Review: "Jackie"

Director: Pablo Larrain
Runtime: 99 minutes

Though it features only the briefest moments of blood and gore, there is something so deeply immersive and unsettling about Jackie that made me queasy. The lives, legacies, and tragedies of the Kennedy clan have been in the public consciousness for decades. Movies, miniseries, plays, novels, and conspiracy theories about the Kennedys have congealed into their own industry, and that industry has taken hold as its own sub-genre of American culture (Kennedy Kitsch? Kennedy Camp?). Yet none have pierced through shield of the Kennedy mythos quite like director Pablo Larrain. A native of Chile, Mr. Larrain's English language debut, despite centering on American royalty, feels as fresh and urgent as his film's directly tied to his homeland's socio-political conscious.

Even though Jackie opens with a familiar framing device (the subject is being interviewed, with length flashbacks filling in the gaps), Larrain is quick to distance himself from decades' worth of mythologizing and hagiography. Before Jackie O (Natalie Portman, astounding) even appears on screen, the viewer is jolted by the otherworldly strains of the score. There are no patriotic tunes of either the upbeat or mournful variety. Instead, avant garde composer Mica Levi (who also wrote the haunting music for Under the Skin) floods the soundscape with a swirl of alien notes and tones. The score, which seeps out like a frozen, enveloping embrace, is disorienting to brilliant effect. 

The Kennedy brothers (Jack is Caspar Phillipson, Bobby is Peter Sarsgaard) make their appearances throughout Jackie, but Larrain and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim keep the focus on the titular First Lady of Camelot. With whole life thrown into chaos, Jackie finds herself being unravelled at all angles, and Levi's music does an overwhelmingly powerful job of communicating her emotional discord. There are no elaborate swooping camera moves in Jackie, but Levi's music and Stephane Fontaine's images mix like vodka and Xanax. It's off-putting, then hypnotic, and climaxes with a sense of dissociation that leaves your nerves exhausted, your mind numb, and your innards hollow and tumultuous.

Jackie sustains its limited premise through its craftsmanship, but it's thanks to Portman that it transcends. It's a brilliant example that proves finding the right actor to play a historical figure goes beyond (and can even exclude) exact likeness. Portman's features have some glaring differences, and there appears to have been no use of padding or prosthetics to bridge the gap between artist and subject. Yet the instant those rounded words glide out of Portman's mouth, all doubt vanishes: it's her. 

Of course, vocal inflections and the right hair do not a rounded performance make, and Portman and Larrain are well aware of this. Oppenheim's screenplay, aided by Sebastian Sepulveda's editing, positions the various flashbacks like an orchestra of mirrors. They reflect and refract, with Portman functioning as the story's anchor more so than the scenes involving the journalist (Billy Crudup). Even if everything had been handled with an emphasis on linearity, it would do nothing to diminish Portman's work, which takes Jackie O through so much complex emotional territory and distills it into a character both deeply empathetic and not quite of this world (often at the same time). In short, it makes Portman's Oscar-winning performance in Black Swan look like amateur hour. 

The driving thesis of Jackie, which is pointed out early on, concerns reality's relationship with historical narratives and fairy tales. Portman, Larrain, and Oppenheim repeat the idea a few times (perhaps one too-many), but consistently find new ways to play it out in scenarios that feel possible and plausible, even if some liberties are taken in the name of drama. Did Jackie O ever try on a bunch of her clothes, sashay through the White House in a drug-and-booze addled stupor with the soundtrack to Camelot blasting out of the record player? I'm perfectly content never knowing the answer. Reality and history make strange bedfellows, and that discomfort lies at the heart of what makes Jackie sing so beautifully as a film. Larrain, whose dramas sometimes squander great set-ups on drawn-out, overwrought execution, could not have been a more inspired choice. 

Larrain's perspective is a thrilling compliment to the American iconography on display, and he guides Jackie's journey with masterful control of timing and tone (Oppenheim's script includes some welcome moments of mordant and mournful wit). Few scenes this year will merge great writing, acting, and directing the way Jackie does when the First Lady appears to break the news of JFK's death to her children. It is mesmerizing, stomach-churning, white-knuckle intense, and ultimately shattering. Larrain's guiding hand, Portman's face, and Oppenheim's words (and silences) take two horrendous moments (one personal, one political) and blow them up to operatic proportions: The President is dead...My husband is dead...My husband the President is dead. Those unspoken statements hang there through all of Jackie, and their weight only increases with time. When Crudup's journalist asks Jackie if she has any advice, she replies, "Don't marry the President." After spending just over 90 minutes in Jackie's head, you'll understand why.

