When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
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Gold (Germany 1934) (7): Seven years after the release of their iconic silent film Metropolis, Germany’s UFA Studios made this sci-fi talkie which, although lacking the former’s visual impact, still managed to make its cautionary message of technology running amok loud and clear. Professors Achenbach and Holk are on the verge of an amazing scientific discovery—the ability to turn lead into gold through “atomic restructuring”—when sabotage not only destroys their machine but kills Achenbach in the process. Holk, consumed with grief and obsessed with vengeance, eventually finds himself working on a similar project headed by the very man he believes responsible for the tragedy, a ruthless British millionaire intent on controlling the world’s markets. But even as the experiments inch closer to success, Holk is planning a most fitting revenge… The retro future sets are appropriately grandiose with giant electrodes flashing indoor lightning in an underground laboratory worthy of James Bond. And even though sound technology was still in its infancy the accompanying explosions and electrical crackles are still impressive. Furthermore, director Karl Hartl takes time to explore the worldwide impact wrought by a sudden influx of artificially made bullion with a barrage of newspaper headlines warning of financial ruin, civil unrest, and rampant poverty as savings disappear and stock markets tumble (headlines which weren’t far from reality this close to the Great Depression). Unfortunately, by this time UFA Studios were firmly controlled by the Third Reich leading to some pointed anti-West propaganda while the German protagonist’s altruism looms larger than life. Still, as a product of its time, Hartl’s big bold parable on the pitfalls of Capitalism still carries more than a kernel of truth. Interesting to note that Brigitte Helm, who plays the millionaire’s spoiled but ethically sound daughter, also starred as the evil seductive robot in Metropolis.
Adoption (Hungary 1975) (6): Depressed close-ups and stark backgrounds creating a pall of isolation and disrepair set the tone for this dreary drama from writer/director Márta Mészáros, a slice of life which could be taken as either a bleak feminist lament or a soft punch aimed at Communist dictates. Widowed before she could start a family, 43-year old Kata has decided she now wants a baby but her married lover has no desire to further complicate his life. Teenaged Anna has run away from the “Children’s Home” (a kind of gulag for unwanted kids) that her parents placed her in due to her headstrong ways and now her only desire is to escape by marrying her boyfriend even though she is underage and will require written permission from the very parents who turned their backs on her. Two women, two dreams, and two sets of impossible odds (determined largely by men)—could their chance encounter and subsequent friendship end up helping them both? Filmed in gloomy shades of grey and white, Mészáros’ resolutely unsentimental camera follows the women’s evolving relationship—at various times they act as mother and daughter, or giggling sisters, or platonic lovers—while the forces shaping their futures continue to gather and mount. Anna’s parents have a few demands of their own while Kata’s maternal instincts lead her to an adoption agency which comes with its own set of complications. And when Kata, posing as a co-worker, meets her lover’s wife she begins to suspect that the grass is not very green on either side of the fence. Finally, in a downbeat double-ending both women find out that “wanting” and “having” can be two different things as fate throws them a pair of fast balls. The film’s glacial pacing and flat performances will most likely prove off-putting to those raised on Hollywood overkill—to be fair it is a bit of a cinematic trudge—but Mészáros does deliver a very human story whose lack of bombast and gilded edges makes it more truthful than anything Tinseltown could have squeezed out. Winner of the Golden Bear at Berlin.
