Tuesday, December 30, 2014

The Catch-Up: 2014 Awards Season

I try to see as many movies as I can, so sometimes I need to purge the queue.  In this edition: three biopics with award aspirations.

The Imitation Game
Dir. Morten Tyldum

3.5 out of 5

The miracle machine at the center of The Imitation Game is an amalgamation of dials, wires, plugs, and rotors, searching ceaselessly for the combination that will crack Nazi Germany's "unbreakable" Enigma code.  The film, like the hardware, is likewise fixated on testing many narrative permutations to achieve a greater understanding of its subject, British mathematician Alan Turing (Benedict Cumberbatch), telescoping the man's life into three major story threads - his contributions as an Allied codebreaker during World War II; his life as a lonely, awkward schoolboy smitten with one of his classmates; and his conviction for indecency in the 1950s under a 19th century law prohibiting homosexual relationships.  The Imitation Game whirs and clicks and clacks all these pieces into place, capturing a sentimentalized story arc of an irascible genius.

But what separates it from, say, The Theory of Everything, is that there are several more glitches in its cold, mechanical replication of the biopic form.  The frayed wires and loose plugs are the instances of dashing wit and droll humor that distract the characters from their grim business of counting the lives lost for each day the code remains unbroken.  The movie also aspires to be more than a simple chronicle of a misunderstood hero.  By focusing its main efforts on the defining era of Turing's life, The Imitation Game illuminates a bigger story about the wages of war, especially for scientists, philosophers, and other visionary thinkers.  It's an amoral calculus that, although sometimes rendered clumsily onscreen, portends the serious questions that would continue to arise in the computer age - an age that Turing was largely responsible for launching.

There are certainly criticisms to be made about how the filmmakers decided to tell this story: a shaky framing device involving a sympathetic cop (Rory Kinnear) feels calculated to foster weepy Cumberbatch monologues, and the influence of Turing's beard/lab partner (Keira Knightley) is stretched to fit the script's demands.  But none of that really diminishes the verve of the story that director Morten Tyldum chooses to tell here.  The Imitation Game is a film constantly shifting gears, modulating its levels of triumph and tragedy and sacrifice and sainthood, but it does so in a way that makes sure these emotions are truly felt.

Dir. Jean-Marc Valleé

3.5 out of 5

Wilderness survival stories are almost always predicated on some type of physical deprivation.  So it's charming to see Wild start with a scene featuring its heroine, Cheryl Strayed (Reese Witherspoon), struggling to hoist the excess of supplies in her overloaded pack as she prepares to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, an 1,100-mile route stretching between America's borders with Canada and Mexico.  She's chosen to take the journey alone as a form of psychic therapy following multiple life-altering traumas, seen via flashbacks - the cancer diagnosis and eventual death of her single mother (Laura Dern), and Cheryl's subsequent descent into drug addiction.  But even though Cheryl fully intends to exorcise her grief in solitude, Wild is a redemptive tale that actually posits a world that does not lack for helping hands.

However, just as in Dallas Buyers Club, director Jean-Marc Valleé's previous film, Wild tends to get lost in the weeds of its own heavy-handed tone.  Witherspoon and Dern both do a fine job with their mother-daughter material, but its sledgehammer subtlety is often grating.  (After mom dies, Valleé gratuitously juxtaposes it with her children having to euthanize her beloved horse.)  Yet Witherspoon's gritty, unsentimental performance also keeps the earthy, saccharine tendencies of Wild at bay.  The film is always most fascinating when it decides that Cheryl is more important as a feminist symbol than as a character.  Despite the general goodwill of most people she meets, there is always a latent sense of danger she feels as a single female hiker, and for good reason; every encounter with a man is fraught with implications that would not exist were this a man's story.  Wild may not be the revelatory character study of its creators' intent, but it succeeds at placing Cheryl's specific, individual trials in the context of the ones that women face every day.

