The following films are nominated for Best Picture this year. I hope that Dune: Part Two wins, but I'm pretty sure that The Brutalist will walk away with the top prize. If you want to see the actual best film from last year, I suggest you bypass the list altogether, and check out Cillian Murphy in Small Things Like These.
I'll let you in on a secret - there were two movies that I really hated this year; I knew before seeing them that I would hate them, and after seeing them I really didn't want to write about them at all. To spare myself the discomfort of writing an extended review for each movie, I came up with a plan; I would write two (2) things I liked, and limit myself to one (1) thing that I didn't like for each movie. Those two movies were The Substance, and The Brutalist. Adrien Brody is a great actor, and with that distinction comes the ability to play characters that are completely reprehensible. I'm not sure whether I'd consider Guy Pearce a great actor, but he also can play a reprehensible character. Maybe I can cut some time here, and just say that all the actors in this movie prove that they are capable of playing reprehensible characters, it's almost a competition to see who can do it best. Are there two things that I liked about The Brutalist? There was one scene in a remote Italian village, where Brody and Pearce's characters meet at a café before heading to the nearby quarry. The view from the café is of the Italian Alps, and it was starkly beautiful in a film that is otherwise oppressive. That one of the darkest and most disturbing scenes took place moments later is par for the course in a movie that just won't let you enjoy anything. I did like the folding bookcases that Brody's character, László Tóth created - I'm not sure that they quite match the aesthetic of his other designs in the film, but I'd definitely like to get my hands on a set of those blueprints. And now, to my surprise I find out that László Tóth isn't a historical character, which means that the writer/director Brady Corbet invented this entire depressing production - that's just horrible.
Nickel Boys is the last of the Best Picture nominees that I watched this year, and definitely falls into the category of a movie that I wouldn't have watched if it hadn't been nominated. Now that I've seen it, I understand why it was nominated, it's visual jazz. Personally, I like a bit more organization to my movies, i.e. I like to have a chance to understand what's going on, and not be inundated by imagery that's meant to provoke certain feelings. Even though visual jazz isn't my cup of tea, I did like certain elements, and I can see how different images, scenes, and situations would have different meanings for different people. Personally, I like the scene where two boys have found a lizard (a Green Anole to be specific), and they're gently passing it to each other. I liked how this scene told me something about the boys' characters, that they were inquisitive, and kind. I also like the color palette of the film, as someone who currently resides in Florida, I can vouch to the accuracy of the greens, browns, and... no those are the colors. I didn't like, and can't think of an example (other than video games) where the first person perspective if appropriate for such long stretches of time. I found the technique to be distracting. I understand that the director RaMell Ross likely was trying to capture the perspective of each character (as it switched between the two main characters), to match the book upon which the film is based, but it simply doesn't work.
For those of you keeping score at home, Emilia Pérez is the third, and last of the movies that I thought was centered around a transgender character, and this one was the winner. Much to my surprise, the movie also happens to be the most "typical" Hollywood movie, in that it doesn't come across as art-housey as the other contenders for Best Picture this year. At its core, Emilia Pérez is a standard 3-act movie about a Mexican drug lord who hires an American lawyer to help him change his identity, and start a new life. As the movie progresses, it is revealed that the drug lord's main motivation for changing is that he's always felt like he's in the wrong body, and living the wrong life, and wants to become a woman who isn't a drug lord. Of course, past iterations of this story, such as Steve Martin in My Blue Heaven played the fish-out-of-water angle more, and dealt less with a series of procedures with "plasty" in the name. That being said, I liked that the director, Jacques Audiard didn't get preachy with the movie, rather he told an interesting story with unique characters. At its most basic, isn't that why we watch movies? I haven't mentioned it yet, but there were also musical elements to the film, i.e. the characters would sporadically start singing from time to time, as the mood struck them. As I write this, I know that some of you are thinking that I've completely lost it, since I previously said that this wasn't an "art-housey" movie. In my defense, overall I really liked the use of singing as a technique to convey the characters' thoughts and emotions, and the transitions between speaking parts and singing were well done. I didn't like the movie for a number of reasons, but the one that I'll mention here is the ending; as with the recently reviewed I'm Still Here, I sense that the filmmakers didn't have an exit plan; the problem with Emilia Pérez is that they just ended the movie without taking the time to create a satisfying conclusion.
