Director: Trey Edward Shults
Runtime: 97 minutes
Clear-cut answers are hard to come by in It Comes at Night. A catastrophe of some sort, manifesting in the form of a bubonic plague-esque infection, has done its damage. And based on the boarded up home of the main characters, it seems that people aren't too keen on socializing outside of their family. The story opens with a mercy killing, the kind we've seen in any number of post-apocalyptic films and TV shows. But what follows, despite some eventual bloodletting, is hardly standard issue fare. Despite the looming sense of the unknown, the film is ultimately a chamber drama that happens to unfold in a nightmarish scenario. What need is there for answers to big questions when uncertainty is sitting right next to you at the dinner table?
Any given festival circuit is full of splashy debut features. Trey Edward Shults had his at last year's Sundance, with the nervy psychological drama Krisha. Despite its shoe-string budget, the film did what any cinematic calling card should do: introduce potential. Following up on said potential is another matter entirely. For Houston-born Shults, however, lightning has actually managed to strike twice. If anything, it has struck with even more intensity than before. It Comes at Night retains the strengths of Krisha, while applying them to a more established budget and a cast of professional performers. But the film is not exactly a major leap forward for Shults, though this is not necessarily a bad thing. Rather, it's a lateral move, taking on similar issues and themes, but merely restating them in a new setting and with newfound luxury. It may seem like overkill to attempt a second impression after your first went over so well, but in the end, Shults' sophomore effort more than justifies itself.
It Comes at Night does not immediately register as a work derived from personal experience. With its apocalyptic setting, genre demands appear to be at the forefront of the film's concerns (they're certainly behind the marketing campaign). But despite the long shots of a camera gliding down a dark hallway and some gory dream sequences, Shults' film is anything but predictable. There are trace elements of what we would expect from this sort of scenario (blood dripping from a mouth, the ravages of a horrific infection, things going bump in the night), and they are indeed disturbing. But all of that pales in comparison to what It Comes at Night pulls off in its final act, which is a bleak, bruising, and haunting as anything in recent memory.
The mercy killing that opens the film is not that of an acquaintance or ally, but of a father and grandfather. It is a death hastened out of necessity, but one that also reduces a household from a family of four to a family of three. There is magnitude in this kind of loss. Each person in the house now has one person fewer to rely on. Or talk to. Or laugh with. And so it's no surprise that when Paul (Joel Edgerton), Sarah (Carmen Ejogo), and their son Travis (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) encounter a new person, they immediately go on edge.
The new person in question is Will (Christopher Abbott), caught as he tries to break in to Paul and Sarah's home for food and supplies. Like Paul, Will is a husband and father. His wife and child (Riley Keough and Griffin Faulkner) are 15 miles away, and desperately waiting for him to return. "Have you seen anyone else?" asks Paul. "No," says Will. He could be telling the truth. He could be lying. If it's the latter, what might he be concealing? It Comes at Night rarely answers questions, even when you might beg for it to give just a shred of evidence in either direction. But in Shults' capable hands, it matters gravely to the characters, but doesn't hinder engagement for the viewer.
Initially, the films seems lopsided in structure. After the ominous beginning, Shults dials down the dread and suspense, and punctures the mood with bits of levity and charm. One montage is (relatively) joyous, observing two different families working and learning together. You'd be forgiven for thinking that Shults had forgotten what type of story he was telling. But the film's steadily unnerving progression ultimately reveals that Shults and his collaborators have known precisely how to play this all from the get go. No matter how innocent or kind a person seems, few things arouse suspicion like a story that fails to fully add up. All it takes is one stray remark, and the atmosphere in the house undergoes an irrevocable shift.
Aided by a dynamic score (by Brian McOmber) and claustrophobic photography, Shults is able to conjure up a feeling of imminent disaster that could plausibly stem from supernatural or mundane sources. The ramifications of either are terrifying. If there is some boogeyman out there, then the world is even more frightening than we thought. If it's something totally normal, then it only illustrates how far humanity has fallen. An early scene involves a montage of closeups of a print of Bruegel the Elder's "Triump of Death," filled with images both surreal and ordinary. They exist side by side, feeding into each other. Is there really some singular entity out there to fear? It doesn't matter. The mere notion that there could be is all it takes for paranoia to spread.
