Director: Christopher Nolan
Runtime: 169 minutes
How do you solve a problem like Christopher Nolan? So much expertise with complicated plotting, yet such a mechanical approach to flesh and blood characters. The answer is at once simple and daunting: outer space. The characters of Nolan's latest, Interstellar, journey into the cosmos for solutions to problems facing mankind on Earth. Meanwhile, Nolan takes his characters into the beyond while looking for answers of his own. Interstellar is not perfect, nor is it the sort of flawed masterpiece that initial hype and a thrilling marketing campaign promised. Instead, it's a honest step forward for Mr. Nolan as both a director (where he was already far stronger) and as a writer (where he tends to flounder).
One of the big complaints lobbed at Nolan has been his impersonal touch with characters and his reliance on exposition in the form of dialogue. Interstellar sees more progress with the former than the latter, but both show an improvement that was missing from Inception and The Dark Knight Rises. Better yet, he has evolved without going too far to the opposite end of the spectrum. Interstellar is the first of Nolan's films to get a genuine emotional reaction out of me, and it's nowhere close to being schmaltzy. Turns out, Nolan himself is capable of feeling human emotions (or at least, his programming has finally allowed him to understand and communicate them).
Nolan's previous films have touched on familial relationships before, but they've never really registered until now. Though Insterstellar still relies on Nolan's love of Dead Wife Syndrome, it still connects as a story about a family against its epic narrative canvas. Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) spends the majority of the film's three hours away from his two children, but the bond between parent and children is effectively conveyed through juxtapositions with the main story line.
Plus, it's not like Cooper doesn't have a good reason for heading off into space for an unknown amount of time. Set somewhere in the future (40 - 100 years), Earth's population has dwindled, and a plague known as Blight has wreaked havoc on crops. Terrifying dust storms are a regular occurrence, and the entire world is living in conditions that vaguely resemble the Dust Bowl. While Cooper maintains a living as a farmer (corn is the one of the few crops not wiped out by Blight), his real ambitions lie far off of the ground. So it's a mixed blessing when, thanks to his daughter Murph (Mackenzie Foy), he pieces together a series of coordinates left behind by unexplained phenomena. Those coordinates lead him to a secret NASA base, where the space-faring organization is mounting a desperate mission in hopes of saving mankind, without necessarily saving the Earth.
It's not long until Cooper's old mentor Dr. Brand (Michael Caine) lays out exactly what's at stake with NASA's clandestine operations. Earth is becoming increasingly incapable of supporting human life, and the time has come to look beyond for a new home. Either through coincidence or some higher design, a wormhole has appeared near Saturn, opening a gateway to a galaxy with several planets that may be the solution to humanity's dire situation.
The arrival of the mission, with its explanations of relativity, wormholes, and disruptions of the space time continuum, should be the point when Interstellar starts to stumble. There's a lot of detail to cover, and the initial stages seem like the perfect moment for Nolan and his brother Jonathan (who co-wrote) to drown the viewer in scientific blather. Yet unlike the overbearing explanations of dream layers in Inception, the details of Interstellar come across as far more valuable. The tendency to explain story-oriented details over character development is still present, but it feels more focused, streamlined, and more confident in the audience. Inception covered so many little details of Nolan's dream world logic that it became ludicrous. Minor aspects were explained away just to make sure that everything was most definitely thought out by the screenplay. The Nolan brothers may not leave much to the imagination, but the explanations doled out by the talented cast are mostly worth hearing. Space is an incomprehensibly large and terrifying place, so the details of how a black hole affects time is not only valuable, but critical in raising the stakes of the mission.
Interstellar is built on a race-against-the-clock foundation, which ultimately serves the story quite well. The film taps into plenty of very real concerns about the future of our species, and ties them in to an epic adventure full of white-knuckle intensity. Nolan's space sequences are rarely flashy, but there remains an awe to the execution. Even with the presence of Hans Zimmer's towering, pipe organ-driven score, the crushing silence of space is still a thrilling and disturbingly neutral antagonist. Watching Cooper and Dr. Brand's daughter Amelia (Anne Hathaway) try and dock a landing vessel to an out of control hub unit is both graceful and chaotic. Nolan is an uneven director when it comes to staging action sequences, but his zero-gravity set pieces here are never less than thrilling and nerve-wracking here. More rewarding is when Nolan ventures outside of his visual comfort zone. The scene where the main crew (which includes Wes Bentley, David Gyasi, and a robot voiced by Bill Irwin) passes through the wormhole has a level of visual imagination that's been sorely missing from Nolan's previous work.
