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dir. Duncan Jones
writ. Nathan Parker (screenplay), Duncan Jones (original story)
feat. Sam Rockwell, Kevin Spacey, Dominique McElligott
Moon offers several delightfully confounding moments, where it's unclear what is going on, reason has been defied, and somehow, perhaps because it's all happening in the isolation of a quiet base station on the moon, such strange occurrences seem within the realm of possibility. Few films achieve such mind-bending disorientation while managing to bring it all back to a plausible reality. This feat, along with a rare meaty role for Rockwell propels Moon up a short list of thoughtful science fiction films that deliver as many ideas as space-based thrills.
At its best, the film explores the effects of isolation upon the human psyche in a clever and wonderfully effective way (which to describe would ruin much of the pleasure). Both the technique used and the findings carry the picture, frequently arousing and satisfying the viewer's curiosity. But the narrative also strays, wasting time on a HAL-inflected computer (voiced by Kevin Spacey) that suggests deeper personality traits that never surface and a few notes of corporate malfeasance that while apparent, aren't interesting or developed enough to seem important to this story. All in all, Moon feels about a reel short, missing something, a discovery or two left hidden, leaving one aching for a touch more.
writ. and dir. Ari Folman
feat. Ron Ben-Yishai, Ronny Dayag, Ari Folman, Dror Harazi
Folman's gripping study of war and memories both forgotten and eternally haunting moves along at a deceptively calm pace. The simple animation style imbues the characters with hypnotic, almost languorous motion without resorting to cheap, unnecessary tricks - flashing cuts or blasts of sound - to underline the already harrowing battle scenes. Folman's quiet probing approach to interviewing unlocks the personal stories of his subjects, each revealing awkward, private moments from the battlefield. While the unique and varied accounts could seem disjointed, a collection of tales that don't share a narrative track, the repeated horror and the final surprising shots of the film converge powerfully to assert the pointlessness of war and the damage wreaked upon both civilians and soldiers.
dir. Sam Wood
writ. James Kevin McGuinnes (story), George S. Kaufman & Morrie Ryskind (screenplay)
feat. Groucho Marx, Chico Marx, Harpo Marx, Kitty Carlisle, Allan Jones, Walter Woolf King, Sig Ruman, Margaret Dumont
What praise hasn't been written about the Marx brothers? Somewhere, some joker has surely penned a doctoral dissertation on Harpo as a symbol of the unfettered id, likely deliberately omitting his importance as the one who gets the job done, even if that job is banging someone on the head with a hammer. I can only skirt the fray on the bros, their sharp circular word play reminiscent of the needful escapism of my high school years when a friend and I would run similar language loop-de-loops in efforts to alternately confuse, irritate and entertain each other. But no one else found those gags funny (or coherent), where the writers behind the Marx routines rouse the viewer to delightfully absurd, and lofty, heights. The contract negotiations between Groucho and Chico play illiteracy against the nonsense of legalese, the latter ensnaring the former until the men stumble into a verbose mess and simply tear their way free. In the process, the brothers' way of handling the world is demonstrated; they create the problem, then leave it behind.
But it is aggressive lunacy, best personified by hammer wielding Harpo but embraced by the whole troupe, that pushes both the humor and craftsmanship to transcendent peaks. Groucho's casual acceptance of the overcrowded stateroom, welcoming each new and increasingly ridiculous arrival, amplifies the humor, his easygoing manner highlighting the chaos by remaining above it. He is the master of ceremonies and won't be drawn into the turmoil.
And to remind the audience that these boys aren't just about comedy, the song and dance scene where Chico and Harpo take up instruments on the ship showcases the range of their talents. First, a dance number that seems to spout from a feverish Busby Berkeley, the participants whirling in a frenzy, just shy of collision, followed by Chico's nimble turn at the piano, his fingers dancing as wildly as those preceding him. Harpo steps in next, pretending to be all fists at the keys, but cleverly so, banging in rhythm, all for show, before changing gears to demonstrate his elegance on the instrument of his namesake. These musical interludes might seem like a pleasant diversion to some, a break from the breathless comic antics and verbal sparring. But without them the Marx brothers would be so much less. They add depth to the reality of the films, where not only do the fellas connive, disrupt, and deceive, but where they stop to play, to bring joy and beauty to those around them.
dir. Wes Anderson
writ. Wes Anderson & Noah Baumbach (screenplay), Roald Dahl (book)
feat. George Clooney, Meryl Streep, Jason Schwartzman, Bill Murray, Wallace Wolodarsky, Eric Chase Anderson, Michael Gambon, Willem Dafoe
Things were beginning to look bleak. It had been over a decade since any genuine emotion had been slipped into a Wes Anderson film, traded time and time again for hipster-chic ennui, until even that was depleted for The Darjeeling Limited. But here, in an animated adaptation of a not-so-popular children's story, a heart beats. Maybe it's the perfect combination, the often sticky sweet moral tales aimed at children balanced by Anderson's impulse to drain the breath out of his subjects.
Whatever the chemistry, Fantastic Mr. Fox springs forth in all its stop-motion glory, introducing living creatures full of energy and ambition facing challenges both physical and emotional. The fur flies at a pleasantly gripping pace, Mr. Fox (Clooney) leading the adventurous charge. And while this struggle for survival is peppered with humorous reminders that these are actually wild animals, conflicted in their sophisticated, anthropomorphic pursuits, it also pauses for several heartfelt moments, one that is remarkably touching, that explore that contradiction with satisfying depth.
