Butch, Sundance, and Quentin

Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid was the top-grossing film of 1969. It featured two top Hollywood heartthrobs (Paul Newman and Robert Redford). It was a western with anti-hero protagonists and 20^th century sensibilities. It was also released six weeks after one of the most famous murders in history, that of actress Sharon Tate and four others at the Hollywood home of director Roman Polanski by members of the Charles Manson family. The murders terrorized the moviemaking elites, and as Joan Didion famously observed, for many they signaled the end of the free-wheeling peace-and-love Sixties.

The murders drive the story of Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood, a Butch & Sundance style “western” with 21^st century sensibilities in which the anti-heroes are two top Hollywood heartthrobs (Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt) and the bad guys are the Charles Manson “gang” (as they are identified in the credits). It is also – as the title suggests – a Tarantino fairy tale (a la Inglourious Basterds), and a tip of the hat to spaghetti westerns (a la Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West).

We know what is coming – the 3:10 to Yuma in the form of the August 8, 1969 murders. But Tarantino’s focus isn’t on either the perpetrators or the victims, but rather on the bromance between the two stars, who play Rick Dalton (DiCaprio) and Cliff Booth (Pitt), the former a struggling veteran of TV westerns now reduced to guest appearances on Mannix and The F.B.I.; the latter his long-time stunt double and drinking buddy. Dalton lives next door to Polanski and Tate high in the Hollywood Hills; Booth lives in a beat-up trailer in the San Fernando Valley with his own loyal friend, his dog Brandy. No matter the class difference (although on one level the film is a comedy of Hollywood manners) – these two are best friends living inside their social castes like Rick and Sam in Casablanca. DiCaprio and Pitt are magnificent in their roles, and DiCaprio especially gives a clinic in acting (literally, in one scene).

But even more than the dynamic duo, the film is about 1960s Hollywood at the end of an era. As one who lived in Southern California at the time the film is set, I can attest that Tarantino’s attention to period detail is astounding. Uniting all the characters is the ubiquitous sound of 93 KHJ, the AM radio top-forty (or “Boss 30”) station that permeates the soundscape as does Wolfman Jack in another homage to a bygone era, American Graffiti. Tarantino is a master of the period soundtrack, which alone is worth the price of admission. The film doesn’t wallow in nostalgia but Tarantino lets Robert Richardson’s slightly over-exposed sun-drenched cinematography do all the talking, especially as it highlights Margot Robbie, cast as the ill-fated ingenue whose sunny sweetness represents Paradise Lost. 

The film ambles its way to its grisly conclusion – which might be too gory for mass audiences. Tarantino clearly enjoys the journey, but tighter editing of this 160-minute behemoth would move the story along at a more 21^st century pace. Nevertheless, Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood is a delight for the eyes and ears, and is Tarantino’s most fully realized film since 2003’s Kill Bill, Vol. 1.

Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood is rated R for violence, language, and sexual content. 3.5 stars out of 4.0.

All You Need Is Love

Jack Malik (Himesh Patel) is a struggling London singer-songwriter who has come to the end of his road. His devoted friend and manager Ellie Appleton (Lily James) harbors an unrequited love for him and believes in his music. But it won’t pay the bills, so he tells her he’s giving up his dream, unless some miracle occurs.

And, of course, it does – a 12-second global electrical blackout and a bicycle accident from which Jack awakens with minor injuries, but in a world that has changed in a small but significant way. The Beatles never happened. No Beatlemania, no Sergeant Pepper, no “Hey Jude” or “Yesterday.” And Jack alone seems to remember their songs.

That is the premise for Yesterday, a nostalgic tribute to the group that redefined pop music, became the first global musical phenomenon, and has been the soundtrack for a generation. Directed by Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, Slumdog Millionaire), Yesterday is a clever twist on the “what if?” movie genre which includes such members as It’s a Wonderful Life and Sliding Doors. A former seminary roommate of mine once described the Beatles’ music as “sunshine,” and Boyle portrays a world without the Beatles as a world cast in a long, cold, lonely winter until Jack shares his musical gospel.