Just about everything in space is so powerfully rendered (the visual effects work is so good that I never even thought about it), that it's slightly disappointing when Nolan jumps back to Earth. Though the return trips to our pale blue dot end up being important to the film's universe-spanning endgame, they tend to let the wind out of Interstellar's sails. The plot complications that arise from the Earth scenes, which feature Jessica Chastain and Casey Affleck as the adult versions of Cooper's children, are a mixed bag. Affleck's initial appearances, in video messages to his father, are lovely, but later scenes turn him into a hardheaded jackass for no real reason. Chastain fares better if only because her character's actions are germane to the plot. Having joined NASA despite her resentment toward her father, Murph's actions salvage the Earthbound material, though this has more to do with Chastain's abilities as an actor than the material she's been given.
Nolan's work with his space explorers fares much better. McConaughey refuses to let his current winning streak die, and his work here fits right into the role of the typical blockbuster leading man through Nolan's gloomier lens. Cooper's position as lead pilot of the mission represents a chance to fulfill a life long dream, but at a potentially terrible cost. McConaughey wears that struggle beautifully, flipping between hard-nosed strategist and homesick parent without missing a beat. Hathaway is quite strong as well, and her interactions with McConaughey provide some of Interstellar's emotional highlights. The actress even manages to sell a slightly gooey monologue about love transcending time and space, which says a lot about her talents. Though Bentley and Gyasi are stuck in pretty dry roles, Bill Irwin's voice work as robot aide TARS is surprisingly effective. TARS' programmed attitude helps ignite a few moments of humor, which keeps Interstellar from being crushed by its space opera severity.
From a technical standpoint, the film is mostly aces, although a few areas are in need of some polishing. Cinematography is noticeably rougher, which actually works in the film's favor. Too often, the future is presented in bright and sleek shades of color. The dingier look of Hoyte Van Hoytema's lighting is a smart change of pace from Nolan's recent, overly polished aesthetic. The art direction reflects this as well. The interior of the space vehicles is futuristic, yet has the look of technology that hasn't been cleaned or updated too recently. Zimmer's aforementioned score is absolutely beautiful adding extra doses of wonder and terror when needed. And, despite one prolonged bit of overbearing cross-cutting between Earth and space, Lee Smith's editing keeps the adventure moving along over the course of the film's butt-numbing three hours.
Interstellar gets off to such a strong start, yet it's almost a relief to see Nolan go for the conclusion he delivers here. Intentionally or not, Interstellar's climax will provoke lots of discussion over whether or not it imploded during its landing. Given the mind-stretching nature of the adventure, finding a properly balanced ending was always going to be a tricky prospect. Instead of trying to please everyone, Nolan has unapologetically made the movie he wanted to make, regardless of all the references that may be present. For the first time, one of Nolan's movies is inviting legitimate discussion, drawing some further into his orbit while pushing others clear out into space. It's the Nolan movie we deserve, whether or not it's the one we all wanted, and at the end of the day, that's something to be thankful for, flaws and all.
Grade: B+
Director: Lisa Cholodenko
Runtime (233 minutes/4 episodes)
TV has been in its current Golden Age for quite a while now, but the medium has never been more respected than now. Movies and miniseries for TV are attracting Oscar-winning names, and playing at film festivals as they scoop up hoards of Emmy Awards. Last year, HBO's Behind the Candelabra played at Cannes, opened theatrically in Europe, and aired as a TV movie in the US. The lines between the prestige levels of TV and film have never been more blurred, and it's glorious.
The latest example of TV's ascension as a storytelling medium comes not in the form of a movie, but a four hour miniseries titled Olive Kitteridge. A miniseries that had its world premiere at the Venice Film Festival alongside films like Birdman. Fittingly, the beautiful opening credits of Olive's four episodes include the credit "A Film by Lisa Cholodenko." Cholodenko, who's been relatively quiet since her acclaimed indie The Kids Are All Right (2010), has moved from the big to the small screen, yet her talents as a director have never felt larger. Bolstered by a bracing, complex performance from Frances McDormand and a magnificent script, Olive Kitteridge is one of the best things any TV channel or movie studio has turned out all year.
Adapted from Elizabeth Strout's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Cholodenko's film/miniseries/whatever starts modestly, but quickly grows into a rich portrait of life, loss, and marriage. Olive and Henry Kitteridge (McDormand and Richard Jenkins) live in rural Maine, where she teaches math and he owns the local pharmacy. Henry is absolutely beloved by the townsfolk. He's a kind soul, always ready to offer comfort to those even remotely down. Olive is....the opposite. Perhaps it's best to describe her as complicated. While not evil, Olive has a bluntness and a candor about her that is about as far away from her warm and cuddly husband as humanly possible. Part of this is the depression (runs in the family), although she doesn't mind. For Olive, depression is just a sign of intelligence.
