Review: "Things to Come"

Director: Mia Hansen-Love
Runtime: 101 minutes

A deceptive mundanity permeates Things to Come, the latest feature from France's Mia Hansen-Love. The central character, philosophy teacher Nathalie (Isabelle Huppert), undergoes a series of disruptions to her everyday life, yet Hansen-Love refuses to portray any of them as end-of-world scenarios. Though it takes place over considerably less time, Things to Come in some ways recalls Boyhood. It's not entirely a shock; like Richard Linklater, Hansen-Love is fixated on people's various relationships with time, ranging from major life events to the connective tissue that fills up everything else. Yet from the mundanity of Things to Come emerges a whisper of transcendence. The ordinary is not inflated to become something greater than it is. Instead, it's handled with a mix of sensitivity and level-headedness that leads to something warm and wise.

Like Elle, another striking vehicle for Huppert (an actress continually finding new ways to be excellent), Things to Come technically hinges on a life-altering incident. But then it pulls back and forces its protagonist to cope not by putting all of their energy towards it, but by tending to it while still moving along with all else that adult life entails. Elle, with its violent rape and hints of sadomasochism, takes the darker, naughtier route. Things to Come, meanwhile, moves gently, thought not without purpose. Nathalie's life, turned upside down by her husband's affair, proceeds without too many major detours. She still has lunch with her kids, teaches class, counsels former protege Fabien (Roman Kolinka), and deals with her increasingly senile mother (Edith Scob).

Plenty of films have been made involving middle-aged men and women reinventing themselves, but few do so with the wisdom and lack of sentimentality on display here. Following the sprawling dance music saga Eden, Hansen-Love has scaled back her narrative ambitions, and emerged as a more precise storyteller. For a film composed of scene after scene of what amounts to daily life (with a few diversions), it moves with remarkable assurance and focus. It's not exactly hypnotic, but it's gently compelling in its honesty in a way that makes you want to get lost in it all. You may not share Nathalie's age, socio-economic status, or family set up, but her experiences touch on the universal without coming across as a series of bland boxes to be ticked off.

Then again, it's hard to be too bland when you've centered your movie on Isabelle Huppert. The actress is at her softest and gentlest here (compared with her ice-queen work in films like Elle, The Piano Teacher, White Material, La Ceremonie, etc etc), but she remains as galvanizing a screen presence as ever. The ups and downs of Nathalie's life are charted with the precision of an X-Acto knife, yet there's never a moment of the performance that comes off as overly calculated. Huppert has made a career out of playing characters with whom one can empathize, but not always sympathize. In the case of Nathalie, she has both, and the scenes in which her face, a mask of severity and poise, cracks, are breathtakingly moving.

So, as Nathalie moves from one moment to the next, Hansen-Love (who also wrote the beautiful script) follows her with an easy-going refinement that's all too rare in slice-of-life dramas. Even in the film's darkest moments, Hansen-Love keeps it all thrillingly alive. People bicker, people chat, people discuss philosophy, take care of their ailing parents, and sometimes they chase after their obese house cats...such is life (incidentally, between this and Elle, 2016 has been a fantastic year for those who enjoy Isabelle Huppert sharing the screen with felines). Things to Come manages to have it both ways: it celebrates the chance for reinvention, while still placing it in the context of the vast ocean of experiences and routines that define our every day existence. You don't need to be a philosophy expert to find something worth cherishing.

Grade: A-

Review: "Elle"

Director: Paul Verhoeven
Runtime: 131 minutes


It's not every day you see a movie that opens with rape and then, mere minutes later, prods you to laugh uncomfortably. Assault and rape are tricky to tackle in a visual medium, given the thin line that separates honest discomfort and repugnant exploitation (look no further than high end cable dramas like Game of Thrones and Outlander). Leave it to Paul Verhoeven, then, to craft a psychological thriller/black comedy like Elle that occupies the elusive intersection of melodramatic noir thrills and pop-psychology. 

