Review: "The Neon Demon"

Director: Nicolas Winding Refn
Runtime: 117 minutes

When we throw around the term "popcorn movie," we tend to refer to larger than life spectacle that's harmless and entertaining. Maybe it's a high-level popcorn movie (Captain America 2), or something that borders on guilty pleasure territory (the Fast and Furious franchise). But the term is almost exclusively used to refer to larger than life spectacle. Yet the arthouse/international scene is equally capable of producing these types of movies, though they're often more divisive than what usually passes for popcorn moviemaking. If what you're looking for at the movies is an empty pleasure that eschews blockbuster theatrics (explosions, lasers, superheroes, aliens, etc...), then The Neon Demon is what you've been waiting for, even if you despise it. The latest from Nicolas Winding Refn (Drive) is the fried chicken of arthouse thrillers. You're left simultaneously satisfied and disgusted, knowing that you've just indulged in a treat that is absolutely horrendous for your health. Touch it, and your fingers become sickeningly shiny. But, as the saying goes...everything in moderation...

Returning to the glistening underbelly of L.A. has paid off for Refn, making a much needed rebound from 2013's insufferable Only God Forgives. That said, if you're expecting another Drive, you might be in for a bit of a shock. That film took a threadbare plot and turned it into a moody, soulful drama punctuated with flashes of exploitation-flick violence. The Neon Demon, rather than flirt with exploitation, fully embraces it with a sloppy tongue kiss. It is the unholy offspring of Suspiria, Eyes Wide Shut, and Black Swan: a delirious, sensory experience that either hooks you from the opening title cards or sends you into a defeated stupor. 

The film's opening tableau, featuring aspiring model Jesse (Elle Fanning) bloodied and sprawled out on a fainting couch, captures the whole endeavor perfectly. It's exquisitely stylized, but eventually revealed to be a fake. At one point, Jesse disappears from the couch, not because she's become invisible or ascended, but merely because she's finished with photoshoot and needs to remove her make up. Everything and everyone in The Neon Demon's vision of L.A. is consumed only with youth and beauty. Most of the characters who appear on screen are young, pretty, and white (and the film's oldest actor, 51 year-old Keanu Reeves, hardly looks a day over 40). These people, even the less affluent, live in a bizarre sort of bubble. Despite occupying space in the 2nd largest city in the country, Fanning and co. seem to be living in a virtual wasteland. 

Yet these aesthetic choices are hardly indicative of a film that possesses meaningful depth. It's a shallow movie about shallow people, carefully tiptoeing along the line that divides winking satire and indulgence. But that doesn't stop Refn from tipping his hat to areas the film might have explored had wanted to make something with more thematic weight. If The Neon Demon has a point, it's that L.A.'s fashion industry is populated entirely by a hierarchy of predators. These hunters come in different forms, from fellow models (Bella Heathcote and Mad Max: Fury Road's Abbey Lee), to landlords (Keanu Reeves), to photographers (Desmond Harrington). And, just to make sure you don't miss this message, Refn even includes a scene involving a lost mountain lion who breaks into Jesse's hotel room.

Refn's command over the film's look and soundscape is so intoxicating that it comes as a bit of a letdown that the performers tend to lack consistency. Fanning and co. seem to be in on the sick joke of it all in some scenes, and then minutes later become completely wooden. The only exceptions are Christina Hendricks (in a too-short cameo as Jesse's agent) and Jena Malone (as a make-up artist who befriends Jesse early on). Even through the inconsistency, though, there are moments campy magic that pop up, particularly from Fanning and Lee. 

But, seeing as this is a film about models, it seems fitting that the actors are largely there to be manipulated. Everyone poses spectacularly, and the whole film looks magnificent thanks to Natasha Braier's neon-drenched photography. Cliff Martinez's pulsating electronic score is equally magnetizing, turning some of the protracted, pretentious sequences into hypnotic stretches of gorgeous nothingness. Knives are drawn, blood is spilled, and there are hints of something supernatural going on. Or maybe it's just a brush with magical realism. But whether or not even a second of The Neon Demon makes sense to the head is completely secondary when compared to whether it makes sense to the eyes and ears. 