Grade: A

Review: "Night Moves"

Director: Kelly Reichardt

Runtime: 116 minutes

Nothing captures the effect of Night Moves quite like a simple, recurring shot in its most significant sequence. The camera sits at the front of a speed boat as it languidly, uneasily drifts toward a hydroelectric dam in the dark of night. Each return to this shot, intercut with reactions of the film's three main characters, is a masterful example of unbearable tension handled with the utmost restraint. The same is true of the film as whole. Writer/director Kelly Reichardt's seventh full length film, despite its stately pace, is a major accomplishment that delicately balances psychological drama with (relatively) traditional thriller elements. 

In the same way that David Gordon Green's Joe was the movie Jeff Nichols' Mud should have been, Night Moves feels like the more successful version of last year's Brit Marling vehicle The East. Both films revolve around environmental extremism, as well as characters caught between their ideaologies and their emotions. Yet where The East was caught between indie minimalism and marketable broad appeal, Night Moves is distinct in its voice and style. 

Despite the modest scale of her films, Reichardt is no longer a filmmaker who shies away from established names. In Wendy and Lucy, Reichardt worked wonders with actress Michelle Williams in an otherwise bare bones work. Here, she has three times as many name actors anchoring her film, and all of them do so exceptionally. 

Those three actors are, in order of importance/screentime, Jesse Eisenberg, Dakota Fanning, and Peter Sarsgaard. Even as the film gradually pushes Eisenberg to center stage, Night Moves remains committed to its characters. Personalities are naturally established, then quietly subverted, which makes for compelling viewing despite Reichardt's typically slow approach to storytelling. Eisenberg's twitchy, reptilian nerviness is put to excellent use here, allowing his gifts to show without coming off as redundant. Whether lingering in the background or wrestling with his own moral code, Eisenberg once again shows himself to be a stellar, albeit unconventional, leading man. 

Fanning and Sarsgaard effortlessly back up Eisenberg in their wildly different roles as his accomplices. Though Fanning's sardonic aloofness at the outset is initially off-putting, the actress gracefully switches gears as the character's buried insecurities come to the surface. Watching her crumble in front of Eisenberg is not only compelling, but a fulfillment of the promise she showed when she first broke out as a young child. Sarsgaard makes a nice foil for Fanning and Eisenberg, as the trio's oldest (and military-trained) member and would-be mentor. 

Yet Night Moves would amount to little were it not for Reichardt's steady hand behind the scenes. Her work with regular writing partner Jonathan Raymond is rich with psychological drama without overstating point. The extremism on display is neither lionized nor condemned. It's simply the driving force of the story that allows Reichardt and Raymond to tell such a subtly gripping tale of desperate actions, as well as the unsettling aftermath of such actions.

Reichardt's directing takes the strong foundation laid by the script and fluidly translates it to the screen. Working with cinematographer Christopher Blauvelt (and handling editing duties herself), Reichardt makes the most of her meager budget and creates a visual experience that earns its place on the big screen. Jeff Grace's minimal, atmospheric music only enhances the superlative visual storytelling on display. Instead of straining for something epic, Night Moves unfolds with sporadically poetic moments of visual storytelling. These scenes, such as one where the activists drift through a group of bare, decaying trees, speak more elegantly than dialogue ever could in such a setting. 

The potential stumbling block for audiences will simply be whether Eisenberg's repetitive actions in the second half feel effective or indulgent. At just under two hours, Night Moves certainly takes its time reaching its open-ended conclusion, which will prove suitably gripping for some, and tediously protracted for others (count me in the former group). If you get caught up in Night Moves' slow burn, however, you're in for quite the ride. Reichardt's style is an inspired match for this sort of psychological-thriller set-up, and the way she toys with narrative structure pays off beautifully for the film's character-driven side. The director's latest may be drifting along at a leisurely rate, but enough is going on under the glassy surface to ensure that you grip your armrests just a little tighter. 

