Brothers

Enjoying a movie requires a certain amount of suspension of belief. After all, we are glimpsing into the lives of characters we've just met. And we are given only two hours or so to grasp it all. When a movie works, we are drawn into the story to such an extent that the boundaries of time become meaningless. The missing pieces fall into place and we manage to forget that what we are watching is a representation of events and human interaction, and not the actuality. For those two hours in the dark, we are “there.”

Brothers is a powerful movie that addresses many sweeping themes—loyalty, nationalism, guilt, desire, forgiveness, redemption. Tobey Maguire is Captain Sam Cahill, the prodigal son, a decorated Marine who takes his job very seriously and is devoted to the men under his command. Maguire delivers a tour de force performance, stretching into realms of human emotion he has not had the chance before to deliver. And he clearly has the talent and strength to do it. More than anyone in the movie, Maguire releases his ego to his character so completely that we easily forget we are watching an actor and not a soldier bearing the lasting damage of physical and emotional torture.

Happily married to his high school sweetheart Grace, (Natalie Portman), Sam is redeployed to Afghanistan. Shortly after, his plane is shot down and he is believed to be dead. The dreadful news is delivered to his wife. And here the dichotomy in the movie begins. We see the reality of Sam’s horrific circumstances in the hands of the Taliban. And we see Grace’s reality back home, where somehow her house is bright, her hair and clothes look great in a very ‘natural’ way, and she even begins to feel a convenient attraction to Sam’s brother, Tommy (Jake Gyllenhaal), the attractive black sheep of the family, recently released from prison.

The scenes in Afghanistan are gritty and believable. We hold our breath as we are reminded that war is not simple and that untold horrors are the rule, not the exception. Many of the scenes back home lose that sense of truth. They are too Hollywood—the colors too rich, the ‘tra la la’ quality of some of the domestic scenes just fitting into place so nicely. As good and thought provoking as the overall theme of the movie is, the implausibility of these events and situations interferes with the power of the film, preventing us from being entirely drawn in. Too many scenes are cutesy, convenient, disjointed; it’s as if we’re viewing two disparate treatments of reality combined into one film. One being cinema verite, the other being melodrama. As a result, the suspension of belief we initially felt about the harsh reality of war's collateral damage on the battlefield and at home is interrupted.

Another issue is the sense of time. It isn’t clear how much time has elapsed from Sam’s departure to his plane being shot down. Nor is it clear how much time before Tommy becomes a fixture in the household and a relationship is developing between him and Grace. You would think this would take considerable time, considering that she, along with her two daughters, used to despise him.

Natalie Portman’s performance is flawed in the same way as the movie itself. She is at times too perfect and too reminiscent of the glossy star of a teen movie. She is at her best in the emotionally charged scenes where she doesn’t seem so concerned with delivering the fetching smile and alluring toss of her hair. Too often in this movie, her beauty seems to get in the way.

Directed by Jim Sheridan (My Left Foot), Brothers is likely to garner some Oscar attention—-most notably for Maguire’s powerful performance. Sam Shepard as Hank Cahill, the Vietnam vet, who carries his own set of emotional war wounds, delivers an understated and believable performance as a father who overtly favors one son over the other. And Bailee Madison, as Isabelle, one of Sam and Grace’s two daughters, is a talented young actress we are sure to see again. Brothers is based on Danish filmmaker Susanne Bier's Brødre, released in Seattle in 2005.

In spite of its flaws, Brothers is a powerful statement of the extent of damage caused by war—beyond the battlefield—not only the damage to those who fight the war, but to those who wait for them and reunite with them back home. And at a time when the escalation of the war in Afghanistan is imminent, the movie reminds us that war destroys way more than the enemy.

Bright Star

Bright Star, written and directed by Jane Campion (The Piano), is visually lovely, but as a cinema experience it disappoints. The film is composed of a stream of pastoral scenes set in a country estate in Hampstead, England in the early 1800s—an ongoing collage of beauty. Soft breezes that come in through the window and blow wisps of hair around the heroine’s face, joyous walks on the heath, flowers in the tall grass, snow on the grounds. But all this cannot overshadow the stops and starts of the movie and the feeling that it is going nowhere. You find yourself waiting for the story to kick in and flow, but it somehow never does.

Fanny Brawne (Abbie Cornish) and her family live next to the poet John Keats (Ben Whishaw) and his mentor, Mr. Brown (Paul Schneider). The amorous feelings that Fanny and Mr. Keats have for each other are apparent moments after the film begins. But we are to understand relatively quickly that society’s rules regarding income and station prohibit the two from being married. In spite of that, the two refuse to exist apart. And she becomes his muse. They take walks together on the grounds, gaze at each other longingly, and sometimes they speak to each other through the lines of Keats’ poems. But if the goal was to depict a longing that is full of passion and desire, Bright Star misses.

For those of us who enjoy Keats’ poetry, it’s a treat to hear the lines spoken so well against the sumptuous and romantic background of the countryside and softly lit interiors. And it’s pleasing to observe the fashions of the times—the detail in its ruffles, crocheted shawls, gauzy sleeves, and elaborate hats. But don’t be surprised to find yourself ready for the end of the movie anytime, rather than savoring each moment like you are likely to have done watching Ms. Campion’s exquisitely sensual film, The Piano.

