Director: Alex Garland
Runtime: 110 minutes
Though more successful as an acting showcase and atmospheric exercise than as a thought-provoking drama, Ex Machina nonetheless represents a promising directorial debut for screenwriter Alex Garland (28 Days Later, Sunshine). Though Garland's efforts as a writer have previously been met with criticism for their finales, Ex Machina suffers instead from a mid-section in need of further development. Even so, this sci-fi drama is never less than engaging, thanks to a trio of strong performances and a polished aesthetic.
Young programmer Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) finds his modest life turned upside-down when he learns that he's won a contest at his company, an internet search engine that has apparently toppled Google (this is your first clue that you're watching science fiction). He'll get to leave his sleek Manhattan office and cramped apartment for a week to visit the estate of Nathan (Oscar Isaac), the company's brilliant and reclusive founder. Upon arriving at the rural estate (shot in Norway, though in the story it's never clear), Caleb finally learns the purpose of the trip. He has been chosen to perform the Turing Test on Nathan's android, to determine whether the machine possesses actual AI. That machine is named Ava (Alicia Vikander), and from "her" first appearance Caleb is entranced. At this point, he likely doubles for the audience.
Garland structures the film by interjecting title cards (Session 1, Session 2, etc...) not only to track the passage of time, but to slowly turn Caleb's journey from one of awe to one of queasy uncertainty. Though Caleb and Ava's first sessions are routine (well, as routine as groundbreaking human/robot interactions are...), a power outage changes everything. With the closed-circuit cameras down (and the facility on lockdown), Ava informs Caleb that Nathan is not to be trusted. Then the lights and cameras go back up and the two carry on as if nothing has happened.
Where Ex Machina stops short of truly reaching for greatness is that Garland doesn't nurture Ava's revelation to create something more complex. There are hints of malice and deception, but a more urgent sense of conflict never arrives. Caught between making a straightforward mystery and a richer, thornier character piece, Garland choses the former path. So it's a good thing that the relative lack of adventure in the writing is handled well on all fronts. Even when Ex Machina reveals that it's not committing to going the extra mile with its premise, it remains a satisfying piece of sci-fi drama.
This is largely due to the wide range of strong work from Gleeson, Isaac, and Vikander. All three roles are wildly different, and the script knows how to play them all off of each other. Isaac is the most enjoyable of the lot, creating a tech genius who's part Steve Jobs, and part frat-boy jackass. With his true intentions shrouded in ambiguity, Isaac has the juiciest role, and he makes it count (he also gets a hilarious dance sequence that I desperately wish could have been longer). Gleeson is ideally cast as well, making for a solid everyman finally getting a taste of what it's like to participate in something meaningful. Vikander, who had a much different relationship with Mr. Gleeson in Anna Karenina, is every bit as good as her male co-stars, working quiet wonders with a role that could have been stifling.
As mentioned above, technical aspects are strong across the board. Rob Hardy's photography richly captures the contrasting sides of the settings (half ultra-sleek modern, half woodsy forrest retreat), seamlessly blending actual locations and sets together to create a cohesive setting. Ben Salisbury and Geoff Barrow's electronic score is an essential part of drawing one into the scenario, sometimes relying on nothing more than a single repeated note to signal a shift in mood. And despite the lack of larger-than-life science fiction elements in Ex Machina, the sound team deserves significant praise for the subtle work put into everything from Nathan's house to the little whirrs and blips that emit from Ava's internal machinery. Even in small-scale sci-fi, it's the technical details that can make or break one's investment in a narrative, and Mr. Garland's collaborators have done a marvelous job without distracting from the story.
Ex Machina's short-comings explain why it doesn't deserve to be ranked among the best of the sci-fi genre, but they're also unobtrusive. There's little that disrupts one's engagement with the plot and with these characters. Ex Machina doesn't make major mistakes with its storytelling, but rather with the nature of its substance. To call Garland's film a noble failure is too harsh a judgement. It's not that Garland fails with his debut, but that from early on he makes the decision to opt for palatable ideas and themes rather than truly challenging ones.