Grade: A-
Director: Jeff Nichols
Runtime: 123 minutes
Despite building towards a Supreme Court decision, it would be a mistake to label Loving as any sort of courtroom drama. Director Jeff Nichols (Take Shelter, Mud, and this year's Midnight Special) has taken a slice of history and made it less dramatic. There are no long, tearful speeches or impassioned arguments about right and wrong. But the film is called Loving, not Loving v. Virginia, and Nichols avoids the legal aspects for as long as possible. Nichols opens his film with Richard Loving (Joel Edgerton) and Mildred Jeter (Ruth Negga) sitting together on a porch. In the moment of stillness, there are no worries of racial injustice or threats to their safety. It's just two people who love each other and want to lead ordinary lives.
Extra emphasis should be placed on the word ordinary, as Nichols deftly avoids turning his leads into simple martyrs. Loving is a love story, but it's one where the central couple is already deeply in love at the start. If only those around them would just leave them be. Yet even with run ins with the local sheriff (Marton Csokas), Richard and Mildred's scenario is consistently handled with sensitivity and a bit of distance. In between legal troubles (the couple's county of residence forbid interracial marriages), they race cars, go to family gatherings, and work on the local farmland. Were it not for the pesky law, the Lovings would be in their own Eden.
Though the message seems simple (Lovings good, racist law bad), Nichols and his actors do a beautiful job of conveying the Lovings' struggle without becoming redundant. The performances from both Edgerton (a native of Australia) and Negga (of Irish/Ethiopian descent) are so quiet, yet they positively radiate with warmth and tenderness. Early on, Richard takes Mildred to an empty parcel of land. Mildred questions her husband with neutral curiosity as to why he's brought her to such a place. And then he tells her that this is where he plans to build them a house. Mildred hesitates, her eyes flicker, and she looks around again, as if she's suddenly been transported. The moment, like many others, is so simple, so gorgeously evocative of the love between husband and wife.
Whether experiencing a moment of triumph or a setback, Edgerton and Negga keep their performances 90% internalized, and to watch react with such modesty is a thing of beauty. Edgerton, keeps his head down through much of the film, which makes his few displays of distress that much more haunting. When he drunkenly whispers "I can protect you...I can protect you," it comes loaded with the weight of a lifetime of frustration. While Edgerton deflects, Negga does the opposite. She holds herself up as best as she can, never a damsel in need of man's rescue. To look into her silent moviestar eyes is find yourself bombarded with wave after wave of emotion. The body language of the actors is an integral part of their performances, rather than a show-offy crutch to fall back on ("wow, he put so much effort into slouching!").
Despite the loveliness of Richard and Mildred's scenes together, the time does come for the legal portion of the story to intervene, and Nichols integrates it all seamlessly. We are shown as little as possible, and no scene is devoted to dense legal strategizing. A few meetings with the lawyers are all Loving has time for, and next thing you know it's time for opening statements at the Supreme Court. All the while the Lovings move around, have kids, and do their best to carry on as if nothing was wrong. Tales of social justice and civil rights are often exercises of fiery passion. Loving opts for nothing more than humility over the course of its stately two hours, but that certainly didn't stop it from making my eyes well up at the simplest of gestures. The Lovings' ordinariness is a wonder all on its own.
Grade: B+/A-
Director: Jeff Nichols
Runtime: 120 minutes
Fire may rain from the sky in a critical scene of Midnight Special, but make no mistake: this is no showboating blockbuster. Arkansas-born director Jeff Nichols' (Take Shelter) fourth feature certainly has brushes with the epic and the supernatural. Yet the heart of Midnight Special is a delicate, somber study of parents protecting children against the unknown.
In the case of Midnight Special, however, it might be the adults who need protection. 8 year-old Alton Meyer (Jaeden Lieberher) may be frail looking, but his otherworldly abilities suggest that he has capabilities far beyond any weapon. And yet, as we learn from various characters, Alton's abilities may not do much good against the ominous date of March 6th (deciphered from the boy's fits of speaking in tongues and code).
When it comes to obvious answers, however, Nichols mostly withholds. Despite its lack of overt thrills, Midnight Special's plot is more or less a chase film, with Alton being taken somewhere by his father Roy (Michael Shannon) and family friend Lucas (Joel Edgerton). On their tale are two wildly different groups: the US government, who believe Alton may have somehow tapped into classified intelligence, and the cult where the boy was raised.
