Director: Jia Zhangke
Runtime: 131 minutes
There's about 40 minutes worth of a good movie in Jia Zhangke's Mountains May Depart. Sadly, it's trapped between 80 minutes of unsuccessful material that ranges from amateurish to downright dreadful. By the time the film's two hours draw to a close (with an admittedly lovely closing shot), the only thing that emerges as worthwhile is the performance from lead actress Tao Zhao.
That said, you wouldn't know based on the film's opening scenes. Jia's film is split into three distinct sections (1999/2000, then 2014, and finally 2025) and his opener isn't terribly convincing. Tao, the eventual main character (Tao), starts off as an oblivious Pollyanna who quickly slides from endearing to grating. You almost want to smack her, but then her first suitor, the aggressively capitalist Zhang Jinsheng (Yi Zhang) starts boorishly interrupting like "The Great Gatsby"'s Tom Buchanan. On the opposite end of the tolerability spectrum is coal mine worker Liangzi (Jing Dong Liang), the first act's only convincing character.
With the tripartite structure looming over the whole enterprise, Act 1 is tasked with breezing through a love triangle that never convinces. The cup of dramatic irony runneth over, and everything is so clear as day to the viewer that what transpires on screen is tedious. Worse, Jia is unable to get his actors to push beyond their initial traits. Liangzi quickly gets pushed aside for the sake of set up, leaving us with a wide-eyed naif and her jerk-wad beau for company. When the first section ends, a title card appears, and you'd be forgiven for using this fake-out as an excuse to bolt from the theater.
But if you decide to stay, at least you'll get to take in the lovely middle section, which does a near-miraculous 180 in terms of quality. Though it opens on Liangzi and his medical woes, the focus finds its way back to Tao, and Tao Zhao suddenly makes leaps in quality. In part two, Jia gifts the viewer with a protagonist full of genuine emotional conflict, mostly stemming from her marital woes. As age creeps up on Tao, as well as those around her, a sense of emotional urgency finally appears, and the central performance soars. Finally, after almost an hour of waiting, Tao's hype from Cannes seems justified. There are individual scenes - like one between a mother and son on a train - that speak volumes in their carefully chosen words. If Act 1 was Jia operating on autopilot, Act 2 showcases the director throwing himself into his material.
After such a transcendent mid-section, Mountains seems prepared to move on to better things in its conclusion. Yet this is where the film gets horribly yanked back down to earth. The story switches locations (Melbourne) and languages (English), and neither of this shifts do any good. The leap into the near future returns to the amateurish clutter of the opening, only with even worse writing. The emotional struggles that arise in the final act range from groan-inducing (a standard "I'm not following your dream, dad!" arc) to borderline creepy.
The introduction of so much new territory wouldn't be such a hurdle were it not for the drastic drop off in the quality of the acting. Moments that should hit hard generate uncomfortable laughter, and this isn't helped by the writing (Actual dialogue: "It's like Google Translate is your real son!"). The poignancy of the final scene, a callback to a recurring musical motif, is but a bandaid on a gaping wound that demands more intensive treatment.
Grade: C/C-
Director: Todd Haynes
Runtime: 118 minutes
As restrained and repressed as its time period and characters, Todd Haynes' Carol still has a beating heart at its center. You might just have to work a little harder than necessary to get to it. At times emotionally reserved to a fault, this adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's "The Price of Salt" thaws out just in time to deliver an understated wallop of an ending that catapults it from the ranks of the 'good,' and into the realm of the almost-great.
Not counting his HBO miniseries remake of Mildred Pierce, Mr. Haynes hasn't released a narrative feature since his Bob Dylan fantasia I'm Not There, so to see him reemerge with such a beautifully controlled work might take a little getting used to. The director has returned to the relative time period of his excellent Far From Heaven, albeit from a drastically different angle. Far From Heaven sought to emulate the rich melodramas of Douglas Sirk, while Carol - despite its scenes of wealthy people in pretty clothes - brings to mind Inside Llewyn Davis. This is not the picture perfect vision of post-war America, but rather a grittier vision that further deconstructs the societal norms of the day.
This is all evident in the Christmas-y color scheme, using rich reds and greens that are still made to look a little worn and desaturated. When young shop girl Therese (Rooney Mara) shows up for work at a pricey department store, even the showroom looks a little dingy (not to mention the staff cafeteria). It's not exactly gloomy, but rather that the artifice of everything in the store (as well as the artifice of the 1950s concept of a homogenized society) is made clear as day to Therese and the viewer. Sharing in that vision, despite belonging to the upper class, is Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett), who saunters into the store one December morning to buy a gift for her daughter. Out of a crowd of faces of parents and children, Therese and Carol's gazes meet, and very slowly, the dance begins.
Ostensibly a story of forbidden love, Phyllis Nagy's script refuses to fall into the trap of radically altering the source material for the sake of a more conventional tale. This is a story about isolated souls finding a connection against the odds and in violation of every social more. Carol never becomes a psychological thriller, but Haynes is gifted at emphasizing small gestures in order to convey the utter seriousness of Therese and Carol's burgeoning relationship, as well as the risks of exposure. Quick glances and touches on the shoulder are stand ins for traditional romantic gestures, even when the two women are in private. It's a romantic game of cat and mouse, only with both players working together to avoid the crushing weight of "traditional values."
And, as much as my admiration for the film has grown since I saw it, it's all to easy to understand why many will find Carol a little too distant for its own good. Haynes' pacing never drags, but it does move at a steady, stately rate, without too much variation for the first half or so. Carol is all about the wind up to a purposefully muted release, and for some it will be too little and too late. But even as I can see where detractors are coming from, I continue to find little details that stand out. Carol's story is not complicated, but it is complex, and the film practically demands a second viewing just to absorb every little move involved in Therese and Carol's covert courtship.
Keeping the whole enterprise going, even when Haynes himself seems a bit unsure about how to best move it all along, are the two beautiful performances from the leads. Mara has a much more passive role, but her quietness is an asset that the film needs. She is our window into the more obvious drama of Carol's domestic woes, and she reacts accordingly.
Meanwhile Blanchett, the actor to Mara's reactor, is nothing short of sublime in the titular role. It's a role that the actress could have done on autopilot, but instead, Blanchett invests every look and touch and vocal flutter with a lifetime of experience. Therese is still finding and shaping herself, while Carol has known for years what she truly wants and what it will cost to have it. Without ever reaching for a big moment, Blanchett captures the character's turmoil with heartbreaking restraint and intelligence. Arriving just two years after her towering work in Blue Jasmine, Carol once again asserts the otherworldly Australian as one of the leading performers of her generation.