By contrast, many of the denizens of Olive's world are considerably more upbeat and, as Olive sees them, less astute. Writer Jane Anderson never goes out of the way to validate Olive's tough perspective, but she hardly waves a finger at her either. Anderson, Cholodenko, and McDormand don't care if you like Olive. The character certainly doesn't give a damn, so why should they?
Despite her prickly personality, however, Olive's complexities are remarkably easy to watch. McDormand works the role so thoroughly on her weathered, expressive face that any issues one may have with the character's personality soon become afterthoughts. Clearly, Henry has seen something in Olive that makes her worth sticking with, even when her remarks border on cruel. Eventually, you will too.
Just in case Olive proves to be too much at the start, Anderson and Cholodenko wisely keep the first installment focused more on Henry. Jenkins is a great fit for the role, and taps into Henry's charm and occasional mushiness without becoming overbearing. His efforts to stick up for mousey-looking local pushover Denise (Zoe Kazan) are met with derision from Olive, but he persists, becoming a loose father figure to the young woman. Were it not for the age difference, Henry and Denise would be a perfect couple. But affairs aren't something either of the Kitteridge's meddle in, though at times it seems like it might be for the best. So much is withheld in Olive and Henry's marriage, often resulting in unnecessary pain that lasts years.
That pain is difficult for the characters to endure, but it makes for engrossing drama thanks to the commitment from the actors and the maturity of the writing and directing. Olive Kitteridge covers 25 years in total, and its handling of the central marriage is one of the most thorough and complete renderings in recent memory. In The Kids Are All Right, Cholodenko also tackled the notion that long marriages are hard, but the tidy resolution of everything bordered on simplification. Here, the director is able to investigate a marriage that's not only long, but also quite difficult, without having to rush anything. The series' four hours mostly fly by, even with all of the terrible things that happen as time goes on.
And even though Olive's behavior is relatively consistent, it is far from repetitive. There are no easy explanations for Olive's mindset, but given the time it has to develop, McDormand is able to create a rich character. The sense of humor on display is dry and dark, turning insults or dismissive remarks into gut-busting hilarity. When Olive takes out a jar of peanuts in the middle of her son Chris' (John Gallagher Jr.) wedding, it's played as straight as possible, a perfect slice of deadpan humor.
As much as Olive Kitteridge is a film about marriage, it's also a film about being a parent. After Henry, the most compelling supporting character is the adult version of her son, who goes through his own share of ups and downs. Things between mother and child are often tense, since Chris harbors quite a bit of resentment towards his mother (some of it quite justified). The eventual emotional explosions that take place between the two could have easily disrupted the story's subtlety, but McDormand and Gallagher are both so grounded in their roles that there's never a false moment. Olive's parenting doesn't get nearly as much attention as her role as a wife, yet the two actors are entirely convincing in their portrayal of the relationship. Olive Kitteridge's big flare ups are rare, but when they arrive, they come as thoughtfully constructed developments of plot and character.
Though the source material was more of an ensemble piece, the decision to zero-in on Olive as a protagonist couldn't have been a smarter choice. Olive is the story's anchor, but she's never left behind as a passive character. It helps that McDormand, who should probably prep her Emmy speech now, couldn't be better in the role. Olive's appearance doesn't change much (makeup and hair styling are minimal), but the emotional weight of the character's actions are all the actress needs to get to this woman's thorny center. Every retort, outburst, and curt remark is expertly delivered. More impressive is how well McDormand is able to tap into Olive's own strange definition of love and warmth, and gives real weight to some of the story's most poignant scenes. It's hard to get to Olive. She takes most things like a stone battered by waves. Yet even the mightiest rocks start to wear away by the smallest amounts, and the way McDormand communicates this is often astounding.
Cholodenko and her collaborators do an excellent job of backing up the cast and the material. In the director's chair, Cholodenko never strains the story's big moments, avoiding unnecessary melodrama. Her work with cinematographer Frederick Elmes has a rich, overcast look that captures the Maine settings without getting in the way of the story. And Cholodenko's work with her actors, even those in smaller roles, is first rate from start to finish. Longtime Coen brothers' composer Carter Burwell gently adds to the story's emotional arcs with minimalist musical contributions, along with a beautiful and mournful tune for the opening credits sequence. Costuming, make up, and set design convey the passage of time seamlessly.
On the surface, Olive Kitteridge's story doesn't exactly demand to be filmed. It's quite easy to imagine a stage version of the novel. But in going the cinematic (televisual?) route, Cholodenko is able to flesh out the minor details of Olive and Henry's life without going overboard. There's a quietness to this story that demands the dark intimacy of a theater or TV room, where the sense of time and place can act as the gently all-encompassing backdrop to the deeply felt human drama at the center. As far as character studies go, film and TV rarely get much better.
