Review: "Calvary"

Director: John Michael McDonagh
Runtime: 100 minutes

The opening scene of Calvary gives off the feel of an Agatha Christie or Alfred Hitchcock mystery-thriller. In a static close-up, we see Father James (Brendan Gleeson) hear a confession from an unseen man, who threatens to kill the priest in a week. His motivation? Retribution for the sexual abuse he suffered at the hands of a priest as a child. His reasoning in targeting Father James? A bit of ironic brutality. He intends to kill an innocent priest because it will make more of a statement (also: the man who abused him has passed away). 

We don't know who the man making the threat is, but writer/director John Michael McDonagh has other things on his mind. Calvary is an anti-whodunnit in the vein of the recent Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. The answer will come, but what matters is the exploration of the protagonist and the world around him. That's not to say that the end result isn't important, but it's simply not the reason to see McDonagh's sophomore effort. By turning inward, the director is actually able to work with a bigger and more thematically ambitious canvas, even though he falters along the way.

Mr. McDonagh is the brother of In Bruges mastermind Martin McDonagh, and he certainly exhibits a similar worldview to his Oscar-winning sibling. However, the shadow cast by In Bruges was long, and neither of the McDonaghs have surpassed it to date. Yet where Martin regressed a bit with sophomore feature Seven Psychopaths, John Michael has made massive improvements on round two in the director's chair. His debut, 2011's The Guard, was an amiable, yet rather clunky debut that came off as In Bruges-lite. 

Calvary, by contrast, possesses a much more distinct voice. McDonagh sheds the winking, tongue-in-cheek dark humor, and takes on something much more sincere. That's not to say that there aren't some blackly funny ingredients in the mix. They remain, but they're simply toned down, as they've been diluted by a more sobering look at life, death, and faith. 

And even though McDonagh still treads too lightly on certain facets of his characters' backgrounds and motivations, his storytelling has matured beautifully. The film is filled with gorgeous photography of rural Ireland (courtesy of the great Larry Smith), and one can practically feel the soft light trickling through the grey skies and the winds coming off of the ocean.

It would be tempting to label Calvary as a stealth advertisement by Ireland's board of tourism, were it not for the intimate relationships that take up the bulk of the runtime. We learn early on that Father James actually knows who his future assassin is, yet he refrains from going to the police. Instead, he does his best to tidy up his affairs, which in his case means tending to the messy lives of some of the more troubled and contentious folk in town, along with his recently-arrived daughter Fiona (from before he entered the priesthood, and played by Kelly Reilly). 

Mr. Gleeson, as always, brings a understated gravitas to the role. Though he goes out of his way to call upon parishioners, Father James does his best to maintain the same demeanor he displays in the confessional. Yet tensions are running higher than he realized, and bit by bit, the facade on Gleeson's bearded, ruddy face starts showing its first cracks. Gleeson has worked with both McDonagh brothers previously, and he remains an ideal fit for both styles of writing and directing. He can be playful and gentle, like he is with his daughter or the troublesome altar boy, and he can be compassionate and weather the storm of aggressive teasing that comes from some of the other men in the village. Regardless of the relationship, everyone views James as a symbol of the Church at large, for better and for worse.

Though Calvary is set in a very small Irish town, it acts as a social and religious microcosm of the whole Emerald Isle. The film was made on the heels of widespread turmoil in both Ireland's banks and in its Catholic Churches. Times are hard, and even the Catholic faith, a comfort for so many, has had its reputation tarnished, and its trust violated.

McDonagh never pontificates on these issues, and keeps them almost entirely as subtext, which is mostly beneficial. Yet by the time the promise of the first scene comes full circle, Calvary's handling of a fascinating psychological dilemma comes up a bit short. McDonagh traverses the uncomfortable territory with success for so long, and it's frustrating to see him flinch right as he gets to the most sensitive and personal conflict in the film. 

Though Calvary leaves one with a compelling portrait of Ireland, it doesn't quite stick the landing when it comes to its own plot. The set up is a great entry point for a balanced character study, but it also gets in the way one it's time for things to wrap up. The conclusion certainly doesn't derail the film, but it does ensure that Calvary lands short of the true greatness that was clearly in its grasp. McDonagh's sophomore film is a major step forward, and a legitimately strong film, but the failing of the finale only drives home the notion that the director was so close to making his first great film. Instead, he'll have to settle for Calvary being his first very good film. That's nothing to sniff at, but it's the equivalent of getting a B+ on an exam and finding out that you were only one or two questions away from getting an A or A-. 

