thought-provoking, and timely. DVD extras include a director’s commentary and a Q&A with the director.
“Midnight‘s Children” (Canada/U.K., 2012) (B): “A child and a country were born at midnight once upon a time. Great things were expected of us both. The truth has been less glorious than the dream. But we have survived and made our way; and our lives have been, in spite of everything, acts of love.” With a story that opens in Kashmir in 1917, some 30 years before the birth of its central protagonist, and follows three generations of a family into the 1970′s, “Midnight‘s Children” is simultaneously the journey of one human being and of the country with which his identity and fate are intertwined. The film is based on Salman Rushdie’s 1980 novel, an acclaimed work that propelled its author to fame and earned the prestigious Booker Prize in 1981. It went on to win “The Best of the Booker Prize” twice — in 1993 and again in 2008. It’s a story with epic sweep, touching upon the decline of an empire, the birth of a nation, its bitter sectarian division into two, then three parts, and the wars, assassinations, pogroms, and injustices that accompanied those events. But it’s as much a story about birth as it is about death, and it celebrates hope even in the face of disappointment and despair. It’s full of color, joie de vivre and wonderful humor. Canadian director Deepa Mehta (known for 1996′s “Fire,” 1998′s “Earth,” and 2005′s “Water”) has assembled a fine cast and gorgeous locations for a story about a young man, Saleem Sinai, who is deliberately switched as a newborn infant for another baby, and given to a wealthy family, without their knowledge, while their actual offspring is given to a very poor man whose wife died delivering Saleem. But Saleem has identity issues even before he learns, years later, what happened in the maternity ward: “I had many families and no family…. I wandered among them all.” For he can hear voices in his head and ultimately see visions of other children from across the Indian subcontinent: He dubs them “midnight’s children,” those who were born on the stroke of midnight on August 14, 1947, the moment that also heralded India’s birth as an independent nation. And Saleem discovers that each of those children has been blessed with an extraordinary, often supernatural, gift. (One of them, Parvati, is a magician; when her path and Saleem’s finally cross in the tangible world, the pair become love interests.) Steeped in the atmosphere of magic-realism, the film makes very restrained use of outright magic. Indeed, the one section of the film that ventures the furthest from realism, depicting a national state of emergency invoked by Indira Gandhi that was used to cloak severe human rights abuses, including (in the story) an attempt to eradicate these special children, is the least successful, least coherent section of the film, however (heavy handedly) allegorical the intent there may be: “Who were we? We were the promises of independence…. And, like all promises, made to be broken.” It’s also a shame that the story abandons its early account of Saleem’s grandfather so abruptly. Once Saleem appears on the scene, we hear no more of the grandfather, the doctor whose story opens the film, and very little more about Saleem’s three aunts, one of whom is Saleem’s (unwittingly adoptive) mother. It’s surprising, too, that Saleem’s alter ego cum nemesis, Shiva, the boy with whom he was switched at birth, is never developed as a fully realized character: He’s left as a figure of bitterness, cynicism, and menace — at one point coming across as a motorcycle-driving horseman of the apocalypse. Novelist Rushdie does double-duty in the film, writing the screenplay and giving voice to the wry, ironic narrator. There is irony aplenty in the story: Saleem survives a bomb blast that claims those close to him, only to be brained by a flying silver spittoon, later awakening from the ensuing protracted coma just in time to be conscripted for a war. But the prevailing tone here is playful and even joyous. It’s a story about surviving deep disappointment and loss and never losing hope. On the down side, the subtitles are inexplicably tiny; fortunately, most of the film is in English. “Midnight’s Children” was nominated for eight Canadian Screen Awards (including Best Film), winning in two of those categories, for Adapted Screenplay and Supporting Actress (Seema Biswas, who plays the maternity ward nurse whose impulsive act has such profound consequences). The film was also nominated as Best Film at the London Film Festival. DVD extras include a director’s commentary, deleted scenes, a behind the scenes featurette, a look at the novel’s Booker Prize success, and the trailer. Brief violence and very brief partial nudity.
“The Intouchables” ["Intouchables"] (France, 2011) (B+): When the wealthy quadriplegic Phillipe (Francois Cluzet) interviews applicants for the position of caregiver, a hotheaded man from the housing projects bursts into the opulent interview room: He’s impatient with waiting, and all he really wants is a signature to prove that he applied for a job so he can qualify for social assistance benefits. But there’s something about his irreverent, no-nonsense, ‘calling things as he sees them’ demeanor that appeals to Phillipe. Without even wanting the job, Driss (Omar Sy) gets it, making a stunning transition from homelessness to living in palatial surroundings in the blink of an eye. What ensues is an amusing, often endearing, head-on collision of cultures and personalities. Driss is poor, black, and sometimes on the wrong side of the law. When the name Berlioz comes up, for example, one man is referencing the 19th century composer, the other means the bleak housing project that bears his name. Driss is all earthy vitality — he is the unpolished, polar opposite of stuffiness. When Phillipe arranges a taste of classical music for Driss, Driss associates the famous pieces with the contexts in which he has encountered them before — everything from “Tom and Jerry” cartoons to television commercials. Then, he returns the favor with a rendition of “Earth, Wind, and Fire,” complete with his own dance interpretation. And Driss knows how to liven up the normally deadly staid annual gathering of Phillipe’s relatives. More than that, he brings fun into Phillipe’s life, helping him to “breathe a little,” as Phillipe puts it. An unconventional friendship develops between the two men: “[You] seem kind of jinxed. The accident, the wheelchair, your wife. Sounds like the Kennedys… [You're] used to tragedy, but I’m not.” They differ in temperament, social class, material wealth, and skin tone, but each has valuable lessons for the other — in a Gallic twinning of “The Odd Couple” and “Driving Miss Daisy.” Phillipe loosens up and learns to laugh at things he once took too seriously, while Driss becomes more responsible and, well, more civilized, through their friendship. The result is not subtle — one might even say it is rather heavy-handedly manipulative — but it’s hard to fault it for that when it works. The writer/director collaborators Eric Toledano and Olivier Nakache have fashioned an unapologetic crowd-pleaser, based on a true story (we see the real men in the end credits), that blends humor and sentiment to pleasing effect. Omar Sy won Best Actor at France’s Cesar Awards, where the film was nominated in eight other categories, including Best Actor (for Cluzet), Film, and Director. It won Best European Film at Italy’s David di Donatello Awards and at Spain’s Goya Awards; it got four nominations at the European Film Awards (including Best Film and Actor); it was nominated as Best Foreign Language Film at the Golden Globes; and the U.S. National Board of Review named it as one of the Top Five Foreign Language Films of its year. DVD extras consist of nine deleted scenes — all of them worth seeing. For ages 18+: Some coarse language.
“Quartet” (U.K., 2012) (B): Retired opera singers and musicians plan a gala fundraising concert of music by Verdi to bolster the finances of their posh, but struggling, retirement home. The interesting thing about Dustin Hoffman’s directorial debut is that all of the supporting players actually are retired opera singers and musicians; in many cases they are figures of considerable renown, as the end titles reveal. And, come to that, they aren’t all retired either: Dame Gwyneth Jones, who was 76 years old when this film was made, was still actively touring as an operatic singer, and she delivers a strong solo near the film’s end. The film is the latest in a new subgenre about older people, following in the footsteps of 2011′s “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” and the 2011 film from France “And If We All Lived Together?” Each of those films had serious things to say about the trials and tribulations of aging but said those things with humor and charm and a talented ensemble cast. “Quartet” boasts all those elements in abundance, with the great Maggie Smith (of “Downton Abbey,” “A Room With A View,” and “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”) as an operatic diva who mourns past glories, Tom Courtenay (“Little Dorrit,” “Doctor Zhivago,” & “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner”) as the man who never got over loving (and losing) her, Scottish comedian Billy Connolly (“Mrs Brown” & “Brave”) as a would-be rake, who says precisely whatever is on his mind, propriety be damned, when he’s not shamelessly pursuing young women, Pauline Collins (“Albert Nobbs,” “City of Joy,” and “Shirley Valentine”) as a good-hearted woman whose short term memory is starting to fail, and the great Michael Gambon (“The King’s Speech,” “Gosford Park,” and most of the “Harry Potter” movies) as the imperious producer of the fundraising show, a man who wears only kaftans, like those favored by the artist Gustav Klimt. There are rivalries, past transgressions, and personality clashes — but, most of all, there are artistic temperaments dealing with the indignities of being past their artistic prime. It’s all served up with whimsy and good humor: Their retirement house is named after Thomas Beecham, one of Britain’s greatest conductors: “Yes, I know who he was. He inherited a fortune. His grandfather made laxatives. Naming a nursing home after him is frighteningly apt.” Yet none of these characters is likely to go quietly into the night. As Connolly’s earthy, irreverent character (who immodestly proclaims himself “the most attractive man in the place”) says, “I read somewhere that the average man thinks of sex every seven seconds… I wish it were only every seven seconds.” Sheridan Smith (2011′s “Hysteria”) also makes an impression as the home’s lovely and endlessly patient resident physician. One curious choice in the film is to deny us ever seeing the quartet performance that drives the story; but then, the four performers concerned are not actually singers. (We hear Pavarotti et al. filling in for Smith & Company on the audio track.) “Quartet” is based on the play by Ronald Harwood, who also wrote the screenplay. It’s a fairly simple premise; what elevates it is the caliber of its cast. They bring charm, wit, humanity, and moments of vulnerability to a story about people facing the relentless decline of fame, fortune, and physical well-being with verve and humor. The film was nominated for Best Actress (Maggie Smith) at the Golden Globes and for Best Supporting Actor (Billy Connolly) at the British Independent Film Awards. It was named to the list of 2012′s Top Ten Independent Films by the U.S. National Board of Review. DVD extras include six brief featurettes, and a very interesting commentary by Dustin Hoffman. At age 74, he can relate to the characters in his film: “The cloud that hangs over all these people… That is their mortality. They’ve reached an age now where they can see the end of the tunnel.” For ages 18+: Brief coarse language.