Dir. Angelina Jolie

2.5 out of 5

Imagine watching Unbroken from the perspective of someone completely unfamiliar with its subject: athlete, World War II veteran, and inspirational icon Louis Zamperini.  In an ordeal that almost strains credulity, Zamperini (Jack O'Connell) rises from humble immigrant origins to become a U.S. Olympian and a decorated war hero, surviving a deadly plane crash that left him adrift in the Pacific Ocean for 45 days until he was "rescued" by the Japanese, and detained in various prison camps where he was tortured by a sadistic enemy officer (Miyavi).  It's beautifully photographed, well-acted, and tastefully scored.  You know it's been reverse-engineered to win golden statuettes, but you can't deny the sincerity of its intent - classically inspiring, it's the kind of movie that causes critics to utter phrases like "triumph of the human spirit."

Now imagine learning that Unbroken adapts only half of the late Zamperini's memoirs, omitting his battles with PTSD and his eventual decision to forgive his captors, even returning to Japan to personally bury the hatchet with his former enemies.  Which story sounds more intriguing?  The immediately inspiring but incomplete one, or the messier one that subverts the traditional rewards of the war narrative?  This being middlebrow Oscar bait, however, first-time director Angelina Jolie wisely chooses to focus on the most visually empowering material.  Still, Unbroken is not compelling enough to coast on pedigree alone.  A fatal lack of characterization plagues its second half, as O'Connell is given little to do besides pound a single note of grim resignation, punctuated by periodic moments of uplift.  Unbroken proudly wears its heart on its sleeve, but it doesn't offer much more than surface-level emotion.  You'll leave with a very clear idea of what Zamperini endured...and only a vague notion of who he actually was.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies
Dir. Peter Jackson

2.5 out of 5

Like many, I was nonplussed when Peter Jackson announced his intention to make his adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit a trilogy of films, and have dutifully indulged his obsessive completism.  I've tried taking different approaches to evaluating the first two movies, and even mined the depths of Jackson's oeuvre for answers.  After all that, I can only say: I told you so.  The Battle of the Five Armies, the third and final installment of the trilogy, most conclusively illustrates the folly of splitting a picaresque beginner's fantasy novel into three epic films.

Say what you want about the first two movies, but at least they had variety.  Battle is an unambiguous war film and wears its subtitle like a straitjacket, devoting a generous chunk of its 140-minute runtime to the titular conflict.  As such, the slaying of the dragon Smaug (Benedict Cumberbatch) - which would've made a fantastic climax for the previous movie - is an overqualified opening act, setting the stage for the clash over the beast's abandoned mountain of riches.  Bilbo Baggins (Martin Freeman) is caught in the middle of the fray and questioning his loyalty to Thorin Oakenshield (Richard Armitage) and his band of dwarf refugees, for whom the mountain is their ancestral home.  But soon the claimants come out of the woodwork - humans, elves, orcs, more dwarfs - and the maneuvers of CGI armies supplant the self-actualization of humble hobbits.

Let it be known that Battle of the Five Armies knows how to flaunt its impressive scale.  The envelope-pushing effects that Jackson pioneered in his Lord of the Rings trilogy are perfected here.  What's missing, however, are the emotional underpinnings.  Jackson doesn't totally neglect the small, crucial moments, and the screenwriters' invented romance between elf Tauriel (Evangeline Lilly) and dwarf Kili (Aiden Turner) continues to pay dividends.  But in a way that's just a reminder of how bloated and dull these films are, and how they fail the source material, if one of their greatest strengths is essentially a fan-fiction subplot.  Bilbo himself is shoved farther into the background as Jackson presents a repetitive, cluttered, and exhausting final fight as our great reward for sticking through it all.

Battle's lasting impression is that of a interminable hack-and-slash video game played out to its underwhelming conclusion - imagine the loud finale of a typical action franchise picture, with its grand armies and functional dialogue and boss battles, stretched to feature length.  The Hobbit has been a fundamentally risk-averse endeavor of surprising mundanity that will satisfy audiences happy to consume more of the same old comfort food.  (It also embodies all the worst tendencies of prequels with its hamfisted connections to LOTR and the forced inclusion of Gandalf's (Ian McKellan) anticlimactic side quest with the first trilogy's B-team.)  Nothing can take away from what Jackson achieved with the Lord of the Rings films, but The Hobbit does what I previously thought to be impossible: it makes Middle-Earth a more ordinary place.  We have been taken there and back again, but we've almost completely missed the point.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Inherent Vice