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "Lovelace"

Directors: Rob Epstein & Jeffrey Friedman
Runtime: 92 minutes

Within the first 15 minutes of Lovelace, the second fiction film from documentary directors Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman, the only word that comes to mind is "workman-like." Despite avoiding the sleaze of its time period and subject matter, this biopic/behind-the-scenes look at the life of Deep Throat star Linda Lovelace goes through the motions from start to finish. Capable performances, especially Amanda Seyfried's lead role, are enjoyable and hint at a richer, more insightful story. As it stands, however, Lovelace is content to be ordinary down to the bone, mostly for worse. 

As Lovelace herself remarks late in the film, she only spent 17 days in the porn industry. Yet the shadow of her breakout film and performance - the first porno to break into the mainstream - looms large over her life. That's a fascinating dynamic to explore, and touches on the ways in which celebrity figures can be defined by the briefest moments in their lives (especially when those moments are mistakes). Yet Andy Bellin's screenplay, determined to cover everything as though checking events off on a list, is more concerned with simply getting from point A to point B, without taking time to explore the emotional and thematic undercurrents of his characters. 

Once the film peaks, with Deep Throat becoming a phenomenon, Lovelace starts to lose the already muted momentum that its first 45 minutes kicked off with. Epstein and Friedman do a perfectly adequate job of telling the story, but their techniques are no more insightful that the typical surface-only approach found on a Lifetime movie. As the story takes a darker turn, detailing Linda's fallout with first husband Chuck (Peter Sarsgaard), Lovelace starts to drag, rather than compel. What little spark the film musters up is strictly relegated to the scenes involving the production of Deep Throat, largely stemming from the comedy the film wrings out of the pervy director (Hank Azaria) and producers (Bobby Cannavale and Chris Noth).  

Seyfried, meanwhile, is left to navigate a character whose rich dramatic potential is squandered by the material. Seyfried's breakout performance came as the stunningly air-headed Karen in 2004's Mean Girls, a film that used her comedic gifts to excellent effect. Since then, the actress has been trying to move over into meatier roles. Lovelace should have been the one. When Linda sees the promotional shots taken of her for Deep Throat, Seyfried captures the quiet awe of a repressed young woman finally seeing herself as beautiful. Unfortunately, the script provides her with too few of these moments, even skimping on her frosty relationship with her dad (Robert Patrick) and ultra-religious mother (Sharon Stone). 

Yet as Lovelace focuses on the rise of a porn icon (one who would go on to become an anti-pornography crusader), it manages to neglect the beginning and end of her story. It avoids outright sleaze, but it also has little interest in true drama other than Chuck being abusive and controlling towards his wife. Though never exploitative, the scenes of abuse (which include Chuck essentially paying a group of men to gang rape his wife), are given far too much weight. They make Linda's dramatic arc into one of a victim, and the shrift her fight against domestic abuse gets only makes the issue more troubling. 

Even the star-studded ensemble can't do much to make something more out of Bellin's crushingly simplistic writing. Sarsgaard (who recently completed a stellar turn on AMC's The Killing) makes for a good charmer-turned-abuser, but no one else is really give the time or depth to make an impact outside of a one-liner. What should have been one of the most impactful moments - Linda's reunion with her parents - is little more than shrug-worthy. It's certainly not the cast's fault. One can see the effort being put in by Stone and Seyfried to make the moment work, and Stone almost saves it with a funny remark. But it's too little and far too late. In its standard 90 minute framework, Lovelace succumbs to the hallmark problem of many modern biopics: it tries to cover everything, does it too fleetly, and winds up feeling like a Cliffnotes version of a much richer narrative. 

Grade: C/C+

Review: "Blue Jasmine"

Director: Woody Allen
Runtime: 98 minutes

Remove a few small items from the frame like cell phones, and Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine could take place almost anywhere in the past 50 years. There are no mentions of social networking or tablet computers, and the music (as always) is made up of jazz standards. In essence, Allen's latest could easily be a product of his output from the mid-70s and early 80s. Nowadays, Allen's films that receive a positive critical consensus often feel like minor pleasures, and a far cry from the good old days of his prime. By contrast, Blue Jasmine, despite its share of small flaws, feels like the first Allen film in years that feels like it belongs in the company of Annie Hall and Manhattan. 