“Poulet aux Prunes” ["Chicken with Plums"] (France/Germany/Belgium, 2011) (B): “You were so shattered that your heart turned to stone. You no longer let the breath of life enter you… You renounced life. There is nothing worse than giving up on life! Nothing!” Nasser-Ali (Mathieu Amalric) is in despair over the destruction of his beloved violin, an instrument which was his only solace for the loss of the woman he loved and which propelled him to international fame as an acclaimed violinist: “Since no violin would ever again give him the pleasure of playing, Nasser-Ali decided to die.” And so, he takes to his bed and waits for death to come to him. His story is told by a narrator, whom we ultimately learn is Azrael, the Angel of Death, and this dryly comedic theater of the absurd is described in seemingly serious fashion, without any overt irony. But irony is there all right, in a quirky, offbeat story that’s part parable and part straight-faced comedy. It seems that Nasser-Ali met the woman of his dreams in the person of Irane (Golshifteh Farahani). But their love is derailed by her disapproving father: “I know passion. It comes as fast as it goes! The reality of life is very different!” Irane fears that choosing Nasser-Ali would kill her father; instead, by heeding her pater’s injunction, her choice effectively
kills Nasser-Ali — in slow stages. He marries Faringuisse (Maria de Medeiros), a much younger woman who has loved him all her life. But Nasser-Ali is unable or unwilling to return her love, and their life together has become embittered and vituperative. It is Faringuisse who smashes his cherished violin. She’s an angry scold much of the time; but Medeiros gets a chance to reveal another dimension to this woman scorned in a lovely, touching scene in which Faringuisse shows the gentle and loving qualities that have been so blighted by rejection and unhappiness. There is humor here, as in the boisterous misbehavior of Nasser-Ali’s son that makes an inter-city trip by bus a sheer misery for fellow travelers. And sometimes the ever-so-dry humor is decidedly iconoclastic, as in Nasser-Ali’s neglectful disdain for his obnoxious child and his apparent readiness to temporarily quell the child’s antics with the opium-doused milk proffered by the flamboyant seller of curiosities (is he a huckster or a magician?) to whom Nasser-Ali has journeyed (with, very reluctantly, son in hand) in search of a Stradivarius — the “marvel of marvels.” But there is also wisdom about love, about art, and about lives ruined on the shoals of a quest for the ever-elusive “perfect” when steering a course instead for “the good” might have brought them to safe harbor and happiness. While still a student of music, Nasser-Ali is told that he has technique, but not art: “For it is through art that we understand life…. Life is a breath, life is a sigh. It is this sigh that you must seize.” When his heart is broken by thwarted love, Nasser-Ali’s mentor tells him to sublimate that unbearable pain into his art: “You see, my child, from now on, the love that you have lost will be in each note you play. She will be your breath and your sigh. This love is precious, because it is eternal.” Do we take responsibility for our own fates or blame others? Nasser-Ali seems prone to the latter, assailing Faringuisse for all that ails him: “I’ve lost the taste, the joy, the savor.” He’s overtly referring to food, but he means life. “All by your fault. I will never forgive you.” Yet his inability to understand and empathize with Faringuisse’s own distress — distress for which he is largely responsible — locks Nasser-Ali in a self-built prison cell girt with looming adamantine walls of self-pity, bitterness, and resentment. Forgiving her and Irane is just too intimately connected with acknowledging his own culpability. C.S. Lewis once warned that it is important that we resist the temptation to regard ourselves as the central players in a great tragedy, lest we lose all perspective and humility in the process. As someone in this film observes, “My coming brought no prophet to the sky; nor does my going swell its majesty.” Written and directed by Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paromaud, “Poulet aux Prunes” is based on Satrapi’s graphic novel, as was 2007′s beautiful film “Persepolis.” Unlike that earlier film, this one employs live actors rather than animation. “Poulet aux Prunes” was nominated for the Golden Lion (Best Film) at the Venice International Film Festival. The story’s offbeat eccentricity appeals, and its cast (which includes Isabella Rossellini) acquit themselves very well; but, somehow, the film falls short of its potential, leaving a feeling of the inchoate rather than fully satisfying the viewer. Still, it’s hard not to like a story that opens, rather like a tale told by Scheherazade, with the cryptic invocation: “There was someone, there was no one. That is how Persian tales begin. Yeki boud, yeki naboud.”
“Life of Pi” (USA/Taiwan, 2012) (B+/A-): “Above all, don’t lose hope.” Those are words to live by, as the sole survivor of a shipwreck at sea learns. Did we say sole survivor? Well, initially, 18-year old Pi Patel (Suraj Sharma) has to share his lifeboat with a zebra, an orangutan, a hyena, and a Bengal tiger. Soon, only Pi and the tiger remain; and the tiger sees Pi as its next meal. For the film, adapted from the book by Canadian novelist Yann Martel, does not flinch from depicting the savage ferocity of animal predation. They may be lost at sea; but the law of the jungle is still very much in force. And yet Pi never loses hope. On the contrary, when he finally has the advantage — with himself in the boat and the tiger (whom he calls Richard Parker) in the sea — the logical thing for him to do is to let the tiger perish. Instead, Pi chooses to save it, giving value to its life even though it craves to take his. Ironically, his moral (and religious) choice to honor even hostile life ends up saving his own: “Without Richard Parker, I would have died by now. My fear of him keeps me alert. Tending to his needs gives my life purpose.” Films that deal overtly with philosophical, moral, and religious issues are few and far between. This one is all about man’s place in the universe, our perch midway between the natural world and the transcendent, between what is mortal and what is eternal. In one scene, the ocean becomes the cloud-filled sky, as the one reflects the other in the yellow light of dawn on the completely still surface of the sea. In another scene, at night, the sea is aglow with phosphorescence; then, an immense whale breaches, as if in slow motion. It is a magical moment for man and beast; but the transcendental comes at price — the turbulence overturns Pi’s raft and scatters his essential supplies. Later, swarms of flying fish hurl toward the travelers like aquatic kamikazees, with bigger fish in pursuit. The vegetarian Pi has to eat fish, and raw fish at that. But he is moved to tears, for the fish, the first time he has to kill one in order to survive: “I’m sorry,” he cries out to the fish. Pi comes to see Richard Parker as a fellow orphan: “Maybe [he] can’t be tamed, but with God’s will, he can be trained.” One still, dark, and silent night, after the inauguration of their uneasy truce, the tiger sits in the stern of the boat, his back to Pi, gazing into the infinite darkness of the sky. Then the tiger looks down into the deeps of the sea that lies beneath them. There, a giant squid attaches itself to a whale; their life and death struggle morphs into a vision of all the land animals that had been aboard the sunken freighter as they sink into the dark reaches of the deep. That tableau is succeeded by a psychedelic phantasmagoria of faces and images — a waking dream that maybe beast and boy have shared: “Words are all I have left to hang onto.” Night dreams, day-dreams, and reality are all blurred together. In a raging storm, Pi is suddenly euphoric: “Praise be to God… Come out Richard Parker. Come out. You have to see this. It’s beautiful. Don’t hide yourself. He’s come to us. It’s a miracle! Come out and see God.” And, addressing the storm above, Pi puts his fate into the hands of the divine, “I’ve lost everything. I surrender.” When he is close to death, Pi faces that prospect with humility, peace, and acceptance: “God, thank you for giving me my life. I’m ready now.” When they reach a place of seemingly idyllic respite, a place furnished with fresh water and sustenance (edible plants for Pi; countless meerkats for the tiger), Pi realizes that its gifts, too, come at a price. When boy and tiger finally part, it comes as heartbreakingly unceremonious to Pi: “I suppose the whole of life becomes an act of letting go. But what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye.” In the end, Pi tells his astonishing tale to a writer, but he also offers a simpler, more mundane, alternative account. Which story do we prefer? The one that intermingles the extraordinary and the transcendent; or the prosaic one that’s easier to believe but devoid of magic? Directed by Ang Lee, “Life of Pi” is a powerful work of the imagination and a testimony to the power of storytelling. As beautiful to look at as it is poetically reflective about life and our place in it, the film attracted many nominations and awards. To cite only a few examples: It was named Movie of the Year by the American Film Institute (AFI). It won Best Director, Cinematography, Original Score, and Visual Effects at the Academy Awards, where it was also nominated in seven other categories, including Best Film. And it was nominated as Best Film and Director at the Golden Globes, where it won Best Score. Extras (available on Blu-ray only) include three featurettes, an art gallery, and storyboards; but, sadly, no commentary. The film has some disturbing content.