Inherent Vice
Dir. Paul Thomas Anderson

4 out of 5

Paul Thomas Anderson's Inherent Vice is a stoner movie in the most literal sense of the term - a willfully inscrutable, hard-to-place detective story starring 420-friendly private eye Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix) in his attempts to locate a missing real estate developer (Eric Roberts).  Yet for all his counterculture shagginess, Sportello is a man with the heart of a classic Hollywood gumshoe - and the associates to match.  There's a damsel in distress - Doc's ex-girlfriend Shasta (Katherine Waterston) - who visits his office with a desperate plea for help, the legit contact in the police force (Josh Brolin) whose straight-arrow conservatism rubs up against Doc's grooviness in a fascinatingly fractious partnership, and all the seedy underworld types that push the story into strange, seemingly unrelated cul-de-sacs.

Set squarely, both temporally and philosophically, in 1970, Inherent Vice cultivates a vivid historicity in its ensemble of Southern Californians dealing the fallout from the cultural nuking that was the 1960s.  Permeated with a mixture of foggy marine layer (another nod to its noir-ish origins) and marijuana haze, the film most resembles a recollection of a bad trip.  While Doc's gradual awakening to the rapidly expanding, decidedly un-mellow narcotics trade totally harshes his buzz, Anderson also casts a keen eye upon the parts of Thomas Pynchon's novel that serve as a litany of regret, with little portraits of people trying to rectify their poor decisions - most affectingly, a young mother (Jena Malone) who recently kicked a heroin habit and her missing jazzman husband (Owen Wilson) - living alongside with the new breed of vulgar lowlifes that the straight world sees as taking advantage of Left Coast permissiveness.  (In this post-Charlie Manson environment, the longhairs occupy a broad spectrum, from sanguine to sinister.)

None of this, I should mention, makes Inherent Vice an immediately satisfying experience.  Indeed, neither was The Master, but at least that film had the pretense of portraying a titanic battle for the soul of postwar America.  Inherent Vice is a much funnier film - it is, among many things, an epic ribbing of Chinatown, with its own version of a small-potatoes P.I. unequipped to deal with the much larger conspiracy he stumbles upon.  But its emotional disconnect doesn't really bolster the dark humor the way it should, and it's hard not to think that the filmmaker is leading us into dead ends.  I miss the laser-focused Anderson, the one who made comparatively big-hearted films, or at least ones with riveting pinpoint intensity.  This one often feels cloistered and uninviting as it meanders to nowhere in particular.  

But is Inherent Vice really as difficult as I'm making it out to be?   Not to be wishy-washy, but obtuseness is part of the point here.  Anderson wants us to feel like we've crashed the party late, after all the good stuff has happened, and we're in danger of being asked to help clean up the mess.  Doc's story is devoid of eureka moments because his struggle is to accept the truth in front of him: things are going to get worse before they get better, but that doesn't mean he should stop trying.  He even has a personal oracle, played with beatific calm by Joanna Newsom, practically telling him this.  The key to Inherent Vice isn't in any of its clues or digressions, but in a simple bit of bumper-sticker wisdom soon to define a large chunk of the era it portrays: "shit happens."  That's about as close to the truth as Doc - or any of us - can reasonably expect to be.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Rank and File #3: Peter Jackson Beyond Middle-Earth

Art is not a competition...but it sure is more fun that way.  To celebrate the conclusion of The Hobbit trilogyRank and File considers those Peter Jackson films conspicuously lacking in orcs, elves, and wizards.

Peter Jackson has devoted more than a decade of his life to creating a cinematic record of J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle-Earth, first with the groundbreaking Lord of the Rings trilogy, and then the slightly less impressive series of films based on The Hobbit, the third and final of which debuts a week from today.  (I've covered the first two here and here.)  While these movies, especially The Hobbit trio, are perhaps as personal as mega-blockbusters can get in the aftermath of George Lucas' Star Wars prequels, there's no denying the influence that the twin shadows of Tolkien and New Line Cinema - and later Warner Bros. - have cast over them.