Which is not to say that this is the first time Verhoeven has waded into these waters. This is, after all, the same man who gave us Basic Instinct and Showgirls. It's been a decade since Verhoeven's last film (the Dutch drama Black Book), and above all else, he remains an effective provocateur. Yet in Elle, adapted from French novelist Philippe Djian's "....Oh," Verhoeven reveals that he's moved on from hollow shock value. His new film is a silky smooth, Hitchcockian exercise buoyed by a sharp script and a mesmerizing lead performance.

Verhoeven and screenwriter David Birke provide a sufficiently intricate framework, but the real heavy lifting comes down to the actress who plays Michele, the story's protagonist. In the hands of French actress Isabelle Huppert, it all looks astonishingly effortless. That sort of acting prowess is necessary given the psychological hoops Michele jumps through over the course of the film's two hours. So many (too many) similar female characters have been confined to victimhood in the aftermath of a rape, and Michele is a wonderfully complex corrective. Rather than wilt, Michele does her best to go about her usual routine. So much so, that you'd be forgiven for wondering if the incident had phased her at all.

Verhoeven plays the long game with Elle, and though it can sometimes be a bit bewildering, the approach helps the film standout and surprise. The evolution of Michele's "relationship" with her masked assailant is given as much screen time as her affair with her friend's husband, her garish mother, and the various oddballs and jackasses at her video game company. The revelation of Michele's childhood trauma further throws a wrench into how everything fits together.

Elle has a lot of pieces in its puzzle, but Verhoeven and Birke keep the story flowing along smoothly. At times, certain scenes beg the question "ok, why are we here/where is this going?" Ultimately, the mundanity of some of the narrative works in the film's favor. In giving so much focus to the regular aspects of Michele's life, Elle is able to smoothly compartmentalize its story the way its protagonist does. The story presents dozens of opportunities for Birke's screenplay to take the mawkish, "oh why me?" route with Michele's journey, yet the writer sidesteps them all.

The biting sense of humor is an equally valuable component of Elle's success. Rather than cheapen the gravity of Michele's trauma, the stabs of comedy elevate the film into a richer, more nuanced exploration. The blend of tones reaches its apex in a fantastic dinner party scene, where humor and tragedy collide in subtly breathtaking ways. It's all a high wire act that would fall apart in the hands of a less daring performer. 

Yet even those who know Huppert's work might be taken aback by the way the actress' fearlessness manifests in this performance. In films like Haneke's The Piano Teacher, Huppert demonstrated her prowess through fiercely contained bursts of emotion. Elle, though no less complex, doesn't boast the shame type of obvious expressiveness. But just when it seems like the actress might be coasting, she throws out some little jab of black humor or murky despair that brings the whole balancing act into focus. 

The performance is so strong and so consistently intriguing that it would be easy to dismiss the behind the scenes contributions. First and foremost is Verhoeven's elegant direction, which toes the line between high end psychological drama and paperback thriller. The faded, fall-into-winter color palette works well by casting even the most innocent moments in a murky mood. Anne Dudley's melodramatic score is a standout as well, lending scenes the right touch of menace and mystery without becoming intrusive. Despite the heavy nods to cinematic styles of the past, Verhoeven's stamp on Elle ensures that it all manages to still come across as forward-thinking. Whatever your thoughts on the director's previous work, he at least deserves credit for finding new ways to tease and provoke.

Grade: B+

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: "The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Him/Her"

Director: Ned Benson
Runtime: 189 minutes

Usually, when producers and filmmakers have different ideas on how to edit a film, the victorious side tends to be taken as gospel among the movie-going public. The losing version is either relegated to a special edition DVD, or is never seen again. However, for first time director Ned Benson, the journey has been more rewarding. After premiere his two-film drama The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby - two back to back films that cover the events and perspectives of different characters - he was forced to created a combined version, subtitled "Them." Luckily, just over a month after Them arrived in theaters, Benson's original design, subtitled Him and Her, has been given a life of its own outside of the festival circuit. Even though Benson's admirable passion project isn't without faults in its original form, Eleanor Rigby: Him/Her is still a striking character piece that resonates in in unexpected ways as it traverses well-worn terrain.