“Don’t Tell” ["La Bestia nel Cuore"] (Italy/U.K./Spain/France, 2005) (B): “A scar is an indelible mark, but it’s not an illness.” We are all marked by our experiences, for good or ill. And when our experiences harm us, sometimes the scars that remain never fully heal. So it is for Sabina (the beautiful Giovanna Mezzogiorno of 2003′s “Facing Windows”). On its face, life seems to be good for her: She works as a voice-over actress dubbing foreign language films into Italian; she’s in love with her partner Franco (Alessio Boni); and she has good friends. But, she is also having nightmares, suffering a vague sense of unease, and pulling away from Franco. And her past is a blank. Sabina has no concrete memories of her deceased parents or her childhood, “not even of the house, as if it never existed… Even their death. It’s so unreal. I wonder how I just erased them this way.” But, we gradually come to realize, along with Sabina, that there is a reason why she “erased” her past: It is just too painful to remember. There are little clues along the way: The first film we see her dubbing depicts a woman being sexually assaulted. And, later, Sabina flinches when Franco tries to touch her. Her emotional turmoil has prompted her to visit her beloved brother Daniele (Luigi Lo Cascio) in America; and she voices her concern to Franco that he will be unfaithful to her while she’s away, citing the recent desertion of her friend by a faithless spouse: “You’re just like them,” she harshly accuses Franco, “When you have a h***-on, you need to f***, with anyone.” The operative words there are, “just like them.” Without knowing it on a conscious level, Sabina is including her father in that condemnation, for, we learn, her father sexually abused Sabina and her brother when they were children. That trauma has left Daniele unable to express emotion, or even to hug his young son; and it has left Sabina (who is pregnant by Franco) with a newly emergent suspicion of men. Her suppressed memories of what happened to her in childhood — her father’s direct culpability and her mother’s no less damaging failure to intervene — are suddenly coming to the fore, and they are threatening to break Sabina: “How can we blend a secret like ours into normal peoples’ lives? We can’t.” Sabina’s journey into the locked recesses of her past — and the growing turbulence her past trauma creates in her life in the present — is complimented by several subplots. One involves Franco. Will he be unfaithful, as Sabina divined, especially with the eager prompting of a young actress (Francesca Inaudi’s Anita) at work? Then there are Sabina’s two closest friends. Emilia (Stefania Rocca) is a childhood friend, who was stricken by blindness as they grew up. Now she sits alone in a gloomy apartment, working on a loom, and pining (sexually and romantically) for Sabina, a love that can never be requited in the way she desires. And then there’s Maria (Angela Finocchiaro), an otherwise no-nonsense older friend who is distraught and embittered by the sudden desertion of the husband who left her for a much younger woman. Knowing that she will be away and therefore unable to provide her two friends with the close emotional support and company they need, Sabina contrives to bring those two friends together. The unusual relationship that results brings about an unexpected transformation in each of the women that is quite engaging and also endearingly funny. Meanwhile, the mercurial television director (played by Giuseppe Battiston) for whom Franco works transforms from a rather farcical figure into a rather wise and tender one. The interest generated by these supporting characters and secondary plot-lines is a real strength of the film, all the more so because they add very different tones (including humor and unconventional romance) to its emotional palette. There are some very nice touches of subtlety in the film: When Sabina is out jogging, she passes marble statues, some of whose heads are missing — perhaps a metaphoric allusion to what’s missing from her own head? In another scene, her brother works alone in his study, just like their father used to do; the image reminds Sabina (and us) of that sinister presence in her early life, and it also (briefly) makes us worry that father and son may share less benign similarities. And there is a moment where one lover, making a bed, touches the side where the other lover (who is presently absent) normally lies, a lovely illustration of tactile memory. And we often view Sabina and Franco’s apartment through a glass wall, as if they are, on some level, actors playing roles in their own lives on a large set — perhaps casting us, the film’s viewers, as voyeurs? And, there is a subtly sexy scene when the matter of fact Maria helps the blind Emilia dress, a scene that positively sparkles with the nascent, unexpected attraction that has developed between a middle-aged straight woman and a younger lesbian one. Sabina’s story traverses an arc. She writes to Franco, saying: “I’ve realized I’m very fragile. I’ve become mistrustful of humankind, affectionate words seem phony, commitments in love, impossible.” And, as she says those words in voice-over, we ironically see Franco at the crisis point in his fidelity to Sabina. But, “Don’t Tell” is also a story about reconciling our present lives with our past, about learning to carry on, even in the midst of pain that cannot be cured: ”There are types of pain one never heals from: Ours is one of those. This doesn’t prevent us from walking with our heads high and our feet on the ground… A scar is an indelible mark, not an illness. We can take back the life we thought was stolen from us, even if, to do so, we had to erase the memories of the children we were.” The result is a film that starts slowly but gains an incremental hold on our sympathies and affections as it progresses, adding, seriatim, to our investment in the characters and their highly divergent concerns. “Don’t Tell ” was written and directed by Cristina Comencini from her own novel, “La Bestia nel Cuore.” That title (of both the novel and the film) translates as “The Beast in the Heart.” Does it refer, we wonder, to the scars left by a beast’s predations, or to the beastliness that prompts horrors like child abuse, or, perhaps, to the raw wordless savagery that is left, however suppressed, in the victim’s psyche as a result of their being so grievously wounded by abuse? The film was nominated for an Academy Award as Best Foreign Language Film. At Italy’s David di Donatello Awards, it won Best Supporting Actress (Finocchiaro), and it was nominated for Best Actress, Supporting Actress again (this time for Rocca), Visual Effects, Editing, Sound, and a “Youth” category for its writer/director. And it won several awards at the Venice Film Festival, where it was nominated for the Golden Lion (Best Film). For ages 18+: Coarse language, nudity, and sexual content — all of them brief.
“Silver Linings Playbook” (USA, 2012) (B+/A-): “The world will break your heart ten ways to Sunday, that’s guaranteed. And, I can’t begin to explain that or the craziness inside myself and everyone else. But, guess what? … I think of everything everyone did for me, and I feel like a very lucky guy.” Pat (Bradley Cooper) is freshly out of an eight-month stint at a psychiatric hospital and living with his parents. He has lost his wife, his job, and his home. He is obsessed with reuniting with his estranged wife; indeed, he thinks of little else. But Pat snapped when he walked in on her and another man; and it was his violent assault on that man that got Pat into trouble in the first place. That’s when he learned that he had been going through life as “an undiagnosed bipolar,” subject to erratic mood swings and delusional “weird thinking” brought on by stress. While Pat plots to win back his ex, restraining order notwithstanding, his parents fret about his well-being and his continued eccentricities. Jacki Weaver and Robert De Niro deliver award-caliber performances as the concerned parents: Delores has to worry almost as much about her spouse as her son. Pat Sr. makes a risky living as a bookie. A football fanatic, he has been banned from the stadium of his beloved Philadelphia Eagles for fighting. And when he watches their games on television, he surrounds himself with superstitious rituals and lucky charms aimed at boosting his team’s “ju-ju.” It’s not hard to see where the son gets his obsessive-compulsive ways. Pat’s best friend Ronnie (John Ortiz) surreptitiously lines him up with his sister-in-law Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence); and an odder couple is hard to imagine. Tiffany is also living with her parents and with her own set of psychological issues, arising from the accidental death of her husband and an ensuing bout of compulsive promiscuity. Pat is given to unfiltered stream of consciousness speech. He’s a walking, talking verbal theater of the absurd, who spouts non sequiturs at dizzying intervals The moment he meets Tiffany, he asks her point-blank how her husband died and why she got fired. He blurts out whatever is on his mind, without any heed for niceties. But Tiffany gives as good as she gets: “What meds are you on?” she asks, sarcastically. It’s clear (to us) that this idiosyncratic pair is made for each other. Their exchanges are smart-alecky and iconoclastic: (P) “You have poor social skills. You have a problem.” (T) “I have a problem? You say more inappropriate things than appropriate things. You scare people.” (P) “I tell the truth.” But Tiffany needs a partner for a dance competition she has entered, and she secures the cooperation of a very reluctant Pat by promising to smuggle a letter from him to his estranged wife. Though he’d be loathe to admit it, Pat soon comes to enjoy their time together — and the company of a woman who is as unconventional as himself. Maybe this increasingly meaningful contact with another wounded soul will do him more good than all the self-affirmations he learned in the hospital: “I’m gonna take all this negativity and I’m gonna find a silver lining. That’s what I’m gonna do.” In a film that is full of good performances, Chris Tucker is very amusing as Pat’s manic friend Danny; Anupan Kher plays a psychotherapist who shares Pat’s family’s fondness for football; Julia Stiles appears as Tiffany’s condescending sister; and Shea Whighan plays the brother with whom Pat has often felt under-appreciated in comparison. “Silver Linings Playbook” is a thoroughly engaging blend of comedy, romance, and moments of real poignancy. The film’s sassy dialogue is reminiscent of the “screwball comedies” of the 1930s. It’s about people who don’t ‘fit in’ finding a niche in the world in which they can succeed and be happy. Written and directed by David O. Russell, from the novel by Matthew Quick, “Silver Linings Playbook” earned a multitude of nominations and awards. To cite a few examples, it won Best Actress at the Academy Awards, where it was also nominated as Best Film, Actor, Supporting Actor, Supporting Actress, Director, Adapted Screenplay, and Editing. The American Film Institute named it Movie of the Year. At the
Independent Spirit Awards, it won Best Feature, Director, Female Lead, and Screenplay, and it was nominated for Male Lead. It won the People’s Choice Award at TIFF; and, it won Best Actress at the Golden Globes, where it was also nominated as Best Comedy Film, Actor, and Screenplay. A couple of the DVD extras (Bradley Cooper fooling around with a steady-cam and some dance rehearsal footage) are brief and pointless; but the other two extras are more substantive and worthwhile. A 28 minute featurette explores the desire of the novelist and director to make mental health accessible: “I wanted people who might be feeling alone to feel less alone,” says novelist Matthew Quick. The director wanted to tell a story “that would allow [those with mental health challenges] to feel like [they’re] part of the world.” The film’s humor breaks down our defenses and gives an entree to people we might otherwise never take the trouble to get to know and understand. As someone says, destigmatizing starts with understanding. The 26 minutes worth of deleted scenes are welcome opportunity to spend a little more time with these characters: “The feeling inside, whatever it is — sadness, pain, loneliness, heartache — it’s trapped inside like a caged animal. That’s what makes you effing crazy.” For ages 18+: Coarse language.