As in Take Shelter and Mud, the plot hardly rushes by, with momentary bursts of violence cropping a handful of times over 110 minutes. Still quite early in his career, Nichols' weakness as a director comes down to occasionally letting his slow-burn pace become plodding. Thankfully, Midnight Special represents a step in the right direction after the bloated meandering of Mud, even though it does drag out some scenes in the final act (a few too many reaction shots of people staring just a little too long).
But even when Nichols stumbles, he at least has the benefit of working with a much stronger foundation than his previous film. There's a lack of theatricality to the performances from the ensemble (which includes Adam Driver and Kirsten Dunst), but the main roles all blossom as the story progresses. Shannon previously played a distressed parent for Nichols in Take Shelter, but the roles are quite different. Shannon's Roy is tough, grounded, and compassionate, even when his devotion to Alton leads to questionable decisions (exhibit A: telling Lucas to shoot a state trooper because they can't afford to be slowed down). Edgerton's character begins as something of a convenience, but gradually reveals his own layers.
Dunst, who doesn't arrive until much later, is similarly excellent as Alton's mother. Though she left the cult early, Dunst's Sarah dresses and styles herself like one of its members, suggesting the group's lasting impact. You get the feeling that Sarah could slip back into her old ways (whatever those may have been; the cult's practices and rituals are left vague). It's an odd balancing act, especially given the lack of exposition to answer big questions, but Dunst (coming off a revelatory performance on TV's Fargo) plays it perfectly. Lieberher, despite mostly existing in the frame as a prop, does quite well when his character is called upon.
Yet so much of Midnight Special is quiet, brooding set up (aided by David Wingo's excellent music) that the climactic revelation can't help but come off as a bit of a let down. After teasing the audience (and the characters) with what might happen on March 6, Nichols overcorrects when it's time to finally pull back the curtain. It's hardly a disastrous narrative choice, but suffice it to say the journey, and not the destination, is what makes Special, well...special.
Grade: B+
Director: David Michod
Runtime: 102 minutes
With its minimalist narrative and sparse characterization, The Rover could have easily been as emotionally and thematically barren as the dusty Outback setting. "Nothing means anything any more," intones a rough and ragged Guy Pearce. That line is either an unintentionally funny statement about The Rover's emptiness, or a careful piece of a subtlety that illustrates how the film finds meaning in a ruthless, topsy turvy world.
Writer/director David Michod's debut, Animal Kingdom, received near-unanimous praise. His sophomore effort, fresh off of a bow at Cannes, has proven more divisive, and not without reason. Animal Kingdom stayed mostly within the lines of a true crime family saga, even as it showcased some of Michod's visual tics. The Rover blends elements from multiple genres, and defies obvious categorization, despite some obvious major influences. And, while it's not the resounding success that Animal Kingdom was, The Rover still demonstrates Michod's gifts as a stylist and storyteller, even if the results are less traditionally satisfying this time around.
Set 10 years after a vaguely defined "collapse," The Rover wastes no time introducing its slim set up. Haggard wanderer Eric (Pearce) loses his car to a trio of men fleeing a shootout (ambush? robbery?), and becomes hell bent on getting it back. Eventually he realizes that his only hope is Rey (Robert Pattinson), the simple-minded brother left for dead by the three thieves.
Guy loses car and wants it back doesn't exactly leap off of the page as a compelling set up. And, in the opening sequences, The Rover doesn't seem like it will be able to do much with the title character's simple quest. Subverting expectation, what starts off as a car chase turns into a dryly funny back and forth between two vehicles. Guns are drawn, but never fired, and rather than build to a shoot out, the scene ends with both parties coming to a stop to talk things over in person (that is, until tensions boil over).
As in Animal Kingdom, violence erupts in carefully timed bursts. For all of the shots fired off in The Rover, it has no actions scenes, nor is it an action movie. The bloodshed is chilling in its efficiency, perfectly reflecting a world where survival at any cost is one's first (and only) priority. This kill-or-be-killed notion is echoed in the film's depiction of the post-collapse economy. Eric repeatedly asks a shop keeper where his car has gone, but eventually the man refuses to answer any questions unless Eric buys something (his gun remains out and ready during the whole exchange). Later on, Eric and Rey stop to watch a passing cargo train.