Grade: A
Director: Dan Gilroy
Runtime: 117 minutes
Likable protagonists are overrated. At least, they are in the world of Dan Gilroy's Nightcrawler, a psychological thriller set in the world of freelance journalism. Yes, it's much more engaging than it sounds. Featuring Jake Gyllenhaal (or what's left of him after all of that weight loss) in a truly inspired lead performance, Nightcrawler is unsettling proof that we don't need the good guys front and center. We just need the interesting ones, warts and all.
Set in modern Los Angeles, we first meet Louis Bloom (Gyllenhaal) as he's stealing metal to sell for a few quick bucks. Louis is a bit of a chameleon. He tries anything, and it's instantly his next obsession. Speaking to a grungy looking shopkeeper, he exalts the man's high status, trying to stroke his target's ego all while selling himself as a potential employee. The man is unresponsive, but if Bloom is upset, there's no way of knowing it. Lou Bloom is relentless, yet the quality of his voice casts him as the sort of fellow who soaks up self help seminars as though they've been handed down from heaven.
Fittingly, it doesn't take long until Louis is able to find a potential career field that he can really latch on to. After witness a freelance news crew capture footage of a fiery car crash, Bloom starts to grab some money selling video to one of Los Angeles' local news stations for their 6AM broadcast. His first submission is rough, but when the station's news manager Nina (Rene Russo) gives him some kind words of advice, there's no turning back. With this miniscule token of encouragement, Lou puts out an ad for an assistant. His only response is Rick (Riz Ahmed), but Lou still conducts the interview as though he's hiring for a Fortune 500 company.
Given that Nightcrawler is set in the world of journalism and TV news (albeit its squishy underbelly), the first film that comes to mind is Network. There's some truth to that comparison, with Russo's Nina functioning as older, washed up version of Faye Dunaway's character, along with the film's biting assessments of how easily local news stations can manipulate simple truths into wide reaching hysteria.
But Nightcrawler is much more of a one man show, with a single Machiavellian force at its core. The more apt comparison, especially when looking at the lead characters, would be Gus Van Sant's To Die For, which starred Nicole Kidman as an aspiring anchorwoman with a vicious streak and an uncomfortably forceful desire to appear "professional."
To Die For is the story of a small town falling prey to a manipulator, which Nightcrawler's setting is far more ambitious. Gilroy and cinematographer Robert Elswitt include a number of beautiful LA sunrises and sunsets, capturing all of the city's sprawling, unrefined beauty. The film opens with a series of post-card ready images, before giving us our violent introduction to Lou. But Gilroy isn't out to subvert LA's image. Instead, he presents Lou's story in tandem with his portrait of the city and the freelance journalism scene. People like Lou Bloom aren't infecting the City of Angels. They're merely working both sides of the city's dual natures.
For Gyllenhaal, Nightcrawler is the crown jewel in a string of recent impressive performances. Like Scarlett Johansson (also on fire right now), Gyllenhaal was someone Hollywood tried to make into a traditional "star," and the results were pretty rocky. Moving away from expected leading man roles is the best thing to happen to the actor's career since his performance in Brokeback Mountain. Following Prisoners and Enemy, Nightcrawler is the actor's next (and long overdue) great performance. The actor lost a considerable amount of weight for the role, but his gaunt appearance is an afterthought considering the effort put into the actual performance. Gyllenhaal's nonstop commitment to Lou's persona - even when he shifts from career advice platitudes to thinly veiled threats - is totally gripping to behold. He never has a scene that allows him to coast, which keeps the performance, the film, and the audience, subtly on edge the whole way through.
Gyllenhaal's creepy and darkly funny performance is certainly Nightcrawler's big draw, but Gilroy's work as writer and director ensure that the film is more than just an acting showcase. Gilroy carefully dials up the intensity with each story that Lou and Rick chase. The film's big finale, a nighttime car chase, is exceptionally well done, building off of the cumulative intensity to end Nightcrawler with a bang. And when it comes to the scenes that don't involving dashing around LA, Gilroy switches hands and grabs the viewer in a different, yet equally compelling chokehold. There are no shades of grey in Nightcrawler, only shades of black with barely perceptible differences.