And even though I may have some quibbles with some of Haynes' lulls in the narrative, his overall work here is excellent. Working with a talented group of collaborators, he's created a beautiful, yet realistic-looking film every bit as refined and textured as one of Carol's pricey fur coats. Costumes, production design, and photography are all superb, without getting in the way of the film's slowly blooming emotional center. Carol favors the exploration of a human bond over the sexier details, so even when the one proper sex scene arrives, it feels not only justified, but intimate and tender.
Yet even the consummation of Therese and Carol's affair pales in comparison to the magic trick that Haynes pulls off in the closing chapters. Carol goes in a few surprising directions, with certain events arriving in ways that don't initially appear satisfying. But the careful windup finally comes together when Haynes and Nagy take both leads through their respective low points, yet allow room for hope. There is sadness and regret in Carol, but by the end, it hardly comes off as a cinematic depressive. All of those furtive, smoldering glances and gentle touches on the hand lead to one final, wordless exchange that is nothing short of heart-stopping in its beauty, and a perfect ending to the year's most delicate, albeit chilly, romance.
Grade: B+
Director: Yorgos Lanthimos
Runtime: 118 minutes
Without any notable visual flourishes, The Lobster does what so many films set in the near (or far) future fail to do even with massive budgets: create an instantly convincing, wholly immersive world. Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos (Dogtooth), making his English language debut, has outdone himself with his break from his homeland and native tongue. Absurd, strange, blackly funny, and even oddly touching, The Lobster will most certainly be an acquired taste. Those who can get on Lanthimos' wavelength, however, are in for one hell of a treat as the film makes the rounds at festivals ahead of its currently TBD American release next year.
The end of a relationship, especially one that lasts for more than a decade, is always painful. But there isn't much time to wallow in newfound loneliness in the world of The Lobster, as we quickly learn from following newly single David (Colin Farrell, heavily de-glammed). In accordance with current government laws (setting is undefined, though signs point to French Canadian territory), David is carted off to a sleek countryside resort, where he will be given 45 days to find a new mate. If he fails, he will be turned into an animal, albeit one of his choosing (in David's case: the film's titular crustacean).
Unfolding with a level of deadpan that would make Wes Anderson envious, The Lobster's chief strength, among many, is how maintains its tricky tone over the course of two taut hours. From a pacing standpoint, this is easily the most polished of Lanthimos' films, which prevents one from falling out of touch with the uncompromising idiosyncrasies. The Lobster's second half breaks the narrative out of a delightfully repetitive cycle, yet manages to maintain and build upon the successes of the beginning. Just when you think that Lanthimos is getting too lost in his own vision, Yorgos Mavropsaridis' editing keeps things moving with laser-cutter precision, all without disrupting the deliberate flow of the story. All other technical aspects are similarly excellent, especially the green and beige-hued photography of Thimios Bakatakis and the discordant soundtrack that mixes pop songs with jolting string pieces.
Lanthimos reigns all of this in beautifully from the director's chair, with plenty of crisply-assembled passages composed of stealthily compelling shots with little or no camera movement. For as much time as the film spends at the singles' resort/internment camp, Lanthimos always finds new visual alleys to drag one further down the rabbit hole. Even the most mundane hotel hallway comes loaded with bizarro uncertainty in the world of The Lobster, which prides itself on subverting the ordinary by underlining it with hints of ludicrous, yet somehow plausible, extremism. In Woody Allen's Crimes & Misdemeanors, Alan Alda's character quoted Larry Gelbart's, "if it bends, it's funny; if it breaks it's not funny" remark, and that manifesto is certainly true here. Lanthimos bends The Lobster to its absolute further, keeping it on the precipice of breaking without ever going too far.
Yet for all of The Lobster's understated work in the arts/tech departments, Lanthimos' script ultimately holds the key to the aforementioned control of tone. The Lobster could have easily become a one-note joke, but Lanthimos and co-writer Efthymis Filippou dole out the bizarro details of the film's setting in carefully constructed vignettes that gradually coalesce into a spectacular whole. Some are strange, some are disturbing, and some are gut-bustingly funny in their deliberate emotional vacancy. Few scenes capture the whole of The Lobster quite like the one wherein the hotel manager (a pitch-perfect Olivia Colman) and her husband try to serenade the horde of single folk with listless performances of romantic songs and robotic dance moves.
And as much as I lit up every time Colman appeared, the rest of the cast are all a treat to watch as well. Farrell continues to excel when given darker, off beat material, and while 'David' doesn't allow him the range of In Bruges, it demonstrates his skill as a versatile actor who should never have been propped up as a traditional leading man. Other hotel residents are marvelously filled out by the likes of Ben Whishaw, John C. Reilly, Extras's Ashley Jensen, and frequent Lanthimos collaborator Angeliki Papoulia (as an ice cold "hunter" who delivers the film's darkest joke). Later arrivals like Lea Seydoux and Rachel Weisz (the latter of whom narrates the film throughout) are welcome presences as well.
However, these characters are ultimately pawns in Lanthimos' oddball experiment. In some ways, he's taking a page from the Coen brothers, playing a narrative god with a merciless combination of dark humor and irony. But even when the ambiguous ending arrives (he's a fan of those), Lanthimos refuses to let his detachment from his characters slip into cruelty. The characters may do horrible things (or have horrible reactions), but in the film's later stages Lanthimos subtly shifts into empathy without puncturing the carefully crafted tone and losing all thematic control. Like another film set to play at AFI Fest (Todd Haynes' Carol), The Lobster possesses an unwavering dedication to a strict code of tone and atmosphere that will strike many as redundant and exhausting. Yet for others, the relentless unwillingness to make major changes will become its main selling point, highlighting, for better or for worse, the purposeful vision at the helm.
Grade: A
Director: Mike Leigh
Runtime: 150 minutes
Like the paintings of J.M.W. Turner, Mr. Turner works best when examined from afar. Mike Leigh has crafted a beautiful looking film that's often high enjoyable. Yet Britain's keenest observer of the human condition has perhaps done a little too much, well, observing with his latest effort. Turner's personality and his actions are clearly shown, but Leigh stays too far back and never gets to the heart of Turner's motivations outside of the most obvious interpretations. Timothy Spall, who picked up Best Actor at Cannes this year, does his best in the title role, but he's often reduced to playing up the same ticks long after they wear out their welcome. The real Turner painted with intense brushstrokes and head-turning amounts of detail at the smallest level. Mr. Turner, by contrast, barely completes a charcoal sketch by the time its two and a half hours come to a close.
Following the last 25 years of Turner's life, Mr. Turner's pacing is far from rushed. The artist paints, has meetings with potential patrons, and interacts with London's high society, among whom he is universally revered. By starting the film with Turner at the highpoint of his career, Leigh never has to rush through the early stretches of the film to reach any critical moment in his subject's life for the sake of drama.
