Director: Antonio Campos
Runtime: 115 minutes
My apologies to Stephen King, but the name 'Christine' belongs to Antonio Campos now. Or at least, it initially belongs to Mr. Campos and screenwriter Craig Shilowich, as they dramatize the downward spiral that led Christine Chubbuck to shoot herself on live television. But move beyond the architecture of Christine, and the same belongs, appropriately, not to Mr. King, Mr. Campos, or any man at all. Instead, it finds note-perfect ownership in British actress Rebecca Hall, who sits at the center of this compelling character study built around her towering performance.
I've been a fan of Hall's work ever since her first breakthrough, as a love interest for Christian Bale in the thriller The Prestige. Amid starry names like Bale, Hugh Jackman, Michael Caine, and Scarlett Johansson, Hall managed to make her mark in what could have been a throwaway role. Since then, she has largely stuck to smaller fare (including the lovely Please Give, in which she's excellent), never quite forcing her way into the conscience of the American movie-going public. Hopefully Christine, arriving 10 years after The Prestige, changes that.
Chubbuck's story is an easy one to mine for cheap tragic theatrics, but Christine makes the wise decision to dramatize the reporter's life, rather than attempt to recreate it. That leaves Campos, Shilowich, and Hall tremendous room to mine what we know of Chubbuck's life for an absorbing look inside a complex woman who is defined by more than her tragic end. Gangly and stilted, Hall's Chubbuck is not the warm, easy-going type. A perfectionist to a fault, she clashes regularly with her station manager (Tracy Letts) at the local Sarasota news station, never letting up even when she should take a hint and back off. When we first see her, she's practicing for an imaginary interview with President Nixon, and asking a co-worker (Maria Dizzia) if she nods her head "too sympathetically."
Amid the shifting landscape of TV news, Chubbuck struggles most with the knotty dilemma of how we present ourselves to each other, and how we feel others perceive us. Though Shilowich's screenplay is sporadically on-the-nose, it largely provides a gripping series of obstacles that push Christine to her breaking point. Such a straight forward march toward death may sound like a grim slog, but Shilowich finds moments of awkward humor that keep the film from drowning in depressive moods. A perky, bubbling score contributes to the flashes of levity as well, without becoming distracting or overbearing.
Yet even if Christine were a tonally one-note exercise in misery, it would still be worth it thanks to Hall. With her rigid posture and grating voice, Chubbuck isn't an easy protagonist to latch onto, but Hall is transfixing throughout. Lesser films and performances would be all about the look and the voice, but Christine pushes right past that, and subtly digs into the underlying mental health issues that eventually took hold. Whether fighting with her hippie mother (J. Cameron Smith) or trying to pitch a news story, Chubbuck is a hard presence to ignore. Hall's unwavering stare, coupled with her unsteady mask of a face, keeps up an icy front while allowing bottled up emotions to flood out. It's immensely subtle, yet still hauntingly expressive.
Only at the story's end do the limitations of the script become apparent, although not to the point of undoing the film's accomplishments. This is a performance vehicle through and through, with the larger issues of mental health, self doubt, and workplace sexism only marginally explored as they suit the story's needs. There's also the matter of the film's final 10 minutes or so, which end Christine on a puzzling note. Rather than conclude with either solemn remembrance or bitter irony, Christine's ending takes a stab at, well, I'm not quite sure. There's a "point" in there somewhere about the role of TV and entertainment and news, but it never really lands. It's a bizarre pivot for a film that seemed to understand its limitations. You had me at Rebecca Hall giving the best performance of career...no need to push for more.
Grade: B
Director: John Wells
Runtime: 130 minutes
It may seem odd, but the first film I thought of after seeing August: Osage County was Steven Spielberg's Lincoln. They have virtually no similarities when it comes to tone or subject matter, but they're noteworthy in how they downplay more noticeable "directing." Film is said to be the director's medium (auteur theory and all that jazz), but films like August and Lincoln are more content to reign in the cinematic techniques and simply let the acting and writing grab the spotlight. Both films are that much better because of this decision, even though August lacks Lincoln's distinguished sense of subtle finesse.
Adapted by Tracy Letts from his own Pulitzer-winning play, the film takes the Hollywood route and shears off roughly an hour's worth of material (much like Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd). While this decision does create the occasional pacing issue, such a considerable loss of material isn't enough to wreck the film. As 'directed' by John Wells, Letts' story is still an bitterly funny tale of a family get-together in the wake of tragedy.