“A Moi Seule” ["Coming Home"] (France, 2012) (B+): When she is just ten years old, Gaelle (played by Margot Couture at age ten) is abducted by a stranger. Vincent (Reda Kateb of 2009′s “A Prophet” and 2012′s “Zero Dark Thirty”) never molests her sexually; but he keeps her captive for eight years. He locks her in a basement apartment by day while he is at work and lets her up into the house itself by night. The only contact Gaelle has with another human being is her strange, nocturnal life with Vincent. And he scarcely interacts with anyone but her. The first words he says to her are, “I’ll never touch you. I’ll be nice. You can have everything you want.” And, for the most part, he is an unexpectedly gentle captor. The subject of sex never comes up, until, in her 17th year, Gaelle (now played by lead Agathe Bonitzer) herself raises the subject; and, even then, it is not at all clear that anything sexual actually takes place between the two. On the contrary, their platonic relationship seems almost to be that of a surrogate parent and child. He cooks for her and buys her books and music and even eyeglasses. She reads to him. On occasion, he flies into rages (demanding that Gaelle not “glare” at him), but Gaelle learns how to cajole and sway Vincent. He takes her for drives and walks at night; and he sounds more like an exasperated parent than a kidnapper: “We finish this. We eat. You do your homework. Then you relax.” Even though it is a skewed inversion of normalcy; something like interpersonal closeness and friendship develops between the two. But we never forget that, appearances notwithstanding, Gaelle is a prisoner. The one thing she cannot have is her freedom. Even when she seems resigned to, and perhaps even content with, her life with Vincent, Gaelle never gives up the desire to be free. And one day, he lets her go. As she runs off, she pauses at the bottom of the driveway and looks back, as if in hesitation. But what is she running to? Her old life has been shattered, and so has part of her psyche: “I’m crazy too…. Otherwise, I’d have killed myself ages ago,” she tells the psychiatrist (Helene Fillieres) who is trying to help her heal. The strain of Gaelle’s disappearance has broken the marriage of her parents (Noemie Lvovsky and Jacques Bonaffe). Her father sits up all night, and sleeps very little: “I shut myself away in here,” he says. “Just like me,” observes Gaelle, who has led a similarly confined and nocturnal existence. Her mother, who has never given up hope of getting Gaelle back, finds herself troubled by guilt and unable to easily relate to the young woman who has come back in the place of the little girl who was taken from her: “It’s a bit awkward. We need a little time.” To spare her daughter the intrusive gaze of the reporters waiting outside, she cautions Gaelle not to show herself in the window; and, at the sanitarium where she is being treated, Gaelle finds her nocturnal ramblings stopped by locked doors: Those restraints are echoes of her long captivity. Flashbacks develop Gaelle’s life with Vincent. When he is very late returning home one night, she fears he has been killed in an accident and that she will be abandoned in the basement: “Someone please come for me,” she prays. “I don’t want to die in here.” When he does get home, Gaelle angrily tells Vincent that she wishes he would die and that she could be there to see it. “Where else would you be?,” he calmly responds. Vincent is unexpectedly quiet and almost passive with Gaelle most of the time — even when she holds a kitchen knife to him. The implication is that there is a genuine, mutual, meaningful connection between the pair, however glaringly wrong the circumstances are that have precipitated that relationship. Vincent’s last words to Gaelle make that connection explicit: “We have been happy, I know it. You know it, too, if you’re honest.” Or, is whatever Gaelle may (or may not) feel toward Vincent just a kind of ‘Stockholm syndrome,’ wherein the captive comes to identify with the captor? Gaelle had earlier told Vincent that she would never feel love for him. Is it true? The film is ambiguous on the subject. It’s a strange relationship, one that begins in the abduction of a child — an act of unspeakable repugnance — and it persists through years of involuntary captivity. That Vincent is mostly kind to Gaelle does not ameliorate the acute wrongfulness of him keeping her in captivity, obviously; but the mutually dependent nature of their relationship and the very real possibility that something like friendship and affection develops between them, despite the terrible circumstances, is most unexpected. And there’s a real poignancy to Gaelle’s alienation from the world of normalcy once she finally finds her way back to it: “Home is not my home anymore,” she says to a stranger on a train who is kind to her. (Marie Payen makes a strong impression as that kind stranger.) There are a couple of puzzling, hard to fathom moments, to wit: two or three scenes shot in near darkness, and an inchoate, under-developed scene of Vincent’s awkward attempt to socialize with a colleague from work. But, writer/director Frederic Videau has fashioned a quietly fascinating, low-key meditation on the human need to make connections, even with those who have done us wrong, the unquenchable need to be free, and the ways our past can alter our lives forever. Florent Marchet contributes a good score. A translation of the film’s French title, “A Moi Seule,” would seem to be “For Me Only.” One can only ponder the implications of that title, as opposed to the prosaic English title, “Coming Home,” selected by the filmmakers or their distributors. “A Moi Seule” won an ‘Art House Cinema’ award at the Berlin Film Festival, where it was also nominated for the Golden Bear (Best Film). For ages 18+: Some coarse language.
“Game of Thrones” Season 2 (USA, 2012) (B+): The five lengthy books (at least two more are planned) that comprise novelist George R.R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” series defied conventional cinematic adaptation: With numerous characters, far flung locations (everything from deserts to great cities to a wintry wasteland), and complex plots, each of the books is simply too long and too involved to fit into the confines of even a three hour movie. HBO’s answer to the challenge was an ongoing series, with ten episodes each year for each of the novels. And the producers have admirably met the challenge of producing a handsome, sprawling series within a television series’ finite budget. Location filming in the coastal city of Dubrovnik (which managed to survive the violent disintegration of Yugoslavia with much of its medieval charm intact), in Malta, and in Iceland lends beauty and verisimilitude to a series that is set in the invented world of Westeros. The mostly British cast brings considerable gravitas to the characterizations, and they are aided by fine scripting, and by a first-rate musical score by Ramin Djawadi. (The original soundtrack recordings for seasons one and two are available on CD from Varese Sarabande, distributed in Canada by Outside Music.) “Game of Thrones” is ‘fantasy,’ but it is a very gritty kind of fantasy that uses its fantastical elements (like baby dragons) very sparingly. Its world is one of knights, clashing kingdoms, and a lethal preternatural menace that lurks on the other side of an immense wall of ice in the north. Downfall and death can come without warning in the series — even to prominent characters. (A case in point: Sean Bean’s Ned Stark, the star of the first season, was falsely accused and brutally executed for treason at that season’s close.) But, for all its vaunted preference for painting in ‘shades of grey,’ rather than clearly delineated ‘black and white,’ the series (like the books upon which it based), proffers too many characters who are thoroughly despicable. Worse still, the series revels in extremely foul language, explicit nudity, very strong sexual content, and extremely brutal violence. Those elements have come to be associated with HBO productions. Perhaps HBO has the mistaken impression that such content makes their productions “all grown up?” Or perhaps it just appeals to the prurient interest of viewers? One thing is certain: The deluge of gratuitously ugly content cheapens, degrades, and, yes, even befouls all that’s laudable about “Game of Thrones” and the novels upon which it is based. Indeed, it very nearly derails the series entirely. Even more troubling than the utterly gratuitous display of sex, nudity, obscene language, and brutal violence, is the series’ moral nihilism. Examples of this pervasive dearth of integrity, decency, and morality in so many (though not all) of the series’ characters are legion. To cite some examples from Season Two: one brother murders another by means of sorcery; prisoners of war are tortured in horrible ways; a sadistic boy-king has his betrothed publicly stripped and beaten and later forces one prostitute to savagely beat another for his amusement, and a highborn warrior brutally murders an innocent fellow captive in order to create a diversion and thereby escape imprisonment. Rape, betrayal, brutalization, deceit, treachery, cowardice, sadism, and outright psychopathy run rampant in the story; and it is maddeningly discomforting to watch a show with such repugnant characters and behavior. Conscience is an endangered species in this series; and, somehow, that is deeply off-putting. And yet, and yet…“Game of Thrones” does exert a magnetic attraction — not because of its distressing lack of a moral center and its undue fondness for ugliness, but despite those facts. There is wit here, there are (some) men and women of honor here, there is true love, courage, and self-sacrifice; and there are moments both tender and witty. Some of them come courtesy of the ill-fated but admirable Stark family: Sundered by war and the treachery of others, they strive to do what is honest and right. And there is Tyrion Lannister (Peter Dinklage won an Emmy for the role). A hard-drinking, whoring, outwardly cynical man, Tyrion is despised by his own family for being born a dwarf; but he is a keen judge of character and a man with a good heart, who, as he puts it, enjoys the challenge of out-talking and out-witting everyone else. To his wicked queen (Lena Headley’s Cersei) of a sister, he says, “You love your children. It’s your one redeeming quality. That and your cheekbones.” And there are innumerable lovely, tender, and wise moments, often coming from supporting players, or in fleetingly brief exchanges, as when Donald Sumpter’s Maester Luwin tells a boy troubled by seemingly prophetic dreams, “I was young [once]. And what boy doesn’t secretly wish for hidden powers to lift him out of his dull life [and] into a special one?” And, how about this memorable exchange between two deadly fraternal rivals (Stephen Dillane’s Stannis Baratheon and Gethin Anthony’s Renly Baratheon) for the throne: (S) “The Iron Throne is mine, by right. All those who deny that are my foes.” (R) “The whole realm denies it, from Dorn to the Wall. Old men deny it with their death rattle, and unborn children deny it in their