Leigh has built a reputation on allowing heavy amounts of improvisation from his actors, but Mr. Turner finds him working with far more pre-constructed material (or at least it feels that way). The film's runtime seems daunting, but Leigh's relatively tighter pacing of his scenes keeps the story from dragging. Even without much of a conventional narrative, Mr. Turner is filled with enough humor and beautiful craftsmanship to ensure that it's never less than pleasurable to experience. Leigh's longtime cinematographer Dick Pope has done of beautiful job of lighting the film like one of Turner's signature paintings, highlighting the exemplary work of the costume and set designers. Turner was known as a master of light, and Pope proves that's he's one as well, despite working in a radically different medium.
But all of that meticulously appointed beauty can't make up for the lack of insight given to Turner himself. Spall is clearly immersed in the role, but that immersion doesn't mean as much when it's not dealing with incisive writing. At times, Turner comes off as porcine cartoon of a man who grunts his way through scenes and then pinches his face in an unintentional Robert De Niro impression. The most compelling and empathetic character in Mr. Turner, shockingly, is Mrs. Booth (Marion Bailey), a widow who becomes Turner's last romantic partner. When Booth describes the loss of her first husband, some semblance of grounded human emotion starts to break through all of the handsome visuals. Sadly, moments like Mrs. Booth's recounting of her loss are few in number. Bailey has an affable screen presence that contrasts nicely with Spall's brusque eccentricity, and she stealthily becomes the heart of the story. If only the screenplay was willing to recognize this.
Instead, Turner's behavior, which at times is lecherous, is presented so plainly that one wonders if Leigh even has a point of view about the man's character. A point of view can be presented without manipulating the audience, but Mr. Turner prefers to stay too many steps back. Only when Leigh lets the viewer see the intensity of Turner's painting techniques does the character's genius come to light. But technique can only take a film or a performance so far. Mr. Turner shows Leigh and Spall working so thoroughly on their technique while forgetting to get into the intentions behind those techniques. Once the last brushstroke dries, there's little more to do than shake one's head in muted admiration before moving on to the next section of the gallery.
Grade: B-
Director: Andrey Zvyagintsev
Runtime: 140 minutes
In 1962, the marketing campaign for Kubrick's Lolita asked, "How on earth did they ever make a movie of Lolita?" After seeing Andrey Zvayagintsev's Leviathan, a similar question is raised: How on earth did the director get state funding to make a film like Leviathan. A scathing satire of modern Russian bureaucracy, Zvyagintsev's fourth film pulls no punches with its criticisms. Taking a page from Paddy Chayefsky's Network, Leviathan is gripping and exhausting proof that sometimes an eloquent scream is better than quiet subversion.
Loosely influenced by the Book of Job and Thomas Hobbes' famous political tract, Zvyagintsev drops the viewer off in the story some time after the seeds of disaster have been sewn. Aging father Koyla (Aleksey Serebryakov) lives a modest life in a rural, town on the Kola Peninsula near the Barent Sea. His humble surroundings, however, are being threatened by the local mayor Vadim (Roman Madyanov), a greedy politician willing to bend the law as he sees fit. For reasons not entirely clear at the start, Vadim wishes to seize Koyla's property for a vaguely defined construction project. Koyla, his second wife Lilya (Elena Lyadova), and his son don't know enough to properly take on Vadim's thuggish regime, so they enlist the help of Dima (Vladimir Vdovichenkov), a successful lawyer from Moscow.
The actual back and forth struggle of Leviathan is constructed as a set of dominos; once a few key decisions are made, there's no turning back, and no redemption or salvation from on high. Zvyagintsev has that rare ability to turn mordant humor into straight laced drama without becoming po-faced. Leviathan's first hour or so can be laugh out loud funny, and its irreverence towards the country's political elite is like a blast of wind off of the Arctic Circle. This pointed sense of humor eases the viewer into the film's increasingly pessimistic view of Russia's power structures. The writer/director's first three films didn't quite indicate that he was capable of creating such a rich work with such far-reaching implications. Russia's metropolises are never glimpsed in Leviathan, but that's clearly the bull's eye Zvyagintsev is striving to hit. The short answer is that, yes, he does.
In critiquing something as big as, well, the establishment, Zvyagintsev's screenplay is adept at creating genuine drama and well-rounded characters. Vadim, the obvious villain of the piece, isn't necessarily given a "fair" portrayal, but Madyanov thankfully creates an authentically reprehensible figure. And even though there's no questioning of the villain's motives, Zvyagintsev's protagonists are never deified so that the audience can easily root for them. Koyla, for instance, has a habit of flying off the handle when he doesn't get his way, and then copes by swilling too much vodka. Lilya has a mind of her own, but too often remains silent. Therefore, she acts out in secret, and her choices ave traumatizing consequences. As for Dima, his reasoning for taking Koyla's case without charge is left a mystery. He bonds with Koyla and affectionately calls him "bro," but he's not without a capacity for underhanded tactics. His main angle to get the court back in Koyla's favor is simply to blackmail Vadim. As much as we want to see the protagonists emerge victorious, it has more to do with their side of the argument, rather than who they are as people.
As much as Leviathan is a demonstration of Zvyagintsev's screenplay and his work with his cast, its visuals are often arresting. The film is bookended by landscape shots set to the surging sounds of Philip Glass' Akhnaten prelude, which allows Zvyagintsev to grab some truly beautiful wide shots. But the visual accomplishments don't stop with the handful of grandiose images. Cinematographer Mikhail Krichman, with some help from the far north location of the setting, films Leviathan's weather-beaten homes and rolling hills with a blue-hued, wintery polish. At times, one expects to see frost materialize at the edge of the frame.
Leviathan's only real failing is that it's ultimately too much of a great thing. Though the film has no bad or distracting scenes, the final act loses a bit of control of the pacing. Zvyagintsev takes a bit too long to catch his characters up on what the audience already knows, and then throws in one too many scenes of the aftermath. The pieces all end up in the right place at the end, but Leviathan has a few narrative shortcuts that are left neglected. However, of the potential ending scenes, the true ending (before the closing book end), is excellent and uncomfortably cements the film's linking of political and religious abuses of power. Zvyagintsev makes his points with Leviathan land powerfully, even as he occasionally gets a bit longwinded in the delivery. For better and for worse, that's what can happen when you're mad as hell and you're not gonna take it anymore.
Grade: A-
Director: Miroslav Slaboshpitsky
Runtime: 130 minutes
Entirely in sign language without any subtitles or translation, Miroslav Slaboshpitsky's The Tribe is a marvel of universal communication. Entirely populated by a cast of young deaf actors, this study of teenage cruelty in a small Ukrainian town takes its time to build up its characters and their world, but its chilling finale makes it hard to shake. Though it has no name actors to draw in audiences, Slaboshpitsky's ambitious drama deserves to find an audience that will hopefully only grow with strong word of mouth.
