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.