Grade: B+
Director: Ruben Ostlund
Runtime: 118 minutes
If you're thinking of going on a ski trip with a significant other soon, then perhaps it's best to hold off on seeing Force Majeure until you get back (hopefully in one peace). After seeing Sweden's official submission for the Foreign Language Film Oscar, that trip to Boulder or Aspen isn't going to look like the best idea. Director Ruben Ostlund, in his fourth feature, has created an often beautiful-looking film, but the scenic backdrops of the Swiss Alps come with a price that's both acidly funny and brutally uncomfortable. We kicked off October with Gone Girl, a stylish mystery that was also a the perfect anti-date movie. Though quite different in set up, Force Majeure is a great way to end the month; it's the perfect Omega to Gone Girl's Alpha.
Ostlund's previous three films have all dealt with people facing tense situations, but in Force Majeure, he's able to poke and prod at that most sacred source of right-wing comfort: the nuclear family. The opening scene literally positions Tomas (Johannes Kuhnke), Ebba (Lisa Kongsli), and their two children as a picture perfect family. On a five day ski trip in Switzerland, they're undergoing heavy coaching from a photographer as they pose against the towering mountainside and immaculate powder. Sure, it's a bit of an annoyance, but hey, at least we'll get some cute family pictures, right?
Unity is the initial defining trait of the well-to-do Swedish quartet. They ride the ski lift quenue together, all sleep in the same cozy bed, and even brush their teeth together on four identical electric toothbrushes. They were basically made to be in an Ikea catalogue. Sure, Tomas has a habit of working too hard (early on, Ebba teases him about checking his iPhone), but the first day on the slopes proves to be exactly what they need.
Unfortunately for the family (a surname is never given), the mountains have other things in store. In what has become the film's signature shot since its premiere at Cannes, everyone watches a controlled avalanche on a perfectly situated open-air restaurant. It looks as picture perfect as the opening photo session, until it gets a bit bigger and appears to be heading straight for the the spectators. Turns out, it's a false alarm, but too much has already been set in motion. While Ebba does her best to grab the kids, Tomas pulls a George Costanza, and takes off on his own, knocking over others along the way. Everyone is understandably shaken-up about the incident, but they get through the rest of the day perfectly fine. Until the kids finally go to bed, and Ebba voices her concern about Tomas' actions.
What Force Majeure lacks in character backgrounds or motivations, in makes up for with increasingly intense in-the-moment verbal sparring. The immediate aftermath presents a bit of a lull, as the family (mostly Ebba) processes the event, but then the first dinner scene arrives and squirm-inducing disagreements drop Tomas and Ebba off on a perilously slippery slope. As the couple tries to explain what happened (Tomas denies the accusation that he ran away), Ostlund carefully chips away at his lovely little Ikea family. Ebba gets the spotlight first, and watching her trust in Tomas crumble is when Force Majeure starts to deliver. Both actors are excellent, and his shift in perspective across the film's two hours gives the film a well-rounded, increasingly awkward, sense of characterization. At first, it seems like only Kongsli is going to really get to dig into her role, but the shift to Tomas (the accused) is handled seamlessly over the course of a double date dinner scene that oh-so-lightly tips its hat to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
With Tomas knocked down off of his pedestal as the presumed protector and provider, Ostlund's sly subversion of gender roles really starts to give Force Majeure its unique edge. Struggling spouses aren't anything new, but the hypothetical quality is a source of the film's bursts of caustic humor. The film's second half positions itself as the story of a man trying to reclaim his his title as head of the house, but Ostlund's endgame is more than just a war of the sexes. The most important scene of the film, involving one character's blatant emotional manipulation of others, is but a pyrrhic victory. Balance is restored, but only on the surface. Ostlund's conclusion is able to come full circle without taking an accidental, sexist step backwards.
Despite the cramped spaces and tense dialogue scenes, Ostlund's visuals are equally informative. The ski lift queue, first seen as just another passage, becomes a cramped, suffocating space when revisited. Everyone is sneaking looks at each other, trying to gauge what Tomas' move would be in the face of another potential disaster. The picturesque ski resort starts taking on a menacing quality, it's ultra modern log cabin aesthetic becoming less comforting with each passing scene. The resort may not be Switzerland's answer to the Overlook Hotel, but it doesn't exactly offer solace or warmth. The rumblings of nearby explosions - set to cause more controlled avalanches - create a perfect natural soundtrack for the film's emotional escalation.
For all of the film's tightly-wound conversations, Force Majeure is still a beautiful looking film. Stellar photography captures the sleek drabness of the hotel, as well as the overwhelming size and majesty of the mountains. A sequence with Tomas and his friend Mats (Kristofer Hivju, also wonderful) enjoying a guy's day on the slopes demonstrates that Ostlund is as talented at framing shots as he is dissecting his characters under a microscope. Interior visuals have great fun playing with space, as in one very funny conversation between Mats and his girlfriend in a narrow elevator. The repeated musical cue, from Vivaldi's Four Seasons, serves as a sinisterly funny marker of the passage of time. Editing is elegant and simple, and keeps the story moving along as smooth as a brand new Maserati (or rather, Volvo).