With risks of violent death, broken relationships, and potentially irreversible alienation, the film challenges categorization as a children's tale. And though the youngsters behind me in the theater were frequently distracted, even singing little songs during long bouts of dialogue, they fell silent in the more riveting action-packed scenes, then whispered about their favorite parts. While our lists may not match, I was pleased to know that we both enjoyed the ride.
dir. Maurice Pialat
writ. Arlette Langmann & Maurice Pialat
feat. Sandrine Bonnaire, Maurice Pialat, Christophe Odent, Dominique Besnehard, Cyril Collard, Jacques Fieschi, Valerie Schlumberger, Evelyne Ker
Pialat's twist on the coming-of-age story of a teenage girl unravels like real life, without any easy answers and plenty of room for judgment from outsiders. Suzanne (Bonnaire) hops from bed to bed, casually taking new lovers at the slightest show of interest on their part. Whether she is a free spirit or a misguided young girl one can't rightly say, likely a combination of both. The film works like a play, throwing the viewer into the mix without the common introduction to ordinary life, a delightfully unsettling way to reveal the characters. When Suzanne's father (Pialat) announces his departure, claiming he can't take it any longer, we've yet to discover the hell in which he has left her, both brother and mother constantly hysterical and abusive (sadly to a degree that challenges their plausibility).
It's hard to blame Suzanne for finding solace in sex, the only joy that stirs her, the only connection she makes with others aside from her father. Armchair psychologists might casually insist that she's trying to fill that hole, failing to find a man substantive enough to live up to expectations, with which she can share the same obvious and easy connection that she does with Dad. But that would be an overly simplistic interpretation of a character more complex and difficult to pinpoint. It is this defiance of convenient analysis, paired with with compelling performances by Bonnaire and Pialat, that makes A nos amours such a lively and absorbing film.
dir. Mario Monacelli
writ. Angenore Incrocci, Furio Scarpelli, Suso Cecchi d'Amico & Mario Monacelli (screenplay), Angenore Incrocci & Furio Scarpelli (story)
feat. Vittorio Gassman, Renato Salvatori, Memmo Carotenuto, Rossanna Rory, Carla Gravina, Claudia Cardinale, Carlo Pisacane, Tiberio Murgia, Marcello Mastroianni, Toto
This loose-limbed send up of Rififi rolls amiably through a tale of a hodgepodge gang of bums and crooks joining together to rip off a pawn shop. Trading the taut procedural style of its target for a meandering yet engaging series of gags and character introductions, the story moves joyfully along, winsome and relaxing, with plenty of easy laughs. The inept batch of hoodwinks fall on luck both good and bad, eventually leading them to the big night. Oddly, this is where the plan falters, for the film as much as the heist, the charismatic mood betrayed by sudden seriousness, the laughs slipping, actions suddenly predictable and uninspired. Fortunately, the story soon rights itself with a blissful turn, restoring the airy feeling and scoring a handful of winning moments that complete the tale more effectively than on might have thought possible.
dir. Martin Scorsese
writ. Edith Wharton (novel), Jay Cocks & Martin Scorsese (screenplay)
feat. Daniel Day-Lewis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Winona Ryder, Alexis Smith, Geraldine Chaplin
I suppose that rules make stories of tension and rebellion possible, the needed restrictions against which to chafe and, if lucky, break free. But I can't see my way around The Age of Innocence, even its trite title too deliberate in its intentions. A key problem is that I can't be sold on shallow characterization being blamed on a time period, a type of forged history based on slack romantic texts and and legal documents of an era. Films have long leaned on these conventions for weak shows of melodrama, trading a well-rounded reality for lazy storytelling. Just watch Gone with the Wind for a prime example. Thankfully, there is also relief, refreshing depth flashing on the screen in very early films, such as those of Murnau, Pabst, and Ozu. Granted, they have a limit in their reach, only able to save people from entrapment in a batch of dull stereotypes as far back as the moving picture medium existed.
So, we suffer the stories of earlier centuries, by writers and directors guided by nostalgia and a desire to pity those foolish, unenlightened primitives. Here we are tormented by a dry, deadened tale by Edith Wharton, her so-called incisive wit and criticism of late 19th century upper-class New Yorkers suspect for her position within the fold. I've not read the book, but the gratingly snide narration by Joanne Woodward, screams of someone far more despicable than the characters she mocks. This is no whistle-blower, eager to reveal the faults of the system, but a gossiping spinster, reveling in the private pain of conservative, emotionally handicapped rich people.
Perhaps, it's a revenge fantasy, Wharton's smack back at a husband who would rather spend time with other women, her secret wish to bind him up emotionally, saddle him with otherwise absent conflict. But it requires not just an old-fashioned appreciation for minor drama (big oohs and aahs please when it's revealed that she thought that he thought so-and-so the whole time), but also a withered husk's sense of humor, tittering behind gloved hands coyly, and ineffectually, covering smug grins. This it seems should read as sophisticated, instead of childish. Sorry, no dice. Worse yet, in its over emphasis of small details and a push to wring pain from conflicted desire, the film attempts to be aggressively sublime, seeking a reaction that must be gradually earned, finessed, not demanded like it's some kind of gangster picture.