Mune: Guardian of the Moon (France/Canada 2014) (8): This France-Canada co-production takes certain liberties with Greco-Roman mythology, mixes them with just a dash of Disney treacle and 60s psychedelia, and turns the whole thing into a delightfully animated LSD trip for toddlers. On an ancient alternate Earth both the moon and the sun are faithfully dragged around the globe tethered to the backs of lumbering behemoths—a shuffling mountain for the sun, a gigantic birdlike dinosaur for the moon. And making sure these heavenly bodies stay in their proper orbits are a pair of newly appointed guardians: Mune, a timid forest fawn, is in charge of the moon while macho braggart Sohone keeps watch over the sun. But trouble arises when the evil Necross, tyrant of the underworld, decides to steal the sun for himself thus threatening the entire planet with deadly darkness… With celebrities voices from the likes of Rob Lowe, Christian Slater, and Patton Oswalt providing the English dub, directors Alexandre Heboyan and Benoît Phillippon’s team create a fantastical Garden of Eden rife with glowing foliage, heroic maidens fashioned out of wax, and crayon-coloured landscapes which look as if they were lifted from the mind of Maxfield Parrish with a little nudge from Rousseau, Dali, and Picasso. Counterbalanced by a vision of Hades aglow with fiery lava and assorted demons the film’s facile message of “Good vs Evil” is given an unexpected complexity (for a kids’ flick at least) when the concepts of love, mercy, and sacrifice are woven in with colourfully dramatic flourishes before the final fade. Tots may not grasp some of the film’s trippier elements but there is plenty of animated action and cute cuddlies to keep them entertained—the moon is maintained by a horde of fluffy cooing wide-eyed spiders!—while adults will appreciate the mythological elements as well as the crew’s technical savvy. I especially enjoyed the way the directors switched from intricate 3D animation to old school 2D cartoons whenever characters entered the “world of dreams”. A fun cinematic rush if ever there was one.
Turn Me On, Dammit! (Norway 2011) (5): It’s bad enough that 15-year old Alma is stuck in the most boring town in Norway, but her hormones have started raging and thanks to a lack of appropriate diversions she has developed a masturbatory dependance on skin mags and a certain telephone sex hotline. And then Artur, the handsomest boy at school, exposes himself to her at a youth dance and try as she may to tell everyone about it no one believes her including her best friends, the stuck-up Ingrid and rebel goth chick Sara. Bored, horny, and now the pariah of her entire high school, Alma’s already terrible life takes yet another downward dip when her uptight mother discovers a bunch of scandalous charges on her phone bill… Writer/director Jannicke Systad Jacobsen’s coming-of-age sex comedy certainly captures Alma’s feelings of isolation—surrounded by mountains and forest, her village of Skoddeheimen doesn’t have much to offer a young girl aside from idle gossip and illicitly obtained alcohol. Given to erotic daydreaming, Alma imagines herself the target of everyone’s lust from the local shopkeeper whom she imagines doing a bump’n’grind dance number down the middle of the cereal aisle, to BFF Ingrid who introduces her to cunnilingus in between applications of lip gloss, to Artur himself whom she transforms into a romantic hero. Unfortunately the oversexed adolescent schtick gets played for too long becoming stale in the process—okay she’s frustrated, her mother’s a prude, and life sucks…we get it—and an already tepid script loses its punch at the hands of a largely amateur cast. At times lead Helene Bergsholm’s features seem frozen in an eternal moue while the other players likewise deliver one-note performances: Mom’s revolted, Ingrid is a bitch, Sara hates everything, and Artur is some kind of monotone heartthrob. Whether or not Jacobsen’s film speaks to disaffected youth (Scandinavian or otherwise) is debatable, but for more mature audiences it will most likely fall on deaf ears. Nice cinematography however, and a brief hike to the bright lights of Oslo adds a dose of reality to Alma’s plight.
Fast Times at Ridgemont High [Fast Times] (USA 1982) (7): With graduation day approaching the senior class at southern California’s Ridgemont High School face various setbacks and triumphs as they discover there is more to learn outside of the classroom than within. In much the same vein as George Lucas’ American Graffiti, director Amy Heckerling’s future alumni navigate the confusing world of impending adulthood in a series of parallel stories which follow a perpetually stoned surfer dude (Sean Penn), a frustrated virgin and her more worldly BFF (Jennifer Jason Leigh, Phoebe Cates), a lovestruck dweeb and his cavalier mentor (Brian Backer, Robert Romanus), and a cocky minimum-wage jockey (Judge Reinhold). But whereas Lucas exhibited a certain amount of finesse and restraint with his film’s shenanigans, Heckerling revels in lowbrow humour with clouds of pot smoke, casual rutting…and lots of tits. Yet somehow it all seems to work, at least for those of us who can remember the adolescent zeitgeist of the time. A lunchroom lesson on fellatio will make you look at carrots in a whole new light, and as if to provide counterbalance a bit of gravitas is introduced when a brief affair comes with unforeseen consequences. It may be crass to contemporary audiences (boo hoo) but there’s no mistaking the fact it struck a definite chord with an entire demographic back in the day. When it was released in 1973, Lucas’ classic asked a generation of then twenty-something Boomers “Where Were You in ’62?”, and all these years later Heckerling’s lightweight teen romp asks sixty-something GenX-ers “What were you in ’82?” Ray Walston shines as an autocratic history teacher, Vincent Schiavelli puts his droopy features to good use as a macabre biology professor, and the likes of Jackson Browne, Don Henley, and the Go-Go’s keep things rocking with a kick-ass soundtrack.
Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn (Romania 2021) (7): After a sex tape Emilia and her husband posted on a supposedly secure adult website winds up going viral, her job as a history teacher at a prestigious private school is put in jeopardy and only her wits—and a couple of alternate endings(?!)—will be able to save both her career and her reputation. Using this very plausible scenario as a springboard, writer/director Radu Jude (who won the Golden Bear at Berlin) launches a caustic, and occasionally very funny, attack on his country’s social, political, and ethical mindset, concentrating on the hypocrisy and selective amnesia they engender. Trying to calm her nerves, Emilia takes a prolonged stroll through a Bucharest awash in hucksters and truculent confrontations, where crumbling architecture of a bygone glory now competes with garish billboards, faded posters extol everything from politicians’ promises to consumer culture, and passersby are not above hurling casual F-bombs at one another. Divided into three loose chapters, Jude takes a gleeful scorched earth approach to his subject, dredging up some problematic facts from Romania’s history and pissing on a few hallowed institutions starting with the Orthodox church. The middle chapter, dealing with “metaphors”, is a masterful example of rapid fire ironies and outright sarcasm. But he saves his best vitriol for the film’s wordy (and drawn out) finale in which an already harried Emilia must face down an ad hoc committee of irate parents and community leaders intent on putting her future to a vote. Representing all levels of Romanian society the committee contains a priest and an army officer, a wealthy patron and a cleaning woman—all rendered ridiculous in their tacky face masks (Jude certainly made good use of COVID precautions). And then, just to push the whole project into farce territory he offers a selection of possible finales including a very adult riff on Xena: Warrior Princess. Droll and in-your-face, Jude opens the film with Emilia’s sex tape itself just to jar his audience (hardcore sex warning!) and doesn’t let up until that last outrageous fade to black. Unfortunately most of his arrows will fly over the heads of non-Romanians unfamiliar with his intended targets, but enough get through to elicit more than a couple of laughs…after all, some human foibles truly are universal.
Alamar (Mexico 2009) (5): There’s a lot to be said for minimalism in cinema, the ability to tell a compelling story without having to gild it in special effects and widescreen spectacle. But there has to be a compelling story—or at least a compelling theme—to begin with and despite its pretty locales and photogenic subjects writer/director Pedro González-Rubio’s bland mash-up of documentary, home movie, and reality TV offers neither. Six-year old Natan travels to the Banco Chinchorro coral reef off the coast of Mexico to spend some quality time with his father, Jorge, before flying back home to his mother in Italy. Moving in with Jorge’s father, a fisherman who lives in a shack suspended above the water, the three men will divide the next few weeks between beach and sea—Natan will learn how to bait a hook, Jorge will befriend an unusually tame egret, and grandfather will make a pot of fish stew while extolling the virtues of living the simple life. And that’s about it. To his credit, Rubio’s two-man crew does capture some nice footage both above and below the waves and Natan is a born ham as he fastidiously ignores the camera (for the most part) while going about his day feeding the crocodiles floating just below grandpa’s front door or sealing a hand-drawn message in a bottle and casting it into the ocean. There is a sense of tranquility to Rubio’s film, his camera concentrating on everyday pleasures and the delicate bonding between father and son while grandfather’s pragmatism keeps things anchored. In the end however it never rises above the level of a cinematic Hallmark card—nice to look at but carrying little weight.