Grade: B+

Review: "Shadow Dancer"

Director: James Marsh
Runtime: 101 minutes

Though his directing resume is filled mostly with documentary credits, director James Marsh is no stranger to the world of fiction. If anything, his gifts as a documentary film maker serve him well in his latest fiction film, Shadow Dancer, based on Tom Bradby's novel of the same name. In touching on subject matter as sensitive as the tensions between the IRA and the British government, Marsh's keen eye is able to weave a quietly engrossing story that never falls prey to the idea that one specific side is good. If anything, Shadow Dancer is one constant examination of a world filled with nothing but violent shades of grey. 

Set primarily in 1993, the film centers on young IRA operative Collette (Andrea Riseborough), who witnessed a family tragedy loosely tied to political violence two decades prior. After a terrific opening sequence (presented without a word of dialogue) set in various tube stations, Collette is captured by MI5. While in captivity, Collette comes face to face with MI5 operative Mac (Clive Owen), who pressures her to accept a deal: she will give MI5 information about IRA higher-up Kevin's (David Wilmot) next major plan, in exchange for protection for herself and her young son. 

And, just as quickly as Collette is captured, she's thrown back into her life at home with her mother (Brid Brennan) and two IRA-involved brothers (Domhnall Gleeson and Aidan Gillen). In addition to going about her daily life, Collette must now try to glean information about Kevin's plans, as well as keep up the illusion of her full-on support of the IRA's most violent tactics.

What Shadow Dancer does best is establish its protagonist and craft its quietly suspenseful  slow-burning atmosphere. The 1973-set prologue gives us a compelling window into the early 20s version of Collette we spend the entire film with. Despite her initial disgust for Owen's Mac, it's clear from the train station scenes that this isn't someone who goes about doing jobs for the IRA with absolute confidence. Collette is appropriately withdrawn during her assignment (which involves placing a bomb), but as time goes on, she seems ever closer to deteriorating. And as the narrative's stakes rise, Collette feels the pull of her various duties slowly tearing her apart. It's a marvelous set up for a character, particularly when there aren't nearly enough of these sorts of roles around as it is. 

Yet the screenplay, written by Mr. Bradby himself, also runs into some issues under Marsh's direction. Marsh's cast all turn in perfectly convincing work (including Owen and Gillian Anderson as an icy MI5 officer), even though the only one with more than one true facet is Riseborough's Collette. The problem is simply that Marsh pushes Riseborough to play all of her emotional cards within the first act. As such, there isn't much left for Riseborough to delve into for the remaining hour. 

In her defense, however, Riseborough handles everything she's given with an understated effortlessness. Having played supporting roles in films like Made in Dagenham, Riseborough has finally been given a movie to carry on her own, and she pulls it off, screenplay limitations and all. Where others would try to go big with Collette's inner turmoil, Riseborough keeps it contained, allowing it to pour out from her eyes and across her face in quiet modesty. 

Shadow Dancer's plotting, however, sometimes seems out to sabotage the efforts of the cast. While the film has no problem with only vaguely detailing its major plot developments, it can sometimes feel repetitive. This is, by and large, due to the problems with the writing for Collette.  Though there are jumps to the MI5 offices and corridors, the film's focus is so grounded in Collette that it can't help but suffer due to the limited exploration of the central character. The film also throws in an out-of-left-field moment (a kiss) that, while not played for ridiculous romance, still comes across as erratic and inconsistent with the film's tone and development. 

However, Marsh's craftsmanship is evident throughout, and his ability to convey his espionage-tinged story with relatively few words is remarkable. Even if you don't quite catch every development, the ending can still pack a punch, ambiguities and all. There are sequences featuring exceptional tension that help liven up the dingy, muted visuals that effectively ground the narrative in territory that is neither politically obtuse nor shamelessly one-sided. That said, Shadow Dancer isn't interested in discussing the politics of the day than examining how those politics played out in the actions revolving around one woman caught in a situation that seemed to have no happy ending. This is a flawed film, but one that is executed and performed with enough elegance to smooth out the bumps. 

Grade: B/B-

"The Wire" (2002 - 2008)

Much to my embarassment, I only got around to watching HBO's acclaimed series The Wire recently. And by "recently," I mean this morning. I don't usually write about TV aside from a post or two about the Emmys, but seeing as David Simon's series struck a chord with me, I felt that writing this came rather naturally. So, here it is. One thing that no one is really asking for: a review of a five-season show that ended in 2008.