Grade: B

Review: "Only God Forgives"

Director: Nicolas Winding Refn
Runtime: 90 minutes

If we're to believe the title of Only God Forgives, Nicolas Winding Refn's follow up to Drive, then the writer/director better get on his knees and start praying. Odds are, he won't find much forgiveness outside of the realm of the divine and supernatural. Re-teaming with newfound alter ego Ryan Gosling, Refn has fashioned a spiritual successor to his last film, with all of the traces of character development completely excised. The result is a numbing effort, one that explains and justifies the jeers that greeted the film upon its Cannes premiere in May.

Refn's work has always concerned violence, but even compared strictly to Drive, the gulf in quality between his last two films is mind-boggling. Drive took a paper thin story and actually made something of its long glances and limited dialogue. Gosling's nameless driver was pushed to commit brutal acts of violence, yet in doing so he discovered something about himself: that, try as might, brutality was his only means of expression. The most telling shot in that film comes after he saves Carey Mulligan's character by taking down an assassin in an elevator. As Mulligan steps out and looks at Gosling, he can only remain frozen over the fresh corpse. His face is stoic, yet tearful, and you know that the best he can do to express his care for Mulligan and her child is by succumbing to brute protective force.

In Only God Forgives, there isn't even a trace of a thematic thread to the characters or violence on display. The motivation for nearly every action is revenge and retaliation, and all of the neon-lit hallways and stone-faced stares in the world can't elevate the material beyond that. Consider Refn's newest film what Drive would have been had someone cut out the opening half hour, and left the film as nothing more than a blank and bloody slate. 

Even the basic story, about boxing manager/drug smuggler named Julian (Gosling) seeking revenge for his dead brother Billy (Tom Burke) gets lost in Refn's stylistic indulgences. Worse, the film barely gives enough breathing room to its MVP: Crystal (Kristin Scott Thomas), Julian and Billy's bleached blonde dragon lady of a mother. The role is juicy and campy, yet outside of a bizarrely funny dinner scene, Crystal comes up short from the writing perspective. 

Though at least Scott Thomas, in a role unlike anything she's ever done, holds your attention with all of her icy glares and snarled lines. Gosling, who can work wonders with limited dialogue and internal projection, is little more than a hunky action figure to be used and (very heavily) abused. Crystal may force Julian to seek revenge on Julian's killer (a blade-wielding ex-cop played by Thai actor Vithaya Pansringarm), but even when Julian accepts the mission, the narrative feels stillborn. Without a more informative opening to provide some reason to engage with the material, Only God Forgives is frustrating and boring, when it could have been gripping and hypnotic.

With the script so wafer thin, even Refn's technical collaborators can't provide any truly engaging moments. Cinematographer Larry Smith, who knows how to capture glowing shades of color and light (ex: Eyes Wide Shut), is left with little to work with other than drenching hallways and rooms in neon. On the other hand, Cliff Martinez's score, barring one fantastic track, goes over-the-top to create atmosphere. Utilizing a series of simple notes, Martinez's cranks out compositions that sound like rejects from The Shining. The soft electronic notes from Drive were a perfect compliment to the images. This time, however, the effect is jarring (and not intentionally, so it would seem), with blaring, ominous notes flooding the scene to no effect whatsoever. 

The biggest offender of the film, however, has to be the sense of pretension behind some of the imagery. A series of dream and fantasy sequences are scattered across the film, yet the cumulative effect is mostly shrug-inducing. If Refn was trying to go for some sort of unsettling Lynchian surrealism, he miscalculated quite badly. The same is much to true of the film as a whole. For all of Drive's arty flourishes and minimalistic dialogue, there was some semblance of a beating heart running underneath it all. By contrast, Only God Forgives, despite the slit throats and stab wounds, is little more than a bloodless bore.

Grade: D