A pseudo-retelling of Tennessee Williams' "A Streetcar Named Desire," Blue Jasmine still feels very comfortably like its own story. Whereas Williams' play (and its film version) only included the briefest mentions of the past, Allen spends much of his trim film jumping between past and present. This juxtaposition, in which we witness the rise and fall of Jasmine French (Cate Blanchett), lends the film an angle that makes it more relevant for a 21st century audience. When she arrives in San Francisco to stay with her working class sister Ginger (Sally Hawkins), Jasmine has more than her fair share of baggage. Allen, wisely, uses his flashbacks to gradually unpack it over the course of the narrative. 

The jumping between past and present could have undercut the film's development, but Allen's script is smart enough to use the two time periods to build on each other. Mostly known (and sometimes criticized) for his focus on the upper classes, his look at Blanchett and Hawkins' characters proves surprisingly well-rounded. In the end, both the fallen-from-grace Jasmine and the rough-around-the-edges Ginger have their share of problems, yet their differences ultimately make them incompatible of really helping each other. Ginger, playing the Stella to Jasmine's Blanche, gives Jasmine a place to stay after she loses everything, but that's about all she can really offer. By the time Jasmine leaves behind her cheating husband Hal (Alec Baldwin, effectively used) and flees to the West Coast in ruins, the damage has already been done. 

Very much like Ms. DuBois, Jasmine has a bit of a problem when it comes to nervous breakdowns, certainly not helped by her newfound addiction to booze and pills. In a nice referential touch, the titular character is named for Blanche's favorite scent, which lends an appropriately effervescent connection between "Streetcar" and Allen's bitter comedy of manners and malaises. The most obvious similarity here, basic premise aside, comes down to the leading lady, and Allen's transition could not prove more spot on for the 21st century. Whereas Blanche was a product of the plantation world, Jasmine comes from good genetic stock and managed to land herself a rich husband to whisk her off up to the 1%. 

As such, when Jasmine finally descends upon San Francisco, she brings with her a haughtiness that clashes with the earthier working class. Though Ginger does her best to put up with Jasmine's self-centered neurotics, her newest boyfriend (Bobby Cannavale, always an enjoyable presence) can't muster up the same amount of sympathy. Jasmine is far past counting on the kindness of strangers, and that's putting it mildly. In these clashes between the haves and have-nots, Allen's script achieves a more expansive vision, even as it functions as a freeform character study. Yet because his principal characters are sharply drawn, the relatively uneventful narrative still possesses a sense of free-flowing movement. 

At the film's core, of course, is Blanchett's Jasmine. The regal Australian actress seizes the role by the throat and never lets go. Having spent time performing on stage, and largely avoiding lead roles, it's electrifying to see her back in the spotlight, more alive than ever. It's a very big character, filled with nervous tics and mood swings galore, but Blanchett finds enough room in moments both big and small to avoid overacting. 

Sally Hawkins proves a nice counterpart as the film's second largest role, her earthy and casual turn an appropriate counterweight to Blanchett's alcohol-soaked theatrics. Despite the flashiness of Blanchett's powerful turn, Hawkins is never overshadowed to the point where her scenes are a distraction. As Allen charts the paths of both sisters, he remains remarkably balanced in exploring both women, who are two wildly different sides of the same coin. A host of supporting roles, filled out by Baldwin, Cannavale, Louis CK, and Andrew Dice Clay are also handled effectively as they prop up the rest of the story. 

Like Tennessee Williams' work, the performances and writing of Blue Jasmine take a few minutes to adjust to. The film may not have the full-blown melodrama that characterized Williams' work, but there are aspects of Blue Jasmine that feel more than a little heightened. As for Allen, where his script provides engaging material for the cast, his directing can be a little clunky. As effortless as the transitions from past to present seem in retrospect, there are times when transitions come off as rushed. Allen, who has been working steadily for years now, occasionally lets his need to churn out an annual film get the best of him. In the first 20 minutes or so, the performers already appear ready for take off, while Allen's direction feels in need of further refinement. However, once Blue Jasmine gets its hooks in, it becomes an immensely satisfying comedy, with just the right touches of darkness and Allen-esque neuroses. 

The prolific director is already gearing up to shoot a film for next summer, and he shows no signs of slowing down. Yet even though the director has already moved on to his next project, it's worth taking the time to really savor Blue Jasmine beyond Blanchett's stellar performance. This film, awkward opening moments aside, feels like a glimpse at the director in top form. More than just "this year's Woody Allen movie," Blue Jasmine is a funny, smartly-observed character study that is at once perfectly contemporary, yet still timeless in its themes and subject matter. 