What really interests me about Jackson, though, is the filmmaker who emerges when the stakes are a bit different.  His career trajectory - from B-movie maven to Hollywood rainmaker - reveals a man of more diverse talents than most realize.  And through it all beats the heart of an impish prankster, the outsider from the far-flung colonies who built his own castle on a hill, the jack-of-all-trades hustler who suddenly became the kingmaker.  But as he's moved closer to the corridors of power, has he also distanced himself from his audience?  

To understand where Peter Jackson will land after The Hobbit, we need to see where he's been.

The Splatter Era

For his debut film, the amateur splatter-fest Bad Taste (1987), Jackson was about as far away from the blockbuster-industrial complex as a horror-obsessed Kiwi could be.  Shooting on weekends off from his day job and enlisting his friends as actors, Jackson was a veritable one-man production company - he's credited as a director, producer, cinematographer, co-writer, co-editor, makeup artist, and special effects supervisor.  And as if that wasn't enough, he also plays two of the main characters in the film - a reckless government scientist investigating the alien invasion of a rural New Zealand village, and the dimwitted henchman of an extraterrestrial overlord (Doug Wren) collecting Earthling specimens to test as a new dish for his intergalactic fast food franchise.

Despite its lack of formal polish, Bad Taste has an infectious, Sam Raimi-influenced energy, moving rapidly from one gross-out action setpiece to the next.  But even more than the over-the-top viscera, the film's best joke is the informality of Kiwi culture: Jackson and his mulleted, pickup-driving, metalhead cohorts aren't vigilantes, but the official representatives of a federal bureau on E.T.-related investigations.  They're the kind of plucky, determined heroes Jackson favors, confronting a danger so far over their heads that their naiveté doubles as uncommon courage.

The vulgarity is dialed up a few notches in Meet the Feebles (1989), a backstage puppet musical that resembles the Muppets by way of The Jerry Springer Show, TMZ, and Tijuana bibles.  Feebles' thin main plot - a puppet troupe mounting a live television tryout for their own syndicated show - is really a bunch of comic vignettes, flashbacks, and musical numbers sprinkled over 90 minutes.  The depravity of the movie's drug-addicted, sex-crazed, and generally unscrupulous fuzzies is a joke that quickly wears out its welcome.  But Jackson, in his first collaboration with creative (and life) partner Fran Walsh, keeps pushing it to such ridiculous extremes that it's hard not to watch with a kind of perverse fascination.  Still, it's mind-boggling to think Feebles was conceived as a television series before investors decided to make it a feature film instead.

After introducing each character's vices (save for the lone innocent, a lovelorn hedgehog, who serves as an audience surrogate) many of the film's subsequent scenes have a kind of numbing effect.  Once you're keyed into the film's central inversion of kiddie show tropes, you can pretty much predict what's going to happen.  Sometimes the results are too queasy: a subplot involving one of the show's main stars, a promiscuous rabbit trying to keep news of his unnamed illness out of the tabloid press, too closely resembles the era's AIDS cover-up scandals.  Yet I can't help but appreciate the loving attention Jackson gives to the fucked-up details: the S&M gear designed for a cow, the elaborate Deer Hunter parody starring puppet frogs, the gusto with which the housefly character gobbles up the others' excrement.  Meet the Feebles is wrongness done (mostly) right. 

In retrospect, Jackson's first three films follow roughly the same formula: naive pushovers are taken to their limits by casually amoral antagonists until turning the tide in a final conflagration of righteous violence.  This formula doesn't really get old; in fact, it reaches near-perfection in Dead Alive (1992), also known as Braindead just about everywhere outside the U.S.  In the film, Lionel (Timothy Balme) lives with his overbearing mother Vera (Elizabeth Moody) in 1950s New Zealand.  When Lionel embarks on a tentative romance with sweet shopgirl Paquita (Diana Peñalver), his jealous mum follows the couple to the zoo where she suffers a fatal bite from a Sumatran rat-monkey.  But, as the title implies, Vera's not really dead - she's undead, and it's up to Lionel to keep her from turning the rest of his small town into ravenous flesh-eating zombies.