Shot by Greig Fraser, it is indeed the visual aspect of the movie that is Bright Star’s best part. Nature is the match for Keats’ romantic verse and letters to Ms. Brawne. Mr. Whishaw is believable as a frail poet who is plagued with a sense of failure and who loves Fanny in spite of what society tells him he cannot do. Ms. Cornish is lovely in her portrayal of Fanny—crisp, pure of heart, witty and a flirt, but unflinchingly devoted to her Mr. Keats. But to compare the depth of this performance to the one she delivered as Candy in the movie of the same name, where she played a young addict opposite Heath Ledger, we see what is perhaps missing in the movie as a whole. We are not taken in. We do not go inside the characters. What should be fire is warm at best, in spite of what we know is supposed to be the passionate, though unconsummated love between the two main characters. We are too easily able to maintain a distance from them. Nothing takes hold of our emotions for the two hours we spend in the movie theater. Rather, we leave our seats easily, exit the theater and go about our business.

Fish Tank

Slice of life and riveting, Fish Tank takes you inside the grim life of a girl who lives in a rough housing project in England’s Essex. It’s a reality show—but not the kind you see on TV. This kind is the real stuff. And it’s poetry. Beautiful. Gritty. And incredibly sexy.

Not unlike a fish tank where the creatures that swim around can see out, but are trapped within, the housing project is inhabited by people with disenchanted lives—girls who swear with the same rapid-fire fluidity as their moms and dream only of performing on rock videos, young men who emulate rap stars and two-bit criminals, their parents trapped in the confines of lost dreams or continuing delusions.

Mia (Katie Jarvis) is 15, finds escape from the drab, trapped existence she leads by dancing to hip-hop tunes and drinking booze whenever she can get her hands on it. She’s angry and wants everyone to know it. She screams and squirms, greeting most of what she encounters with personal resentment. Mia is friendless, intolerant of life around her. She was kicked out of school for reasons that are not revealed in the film. But we can easily guess why—she’s a rebel with a loud mouth and fierce exterior. When her mother, Joanne, played with unflinching realism by Kierston Wareing, asks her, angrily, "What’s your problem?" Mia responds in an outpouring of hatred and frustration, “You’re my problem.”

Mia spends much of her life moving about, angrily observing life around her. Her refuge, or temporary escape from the confines of the apartment she shares with her mother and younger sister, Tyler (Rebecca Griffiths) is going to the vacant apartment upstairs. There, wearing a hoodie and sweats, she moves in sync with the beat of rap songs she listens to from her portable CD player. Her face is mostly expressionless as she looks out the window to the world outside. Her vista seems endless. As she dances, her ponytail sways back and forth, as do her large hoop earrings. Her gaze far-reaching and unsmiling, Her hopes and dreams wordless, but resonant nevertheless.

During one of her walks into an area not far from where she lives, she spots a white horse tethered by a chain and metal lock. The area is bleak, a wasteland of trailers, dry grass. Mia’s sense of justice and the kindness she feels toward the horse is somehow a metaphor for her own life. She wants to set the horse free.

Mia is a girl with a jagged edge. A problem and obvious annoyance to her mother who seems more like a skanky older sister, Mia seems to have a certain wisdom her mother doesn’t share. When Connor, the mother’s hunky boyfriend, enters the picture, the household changes. The mother curtails her incessant badgering of her daughter. Mia is visibly taken by Joanne’s boyfriend, played so well by Michael Fessbender (Inglourious Basterds). He exudes the natural charm and irresistible sexiness of the character, as well as an element of wholesome caring, so missing in the household before his appearance. But it’s clear from early on that he has more than a wholesome interest in his supposed girlfriend’s daughter.

There is a scene where Connor takes Joanne, Mia, and her younger sister on a car ride in the country. He is taking them out of the ‘fish tank’ and no one reacts to it with more enthusiasm than Mia. When Connor plays “California Dreamin’ “ performed by Bobby Womack, we see Mia in profile, the wind from the partially open car window playing with her hair. Her expression is softer than before. There is even a hint of a smile. We catch Mia ever so subtly moving her head in time with the beat of the song. She likes it. Connor catches the look in the rearview and there is a moment shared between, a faint and tantalizing glimmer of sexuality that passes between the two that we know is a promise of what is to come.

The story moves with the swiftness and ease of a gently, sometimes turbulent flowing river. The cinematography by Robbie Ryan is breathtaking at times—not only in terms of moody skies that accentuate the feeling of the moment but in the angles. One such instance is when Connor puts Mia, who has passed out on her mother’s bed, to bed in Mia’s own room. His actions in her bedroom are seen from her viewpoint through the crook of her arm. And then we see her from the reverse angle, as if from Connor’s p.o.v.

Fish Tank is a true work of art and is the latest movie from Academy Award-winning British writer and director Andrea Arnold (Red Road), who won the coveted Palme d’Or for her film this year.

It is the film debut of Rebecca Griffiths, who plays Mia’s younger sister, Tyler. Ms. Griffiths plays her character with all the ferocity and angst of a child who, while struggling to survive in the adult world she finds herself in, seems to know on some deeper level to what degree she is being robbed of her childhood.

But the film belongs to Katie Jarvis in the role of Mia. It is her first acting role. A remarkable performer, Ms. Jarvis lives and breathes the life of Mia with an intensity that makes it seem she isn’t acting at all, but rather revealing the naked truth of who she is to the camera. Like the best screen actors, she conveys everything through her eyes. The story goes that Ms. Jarvis was discovered on an Essex train platform. She was having an argument with her boyfriend.

Darren Aronofsky’s 1998 film, Pi

Shot in black and white reversal that achieves a contrast so stark, it’s almost painful to watch, the film focuses on a number theorist, Max Cohen (played by Sean Gullette, a film school buddy of director Aronofsky) who stands in front of a bathroom mirror and methodically draws a small circle on a designated part of his shaved head, then proceeds to drill a hole into it. Max’s mathematical genius is in great demand--by a Wall Street firm that believes he holds the key to the stock market and a group of Hassidic Jews who believes his work will lead to the true name of God. But in the end Max doesn’t want his genius. He wants to be “normal.”

