Lost in America (1985)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Lost in America (1985) – A. Brooks

Albert Brooks excels at using the neurotic and pathetic rant for comedic purposes.  It’s the comedy of pain, I guess – not slapstick but emotional pain.  And it’s all the more excruciating because the character Brooks plays almost always brings the pain on himself through his own actions.  Except in Lost in America, Julie Hagerty, playing his wife, also contributes to the pain (and Brooks can’t handle it).  The film basically moves from comedic set-piece – a social interaction gone so wrong (forcing your boss to fire you), for example – to comedic set-piece, another social interaction gone wrong (e.g., punched in the face by a murderous ex-convict – funnier than it sounds).  You watch these interactions unfold and they keep going until you almost can’t stand it anymore (but Brooks doesn’t know when to stop).  But, oh yes, the plot:  Brooks loses his job as a highly-paid advertising executive and, with his wife, decides to drop out of society a la Easy Rider (to the strains of “Born to be Wild”). Being yuppies they cash in all their assets, buy a giant RV, and set off to find themselves and the real America.  But first they hit Las Vegas to get re-married and it all goes downhill from there.  Director Garry Marshall has a great cameo as a casino boss.  Music and editing are used expertly to keep things perfectly paced (and also to bring on the laughs) across a swift 90 minutes shot mostly on location.  If only Brooks would return to making films like this. 

  

The Asphalt Jungle (1950)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

The Asphalt Jungle (1950) – J. Huston

This textbook example of how a major jewellery heist comes together and then falls apart afterward from director John Huston excels in presenting the little details.  Indeed, it is those human frailties (which may not be unique to the criminal class) that sow the seeds of destruction.  We follow Sterling Hayden from start to finish, as he escapes from the law after another in a string of petty knockovers, meeting up with mastermind Sam Jaffe and financial backers bookie Marc Lawrence and lawyer Louis Calhern, then the job itself and its aftermath.  Hayden just wants to get some dough to go back to his old Kentucky home where his folks raised racehorses (but he keeps blowing it all at the track).  He doesn’t seem to notice that clip joint girl Jean Hagen loves him, but she keeps hanging around.  It turns out that Calhern is broke and keen to doublecross the gang by taking the jewels and fleeing to Mexico.  He’s got an apartment set up for mistress Marilyn Monroe while his ill wife pines away for his company.  Calhern is the biggest heel in the picture, although things really unravel due to the unfortunate but pragmatic relationship between one of the gang and a corrupt cop being squeezed by the police commissioner.  The commissioner himself gets the final word, telling us that the cops are the only thing standing between ordinary people and the predators of the (asphalt) jungle.  In the end, I didn’t have that sense of existential collapse that you find in Rififi or the works of Jean-Pierre Melville, the bittersweet feeling of predictable loss; instead we get a more matter-of-fact rendering that nevertheless is revealing in its portrayal of the human condition.

Paterson (2016)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Paterson (2016) – J. Jarmusch

Jim Jarmusch studied poetry as an undergrad at Columbia (before going on to film school at NYU) and therefore had exposure to poets of the New York School who taught there. The New York School poets were influenced by William Carlos Williams who also mentored Allen Ginsburg and wrote a five-volume epic poem called Paterson, named for the town in New Jersey, west of New York City, where Ginsburg and also Lou Costello were born. I learned some of these things by watching Jarmusch’s latest movie, which takes place in Paterson and features a poetry-writing bus driver also named Paterson (played by Adam Driver).  The poems written by Paterson in the movie were actually written by New York School poet Ron Padgett (some new for the film, some older).  Jarmusch also wrote a poem for the film which is attributed to a 10-year-old girl.  He also wrote and played the music on the film soundtrack with his band, Sqürl.  The music is used to great effect during the meditative moments when Paterson is writing his poetry (which appears legibly superimposed on the screen); I felt transported during these moments which sometimes take place when Paterson is sitting by Paterson Falls, also a focus of Williams’ poem, apparently).  Outside of these poetic moments, we follow Paterson on his daily routine (the film is structured by the days of the week), waking up each day beside his wife/partner Laura (Iranian actress Golshifteh Farahani who has worked for both Farhadi and Kiarostami), then walking to the bus depot, driving around Paterson eavesdropping on passenger conversations, and observing, observing, observing.  Later, the routine involves dinner and then walking their scene-stealing English Bulldog to the local bar where more observing takes place.  There is a little bit of drama at the bar, but not much.  Other time is spent writing poetry in the basement.  Paterson seems a contented man of few (spoken) words.  Some reviewers have commented that his domestic arrangement (with a stay-at-home wife portrayed as somewhat frivolous) is rather old-fashioned, if not stereotypical, and that Jarmusch should be faulted for this.  Perhaps. But it also seems that Paterson may actually be a throwback to an earlier time, not in his beliefs, so much as in his way of being (for example, he explicitly eschews smart phones, computers, etc.).  There is a real sense of nostalgic reverie present here even though the America we see is the present day (beautifully shot by Frederick Elmes).  The film has a way of casting a spell over the viewer that makes you want to write poetry yourself, or at least to be a more mindful observer of the little things in life that poets notice more.  Those transcendent moments that Jarmusch captures for us help the film to rise above the otherwise humdrum existence being portrayed.  In other words, poetry can make your life better.  