When a new, unnamed student arrives at a rural school for the deaf, he's quickly roped into the surprisingly nasty student hierarchy. Without a single word spoken, Slaboshpitsky's ensemble comes into focus and his main set-up becomes so natural that it avoids gimmicky shock tactics. Aside from one early scene in a classroom, most of The Tribe takes place outside of the restrictions of the classroom. Adults are rarely seen in The Tribe, and when they appear, they're usually taking advantage of or collaborating with the school's vicious, mob-like elite.
Filled with complex camera work that emphasizes the cast over a single protagonist, the community at the school is instantly recognizable in its routine handling of social strata and the cruelty that follows. The more depraved the students act, the more The Tribe pulls one in to its spiral of bad behavior and the disturbing consequences. It's rare that only one student occupies the frame, but Slaboshpitsky's and his talented cast find ways of distinguishing the various students. There are no names ever given or indicated, but the personalities say more than enough through volatile facial expressions and hand gestures.
The character who comes closest to a protagonist often gets lost in the fray, but the film's eventual return to his struggle pays off well once the story moves past the point of no return. A strong subplot involving a pregnant student also works quite well, and features the film's second most harrowing scene.
The most harrowing, the one that will leave people talking once they pick their jaws up off of the floor, is the finale. Spoiling it would, obviously, ruin the surprise, but even in retrospect it's one hell of a climax. The bluntness at the end could have easily been a last ditch attempt at provocation, but in the context of the rest of the story it couldn't feel more appropriate in its extremity. So much of the cruelty in The Tribe is presented as just above normal, but that constant bullying can lead to devastating consequences. The longer The Tribe goes on, the violence only becomes more uncomfortable until it arrives at the breaking point and leaves a mark that no fraternal bonding can ever repair.
Grade: B+
Director: Olivier Assayas
Runtime: 124 minutes
The political revolutionaries at the center of Olivier Assayas' last film, the excellent Something in the Air, would probably hate to watch their creator's follow-up. Moving from social and political upheaval to the world of show business, Assayas' latest is a flashier exercise filled with star power and picturesque imagery. It's also one of the director's most purely enjoyable films, even though it outstays its welcome by treading through too much familiar ground. Snappy writing, sleek camera work, and strong lead performances will be enough for some, while others will look at the subject matter and themes and wonder why they spent two hours with testy celebrities. Or, who knows, you might even find yourself somewhere in the middle, as I did walking out of the Egyptian theater last night.
Films that poke at the behind the scenes activities of the entertainment world are often in a precarious position when it comes to the background details. Throw in too many references to real actors and celebrities, and you risk becoming glib and going after easy targets. Throw out too few, and the world of stardom, no matter how far removed from Hollywood, and the story seems too removed from reality to be fully convincing. On this level, Assayas has thankfully hit the bull's eye. The name-dropping is carefully placed, some of it timed for the film's bursts of humor.
Without replacing the actual development, those references go a long way in informing the mindset of Maria Enders (Juliette Binoche). A big star who's won over both Hollywood and the international scene, Maria is busy trying to find her next project, hopefully one that won't involve her hanging from wires in front of a green screen. On her way to a tribute in Zurich - to Wilhelm Melchior who gave her career its start 20 years ago - Maria and her sarcastic assistant Val (Kristen Stewart) learn that Wilhelm has died. Though distraught, Maria, with Val's coaching, makes it to the tribute, dressed to the nines and receiving thunderous applause.
Maria is all set to get out of Switzerland when she's approached by rising director Klaus Diesterweg (Lars Eidinger), who has an ambitious proposition in mind. He wants to restage Melchior's play Maloja Snake, in which Maria originally played the dangerous young ingenue, but with Maria in the role of the older woman. Though Maria eventually agrees, digging into the role of the desperate Helena, seduced and destroyed by young Sigrid, proves far more difficult than anticipated. Secluded in Melchior's mountain home at the behest of his widow, Maria and Val run lines and debate interpretations of the play in the run up to meeting the future Sigrid: Jo-Ann Ellis (Chloe Grace Moretz), a classically trained actress with Hollywood bad girl tendencies.
Sils Maria's first two parts are never less than a blast to sit through. Part one, which ends with Maria and Val preparing to head into the mountains, is lusciously shot, accentuating the high fashion, fancy galas, and luxury cars. Several dynamic, overhead camera shots make Maria's travels feel like the arrival at the red carpet of the Oscars. Assayas can be a fluid and engaging storyteller - Something in the Air had its share of thrilling photography - but here he's clearly having quite a bit of fun dipping his toes in the lives of the rich and famous. Though not as showy, the film's second part, confined to the mountains, is just as visually arresting.
That same sense of liberated style also applies to Binoche's just-shy-of-fading star. An expert at playing charming, sensitive characters, it's great fun to see the actress tear into such a haughty, self-involved role. Her face, which grows exponentially more expressive with each passing year, is a joy to watch as Maria's fear, disdain, and spite burrow into her eyes and the lines around her eyes and mouth. Even when Maria sheds the fancy gowns and chops off most of her beautiful black hair to prepare for rehearsals, she remains as nervy and high maintenance, a cactus draped in Chanel. For longtime followers of the Church of Binoche (converting was one of the best decisions I've ever made), her success with the role likely won't be a surprise. Just as Assayas' world knows what Maria Enders is capable of, international audiences have long been aware of Binoche's talents.
So even though it's fun to see Binoche play such a different role, the film's understated surprise is none other than Stewart. An easy target after the Twilight series, the actress has made the leap to "respectable" world cinema without stumbling. If anything, she's proven that she's much better suited to material like what Assayas has given her than blockbuster extravaganzas. Stewart, low-key, sarcastic, and determined, is an inspired foil for Binoche's high-pitched hysterics. Initially just a sounding board with two phones, Val inches out of her shell once the film moves to the mountains. Never at full-on odds with Maria, Val's relationship with her jet-setting boss is what keeps some of the film's repetitive rehearsal scenes afloat. Maria and Val's opposing interpretations of the play nicely run alongside the film's ideas about aging and clinging onto youth in the face of middle age.
And even though some of Assayas' writing is rather on-the-nose, he keeps Sils Maria buoyant with a boisterous sense of humor. Without leaning too heavily on his Hollywood references, Assayas' script gets great mileage out of its characters' reactions to their compromised situations and idealogical confrontations. Even with the beautiful landscape photography, there's nothing more striking in Sils Maria than the small moments when Maria and Val go toe-to-toe, either at each other's throats or in laughing in each other's faces.