The film, the result of a 28-day shoot with virtually no budget, won Aronofsky the 1998 Sundance Film Festival award for best director. Another friend from film school, Eric Watson, was the cinematographer for the film. Aronofsky wrote the script from a story by Watson, Gullette, and himself.

Pi plunges you into a world that is uncomfortable, creepy, the same kind of everyday “horror” that is depicted in Aronofsky’s later work, Requiem for a Dream (where Watson was also the cinematographer). In both films the main characters are under siege. Max endures crazed rabbis and cloying stockbrokers running after him, mercilessly picking and tugging at his incredible mind. He’s a man who is never at ease.

Max can relate only to his computer and occasionally seeks the understanding of his mentor, Russian mathematician Sol Robeson, played by Mark Margolis (Alberto in Scarface). Robeson has been pursuing the same calculation as Max all his life, but even Robeson tries to get Max to calm down, warning him that his very life is at stake.

Max is obsessed with patterns, the patterns he sees in everything—from shells to numbers. He believes that math holds the key to the universe—that by figuring out the mathematical pattern inherent in everything, he can understand everything. He’s a person who lives in his mind—his private heaven and hell.

The genius of the film is Aronofsky’s ability to make you feel what Max feels. It’s shot from the p.o.v. of the protagonist. Although you're on the other side of the celluloid, you don’t feel safe. It's if you're inside Max, feeling his vulnerability, his aloneness, and the bittersweetness of his genius. You feel his doleful desire to connect with the rest of the world, not as an intellectual oddity, but as one of “them.” And yet you find yourself not wanting him to give up his genius just to be “human.”

The wobbly film footage, achieved by hand-held camera, along with a dark, hypnotic and sometimes disturbing musical score by Clint Mansell lures us into the subterfuge that is Max’s world and makes it tortuously alive. The grainy high contrast images and repetitive music riffs stab at our insides and bring us into how it feels to be Max Cohen, a man who suffers seizures that attack him without warning and leave him drenched and helpless on the floor. When he drills the hole into his head, is it to remove the seizures or to remove the genius? Does he know that one is related to the other?

His dark existence is reminiscent of that of Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man in the novel by the same name. It’s one of constant agonizing and isolation from the rest of the world. Max’s life is spent primarily in the confines of his dingy New York apartment in the company of his homemade mainframe computer. Hour after hour he transfuses his computer with his own sweat and genius, dedicated to calculating the true Pi and the pattern within the figure, believing that the pattern is the source of all patterns in the universe. As viewers we are sucked into the vortex Max finds himself in, spiraling down further and further into a dark, oppressive place where all he seeks is the world to leave him alone so that he can commune with it. In the end, he’ll do anything to be “normal.”

Interesting sidenote:
Although the drilling into the head, among other things, is a fictional event, the character of Max may be based on the Chudnovsky brothers (David and Gregory). Born in the Soviet Union near Kiev, the brothers got their PhDs in math from the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences. Gregory was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder of the muscles, myasthenia gravis, which led them to Paris and then USA for help.

In the early nineties in a rundown apartment near Columbia University in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, the brothers rented two supercomputers with which to calculate Pi and essentially lived off the income of their respective wives. Gregory, who needed assistance even to stand, did everything from his bed. Eventually the brothers built their own supercomputer from mail order parts in the apartment. The machine burned 2000 watts of power and ran day and night. In a March 2, 1992 article published in New Yorker, author Richard Preston wrote that the brothers were afraid to shut it down, because it might die. “[They call] their machine m zero. It occupies the former living room of Gregory's apartment, and its tentacles reach into other rooms.”

Gregory was awarded a MacArthur Foundation fellowship in mathematics. Thanks to the additional money from the fellowship, the brothers were able to upgrade their computer and they went on to set world records in calculating Pi with 480 million, 1 billion, and 8 billion digits.

Inglourious Basterds

From the moment the film begins, with the thumping soundtrack of a spaghetti Western going full blast and the words "Once upon a time in Nazi-occupied France ..." superimposed on the screen, we know we’re in Tarantino country.

Film noir, Western, epic Hollywood, black comedy, you name it--Inglourious Basterds is Tarentino’s lovesong to the cinema.

An intricate fantasy of Jewish revenge against the Nazis, the story demonstrates the essence of what makes a movie a movie—situations and people looming larger than life on the screen. With Tarentino, everything is exaggerated—sometimes to the point of outright farce, as with Brad Pitt’s character. But that’s part of the fun.

As you move through the fabric of the story, you engage in something fantastic, something you know can’t be entirely real (it’s a movie afterall, and we never forget that for an instant); and yet in spite of the implausibility of many of the events, you willingly play along, because you wish that somehow that’s how it could have been. Sweet, sweet revenge. In this pumped-up, pseudo-reality, it’s just as Andre Bazin, noted French film critic, once commented. “The cinema substitutes for our gaze a world more in harmony with our desires.” This is what draws us to the cinema. And Tarentino plays it for all it’s worth.

It’s 1941 and a group of Jewish-American soldiers during World War II are spreading fear throughout the Third Reich by scalping and brutally killing Nazis in sordid retaliation for the horrors of their deeds. Headed by Aldo Raine, a non-Jew from Tennessee (performed with obvious amusement by Brad Pitt), who insists on receiving no less than 100 scalps from each of his soldiers, the group relishes what they do. And they’re good at it. The ultimate revenge sought by the soldiers intersects another plot of revenge—this one cleverly and selflessly engineered by a Jewish French woman, Shoshonna (played skillfully by Melanie Laurent) in retaliation for the death of her family.