Late Marriage (Israel/France 2001) (8): Thirty-one year old Zaza is still single and still in school, facts which drive his traditional Georgian parents up the wall—especially the single part—but none of the potential brides they arrange for him to meet manage (or desire) to get past the first date. What mom and dad don’t know however is that Zaza is already heavily involved with Judith, a woman straight out of his mother’s worst nightmare for not only is she a divorcee with a young daughter (gasp!), but she’s also a few years older than Zaza (double gasp!). In spite of its occasional comedic moments, writer/director Dover Koshashvili’s family drama takes a thorny look at cultural constraints vs personal freedoms. Refusing to choose one side over the other, he gives us a cast of complex characters with all their strengths and flaws on display then throws them together and sets the pot to a slow simmer. Although espousing traditional values the parents are not without a few glaring skeletons of their own; if one is brutally honest Judith is not exactly a perfect match; and Zaza has not been completely honest with anyone—not his family, not Judith, and especially not himself. Directed with the gentlest of touches, Koshashvili opens his film on a light note and then sits back while things slowly spiral down to a crushing final segment made all the more powerful for its subtlety. Underscored by tough love and a sense of compassion for its protagonists (as well as a bit of naked carnality) Late Marriage is a sober look at a cultural mindset wherein family ties can both bond…and occasionally shackle.
Marvelous and the Black Hole (USA 2021) (4): Since the death of her mother, thirteen-year old Sammy (a one-dimensional performance from Miya Cech) has become an angry troublemaker taking out her frustrations on her dad and his new lady friend, her older sister, her school, and her own body. Now facing an ultimatum from her father—either pass a business course he’s enrolled her in or go to a “reform camp” for wayward kids—Sammy finds her already limited options drying up fast. And then she meets mysterious magician Margot (Rhea Perlman aiming for “quirky” but settling for “precious”) who takes Sammy under her cape and through the magic of magic shows her that there are better ways to resolve your grief. And Sammy, for her part, manages to teach the old conjurer a few life spells of her own. OMG, I guess everyone winds up learning something! Yep, another derivative tale about a conflicted sullen adolescent coming to terms with her conflicted sullenness, this time thanks to a lot of whimsical nonsense involving parlour tricks and a disappearing bunny. Writer/director Kate Tsang’s sophomoric script is brimming with pubescent clichés (oh, big sister is so mean…oh daddy’s new girlfriend is such a threat…oh no one understands me…ad nauseam) and warm fuzzy caricatures in the form of Margot and her hippy trippy magician friends. Tsang then tries to appeal to her demographic even further by inserting a bit of animated fluff and a rather violent daydream sequence. And finally, just to lower the bar another notch, the entire cast awkwardly emote as if they were reading their lines for the first time. Despite some blood and one lone F-bomb, this is one of those cutesy heart warmers designed to elicit a tear or two with Hallmark fans and wow film festival newbies.
Merrily We Go to Hell (USA 1932) (7): After meeting him at a party, naïve Chicago heiress Joan Prentice (Sylvia Sidney) falls head over heels for journalist and frustrated playwright Jerry Corbett (Fredric March) despite the fact that he is a drunkard still pining away for his ex—now a famous stage actress. But after a hasty marriage and brief honeymoon period, Joan finally has to face the fact that neither her love nor their marriage vows will be enough to keep Jerry from straying from the straight and narrow…but what can she do? What indeed! Made in the days before the Hays office began its reign of censorship in Hollywood, director Dorothy Arzner’s screen adaptation of Cleo Lucas’ novel (both women!) does not shy away from issues of alcoholism and adultery, with a little polyamory on the side. Twenty-two year old Sidney lights up the screen with her radiant smile and wide soulful eyes often brimming on the verge of tears as her husband’s affections run hot and cold. And March compliments her gullible debutante perfectly playing a man unable to numb the past no matter how much booze he imbibes, his own self-loathing painfully evident with every drunken stumble. Adrianne Allen also puts in a good performance as the slinky ex-lover who finagles her way back into Jerry’s life—her bleached blonde locks and haughty airs goading him like a piece of forbidden fruit now grown rotten. If you can overlook some pat narrative devices (why would a woman fall for a man like that in the first place?) and a melodramatic ending reminiscent of Silent Era overkill, this is a surprisingly contemporary treatment of a serious disease and its effects on others as well as a frank look at the lengths one co-dependent is willing to go in a vain attempt to make things right. Watch for a 28-year old Cary Grant making a brief walk-on as a dapper gigolo.