Like many “what if” stories, Yesterday is a morality play. Jack shares his special gnosis of the holy canon, which gives birth to a viral global “Jack-mania,” midwived by the amazed and humbled acolyte Ed Sheeran (playing himself). Despite several failed attempts to explain the songs’ true origin, ultimately Jack decides to “drink the poison chalice” offered by a devilish agent (richly played by Kate McKinnon) by which he sells his soul (or at least his integrity) for promises of becoming the greatest musician in the history of the world.

You can guess what follows. Yesterday is a feel-good summer movie played with breezy fun. Richard Curtis’s screenplay wastes little on backstory in order to showcase the true star of the show, the music. The songs might resonate differently with different generations, but this is more than just baby-boomer nostalgia; there are plenty of pop culture references to connect with younger generations. Boomers will instantly recognize visual homages to A Hard Day’s Night and The Ed Sullivan Show. Other icons abound, from the famous 12-string intro chord of A Hard Day’s Night to the farewell rooftop concert. And the revelation that leads to the resolution of Jack’s moral crisis is perfect – and dare not be spoiled.

Patel is a gifted singer with enough acting chops to pull off the fantasy, but he is outshone by his supporting cast. Lily James is charming and beautiful as Ellie, making Jack’s platonic responses hard to believe. But the real scene-stealers are McKinnon and Joel Fry in the Tony Randall third-wheel role as Jack’s childhood friend and stoner roadie.

There have been other films that have banked on the Beatles legend, most notably Across the Universe (2008), I Want to Hold Your Hand (1978), and the awful Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (1978). Yesterday surpasses all of these by not just playing the music, but capturing the heart of the Beatles’ magic – love.

Rated PG-13 (language), Yesterday, like the Beatles’ music itself, is non-stop joy. **** 4 stars/4.

The Reverend Travis Bickle

“What is your only comfort in life and in death? That I belong body and soul, in life and in death, to my faithful savior….” The first words uttered in Paul Schrader’s First Reformed are the famous first question of the Heidelberg Catechism – the Reformed creed that for centuries was the foundation of Sunday evening sermons in Reformed churches. In the film, the creed is being recited by the congregation of First Reformed Church, a dying congregation near Albany, New York. The words are spoken but they are empty doctrine that provide no comfort for the church’s pastor, who is in the midst of a major crisis of faith.

Paul Schrader is widely regarded as one of the great film writers of the past half-century, having collaborated with Martin Scorsese three times, including his masterpieces Taxi Driver and Raging Bull. Schrader’s directorial efforts have been less successful, although he has enjoyed the occasional critical success (American Gigolo, Affliction). His latest effort, First Reformed, which he both wrote and directed, has garnered a 97% “fresh” rating on Rotten Tomatoes and a 83% positive score on Metacritic, making it one of this year’s most critically acclaimed films.

First Reformed, which debuted at Venice last August and is just now being released in the U.S., is being hailed as the culmination of Schrader’s career, integrating many of the motifs that have characterized his work. It is the story of the Rev. Ernst Toller (as in “ask not for whom the bell tolls…”), the pastor of a dying church in upstate New York experiencing a crisis of faith as his church nears its 250^th anniversary. Played by Ethan Hawke, Toller spends more time tending the headstones in the church cemetery than the dwindling members of his flock. He is, like most Schrader protagonists, a loner struggling with the apparent absence of God in a morally bankrupt world. A former Army chaplain, Toller is suffering in body and spirit, having experienced a personal tragedy that has unmoored both his life and faith. When he is brought into the lives of a young pregnant woman named Mary (Amanda Seyfried) and her radical environmentalist husband Michael (Phillip Ettinger), he is forced to confront his own internalized anger and despair. Following the pattern of Taxi Driver anti-hero Travis Bickle (“one of these days a real rain’s going to come and wash this scum off the streets”), Toller assumes the role of the apocalyptic prophet, the agent of divine judgment.