I went to see I'm Still Here last night, at a mostly packed theater in Orlando, filled with people who I assume, like me, were trying to catch the one movie that you can't stream that is nominated for Best Picture this year. I liked the casting for this film, as the story revolved around a family, and each of the actors played their parts well, from the youngest of five children (10 year old daughter Babiu played by Cora Mora), to the parents played by Fernanda Torres and Selton Mello. Perhaps it's because I was unfamiliar with the actors, but I found each of their performances to be far more compelling than those in other films nominated for Best Picture this year. Since I have no point of reference, and I am not comparing them to other roles they've played, perhaps it is easier for me to accept them in the parts they're playing here, but I also think that they are each good actors, and were well cast in this film. I also liked the sound design, especially as it pertains to the ambient sound of the waves breaking on the beach. I liked that times of stillness between the moments of chaos in the family's house were punctuated by the consistency of the sounds of the ocean. I didn't like how the film dragged-on for the last 30 minutes. It seems clear that the filmmakers didn't have an exit strategy; they told a compelling story, but it's one without a satisfying conclusion. They should have just accepted that fact, and ended the film once the story had been told.
Some of you may remember from my review of The Northman, that I walked into that film under the false impression that it was rated PG-13, and was somewhat shocked by the graphic violence and brutality. I was under no such allusions when I went to see Nosferatu, but that doesn't mean that I knew what to expect. Robert Eggers, who directed both of these films, has a unique storytelling style, which is more interested in exploring how the minor details impact the overall story, and is less interested in the overall story arc. I like that the film was in black and white - or was it? I like that Lily-Rose Depp's character understood the depth of obsession that Count Orlok (played by Bill Skarsgård) had for her, and that she was able to flip the script. If Goth wasn't already a thing, then Eggers would have invented it with this movie. I didn't like that there was no happiness or joy anywhere to be found in this movie, it was definitely a heavy-handed slog through darkness and despair.
My brother Nate and I discussed A Complete Unknown a few days ago, and he pointed out that the film isn't meant to be a biography, rather it's another contribution to patchwork of mystique that enshrouds Bob Dylan. It would be futile to make a movie with the goal of explaining Dylan, since he is a singular character in history, who we as regular people, could never fully comprehend. If you can accept the film based on this premise, then I believe that it's possible to enjoy the experience. I liked that so much screentime was devoted to Dylan's music; it was fun to see the range of Dylan's moods, from the self-loathing indignation while playing at a dinner party, to the quiet heart-felt sense of discovery during the solitude of song writing. It was enjoyable to see Dylan making music, since that's what I was there for. I also liked the amount of effort that Timothée Chalamet devoted to his depiction of Dylan; while Chalamet didn't become Dylan in the same way that Val Kilmer became Jim Morrison in The Doors, the fact that Chalamet sang so many songs is impressive on its own. I didn't like the guy who played Johnny Cash, not that there was necessarily anything wrong with his performance, but this was clearly the biggest lost opportunity in modern cinema; I would argue that a prerequisite to making this movie would be having Joaquin Phoenix reprise his role as Cash. It's really a shame that they didn't make this happen.
I knew that there was one movie this year that centered on a transgender character, but I really didn't remember whether it was Anora, Emilia Pérez, or I'm Still Here. With Anora being the first of these three movies that I watched, I kept on thinking to myself, I wonder which of these characters is transgender, or when will the transition take place? Long story short, Anora wasn't the movie to feature a transgender character, but it definitely does make for a different viewing experience when you expect a certain subject to be addressed, but you can't imagine how it will tie-in with the movie that you're currently watching. Anora it turns out is a movie about an American girl, who works as an exotic dancer in New York City, who gets into a relationship with a young man, who is the son of a Russian oligarch. In the middle of the movie there was a scene that I liked, that qualifies as the two things that I liked about this movie: 1) As a group of Russian bodyguards try to hold the title character, Anora, against her will, she fights back, seriously injuring the bodyguards and causing significant damage inside the house. I liked the raw energy Mikey Madison as Anora exuded during this scene, it had intensity and was crazy funny. 2) I liked that the Russian bodyguard played by Yuriy Borisov, was unwilling to hit Anora, and instead sat on her to subdue her; the body language of this scene, the contrast between the violence and the gentleness was extremely well done. All-in-all the movie was about an ambitious exotic dancer and a snot-nosed Russian rich kid; while there were moments of humor and intensity, overall this was a shallow jaunt through a seedy world that I'm not that interested in. Perhaps in Anora Part II, the Russian rich kid will return to America as an exotic dancer too.