Victor Crowley [Hatchet IV] (USA 2017) (7): Ten years (and two sequels) ago, a deformed killer chopped up a bunch of people in a Louisiana swamp. Now, the sole survivor of the “Bayou Massacre” is returning to the scene of the crime as part of a movie crew when their plane crash lands in the middle of nowhere and thanks to some careless web browsing (don’t ask) the killer is accidentally resurrected for yet another bloody rampage! Writer/director Adam Green milks what should have been a dead cow by now and manages to come up with something fresh and disgustingly funny—a splatter movie which not only laughs at itself but gets its audience to join in as well. Forget logic however, for this is a demented gore-fest of snapping bones, gushing fountains of blood, and all manner of bodily indignities—is it really possible to shove someone’s severed arm up their own ass and still get cellphone reception? Beginning with a flashback to 1964 where a romantic proposal turns into a sticky nightmare and ending with one of the best comeuppances in horror movie history, Green knows what his fans want and he’s not ashamed to deliver. Turns out a sick sense of humour actually pairs quite well with blood-soaked carnage…cheers!
Suspicion (USA 1941) (6): Alfred Hitchcock’s paranoid thriller is big on style but woefully short on substance, at least by today’s standards. Terrified of becoming an old spinster, English society deb Lina McLaidlaw (Oscar winner Joan Fontaine) rushes to the altar with a man she barely knows, handsome layabout Johnnie Aysgarth (Cary Grant), only to question her decision afterwards when he proves to be a charming liar and unemployed cad. But could he also be a murderer intent on inheriting her life insurance? Certainly all clues seem to point in that direction as Johnnie becomes obsessed with reading murder mysteries while his fabrications increase and his get-rich schemes wither. And then tragedy strikes a little too close to home. As dire coincidences (?) start to add up a distraught Lina begins to worry whether she is in danger of losing her life…or her mind. With California’s Big Sur standing in for the rugged English coast and RKO studio sets providing sumptuous manor house interiors, Hitchcock makes excellent use of lighting to create a mood—at one point the shadow from a window grille forms a cobweb pattern across an entire room. And despite a couple of clumsy rear-projection sequences and flimsy painted backdrops his exterior shots of treacherous dirt roads and menacing cliffs get the point across. But watching Fontaine’s servile doormat of a character emote back and forth ad nauseam—“he lies and steals and may be trying to kill me but I love him so much!”—begins to grate after a while, and for all its dark ambiguities the ending is still just a bit too pat. Apparently the novel on which the film was based, Anthony Berkeley’s “Before the Fact”, was far more shocking prompting the studio to have it toned down and sanitized into a windswept melodrama showcasing Fontaine’s knitted brow and Grant’s winning dimples. Pity.
The Whale (USA 2022) (3): Gay English professor Charlie (Brendan Fraser), whose morbid obesity now has him confined to a small apartment, desperately wants to reconnect with his estranged teenage daughter (Sadie Sink) and embittered ex-wife (Samantha Morton) before his mounting health issues take their final toll. But the two women are still angry over his sudden departure eight years earlier when he left them for a male student—a love affair with a tragic ending that still haunts him. Determined to live out his remaining life with as much honesty as he can muster, Charlie ignores the medical warnings of his nurse and BFF (Hong Chau) as well as the spiritual advice from a very determined young missionary (Ty Simpkins) who has begun showing up at his door. But can he make peace with the people in his life before the final curtain? Fraser’s phenomenal performance truly deserved that Oscar, as did the make-up department for transforming him into a lumbering behemoth barely able to stand or walk without multiple assists. His ability to register pain, joy, or deepest anguish with little more than a change in voice and a rearrangement of his fleshy features is truly uncanny. Alas, his standout performance only serves to highlight the rest of the cast’s two-dimensional performances as they plod their way through a cliché-riddled script which amounts to little more than pity porn. Morton alternately explodes and whimpers as the stereotypical ex now turned morose alcoholic unable to move on. Chau is likewise unconvincing as her character obediently switches between anger and cajoling tears with mechanical precision. But it is Sink’s ham-fisted performance which proves to be the most distracting. Her portrayal of a mouthy sociopathic little bitch garners more derision than sympathy and turns all those stagey epiphanies and Melville references into the kind of cinematic dross that always seems to win accolades. Ultimately a manipulative and pedestrian melodrama about three people stuck in the mud who’d rather agonize over the rain than slog their way out. Nice art direction though, I will give it that. Shot in a 4:3 ratio Charlie’s cramped apartment comes to resemble a dusty crypt where sunshine is only glimpsed through cracks, a crow hovers at the window like an omen, and lifelines arrive in the form of various knocks at the door.