Grade: B
Director: Nikolaj Arcel
Runtime: 137 minutes
A Royal Affair, Demark's 2012 submission for the Foreign Language Film Oscar, may be a historical costume drama, but it's no stuffy, overblown drama of outdated etiquette and powdered wigs. Based on true events in 18th century Denmark, Nikolaj Arcel and Rasmus Heisterberg's adaptation of Bodil Steensen-Leth's novel has a liveliness uncommon among similar films. There may indeed be a royal affair at the center of the narrative, but Arcel's film has much more on its mind than romantic entanglements. It is equally involved in the politics of the day, and, judging by the style and tone of the whole piece, it's safe to assume Arcel and Heisterberg are interested in the titular affair only in how it relates to the overarching political story.
Consider A Royal Affair the soft spoken less flamboyant cousin of Joe Wright's Anna Karenina (which also stars Alicia Vikander). Both approach romantic period pieces from strikingly different angles. But while Wright's film is more concerned with its conceit, Arcel's film forgoes intentional artifice in favor of subtle modernity in its aesthetic. Though visually muted when compared to Anna, Affair is a delightful surprise because of how seamlessly it incorporates its central romance into a much larger (and more important) story.
Vikander plays Caroline Mathilde, a member of English nobility married off to Denmark's King Christian VII (Mikkel Folsgaard). Arranged marriages were the norm among high society for centuries, though Caroline's situation is quickly established as being one of the less fortunate occurrences. Aloof, immature, and at times unstable, Christian is a temperamental volcano of a man (or man-child) who has no qualms about sneaking off to whore houses only days after his new wife arrives and they consummate their union. It doesn't take long for the relationship to become chilly (surprise, surprise), which leaves Caroline with little to do but watch after her firstborn with no one to engage with. Christian, on the other hand, continues to visit the local women of the night, while also lazily sulking through meetings with the royal court, signing laws into effect that he barely understands.
Where things change for the unhappily married couple is upon the arrival of Johan Struensee (Mads Mikkelsen), Christian's newly appointed physician. A self-proclaimed libertine (and man of the Enlightenment), Johan is able to keep Christian's temper in check, and even turn it to good use. Most significantly, he helps Christian use his love of acting to increase his stature in the royal court. Christian may not understand the laws he pushes through, but with Johan's guidance he finally looks like he does. And, though initially repulsed by the newcomer, Caroline comes around to him as well. As the pair grow closer and closer, they begin together to work through sweeping social reforms across prudish Denmark, allowing the country to blossom. The nature of the laws (outside of their obvious functions) is often skimmed over, but Arcel infuses the process with an understated energy that it's difficult to see these scenes as anything but a boon.
But just as quickly as things start to look up, complications arise. In Anna Karenina, Vikander's Kitty watched, heartbroken, as potential suitor Count Vronsky swept Anna off of her feet in an intimate dance. Caroline, however, gets a special dance all of her own, and while it lacks that baroque staging and choreography of Anna and Vronsky's encounter, it is equally effective. The color scheme, built mostly around natural light, may be somewhat muted, but it only adds to the more understated atmosphere that pervades Arcel's film from beginning to end. This works because, as stated before, romance isn't the only thing on the film's agenda. A Royal Affair takes it time introducing Johann, before gradually working him into Caroline's life, and finally making him her lover. And even then there is so much more beyond the revelation of the forbidden romance.
The film may not aspire to the same political insight of Lincoln, but its incorporation of political matters and royal decrees is admirable for opening Affair up to exist as more than a romantic tragedy where society rips two lovers apart. The discovery of the affair carries profound risks for the social progress Johann and Caroline have worked so hard to enforce. By the time the film begins to tie up loose ends, one feels connected to Johann and Caroline not simply because of their affair, but because of what they accomplished as people who were interested in more than their own happiness at the top of society.