Tarantino’s love affair with the movies is evidenced throughout the film--from the sight of Leni Reifenstahl’s name displayed on Shoshonna’s cinema marquis to Pitt’s character, Aldo Raine, whose name is a slight alteration of that of the famous 1950s’ actor, Aldo Ray. And there is Tarentino’s masterful use of classic cinema technique--extreme close-ups and longshots, inventive angles, and dramatic use of lighting and color, (especially red). Add to this an eclectic and killer soundtrack, which Tarentino considers as important as any other ‘character’ in his movies. Rather than sticking to 40s music, Tarentino brings his signature style to the soundtrack and makes it more contemporary. Who else could mix “Green Leaves of Summer”, Ennio Morricone, and David Bowie’s “Cat People.” And throw in a voiceover by Samuel L. Jackson explaining the combustibility of nitrate film.

Tarentino tauntingly drags out the moments. The result in a number of scenes is an atmosphere so tense that you feel yourself being questioned, forced to think on your feet, knowing that the wrong answer can cost your life and that of others. Such a scene takes place in the beginning of the film when Colonel Hans Landa visits the home of a French dairyman, Perrier La Padite, in search of Jews.

Christoph Walz’s interpretation of the ruthless Nazi Colonel is nothing short of brilliant and will no doubt win him an Oscar nomination at the very least. He gives Landa the smooth charm, intelligence, and finesse of the educated Nazi stereotype, the guy we can almost like, but know we can't. Because beneath the smooth veneer is the cold stealth and determination of a hawk chasing a rat. Denis Menochet’s portrayal of La Padite is elegantly underplayed. While seemingly polite and at ease with his unwanted “guest,” La Padite's eyes speak to us of the thoughts and fears he tries so desperately to keep hidden.

Although there are other moments in the film that delve beneath the surface to reveal characters with more than two-dimensional substance, you never see the kind of raw depth to human relationship like the one between the Uma Thurman and David Carradine characters in Kill Bill. Love so deep it surfaces beneath the hate. Hate so deep it manages to obliterate the love.

In Inglorious Basterds we assume the scene with the dairyman is setting the stage for the rest of the movie. But it takes a different turn, becomes a different genre. For Tarantino, World War II seems to exist as a convenient vehicle for setting good guys against bad guys--a variant of the American Western. As beautifully crafted as the film is, it’s more of a comic strip come to life, where the audience needs to fill in the blanks between each frame.

That said, Inglourious Basterds is a rich tapestry of broad stroke acting, black comedy, as well as stunning and haunting imagery—even in the midst of outlandish fantasy. The movie is so entertaining that you can’t wait until you find out what happens next, but simultaneously want to stay in the moment, because you don’t want the movie to end. And in spite of its 152 minutes, it doesn’t feel too long.

Written and directed by Quentin Tarentino with cinematography by Robert Richardson, the movie also features Eli Roth, who is disappointing as Sgt. Donny Donowitz, and the lovely Bridget von Hammersmark, who is convincing as the 40s film image of a German actress/spy.

(review appears on Oscar Frenzy)

Seraphine

There are many reasons why we go to the movies. From vicarious experience to total escapism to whatever else. Some movies are so disposable we barely remember the name, let alone the subject matter or who played in them. Seraphine, about the visionary artist Seraphine Louis, also known as Seraphine de Senlis (1864–1942), offers us a host of movie delights that will hardly be forgotten. Visually beautiful with soft images of the French countryside, the film is rich in texture of all sorts--from the grasses that sway in the breeze to the dark fabric of Seraphine's large skirts and dirty weave of her tattered shawl as she climbs the hill to one of her favorite spots beneath a large tree overlooking the vista she adores.

You can almost feel the heat and smell the sweat emitting from Seraphine's Rubenesque body, as she scrubs her employer's hardwood floors with near violence. Late into the night in the confines of her small apartment atop a long flight of stairs, this frumpy and irreverent housekeeper by day accompanies her feverish nocturnal painting with impassioned singing, seemingly unaware that people below may be trying to sleep. Using her thumb and a paintbrush to add color to her canvas, she kneels beside it, hovering over her work. She works amidst pots of paint that she has concocted from local plants and blood, surreptitiously extracted from meat cooking on the stove of her mistress' kitchen.

Her obsession resides somewhere between religious fervor and madness. But it is her naivete, her complete abandon to the creature that she is that endears her to us. And there are the paintings themselves--brilliant swirls of color, repeating patterns--flowers and plants of the countryside rendered in larger than life 'naive' representation.

Perhaps even more than any scene in itself, it is the eyes of the amazing actress Yolande Moreau that capture our attention. She manages to convey the innocence, religious fervor, and mischievous childishness of the character of Seraphine as well as her candid and open nature. Blue and slanted upwards like butterfly wings, her eyes give us entrance into her world, her painting, and her devotion to her art.

We watch the process of her painting, the way she lovingly and steadfastly adds a bit of color, rubs it in, so in love with her painting that sometimes she falls asleep by its side as if it were her lover. But in spite of the beauty of the film, along with the exquisite score by Michael Galasso, the two-hour film feels like it's a half-hour too long. Several scenes continue beyond where they should have ended--as if the artist--in this case, the director Martin Provost, didn't know when to stop adding more color to the canvas.

Séraphine was an untrained artist, 'discovered' by Wilhelm Uhde, a prominent German collector and dealer who was part of the artistic circle in Paris in the early 1900s and played a prominent role in the career of Henri Rousseau. He was one of the first to recognize the genius of Pablo Picasso and George Braque and he exhibited their works in his gallery in Montparnasse. He happened to see an early painting of Seraphine's and it was under his patronage, although interrupted for many years by his inevitable need to leave France during the war, that her work reached prominence.

Directed by Martin Provost, Seraphine won a total of seven César Awards (the French Oscar), including Best Film, Best Original Score, and Best Screenplay.