Marked with Chinese characters, yet guarded by American military (or paramilitary) personnel, the train cargo is a perfect encapsulation of Michod's vision of his all-too-plausible setting. Though never explicitly stated or discussed, wealth seems to have fallen into the hands of a select few. Meanwhile, everyone else has been left to fend for themselves, as military forces are put to use guarding sources of corporate profit, rather than people.
Michod, rather admirably, refrains from easy answers. In some cases, he hardly provides any clues at all. It's a careful balancing act to pull off, and it explains why some find the film empty and monotonous, and others (like yours truly) find it rich with mostly successful minimalist storytelling and subtle world-building. There's so little that's concretely known about the world at large in The Rover, and the same goes for the characters. Australia has become a sort of dystopic Wild West, attracting all sorts of folks to its unforgiving landscape.
Against the odds, the vagueness of the characters eventually pays off for Michod, especially when it comes to Pearce's character. Eric mostly alternates between stoicism and anger, yet Pearce and Michod find surprising ways to peel back the character's emotional layers. More impressively, they do so without having to spell out everything in Eric's past for it to matter. A scene near the end explains Eric's overzealous attachment to his car, yet feels earned because Pearce does more than just stare off into space the way Ryan Gosling did in Only God Forgives.
In Eric, Michod is able to create the perfect encapsulation of a wanderer who, despite his perseverance, struggles to cope with a world where foul deeds no longer carry any weight. Pearce is exceptional in the role, allowing Eric's facade to crack in just the right ways. An early highlight arrives when he confronts an eerily calm old woman (Gillian Jones), who unknowingly gets under Eric's skin, even as he holds her at gunpoint.
Pattinson, on the other hand, is less consistent. At times, the actor's twitchy movements and slack-jawed expressions are too much, even though Rey is more or less the Lennie to Eric's George (minus the actual friendship). However, Pattinson's effort with the role is commendable, and on more than a few occasions he sticks the landing quite nicely. David Cronenberg has largely used Pattinson for his blankness. Michod, however, has forced the actor to really stretch himself when it comes to emotion and physicality. Some of Pattinson's efforts may go to far, but his work here does suggest that he's capable of more than what he's previously demonstrated.
From an aesthetic standpoint, Michod and his team have done a beautiful job of creating a world that feels unique, despite the obvious influences. Working with cinematographer Natasha Braier, Michod captures the rugged beauty of the Outback with a rough-around-the-edges elegance that perfectly suits the story. Even more impressive is the work with sound, which balances natural tones along with Antony Partos' eclectic, nervy score to often haunting (if a touch overbearing) effect.
What Michod, thankfully, understands, is that stories this simple require a complex undercurrent to make them worthwhile. Had efforts to subtly fill in gaps in the world and the characters been left by the wayside, The Rover would have been a laughably pointless exercise in faux-macho posturing. Instead, Michod's second film takes the broad and simple set up, and uses it as a vehicle to explore the thorny ins and outs of its frightening world, and the equally frightening folks who inhabit it. The Rover may not surpass Animal Kingdom, and it certainly takes its time to get going, but what Michod has pulled off is still impressive. If his first two features are any indication, his future will be as bright as the future of The Rover is bleak.
Grade: B+
Director: Baz Luhrmann
Runtime: 142 minutes
I was lucky to see an unfinished cut of Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby way back in November of last year. The screening, which had unfinished VFX and temporary soundtrack selections, occurred only a month or so after the film was pushed from its original Christmas 2012 opening. Despite fearing for the worst, I ended up enjoying the relatively incomplete cut, and looked forward to the final version. Nearly half a year later, and I'm able to breathe a sigh of relief. My opinion of Luhrmann's film is basically unchanged, for better and for worse. Just as it was in November, this new Gatsby is littered with various and sundry flaws, yet builds to a mostly strong finish thanks to Luhrmann's surprising ability to tone himself down.