It helps tremendously that, despite not possessing a fully convincing romantic chemistry, Vikander and Mikkelsen click together on screen. Vikander has had a breakout year on screen, and is quickly establishing herself as a reliable actress capable of sweetness and vulnerability, but also a quiet strength. Mr. Mikkelsen, best known to American audiences as the villain in the Bond film Casino Royale (2006), with his slightly fishy face is an unconventional choice for Johann, but the actor is perfectly believable as his final scene is both understated and devastating. Folsgaard is entertainingly obnoxious as Christian, although the script thankfully gives him moments to be more than an oppressive boor. Equally intriguing, if less developed, is David Dencik as a highly orthodox member of the royal council left none too happy by Johann's social reforms. It's a role that, in decades past, would have likely included shades of over-the-top villainy, but is here allowed an appropriate level of naturalism. The film elegantly establishes the various players in the plot, and maneuvers them effortless as it builds towards its climactic moments.
Aiding the journey along are the lush musical contributions from Gabriel Yared and Cyrille Aufort, lending the story a nice flourish of straightforward (yet un-cloying) romanticism. Yet the technical standout, amid the pretty sets and elaborate gowns, is Rasmus Videbaek's decidedly modern cinematography. Not only does the reliance on natural light lend the film a muted (but still lush) pallor, but the shallow focus and handheld work lend even the simplest of scenes a touch of modern energy, as if to shake us out of our expectations of how a period romance should be shot.
Under Arcel's guidance, the performers and technical collaborators come together to create a subdued, yet handsomely mounted and strongly executed tale. Mr. Arcel displays a level of artfulness that was sorely lacking in his previous film, the Swedish Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. His modern approach to Stieg Larson's novel was adequate an unremarkable. Yet apply that same technique to a costume drama, and the results something worth marveling. This is mature, smart filmmaking that, without going to radical lengths, breathes quiet new life into a genre too often held down by stiffness and a reluctance to let go of the ways of the past. How refreshing it it that Mr. Arcel and his team were willing to be part of the small group that took the plunge, and simply let go, as though it were nothing to fuss about whatsoever.
Grade: B+
Director: Joe Wright
Runtime: 130 minutes
Shakespeare's immortal line "All the world's a stage..." has never applied to a film so literally as it does to Joe Wright's Anna Karenina, the latest adaptation of Leo Tolstoy's classic novel. Filmed almost entirely inside of a dilapidated theater, the film's characters walk across stages, climb through rafters, and move seamlessly from place to place as sets transform around them in real-time. It is, as the marketing has billed it, a bold new vision of Tolstoy's work. Yet is there a price to pay for such heavy artifice? The film runs a little over 2 hours, and Wright and screenwriter Tom Stoppard have obviously omitted or streamlined parts of the 1000 page novel. Yet do these changes, combined with the stylistic conceit, detract from the overall quality and impact? It's hard to say, as Wright's film is the rare sort of classic literary adaptation that is likely to inspire extreme division, between those swept up by the execution, and those turned off by what could be seen as a nuance-free adaptation.
For those not terribly familiar with the story, Anna is set in Imperial Russia in the 1870s, and charts the fall of the distinguished titular character (played by Keira Knightley) in high society after a passionate affair. Yet Anna's infidelity towards her husband (Jude Law) is not the story's first bit of romantic betrayal. We're first introduced to Anna's brother Oblonsky (Matthew MacFadyen), a husband and father who engages in a brief affair of his own. It is in Anna's journey to smooth over the relationship between Oblonsky and his wife Dolly (Kelly MacDonald) that she first meets the dashing Count Vronsky (Aaron Johnson), who inspires actual feelings of attraction in Anna, as opposed to her respectful but love-less marriage to Karenin.
And now is as good a time as ever to admit that, outside of a few chapters, I have not read Tolstoy's novel. As such, I can't tell you how Anna Karenina "should" be played on screen, and if the character offers room for different interpretations. What I can say is that Ms. Knightley, in her third collaboration with Wright, presents her as a woman forced too early into maturity. Anna can be coy, flirty, or petulant at a moment's notice. As best as she tries to maintain the steely composure of a dignified member of the upper class, the facade cracks often as she struggles to reconcile her choices with the effects they have on her social life. She is, whether by choice or not, beyond being a girl, yet still not quite comfortable as a woman (I promise that this isn't a reference to that Britney Spears song). Where she stacks up against other big screen incarnations of the character, I can't say. However, despite the odd bump or two, Knightley and Wright's interpretation of the character is a success on its own terms, even if she is rendered less complex that she likely was on page.