Notes On A Scandal

In Notes on a Scandal Dame Judi Dench seizes the screen and doesn't let it go. Her performanc of Barbara Covett reveals to us a complex and rather pathetic history teacher in a London high school, whose cold and calculated life is spent in quiet loneliness and desperation. Ms. Dench reminds us, as she does in all the roles she plays, what great acting is--the ability to play a character from the inside out, without comment or restraint.

Barbara Covett is a lonely old spinster, a self-described battle ax, who the students dislike intensely but whose authority is never questioned. When the new art teacher, Sheba Hart, played beautifully and with great sensitivity by Kate Blanchett, joins the faculty, Barbara takes more than casual notice. She begins writing about her in detail in her most current notebook, which we soon learn is the latest of an ongoing collection of notebooks where she unlocks her life and reveals her innermost secrets.

Barbara preys on Sheba, getting the younger and beautiful woman to trust her--especially after Barbara discovers Sheba having sex with one of her 15-year-old students, Steven Connolly (Andrew Simpson), and promises to say nothing to the headmaster in exchange for the promise that Sheba will break off the affair. And of course now Barbara has her in her power. The older woman uses her knowledge of a potentially damaging secret to manipulate a friendship, even when it starts to reveal the older woman's obsession and malevolence.

Dench's performance is so believable that we can see tiny, almost imperceptible shifts in her expression as she moves through feelings of desire and joy to twinges of self-conciousness, jealousy and hurt. Her eyes change in shape and hue as her emotions glide from one thing to another. Sometimes they take on the frightening appearance of snake-like slits of evil. At other times we almost feel sorry for this dreadful and solitary spirit.

Ms. Blanchett's portrayal of Sheba is a powerful match for Dench's performance. She is soft and flexible as compared to the hard, steadfastness of Barbara. Her movements are liquid. Her skin is porcelain as compored to the lined face of a woman who has most assuredly never or rarely known the touch of sensuality.

Barbara zooms into Sheba's household like a bird of prey, snatching what is good and light, twisting and turning it between her talons, and finally, releasing it to the ground--bleeding and in pain.

Notes on a Scandal was nominated for an Academy Award and adapted from the 2003 novel of the same name by Zoe Heller. Patrick Marber wrote the screenplay and the film was directed by Richard Eyre. The soundtrack was compsed by Philip Glass.

The Wrestler

Watching The Wrestler is like watching a documentary about a wrestler who happens to be Mickey Rourke. That's how real it is. Mr. Rourke has said that when he initially read the script for The Wrestler, he didn't want to play the character, because it touched too close to home. But then he knew he had to play him, for that very reason.

Rourke is so over-the-top brilliant in this film that you can't help but smile and shake your head in amazement at what Rourke, the actor, manages to do. You're inside Randy. You know him, you feel what he feels, see what he sees. His sorrows, his realizations, his amusements, and desires sear their way inside you and go home with you after the show. Randy the Ram is not a character in a movie, not some kind of ridiculous inflated cartoon you can simply dismiss. He's a real man who leaps out at you from the silver screen just as he leaps onto his opponent in the ring. He's a man who laughs and cries and suffers, who walks out into the ring like a proud warrior embracing the sweet seductive lure of the crowd. And you see him clinging to something, something elusive, something lost, something he may not be able to get back.


The gut-wrenching blows he takes and even invites in the ring are nothing compared to the heart-wrenching blows he endures in 'real' life. And you wonder if you should look away. You're embarassed for him, for yourself. His soul is so naked on the screen.

Wrestling itself isn't the story; it's a vehicle. The real story is about a man who had something and lost it and who is trying to rebuild his life, but in the process he gets in his own way. As his own daughter tells him in a starkly painful scene, "You're a fuck-up." So he goes back to the only thing he knows, a place where in spite of unrelenting physical brutality, his emotions don't get hurt. "Out there" is the only place he gets hurt, he tells Cassidy, the strip club dancer played brilliantly by Marisa Tomei. It's the crowd who loves him, the crowd who doesn't hurt him and ultimately he sacrifices himself for that crowd, which is where he finds true solace.

Evan Rachel Wood plays Randy's estranged daughter, Stephanie. Ms. Wood plays the character with the utmost sensitivity and grace. We watch her carefully, afraid to miss the moment we anticipate, where she will remove a stone from the wall she has built around herself to protect her from the hurt put there by her father. When, tenderly and shyly, almost like a new lover, she rests her arm on his as they walk through what is now an abandoned amusement park, we want everything to be OK again between the two of them. We want, like we so often do in our own lives, to be able to take things back to an earlier time when what is now broken, was not.

The role of Cassidy could have easily have been played as a stereotype--some hard-assed hooker type with a soft spot for the hunky wrestler dude with long, stringy, dyed-blonde hair. But the way Ms. Tomei plays her, she is far from only that. Ms. Tomei reveals the character by shifting in and out of nuances that demonstrate the many sides to Cassidy. She parades her sensual body across the floor, writhes on the pole with frank, down-and-dirty sexuality, flicking her mane of hair around like angry flames. And all the while as we watch her, it seems she's totally there--as engrossed in her display of sexuality as she makes it appear. The atmosphere is a smoke-filled strip club in a seedy part of town, where the men pay to see what she's only too willing to show them. But there's a whole other person inside her that she keeps way more hidden than her body. And that's the part that Randy is after.

The Wrestler is a movie that does what good movies are supposed to do--transport you, take you to another place from where you usually live. And like a good movie also does, it takes you into realms of your own psyche, people you know or knew, and you perceive and understand all of that in a different way, with greater depth perhaps. An experience I would even call cathartic.