mothers’ wombs. No one wants you for their king.” And there’s a touching moment between Arya Stark (Maisie Williams), the young tomboy who has seen her noble father butchered, and the gruff ranger (Francis Magee’s Yoren) who has taken her under his protection: (A) “How do you sleep?” (Y) “Same as most men, I expect.” (A) “But you’ve seen things, horrible things.” (Y) “Aye. I’ve seen some pretty things, too, though not nearly so many.” Moments after that gentle exchange, he is dead, and she is a prisoner of deadly enemies. She later comes face to face with the leader of the forces that captured her (Charles Dance, as Tywin the patriarch of House Lannister), and for all his severe ruthlessness, he is kind to young Arya. Still, she never forgets what his family has done to hers, and, in a line that is pregnant with meaning, Arya quietly says, “Anyone can be killed,” as she coolly holds her powerful captor’s imperious gaze. (It is not only an expression of bravery and determination on her part; it also foreshadows her transformation into an assassin later in the series.) There’s an elegantly scripted contrast between two men who break oaths of betrothal: Robb Stark (Richard Madden) forswears a politically arranged engagement in order to marry for love (a well-intentioned act that will nevertheless later cause his downfall), while, far away, his bitter enemy, the cruel boy-king Joffrey publicly disavows and deliberately humiliates his betrothed in favor of a political union. The ebb and flow of the story is often quite captivating. In fact, there are many different stories unfolding concurrently — separated by many hundreds of miles. But, here and there, there are missteps and logical lapses in the storytelling. Tyrion tells a different story to three different counselors to see which of them will betray his confidence. But it is painfully obvious to the viewer, as it should be to the astute Tyrion, that none of the trio is even slightly trustworthy; so, in fact, his ruse proves nothing at all. Jaime Lannister’s (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) slaughter of a loyal cousin to effect his own escape is a clumsy contrivance (on the part of the writers) to induce an improbably unwary guard to turn his back and be throttled. A knight known as The Hound appears out of nowhere (and for no conceivable reason) in Sansa Stark’s bedroom right in time to discover that she has ‘become a woman’ and is therefore ready for marriage to the vicious king. The Hound later offers to help Sansa escape; why on earth would she decline that chance for freedom? It’s an arbitrary choice by the screenwriters that defies belief. Worse still, why would she listen to the faux-sympathy of the clearly treacherous counselor who tries to insinuate himself into her favor? There’s no way the otherwise prudent and intelligent Catelyn Stark (the admirable Michelle Fairley) would give up a prize hostage and simply trust his utterly duplicitous kin to reciprocate by releasing her daughters. An otherwise sensible woman strolls into the tent of the King of the North (Richard Madden’s Robb Stark) to socialize, while he is in the midst of a meeting — a breach of etiquette and common sense that does not ring true. And when the Stark family’s imposing fortress in the north, Winterfell, is reduced to flames, there are no culprits on hand who could (or would) have done such a thing: It’s an effect with no discernible cause. And why does a would-be king, Stannis, who bet everything on the blandishments of a seductive witch, succumb yet again to her empty promises after his ignominious defeat in battle? That which makes no sense can only be perceived as a flaw in the storytelling. It likewise defies belief that any Stark would delegate the liberation of their home and close kin to some far-off (and none too trustworthy) supposed ally. But against such distracting missteps, there are moments that move and seduce, like this exchange between a wise old man (Luwin) and a young man (Alfie Allen’s Theon Greyjoy) who is incrementally losing his soul in a bid to be respected: (L): You’re not the [bad] man you’re pretending to be.” (T) “You may be right, but I’ve gone too far to pretend to be anything else.” Elsewhere, Liam Cunningham makes an impression as the steadfast, loyal, and true Ser Davos Seaworth, a pirate turned knight, as does Iain Glen as Ser Jorah Mormont, a once disgraced knight who now lives by a creed of knightly devotion to Emilia Clarke’s exiled princess and “Mother of Dragons,” Daenerys Targaryen. The aforementioned Richard Madden (Robb Stark) plays a young man who is forced by the loss of his father to abruptly put his youthfulness behind him and become a stern leader of men at war; Kit Harrington (Jon Snow) is a Stark from the wrong side of the bed whose illegitimacy gainsays his innate nobility and courage not one whit; while John Bradley is affecting as his rotund but wise and resourceful friend, Samwell Tarly. Simon Armstrong plays a more seasoned leader among the ranks of the rangers, Qhorin Halfhand, and one wishes the story had found more room for him (as well as his fellow member of the “Night’s Watch,” Yoren). Sophie Turner comes into her own in Season Two as Sansa Stark, transforming from a selfish child to a young woman who has to endure violence and degradation, but who grows all the while in courage and composure. Also worthy of note are: Isaac Hempstead Wright as young Bran Stark, whose fortitude is not dampened by the paralysis he suffered after being pushed out a castle window, Tom Wlaschiha as the assassin Jaqen who comes to young Arya’s aid more than once, and Alfie Allen as Theon Greyjoy, a young man who loses his soul along with his honor with each misjudged step he takes. The series’ two most despicable characters — the sadistic boy-king Joffrey (Jack Gleeson) and the master of treachery Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish (Aidan Gillen) — make this viewer recoil in disgust each time they appear and shatter lives with, respectively, glee and indifference. Each is an abhorrent monster, whose early demise would be cause for celebration; but one must admit that the actors do an effective job of inducing such loathing. “Game of Thrones” is severely wounded by its sometimes grotesquely ugly and hateful content and by its moral emptiness, but it saved by its affecting characterizations, its mostly exemplary writing, and the breadth of its story. In addition to all ten episodes, the Season Two set has a good selection of extras (on Blu-ray only), including 12 audio commentaries, a close-up look at the full episode Battle of Blackwater Bay; a look at the competing religions of Westeros; seven character profiles; and more. For ages 18+ only: Warning — brutal violence, extremely coarse language; explicit nudity; and very strong sexual content.
“Promised Land” (USA, 2012) (B): When big business comes to town, its siren call may be all but irresistible for communities experiencing the harsh realities of hard times. The trouble is that whatever big business is peddling may bring dire environmental risks right along with the promised investment and new jobs. Witness the current controversy (in both the United States and Canada) over proposed new continental oil and gas pipelines, grave concerns over deep sea oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and the Arctic Sea, the ruinous effects of heavy oil extraction from Alberta’s ‘tar-sands’ — a massive industrial effort that makes a mockery of purported concerns about increasing hydrocarbons in our atmosphere, and the uncertain environmental costs of “fracking,” a process that entails drilling deeply into shale rock formations and injecting toxic chemicals under high pressure to force out natural gas. Fracking has become big business south of the border, despite concerns about poisoning the aquifers on which we depend for life and creating geological instabilities in the ground itself. In this film, two sales agents arrive in a small farming town looking to buy drilling leases for fracking operations. Steve (Matt Damon) and Sue (Frances McDormand of “Fargo”) are old hands at this: They need to fit in — by presenting a collegial, just-folks persona (they even outfit themselves in the flannel attire favored in this neck of the rural woods) — and they need to make an earnest appeal to the struggling local citizenry’s need for a boost in incomes. And, for those with qualms, they have persuasive answers: Who doesn’t want North America to be energy independent, after all? “There’s no such thing as a neutral position here. If you are against this, you are for coal and oil. Period.” But obstacles arise, in the person of a stubborn local science teacher (Hal Holbrook) with 32 years of experience in industrial R&D: “Money can very often lead to bad decisions.” And all bets are off when a dauntless environmental activist (John Krasinski) arrives with a truckload of signs and abundant charm. And is there a chance that Steve and Sue may go-native? Steve is fond of a single young school teacher (Rosemarie DeWitt), and Sue has caught the eye of a local store owner (Titus Welliver from “Argo” and television’s “The Good Wife”) whose alliterative merchandise comprises ‘guns, groceries, guitars, and gas.’ Co-stars Damon and Krasinski wrote the screenplay, and Gus Van Sant (“Milk,” “Elephant,” and “Good Will Hunting”) directed a film that is one part public policy issue, and one part character drama. The former component can be a tad heavy-handed and didactic in places; but the film is redeemed by its low-key, character-driven story and authentic-feeling sense of place. There’s a quiet wistfulness here, in the film’s depiction of an economy that has seen better days and a way of life that’s in gradual decline: “These people, this town, this life. It is dying, or damn near dead. And you all see it coming.” There is pointed social commentary on the gulf between the very few rich and the rest of us: “You and I both know the only reason you’re here is ’cause we’re poor. How many wells you got up there in Manhattan?” It’s about hard choices: “You came here and offered us money, figuring you were helping us. All we had to do to get it was be willing to scorch the earth under our feet.” And it’s about remembering the things that make us strong, things like learning to take care of others and of the earth around us: “Everything that we have is on the table now. And that’s just not ours to lose.” “Promised Land” offers food for thought, and an amiable character drama, too. It won the Freedom of Expression Award and inclusion in the Top Ten Films of The Year from the U.S. National Board of Review. And won a Special Mention from the International Jury at the Berlin Film Festival, where it was also nominated for the Silver Bear (Best Film). One curious footnote: Some of the film’s financing came from the Gulf State of Abu Dhabi: One hopes there is no big-oil agenda here designed to discredit the competing energy resource of domestically-fracked natural gas? DVD extras are confined to extended scenes and a featurette about the making of the film. A commentary would have been welcome. For ages 18+: Coarse language.