As far as the story is concerned, not much has been changed by Luhrmann or co-writer Craig Pearce. The only notable addition is that Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire), the story's wallflower narrator, is writing the story from the confines of a sanitarium. Other than that, it's the same story most of us read in high school with varying degrees of interest and/or boredom. Nick moves to West Egg next to the mysterious Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio), and must deal with Gatsby's attempts to win back his former flame Daisy (Carey Mulligan). Framing device aside, this take on Fitzgerald's novel has little in plotting that will enrage fanatical literary purists. The outrage is more likely to stem from Luhrmann's glitzy treatment of the Jazz Age, though even that anger feels slightly misdirected.
Those familiar with Luhrmann's films (or at least Moulin Rouge!) know that the director isn't one for subtlety or low energy. As such, it shouldn't come as a surprise that the film is frenetically edited, and that the visual design is opulent to the nth degree (credit should go to production/costume designer Catherine Martin, who has outdone herself). Fitzgerald explicitly condemned the empty decadence of the Roaring Twenties. Luhrmann dresses it up with stunning costumes and an eclectic soundtrack that blends contemporary pop and hip-hop with music from the novel's era.
It would be easy to dismiss this approach as completely missing the point, but I can only partially agree. Yes, Luhrmann doesn't harshly condemn the wild excess of the elites of the day. Yet by applying a grandiose music-video style to the parties, Gatsby's parties feel relevant for a modern audience. A more accurate depiction of a party from the era would be nothing short of off-putting strictly from a viewing experience. Luhrmann wants his audience to have their cake and eat it too, and he partially gets away with it. Above all else, he succeeds in capturing the time period infinitely better than the more "accurate" vision seen in the soul-crushingly dull 1974 adaptation with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow.
Even with the social satire pushed to the background, many of the themes of Fitzgerald's novel still come through, even as Luhrmann puts Gatsby and Daisy's romance front and center. Mulligan's Daisy is almost more complex on screen, as she shifts from exaggerated air-head to doomed romantic and back again. Mulligan occasionally gets stuck with some stiff dialogue, yet she largely overcomes this and creates a nuanced portrait of vapid indecisiveness. Joel Edgerton (as Daisy's brutish husband Tom) lands some similarly stiff dialogue, yet builds his character into an engaging, albeit one-note, antagonist. Side characters have little to do, yet have their fleeting moments to shine. Isla Fisher is giving it her all as the flamboyant Myrtle, though she barely has anything to do other than pout and party. More successful is Aussie newcomer Elizabeth Debicki as the mysterious (and very lanky) golfing star Jordan Baker, who plays a key role in the early part of the story. Debicki's character has been slightly downsized (mainly in the story's second half), but the actress remains fully present even when all she has to do is cautiously shift her glance amid the melodrama.
But no Gatsby adaptation can be a real success if the titular role is pulled off. And, even with his somewhat dodgy accent, DiCaprio rightfully walks away with the film. The pull between who Gatsby is and who he wants to be is palpable, but never hammered home. For all of Luhrmann's visual excess, he has managed to give his performers moments to poke through the pumped-up visual artifice. The lone exception is Tobey Maguire. In fairness, the role of Nick Carraway is hardly a juicy role to begin with. However, Maguire is ill-served as the too-mild-for-his-own-good Nick. Having the character narrate portions of the film with direct passages from the novel doesn't help matters, and often breaks up the flow of the emotional developments.
For all that Luhrmann gets right (work with his cast, entertaining visuals and sounds, some solid understated humor), his writing work often leaves something to be desired. While The Great Gatsby feels more coherent than Australia (which, though enjoyable, was trying to be three or four different movies), it sometimes moves with fits and starts. As much as the visual ticks (text on the screen, dissolves, layered images, etc...) liven the material, they sometimes rob moments of what little impact they were aiming for.
Thankfully, Luhrmann calms down once Gatsby and Daisy reconnect, and the second half boasts some scenes that are genuinely compelling, even in their melodramatic execution. As easy as it would be for me to dismiss the film as shallow fun, I was surprised that, even on a second viewing, I still found myself connecting with Gatsby's journey. It's not exactly a Greek tragedy (even Luhrmann wouldn't stretch Fitzgerald's prose that much), but even when the film built to its conclusion, I found myself stirred by the presentation, even if it was only an inch below skin-deep in terms of actual depth. For all of the missteps (big and small) along the way, Luhrmann's film is quite easily the best adaptation of Fitzgerald's novel. By playing to the narrative (the rekindled romance aspect), rather than the more general social critique, Luhrmann does what a director should be free to do with adaptations: make the material his own. Luhrmann doesn't need to make an adaptation that can act as a perfect narrative and thematic substitute for the book. That's what the actual book is for in the first place.