One has to wonder if there wasn't some plot to start Him/Her's release on the same weekend that Showtime's promising new drama The Affair premieres. Benson's film and the cable channel's TV show operate on similar levels, despite some differences in tone and execution. Him/Her and The Affair (more true of the latter), utilize the Rashomon method of storytelling, with events being replayed multiple times from different perspectives, with key details changed or omitted. 

Yet when it comes to replaying scenes versus filling in the gaps of opposing points of view, the two take radically different approaches. Benson's film(s?) does its best to avoid dramatic redundancy, instead crafting two films that intersect at a select few moments, but otherwise tell very different stories. 

Him opens with a memory of the early, carefree days in the life of Conor Ludlow (James McAvoy) and Eleanor Rigby (Jessica Chastain). The young couple spend the delightful opening sequence in a near constant state of newfound romantic joy. They run down dark streets, make out in the park, and watch as lightning bugs put on an impromptu show before their eyes. And then the present day arrives, and those moments of ecstatic happiness are wiped away like steam from a mirror.

Long before definitively revealing the tragedy at the center of Him/Her, Benson - working on a meager budget - handles the shift from jumpy past to solemn present with what can only be called elegant bluntness. The change in mood is instantaneous, and even though we don't know the ins and outs of what's happened in the interim, Him/Her still gets the point across that Conor and Eleanor aren't quite who they used to be. In the first 10 minutes, we see Conor and Eleanor in drastically different emotional places, and McAvoy and Chastain's restrained work conveys the months, even years, of hardship in a manner that speaks volumes. 

Though stray lines of dialogue feel a bit baroque for the gritty style, Benson's writing is largely effective at capturing what makes his leads click, even if the answers are a little on the broad side. Conor is more determined to keep moving forward, pouring his energy into his flailing bar. Eleanor, on the other hand, can't shake her recent trauma, and comes to the conclusion that the only way out is to tear her self down and start from scratch. Both exemplify different parts of a fascinating spectrum of human behavior that occurs in the face of truly shattering heartbreak. To tap further into this, Benson utilizes silence in a way that is absolutely crushing. Scenes - mostly for the better - seem to take place in a vacuum, even though much of the film takes place in Manhattan.

Combine this with Christopher Blauvelt's murky visuals, and Him rather quickly develops an all-consuming gloom, despite the flashes of humor. Though consistently well-acted by McAvoy, Chastain, and the rest of the ensemble, Him ultimately emerges as the weaker of the two-part puzzle. There is no mystery to Conor's actions, and therefore almost no sense of discovery in anything that happens in his side of the narrative. Conor's interactions with his semi-estranged father (Ciaran Hinds) are repetitive, adding little of value to the psychological dimension of the film. We wait for Eleanor to make her brief appearance in Him solely because they bring us just a little closer to what most of Conor's story dances around. Despite running 11 minutes shorter than Her, Him often stagnates thanks to Benson's commitment to an unwavering, funereal sense of pace.

Once Him goes through its final fade to black and Her begins, Eleanor Rigby really starts to come to life. The weighty silence is still there, but it's countered by Eleanor's livelier encounters with her sister Katie (Jess Weixler) and her wealthy, withdrawn parents (Isabelle Huppert and William Hurt). Real life friends Chastain and Weixler, despite their very different looks, are ideally cast as sisters. Watching them comfort each other or share a laugh over a stupid joke is the sort of thing that compels one to stick with Her. Then, of course, there's Chastain's performance, which is as complete and acutely observed as any of her other recent performances. After blasting out of the gate in 2011, the actress continues to impress, able to draw one in without manipulatively tugging at heartstrings.  

Put simply, Him is the question and Her is the answer. The former exists mostly to allow for the latter to fill in the blanks, and expand on what we thought we knew. Conor, like the audience, is left trying to piece things together and see through Eleanor's opaque new persona. By contrast, in Eleanor's scenes with her family or her new professor (Viola Davis), the films make actual, observable headway in terms of realizing the scars on its characters' collective psyches. Mr. McAvoy is excellent, but the ordering of the films ultimately leaves him with less to do. A climactic scene in Him belongs to Chastain's painful confession. When Her revisits the same scene, Eleanor's confession only hits harder, while Conor's reaction achieves no greater impact. 