“In Darkness” (Poland/Germany/Canada, 2011) (B+): In 1939, a diabolical pact between two malign tyrants (Hitler and Stalin) divided Poland between them. But, when Nazi Germany turned on its ‘ally’ of convenience two years later, the whole of Poland fell under Nazi occupation. Fully one-third of the population of the city of Lvov (also known as Lviv) in eastern Poland (now western Ukraine) was comprised of Jews at the onset of World War II; and it was an important center of Jewish culture. But those hundreds of thousands of human beings were viciously annihilated by the Nazis (and their sympathizers), with no more than 300 of them left alive at the war’s end! “In Darkness” is the true story of a handful of Jews who, in sheer desperation, seek refuge from murderous extermination by secretly fleeing to the city’s sewers. The film depicts the round-up, brutalizing, and wanton murder of the captives of Jewish Ghetto to the musical accompaniment of waltz music, and it is a deeply unsettling juxtaposition. The only route of escape is down — into a black hole in the ground. And, it’s not simply a storm sewer, either: It is a dark, dank place; it reeks of excrement and death; and it is crawling with rats. The refugees pay a Polish sewer worker, Leopold Socha (Robert Wieckiewicz), to keep their secret and to keep them supplied with the bare necessities of a subsistence life in the dark. Socha is an anti-Semite, but he gruffly agrees to help — for a price. But when too many seek sanctuary in the sewer tunnels, Socha demands that the refugees cull their own numbers to just eleven. And they do, abandoning the larger group to their fate in the darkness. It’s not the noble choice we might wish for; but this film does not offer us pictures of saints. Its men and women are innocent victims of genocide; but they are still flawed human beings, just like the rest of us. One deserts his wife and child in favor of a mistress (whom he later abandons); some fall victim to despair (“There is no place for us anywhere”); others succumb to a ruthless impulse to survive at all costs — even at the expense of their fellows. But, in the midst of it all, life goes on — children play, people fall in love — even in this hellish setting. Noble and base instincts alike survive right along with the handful of people huddling together in the dark, claustrophobic confines of the tunnels. For his part, Socha’s motivations are unambiguously mercenary. Still, for all his disdain for those whose lives depend entirely on him, he never contemplates turning them in for the reward proffered by the Nazis. And Socha’s bigotry gradually begins to soften as he comes to know his charges. Could it be, as his broader-minded wife, Wanda, asserts, that, “Jews are the same as us.” One of the bravest and fittest of the refugees smuggles himself into the Janowska concentration camp to look for the missing sister of the woman he has come to love: It’s an improbable adventure-movie device that feels out of place here. What works far better is a heroic moment of fast-thinking when Socha’s young daughter saves the day after inadvertently blurting out the refugees’ existence to a Ukrainian Nazi who is hunting for them. Director Agnieszka Holland (1990′s “Europa Europa”) has fashioned a real-life horror story, but one that is also a story of desperate hope, survival, and redemption — in which a selfish man learns to love others and to proclaim: “These are my Jews. These are my work.” “In Darkness” was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the Academy Awards. It was nominated as Best Adapted Screenplay, Editing, and Sound Editing at Canada’s Genie Awards. And it won Best Actor, Supporting Actress, and Cinematography at the Polish Film Awards, where it was also nominated as Best Film, Director, Actress, Screenplay, Costumes, Music, and Production Design. DVD extras include the film’s trailer, several deleted scenes, and a 27-minute conversation between the director and the real-life Kystyna Chiger, the last surviving member of the people whose stories are retold in the film, who authored a book, “The Girl in the Green Sweater,” about her ordeal. The film itself was written by David F. Shamoon, based on the book “In the Sewers of Lvov“ by Robert Marshall. For ages 18+ only: Coarse language; nudity; sexual content; violence; and disturbing content.
“Beasts of the Southern Wild” (USA, 2012) (B+): “They think we all gonna drown down here. But we ain’t going nowhere…. Daddy says brave men don’t run from their home.” Good things — things like love and beauty and courage and a sheer exuberant joy in life — can be found in all manner of places, even places that might strike outsiders as harsh or full of deprivation. Such a place, the bayou outside New Orleans, at the mouth of the mighty Mississippi river, is home to a precocious six-year-old girl named Hushpuppy (Quvenzhane Wallis, who, at age 9, went on to become the youngest nominee for Best Actress in Academy Award history for her performance in this movie), her stern but well-intentioned father, Wink (played by Dwight Henry), and a small community of hardy individualists. There’s poverty and squalor here; but the people who live in ‘the Bathtub,’ as they call it, see far more than just that: They see a place of beauty, where they live in intimate terms with Nature in all her moods. Floating on the water in a makeshift raft (the hindquarters of a pick-up truck suspended atop metal barrels) like explorers who regard our modern urban world as utterly alien, Wink espies looming industry in ‘the dry world’ that borders their sanctuary and observes, rightly, “Ain’t that ugly over there? We got the prettiest place on earth.” A volunteer teacher in The Bathtub’s impromptu school weaves tales of marauding carnivorous prehistoric mammals called “aurocks” (they resemble a gigantic amalgam of bison and boars), and Hushpuppy imagines them loosed from their Ice Age confinement by global warming and freed to rampage and threaten her small community. Hushpuppy narrates the story, and we see life in this novel setting through the eyes of a free-spirited young child. Yet she has wisdom and inner resilience that surpasses her tender years: “Everybody loses the thing that made them. It’s even how it’s supposed to be in nature. The brave men stay and watch it happen. They don’t run.” A storm is coming (perhaps a loose interpretation of 2005′s Hurricane Katrina?) and The Bathtub is in jeopardy. When the wind and rain and flood dies down, men from the dry world want to evacuate Hushpuppy’s swamped community, by force if need be. But the people of The Bathtub are a tough lot: They do not shrink from the harsh sides of nature — there’s birth here and death, beauty and decomposition, human camaraderie and animal predation. These hardy souls celebrate all that living entails, enjoying more holidays than we do on the dry land, and exhorting their youngsters to “Beast it!”– that is, to eat a crab barehanded and without a knife. (Once done with that feast aided only by fingers and teeth, the adults chant, “Yeah, you’re an animal. Yeah!”) It’s a visceral way to live (complete with recurring imagery of the beating heart that keeps life pulsing in humans and other animals alike), a way that banishes squeamishness, a way that’s in touch with nature’s primitive side, and a way that’s an effective model for survival in this remote, hardscrabble place. Hushpuppy has a lively imagination, but she is also grounded in practicality: “When you’re small, you gotta fix what you can.” And should one of The Bathtub’s human community die, those left behind shed no tears, but, rather, proclaim their friend or loved one’s imminent arrival in the great beyond: “I see I’m a little piece of a big, big universe. And that makes things right.” The result is a mesmerizing, highly original look at life in an unfamiliar place seen through the unjaundiced eyes of a young child. It’s one of the best films of 2012. Director Benh Zeitlin co-wrote the film’s screenplay with Lucy Alibar, who in turn wrote the stage play, “Juicy and Delicious,” upon which it is based. “Beasts of the Southern Wild” earned a great many nominations and awards: It had four Academy Award nominations (as Best Film, Actress, Director, and Adapted Screenplay); it won four awards at Cannes, including Best Director; it won Best Film at the American Film Institute (AFI) Awards; it won Best Cinematography at the Independent Spirit Awards (where it was also nominated for Best Film, Actress, and Director; and it won both the Grand Jury Prize and Best Cinematography at Sundance. For ages 18+: Brief coarse language.
“Robot & Frank” (USA, 2012) (B+): Frank (Frank Langella) lives alone in a small town. His beloved public library is being converted to a bookless environment, which not only means no more books (they are all being converted to digital displays), but, maybe, no more conversations with the attractive librarian (Susan Sarandon). Frank’s memory is starting to fade and he lacks nearby family. He’s irritable and solitary and his family is worried. But his daughter (Liv Tyler) is a free-spirited wanderer, and his son (James Marsden) lives too far off to keep a close eye on his dad: “You have a problem. You’re worse every time I come up here, Dad.” Frank is adamant that he will not move into a nursing home; so his son brings an alternative solution with him on one of his weekly visits. He brings Frank someone who will serve as butler, cook, caregiver, and companion. It happens to be a walking, talking robot! Frank doesn’t mince words: “Get this hunk of crap out of my house!” he insists. But the robot (very nicely voiced in deadpan tones by Peter Sarsgaard) stays, gently, but firmly, cajoling Frank into eating healthy foods, having his enema, and going to bed on time: “It’s crucial we establish a set schedule for your day — to help keep you oriented.” The robot even proposes that they plant a vegetable garden in the backyard — to give Frank a constructive project. Frank grumbles and resists the whole way, but his son didn’t share the password needed to shut down his new caregiver, so Frank is stuck with his unwanted company. And then, Frank gets an idea: “You want to be partners? Let’s be partners. You said yourself I need a project. I do. I need something to keep me stimulated, to keep me exercised. Well, this is it.” The “it” Frank has in mind is a return to the career from which he had retired — that of a cat-burglar. The robot has serious misgivings: “Frank, you don’t have any free time scheduled after sunset,” he observes, in a practical-minded objection to Frank’s nocturnal plans. But, determined to engage Frank, the robot reluctantly goes along, and it turns out he’s got a knack for picking locks and sussing out safe combinations. The target of Frank’s intended larceny is the obnoxious big city yuppie (Jeremy Strong) who has taken over the town’s library and transformed it into something that would make any bibliophile shudder — the same condescending (prematurely rich) man who treats Frank like a fossil from some bygone era. Frank’s back in his cat-burglar black — and this time, it’s personal. The result is a sheer delight, combining gentle humor with real poignancy, as a truly odd couple bond and become friends. Indeed, Frank sometimes mistakes the robot for a younger version of his son. They become a unique sort of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. And, like Frank, we can’t help but anthropomorphize the mechanical man. Frank Langella is one of the best actors working today: His Academy Award nomination as Best Actor for his performance as Richard Nixon in 2008′s “Frost/Nixon” came hard on the heels of his award-caliber leading role in 2007′s “Starting Out in the Evening.” (He may be 75, but he currently has five films in various stages of production.) In “Robot & Frank,” he invests his character, a man who is in inexorable decline, with great charisma and gravitas and power. We care about this man, and we get utterly invested in his relationship with his robotic companion. The direction by Jake Schreier, the screenplay by Christopher Ford, and every one of the performances (Jeremy Sisto also makes an impression in a small role) yield a truly winning combination: “Robot & Frank” is tender and moving as it is humorous. In its own way, it’s a surprisingly sweet story. And, lest you roll your eyes at the premise, clips shown over the end credits show just how astonishingly fast real-life robotics are racing to arrive at the very near future depicted in the film. For ages 18+: Brief coarse language.