I'm going to do this review in reverse, because it wouldn't be fair to you the reader, to put you through the same bait/switch routine that the filmmakers pulled on me. The last 5 minutes of this movie are outrageously disingenuous, and completely undermine the serious and thoughtful tone established in the rest of the movie. For approximately 1 hour and 55 minutes, Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci, and John Lithgow spar over subjects as serious as determining the will of God, and whether it is ever acceptable to choose the lesser of two evils. The setting of a Conclave, wherein the Roman Catholic Bishops must vote for the new Pope, is a compelling backdrop for discussions on faith, politics, and man's fallen state. And then, just like Tyler Durden splicing a single frame into a children's movie, it's revealed that the new Pope has a uterus. It's the "please return your seat backs to their full upright and locked position" scene, without the satisfying payoff.
For certain movies it will be a challenge to follow my current self-imposed guidelines of identifying two (2) elements that I liked, and one (1) element that I didn't like, but I'll do my best:
Coralie Fargeat's The Substance has an interesting premise, and its visual representation of that premise is bold and vivid. Fargeat's decision to deal with the topic of "not feeling comfortable in your own skin" by literally having someone new tear their way out of your body, gets right to the point. Some likely will refer to The Substance as an allegory of our society's obsession with youth and physical beauty; that would be an incorrect characterization, since an allegory implies some amount of shrouding the message, whereas The Substance slams it in your face.
Demi Moore and her offspring (outspring?), played by Margaret Qualley are well paired, reminding me somewhat of the casting of Tom Hanks and Michael Conner Humphreys in Forrest Gump. What I mean is that both sets of characters reference each other, and have certain mannerisms that remind of us the fact that these people, while different, are also the same. I really like that Hanks based his depiction of Forrest Gump on the performance by Humphreys, for two reasons: 1) Hanks, being the better, and more experienced actor could strengthen the entire film by studying and using components of the younger and less experienced actor's performance. 2) Since Hanks was playing the adult version of the character, it makes sense that he would incorporate mannerisms and speech patterns from the younger version of the character. In the case of The Substance, my impression is that Qualley probably made more of an effort to match her character to Moore's, but now I'm getting into semantics. My point is, go watch Forrest Gump.
All of the things that I liked were quickly overshadowed as the third act began, which was excessively long, bloody, gory, and "jello-y". I realize that I'm not the target audience for this kind of pop-horror schlock, and quite frankly I don't understand why anyone would enjoy this kind of movie. If I'm being honest, the climactic pre-finale was reminiscent of the opening scene to Blade, both being literal bloodbaths, and I've heard (although I've never seen it myself), that Brian De Palma's Carrie has the quintessential bloodbath scene. I'm not sure why I'm OK with the Blade scene, but found the one in The Substance to be pointless; perhaps it's because the Blade scene actually sets the stage for the story that's being told, while The Substance is just trying to disturb us. In any case, I think that it would be more accurate to refer to them as blood showers, since the blood is being sprayed from above, as opposed to being held in some tub or other container, but there I go getting into semantics again.
Starting with this review, and continuing until further notice, I will be writing a series of brief reviews, in which I identify two (2) elements of the movie that I liked, and one (1) element that I didn't like. I believe that you, the reader, will be able to determine my overall opinion of the movie based on the elements that I describe. At first I thought about steelmanning movies that I greatly dislike, but I think that would be disingenuous, so instead, I will be straight forward in my reviews, and let the substance of my analysis stand on its own.
I realize that 2023 was quite some time ago, so it may be helpful to remember that "multi-verse" movies were in vogue, and the makers of The Flash were contractually obligated to continue that trend. One day, in the future, someone will make a superhero movie that un-retcons all the garbage that took place from 2010 to now, but until then we just have to suffer through unimaginitive slog of comic book movies that think they're more clever than they really are. BTW - that rant doesn't count towards the review, it's just me setting the backdrop.