Besides from an opening sequence showing the transfer of the cursed rat-monkey from the presciently-named "Skull Island" to New Zealand, Dead Alive devotes its first act to slowly developing Lionel's relationships with Vera and Paquita, giving the audience a emotional beacon for the impending bloodbath.  Similarly, Jackson gives the zombie crisis an unexpected texture as the gentle Lionel tries to seek a humane solution for the undead problem, instead of annihilating them outright.  The movie gets to that eventually, but the gratuitously violent climax that overwhelms the frame with gore is entirely earned by Jackson's earlier dramatic legwork.  Love is a force multiplier in Dead Alive - a horror classic with plenty of heart.

Hello, Hollywood

Heavenly Creatures (1994) is a turning point in Jackson's career for several reasons: it was his first film acquired by a major distributor (Miramax), it garnered his first Oscar nomination (with Walsh, for Best Original Screenplay), and it spurred the creation of Weta Digital, the special effects house that would eventually become the biggest competitor to George Lucas' Industrial Light & Magic.  Based on the infamous case of Pauline Parker and Juliet Hulme, two New Zealand teenagers whose obsessive friendship led to the  murder of Parker's mother in 1954, Heavenly Creatures is also Jackson's first ostensibly "mature" film, but only in the sense that it has the gloss of prestige that non-horror fans and Academy voters would like.

Surprisingly, Heavenly Creatures is potentially even more shocking than Jackson's gore-fests.  The film focuses on the relationship between Parker and Hulme - played by Melanie Lynskey and Kate Winslet in their respective film debuts - up until the murder, eschewing the sensational trial and media firestorm that followed.  The resulting film tries to shed a sympathetic light on two bright, lonely, outcast teenagers in a conservative community.  It's clear that Jackson also identifies with the girls' imaginative sides: together they create a fantasy world called Borovnia, complete with a detailed royal lineage and "saints" culled from their crushes in celebrity magazines.  Fittingly, Heavenly Creatures blurs the line between fantasy and reality - it advances a theory that the girls' mutual attraction went beyond friendship, which the real Hulme has denied - and ponders what can happen if you allow your own narrative to spiral out of control.

With Heavenly Creatures standing as a serious departure from his earlier work, Jackson's next project, horror-comedy The Frighteners (1996), is eager to prove he hadn't forgotten what it was like to muck it up in the genre trenches.  Michael J. Fox plays a psychic investigator who truly can communicate with the dead, and uses this ability to pull scams in which he provides phony "extermination" services after enlisting his ghost buddies to haunt unsuspecting locals.  It's a wonderfully irreverent premise that's paired well with Jackson's macabre sarcasm and makes the inevitable pathos-laden backstory (there's a car accident and a dead wife) less of a chore to reveal.

However, the movie's seams begin to show to more Jackson tinkers with its tone.  His careful combination of a sad little ghost story and a sharp Ghostbusters-adjacent farce is disrupted by a mystery plot that features some dubiously convenient insanity.  The Frighteners' broad third act turn forces it to abandon much of what makes it special.  Still, there's no denying the energy behind the camera, as Jackson seems chuffed to have the mid-90s equivalents of a major budget and cutting-edge CGI effects to make his out-there B-movie.  The supporting cast alone - Elliot's mom from E.T.!  The mad scientist from Re-Animator!  Gary Busey's son! - signals that this is a film destined for cult appeal, and The Frighteners is at its best when embracing its weirdness.

Lord of the Multiplex

Up to and including the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Jackson's geographic isolation and low cultural profile gave his films a unique timbre - an almost mythic sense of foreboding combined with an alternately goofy and morbid sense of humor.  That sensibility endures in his remake of King Kong (2005), but it's also the first Jackson film where the audience got exactly what it expected: a three-hour adventure epic (nearly twice as long as the 1933 original) pushing the envelope of visual effects and populated with archetypal pulp heroes and villains.  King Kong is a film where the story being told - which is admittedly slight - is not nearly as important as how Jackson visualizes it.  It feels like a movie that's been playing out in his head since he was a little boy.