“Rust and Bone” ["De Rouille et d'Os"] (France/Belgium, 2012) (B+): Can our journey through life’s vicissitudes sometimes fill what’s empty, mend what’s broken, and heal what’s unwell? When they meet, neither Stephanie (Marion Cotillard) nor Ali (Matthias Schoenaerts) is very admirable — or particularly likable. She trains orcas for a living. Perhaps she does it for the sense of control it gives her; for she’s coldly aloof in most of her dealings with fellow humans. He’s rough and tough and streetwise. An aspiring kickboxer, he gets by as he can, scavenging, stealing, and working as a bouncer and security guard. He is sexually promiscuous, seemingly disinterested in love, and benignly neglectful of the young son of whom he has just assumed custody. Stephanie has an edgy sexual attitude of her own: “I like being watched. I like turning them on. I like getting them worked up. But then I’d get bored.” Both of them come across as damaged people; but Stephanie’s damage soon becomes very literal, when a terrible accident at work results in the loss of her legs. Bereft and scarcely caring if she lives or dies, she turns to Ali for some undefinable something. Maybe his emotional hardness gives her something she can prop herself up on? None too gently, he cajoles her into leaving the self-imposed solitude (and self-pity) of her apartment. Out she goes — into the light and into the water she so adores. Later, Ali suggests sex, doing so tersely and with no attempt to be romantic, or even seductive: Stephanie asks, “Do you mind if we don’t kiss?” To which Ali handily replies, “No problem.” Sex is a physical need for him, nothing more; there is no true intimacy involved. But the two start spending more time together; Stephanie even, unexpectedly, becomes a kind of muse to Ali as he enters street fights to make money from those who bet on the bruising contests. Slowly but surely, their relationship deepens and seems to work changes on each of the pair. In a nice scene, Stephanie stands on her apartment balcony rehearsing her orca training signals, before having a lyrical reunion with the source of her grievous injury behind glass at the aquarium where she worked. And she grows less tolerant of Ali’s selfish, thoughtless ways. After he leaves her side at a nightclub to depart with a woman he has just met on the dance floor, Stephanie gives voice to the connection and commitment that have developed between the two: “What am I to you? A friend? A pal? A buddy? You [eff] your buddies?… If we continue, we have to do it right. Let’s show some manners. I mean consideration. You’ve always been so considerate with me… We continue, but not like animals.” And Stephanie draws on inner reserves of strength she did not know she possessed when she reluctantly steps in to serve as Ali’s fight manager in an exclusively male preserve: “I don’t know that scene, those guys. [Do you] see me with those beasts?,” she asks. To which, Ali’s departing manager offers a dead-certain, “Yeah!” He knows she’s as tough as nails inside. But she is also becoming a fully human being for the first time in her life. As Marion Cotillard says about her character, “She’s empty when she’s a whole body. And then she becomes a real woman, even without legs.” The question is: Will Ali, too, become a whole person, by accepting full responsibility for his son and learning to give and receive love? Based on a story by the Toronto writer Craig Davidson, director and co-writer Jacques Audiard (2009′s “A Prophet”) has fashioned an unconventional love story about a man and a woman who have a chance to find wholeness (and redemption) in their unlikely pairing. Anchored in strong performances, it offers two characters who traverse a transformative arc, with the possibility of emerging on the other side as better people than they were when their stories began. “Rust and Bone” has earned critical acclaim. It was nominated for the Palme d’Or (Best Film) at Cannes. It was nominated as Best Actress and Best Foreign Language Film at the Golden Globes. At the Cesar Awards in France, it won Best Adapted Screenplay, Editing, Original Music, and Most Promising Actor (Schoenaerts); and it was nominated as Best Film, Actress, Director, Cinematography, and Sound. It attracted Best Actress nominations in such diverse competitions as BAFTA, the Screen Actors Guild, the Australian Film Institute, the Irish Film Awards, and The Netherlands’ Rembrandt Awards. For ages 18+: Sexual content; nudity; violence; and coarse language.
“And If We All Lived Together?” ["Et si on vivait tous ensemble?"] (France, 2012) (B/B+): “It’s strange. We plan for everything. We insure our cars, our homes…. We even insure our lives. But we don’t give a thought to our final years and how we’ll spend them.” Who was it that said, ‘Aging is not for the faint of heart?’ Well, it seems that we can bolster ourselves against its trials with humor. Indeed, a whole new subgenre of film seems to have sprung to life in the past couple of years — films about aging men and women who decline to ‘go gentle into that good night,’ as the Bard put it. The subgenre is personified by such recent fare as “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” (2011) and “Quartet” (2012), though earlier contenders include 2004′s “Ladies in Lavender,” 1991′s “Enchanted April,” and perhaps 1989′s “Shirley Valentine.” “And If We All Lived Together?” is the latest addition to that list, and it’s as poignant as it is gently funny. If aging brings with it a host of uncertainties, indignities, and fears about infirmities, what better way to face them than with friends and humor? In this film, written and directed by Stephane Robelin, five 70-something friends decide there’s strength in numbers, and they decide to share a house to better face whatever time and fate may bring. Jeanne (Jane Fonda) and Albert (Pierre Richard) have to cope with his failing memory. Claude (Claude Rich) is as randy as ever, but he has had a heart attack, and his son is intent on seeing him safe and sound in a nursing home. Jean (Guy Bedos) is a lifelong social activist, and he has no intention of slowing down now. But, he is disappointed when the police ignore him at his latest protest: (A) “Why didn’t they arrest me?” (B) “Obviously it’s easier to clobber the young.” Meanwhile, at home, Jean and Annie (Geraldine Chaplin of “Doctor Zhivago”) can’t decide whether to argue or make love; but they do both passionately. And one of the quintet has a secret — in the form of a terminal illness. The five have been friends for 40 years or more, but living in close quarters nevertheless brings its share of stresses and strains. There are secret infidelities to cope with; and, when the forgetful Albert runs a bath, and then goes out of the house leaving the tap running, he turns the house into waterworld. To contend with his memory lapses, he notes important facts in his notebook, where he daily rediscovers a shocking revelation afresh. The ever practical Jeanne dismisses talk of dividing household chores equally, suggesting that they adopt a do as you please “libertarian” model instead of a “collectivist” one. For one thing, dividing five people into groups of two poses a problem; for another, “Collective farms are for twenty year olds.” Still, the five friends form a surrogate family, and their support for one another often exceeds that offered by their well-meaning but distant actual kin. The friends are helped along the way by their live-in dog-walker, caregiver, and confidant, Dirk (Daniel Bruhl), a young anthropologist who is writing a thesis about “old Europeans.” There is ample humor here, but also moments of poignancy; one of the five observes, “Last night, I dreamed I was getting younger… When I woke up, I realized that I’ve spent more time dead than alive. In the end, there’s nothing to worry about.” The result is a heartwarming take on life and aging and the things that connect us to others. For ages 18+: Nudity, sexual content, and brief coarse language.
“April Captains” ["Capitaes de Abril"] (Portugal/France, 2000) (B/B+): “It’s time to start listening to those who never get heard.” The directorial debut by the multi-talented actress (and singer of Brazilian jazz) Maria de Medeiros concerns the last day of the right-wing dictatorship that
held Portugal in its iron grip since 1933. Ideological kin to Franco’s dictatorial regime in neighboring Spain, Portugal’s dictators (Salazar, and, after 1968, his successor, Caetano) ruled by fiat, force, and fear. But years of harsh oppression at home and widespread repugnance for the brutal and ugly colonial wars the regime was waging in Africa (to keep control of Mozambique, Angola, and Guinea) finally came to a sudden, decisive head on April 24, 1974, when junior military officers staged a coup d’etat, that was spontaneously joined by thousands of ordinary civilians in the streets. Together, they stared down and shamed the authoritarian government. Their nearly bloodless “Carnation Revolution” overthrew a tyranny, despite its ruthless thugs and torturers, paving the way for Portugal’s rapid emergence as a modern democratic nation. “April Captains” was a labor of love for Medeiros, who co-wrote the film. With fictionalized characters who are closely inspired by the real life dramatis personae, she has fashioned an intelligent screenplay that is sometimes very witty and often very inspiring. In a priceless moment, a long column of tanks and armored personnel carriers stops at a red light, while the civilian occupants of a double-deckered bus in the adjoining lane of traffic gawk at the peaceful invaders. It’s an old-fashioned story, in the best sense of that term, for it depicts ordinary men and women who find it within themselves to do the extraordinary: Men who are trained to obey find the courage to question orders and to stage a non-violent revolt against the oppressive powers that be: “In Guinea, I did things that my conscience abhorred. Now I know that sometimes the only solution is to disobey.” The story divides its time between three small groups: (i) those who rally the troops and march on Lisbon, (ii) the quartet of officers who occupy the capital’s radio station, and (iii) a political dissident from within the country’s ruling class. Said dissident, Antonia (Maria de Medeiros), is also the wife of one of the film’s eponymous captains (Manuel, played by Frederic Pierrot). But, in an ironic misperception of her spouse’s true character that’s worthy of “The Scarlet Pimpernel” or “Zorro,” Antonia has no inkling that he’s part of the revolt; instead, she feels contempt for his seeming complacency about the status quo. The eloquence, determination, and daring of the charismatic coup leader, Captain Maia (Stefano Accorsi) — whom Canadians will recognize as a dead-ringer for CBC personality and host George Stomboulopoulis — drives the story (as well as the tanks) — fueling it with idealism and heroism: “I’ll keep my word. Even if I must die! The only way to change the government is by force: We are the only people who can!” Meanwhile, the four amigos at the radio station provide some gently comic relief; while the intervals with Antonia and her circle represent the intellectual underpinnings of the revolution and give voice to the liberal denunciation of tyranny, torture, and wars of oppression. As the story moves between these three small groups, some of its accompanying changes in tone work better than others. But, the story inspires with its unabashed idealism. It’s about people finding within themselves the bravery and pluck to stand up for what’s right — in a time and place when doing so can have terrible consequences. “April Captains” sings the praises of freedom, justice, democracy, and courage — and that gives it a timelessly inspirational power. For some, the story may, at occasional moments, stray a little too far toward the Scylla and Charybdis of farce and didacticism. But, such cavils count for nothing against the film’s strengths: It is refreshingly sincere (which today, in a period that too often favors moral nihilism, is as invigorating as a breath of fresh air); and it offers authentic-feeling characters: There’s Maia, the heroic leader; Gervasio, the cynical poet and inconstant ally of the revolution (played with roguish charm by Joaquim de Almeida); a couple of young lovers; and the foursome at the radio station who are, very believably, improvising their next moves on the fly. Medeiros’ own character feels, perhaps, more like a type than an individual — given her function as a spokesman for the liberal point of view. But, that’s assuredly no reflection on Medeiros’ estimable acting skills. The film’s idealism cannot be called naive. On the contrary, Portugal’s example has been emulated in recent years — successfully (for a time, at least) in Ukraine, Georgia, and Tunisia, and unsuccessfully in Iran, Burma, and Syria. It is also a spiritual precursor for the mostly non-violent popular uprisings that felled noxious communist regimes in places like East Germany, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia in 1989. And Medeiros knows how ideals can crash on the rocks of entrenched authority — as when a senior general pushes aside his much more junior subordinates and takes charge of their revolution with the easy sense of entitlement possessed by those who are too accustomed to wielding power. We also see a clear-eyed example of the capacity of emotional crowds to turn into ugly, violent mobs. And there is true heroism in the figure who not only defies the odds to encourage others to join him in bringing down a tyranny, but also humbly stands aside and recedes back into anonymity when that great goal is accomplished, not begrudging more powerful latecomers to the revolution their undeserved assumption of power: “I’ll disappear into the shadows of history. That’s fine with me. In fact, freedom is an internal struggle.“ Let’s hope that Maria de Medeiros — whose outstanding work as an actress has graced such films as “The Remains of Nothing” (Italy, 2004), “Riparo” (Italy, 2007), “Il Compleanno” (Italy, 2009), “The Storyteller” (Brazil, 2009), and “Henry & June” (USA, 1990) — will return to the director’s chair — and to such politically inspirational subject-matter. In “April Captains,” she has told a simple story with abundant charm and warm humanism. Herself a student of political philosophy, and an admirer of the work of poet and playwright Edward Bond, Medeiros says that Portugal’s Carnation Revolution “occurred in great innocence.” So, too, does her film, which, like the events it depicts, posits the radical notion that great power can spring from the innocence and from the noble aspirations of ordinary men and women. For ages 18+: Brief coarse language.
