Review: "Louder Than Bombs"

Director: Joachim Trier
Runtime: 105 minutes


Next to suffering, grief is one of the trickiest emotions to deal with in storytelling, especially when it involves conveying said story on film or TV. Each of us grieves in our own ways, but movies and TV tend to get trapped in a reductive binary. If you're going to mourn on camera, you'll either explode with histrionics (pulling of hair, gnashing of teeth, etc...), or let your emotions hibernate as you become a zombie. Exceptions to the rule, like Joachim Trier's Louder Than Bombs, are noteworthy because they capture grief as a spectrum. Norwegian director Trier, on his third film (and his first in English), continues to prove himself as an intelligent observer of complex emotional terrain.

Trier's first two films were confined to the head-spaces of single characters, while his new venture tackles four. Oh, and one of them - photographer Isabelle Reed (Isabelle Huppert) - happens to be dead. Yet she's very much alive in the film's flashbacks and dream sequences. Isabelle's death hangs over the film, but Trier writes the role as more than a symbolic specter. Isabelle watches on from the past (and beyond the grave), her husband (Gabriel Byrne) and two sons (Jesse Eisenberg and Devin Druid) open up old wounds. Setting things off is the news that Isabelle's former co-worker (David Strathairn) plans to reveal the real reason for her death in an article ahead of an upcoming tribute/exhibition at a museum.

It's quite a leap in ambition, and one that could have easily left Louder Than Bombs feeling scattered and messy. There's also the film's tone, which keeps things as quiet as possible at all times (from the performances to the music and the sound work). At first, Trier seems stuck in the cinematic grief binary, leaving his characters to wander around upstate New York morosely, often alone and shielded by headphones.

Yet even with the sense of distance that pervades every sleepily-lit scene, Trier and Eskil Vogt's script gradually blossoms into a thing of restrained beauty. Rather than try to capture every ounce of the grief spectrum, Bombs pries open one side and reveals its nuances, of which there are many. What's left unspoken or left hanging is just as important as the words, and the screenplay - along with Trier's deft, un-showy visual sense - manages to stealthily dig into the core of four deeply layered (and traumatized) people. The biggest, potentially explosive moments are filtered through a noise dampener. It's less immediately compelling, but it also aids the film in developing its characters with the precision of a laser-cutter. 

Every bit as detailed and intelligent are the performances, which are uniformly excellent from the central quartet to smaller roles filled out by invested and committed actors (Strathairn, Amy Ryan, Rachel Brosnahan). Trier plays around with how he groups his actors together, yet there's no combination that feels like a weak link. Byrne and Eisenberg have a genial relationship that eventually hits some rather nasty bumps, while Byrne and Druid start off barely speaking to each other at all. And Isabelle's interactions with the men in her life are each as complex. Byrne is quietly dignified throughout, never trapped by potential limitations of a stoic widower. Huppert is, as ever, a formidable screen presence, capable of blending steely independence with shattering vulnerability. Druid is the surprise of the cast, holding his own against an impressive array of better known (and more experienced) faces. The film climaxes, to an extent, with his character's arc, and Druid keeps the frustrating aspects of the role completely in line. Ditto for Eisenberg, whose character does and says some truly horrendous things (in many cases, the cruelty comes from what he and the audience, but not other characters, know). 

These vantage points converge in fascinating ways, and Trier never lets them fall out of balance. Louder Than Bombs is somewhat fragmented in structure, but the flow from one segment to the next never misfires. The emotional complexity on display is, in the film's own quiet way, fascinating. Trier and Vogt's juxtapositions are thought-provoking and informative without giving too much away throughout. From the almost too-distant beginning to the incomplete completion of the ending, Trier's film ebbs and flows according to its own haunting, perplexing rhythms. 

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "I, Anna"

Director: Barnaby Southcombe
Runtime: 87 minutes

I, Anna, the directorial debut of Barnaby Southcombe, is exactly one third of a good movie. It is also roughly one third of a good performance from leading lady Charlotte Rampling. Unfortunately, before one can get to the film's good third, one must first trudge through the (admittedly well-photographed) first two thirds, and they aren't easy going. Despite rescuing itself in the last act, I, Anna takes far, far too long to become consistently compelling, resulting in a semi-admirable misfire, rather than a promising debut.

Based on the novel by Elsa Lewin, the film follows Anna Wells (Rampling), a 50ish divorcee who spends many a night making the rounds at speed-dating events across London. One night she goes home with the agressive George Stone (Ralph Brown), who is found murdered the next morning. Enter DCI officers Bernie Reid (Gabriel Byrne) and Kevin Franks (Eddie Marsan), who believe Stone's death is linked to drug-smuggling violence. 

Yet before I, Anna can even hit the 15 minute mark, Southcombe's pacing has already become a large hurdle. Despite some nice musical touches via the score, and some moody and nicely framed shots, the plot remains sluggish. It doesn't help matters that two divergent paths - Anna's seemingly normal life and the investigation - both take ages to intertwine, but also feel as though they've been written far too vaguely. After being introduced to Anna, the story's jump to the investigation is a distraction that takes up equal time across the first hour. It doesn't help matters that Byrne's performance fails at subtlety and emotional reserve. Rather, he comes off as sleepy, and even a little bored, even at the film's emotional high point. Marsan does his best to liven things up by at least injecting some energy into his role, but it's too thin a part to make much of a difference. 

As for Rampling, she's quite good once the films lurches into the final act. Yet for the first hour (58 minutes, to be precise), the film requires her to be so distant and opaque that there ends up being precious little for her to do. There are occasional shifts across her face or in her eyes that she communicates well, but the first hour or so is annoyingly thankless and underwritten. If it weren't for the final 30 minutes, I'd be tempted to label the film a criminal waste of a supremely talented actress. 

However, I can't deny that the final half hour did engage me, both from a narrative and emotional standpoint. This isn't a case of a film being a slow-burner (though it is pleeeeeeeenty slow). This is a case of a film miraculously finding its footing just in time to end on a borderline satisfying note. The final act not only affords Rampling the chance to delve into richer emotions (make that any emotional at all), but it gets to the bottom of a key part of the story, one which you'll have figured out loooooooooong before the detailed revelation arrives on screen (to be fair, the key flashback is somewhat arresting). For the first time, I, Anna develops a sense of momentum and purpose, and it's a shame that it happens so late in the game. Southcombe goes too heavy on atmosphere for almost an hour, and then tries to reconcile this by giving his full attention to performances and storytelling at the end. It's hard to get too harsh, considering that it's Southcombe's debut, but it is indicative of a problem one often sees in directorial debuts that enter thriller territory: narrative drive and character building are suffocated by labored attempts at atmosphere.

In fairness, once Southcombe starts getting to the emotional core of his story, he achieves some decent results, at least with Rampling (who also happens to be his mother). Yet, as is often the case it these sorts of films, the good stuff is too little, and comes too late. It's not that Southcombe's film doesn't showcase promise, because it absolutely does. There's just too little promise scattered across roughly 90 minutes to get terribly excited about.

Grade: C