Roger Dodger (USA 2002) (7): Employing a combination of psychological chess moves and smooth talk, Manhattan adman Roger Swanson (a smarmy Campbell Scott) believes he can read women like a book—a belief he often puts to practice while trolling New York’s singles scene. But when Nick, his horny 16-year old nephew from Ohio (a neurotic Jesse Eisenberg), shows up on his doorstep eager to lose his virginity under Uncle Roger’s tutelage a night on the town in search of female companionship leads to a series of epiphanies for the teenager and an overdue dose of reality for the adult. With a satirical edge often bordering on outright sarcasm, writer/director Dylan Kidd’s sardonic look at the battle of the sexes comes armed with a bitingly clever script and a host of bang-on performances that make you alternately smile and cringe while the action shifts between a swank house party, a noisy bar, and a den of ill repute. Scott’s cynical lothario is handsome and dapper enough as he delivers his long-winded monologues on what makes men and women tick—his Madison Avenue background only adding to his depressingly clinical philosophy. Yet there is a fragility behind the smug bluster which only becomes apparent as the evening progresses and the alcohol consumption increases. Eisenberg brings his signature skittishness to the fore playing a desperate small town naif suddenly faced with the very real possibility of finally getting laid until he finds out there’s more to sex than sex—an interlude with a couple of savvy bar pick-ups (Jennifer Beals, Elizabeth Berkley) gives the film a needed dose of humanity while a tense scene with a drunken partygoer puts Nick squarely at a moral crossroad. And Isabella Rossellini shines as Roger’s boss and clandestine lover, their problematic workplace romance not only switching the tables for a change but also highlighting the fact that on the battleground of sexual politics nothing is ever completely one-sided.
Port of Call (Sweden 1948) (7): Is it possible to rise above the mistakes of one’s past or will they always be there to drag you down? A loaded question and one which this early work by Ingmar Bergman tackles in a way that would have proved shocking to audiences this side of the Atlantic with its brief nudity and honest depictions of premarital sex, backroom abortions, and prostitution Thanks to a few unwise choices, Berit (a potent performance from Nine-Christina Jönnson) has spent a significant portion of her adolescence in reform school. Now back at home and working a dreary factory job she still dreams of one day taking control of her own life. There are obstacles in her path however: her mother is an emotionally abusive shrew, the social worker assigned to her favours procedure over compassion, and the loose-living gang she once hung around with always seem to turn up when she least wants them to. Then she runs into lonely dockworker Gösta (an intense Bengt Eklund) and their one-night stand gradually evolves into something more substantial. But will Gösta be able to accept Berit’s decidedly problematic history? Filmed in drab shades of grey with equally drab industrial landscapes of cranes, cargo ships, and machine shops, Bergman gives Berit’s finite world the feel of a prison—a feeling given ironic underscore by the budgies she keeps in a cage by the windowsill where they can merely glimpse at the wide open sky. In the title role Jönson gives a powerful, contradictory performance as a woman on the cusp of adulthood who aggressively demands more out of life yet is so easily crushed by the opinions of others. Eklund, conversely, gives us an assertive man who is nevertheless hampered by outdated opinions and his own brittle ego. Finally Berta Hall, playing Berit’s mother, has what is arguably the film’s most complex role as an embittered woman unable to fulfill her own emotional needs let alone those of her troubled daughter. A surprisingly modern tale laced with social critique and early feminist tenets Port of Call opens with an act of desperation, closes with a gamble, and hints at greater things to come from the then 30-year old director.