I really liked the way that Ezra Miller played the parallel universe Barry Allen characters, in the vein of Nicolas Cage's depiction of the Kaufman brothers in Adaptation, Miller went for subtle differences in the performances, which I liked, because in a certain way it is the same person.
Michael Keaton is great as Bruce Wayne, and as Batman - I mention both characters, because the distinction is important in this movie. In previous movies, Bruce Wayne is Batman, but in The Flash, Bruce Wayne is no longer Batman. Sure, it's the same schtick that Bogart used (in almost all of his films), but the more convincing the reluctant hero can be (of being reluctant), the greater the payoff when he finally dons the cowl.
Even after seeing the movie, I have no idea how being really fast rises to superhero status, or how this would be of much use. As I try to recall details, I seem to remember The Flash in a jet, in some nether-realm (with Nicolas Cage as Superman), in some typical suburban neighborhood, and running up the side of a collapsing building. My point is, the premise of the movie, just like its plot, and characters, lack coherence, and because of that, aside from the appearance of Keaton as Bruce Wayne and Batman, the movie is quite forgettable.
The following films are nominated for Best Picture this year. In my humble opinion, I believe that Oppenheimer should win. I sure hope that they don't give the award to Poor Things, since I'd rather that kind of movie not be promoted in prominence. If you're interested in finding out why I feel this way, just click on the corresponding link below.
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer is a film that is so devoted to examining the internal struggles of its title character, that all other elements fade into the background. The starkest example of Nolan's commitment to his vision, comes at the climax of the film, just as the world has learned that the United States has harnessed the power of the atom, into a weapon of incomprehensible power, this is the moment that Nolan focuses intently on the reaction of one man. This man, J. Robert Oppenheimer was integral to the development of the atomic bombs that the United States dropped on Japan to end World War II. Oppenheimer is portrayed as arrogant and cavalier as he begins the process of developing the bomb, but he is transformed into a sober prophet after he is confronted with the weight of his contribution to death and destruction. While Oppenheimer is the subject of the film, Nolan's real purpose is an examination of the internal struggles that that are common to the human experience. Nolan chose an extreme case, someone who has principles that don't align with any particular moral standard, but still struggles with the choices he makes and their impact on the world around him. In the film, Oppenheimer's finds inspiration from his mistress, but more than that, he is captivated by the way in which she expresses herself to him; she fulfills a desire that his wife does not meet. Or, perhaps he isn't so different from any other man, and is simply pursuing that which deep down inside he knows to be wrong. Whatever the explanation, Nolan explores the internal struggle that Oppenheimer has, between doing what he wants, and doing that which he knows will keep the peace with his wife. This examination of Oppenheimer's personal life mirrors the struggle that he faces in regards to the development of the bomb, as he pursues a goal that will have dire consequences regardless of his success. Nolan's affinity for exploring big ideas, with equally large films is approached differently with Oppenheimer, as there is intentional restraint in how Nolan handles the events that occur outside his main character's field of view. Most specifically, Nolan does not want this to be a war picture like Dunkirk, and he doesn't want a visual representation of dropping the bombs to steal the show; he knows that we already understand how horrific those things are, and instead keeps his focus on the man, as he struggles with the role that he played in making it happen. Considering gravity of the questions that Nolan examines, and the tension inherent between the contradictory answers, I believe that Bernstein would most definitely consider Oppenheimer to be a 'work of art'.
David Fincher's The Killer was disappointing on two levels:
Great films fall into one of two categories, there are those that are heavy, and need long periods of reflection between viewings, and there are films that aren't so deep, yet are masterfully made, and satisfy a specific kind of need.