With Maria and Val's dynamic being such an integral part of the film's energy, it's no surprise that Stewart's exit from the story lets a lot of wind out of the story's sails. Even though the third segment of the film is labeled as the epilogue, it's far too long and touches on too many of the same ideas as before. The finale, set during a dress rehearsal, has a great moment between Binoche and Moretz, but just about everything leading up to that point could be left on the cutting room floor without any losses. Assayas touches on Jo-Ann's status as a paparazzi target early on with some hilarious footage of her bad behavior, so the reintroduction of the paparazzi at the end is redundant. Jo-Ann's scenes before the epilogue are more than sufficient, and the reprisal of the paparazzi angle detracts from the better established issue of aging and faded glory. For a film so confidently assembled, the epilogue is an odd misstep that gets in the way of Sils Maria keeping up its streak of winning dramatic and comedic moments.
Grade: B
Director(s): Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne
Runtime: 95 minutes
The entire plot of Two Days, One Night, from Belgian filmmakers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardennes, would exist as a mere montage in other stories. Yet the Dardennes are rarely ones to race through stories, and spend their films unpacking the smaller moments in the lives of the working class. Two Days, One Night is instantly recognizable as a Dardenne bros. film, yet it also finds the directing duo working with a rarely seen sense of urgency in their storytelling. It's a classic ticking clock scenario, as filtered through the grounded, humanist viewpoint that the brothers have honed over their careers. The race against time makes for a more accessible film without watering down the Dardennes' skills behind the camera.
For Sandra (Marion Cotillard), the story's shrinking window of opportunity is a matter of life and death. Sandra's boss at her factory job has given the rest of the staff an ultimatum: Sandra keeps her job, or everyone else gets a bonus. With the vote set for the following Monday, Sandra only has the upcoming weekend to canvas the 16 co-workers to get enough votes to keep her job and keep her family from going on welfare. Though Sandra has support from her husband and a few co-workers already, she must also face her own doubts about herself, made worse by a recent bout of crippling depression.
Initially, the depression angle seems poised to get in the way of the time sensitive story. The Dardennes make Cotillard cry and collapse so much in the first 20 or 30 minutes and it doesn't feel earned. We know Sandra's situation, but we haven't spent enough time with her for this series of mini-breakdowns to mean anything. Instead of discarding the depression, however, the Dardennes keep it yoked to the main story. Thankfully, it's a decision that ultimately works in the film's favor. Two Days, One Night's plot is the epitome of simplicity (90% is Sandra finding and talking to her colleagues), and as Sandra gathers more confidence, the film becomes significantly better at linking her depression to her more obvious struggle.
Sandra is one of the Dardennes' best protagonists, and Cotillard (arguably the biggest star they've worked with) is perfect casting for the role. Even when forced to cry more than necessary, she beautifully captures Sandra's desperation and her self doubt, which the depression certainly doesn't help with. Despite the tears, this is one of Cotillard's most restrained, naturalistic roles. Thanks to the Dardennes, it's also one of the actresses' finest performances, easily rivaling her Oscar-winning turn as Edith Piaf, albeit on a different end of the dramatic spectrum. Her eyes seem more expressive than ever, and she's also begun to tap into her expressive face with subtle twists of her mouth.
Beyond Cotillard front and center work, it's impressive how well the Dardennes keep Two Days, One Night from falling into simplicity. Sandra's co-workers, even those who vote in her favor, all have valid reasons for wanting their bonuses. Some refuse to vote for Sandra with solemn respect, while others are outright hostile. The script finds shrewd ways of varying Sandra's speech, in which she explains the vote and what's going on, to illuminate how comfortable she is with each person. All of the actors playing Sandra's associates, save for one scenery-chewing crier, are quite good with the brief time they're afforded by the script. With Cotillard stripped of the usual movie star glamor, she and the rest of the cast blend together, even though the star is the only recognizable face.
The Dardennes' direction and writing is among their most confident, but a few head-scratching decisions in the film's middle make it harder to decide if Two Days is a great film or merely a very good one. The scene that represents Sandra's lowest point in the story is timed to coincide with an overly calculated arrival of a guest. As a result, when Sandra has to try and undo a horrible mistake, it's difficult not to laugh at the absurdity of the timing. The Dardennes have always been gifted with an ability to, in their minimalist and gritty way, maintain a film's tone. So when Sandra blurts out her mistake to her husband (Fabrizio Rigione), it's jarring enough to prompt a double-take (the audience I saw it with certainly had no problem letting out a laugh). If the scene is an attempt at pitch black comedy, it's a poorly placed one that undercuts the film's earnest drama.
Even so, Two Days, One Night is still one of the Dardennes most confident and most accessible films to date (and that's not just because of Cotillard's presence). By setting the film up with such desperation and urgency, the directors have created a story that covers several meaty angles (economic struggle, depression, etc...) with the momentum of a thriller. The film's ending is close to being pat when taken on its own, but the story's overall conclusion is mature and nuanced, forgoing the temptation to wrap things up with a Hollywood happy ending or a total downer. Both approaches would do a disservice to how well Two Days, One Night once again exemplifies the Dardennes' skill with capturing the lives of the working class, where any success or failure is just another moment in life, ready to be followed by countless others even after the screen goes dark.
Grade: B+/A-
Director: Alice Rohrwacher
Runtime: 110 minutes
There's no denying the rugged beauty of Alice Rohrwacher's The Wonders, but whether or not that beauty is worth the time of day is less certain. After a solid start, Rohrwacher's second film takes a turn into iffy dream logic that ends the film on a muddled note. Though the film's conclusion is filled with a hazy sense of tragedy, the ambiguities that arise at the end are more frustrating than compelling.
Set in rural Italy, The Wonders initially has the quiet confidence of its protagonist, 12 year old Gelsomina (Maria Lungu). The oldest daughter of a pair of beekeepers, Gelsomina does her best to win the approval of her stern father Wolfgang (Sam Louwyck). Wolfgang longs for a son but he and his wife Angelica (Alba Rohrwacher) continue to churn out daughters. And, aside from Gelsomina, they don't seem terribly adept at learning the tricks of tending to the family beehives or harvesting honey. So even when Gelsomina does her best and keeps things on the family farm running, she's never given the paternal approval that she really deserves.
Things at the farm continue as usual until Gelsomina stumbles across the set of a flashy TV commercial promoting an upcoming contest. Said contest will bring together local families to show off their authentic, homemade products, with the winning family earning a fat load of cash. Gelsomina sees a chance for escape, while Wolfgang only sees a tacky waste of time.