This issue extends to the dual narratives as well. By the time Her finishes, Him is left fighting a losing battle for relevance in the grand scheme of the story. It makes for a solid set up and secondary story, but the balance ought to have been tipped much more heavily in Her's favor. Benson has insisted that the two parts should be able to exist separately or be played in any order, but to do so seems unwise. 

Whatever its faults, when Eleanor Rigby works, it tends to soar. The oppressive mood can be numbing, but when Benson zeroes in on a particular moment and unpacks his characters' emotions, the film becomes more than just a gritty-looking downer. It can be a difficult watch (though it's nowhere near as searing as something like Blue Valentine), but deep down there's a glimmer of realistic, measured optimism at the film's core. Like Rabbit Hole, Eleanor Rigby wants nothing to do with easy answers and notions of getting back to an idealized sense of "how things used to be." It's about confronting the past, so that we may move forward. The shadows of trauma always linger, but that doesn't mean that it's impossible to shrink them by letting in a little light. 

Grade: B/B+

Review: "Abuse of Weakness"

Director: Catherine Breillat
Runtime: 105 minutes

Truth can be stranger than fiction, but that doesn't automatically make it more compelling. A story's basis in real events is not a get out of jail free card, no matter how personal the events are. This is a big part of why Catherine Breillat's Abuse of Weakness is often such a frustrating viewing experience. Taken from an incident in Breillat's own life, the film opens and closes magnificently, yet much of the middle is barren when it comes to insight or psychological tension. And much of the success of the beginning and end have less to do with Breillat's work than with the considerable skills of Isabelle Huppert, the film's star. 

The incident in question is a stroke that leaves sharp film director Maud (Huppert) partially paralyzed. Breillat's opening shot is beautiful in its composition and sinister in its content, and gets the film off to a fabulous start. As the camera glides over Maud's white sheets, we see movement, as if some sort of creature is crawling up her body. Moments later, we're met with the crushing realization that there is no one else. There are only the pained, twitchy movements of Maud's body as it seizes up and betrays her, leading to a devastating fall. 

From there Breillat takes us through expected territory, with Maud realizing what has happened, struggling to cope, and initially moving forward with her life, doing her best to control her half dead body. These scenes all provide magnificent room for Huppert to do what she does best: communicating psychological pain through her immensely expressive face. The viewer knows next to nothing about Maud during most of the hospital scenes, yet watching her fight against her body to try and learn how laugh again is still wrenching to behold. The added bonus here is the exhausting physical work the role requires of the actress. Her movements are strange, but they never come off as cheap ploys for sympathy. Up to this point, Abuse of Weakness seems like an austere, yet gripping character study and psychological drama. And then the actual plot kicks in. 

Determined to go back to work as soon as she can, Maud becomes fixated by the story of notorious con man Vilko (French rapper Kool Shen). Convicted of fraud, Vilko has recently completed his time in prison, and is now getting as much mileage as he can out of his story. For Maud, he (and only he, no actual actors) is the perfect subject for her next project, which she begins to tailor to Vilko's demeanor as much as possible. After mild hesitation, Vilko accepts her offer, yet insists on spending as much time with Maud before shooting (something she prefers not to do prior to actual production). 

It doesn't take too long before Vilko starts channeling Dirk Bogarde in The Servant, and becomes far too prominent in Maud's life (and, worse, her finances). Yet where Abuse of Weakness stalls is in its iffy character trajectories from this point on. Maud is obviously a keen observer of people, so it's understandable why she's drawn to Vilko as a person. But when she starts writing him checks for large sums of money, something rings false. Vilko doesn't enter her life as a deceptive wallflower. His coarseness is apparent from their first conversation. Why then does someone as astute as Maud fall prey to a figure like this, over and over again? 