In First Reformed we see echoes of other films – most notably Luc Besson’s Diary of a Country Priest, and Ingmar Bergman’s existential trilogy Through a Glass Darkly, Winter Light, and The Silence. But whereas those classics spoke with theological nuance, First Reformed lacks spiritual sophistication. Mirroring the culture that Schrader derides, his characters are theological caricatures drawn on the one hand to simplistic debate and on the other to Manichaean extremism. The most egregious caricature is ecclesiastical – the dying “traditional” congregation contrasted with the high-tech, big-money non-denominational “Abundant Life Church” embodying what sociologist Talcott Parsons termed a “tension-reduction, pattern-maintenance” social function. Abundant Life’s well-tailored pastor (played by Cedric the Entertainer) courts the support of mega-polluting business owner Edward Balq (Michael Gaston).

The theological tropes in the film are obvious and cliché: blood atonement, the Holy Family, religious hypocrisy, even “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” They are presented, almost like celebrity cameos, but are never addressed meaningfully. Schrader could have used a technical adviser on ministry: almost nothing about Rev. Toller rings true to the experience of actual mainline ministers, especially in the second decade of the 21^st century. One wonders if Toller ever went to seminary, or ever attended a boundaries-training event. Several actions that are presented as normative pastoral care and are crucial to the narrative are contrary to everything a trained Army chaplain or mainline minister would have been taught. These might be lost on the average film-goer or critic, but they are fatal to the film’s credibility with actual ministers.

Schrader’s cinematic style is on full display in First Reformed: the visual symbolism of light and darkness (or dawn and dusk) in his settings and cinematography; the ominous score which highlights the spiritual battle of good and evil. The film is even shot in 4:3 aspect, as if to highlight the narrow, cramped, constrained faith of the religious world Schrader portrays. 

First Reformed may be the culmination of Schrader’s cinematic faith journey. But it is not a journey that looks anything like real spiritual crises. The performances are laudable, but the theology is laughable. Two stars out of four (2.0/4.0).

Southern Exposure

Ebbing, Missouri is a lot like Cicely, Alaska, the setting of the 1990s TV show Northern Exposure. Both are small fictional towns filled with quirky individuals from a variety of backgrounds who all seem to know each other, and despite lacking formal education can summon culture and wisdom at odd times. Both, in their own ways, represent visions of American society. But whereas Cicely was a vision of Clinton-era America, where differences are celebrated and even the bigot and the homophobe can find a welcome, Ebbing is a vision of Trump-era America where differences are mocked and punished, and the racists and homophobes are in charge. If the former viewed America through rose-colored glasses, the latter shows it as in a fun-house mirror, full of bizarre and horrific distortions.

Ebbing, of course, is the setting for the Indie-darling film Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri, which won the Golden Globe for best dramatic film, along with acting awards for lead actress Frances McDormand and supporting actor Sam Rockwell. It has been nominated for seven Oscars, including Best Picture.

McDormand plays Mildred Hayes, the grieving mother of a teenage daughter who had been raped and murdered seven months earlier. The local police department, headed by police chief Bill Willoughby (Woody Harrelson) and his dim-witted racist deputy Jason Dixon (Rockwell) have apparently been too busy harassing the African-Americans in town to investigate the crime. Dixon is Barney Fife to Willoughby’s Andy Taylor, with the same thinly veiled but deeply repressed homosexuality, which in Dixon’s case emerges in violent eruptions towards the towns gay advertising company owner and the African-Americans in his custody.

Hayes, a domestic abuse survivor and single mother, sponsors messages on three billboards accusing Willoughby of dragging his feet on the investigation. The billboards attract media attention and divide the community – most people siding with the police chief. But Hayes has the support of a company of outcasts – the gay billboard owner, two African-Americans, and the local dwarf with unrequited affection for Hayes. A series of melodramatic twists ensue, with escalating violence, with an ending that serves more as a Rorschach test than a resolution.