Rather than drag the viewer through the expected clashes between father and daughter, Rohrwacher puts off the contest for as long as possible, which is mostly beneficial. Gelsomina and her sisters have a free-spirited, natural chemistry on screen, and The Wonders is at its best when it lays back and watches the family work and play. Lungu and the other young actors never feel too coached, and their interactions consistently ring true. The arrival of a German foster child (a boy) adds an extra layer to the drama, forcing Gelsomina to work alongside a manifestation of the child Wolfgang never got to call his own. Louwyck and Rohrwacher make an odd but interesting pair as the mismatched parents, and the former thankfully refrains from turning Wolfgang into an easy villain. Rohrwacher (the director) may have her points of view as to who's right and wrong, but she never forces any interpretation on the viewer or her actors. Each person has their reasons for wanting to do things their way, and those reasons are always rooted in the context of the story.
Italian life is often dramatized as obscenely opulent (The Great Beauty) or violent (Gomorrah, any other mob-related movie in the past decade). The disaffected working class tend to get left behind on the big screen, so it's admirable of Rohrwacher to completely root her story in a way of life that's struggling to compete with modernity. The family's financial difficulties are given proper exploration without turning the film into a civics lecture. When something goes wrong - like when an entire vat of honey overflows - it comes across as a real loss, rather than a minor inconvenience.
Unfortunately, all of that sensitivity goes out of the window once the family acquiesces to Gelsomina's determination and goes to the contest. It starts as a send up of gaudy TV fakery, and the way such contests prey on the hopes and dreams of people scraping by to make a living. But once Gelsomina's aunt Coco (Sabine Timoteo) scares off the German foster child, The Wonders starts throwing in scenes that feel like they belong in a different film. The scenes involve blurry distinctions between dream and reality, and even though they're quite nice, they arrive with no real warning. There's no time to become even remotely anchored in the different layers of reality, so the impact of the scenes is often muted. Rohrwacher's is gently heartbreaking, but it screws with one's perception of events that it's difficult to become fully invested. There isn't room enough to connect with the film's emotions, because unlike young Gelsomina, The Wonders loses confidence in the idea that it's perfectly fine the way it is.
Grade: C+
Director: Gabriel Mascaro
Runtime: 77 minutes
In the ever-expanding range of unofficial cinematic sub-genres (Oscar Bait, Misery Porn, Classroom Cinema) one that gets mentioned far too little is Shrug Cinema. These are the films that, even when they have good traits, amount to little more than furrowing of the brow and a mumbled, "...that's it?" Other labels carry more of a sting, since Shrug Cinema can be an entirely neutral experience, but it's just as prominent (if not moreso) than the above-mentioned categories. The latest film to earn this label, unfortunately, comes from Brazilian director Gabriel Mascaro. August Winds, Mascaro's debut, has some intriguing ideas about how we hold on to memories, but its characters are so flat that those ideas never crystallize. It's Shrug Cinema 101, straddling that fine line between mere emptiness and active failure.
Set in a rural, coastal Brazilian village, Winds begins its languid 77 minutes with the every day lives of Jeison (Geova Manoel Dos Santos) and Shirley (Dandara De Morais), young lovers who make their meager living by harvesting coconuts (and also making love on top of said coconuts, which seems really uncomfortable, but that's none of my business). When the young lovers find a skull in the nearby coral formations, they're forced to confront the unfortunate reality that death claims us all, sometimes violently.
Mascaro's status as a Brazilian native is clear, and he shoots the film without condescending towards his impoverished characters or shying away from the rough realities of life in the town. His initial introduction of death, here represented by the waters slowly eroding the town's coastal setting, is a good starting point, but the film soon stalls. The death of a visitor, presumably an accident, hits Jeison especially hard, and Mascaro's screenplay has a smart way of tying the loss into Jeison's past.
So why does August Winds get blown out of one's memory so easily? The most likely answer is that Mascaro's directing is more informative of his setting than of his characters. The film is particularly unfair to Shirley, who is soon left behind as Jeison becomes increasingly obsessed with taking care of the washed up corpse of the visitor. Neither De Morais nor Dos Santos are terribly expressive, existing so simply in front of the camera that it's difficult to finding anything resembling character traits.
And even though Mascaro portrays rural life well, his method of filmmaking makes August Winds feel much longer than its brief runtime. Though Mascaro's final shot is a great culimation of the film's loose ideas and themes, so much of what comes before is needlessly protracted. Long shots are not inherently good things, and August Winds is a textbook example of the technique being applied to material that doesn't warrant it. As fierce as some of the winds are in Mascaro's world, they're unable to give life or movement to this wafer thin, stagnant tale.
Grade: C-
Director: Abderrahmane Sissako
Runtime: 97 minutes
Abderrahmane Sissako's Timbuktu has been described as a tapestry-like portrait of West Africa. A tapestry it may be, but it's one that the moths have eaten away at. Still, there's much to admire about Timbuktu, even though its attempts to shoehorn in a traditional narrative dilute the story's impact. Set in the titular city during occupation by Islamic extremists, Sissako's film is at least deserves praise for its intelligent, varied portrayal of modern African Islam.
For roughly half of the 106 minute runtime, Timbuktu has only the loosest of plots, which is hardly a bad thing. When the film opens, Islamic militants have taken over the ancient trading city (beautifully photographed by Sofian El Fani), and are in the midst of rolling out their regressive policies. This means no music, no singing, no soccer, etc... And if you commit one of the worst of sins like adultery? Death by stoning. The militants may be rebels, but their mission is hardly one of liberation.
Rather than plunge the viewer into an unending string of horrible deeds, Sissako takes his time building up tensions between the townspeople and their imposing conquerors. At first, the militants only look like a minor nuisance, even with their heavy artillery. The citizens are openly defiant (within reason), not content to roll over and turn into lapdogs. The extremists may have the firepower, but they're also the ones who look out of place amid all of Timbuktu's beautiful stone structures. These isolated incidents flow together as if they were merely part of an observational documentary, rather than a drama. And then the plot kicks in.
The problem with Timbuktu's one traditional plot thread isn't that it's poorly executed, but simply that it doesn't fit in well with the free form pacing of the other scenes. After an accident lands Kidane (Ibrahim Ahmed) in jail, he falls victim to the extremists' newly-established sense of justice. Sissako tries to balance Kidane's story with his more objective story components, but neither side gets its proper due by the end. Timbuktu deserves credit for not bludgeoning the viewer with endless scenes of people suffering, but when it comes time for the extremists' actions to matter, they're only marginally affecting. There's a lot that can be done with the banality of evil angle, but Timbuktu often comes across as nothing more than banal.