Grade: B+

Review: "Green Lantern"

Green just hasn't been working for superheroes this year. After the middling response (and box-office) of The Green Hornet back in January, 2011 geared up for its second masked man in green, the significantly more popular Green Lantern. Unfortunately, Martin Campell's film, starring Ryan Reynolds as the titular hero, falls short of being heroic, even though it's not quite the disaster that some reviews have made it out to be.

Now, I'm no expert on comic books, but from what research I've done on the Green Lantern, the comic essentially has several different storylines, each one focusing on a different human being chosen to join the intergalactic Green Lantern Corps. Which one is considered the best? The most popular? The best fit for the big screen? I have no idea. All I know is that Warner Brothers chose to go with one of the more prominent story threads, centered around American test pilot Hal Jordan (Reynolds). Opening with some efficient narration courtesy of Tomar-Re (Geoffrey Rush), we learn about the Lantern Corps, and how they protect the universe by harnessing the green power of will. Consequently, the Corps' greatest threat was an entity known as Parallax, which fed on the yellow energy of fear. As the story proper begins, we see that Abin Sur (Temuera 'Jango Fett' Morrison), the Lantern who first imprisoned Parallax, attacked by the entity, as it has broken out of its celestial prison thanks to an all too convenient accident. They really couldn't have locked him/her/it up in something more surefire and secure?

Despite this, the opening is surprisingly fun, and does a decent job of making us comfortable with the reality being established. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that Green Lantern does a better job of immersing its audience in its world and mythology than the significantly better-received Thor. When Hal is taken to Oa, the home planet of the Lantern Corps, the movie reaches its high points. The design is vibrant but not cheesy, the special effects (which were torn apart after the release of the first trailer) are shiny, but convincing enough, and the look feels coherent. Space is also where we're introduced to a subplot involving Sinestro (Mark Strong), a high-ranking Lantern who, out of desperation, suggests that the Lantern Corps could try to harness Fear to use against Parallax. The movie has all of the right ingredients for a fun and compelling space opera, one that could easily fill out a fun little trilogy of connected stories.

Unfortunately, the earth-bound sections of the movie are here to send this hugely expensive enterprise grinding to a halt. Initially, they aren't a problem. The establishment of Hal as something of a wild card fighter pilot (albeit a supremely talented one) is handled decently, almost like a lightweight Tony Stark. And Mr. Reynolds, who is primarily known for mid-level comedies, actually does a solid job with the role. If only that pesky script wasn't there mucking everything up. As the story progresses, events become increasingly jumpy, and Hal's sudden decision to give up on the chance to be a Lantern is done too quickly and without any sense of dramatic heft. The film also takes the conflict of Will vs. Fear to rather silly extremes, essentially reducing the meaning of these two forces to a conflict of those who Do, and those who Think. Turns out that those pesky thinkers are the bad guys, and they're represented by Hector Hammond (Peter Sarsgaard), who's as wimpy (and eventually ugly) as Hal is handsome and ripped. I'm glad that Warner Bros is here to teach us such a valuable lesson. Remember kids, if you think too hard, you end up being a simpering scientist who fails to get the girl and grows a creepy pedophile 'stache.

And as the film moves along, sometimes swiftly, sometimes moderately, and the actors are dragged through the mess that is the screenplay, the disappointment starts to sink in. This is not soul-crushing, embarrassing cinema (though there are some very strange and silly lines of dialogue). Rather, it's just unimaginative and too lightweight for its own good. I'm not even going to bother with the odd little contradictions in the plot, because they don't feel worth the discussion. What's worse is that a superhero whose power holds the vastness of the imagination at its core, has been adapted for the silver screen with such basic results. Even worse is that Rush's character actually has a line telling Hal that his powers are only limited by his imagination. Unfortunately for the movie, imagination is one key component that's sorely lacking. This is made that much more annoying to endure simply because there are elements Green Lantern that either work or have lots of potential. Unfortunately, for all of the money thrown at this project (and, to be fair, every cent of the budget is on screen), this latern produces only a faint glow, when it could have shone so brightly among a sea of lackluster super hero franchise hopefuls.

Grade: C/C-