Ebbing is supposedly in the Ozarks of southern Missouri, where ignorant, poor white folk get their jollies harassing those who are “different.” But the film is all caricature rather than character, unlike the far superior 2010 film Winter’s Bone, set in the same locale. Sometimes the caricatures are played for cheap laughs (“It’s no longer n****r torture, it’s ‘people-of-color torture’”); sometimes it is played straight. But it’s always *played*. Events coincide too conveniently; there is violence but never accountability, and the offenders are given all-too-easy reconciliation. There is pseudo-wisdom (“anger only begets more anger”) and shallow theology – together with an ineffectual priest and cheap shots at organized religion.

The Oscar-nominated screenplay is by British writer-director Martin McDonagh (In Bruges), but rather than providing the insight of an outsider’s view of our society, it relies on caricature and lacks a true sense of place or regional culture. Despite having a realistic tone, it represents a Hollywood understanding of race and class in rural America, which may be why Hollywood has given it high praise. Like Trump’s own vision of America, it is a manufactured truth designed for emotional impact rather than something showing genuine understanding.

That having been said, the film has snappy dialogue, is well-paced, and has some of the best acting of any film this year, notably by the Oscar-nominated McDormand, Rockwell, and Harrelson, whose performances make the film worthy of seeing. It’s enjoyable in the same way as dining at Taco Bell and Panda Express – the food is mostly empty calories, but it’s tasty so long as you don’t mistake it for the real cuisine. Some critics call it “Coen Brothers lite.” I tend to agree.

2.5 stars out of 4.0. Rated R for excessive profanity, and some violence and gore.

The Shape of WTF?!?

This week, Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water led all films with 13 Academy Awards nominations, making it the early favorite for Best Picture of 2017. Del Toro is also heavily favored to win the Best Director Oscar, joining countrymen Alfonso Cuarón (Gravity, 2014) and Alejandro Iñárittu (Birdman, 2015 and The Revenant, 2016) as recent winners of the coveted award.

Del Toro, who not only directed, but also created the story and co-wrote the screenplay, seems to have developed The Shape of Water with Oscar in mind: it is an amalgam of every Hollywood “how to win an Oscar” cliché short of bashing Nazis. It has the “lost alien vs the military/ scientific/ industrial menace” theme; the “revenge against toxic masculinity, sexism, racism, ableism, and homophobia” theme; the “overcoming disability to discover true love” and the “my disability is a symbol of a social evil” themes; the “classic Hollywood movies as sacrament” theme; “the evil, Bible-quoting Christian” villain; and the “all you need is love” crowd-pleasing, fairy tale ending. Throw in some Mad Men 1960s-era cultural references for all the Baby Boomer voters of the Academy, and voilà – you have the perfect Oscar candidate.

Pardon me while I throw up. Some of my most revered film critics adore this mess, but to me, The Shape of Water is simply an over-the-top, silly, derivative fantasy about the evils of toxic masculinity that insults literate viewers more than it inspires.

From the incredulous opening credit sequence (heavy, metal objects don’t stay suspended in water, they sink) and the ridiculous opening bathtub scene to the E.T. meets The Little Mermaid (Feminist Fantasy Version) predictable ending, the film doesn’t utilize fantasy as a tool to expand our imagination (à la magical realism); rather, it severs all ties to reality and abuses fantasy for emotional manipulation and to score cheap political points.

For the record, The Shape of Water follows the plight of a Cold-War “asset” – a merman of sorts (played in scaly costume by Doug Jones) discovered in the Amazon with dual respiratory systems allowing him to live either on land or in water. He is brought to, confined at, and later enchained in, a secret lab in Baltimore where Elisa (Sally Hawkins) and Zelda (Octavia Spencer) are part of the custodial crew. Elisa is unable to speak, having suffered some unknown childhood condition that has left her with three parallel scars on either side of her neck, and no working vocal cords. The military-national security complex views the asset through Cold War eyes as a possible boon to space exploration (not really explained), and after some pointless torture with a cattle-prod by security agent Richard Strickland (cartoonishly played by Michael Shannon), the “brass” thinks it is more valuable to them as a post-mortem research subject. Meanwhile, Elisa, whose disability becomes an opportunity to communicate with the creature through sign language and music, recognizes a kindred spirit, and less convincingly, an object of love and desire. A semi-comic rescue sequence ensues, assisted by an embedded Soviet spy, with the now-iconic E.T. race to set the creature free. This is a Hollywood PC depiction of 1960s America: awash in toxic masculinity, toxic religion, white supremacy, fascism, and homophobia. The heroes are the women, gay men, minorities, and immigrants who love without judgment and resist without fear, all inspired by the stories of classic Hollywood either directly or by homage.