Directed by Darren Aronofsky, who also directed the brilliant and disturbing Requiem for a Dream, The Wrestler drew a fair amount of attention this year, including an Oscar nomination for Best Actor for Mr. Rourke. And although Sean Penn was awarded the honor for his inspired portrayal of Harvey Milk, Rourke's no-holds-barred performance topped it, and showed everyone that he was solidly "back in the ring"--not merely as a worthy contender, but as a real champ.

Atonement

From the very first moments of the film as we are led through the dark wooded halls of a stately mansion set in the soft green of the English countryside, we know we are embarking on a sumptuous visual feast. But it is far more than that. The stylishly studied stances of the characters, their dialogue, and the repetitious tapping of typewriter keys interwoven into a magnificent score all combine to create an unmistakable undercurrent that tells us something is looming, something is about to break, and we sense that we are not alone in our observations and interpretations. Someone else, someone who exists within the film is observing the events as well. It's as if the person is partly in and partly out of the story--interpreting what she sees and thinks she knows--chronicling the truth or other versions. . .

A crisp, very English girl of thirteen, Briony Tallis, (played so well by Saoirse Ronan) lives her life primarily through the stories she writes, crafted feverishly while remaining hidden in the tall grass of the estate. When we first meet her, she has just finished writing her first play. With purpose and determination, central to her character, we see her nearly fly through the halls and down the steps of the huge house as she proceeds to deliver it to her mother, who praises her for her accomplishment. Soon after, we find Briony in her room. She is standing by the window, gazing out onto the extensive grounds of the estate--observing, interpreting, and imagining. . .

The camera zooms in on her clear blue eyes as she catches a glimpse of her older sister, Cecilia (Keira Knightly) together with the housekeeper's son, Robbie (Jame McAvoy). Cecilia, in what seems like a dramatic gesture borne of anger and revenge, removes her dress and submerges herself in the water to retrieve a piece of broken vase. She emerges from the water with her sheer flesh-colored underthings stuck to her body--an image of striking beauty. There is a suspended moment when she and Robbie stare at each other with an intensity that is only partially masked by their actions. We suspect they are about to fall into each other's arms and give in to desires that are so near the surface. But instead Robbie gazes at her in a brilliant combination of raw desire and restraint. And we already know he's in love with her. Then she quickly steps back into her dress. Carefully evading his touch, she stomps away, apparantly still angry, as Robbie continues to watch her in fascination and desire. Briony takes in the scene. It is clear she is perplexed and troubled by what she saw, but not as much as she will later be by the scene she ferrets out in the library. Striken with adolescent love for Robbie, Briony's subsequent actions will prove doomful for all three. . .

The story captured me from the first moment. The cinematography was nothing short of exquisite, as was the acting, as was the direction--be it the intensely sexual scene (without nudity) in the library to the painful images of soldiers in the London hospital or the scenes of agonized, desperate, and confused soldiers on the beach in Northern France. Having not read the novel by Ian McEwan upon which the movie is based, I don't know if the device of seeing the particular part of a sequence of events as Briony sees it, followed by our viewing of the sequnce of events that led to the moment, was a directorial device, if it was the way it was written in the screenplay by Christopher Hampton, or if it was the way Mr. McEwan wrote it. In any case, it's a fascinating way to see a story unfold--another way the film spellbinds the audience. I was hardly aware of real time passing by. I existed, for a suspended time, in the film.

Reviewer A.O. Scott of the New York Times may write intelligent, in depth reviews. But his review of this film is jaded at best. Rather than allow himself to enjoy it on its own merits, he finds it necessary to compare it to the novel and pierce it with his callous and academic criticism, refusing to be seduced by its beauty and its extensive merits. Out of jealousy perhaps. Somehow reminiscent of what the character Briony would do.

Directed by Joe Wright, with music by Dario Marianelli, and a spectacular cameo by Vanessa Redgrave as the old Briony, Atonement is surely headed for an assortment of Academy Awards. And I can't think of one it wouldn't deserve.

The Reader

At the very least, The Reader is a love story. It begins when Michael Burk (David Kross) is 15 and Hanna Schmitz (Kate Winslet) is in her mid-thirties. Set in Germany about ten years after the end of World War II, the story progresses in time, but flashes back to earlier scenes throughout the story.

The Reader addresses themes of love, justice, duty, and morality--all intermeshed. There is no clear path, no obvious resolution of how the characters, or we as the audience, should feel. We are introduced to these themes with the affair between Michael and Hanna. "Kid," she calls him.

Although many of us would likely question the morality of such a relationship between a boy and mature woman, it's nearly impossible not to see the strangely innocent beauty of their liaison. Hanna introduces Michael to his own sexuality, but it is also through her that he begins to experience and understand romantic love. Her love and attention spark a newfound confidence in him. He blossoms through his affair with her. So it is not simply the sexual hunger of a boy discovering his manhood under the steady guidance of a beautiful woman; but rather a boy becoming a man through the emotions he feels for her.

Transcending the limitations of his youth, Michael is able to give Hanna something more important than his body. He reads to her, imparting worlds that go far beyond the limitations of her abilities, her knowledge, and her experiences. He reaches emotions that are buried deep in her. He sees all this, quietly, and like so many things about her, he accepts it. But there is so much unsaid between them, so much about her he doesn't understand.

The story unfolds as a series of profound and provoking dilemmas. We are given the fascinating opportunity to consider what judgments we would make of situations that have no clear-cut answers. Interestingly enough, Michael's (Ralph Fiennes) profession as an adult is that of judge. So his dilemma in making judgment is compounded by the possible conflict between what constitutes the judicial (and even moral) "right" and what his own emotions will or will not allow him to feel.