  

Parade (1974)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Parade (1974) – J. Tati

The final feature from celebrated French director Jacques Tati (a.k.a. M. Hulot) was filmed for Swedish TV, apparently live in front of an audience on video (but then with additional footage shot later on film).  It’s a circus, complete with acrobats, jugglers, musicians (both classical and prog-rock), magicians, and, of course, Tati himself recreating some of his classic pantomimes (playing tennis, boxing, riding a horse, dancing).  The physicality of it all is very impressive (particularly Tati in his late sixties) and you can tell that Tati spent a lot of time with the sound effects and production (as he always did).  The feel of the film is exuberant and, as the acts roll on, the audience (dressed in incredible multi-coloured hippy outfits) gets fully involved in the show.  But is this really a naïve audience or perhaps there are actors and performers strewn throughout their midst – many jump up on stage, including a memorable old fellow who tries to jump on a mule.  The same droll humour found in all of Tati’s films is here, with a knowing, sometimes sentimental or sad, undertone that bespeaks of shared human experience.  Some might find this a lesser Tati film (continuing his attempt to recover an audience after the costly flop of the amazing Playtime), but I agree with Jonathan Rosenbaum that it demonstrates Tati’s masterful control of the material and the viewer’s responses while also deploying his major theme about the necessity of human connection.  Of course, one can’t avoid thinking about Fellini’s similar fascination with the circus as a metaphor for life and the music here often evokes Nino Rota’s scores for that other director.  This is not the place to start with Tati (that would probably be Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot, 1953) but Parade functions well as a bittersweet goodbye.

  

The Long Goodbye (1973)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

The Long Goodbye (1973) – R. Altman

Now that I’ve read Raymond Chandler’s original novel, I can see the liberties that screenwriter Leigh Brackett (who also adapted Chandler’s The Big Sleep in the 1940s) took with the material.  Naturally, she had to reduce the plot and eliminate secondary characters, not to mention adapting everything to fit director Robert Altman’s conceptualization of the film as showing a 1950s Philip Marlowe trying to operate in early 1970s L. A.. But she also changed the ending, giving it more of a punchline.  Having seen the film many times over the years, I wasn’t prepared for how much richer the novel would actually be (and I anticipated an ending that wasn’t really there).  Yet, for all that, Altman’s film functions as a work of art all on its own.  For one, he applies his “high concept” to create a disjunction between the P. I.’s no nonsense behaviour and expectations and the actions of the me generation all around him.  Altman also uses his usual idiosyncratic techniques (improvisation by the actors, overlapping dialogue, a restless camera that often zooms) to further disconnect this version of Chandler from the films noir of the 1940s.  Vilmos Zsigmond’s colour cinematography, utilising his “flashing” technique to reduce contrast, also takes the look of the film away from that earlier canon – it feels 70s (and a muscle-bound Schwarzenegger cameo adds to the effect).  Despite all this, Elliott Gould’s Marlowe rings true.  In the book, he’s also a smartass, unafraid to use sarcasm with all the wrong people, quick with the one-liner; he doesn’t avoid trouble and he always plays it straight up.  Sterling Hayden (with his excellent noir pedigree) is also note perfect as raging alcoholic novelist Roger Wade; however, his role is much diminished compared to the book.  But leaving the book aside (regardless of the fresh insights it provides into the movie), another highlight of Altman’s telling is the music.  He takes a schmaltzy song written by John Williams and Johnny Mercer (“The Long Goodbye”) and fills the soundtrack with it, having it played by every diegetic device (car radio, lounge bar pianist, Mexican marching band, even a doorbell) and all over the soundtrack in different versions by different singers/musicians.  This adds to the “experimental” feeling of the film.  But the overall effect is “loose” and a swell homage to noir and to sunny California.