The King of Marvin Gardens (USA 1972) (7): Though not as iconic as, say, Coming Home or Five Easy Pieces, writer/director Bob Rafelson still manages to add yet another title to the list of early ‘70s movies which examined the destruction of the American Dream in the wake of Viet Nam and Watergate. Although they are brothers David and Jason Staebler couldn’t be more unalike in temperament. David (Jack Nicholson playing against character) is a timid, introspective radio personality and author who makes a living reciting fictionalized accounts of his life over the airwaves. Jason (a hyperactive Bruce Dern) on the other hand is a brash, somewhat obnoxious schemer whose get-rich-quick pipe dreams always seem to leave him broke and out on bail. Meeting up in Atlantic City—at that time a decaying tourist trap haunted by little old ladies and con men—Jason tries to impress David with his latest venture: purchasing a small Hawaiian island and turning it into a prosperous gambling mecca. What follows is a tragicomic tale of muddled values, petty corruption, and destructive delusions set against a backdrop of boarded-up buildings and tacky tourists. Dern is superb as the manic brother with his head in the clouds while his feet sink in mud, and Nicholson provides sober counterpoint as a complacent middle class bachelor whose own dreams are confined to pen and paper. Joining them are Ellen Burstyn and Julia Anne Robinson playing Jason’s female companions—Robinson as a young ingenue whose naïve aspirations have yet to be fully corrupted, and Burstyn stealing the spotlight in an Oscar-worthy performance as an aging mistress facing her empty future with rage and shrill denial. And Scatman Crothers provides a dose of mocking pragmatism as a flashy mobster. Adding to the overall sense of disintegration, cinematographer László Kovács gives us interior shots in which faded opulence competes with chaotic disarray, and outdoor pans which transform an already drab seaside boardwalk into something pitiful. But what struck me most was Rafelson’s liberal use of visual metaphors to underscore his characters’ growing anomie—billboards feature happier faces in sunnier climes, a handgun gets passed around like a hot potato, A Miss America spoof twists the knife, and when the two brothers go horseback riding along the seashore David’s mount is white while Jason’s is black. A depressing film ending on a suitably downcast note with an 8mm B&W coda providing the final nail.
The Thomas Crown Affair (USA 1968) (6): Just for kicks roguish banking exec Thomas Crown (Steve McQueen) pulls off the perfect multi-million dollar heist from his own institution. Or so he thinks. What he didn’t count on was the bank CEO hiring sultry insurance investigator Vicki Anderson (Faye Dunaway) to crack the case. Equally determined and just as cunning as Crown, Anderson already has her suspicions and she will do anything…anything…to prove his guilt and recover the stolen cash. But what neither of these two players expected was the sexual chemistry that would develop between them—an attraction which itself may or may not be part of the game. This somewhat outlandish premise is at least partially saved through sheer star power (Dunaway and McQueen smoulder!) and having the sure hand of director Norman Jewison at the helm. Also unique is the film’s eye-catching use of multiple screens in order to give audiences a shifting real time mosaic of what’s happening—an effect which must have been avant-garde at the time but now just seems quaintly dated. In the end it suffers from questionable legal fabrications (no, kidnapping and extortion are NOT legitimate investigatory tools), an underdeveloped plot which leaves too many narrative holes, and a love story that feels a bit too rushed and convenient. Michel Legrand’s Oscar-winning theme song, “The Windmills of Your Mind” is easy on the ear however, and there is a great scene in which a chessboard suddenly turns into a collection of phallic symbols after a seductive game between Dunaway and McQueen gets out of hand. Whew!
The August Virgin (Spain 2019) (6): Unemployed actress Eva (a captivating Itsaso Arana who also co-wrote) is 33 and not quite sure which direction her life will be taking next. Deciding upon a staycation in Madrid during August—the hottest time of the year when most citizens head for cooler climes—she spends her days reacquainting herself with the city’s colourful streets and neighbourhoods, observing various religious festivals and street parties, meeting up with old friends and making new ones. And talking. So much talking as impromptu chitchat revolves around issues of aging, friendship, dreams, and what it means to be true to oneself—her conversations tinged with a peculiar empathy, at times a bit of animosity, and always with a bit of pot or sangria on the side. But what does it all add up to? Influenced by Rohmer’s A Summer Tale with shades of Linklater’s Before Sunrise, director/co-writer Jonás Trueba’s gentle little “slice of life” finds its focus in Arana’s remarkably natural performance. As the quiet Eva and her diverse pals discuss their pasts and futures we are invited to examine our own and the result is as much introspection as it is celebration. One woman discusses motherhood while a male counterpart laments over not being a good father; one man wonders how a brief holiday in Spain has turned into ten years while a female counterpart can’t seem to stay put in any one place for more than a year; and yet another woman, an advocate of woo-woo therapy, opens Eva’s chakras to new possibilities. And everywhere are religious symbols whether it be a vase of white flowers, a saintly idol, or a poster of the moon which suddenly morphs into a cheeky metaphor. Utilizing washed out pastels and unhurried camerawork, Trueba presents a sequence of lazy hazy summertime encounters where characters ponder the choices they’ve made (or will make or are currently making) with Eva’s curiousity serving as a catalyst until he slyly jerks the carpet from under you with a closing wink that forces you to reevaluate the previous two hours. A standard example of “arthouse lite” this is not a film for impatient viewers, yet for those able to enter into its mellow groove there is something to be gleaned. I just wish I could have liked it more.