Even love can be a moral dilemma, as we see in the relationship between Hanna and Michael. When someone you love acts in a way that is contrary to the very essence of what you believe to be true and just, can you continue to love that person. And if you do, can you forgive yourself for it?

Germany faces continuing haunts and collective guilt from the war--the horrors of the death camps, the lasting imprint of a time when even the most unspeakable crimes were attributed to the credos of duty and following orders. Blind obedience in the face of moral dilemma. When Hanna is being tried in a courtroom, she asks her judge, "What would you have done?" And we find ourselves, almost embarrassedly, trying to answer that question for ourselves. And we acknowledge that perhaps we may not have acted any differently than the accused.

Directed magnificently by Stephen Daldry, The Reader is the kind of film that stays with you and grows more beautiful with time--its loveliness and sad poignancy unfolding like the infinite petals of a rose. And such was Ms. Winslet's performance. The depth and raw truth she brought to this performance are surely worthy of an Oscar. Both Grouse and Fiennes turn in stellar performances as Michael. But Grouse's sensitive and persuasive performance as the young Michael deserve special praise. He develops quite convincingly from age 15 to early 20s. And his ability to convey such subtle differences in demeanor and facial expression as he grows older and more knowledgeable are a testament to his craft.

Revolutionary Road

While watching Revolutionary Road, based on the novel by Richard Yates, I found myself somewhat annoyed by the staginess of it. It was almost as if I were watching a play, not a film. The performances were pushed somewhat out of proportion—larger than life in a way that is seen in theater, not the more intimate, seemingly voyeuristic experience we are used to in the cinema. But almost like a wine that is at its best after it has had a chance to breathe, this film keeps growing on me as the scenes replay in my mind.

I’m beginning to see that the theatrical elemnt is really an extension of what made the characters tick. So to have the actors ‘act’ in this way is really an extension of who they are, each playing out what is expected of them in their lives. Although April Wheeler (Kate Winslet), breaks out of this mold. She is the rebel, the revolutionary on Revolutionary Road.

April's husband, Frank Wheeler (Leonardo diCaprio) must prove his manhood, his success in business, his dominance over his wife, simply because that’s what a male is supposed to do in America in the mid-1950s. April, a would-be actress, sees the suburban life as a death and something she desperately wants Frank and herself to break free from. But eventually she comes to understand that it isn't something Frank can so easily do.

The myth of suburbia—with its manicured lawns and shuttered houses, its concerned and helpful neighbors present all too alluring a picture to Frank. And although April takes him back to when they met and when Frank was a budding man of the world with dreams that could take the two of them anywhere, “life happened.” The two are victims of circumstance, the power of the majority, the comfort of what is already known.

Directed by Sam Mendes, both diCaprio and Winslet perform their roles with provoking and often painstaking intensity. Michael Shannon as the mentality ill son of the Wheeler’s over-zealous real estate agent provides a gloomy affirmation of April’s vision of the suburbs as a place where dreams are scorned and vanquished. And David Harbour as Shep Campbell, the neighbor who lusts after April and who provides a momentary release and distraction for her, seems to have emigrated straight from the 50s. He’s got the swagger of the American male of that time, the obvious buy-in to the American dream, and the demeanor of a family guy who is only too willing to stay at the party a little too long while his wife goes home to the kids.

Revolutionary Road, the novel, is considered by James Wood of the New Yorker, and apparantly by many others, as Yates’ best. The story is a statement of the American post-war era of the mid-fifties and delves deeply into the collective and individual treatment of gender, of conformity, and of the bittersweet comfort of letting go to conformity versus the excitement and loneliness of breaking free.

The Passion of Joan of Arc

Renee Maria Falconetti plays Joan of Arc with such stark realism that it's as if she were born to play the Maid of Orleans. The remarkably intense interplay between her face and the camera is incomparable to any other I've seen on film. Not even Ingmar Bergman's consistently brilliant direction nor the immense talent of his pool of actors have been able to achieve what Ms. Falconetti manages to do in this role. Her performance ceases to be good acting and crosses into the realm of simply being. And keep in mind that her role, like the entire film, is silent.

Shot in 1928, The Passion of Joan of Arc can easily be considered the best silent film ever made. Not just for Ms. Falconetti's striking performance, which is perhaps the most amazing rendition of what the face can express ever caught on film; but also for the tableau lighting, the exquisite understanding of shadows, lights and darks, the Expressionistic set, and for the depiction of a time in history--captured in dress, mood, activity, and attitude. The French director Jean Cocteau said it played like ``an historical document from an era in which the cinema didn't exist.''


It's been said by many that the eyes are the mirror of the soul. But in this film, Ms. Falconetti's eyes are a totally transparent window. Every nuance of Joan's feelings are as clear and pure as the soft petal-like tears that fall from her eyes without even so much as a hint of 'acting.' Her unabashed display of emotion is like that of an innocent child blamed harshly for something she did not do. Watching this woman, with her face in such closeup, is an intimate, hynoptic, and unsettling experience. And this complete openness of character and steadfast courage is visibly unsettling to her inquisitors, determined to condemn her for heresy or to receive from her a confession of guilt.

As she burns at the stake--amidst the cruel ravages of smoke and flames, she speaks to God, telling Him softly that she hopes she will be with Him that night. The camera stays focused on her face, cutting away now and then to show the piles of burning sticks encircling the stake where she is tied. Her eyes are transfixed on the cross that Massieu holds high for her to see. And finally, before the flames and smoke engulf her, we see her passion. A gentle release, her head falls forward; and the thickening smoke rises above her head and screens her entirely from the townspeople and our view.