And as beautiful as the film looks, other technical contributions aren't as consistent. A number of editing flubs jolt one out of the movie. Sissako and El Fani shoot Kidane's fateful encounter in a beautiful wide shot, but a series of jump cuts muck up the action and drain the scene of its hushed horror. Even more troublesome is the score, which underscores several important scenes with sappy, melodramatic strings and piano chords. It's as if Sissako doesn't trust his own attempts at loose objectivity. Timbuktu only becomes more stylistically at odds with itself as it goes on, never reconciling its dueling approaches to storytelling and structure. Whatever beauty resides at the heart of Sissako's cinematic tapestry diminishes as one pulls back to see how badly frayed the edges are.
Grade: C+
Director: Peter Strickland
Runtime: 106 minutes
Campy, sexy, and mesmerizing, The Duke of Burgundy represents a giant leap forward for British director Peter Strickland. The director last appeared at AFI Fest two years ago with Berberian Sound Studio, a 70's horror-influenced mystery that eventually drowned in its own self-conscious weirdness. With Duke, however, Strickland has made his characters more than just figures to wander through the frame looking as bewildered as the audience. Some of the film's stylistic flourishes are a bit head-scratching, but Strickland's sensitivity towards his actors, amidst all of the atmosphere, helps this film reach that oddly sublime territory that Sound Studio never found.
Set in Europe (no country is named) during the 60s, Duke opens with a scene that could practically be the intro to an especially cheesy porno. Young, wide-eyed maid Evelyn (Chiara D'Anna) arrives at the manor of butterfly collector Cynthia (Sidse Babett Knudsen), where she's bossed around by the older woman. It's all rather stiff in a way that doesn't make it clear whether or not the phoniness is intentional. Eager to get to the heart of the matter, Strickland quickly pushes past his silly opening and reveals that Duke has much more going on.
The Duke of Burgundy, even with its lush visuals and heaving bosoms in lingerie, is actually the year's most engaging romances. Not only are Evelyn and Cynthia actually lovers, but it's Evelyn who pulls the strings in their roleplaying and S&M endeavors, despite acting in the submissive role. Evelyn's pouty, breathy intonations can be grating, but Cynthia is a remarkable and complicated character. As the older woman (not to mention the breadwinner of the house), Cynthia must deal with self doubt, paranoia about aging, and her declining interest in the roleplaying games while her lover's appetite only increases.
Knudsen's performance is a big part of why The Duke of Burgundy avoids being nothing more than an exercise of atmosphere. Cynthia plays the dominant role, but given external circumstances, that dominance is a trap. Knudsen brings out Cynthia's vulnerability while still maintaining the character's often steely demeanor. Both leads are tasked with playing characters pretending to be in the their opposite relationship roles, but it's in Cynthia that the film finds its resonance.
Strickland continually references European erotic films from the 60s and 70s, but his vision manages to avoid cheap exploitation. Rather than mercilessly toy with his characters like some spiteful god, the director normalizes most of their relationship, even as he asks us to laugh at some of the details. By not condemning Cynthia and Evelyn's relationship, Strickland continually intrigues with each new development. The relationship's normalization makes the film more relatable, not less. Strip away the non-stop roleplaying, and The Duke of Burgundy is simply exploring the later stages of a romantic and sexual relationship, and the struggles that arise when the parties involved aren't on the same page.
That said, fans of Strickland's first two films needn't worry that the director has gone soft. Strickland's characters may get more earnest attention, but The Duke of Burgundy is still a lush work of cinematic hypnotism. In one early scene, Evelyn watches Cynthia pull on some lingerie through a keyhole. At first, the scene appears to me nothing more than shameless voyeurism on behalf of a naive, simple woman. But when the film returns to the same scene a second and third time, and the audience becomes privy to the actual balance of power, the film's blurring of roleplaying and reality starts to congeal.
Even Strickland's dips into strangeness for the sake of strangeness come across as refined and purposeful. The meaning of some scenes, like one intense montage of butterfly wings, may remain elusive, but at least this time Strickland doesn't get mired in his own visuals. And speaking of visuals, The Duke of Burgundy has a myriad of striking imagery that rivals Cynthia's expansive butterfly collection. The sumptuous, gothic visuals - elegantly strung together by the playful and mysterious editing - are more than worth the price of admission. Strickland and cinematographer Nic Knowland, without going for any big, show-off moments, draw one in deeper and deeper not only into Cynthia and Evelyn's life, but their isolated and gloomy home. The manor starts as a handsome, yet muted, living space, but gradually becomes less hospitable as the two women's relationship falters. As if the visuals weren't enough, brooding and ethereal musical contributions from British-Canadian band Cat's Eyes add the perfect finish to the film's atmosphere. Whether or not The Duke of Burgundy makes sense to the head is secondary to whether it makes sense to the eyes and ears.
Grade: B+
Director: Xavier Dolan
Runtime: 139 minutes
After taking a leap forward with this year's Tom at the Farm, Xavier Dolan has moved neither forwards nor backwards with his latest film. Instead, Mommy finds Dolan taking a step sideways. The 25 year-old Quebecois enfant terrible's fifth film is manic, compelling, overbearing, and filled with flashes of brilliance. In other words, it's everything we've come to expect from a Xavier Dolan film.
Set in a ficitional, near-future Canada, Mommy opens with an explanation of a new law that allows parents to turn their children over to the state without going through the court system. It's an entirely unncessary intro, made more apparent by the absence of any other changes in Canadian life. Remove the opening title cards, and Mommy would still make sense and succeed or fail in the same ways.
Mommy marks Dolan's return to the emotional battleground that exists between mothers and their teenaged sons. At the start of the film, Die (Anne Dorval) picks up her son Steve (Antoine-Olivier Pilon) from a juvenile psych ward. Steve is, to put it lightly, a problem child. So even though Die cares for her son, she must contend with her own financial woes and Steve's volatile temper. The only saving grace of the new set up is Kyla (Suzanne Clement), the shy, stuttering teacher from across the street. After an uncomfortable introduction to the family, Kyla befriends the pair and agrees to homeschool Steve. The exposure to Die and Steve's loud, white trash glory even brings Kyla out of her shell.
Special emphasis should be placed on 'loud,' as the word best characterizes just about every facet of the work in front of and behind the camera. Shot in a cramped 1:1 aspect ratio, Dolan and cinematographer Andre Turpin put the viewer in uncomfortably close proximity to the volcanic displays of just about every human emotion under the sun. It's energizing and exhausting all at once. Dolan has never been one to bury his films in subtlety, but with Mommy he attacks his material with a absolutely florid tone.