“Chinese Take-Away” ["Un Cuento Chino"] (Argentina/Spain, 2011) (B/B+): Ricardo Darin (the male lead in 2009′s “The Secret in Their Eyes,” 2005′s “The Aura,” and 2002′s “Kamchatka”) stars in a low-key, gently-paced look at a loner of a man who has locked himself behind walls of isolation (“I’m not used to being with people,” he says) and dismissive disdain for the rest of the human race. The proprietor of a small hardware shop, Roberto obsessively counts the screws in a shipment from his supplier, fully anticipating that said supplier, along with the rest of the world, is out to get him: “Scammers. They’re all scammers… Screw them!,” he inadvertently puns. “If the machine sometimes spits out a few more and other times a few less, I always get less.” He may be referring to widgets in a box, but what he’s actually talking about is life. Clearly, he’s a glass half-empty kind of guy. He’s not only sour on his fellow man, he’s well on his way to full-blown misanthropy. Or, so it seems. Too cranky to know that he is lonely, Roberto, is, nevertheless, not without a conscience. And, despite himself, he has within him the neglected embers of a softer heart — and with it, the possibility of forming meaningful connections with others — no matter how much he consciously resists the very notion of letting someone, anyone, inside the seemingly impenetrable walls he has built around himself. Heaven knows, he’s relentless about pushing away Mari (Muriel Santa Ana), a woman who loves him, despite his cantankerous ways. Mari tells him: “As soon as I saw you, I felt I’d known you all my life. Maybe because there are two things I notice very quickly in people: integrity and suffering. And you have them both.” But Roberto’s life is turned upside down when he is reluctantly thrown together with Jun (Huang Sheng Huang), a young Chinese man stranded in Buenos Aires, who speaks nary a word of Spanish. Roberto longs to rid himself of this unaccustomed, unwanted, and unintelligible company. They are truly an odd couple. Will they find common ground? There’s a possibility of redemption (and emotional healing) here that gives this comedy a bittersweet resonance. Grounded in the realities of quotidian life, the film opens with a moment that has the extraordinary tinge of magic-realism, even though it is purportedly based on an actual, ‘truth is stranger than fiction’ occurrence. Does life have meaning? Or, is it nothing but a series of unconnected random events, a “totally absurd… huge ball of nonsense” as Roberto proclaims? Not every comedy addresses those kinds of deep questions. This one does — in an entertaining and engaging way! Written and directed by Sebastian Borensztein, “Chinese Take-Away” won Best Film, Actor, and Supporting Actress in Argentina, garnering nominations there in eleven other categories. It won Best Ibero-American Film at Spain’s Goya Awards; and it won both Best Director and the Audience Award at the Rome Film Festival. For ages 18+: Brief coarse language and very brief violence.
“The First Grader” (U.K./USA/Kenya, 2010) (B/B+): “We are nothing if we cannot read. We are useless…. Please teach me to read.” The thirst for knowledge is a wonderful thing, however much it is sometimes crassly subordinated in our all too market-obsessed world to less exalted material concerns, like qualifying for better paid work. Education may make us better qualified for this or that employment; but, at its purest heart, learning is an intrinsic good in and of itself: To learn is to grow and to enhance our ability to understand the world around us. Kimani Ng’ang’a Maruge, upon whose true story this gently affecting story is based, knew this. He earned a place in the Guinness Book of World Records as the oldest person to start primary school; and he went on to address the U.N. General Assembly. Maruge lost his wife and child to senseless violence in the brutal conflict between British colonial forces and Kenya’s vicious Mau Mau rebellion in the 1950′s. He endured years of imprisonment; and he resolved, at the age of 84, to avail himself of the universal free education proffered by the now independent state of Kenya, by enrolling in Grade One. But that resolve puts him on a collision course with an implacable bureaucracy and with scarce school resources, while it also stirs the ugly, sometimes violent, tribal rivalries that sorely trouble Kenya to this very day. When he’s dismissively told to “go home and rest,” Maruge stubbornly demurs, replying, “Rest in peace? I’m not dead.” Actor Oliver Litondo brings quiet dignity to the role, as an old man who finds himself surrounded by young children; while English actress Naomi Harris (who made an impression as Eve Moneypenny in 2012′s “Skyfall”) invests school principal Jane Obinchu with humanity and grace: “Learning never ends until you have soil in your ears… I just don’t have it in me to send him away.” This uplifting and quietly inspiring true story is a simple, low-key film, with nice, understated performances. It’s a small cavil, but one might say that the introduction of some thugs and malcontents is a somewhat artificial way to boost the drama in what is fundamentally just a small, gentle story; but, then again, the agitators (and the threats they utter) were part of the actual events depicted by this film. For ages 16+: Brief nudity and brief violence.
“Rebelle” ["War Witch"] (Canada, 2012) (B+): Speaking to her unborn baby, a 14-year old girl in a war-torn place says, “…it’s very important that you know what I did before you come out of my belly. Because when you come out, I don’t know if God will give me the strength to love you.” Taken by force from her village, in the inaptly-named Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly known as Zaire), at the age of 12 by guerrillas, Komona (Rachel Mwanza) is terrorized into becoming a child-soldier in a band of so-called “rebels.” In a country that has been beset by brutal violence for years, this private guerrilla army serves their leader’s greed (for the precious ore called ‘coltan,’ which is used in electronic devices the world-over), rather than any apparent political cause. In one ironic scene, the real-life child-soldiers watch an American war movie — a strange moment of harsh reality being entertained by violent fantasy. At times, the rebels come across as primitives, complete with a witch-doctor, pagan rituals and chanting, the practiced use of hallucinogens, and a brutal disregard for life. Their leader superstitiously decides that young Komona is a witch, who can divine the whereabouts of the government soldiers who lay in wait for them, and he presents her with a rifle that has been bestowed with “magical powers” by his “wizard.” Yet, all of that savagery is juxtaposed with a gentler world. One of the young rebels, nicknamed Magician (Serge Kanyinda), is kind to Komoma; an unexpected love is kindled, and Komona sets her wooer on a quest for a rare white rooster to earn her hand. For a time, the couple find refuge from the guerrillas in scenes that are peaceful, bucolic, and almost idyllic. Here simple domesticity and affection is contrasted to the primitive rites practiced in the guerrilla camp. Later still, pushed to her most desperate extremes, Komona encounters a random act of kindness by a complete stranger. “Rebelle,” is a study of the worst and the best in human nature. Its protagonist experiences (and is compelled to do) things that could only be called horrors; but she never loses what is decent and true inside herself. Her story is often a sad one; but it is also one that never loses sight of hope and the possibility of redemption. Apparently, the young lead actress Rachel Mwanza lived on the streets of Kinshasa before being cast as Komona. She delivers a natural performance that has the authenticity of a documentary film. Writer/director Kim Nguyen was born in Quebec to a Vietnamese father and a Canadian mother. His film runs the gamut from the harsh to the humanistic in ways that will capture the viewer’s sympathies, despite the outwardly alien setting and scenario. Some of its characters behave like savage brutes; but others are instantly recognizable as essentially decent human beings. “Rebelle” was nominated for twelve Canadian Screen Awards, winning in these ten categories: Best Film, Director, Actress, Supporting Actor, Screenplay, Art Direction, Cinematography, Editing, Sound, and Sound Editing. It was an Oscar nominee as Best Foreign Language Film; it is nominated for nine Jutra Awards in the province of Quebec; the U.S. National Board of Review named it one of the top five foreign language movies of the year; it won Best Actress and Best Narrative Feature at Tribeca; and it won a Silver Bear for Best Actress at the Berlin Film Festival, where it also won a Special Mention from the Ecumenical Jury. The DVD offers a director’s commentary; but, alas, it is en francais seulement. For ages 18+: Some war-related violence and one brief disturbing scene.