Grade: B-
Director: Kathryn Bigelow
Runtime: 157 minutes
It's difficult to write about Kathryn Bigelow's Osama Bin Laden drama Zero Dark Thirty after what's happened over the past few weeks. With the reviews, the controversies, and the responses to said controversies, what on earth is left to say? Well, let's start with the basics: it's a really damn impressive piece of film making that stands tall in a year filled with diverse narratives.
If you've missed any coverage of the film whatsoever, the story essentials are little more than the fictionalized account of the decade-long hunt to locate and kill Osama Bin Laden. And even though Bigelow's film, which reunites her with The Hurt Locker scribe Mark Boal, runs over 2.5 hours, Zero Dark Thirty knows how to make every moment count. Whereas The Hurt Locker truly was a character study, Zero is much more of a procedural set against our so-called War on Terror.
Yet even though the center of the story, Jessica Chastain's Maya, is often reserved and completely consumed by her job, Bigelow and Boal haven't forgotten to make her a character as well. When Maya first enters, she's practically a blank slate. Fresh off of the plane in Pakistan, Maya witnesses the much-discussed torture of a detainee. To answer the question of whether or not the film glorifies torture, I'll merely offer this much: Maya has no problem telling a detainee that giving honest answers will make his life easier, but she doesn't exactly look on with icy approval as she watches that detainee suffer at the hands of CIA agent Dan (Jason Clarke). What Bigelow and Boal have pulled off, along with Jessica Chastain's work in front of the camera, is one person's journey from being an outsider doing an uncomfortable job, to becoming unwavering in her determination to see everything through.
Where Zero Dark Thirty could have been simplistic, sugar-coated, and jingoistic, it is instead meticulous, blunt, and intense, without emotional manipulation. One could accuse the film of trying too hard to be objective, but that all gets blow away by the film's masterstroke: the raid on Bin Laden's compound in Abbottabad. Bigelow's strength comes from her ability to generate tension without going overboard, and the tactic pays off grandly here. The raid is intense, but not without the appropriate grimness (women shot and killed, children left crying and alone, etc...). Yet best of all is the treatment of Bin Laden's death. In different hands, such a moment would be completely overwrought. Bigelow and Boal, however, allow the death to unfold in a relatively anti-climactic fashion that couldn't be more fitting for the movie's tone and themes. Yes, the SEALs got the "bad guy," but what now? Where do they have to go next? What repercussions could this death have? Answering those questions would need a completely different film, yet it's important that Zero doesn't wrap everything up so neatly that it gives a sense of complete and total closure.
However, the film does allow the right level of closure for Maya. Chastain is mostly front and center here, and turns in another performance that capitalizes on her wide emotional range. As reserved as Maya often is, Chastain's work never feels lazy, and just because she's putting up a poker face doesn't mean she's not present. If anything, it means the exact opposite. Being present and listening is what Maya does in order to inch towards her goal, through every disappointment and disaster. The rest of the ensemble turn in perfectly convincing work, although few truly have much to work with. Stand outs from the supporting cast include the above-mentioned Clarke, as well as Jennifer Ehle as an older, more experienced operative.
But at the end of the day, the film is mostly a showcase for Chastain to quietly carry the film, and for Bigelow's extraordinary storytelling and atmosphere to shine through. The aesthetic may be roughly the same as The Hurt Locker, but there's no way to walk out of Zero Dark Thirty and think that she's made the same movie twice. The Hurt Locker used its characters to paint a portrait of various kinds of soldiers. With Zero Dark Thirty, Bigelow moves a step up the ladder in terms of authority. She's looking at the people behind the scenes, the little pieces that have to be assembled before the troops undertake missions like the Abbottabad raid. In doing so, Zero Dark Thirty, which opens with audio from 9-1-1 calls on 9/11, feels applicable to a wider range of people, because of how it weaves in the broader implications of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. It takes us from the moment of no return, all the way through an act of collective revenge, one that ellicits not cheers and grins, but solemn contemplation on what happened to us as a nation, and what we did, for better and for worse, because of those actions.
Grade: A/A-