To their credit, the actors are all perfectly in sync with the nature of the execution. Dorval and Clement have both worked with Dolan before, although this time they're playing roles that are quite different from their previous collaborations. For Dorval, this means transforming into a larger-than-life, brusque woman. After only a few minutes with Die, it's easy to see where Steve got his wild side from. Clement, meanwhile, goes in the opposite direction, retreating into her role as the psychologically delicate Kyla. Both women are uniformly excellent, and create authentic, complex characters amid all of the swearing and shouting. Pilon, a newcomer to the Dolan-verse, acquits himself nicely, and never goes out of his way to present Steve as a likable kid. Steve can be a bit of a terror, and Pilon takes the role by the horns without losing the character's humanity (that said, he's awfully punchable).
The unconventional family dynamic at the center of Mommy is easily the strongest aspect of Dolan's script. Watching these three intense personalities bounce off of each other keeps the film afloat for its 140 minute run time. With so much energy being put out by the cast, the film doesn't even feel terribly indulgent the way that some of Dolan's shorter offerings did. Beneath all of the shouting, Mommy is ultimately about Die being pushed towards a fateful decision that forces the single mom to face a shattering do-or-die dilemma. As a depiction of the complex layers of a mother's love, the film is never less than superb. The message may lack nuance, but it's not without legitimate emotional weight.
Yet, as is typical of Dolan's everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach, not all of the storytelling compents work as well. Dolan establishes the goals of his main characters, but then gets lost in his own story. Kyla's tutoring sessions with Steve, which could have been the crux of the story, are glossed over in montages. Die's string of odd jobs are given the same treatment. Dolan's hyperactive directing keeps the story moving along, but at times Mommy moves through certain plots recklessly. It's too freeform for its own good, and undercuts the tension in Die and Steve's situation.
The sheer intensity of the experience is eventually enough to help Mommy get by, although at times just by a hair's breadth. There's a messiness to the storytelling that recalls Dolan's transgender opus Laurence Anyways, for better and for worse. Though less visually opulent, Mommy can slip from moments of dramatic wonder to full throttle shrieking. Yet as out of control as the film becomes at times, Dolan's conclusion still resonates. Difficult choices are part of any loving relationship, and the climactic decision here, preceded by a wonderful dream sequence, is wrenching stuff. As unlikable as Dolan's characters can be, he still manages to unearth their dignity. It's what holds his films together through their considerable highs and lows, and what keeps audiences and critics on edge to see what he does next.
Grade: B
Director: J.C. Chandor
Runtime: 135 minutes
Though perhaps not a great film, the 28th AFI Fest has gotten off to an appropriately glamorous start. The AFI is a training ground for up and coming voices in film, so it only makes sense to kick off the festival with A Most Violent Year, the third film from rising writer/director J.C. Chandor. Jumping genres once again, this time to the world of classic New York gangster drama, Chandor has created a solid story out of familiar parts that is best when it focuses on leading man Oscar Isaac.
Set in 1981, one of the deadliest years in New York City's history, the film derives its central tension from its characters resisting violence, rather than engaging with it. Abel Morales (Isaac) is determined to expand his family oil business, even as unknown forces keep getting in the way. Though Morales' business, which he bought into, has a good reputation and threatens to eat away at the competition, a string of attacks threaten to wreck everything he's worked for. But Abel refuses to heed the advice of his fellow businessmen or the teamsters and arm his drivers and salesman. Even when an attack comes right to the Morales' doorstep and his wife Anna (Jessica Chastain) finds their youngest child playing with a loaded gun, Abel remains committed. Whatever illegal or ethically dubious details might be in his company's books, Abel refuses to go down a road that will turn him into an outright gangster.
Like some minor Sidney Lumet drama that the master never got to make, A Most Violent Year takes its time to build up its narrative momentum, allowing a few choice moments to really hit hard. Set up as a classic family-crime drama, Chandor fares far better when he just sticks to the business and crime angle than with the personal relationships. The more the film zeros in on Abel, the better the film works, whether in tense negotiations or a fantastic car-turned-foot chase. A Most Violent Year is easily Chandor's best work in terms of establishing a fully-realized world and infusing said world with a gripping atmosphere.
Yet it's Isaac who props the film up through its two hour duration. Doing a complete 180 from his breakout performance in Inside Llewyn Davis, Isaac brings a quiet confidence to Abel, even as the character endures various hardships and pressure from multiple angles. If Chandor is loosely channeling Lumet in A Most Violent Year, then Isaac's work calls to mind a young Al Pacino in his iconic collaborations with the director.
Isaac is so central to A Most Violent Year's success that it's disappointing to step back and realize how underserved the rest of the ensemble is. The most underwhelming is Chastain, especially given her top billing. In the scattered glimpses the film affords into Anna's personality, one can see the beginning of a red hot, scene-stealing performance. Instead, Chandor sidelines the character for long stretches of time, leaving Chastain with little to do other than pepper on a Brooklyn accent, be a little sassy, and let solitary tears streak down her face. Smaller supporting roles don't get much better. David Oyelowo, playing a D.A. investigating the Morales' business, has the makings of a compellingly ambiguous antagonist, but winds up with even less to do than Chastain. Albert Brooks, as the family's lawyer, has a few decent lines (and at least has enough to do), but more often than not he appears to be sleepwalking through his role.
Compensating for the lackluster supporting characters, thankfully, are Chandor's work as a director on the big picture issues. However thin the characters, Chandor's work with his actors (Brooks aside) at least gives the impression that everyone is invested in their material, no matter how scant. And when it comes to Abel's story, the storytelling really clicks, tipping its hat to crime dramas of the 70s and early 80s without flailing around as a work of hollow mimicry (I'm looking at you, Blood Ties).
The film is also a technical marvel, largely thanks to its visuals. With each passing film, cinematographer Bradford Young proves he's the real deal. The versatility he's displayed in such a short period of time is astounding, and his green and yellow tinted visuals here are some of his strongest to date. The choice to keep the camera slowly pushing forward heightens the underlying tension of the various forces inching Abel towards his breaking point. If Roger Deakins and Emmanuel Lubezki are the current kings of the cinematography world, then Mr. Young deserves to be named as their heir apparent. Returning Chandor composer Alex Ebert does a nice, albeit unmemorable job with scoring duties, while editing is smoothly handled. Beyond Young's contributions, the costume department deserves the most credit, subtly capturing the styles of the early 80s with sharp suits for the men and a few dynamite outfits for Chastain to strut around in.
Despite the promise of the title, A Most Violent Year is not an all out orgy of violence. Chandor takes the more interesting route, exploring how outside violence ensnares its protagonist pushing him deeper and deeper into a corner until he has to make a critical choice. Everything else around that dilemma may feel extraneous, but the main story is enough to maintain investment in Chandor's story. A Most Violent Year misses out on greatness, but its strengths - namely Isaac and Young - are prominent enough that it's worth a look, even with the weaker elements that are trapped in orbit around the strong center.
Grade: B