It takes cojones the size of the titular ape's to remake a well-known classic like King Kong, but Jackson's fanboyish enthusiasm ensures that it never feels calculated or mercenary.  That same aplomb, however, sometimes works to the film's detriment.  Apart from a lengthy prologue in Depression-era New York City, King Kong's charge is to cram a lovingly-curated bestiary of fearsome creatures into a string of nonstop action sequences.  It's all impressive and imaginative, but also exhausting and repetitive, like a kid spilling out the contents of his toybox and proudly describing the figures one by one.  And it's impossible to watch King Kong without doing a bit of mental re-casting: Jack Black is the most awkward fit as megalomaniac filmmaker Carl Denham, but Adrien Brody (as a sensitive writer-turned-jungle commando) and Kyle Chandler (as a cartoonishly arrogant actor) appear equally uncomfortable.  Naomi Watts, however, is unassailable as Ann Darrow, the ingénue who forms a special bond with the giant ape (a CGI character digitally captured by Andy Serkis) and lends Kong the air of tragic romance that sets it apart from the typical blockbuster smash-up.

The longest interim of Jackson's career saw him flirting with being a Lucas-esque godhead, guiding The Hobbit through development hell (which finally ended when he struck a deal to direct the trilogy himself) and advancing film technology through his special effects companies.  In that sense, The Lovely Bones (2009) - the story of a teenage girl observing the aftermath of her murder as she tries to leave the "in-between" stage of death and ascend to heaven - is a strange marker in his directorial career.  On paper, Jackson seems like an inspired choice to guide Alice Sebold's best-selling novel to the big screen: it's a deceptively sprawling story with several key subplots, it demands the creation of a striking fantasy world, and it even shares some tonal similarities with the dreamy and dread-filled Heavenly Creatures.

However, the difficulty of keeping one foot in reality and one foot in the afterlife quickly overwhelms the film.  The Lovely Bones is unfocused and maudlin, and features Jackson's least imaginative rendering of a world beyond our own.  Susie Salmon's (Saoirse Ronan) trek through purgatory is blandly beautiful:  snowy hills, sunsets, wheat fields.  Yet that's more than can be said for the unappealing stew of suburban drama, true crime grimness, and punchy comedy that comprises the rest of the film.  The Lovely Bones has its moments - many courtesy of Ronan and Stanley Tucci as the Salmons' creepy neighbor - as well as an interesting take on how tragedy can unexpectedly lead to other, more comforting paths.  But lacking clarity and control, it's a worrying symptom of Jackson's increasingly clumsy attempts at big-tent storytelling.

Odds and Ends

A couple more non-directorial efforts bear mentioning.  The whimsical fantasy Jack Brown Genius (1996) - which Jackson co-wrote and produced under his Wingnut Films label - is an uneven but amiable quirkfest about a humble inventor (Dead Alive's Timothy Balme) who's temporarily inhabited by the spirit of a medieval monk (Stuart Devenie) obsessed with the idea of human-powered flight.  Frequently distracted by its many hit-and-miss subplots - not to mention some weirdly offensive humor involving Asians and the mentally ill - the movie gets tangled in Jackson's predilection for obscure detail.  The film's backbone is strong, though: Balme delivers another terrific performance as a charming misfit whose dogged determination and purity of heart inspire others to rally around him.  He would have made a fantastic hobbit.

The Adventures of Tintin (2011) arrived with much fanfare, the first in a diptych of motion capture-animated films to be produced by the creative dream team of Jackson and Steven Spielberg, who also directed the initial effort.  The final product wasn't bad at all, just a bit disappointing considering the track record of everyone involved.  Spielberg's Tintin takes far too long to set up its centuries-spanning adventure plot and suffers from the lethal dullness of its main character - Tinin's (Jamie Bell) great moments of discovery rarely feel like more than declarative exposition.  The performance of frequent Jackson collaborator Andy Serkis - as the sympathetic drunkard Captain Haddock - is a triumph, as are its lively action sequences and its puckish sense of humor.  But as for that planned Jackson-helmed sequel...I think I can wait a little longer.

The Verdict

Ranking the 7 non-Tolkien films directed by Peter Jackson...

7. The Lovely Bones
    Death is boring

6. Meet the Feebles
     Yes, we get the joke

5. King Kong
    Indulgent, but mostly entertaining

4. The Frighteners
     The endearing orphan of the bunch

3. Bad Taste
    Cheap, fast, and out of control

2. Heavenly Creatures
    A shape-shifting teenage tragedy

1. Dead Alive
    The perfect blend of silliness and sentiment