In a year with so many wonderful accomplishments, it's hard to believe that there's room left for something to grab hold on one's attention. Force Majeure may not have Boyhood's structural conceit or Birdman's simulated single shot, but it brings a completeness to the table that has eluded so many of 2014's very best films. Ostlund's ability with tone and pacing (not to mention his actors) is never less than outstanding. The subject matter may be wince-inducing, but the execution is so graceful that looking away is never an option. That is, unless you're still planning on taking that ski trip.
Grade: A
Director: Mia Hansen-Love
Runtime 131 minutes
Spanning three decades and featuring a fine cast of largely unknown performers, Mia Hansen-Love's fourth feature captures a musical movement in light brushstrokes rather than minute, pointillist details. The rise and semi-fall of one of French house music's eminent DJ's may seem like an overly niche story, but Eden's big canvas is more than a fictionalized music biopic. Like Olivier Assayas' Something in the Air, it's a tale of youth in revolt. This revolution, however, takes place in clubs and dance halls, and strives to work within a system to bring about something new, rather than tear down what's currently in place (make music, not molotov cocktails).
Eden takes its title from a 1992 fanzine about electronic and garage music, but it also opens in a more literal eden as well. After a night out in a party on a boat, young Paul (Felix de Givry) wanders into the nearby forest, unable to get the music he's just heard out of his head. Waking up to grey skies, he joins up with his friend Cyril (Roman Kolinka), and asks the party's DJ about a particular entrancing track. The Eden where Paul's journey begins is a place where the young teen discovers the path he'd like to set himself on. Dance music may be tempting to Paul's eager young mind, but it's hardly a forbidden fruit.
So often, the club scene is presented as a blaring, sweaty, grimy environment for coke and ecstasy dealers and their prey. But, since Eden is set at the outset of France's club movement, Hansen-Love has captured the party scenes in a less hyperbolic manner. The thudding, thumping beats of the music may blast out of the speakers and get your rib cage to tremble, but the movement of the bodies on screen is anything but extreme. The young coterie of clubbers are there to dance, talk, and simply get lost in the music. It's a communal experience as much as it is a sonic one. It's a naturalistic depiction, and Hansen-Love deserves immense credit for never deviating from this idea.
If Eden does one thing flawlessly, it's immersing the viewer in its party scenes. With the aid of an expertly-curated soundtrack (featuring more than 40 songs), the film breezes through its two hour plus runtime. Characters are constantly on the move, whether its in a rush to set up for a gig, or simply sharing a walk or cab ride home in the dark. The sharp editing from Marion Monnier keeps scenes uncluttered, and never allows the story's momentum to flag, even with the title cards that signpost how far along the film is in its story.
Like much of the music in the background, though, Eden becomes less distinct once it's over. You're left with the basic idea of certain moments, characters, and songs, without being able to point to many of them specifically. The pacing keeps the film in line with Paul's go-go-go mindset, and this certainly works on the surface. Yet as Paul starts to forget about the non-musical aspects of his life, Eden starts to forget to care about too much of the rest of the ensemble and their stories.
For starters, there's an overwhelming number of names and faces introduced and then dropped, with only a few being worth the time. Part of what made Something in the Air work so well was its ability to balance its three or four main characters with a broader ensemble. Eden sets itself up in a similar manner, but then stretches its tapestry out too far. Paul's touchy relationship with his girlfriend Louise (Pauline Etienne) is one of the few threads that actually feels as though its taken to completion. On the other hand, Cyril's involvement comes to an end far too soon, and his eventual absence robs Eden of some dramatic tension. Cyril's gradual slide into depression turns him into an intriguing semi-antagonist, but his story is promptly jettisoned once Paul and his band go to New York.
Meanwhile, characters who stick around far longer also prove to be far less interesting. Like Daft Punk, Paul's electro group Cheers is made of two DJs. Though Paul's partner in crime is present in countless scenes, his personality is just about non-existent. Indie star cameos from Greta Gerwig and Brady Corbet do little to enhance the on screen character dynamics.
Hansen-Love's script (co-written with her brother Sven, a former DJ) invites so many people into its non-stop party, but it's only a good host to a select few. By the time Eden gets to the obligatory struggle-with-drugs stage of the story, even Paul starts to feel a bit thin as the ostensible protagonist. His attraction to house/electronic/garage music is efficiently explained at the beginning, but his drive to pursue a career as a DJ is never delved into. The struggles of putting together shows, not to mention the financial toll of his career path, is barely touched upon. Whether it's the coke problem or the financial woes, the issues in Paul's life don't feel terrible pressing until they actually need to be dealt with. Hansen-Love's style is commendable and works a few small miracles, but the final scene is too distant and lacks a convincing perspective. Paul, and the rest of Eden's cast, simply aren't compelling enough to break through Eden's immense wall of sound.