Del Toro is a student of film, and it shows. As a director who specializes in blending fantasy, horror, and romance he has drawn from a rich library of cinematic tropes, archetypes, texts, and references for the story, most notably The Creature from the Black Lagoon, E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, and his own Pan’s Labyrinth. But the most useful lens to view the film is as a counter-fantasy to Disney’s The Little Mermaid, which was excoriated by feminists upon its release for glamorizing a boy-crazy girl who gives up her voice to land her “prince.” The Shape of Water, by contrast, depicts a voiceless woman who nevertheless finds a “voice” to bring liberation and love to others. Not surprisingly, the initial symbol of her liberation is an egg – a uniquely female object.

Oddly, for a film literally saturated in water, the titular metaphor remains a mystery. Is it a metaphor of our origin and destiny (the film starts and ends underwater)? If so, I don’t quite see its relevance. It seems to exist more for effect than message. Even in the most ridiculous scene of the film, in which a good-sized bathroom is literally flooded to the ceiling (in a matter of minutes, with no structural consequences) the fantasy effect overwhelms both reason and meaning.

The mess of a story aside, the film is deserving of accolades for its technical brilliance. It is beautifully filmed, with a soundtrack and score (by Alexandre Desplat) that are wonderful. Some of the acting is exceptional, most notably Richard Jenkins as Giles, Elisa’s neighbor and friend; and Spencer. Hawkins is solid as Elisa, despite what she must endure in this ridiculous script.

Del Toro is a capable film-maker and will undoubtedly get his share of awards if for no other reason than he knows what buttons to push. As for me, all I could think after viewing the film was “WTF was that?!”

The Shape of Water is rated R for sex, nudity, gore, and violence. 2.0 stars out of 4 (2.5 stars out of 4 for film buffs).

Gods and Machines

Early in the new sci-fi film Ex Machina, reclusive high-tech billionaire Nathan Bateman reveals to his employee Caleb Smith that he has developed true artificial intelligence. When he suggests it might be the greatest invention “in the history of Man,” Smith corrects him: “It would be the greatest invention in the history of gods.”

By its very title, writer/director Alex Garland’s Ex Machina suggests divinity – in ancient Greek theater a “deus ex machina” is a plot twist involving divine intervention.  And the Promethean – or Satanic – quest to exercise god-like power is a major theme in this heady, well-written thriller.  In his directorial debut, Garland, at the top of whose short resume is a writing credit for 28 Days Later, has created a film that strives to join the pantheon of great films about artificial intelligence: 2001, Blade Runner, A.I., and Her, among others. And while Ex Machina lacks the lyricism of the aforementioned greats, it succeeds in raising some of the same existential questions: What makes something “human”? Are there moral limits to knowledge/technology? What does it mean to love?

The storyline of the film is fairly straightforward. Twenty-six year old Caleb Smith, a coder at Google-inspired "Bluebook," wins an employee lottery to spend a week with the company's eccentric, reclusive genius founder for an unknown purpose. Smith is flown to the genius's Fortress of Solitude in the subarctic north (it was filmed in Norway) which we learn is a research lab for creating artificial intelligence. Smith is to be the human tester of Ava, Bateman's humanoid creation, to see if she passes the famous Turing Test of whether true artificial intelligence – and human-like self-consciousness – has been attained. As might be expected, things get complicated in the central triangle of relationships, with enough Hitchcock-like suspense to have you questioning who is good, evil, or simply a victim of someone else's self-interest. 