Schindler's List, Saving Private Ryan, There Will Be Blood, and To Kill A Mockingbird fall into the first category, as it only takes one viewing to stick with you for the rest of your life. The Prestige, Casino Royale, The Bourne Identity, and now, Dune: Part Two, are in the second category, as these are films that remind us why we enjoy watching movies. You can count on the films in the second category to be there for you when you want to watch something good, but you're not sure what you're in the mood for; they're always going to be enjoyable, and you'll be glad that you watched them. Denis Villeneuve's Dune: Part Two fall squarely into the second category for the following reasons: The characters who we met in the previous film, who had minimal screen time, are more prominently featured in the second film, and it turns out that they have dynamic personalities, and make the plot more compelling. Specifically, Zendaya's performance as Chani was surprisingly satisfying; instead of simply being some exotic prize for the hero, it turns out that she's a strong-willed young woman, who discovers that, in spite of her better judgement, she has fallen in love with the hero. And I also like that the hero might not be deserving of that title... of course I'm pretty sure that things will turn around by the end of the third film, and he'll clearly be the hero again, but I like that within the context of the movie we're allowed to question his motives. This approach to storytelling is fun, because plays with our emotions, without going into the soul-searching territory that the first category of films explores. Character and story are important elements in the second category of great films, but let's be honest, it's the spectacle that primarily draws us in, and Dune: Part Two has plenty to see. Villeneuve recognizes that a great action scene cannot be the primary purpose of the sequence, but is an element which depends on a strong set-up, and must transition into a satisfying conclusion, otherwise the action was just an empty calorie snack. For example, the worm riding scene only could happen after a series of increasingly more difficult challenges, which were as much about character development as they were a prelude to the worm-riding climax. And riding the worm was never the point, as is demonstrated in the reaction shots, and the celebration in the scene that follows; changing hearts and minds was the purpose of the sequence, and Villeneuve is successful at conveying that message through his mastery of the medium. I do have mixed feelings about the score by Hans Zimmer. For the most part it was well matched with the film, i.e. it was complementary to all the other filmmaking elements. In certain scenes the score elevated the film, there was one scene specifically, where Zimmer seemed to be channeling Vangelis, and the energy in the theater was palpable. Yet, there were certain times when the score felt overbearing, and while I wouldn't say that it detracted from the film, it was enough to be distracting. There is so much more that could be discussed, the allusions to other great moments in cinema, the standout performances by Rebecca Ferguson and Austin Butler, the cinematography, the transitions from dark to light, makeup effects, etc., etc., etc. That's why Dune: Part Two has earned it place as a great film, there's so much to talk about, and that's really what will endure.
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
Let me describe for you my favorite scene in Barbie: Ken, a man who has been repressed his entire life as a second-class citizen in the world of Barbie, finds himself walking alone through an office park in Century City, where he starts to notice that things are different here in the real world... Men get to drive the cars, there's a poster of Stallone from Rocky III hanging in the gym, a man tells his female assistant to "wait a minute" while he finishes his conversation with two male colleagues, all the Presidents on the money are men, and then, without explanation the screen is filled with a montage of random men, some swimming, some wearing cowboy hats and smiling, and then the screen splits into three columns, each with a different image of Stallone. This entire scene is set to an upbeat rendition of the opening theme from 2001 Space Odyssey by Richard Strauss. I was laughing for the entire scene; the combination of the over-the-top visuals, and Ken's reactions made me feel a genuine happiness for someone getting to finally break free from his chains for the first time. I realize that this film has been characterized as woke propaganda, but if that's the case, why did Gerwig make Ken the most sympathetic, and most entertaining character? Barbie on the other hand is a woman who cares only for herself. She has no empathy towards Ken, but treats him like an accessory that can be tossed aside on a whim, like yesterday's bangle bracelet. All the women in Barbie's world are just as bad as she is; everyone is so shallow, defined by their occupations, not by the content of their character. From a man's perspective, I think that Gerwig is turning the tables on gender roles to make me recognize how annoying it must be to women that men take so many things for granted, like of course the next President is going to be a man! What I don't get is why Barbie is just as mean to Ken at the end of the movie, while Ken has actually grown, and is respectful of Barbie as an individual. If Gerwig's intent was to comment on society, and advocate for a world in which we all respect each other regardless of gender, then she would have made a unifying ending. Instead, it seems as though the ultimate message is that Barbie doesn't need Ken, and would be better off without Ken. The concept that a complementary relationship cannot exist without subjugation, and that empowerment requires emancipation, is extremely sad. Overall I found Barbie to be much funnier than I expected, and even though I found the message to be disheartening, at least Gerwig stayed true to her vision. It's great that Ryan Gosling is nominated for Best Supporting Actor, because he was absolutely perfect in the role of being a supporting actor. Women everywhere should be offended that America Ferrera is nominated for Best Supporting Actress, since the only thing notable in her performance was a monologue delivered towards the end of the movie, which sounded like something middle schooler would write about how unfair life is. Is Barbie a 'work of art' by Bernstein's definition? Guys, I've been writing film criticism about Ken and Barbie for the last 45 minutes, of course it was a work of art!