Grade: B-
Director: David Ayer
Runtime: 134 minutes
"War is hell." It's not a new idea. It hasn't been for a very, very long time. Even so, it's not impossible to find something new (or at least fresh) to add to one of the most obvious statements in the English language. David Ayer's WW2 tank actioner, however, isn't up to the task of doing or saying anything remotely new or creative. Though there's plenty of impressive technical work on display, Fury's characters are such cardboard cutouts that there's next to nothing to connect to beyond surface investment in the protagonist's survival.
Our set up is as follows: Army desk clerk Norman (Logan Lerman) is assigned to fill the place of the titular tank, headed by Wardaddy (Brad Pitt, rocking the same unfortunate hairdo that Jake Gyllenhaal suffered through in Prisoners). Norman's first task is to clean the brains of his predecessor out of his seat, while the rest of the hardened crew look on, mostly with derision. The other tank-mates include Bible-quoting cannon expert Boyd (Shia LaBeouf), driver Gordo (Michael Pena), and shell-loader Grady (Jon Bernthal). They're all assholes in their own special ways.
Now, here's a fun game: who lives and who dies? If you're expecting surprises, don't. As American soldiers march through war torn German terrain, Fury marches through every plot development we've come to expect in war stories about the Greatest Generation. Playing spot-the-cliche is often as interesting as the scenes where guns and bombs aren't going off.
Most of Fury is simply a prolonged set-up for its final firefight, wherein the tank's crew, stranded on a rural road, must face off against 300 Nazi foot soldiers. When it comes to carnage, Ayer and his behind the scenes team really do know what they're doing. The claustrophobia of the tank's interior adds an extra layer of tension as the situation grows more dire. Editing and sound work give all of the heavily armed chaos proper emphasis without bludgeoning the viewer, and the make up team ensures that war looks as grimy as possible. Steven Price's booming score is sporadically effective, though it's often too big for its own good. At least it gives the viewer something else to listen to other than the dialogue. Turns out, the only time when Fury comes alive is when scores of people are dying.
Yet it's difficult to find anything worthy of praise when it comes down to the men who we spend more than two bloody hours with. Norman's arc has been done to death, and neither Ayer nor Lerman have come up with anything intriguing about the film's supposed window into the physical and mental toll of war. Pitt, at least, gives the film a consistent performance to hold the stale drama together, but Wardaddy's standard tough yet honorable leader schtick is too restrictive to achieve great depth.
The supporting players don't fare much better, though often for different reasons. Pena simply doesn't have enough to do, while LaBeouf is stuck fighting a battle against the editors and the script. Boyd's religious alignment overwhelms the rest of his character, and LaBeouf's dialogue wears thin early on. And even though the actor is impressively restrained a times, certain cutaways to his ruddy, tear-stroked face look like they belong in a silent movie. On a completely separate level is former The Walking Dead actor Bernthal, and not in a good way. There's nothing wrong with Grady being a repugnant jerk, but Bernthal throws himself a little too fully into the role. He's not a compelling thorn in anyone's side. Instead, he's just unbearable. Sure, Nazis are terrible, but for much of the ride it's Grady who I wished would get his head blown off.
If Fury had merely been a pure adrenaline rush, it might have been more convincing. Unfortunately, Ayer is determined to say something meaningful, and it doesn't go all that well. There's a glimmer of hope when Wardaddy and Norman visit a bombed-out town and rest in a local woman's apartment. In addition to allowing the wonderful Romanian actress Anamaria Marinca to appear, the apartment scene is one of the few nonviolent segments of the film that comes close to tackling some complex notions about the relationship between invading armies and native citizens. But then Grady and the rest of the Fury crew show up, and it's all downhill from there. Grady's increasingly boorish behavior adds nothing to the scene's dynamic, and it only serves to make him even more repellent.
Once Fury bulldozes through its entirely expected climax, connection with the story finally breaks. The admittedly impressive final shot shows how much horrific effort went into such a brief moment of a war that last nearly a decade, but it has a second, unintentional effect. As the film shows us the minute significance of the final battle in the grand scheme of the war, it also serves as a reminder of Fury's own insignificance as a war story. Hollywood has a whole ocean of WW2 dramas, and nothing about Fury is good enough to make it more than just another drop.