At the center of the film is Violet Weston (Meryl Streep), the cancer-ridden family matriarch. To say that Violet has complicated relationships with her daughters is an understatement. The reasons are best left unsaid (the story has a few surprising twists), but suffice it to say that this isn't just another big and loud family. The Westons are a particularly dysfunctional lot, capable of bickering and manipulating each other and then suddenly sharing in blackly comedic jokes about suicide.
Like most family get togethers, real or cinematic, the early sections are where things struggle to take off. Letts' considerable cuts from his play are commendable, yet he leaves in some establishing scenes that are but empty stage business that would allow someone to change their costume. Wells doesn't try anything 'cinematic' or abstract, but some scenes - like Margo Martindale and Chris Cooper wandering through a dim, humid room - are as painfully stage-y as they come.
The initial focus on Streep's Violet is also something of a divisive choice. While there are plenty of effective big and broad moments, Streep's capital-A acting sometimes clashes with the choices of her co-stars. Some of this is likely intentional - Violet comes off as a coarse, upper middle class Norma Desmond - but the performance is in need of some reigning in. When Streep does hit her mark, however, she's near the top of the ensemble in her ability to bring acid-soaked wit to Letts' tangy dialogue.
Yet as Streep chews the scenery with reckless abandon, two of her co-stars (one famous, the other not so) steal the movie out from under her. As Violet's youngest daughter Ivy, Julianne Nicholson is superb in one of the film's quieter, introspective roles. This is the sort of supporting turn that immediately makes you wonder why Nicholson hasn't risen to greater prominence by now. She's effortlessly emotive, capturing Ivy's struggle with being the subservient youngest child without ever feeling pathetic.
On the flip side is Julia Roberts as oldest daughter Barbara. Stripped of virtually any movie star ticks or persona, Roberts tears into the role, albeit in a more naturalistic manner than Streep. Watching Barbara's simmering contempt grow into a wrathful boil is among the narrative's most satisfying emotional developments. By the time the dramatic centerpiece - an early dinner featuring the whole Weston clan - comes to its knock-out ending, Roberts seals her status as best in show, just as Barbara finally claims her dominance in the household.
For all of the antagonism on screen, Letts' script never forgets to make these characters feel human and relatable, albeit in uncomfortable ways. Among the film's best scenes is a conversation among Barbara, Ivy, and Karen joking and drinking together. Despite their drastic differences, the (admittedly warped) sisterly bond of the trio comes together with remarkable clarity.
While the women are out dominating the screen, the men (none of them Westons by blood) are less successful. There's a subplot involving Barbara's husband Bill (Ewan McGregor), as well as one involving Karen's (Juliette Lewis) sleazy boyfriend (Dermot Mulroney), but they're used more to develop the great women around them. Only Chris Cooper makes much of an impact as his own individual, and it's a testament to his talent that he communicates so much with so little. Meanwhile, Benedict Cumberbatch, while certainly a talented actor, is a minor disaster as Cooper and Martindale's son Little Charles. The brief moments with Charles making his way to the Weston home are the lowest of the films lows. It's too bad that his character has such a pivotal connection to the underlying plot.
Thankfully, the men are mostly afterthoughts, with the women allowed to take center stage in a way that's far too uncommon. Wells' direction ranges from bumbling to bland, but Letts' voice comes through so powerfully thanks to the clear emotional investment of just about everyone on screen. August: Osage County won't be remembered as high art years down the line, but as a vehicle for some superbly written and acted dark comedy, it certainly gets the job done. While I doubt it fully captures the greatness of the source material, it's certainly not a bad place to start.
Grade: B/B-
Director: William Friedkin
Runtime: 102 minutes
There may be bouts of violence scattered across William Friedkin's Killer Joe, but like its titular protagonist, the "best" and bloodiest is saved for last. Rightfully earning an NC-17 rating, Friedkin's film, an adaptation of Tracy Letts' play of the same name, may feature brutal violence that borders on exploitation, but remains a thrilling piece of filmmaking. In addition to strong performances from its ensemble, Friedkin succeeds for two crucial reasons. The first is that the adaptation (by Letts himself) has been translated so as to feel wholly cinematic. The second, perhaps even more important, is that the film manages to look at low down, trashy characters without ever feeling as though it's also trash. While the setting and violence may prove a deterrent, the film remains worthy of a look, considering the strengths of the acting, writing, directing. It's bloody and at times wince-inducing, but it's also a bloody good time.