Tully (USA 2018) (7): Life is not getting any easier for Marlo (Charlize Theron). She already has her hands full with two taxing children plus a husband who is frequently out of town on business. And now she has just given birth to their third child causing her daily routine to go from difficult to near impossible. Enter Tully, a young woman hired to look after the baby at night so Marlo can finally catch up on the sleep she’s been craving. A free-spirited 26-year old bohemian, the perceptive and unusually intense Tully seems to be everything Marlo is not: self-confident, curious, optimistic, and calm in the face of any storm. Naturally, it isn’t long before harried housewife and New Age “night nanny” form a tight bond, one which sees Marlo finally regaining some of the spunk she once possessed before the demands of marriage, motherhood, and getting older combined to dull it. But as Tully’s influence over Marlo leads to ever more daring escapades a troubling question presents itself—is the younger woman a godsend or would the old adage “too good to be true” be more appropriate? There are many directions this drama could have taken and while writer Diablo Cody and director Jason Reitman don’t exactly pull the rug out from under us, they still manage to add a new spin to an old twist. For her part Theron (who gained a tremendous amount of weight for the role) is the epitome of suburban despair juggling kids, a limited budget, and a husband who exists on the periphery while her own aspirations fade into dim memories. Mackenzie Davis, playing Tully all bedecked in jeans and halter top, likewise presents a strong character whose youthful zeal (or is it naiveté?) charms…at least until a few emotional cracks begin to appear. Rounding out the cast is Ron Livingston as Marlo’s caring yet oblivious husband; Mark Duplass as Marlo’s successful older brother who along with his snobbish wife (Elaine Tan) serve to remind her of what she hasn’t achieved; and Lia Frankland and Asher Miles Fallica as the kids—she a precocious tyke and he a troubled child with behavioural issues. A chick flick in every good sense of the word, Tully is an updated Thelma and Louise wherein psychological pain leads to a very different kind of canyon leap.
Queen of Earth (USA 2015) (3): Psychologically frail Catherine (Elizabeth Moss) is having a bad year. Her father, a renowned artist, has committed suicide and now her boyfriend is leaving her for another woman. Seeking solace at the lakeshore cabin of her BFF Virginia (Katherine Waterston) Catherine is further upset after Virginia fails to give her the hugs she needs causing her twitchy neurosis to blossom into a full-blown psychosis. Confused flashbacks show us the reason for the two friends’ current emotional disconnect and endless navel-gazing has them trying to outdo one another over who has been the bigger victim—Catherine whines about her “self-perpetuating cycle of defeat”; Virginia laments about her ex-boyfriend’s inability to face reality. But as the week progresses and Catherine’s mental status continues to deteriorate the two women are forced to see each other for what they truly are… Or something. Imagine a college drama club doing a 90-minute improvisational spoof of Ingmar Bergman (or Woody Allen?) complete with clumsy staging and stilted monologues and you’ll get some idea of what you’re in for. To be fair, Moss puts in a standout performance despite the awkward script, her character’s tenuous grip on reality reflected in her smudged mascara, rheumy eyes, and unkempt hair. And Waterston, looking like an ‘80s Demi Moore after downing a couple of Ambien, tries to match pace with her own character’s personal pain but eventually gets lost in Moss’ shadow. Unfortunately writer/director Alex Ross Perry plays the arthouse card too many times resulting in stretches of tedium and some unintentionally funny scenes, most notably Catherine’s ultimate mental breakdown which transforms a house party into a cheesy outtake from 1962’s Carnival of Souls. Despite its illusion of depth this is little more than a lightweight character study of two Millennials realizing that life sometimes sucks more than they’ve been led to believe.