  

There Will Be Blood (2007)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

There Will Be Blood (2007) – P. T. Anderson

I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE!!! Ten years after its release, I decided to revisit Paul Thomas Anderson’s multi-award winning vision of oilman Daniel Plainview to see whether my original reaction (it confounded me) still held true.  The answer is yes.  The reason is because the film feels unpredictable and I can’t shake the impression that the characters function as symbols (let’s call them “capitalism” and “religion”) as well as more straightforward actors in the narrative.  That narrative tells the story of Plainview, a DIY guy (played by Daniel Day Lewis) who basically digs oil wells by himself by hand in 1898 and then graduates to running his own oil company.  To do so, he leases the drilling rights from homesteaders in the U.S. West, particularly California. As such, the film also functions as an economic and social history lesson for Americans. Can these threads (“capitalism” and “religion” again) be followed forward beyond the film’s trajectory into the future?  The foregrounded story (rather than the larger symbolic one) sees Plainview making a deal with the Sunday family of New Boston, CA, and most of the neighbouring families to drill for crude on their property.  The wrinkle for Plainview is that the oldest son, Eli Sunday (Paul Dano), is also a preacher who has started his own evangelical Christian Church of the Third Revelation.  Eli demands money and attention for his Church which the obstinate Daniel Plainview refuses to provide (although agreeing publicly).  Another plot strand focuses on the relationship between Daniel and his son H. W. (a child through most of the film).  We’re asked to consider that the self-made men who became filthy rich by exploiting America’s natural resources (admittedly by willing it through their own gutsy hard work) were likely to have been selfish competitive unfeeling jerks.  Anderson’s script tilts so far in this direction that one could be tempted to see Plainview as a Satanic figure positioned against Eli’s faithful servant of God.  Except that Anderson doesn’t let religion off the hook that easily, portraying Eli as a likely charlatan, growing fat off the gullibility of his flock.  So, there’s a lot to unpack in the film, which can feel dense and claustrophobic except, that is, for the expansive and spectacular cinematography (by Robert Elswit) that captures the quality of the harsh Western sunlight in a way that I don’t recall seeing elsewhere.  One sequence involving a derrick which catches on fire (set to Jonny Greenwood’s propulsive and often dissonant score) is particularly amazing, especially at night.  But if there’s one thing to watch this movie for it is the phenomenal over-the-top acting by Daniel Day Lewis (channelling John Huston in Chinatown) which grows to a crescendo in the final abrupt coda and climax in the Plainview mansion in 1927.  I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE!!!

4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (2007)

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ½

4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (2007) – C. Mungiu

Winner of the Palme D’Or at Cannes in 2007, this Romanian film is a harrowing glimpse into life for young people in the repressive Ceaușescu era. Specifically, we see two young university students trying to arrange an illegal abortion in 1987.  However, nothing is particularly clear from the start and director Cristian Mungiu only gradually reveals details of the women’s situation -- and the brutal social and political context is explored only indirectly in passing.  But perhaps because we are absorbed by the immediacy of the action (presented in widescreen long shot or as recorded by a mobile hand held camera), the harshness of life (and the corresponding indomitability or frailty of the human spirit) in Romania at that time comes across more clearly than it might in a more didactic film.  In other words, you can intellectually contemplate the political or statistical data that tell us about what happened in Romania (or Syria or Rwanda or Cambodia or Nazi Germany) but an in-your-face narrative from the victim’s point of view is always going to pack a stronger punch.  This is not to say that the film is not enjoyable – in many ways it is enthralling (a testament to the direction and the stellar acting of Anamaria Marinca) as we experience a narrow slice of Romania firsthand in a way that those of us privileged to have been born free wouldn’t have.  Theirs is a drab, dark, wintry, impersonal, and seemingly dangerous world.  But the specific incidents that happen to these women – and the fact that evil is perpetrated against them by men in particular – can’t fail to highlight feminist and social justice concerns that are universal.