The story's intrigue quickly dissipates once the checks start going into Vilko's pocket, and Abuse of Weakness never quite recovers from this big misstep. With Maud now left to simply listen to Vilko and spend time observing him, Huppert suddenly has little to work with other than her exaggerated physical work (barring one excellent scene at a beach-side cafe). The film's final scene lays out a compelling dilemma of identity and denial, yet it's a bit of a cop out given the film's sluggish mid-section. The tension between Maud and Vilko simply never amounts to much, because it's hard to believe that the former wouldn't see through the latter's manipulation almost immediately. By the time the situation escalates, and Vilko is sleeping at Maud's house, the film has completely run out of energy, yet plods along as though it was doing something other than giving us more of the same. 

When these events happened to Breillat, they must have been wrenching and fraught with emotional complexity. Yet in turning to this moment of her life as inspiration she has delivered a film that goes exactly where you know it's going to go from the moment everything is set up. After such promise, Abuse of Weakness merely goes through the motions without much of anything to offer making it neither a satisfying character study or low-key psychological drama. The captivating start all-too-quickly gives way to a rather flat "and then this happened, and then we did this, and...." method of storytelling that doesn't accomplish enough to give the layered finale any proper heft. Abuse of Weakness ultimately lives or dies by whether Huppert has engaging material to work with. The actress does her formidable best when she can, but those opportunities are few and far between. Sometimes, even the the most unflinchingly honest truths need more than just the facts. 

Grade: C

The Month in Review: June 2011

Apparently I subconsciously decided to make June "Difficult Movie Month," because in my choices, whether on DVD/online or in the theater, the best results came from films that weren't exactly easy going down. Whether it was my second venture into the filmography of Andrei Tarkovsky, or checking out another confounding piece from the Michael Haneke factory of uncomfortable scenarios, June proved equal parts tough and rewarding in terms of movie-going. The best of the best?

Best Film (Theaters): The Tree of LifeNot only the best film of June, but also the best theatrical release I've seen in 2011 thus far. As I've said before, I'm no die-hard fan of Terrence Malick, but this time he really got to me, even if I didn't realize immediately. Gorgeous images aside (and they are gorgeous), Tree manages to tackle the grandness of the universe through the mind of one man's mind and memories. It works as a vision of creation, as an intimate look of family life, and most importantly as a coming-of-age story shaded with loss. Yes, it can be ponderous at times, but I think that comes from Malick's refusal to give out easy answers, despite the occasional piece of overly blunt voice over. I think Mick LaSalle summed up Malick's cosmic intimate epic best (I'm paraphrasing) by calling it a bag of diamonds with a few rocks mixed in.


Best Film (Rental/DVD): StalkerLaSalle's description also fits perfectly with Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker, a film that is by turns mesmerizing and tedious (and sometimes both simultaneously). For a story that centers primarily on shots of men walking through grass, Tarkovsky and crew are able to create a surprisingly intense, hypnotic journey without relying on flashy visuals or sets. This is the sort of challenging, layered cinema that deserves to be re-visited multiple times.


Best Director: Terrence Malick - The Tree of LifeWhatever quibbles I've had with Malick in the past, his latest film was one instance when everything fit together. From the beautiful work from the cast, to the brilliant music choices, and the better-handled subjective nature shots, Tree is an example of Malick's tendencies at their best.


Best Male Performance: Ryan Gosling - Half NelsonThough he gets oddly bug-eyed for a brief moment, Gosling's breakthrough performance (which earned him an Oscar nomination) is a quiet tour-de-force. Every angle of Dan Dunn comes together fluidly in Gosling's portrayal. The result is a character who can be good, bad, smart, self-destructive, careless, and caring, all without feeling scatter shot. Quite the opposite; it's a thoroughly compelling piece of acting, and easily ranks among the best of 2006.


Best Female Performance: Isabelle Huppert - The Piano TeacherAnd speaking of compelling performances, I'd be daft to not use that term to describe Isabelle Huppert's work in Michael Haneke's 2002 film. As Erika, the sexually repressed piano teacher who tries to start a relationship with a student, Huppert turns in a knockout performance, one that capitalizes on her ability to mix deeply buried passions with a steely exterior. Simply incredible work.