The townspeople are agitated, angered at the outrageous act that has taken place before them. Women clutch their children to their breasts, people huddle together in inconsolable horror. Weapons are lowered from the tops of the crenalated walls of a fortress. The soldiers grab these heavy spiked iron balls on chains and begin swinging them around, beating the angered and impassioned townspeople indiscriminately. "You have murdered a saint," cries one of the onlookers, an elderly man who is subsequently beaten to the ground by an angry soldier. The camera pulls away to reveal a town in smoke and flames and chaos. A lasting vision of destruction.

Carl Theodore Dreyer, famed Danish director of silent films cast Ms. Falconetti in the role of Joan of Arc after seeing her in a play in Paris. It was to be the only film she ever made. Antonin Artaud, French poet, essayist, playwright, actor, and director has a role in this film as well. He plays the role of Massieu.

No Country for Old Men

Javier Bardem is the focus of this film, the focus of the story, and the focus period. His performance leaps out at you, like a panther in the jungle who stealthily watches you from afar until the moment he leaps at your throat, twisting and turning you. Your heart racing, your belief suspended, you struggle to survive. Within the first five minutes Ifelt like this--trapped, captured, wondering if i could/should continue watching the film. Because what i saw before me on the movie screen transcended make-believe.

Bardem has always been extraordinary--in diverse roles that range from a Cuban poet dying of AIDS to a police detective shot down during a confrontation and paralyzed from the waist down. He's starred in A Sea Inside, Before Night Falls, Jamon, Jamon, and Live Flesh--to name just of few of his phenomenal performances. In No Country for Old Men, Bardem plays Anton Chigurh, an emotionless killer who within the first few minutes of the film kills his arresting officer by strangling him with his handcuffs, and soon after uses a cattle stun gun (that he carries around as nonchalantly as most of us carry our wallets) to kill the driver of a car he suddenly decides he wants.

The story centers around a drug deal gone bad. Multiple murders. A guy who chances on the money from the deal--Llewellan Moss (Josh Brolin), takes it and then has the Bardem character hot on his heals with all the stuff that goes with a guy who is essentially proof that the devil exists . . .

Shot in Texas and New Mexico, the desolation of the area speaks of lawlessness that has somehow survived from the days of the Old West. And yet there is an order and simplicity to those who abide the law, as if they can't see or acknowledge the presence of the likes of Chigurh. When asked to throw a coin, a shopkeeper moves along with the game, somehow not giving in to what he must know is clear: if he doesn't call it right, he's about to lose his life.

Some of the character actors are so good you swear they were spotted in some soda shop or gas station in West Texas and are just playing themselves. But Bardem is on a level all his own. He portrays the kind of frightening that makes you queasy. I don't mean in terms of blood and gore, but in the sense of the numbing, gut-wrenching feeling you get from staring at pure evil. Lke looking into the eyes of Charlie Manson. That's why it was often difficult to watch the film. I didn't want affirmation that the devil exists. And yet I was drawn to the utter dakness and sociopathic perfection of Bardem's character.

Written and directed by the Coen brothers, also starring Tommy Lee Jones as the local county sheriff, Ed Tom Bell, this movie does justice to the dark visions of Cormac McCarthy's novel, upon which the movie is based. Jone's character is an old man who doesn't understand the evil that walks the land, even though he's been dealing with it all his adult life. And we're left to wonder, like him, what kind of country this is that allows the likes of Bardem's character to survive.

Man In the Chair

Christopher Plummer transcends the dimensions of the silver screen in his role as Flash Madden, the cantankerous, aged gaffer who lives in a Hollywood home for the aged, but spends most of his time shuffling around town resenting the world. Plummer's acting is nothing short of astonishing, because it seems he's not acting at all. You feel that unbekownst to anyone, as you sit in the dark and watch the story unfold, you're watching a man live his life and express his thoughts--not as an actor in a film, but as a man caught on film, unaware.

He spews and spits. He takes a slug of the hard liquor he's always got in his pocket, he flips through pages of a tattered paperback, and shuffles through his days--full of memories, aggravations, resentments, and profound realism about the world around him. We can almost smell him--reeking of alcohol, of cigar smoke, of clothes that are in dire need of cleaning. and we know Flash likes it this way. It's his signature statement, his last hurrah as he lives inside his foggy stupor, seeing the world all too clearly.

In a small movie theatre showing A Touch of Evil, Fash rises from his seat and spews epithets at Charlton Heston on the screen--lambasting his limp performance as a Mexican police officer, and then mumbling that the best thing he ever did was Ben Hur. An irate member of the sparse audience yells at him to sit down and be quiet. Flash retorts that he's "made more movies than you've ever seen" and continues his rant. A flashback shows us a much younger Flash working as a gaffer on a set for a domineering orson wells. The director comes within an inch of ordering Flash off the set, but instead bestows on him the name "Flash" with the decree that he will find more success with this new name.

Another member of the audience watching Citizen Kane is a high school student, Cameron Kincaid (played beautifully by Michael Angarano) who oberves Dlash and his rants with obvious amusement. You know right away the boy likes the man. And you also know that the two are linked somehow, in spite of Fash's initial annoyance and outright rudeness in reaction to Cameron's subsequent numerous attempts to connect. Cameron wants to make a movie for a student project, and he just knows Flash is the guy he needs to make it happen.

Man in the Chair is not just a story about a kid who meets his mentor, or the making of the film the two embark on. It's a stark commentary on how the aged are treated in this country, how the "unwanted" --be they people or hapless dogs, are handled. Not a pretty sight.

Directed and written by Michael Schroeder (who was the first assistant director on The Big Easy), the film is undoubtedly headed for multiple oscar nominations. Plummer could very well take an oscar for his performance, which surpasses any in his career so far, and is a testament to what good acting is all about. Where the acting ceases to be recognized, and the character emerges--whole, strong, and real.