Grade: C+/C
Director: Isao Takahata
Runtime: 137 minutes
There's a reason why certain tales are timeless. No matter the variations and adaptations, core cultural truths stand at the center of these stories that are passed down, in some form of another, from generation to generation. Having seen director Isao Takahata's The Tale of Princess Kaguya, adapted from The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter, one of Japan's most famous folktales. Whether you're lucky enough to see the film with its original Japanese voice cast, or in its English dub, one thing is clear: Takahata's film is a quiet gem in any language, despite the details that may or may not have been lost in translation.
Though produced by animation juggernaut Studio Ghibli, Takahata's film is much more sedate than the studio's most famous works (Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away). A humble bamboo farmer (James Caan) discovers a small, fairy-like child in the woods. He takes it to his wife (Mary Steenburgen), only for the living figurine to morph into a human infant. A human infant that matures at a truly alarming rate. As the little girl (eventually voiced by Chloe Grace Moretz) comes of age and whispers of her beauty spread, the farmer decides that his Princess (his choice of nickname) deserves a life of royalty. And it seems like the gods agree. Bamboo stalks in the forrest begin coughing up gold, silk, and robes far outside of the farmer's humble country lifestyle. Next on the agenda? Establishing Princess as part of the nouveau riche in the big city.
What seems like a set up for a standard morality tale about society's corrosive love of money eventually turns out to be more fantastical and more complex. However, it's the narrative's more straightforward passages that wind up making a greater impact. Kaguya's struggle to adapt to the expectations of high society are where Takahata's storytelling is at its best. The princess' interactions with the haughty Lady Sagami (Lucy Liu), her tutor on the matter of all things lady like, are perfectly observed moments charting Kaguya's struggle to fit into the world her parents have dragged her into.
Princess Kaguya's heroine is, at her core, a girl who never has the chance to really define herself. Her father engages a group of local kids in a shouting match over what to name her during infancy (their choice: Little Bamboo, which doesn't give off the spoiled brat vibe). Then, it's up to Sagami to mold her into a proper lady, which includes fun activities like plucking out your eyebrows, dying your teeth black, and moving almost exclusively by shuffling your knees. The facade of nobility is beautiful, but it's also quite a burden to maintain.
Takahata's interpretation of the story, however, is far more dynamic than the restrictive society he depicts (albeit in its own quiet way). This begins with Takahata's visualization of the story. Like France's Ernest & Celestine, Princess Kaguya opts for an ink and water color aesthetic rather than immaculate details. Without going overboard, this approach lends an authentic touch to a story so deeply rooted in Japan's cultural heritage.
All of Princess Kaguya's images are beautiful, but the emphasis on motion and detail varies to accommodate different locations and mindsets. One of the film's most thrilling moments comes when, in a moment of panic, Kaguya flees her sprawling new home during a coming out party for local nobility. Running frantically though the dark woods, the brushstroke lines start to twist and swirl, almost threatening to swallow Kaguya up whole. It's frantic, and even a bit jarring, but Takahata and his animators never go too far. In its most formal and daring compositions, Princess Kaguya is as much a work of art as one of the scrolls that the title character recklessly unfurls, much to Lady Sagami's horror. Longtime Ghibli composer Joe Hisaishi does a beautiful job backing up the imagery with musical motifs that range from delicate piano solos to soaring orchestral swells.
And while I dearly wish I could have seen the film with its original Japanese cast, the American roster is no slouch. Moretz, known for sassy, wise-beyond-her-years characters, creates a believably innocent and carefree Kaguya. Caan and Steenburgen, though occasionally burdened with repetitive dialogue work well as the adoptive parents, and Liu and the rest of the actors tasked with playing Japan's nobles have fun puffing out their chests without becoming unbearable.
Only when the fantastical elements make their definite return to the story does Princess Kaguya start to lose a bit of its focus. The reintroduction of Kaguya's origins comes a bit suddenly on the heels of the main rags to riches story, and desperately needs more time. Instead, there's a bunch of exposition that Kaguya throws at her parents, with little time for any of it to really stick. Princess Kaguya captures its heroine's more realistic developments so seamlessly. The high fantasy elements that arrive during the finale almost feel unwanted. It's too much of a turn around to really care about, when the film has a much more compelling story of Kaguya reconnecting with her humble roots.
Rather than end its moving story in a way that effectively ties into Kaguya's growth, one is left a bit flummoxed by the amount of heavy mythology doled out only minutes before it becomes extremely important. The finale, touching as it is, loses something from such an abrupt transition. Takahata's film is beautiful to behold, but it ends by stumbling across in bewildering exhaustion, rather than in a triumphant sprint.
Grade: B+