Best Ensemble Cast: Midnight in ParisIt may border on overstuffed, but Woody Allen's latest charmer certainly shines in the casting department. Owen Wilson makes for a nice change of pace in the Allen-stand-in role, and his interactions with the supporting cast are a complete delight. Whether he's falling in love with Marion Cotillard's Adriana, conversing with Corey Stoll's Hemingway, or having a bizarre (and hilarious) encounter with Adrien Brody's Salvador Dali, Owen and the cast are one of the best things about one of Allen's best efforts in recent memory.


Best Screenplay: Tyrannosaur by Paddy ConsidineThough it has all of the ingredients necessary to devolve into misery porn, Paddy Considine's debut as a writer/director benefits from his generally strong script. While not a hugely eventful story, Considine keeps the plot moving with a tight focus on his central trio of characters. The end result, while not without its flaws, is a grounded and powerful look at the lives of two strangers crossing at a time of personal distress for both parties.


Best Cinematography: Emmanuel Lubezki - The Tree of LifeIf there was ever a time when I really had no choice, it was in this category. Even the harshest detractors of Malick's latest will have trouble denying the staggering beauty in Lubezki's images. Whether he's turning shots of volcanoes and empty landscapes into pre-historic vistas, or capturing the family life of the O'Briens, Lubezki's work here is a towering achievement, one that has a strong chance of remaining unmatched come year's end.

The Netflix Files: May 30-June 5

Half Nelson (2006) dir. Ryan Fleck: Ryan Gosling earned his first Oscar nomination for this low-key drug drama, and it's easy to see why. As Dan Dunne, a middle school history teacher struggling with addiction, Gosling does tremendous work, even if he occasionally crosses from brilliant over to bug-eyed. He's backed up by lovely work from Shareeka Epps as Drey, a student who befriends Dan, and a script that treats its subject matter with smarts. Writers Fleck and Anna Boder avoid the typical ups and downs of addiction drama, focusing more on how the characters interact, instead of dragging drug use to the front to beat us over the head with. Other story threads, like Drey's relationship with her mother and imprisoned brother, aren't quite rounded out so well, but the film's understated portrayal of its central duo through their personal struggles is hugely successful.

Grade: B+

Stalker (1979) dir. Andrei Tarkovsky: Solaris, Andrei Tarkovsky's other major (and widely revered) work, earned comparisons to Kubrick's 2001. Yet despite the fact that the films share settings in outer space, I'd venture that Stalker left me with similar feelings to Kubrick's masterpiece. Set in Russia, a three men (one of them a guide) venture into a mysterious area known as The Zone in order to find a room where people's dreams come true. After a frenzied opening chase/shoot-out, the film settles down and becomes increasingly mysterious, and increasingly mesmerizing. Things as simple as a walk down a tunnel become hypnotic to watch, because even though barely anything actually happens (other than walking) in Stalker, the level of mystery that the script develops is unlike anything I've ever seen. It presents explanations and "answers" that are often more confusing than the situation in question. This does mean that the film can be rather frustrating, but it's the sort of film that makes you want to find out answers, even if some things are simply meant to be left to interpretation.

Grade: A-

The Piano Teacher (2002) dir. Michael Haneke: Like a less obvious Lars von Trier, Michael Hanake often seems to enjoy exposing twisted situations, often with equally twisted results. The Piano Teacher is no exception. Isabelle Huppert stars as Erika, a strict piano teacher who starts an affair with a young student to explore her sexual fantasies, fantasies built up from years of sexual repression. Haneke's film doesn't shy away from showing us a few icky details. Still he refrains from making these moments take up the entire film. Roughly the first half (maybe more) goes by, and the affair hasn't even started. Haneke's dedication to building up this character before heavily deconstructing her only makes the film that much more unsettling. Of course, it would be inappropriate to continue on without discussing Huppert's phenomenal work as Erika. By turns icy, distant, and vulnerable, this is not a character we're supposed to like, and yet Huppert makes her every move fascinating to watch. So even though the film ends on a bit of a vague note, one that seems to lack the analytical focus of everything that came before, The Piano Teacher is still a provocative and disturbing look at one woman's path towards self-destruction.