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
Celine Song's Past Lives is a sweet film, that left me feeling happy that I'd seen it. Jess and I watched it together, which made it all the sweeter. Occasionally I find that it's helpful for me to mention who I saw a film with, or what state of mind I was in at the time, because I do believe that our impressions of a film have much to do with what we bring to the experience. Not only was Past Lives sweeter because I watched it with my wife, but it just so happens that we had just finished binge-watching 1883 and 1923 (to fill the Yellowstone void in our lives). Watching those shows back-to-back was a depressing experience; there was one episode of 1923 in particular that made me consider selling my television on Craigslist... If I remember correctly, the guy who sheltered the runaway girl got killed protecting her, but not before finding that his son had also been abducted and killed. The same people who killed the father and son, previously killed the girl's grandmother, and were seeking to capture her because she had killed two nuns who had horrifically abused her. And yes, that was all in one episode. I mention these terrible things for two reasons, first, I found it to be somewhat cathartic, so thank you for letting me get that off my chest. And second, we need films like Past Lives from time-to-time as a reprieve from the the dark and cynical world that we live in. Past Lives tells the story of a girl from South Korea, who realizes that she has fallen in love with her childhood friend, just in time for her parents to move the entire family to Canada. In a certain sense the film is about bad timing - if only they had moved before she fell in love, her heart wouldn't have been broken. Years later, after she has moved away from home to New York City, she and her lost love are reunited over the internet, and reignite a relationship that is influenced by their fond memories of time together in South Korea, and by the hopes and dreams that they've had since being separated. It's unnecessary to describe any more of the plot, because I already described everything that you need to know to decide whether you might like this film too. Which brings us to the question, does Past Lives meet Bernstein's definition of a 'work of art'? I am happy to inform you that the answer is most assuredly yes. The subtle direction by Song is interested not only in what the childhood sweethearts say to each other when they finally meet again in person after 24 years, but what do their eyes say, and their body language, and most importantly, what don't they say. I would venture to say that the tension created by Song at the end of this film gives all the other Best Picture nominees a run for their money, except of course for one film in particular, but that's not fair, because its very subject is tension.
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
When asked about Martin Scorsese's most recent film, the writer/director Paul Schrader said, "I would have preferred Leonardo DiCaprio to play the role of the cop in Killers of the Flower Moon rather than the role of the idiot. Spending three-and-a-half hours in the company of an idiot is a long time." A few years back, I had a similar reaction to Scorsese's The Irishman, which had the potential of standing with his best work in the genre, such as Goodfellas and The Departed, yet it fell flat because it lacked clear direction. What makes Killers of the Flower Moon so disappointing is that it does have a fascinating premise; an Indian reservation where women are mysteriously being murdered, with a backdrop of an economic boom due to the discovery of oil, which has striking similarities to the the California gold rush c. 1849, which also was a time of rapid change and turmoil. Scorsese is a master of taking grand ideas, and bringing them to the screen in a way that is relatable, i.e. seen through the eyes of a single character who helps keep the audience oriented, while at the same time capturing that grand idea through his energetic style, and cinematic virtuosity. Alas, only hints of Scorsese's greatness make it to this film; the opening sequence with the Indians dancing in the fountains of oil was a strong start, if only it hadn't been followed by three-and-a-half hours in the company of an idiot. To add injury to insult, I don't believe that Killers of the Flower Moon meets Bernstein's qualifications to be considered a 'work of art'. This is too bad, because not only did Scorsese squander a promising premise, and the talents of a great actor, but he also failed to make it interesting enough to care about after the fact.