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 I’m going to try and keep this short(ish), because I usually find writing about TV weird. Why? No idea. Anyway, I’d heard great things about HBO’s drama The Wire for quite some time. Somewhere during my senior year of high school, I decided to finally start renting the series. I made it through four episodes, and I was just starting to really adjust to the show’s style and pacing, when, for some reason, I kept putting off with the show. Flash forward roughly four years and, thanks to the magic of HBOGo (you’re welcome), I picked up right where I left off. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for me to get back into David Simon’s world.

What’s most immediately impressive to me after finishing the series finale (literally only hours ago) is the above-mentioned world. TV has the benefit of being able to explore both characters and setting at a more gradual pace than film, and no show has made the most of that the way The Wire has. By the time the series segues into its final minutes, you come to realize how much the city of Baltimore is as big a character as McNulty, Kima, or Stringer Bell. 

Even more striking, in retrospect, is how the show covers different facets of the city without feeling forced. The jumps from the streets, to the ports, through the legal system, and finally to the media are structured by season, but it never becomes overly conceptual. The progression, especially from seasons three through five, is executed so seamlessly that I’m tempted to label the show one of the most consistent dramas I’ve ever seen. Episode to episode and season to season, The Wire is that rare show that gives off the feeling that the entire thing was intricately, immaculately planned out before the first episode aired.

The only rough patch among the bunch, if any, is perhaps the transition between the first and second seasons. Characters and arcs reappear across multiple seasons in The Wire, but the way certain aspects come in and out of focus in season two feels a little extreme. After getting adjusted to the show and becoming involved with the plot and characters of the first season, seeing said plot and characters pushed to the background to make way for the port stories caused the pacing to drag. Obviously McNulty, Lester, Kima, Bunk, and their co-workers remained prominent, but the other side (Stringer, Avon, etc…) seemed to pop up all too infrequently. On its own merits, season two probably succeeds much more, but coming after the set-up of season one, the port-related plots sometimes drag.

Yet once season three starts and we jump back to the streets, everything comes together with stunning execution for the rest of the ride. By the end of season one, I was aware that I was invested in the characters. Yet Simon grounds their personalities so deeply in their work that you often don’t realize how much you care until some little moment comes along and makes you smile, or laugh, or get a lump in your throat. That the series does this without resorting to melodrama is even more of an accomplishment.

The performances, all around, are wonderful. The chemistry between and among the ensemble is what really sells it all, and allows various characters’ rises and falls register with sincerity. With an ensemble this wonderful, I hate to pick favorite, but let’s just say I was always paying attention the most whenever Lester, Kima, or Carcetti were on screen. That said, my favorite individual moment of the entire show has to come in season four, when Bunk notes that Beadie trusts McNulty, and McNulty smiles back and his friend and confirms the statement. Of course, there’s always Clay Davis’ pronunciation of the word “shit,” if only for the laugh factor. Yet the show still deserves credit for the portrayal of its characters placed firmly outside of the law, as it never resorts to making them into over the top villains. Like the police and government officials, they remain people first. It’s a vision of both sides of anti-drug enforcement that is rarely achieved on the big or small screen.

The show also knew how to incorporate violence, and never rushed through scenes in order for a gun to go off. Quite the opposite. This is a layered, steadily paced character-drama to the bone. HBO sometimes ventures into self-parody with the levels of sex and violence it shows, which only makes The Wire’s execution stand out more. When violence hits, it’s never overblown. Like the rest of the show, shootings and beatings feel completely natural, and they pack an appropriately grim mix of intensity and shock.

And, from a strictly storytelling perspective, I adore how Simon and his collaborators executed such a dense narrative without ever really holding the audience’s hand. This is a show where every scene really mattered, because some name or piece of information that popped up in episode two could wind up being part of a major development five episodes later. Even the gradually divergent subplot of Bubbles (Andre Royo) felt necessary, and its arc is among the series’ most satisfying.

Ultimately, this is a rare breed of TV show. It treats its audiences like adults, refrains from melodrama or sensationalizing, and yet still boasts memorable characters (I can’t believe I almost forgot to mention OMAR), and stirring drama. Simon’s show simply puts itself within the broader canvas of its setting. The developments for the characters and the story are important, and we understand how they are important to the people on screen. But, at the end of the day, The Wire has enough intelligence to give its subject matter a conclusion that befits its consistent treatment across five seasons and 60 episodes. In a simple montage that all-but concludes the series finale, we see how so much has changed, and yet so much still remains the same. I didn’t really follow through on my promise to keep this short, but at this point I don’t care. Masterworks like this deserve more than a few sentences.

Season One: B+/A-

Season Two: B+

Season Three: A

Season Four: A+

Season Five: A

Series Grade: A