Yet even though Anna's troubled romance with Vronsky is the story's focus, it is the supporting cast who dominate the film. That is, when they're given enough to do, and have scenes that allow them to breathe. MacFadyen is particularly lively, with his portly joviality and walrus mustache accompanying his grandiose swaggering. It is thanks to MacFadyen (and Stoppard's script), that the film generates a surprising amount of laughs. Even though these lighter moments are mostly confined to the film's opening (which has fun sending up the performative nature of upper class rules and rituals), they lend Wright's film a liveliness and an energy that is then carefully slowed down as emotions deepen.
If MacFadyen is the comedic king of the supporting cast, it's Law who reigns on the dramatic end of the spectrum. Kept out of sight early on, the actor - severely de-glammed with a horrible hairdo - brings a sophisticated toughness to Karenin that refrains from making him a simple antagonist. Karenin is stern and abides by his moral code, yet he remains understandable, even though his attitude towards Anna can easily be seen as cruel.
But then there are those who move outside of the grand artifice of the theater. Levin (Domnhall Gleeson), a young man seeking Oblonsky's romantic assistance, rejects high society, and takes the story to a series of naturalistic settings. While the others fret about morals and manners, Levin makes his living out in the wheat fields, free from gossip and constricting social identities. As a result, Levin's relationship with young socialite Kitty (Alicia Vikander) feels, appropriately, more honest and heartfelt, whereas other relationships veer toward heightened melodrama.
This marks, perhaps, the one key drawback to the film's structure and Mr. Stoppard's screenplay. Wright's Anna Karenina has energy, but it can also feel truncated. As well as much of the film flows along, it occasionally lurches forward with emotional developments, particularly when it comes to Anna and Vronsky's affair. And even though Knightley generally holds up her end of the relationship nicely, Johnson's Vronsky comes with a surprisingly lack of allure. The strange blonde dye job is forgivable. The fact that Johnson and Knightley sometimes seem to pretend that they're interacting with someone other than their scene partner? Less so. As such, neither Anna's fall from grace, nor her ultimate fate register as strongly as they could. Though the film descends from its outrageous stylization as it progresses, it can't quite hop off of the pedestal to become fully human. Wright strives for an epic romantic tragedy, yet he doesn't make it all the way there. Consider it a case of landing among the stars after shooting for the moon.
Where the film does fully succeed, to little surprise, is in its visual and sonic departments. The sets, whether realistic or purposefully stagy, are intricate and often create the effect of looking at a series of beautiful moving tableaus. Jacqueline Durran's costumes, with a wide array of colors, head ornaments, veils, and fur-lined garments, constantly top themselves the further the film goes on. Throw in cinematographer Seamus McGarvey to capture it all, and you have a truly sumptuous experience that sweeps your senses off of their feet, even as it sometimes leaves the heart behind. Usual Wright composer Dario Marianelli is also back after skipping out on Hanna, and provides suitably seductive, lush musical accompaniments that transform the story from classic romantic literature to full blown opera. Whatever your thoughts on Wright as a director, there's no doubt the man knows how to create beautiful (and often compelling) images even as he flirts with indulgence. From an aesthetic standpoint, consider Anna Karenina a two hour ride in a Rolls Royce outfitted by Chanel and Swarovski.
How fans of the book will react to this adaptation is, as previously stated, difficult to say. Some may find Wright's streamlined take enthralling. Others may find it to be a garish watering down of one of Russian literatures greatest works. Yet wherever you stand on the film (even if you haven't read the book), it's hard to not be impressed by the daring approach. Many adaptations are sunk by a slavish faithfulness to the source material. At the very least, Wright and his cohorts deserve a degree of admiration for creating such a wholly cinematic vision of a novel that, in its entire complexity, was probably never truly meant for the big screen.
Grade: B/B+