Paul Schrader's First Reformed is a character study in the most refined sense. In the film, Ethan Hawke plays a minister of a small church, who is struggling with his own faith, while trying to keep it together enough to help the people in his congregation. While the scale of this film is only a small fraction of what Scorsese tackled in Killers of the Flower Moon, the clear difference is that Schrader is successful in delivering a compelling film, while Scorsese failed to do the same. Perhaps "compelling" is to vague a description; what I should say is that while the film was unnecessarily slow, and while the finale was disturbing and out of place, Schrader kept my attention, and more importantly he provoked questions and ideas that kept me contemplating what I had seen well after the film was over. Now some might argue (and perhaps they're right) that the finale was so clear in its message to abandon faith and pursue carnal desires, that any of the thoughtful discussions and introspection that came before was instantly nullified in one fell swoop. I tend to have different interpretation of the ending, and since it only takes two opposing views to meet Bernstein's requirement that a 'work of art' has tension between contradictory answers, I believe that Shrader gets the win in today's matchup.
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
I think that the director Jonathan Glazer believes that his film The Zone of Interest provokes questions, and there are certain stylistic decisions that Glazer makes that are meant to convince us that we're watching an important 'work of art'. The path of least resistance would be to give Glazer a pass, and just accept that his film is a work of art because that's what he set out to accomplish. Not so fast. If we're going to utilize Bernstein's criterion for determining what qualifies as a work of art, then we must examine what the director delivers; if he fails to deliver, then his intent is inconsequential. Starting the movie with a few minutes of a black screen definitely is a creative choice, and it did make me ask, "why is the screen still black?", and "is the projectionist having technical difficulties?", and "oh, I get it now, but how long is this going to last?", but those aren't the types of questions that lead me to conclusions about the essential meaning of the film. Perhaps Glazer could have just started the movie without the black screen, and let the story speak for itself. The film is set primarily within a compound, which consists of an idyllic house and a beautiful garden, where the commandant and his family live right next door to the concentration camp in Auschwitz. Glazer doubles-down on his black screen idea, and decides that he'll gradually increase the frequency and intensity of the horrific sounds the emanate from the other side of the wall that separates the garden from the concentration camp. As the family goes about their daily lives, doing the laundry, and digging the weeds, we hear gunshots, shouts of distress, and screams of terror, followed by eerie silence, and a distinct column of dark smoke rising from the stacks not much more than a stone's throw away. The family members appear to be unfazed by the sounds that originate from the other side of the wall, it is as if there is no other side of the wall for them. While Glazer's decisions and cinematic techniques are quite interesting, they never rise to the level of being thought-provoking. I anticipated that a film with this premise would ask questions like, "how could a family digress to the point where they could find normalcy in such close proximity to evil and suffering?" Instead, Glazer seems content to suggest that the family, since they are Nazis, consist entirely of heartless and soulless creatures, that only have the appearance of being real human beings. Even the closing of the film, which consists of a modern-day tour of the museum at Auschwitz seems primarily to exist because all great movies that deal with The Holocaust must have a scene that ties everything to the present. From a technical standpoint, the film was well made, and even effective in its own way. Of note is the performance by Sandra Hüller, who plays the commandant's wife. While she isn't as disturbing here as she was in her Best Actress nominated performance in Anatomy of a Fall, she definitely has an onscreen presence that cannot be ignored. Overall I thought that this was a good film, but it clearly doesn't meet Bernstein's definition of a 'work of art' - if anyone cares.
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
Yorgos Lanthimos' Poor Things prompted me to ask quite a few questions, mostly consisting of a certain euphemistic initialism, but some were more specific, like "why am I here?", or "this can't get any more disturbing, right?", and "how is an actress subjecting herself to this kind of degradation in a movie directed by a man in this day and age?". So clearly, Lanthimos has created something that meets Bernstein's definition of a 'work of art', but he's also proven that art by that standard doesn't have to bring anything good or beautiful into the world, and thus the flaw in the definition is revealed.