Despite its effective use of special effects, Ex Machina is a small film that could easily have been a stage play. For 95% of the film, there are only four players: Nathan, played with the right mix of confidence, loneliness, and cool by Oscar Isaac (Inside Llewyn Davis); Caleb Smith (Domhnall Gleeson), the smart-but-naive coder; Ava, the beautiful “female” robot-creation (Alicia Vikander, who with six more films in production is this year’s “It” girl); and Kyoko, Nathan’s silent Japanese servant-girl (Sonoya Mizuno). The set design and art direction are very good despite an obviously limited budget.

As the character descriptions suggest, gender, sexuality, and objectification of women are major subthemes, and have provoked considerable debate in the blogosphere about whether or not this is a feminist, post-feminist, or anti-feminist film. Garland tries to play it both ways with unsatisfying results. The set-up is clearly misogynistic, with the males being the agents of creation and control and the females existing only to serve them, even sexually. We learn that Ava may have been designed from porn-search preferences; and that she is designed for sex – as Nathan brags, “in between her legs are a complex of sensors.” Nathan’s God-like omniscience – via constant surveillance – at times suggests voyeurism, and Garland incorporates significant female nudity in the film, though the men remain clothed. Garland tries to redeem this through an ending (no spoilers) that could be argued as humanist, feminist, or even cynical and portentous.

But the larger questions in Ex Machina are theological: the human quest to become as gods, what it means to be human, and the relationship between creature and creator. In regard to these, the film is better at raising questions than answering them. That is not inherently bad – the same could be said of 2001, arguably the greatest science-fiction film ever made. Garland is certainly well-read, and incorporates references, both direct and implicit, to the myths of Prometheus and Pygmalion, the Bhagavad-Gita, Hamlet, and more. The excellent score by Geoff Barrow and Ben Salisbury even incorporates the theme from Close Encounters of the Third Kind to good effect. 

Its flaws notwithstanding, Garland has made a taut, engaging, intelligent thriller. There are outstanding performances, especially by Isaac and Vikander. Still, you can't help but wonder what this film might have been with a more experienced director. Like it or hate it, one thing is sure – you will be talking about it afterward. 3.0 stars out of 4.0.

Chocolat, Partie Deux

It is a Lasse Hallstrom film about strangers who arrive in a small French village and set up shop selling soul-captivating food with exotic spices. They meet with resistance from the town’s most powerful resident. There is a forbidden romance as a subplot, and in the end, an important lesson is learned. No, it is not Chocolat, Hallstrom’s 2000 film with Juliette Binoche and Judi Dench. It is, rather, The Hundred-Foot Journey, which, although beautifully shot and acted, is essentially a remake of that earlier film with a few twists.

I suppose if you are going to rehash something, it is wise to rehash something good – and Chocolat is a classic. This time around, the strangers aren’t a morally suspect mother and daughter, but an expatriate family from India, driven from their homeland over some unexplained religious or political oppression.  Their food isn’t chocolate with magical Aztec spices, it is Indian cuisine with spices handed down from one generation to the next in a metal lockbox. Instead of Judi Dench as the aging matriarch, it is Helen Mirren. The essential familial bond is not mother-daughter, but father-son, and the romance isn’t between Binoche and Johnny Depp, but between American-born Manish Dayal and Charlotte Le Bon, who bears a striking resemblance to a young Winona Ryder.  And the lesson learned is not the value of the via positiva over religious moralism, but rather the value of cooperation over competition, and the celebration of difference.

The film is sensuously filmed, and the food images make one long for smell-o-vision, or better yet, taste-arama. Mirren is wonderful, as always, as an obstinate restaurateuse, and the other actors -- especially veteran Indian actor Om Puri (Charlie Wilson’s War, City of Joy) as Mirren’s equally obstinate foil -- are excellent.

However, the film never escapes its derivative elements, and the narrative arc is predictable. The third act is underdeveloped, and the resolution is weak. Despite these shortcomings, The Hundred-Foot Journey is an enjoyable if undemanding summer repast, that like all good meals, will leave you filled, but wanting more.  3.0 stars out of 4.0.