Grade: B

The Netflix Files: May 20-29

It's been way too long since I've added another entry to either the "what I watched this week" or "best of the month" series. However, with summer in full swing, I figured I ought to get both of these running again while I have free time. First thing's first: what I watched this week is now going under the name The Netflix Files. Now that that's out of the way, it's time to play catch up:

Solaris (1972) dir. Andrei Tarkovsky:

Often considered something of a Russian answer to 2001: A Space Odyssey, Tarkovsky's adaptation of Stainslaw Lem's sci-fi novel deserves to stand on its own. It may be set largely in space, and feature mysterious and difficult concepts, but it couldn't be any different from Kubrick's masterpiece. Solaris uses its sci-fi trappings and setting to explore memory, grief, and loss, often offering answers as challenging as the questions it poses. It can be a difficult watch based on length alone, and it probably demands a second (and third, and fourth, and fifth, etc...) viewing, but even on a first watch, it's hard to not be impressed. There are times when the pacing can grow tiresome; a lengthy sequence involving showing a car driving on the highway goes on and on without any purpose or direction. It's magnetic to watch at first, but it doesn't take long before it falls victim to too-much-of-a-good-thing syndrome. Still, I'd be hard-pressed not to label Solaris, my first venture in Tarkovsky's filmography, something of a masterpiece in its own right, as difficult as it can be.

Grade: A-

Hour of the Wolf (1968) dir. Ingmar Bergman:

Bergman, for me, is one of those beloved auteurs who oscillates between hypnotically brilliant and frustratingly obtuse, sometimes within a single film. Hour of the Wolf is one of those entries in his canon that is both. The closest that Bergman ever ventured into horror territory, it's a consistently interesting film, one that uses small details to slowly create a sense that all is not well on the island where Johan and Alma live (Max von Sydow and Liv Ullmann). As things become more overtly disturbing and surreal, the layering of symbolism throws some bumps in the road, obscuring the point(s). Von Sydow and Ullmann give committed performances as a couple facing a potentially malevolent group of wealthy neighbors, played by an ensemble of actors committed to creating a perfectly unsettling atmosphere. Like Solaris, it probably deserves a second viewing, but unlike Tarkovsky's film, Hour of the Wolf's initial impression is equally memorable, but not nearly as satisfying.

Grade: B

Orlando (1992) dir. Sally Potter:

Gender roles is the name of the game with Sally Potter's adaptation of Virginia Woolf's time traveling short story. Considered a break-out performance for Tilda Swinton, Orlando traces the 400 year life of Orlando, a young nobleman in Queen Elizabeth's (Quentin Crisp) court. Playing Orlando as both a man and a woman, Swinton's work is both mesmerizing and more vulnerable than the ice queen roles she's known for. Aiding the film, spectacularly I might add, are the art direction and costume design, which gorgeously capture four centuries worth of clothes and castles. It's a visually ravishing journey across time, filled with lush colors and intricate designs courtesy of Oscar favorite Sandy Powell. The beautiful music only adds to this quietly mesmerizing journey. Dialogue is occasionally stiff, but Swinton's compelling work and the immaculate design help lend this odd little gem some heft, creating an impressionistic look at one person experiencing both genders.

Grade: B/B+

La Ceremonie (1996) dir. Claude Chabrol:

Considered to be Chabrol's finest work from the 90s, this domestic drama-turned thriller is the sort that slowly lures you in, only to throw you for a loop with a chilling climax. Led by stellar work from Sandrine Bonnaire and Isabelle Hupert, this tale of a soft-spoken maid and her relationship with a coarse mail woman is consistently interesting. It throws details out slowly, keeping the viewer on edge. We get the sense that something more has to happen than these two women befriending each other, but it's quite hard to tell where it will go. When the film arrives at its ending, you'll likely feel the temperature drop. Chabrol's execution is so matter-of-fact, and La Ceremonie achieves its impact because of it. Coupled with a strangely poetic ending, this domestic thriller is one you won't soon forget.

Grade: A-