I am not so naïve as to be unaware of the answer to the question about an actress degrading herself in a movie directed by a man. Let me suggest that human history consists of a series of schemes, in which men have used increasingly devious methods to seduce women, with the most insidious of these schemes being the ones in which women are convinced that they are being empowered, when in fact they are the prey. For the postmodernists who embrace the ideology presented in Lanthimos' Poor Things, this film must be a breath of fresh air, in a world that is oversaturated with Puritanical constrains, such as when and where it's socially acceptable to go to town on oneself. What is tragically comical about this concept of men manipulating women under the guise of enlightenment, is that not only are they getting away with it, but it's being celebrated by everyone involved. I wouldn't be surprised if Emma Stone (the actress/subject) of this film, gets the award for Best Actress for her performance, and if she does, she will most assuredly applaud the director, and make claims regarding how empowered she has become, and her desire to influence little girls around the world. I was going to go a step further, and suggest that it's also likely that Harvey Weinstein will be watching the Academy Awards from his jail cell, just kicking himself for not keeping up with the times. But I decided against it, having felt that I already pushed the boundaries of decorum with my "going to town" comment.
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
Justin Triet, the director, and Sandra Hüller, the star of Anatomy of a Fall, likely each have Bernstein's quote prominently tattooed on their wrists (thanks to the French Alps setting, Hüller's tattoo is conveniently covered by a sweater for most of the film). On its surface, Anatomy of a Fall is about a woman accused of her husband's death, which unfolds along the standard formula of an opening scene that establishes possible motive, the death, the investigation, and the trial. The trial scenes alone are worth the price of admission, since it is fascinating to see another country's legal process depicted. Yet what makes this film truly stand out, and why it meets Bernstein's definition of a 'work of art', are the questions that Triet provokes, and the implications that arise from the possible answers. Hüller plays a woman who certainly could have killed her husband, and based on the evidence, most likely did kill her husband, but the genius of her performance is that knowing whether she killed her husband is irrelevant. Somehow, by the time the jury reaches its verdict, we are more concerned with finding out what happens next, that discovering the truth isn't even on the table. Hüller's performance exemplifies the dilemma that we all encounter, wherein it is impossible for us, with full confidence, to know the contents of someone else's heart. Is the accused woman suffering a breakdown because her guilty conscience is catching up with her? Or, is she afraid of leaving her deaf son behind if she is sentenced for a crime that she didn't commit? Or, is she mortified by the thought of returning home to a son who suspects her of his father's murder? All of these questions are simmering below the surface, without a single one being asked out loud. For some reason, in my mind I keep comparing this film to The Fugitive, which didn't allow the audience to ask the same questions as Anatomy of a Fall, but definitely let its character be smart enough to ask some similar questions. Most obvious was Tommy Lee Jones' line when Harrison Ford claimed that he didn't kill his wife, to which Jones replied, "I don't care". I wonder if Triet and Hüller sat down together one day (perhaps they were sitting next to each other at the tattoo parlor), and decided to make a film from the perspective of the one-armed man.
The opening of Bradley Cooper's film, Maestro, is a title card with a quote from Leonard Bernstein:
“A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.”
As I begin to write a review for each of the movies that I've seen over the past few weeks, I keep coming back to this quote, and it seems like a fitting criterion for determining whether a movie is worth watching.
Maestro is definitely a film that elicits contradictory answers, as it is both an homage to a genius, and an unflinching depiction of an extremely self-centered man. Bradley Cooper both directs, and stars in this film about the American composer and conductor, Leonard Bernstein. On the surface, it would seem that Bernstein was an extremely passionate, and prolific artist; it is understandable that someone so obsessed with music would be disconnected from the people around him. From this perspective, one might argue that Bernstein should be excused for his selfish behavior because of his great contributions to culture. Cooper doesn't let Bernstein get off that easy, as it is clear that Bernstein understands that he is hurting the people that he claims to love, and consciously takes advantage of his position for his own gratification, at the expense of others. While Cooper lets us see both the good and the bad side of Bernstein, he avoids the temptation to either excuse the behavior, or condemn Bernstein, rather he gives us the whole picture, then cuts to black... Of course, that is an oversimplification of the film, as I believe that Cooper clearly has opinions regarding Bernstein, and Cooper most assuredly has strong feelings about finding the balance between being an artist and being a decent human being. One of the questions that Bradley examines is, would it have been better for Bernstein to narrow his focus, and commit to being just a conductor, so that he could be great at one thing without loosing touch with his wife and family? That Bradley is able to provoke this kind of question, while providing evidence to support different answers, meets Bernstein's definition of a 'work of art' from the opening quote.