Set in a crummy Texas town, the film revolves around the trailer park antics of the smith family. Oldest son Chris (Emile Hirsch) finds himself in $6000 of debt to some vicious local drug dealers. Pushing along his somewhat slow father Ansel (Thomas Haden Church), Chris hatches a plan to hire a Dallas cop named 'Killer' Joe Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) to help them. This involves having Joe kill Chris' biological mother (never seen on screen), so that the $50,000 life insurance policy will be sent to Chris' younger sister Dottie (Juno Temple).
And, against considerable odds, Killer Joe manages to actually separate the fine line between simply displaying stupid people and their bad decisions, and actively engaging with them. The characters may not be terribly bright (though many are schemeres in one way or another), but because of the setting any stupidity on the part of the characters doesn't feel like bad writing. It's a smart look at stupidity, an examination that calls to mind some of Joel and Ethan Coen's filmography in how it looks at people getting into something way over their heads, and the bad decisions and outcomes that follow.
That said, the Coens have never made something with as much sensationalist nudity, sexuality, and violence as is seen here. That's part of the reason why Friedkin is so well chosen for the director's chair. Just as the Coens were a perfect match for Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men, Killer Joe is right up Friedkin's alley (this marks his second adaptation of a Letts play, after 2006's Bug). Though there are moments when the dialogue begins to border on repetitive or drawn out (the opening scene of Chris banging on a door could be cut in half), Friedkin and editor Darrin Navarro keep things moving along at a pace that effectively blends moments of fluidity and stagnation. This is aided further by cinematographer Caleb Deschanel's excellent job of capturing the characters and their settings, whether in stationary shots or with the camera roving around the scene. The trinity of Friedkin, Navarro, and Deschanel help Killer Joe overcome the obstacles presented in adapting a play, and make the work feel entirely cinematic.
This is all further bolstered, of course, by the excellent ensemble. Hirsch is strong as the closest thing the film has to a 'straight man.' The actor handles the character's shifting views on his town, his family, and his plan effortlessly. Playing off of each other (and the other cast members) are Haden Church and Gina Gershon (as Ansel's second wife, Sharla). Haden Church's slow drawl at times feels at odds with some of the other characters, and it's easy to dismiss him early on. In the later scenes, however, that same drawl is put to great effect in some nicely handled moments of dark comedy. The best performance from the Smith family, however, comes from Temple's Dottie. The actress plays on the characters' situations of forced-upon sexuality with the right bit of enthusiasm and anxiety. For all of the times where Dottie is referred to as being a little slow (well, slower), there are little moments where Temple allows the audience to think that there's more than Dottie than meets the eye (thankfully, the script follows through on the actresses' promise).
Finally, there's Matthew McConaughey as the titular bad cop, who would have stolen show if it weren't for the fact that he's the film's lead (along with Hirsch). Of all of the films that have appeared since his career resurfaced with The Lincoln Lawyer, Joe contains his strongest work. The actor deserves comparisons to Javier Bardem in No Country for his tightly coiled portrayal of man determined to keep his (menacing) cool until he's pushed to the breaking point. The role does allow the actor to engage in some of his tics (namely the swagger and drawl) unlike Jeff Nichols' Mud, but the smarminess is gone. The swagger and drawl feel like authentic parts of his austere, magnetic, dangerously slick character. And if the moments of quiet menace weren't enough for the actor to sink his teeth into, McConaughey also gets to completely cut loose in the film's insane finale (the place where if definitively earns its NC-17 rating).
And what a finale it is. There's violence, ample swearing, and a scene involving Kentucky Fried Chicken that immediately enters into the pantheon of iconically disturbing scenes. And it's perhaps here that Friedkin's direction and Letts' writing are most impressive. Elements of Killer Joe are darkly funny, even in the bloody climax, but the script wisely separates the humor from the brutality, thereby lifting itself above trashy exploitation despite and ensemble fully of trashy people. It's the perfect, mesmerizingly horrific adrenaline rush to the steadily engaging slow-burn that precedes it. The only part of the finale I'm not quite sold on is, unfortunately, the final 10 seconds, which involves a revelation (amid a room full of chaos) and then a cut to black. Unlike No Country, Killer Joe's somewhat open ending actually feels like something of a cop out. For a film that so thoroughly goes out of its way to give you a cinematic rush, it seems odd that it ends anticlimactically. But who knows, maybe that was just Friedkin and Letts' way of sparing us further brutality, and maybe that's for the best. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go check and make sure there isn't any fried chicken in my refrigerator, or else I might have trouble getting to sleep.
Grade: B+
