Movie Review: "American Hustle" (David O. Russell, 2013)

DO THE HUSTLE: WHY RUSSELL’S LATEST TRIUMPHS

by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Alessandro Nivola and Bradley Cooper in "American Hustle"

 

According to the great critic Manohla Dargis, studios always save their finest for Oscar season.  An exaggeration?  Not necessarily, especially when you consider that the tail end of 2013 produced both the clean grace of “Inside Llewyn Davis” and the glorious gluttony of “The Wolf of Wall Street.”  And while those movies may not have connected with everyone, there’s no denying that their witty eloquence and seriousness of purpose makes them well worth the watching.

But for some, the same isn’t true of “American Hustle,” David O. Russell’s sly romp of ‘70s-era skullduggery; indeed, a few reviewers have even accused the film of being coolly unemotional.   But I confess that I have a hard time understanding that perspective.  Yes, the film is rife with Mr. Russell’s dry humor, but beneath it is something else—the somber yearnings of the film’s protagonist, Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale).

            So what does Irving want?  In part, to make money—as a successful con man, he funds his lifestyle via both dry cleaning and profitable scams.  But more than anything, he cares about his partner in crime, Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams), who he understandably prefers to his monstrous wife Rosalind (Jennifer Lawrence). 

Unfortunately, what Irving doesn’t realize is that another player is about to snap the blocks of his existence out of place—the delusional FBI agent Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper).  And though Richie is one of the only characters in the film on the right side of the law, we quickly realize that if his inability to control his wrath doesn’t kill our two protagonists, his scheme to entangle them in a crusade against political corruption just might. 

            Needless to say, the stakes of Irving and Sydney’s trials and tribulations are high.  Yet as I watched them begin to rise, I was not certain that “American Hustle” had truly grabbed me.  Oh sure, I could tell that the film was elegantly assembled, but Irving and Sydney’s voiceovers recounting how they met struck me as too slick to be testimonials of genuine love.  Plus, the truth of Sydney’s motives seemed bizarrely allusive.  Who was she really helping?  Irving or Richie?  Often, the film seemed strangely content to leave that question unanswered, thereby inviting the audience to accept that they’d never quite grasp the story’s croissant-like intricacies.   

            And yet somehow, the giddy madness of “American Hustle” produces genuine feeling, especially when Irving becomes conflicted about conning Richie’s nemesis, New Jersey politician Carmine Polito (Jeremy Renner).  Carmine, we learn, is involved with the Mafia, and Richie is determined to catch him in the act.  But the tragedy of it all is that Carmine is actually is a good person and only wants the mob’s money so he can use it to help others.  Thus, Irving is left with a conundrum—how can he save himself and Sydney from Richie while also protecting his new friend?         

            Suffice to say, this is a troubling dilemma.  And yet the prevailing mood of “American Hustle” is one of joy.  Because even though there are moments when Irving looks so sad and saggy that he might dissolve into himself, the film spins as nimbly as Linus Sandgren’s rich camerawork, mixing sincerity and absurdity into a gleefully touching cocktail.  And in the end, what Mr. Russell seems to be saying through each scene is that even though it’s a mad, mad world, it’s sweet, and it’s ours.   

Movie Review: "Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit" (Kenneth Branagh, 2014)

OH, TO BE YOUNG AND HEAVILY ARMED:

“JACK RYAN” IS PREQUEL PROPAGANDA by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

 

 

Left: Chris Pine as Jack Ryan

 

 

Early in “Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit,” the very evil banker Viktor Charevin (Kenneth Branagh) makes a solemn declaration: “Mother Russia will be avenged.  America will bleed!”  It’s a hopeless promise, of course, because like all villains, Charevin is doomed to be outwitted by a resourceful and handsome hero.  But before you fault the fellow’s prophetic prowess, consider that thanks to “Jack Ryan”’s poor box office performance, the American movie business is at least bleeding money. 

I can’t say I’m disappointed, especially since the film has enough of cringe-inducing moments (a “cute” marriage proposal comes to mind) to make you wish you’d decided to see “Inside Llewyn Davis” a second time instead.  And yet despite that, “Jack Ryan” is not without its pleasures.  True, the movie is rather stupid, but it’s hardly unentertaining—something which distressingly few American blockbusters can boast of.

            Still, that’s no thanks to the film’s first act.  Following the example of Christopher Nolan’s “Batman Begins,” “Jack Ryan” purports to develop an emotional back story for its titular CIA analyst, beginning with young Jack (Chris Pine) getting wounded in Afghanistan and being offered a chance to put his intellect to patriotic use as a secret agent.  Then, before long, he’s undercover in New York, ferreting out terrorist financiers and attempting to conceal his activities from his girlfriend Cathy (Keira Knightley).    

I’ll grant you—as heroic histories go, this is fairly workable, if not nearly as memorable as Bruce Wayne’s boyhood tumble into the Batcave.  Yet there’s something disturbingly jingoistic about this new version of Ryan.  No longer is he just a good man doing his job (as he was in John McTiernan’s marvelous 1990 thriller “The Hunt for Red October”)—instead, he’s become a poster child for enlistment and unquestioning patriotism.  Oh sure, Jack is horrified the first time he’s forced to kill a man on the job, but any regret is hurriedly washed away by the triumphant Patrick Doyle music that’s played when a CIA handler presses a gun into our hero’s hand. 

            In such moments, “Jack Ryan” threatens to veer out of the realm of pleasing fantasy and into the very real minefield of propaganda.  And yet Mr. Branagh (who also directed the film) wisely drops that subtext and focuses instead on a thrillingly intricate series of events in Moscow, where Ryan attempts to derail Charevin’s dastardly scheme (which involves crippling the American economy via terrorism).  Thus, we get the expected fistfights and car chases, but also a giddily bizarre sequence in which Jack pretends to drunk, hoping to trick Charevin into underestimating him—a twist that makes the film genuinely suspenseful and gives Mr. Pine a chance to display the biting vigor he’s brought to the “Star Trek” movies.

             But should you stay in your seat after that?  Probably not.  Because even though the final act of “Jack Ryan” has enough adrenaline to keep your eyes glued to the screen (especially when Jack struggles to steer a bomb-toting van into the East River), the film simply isn’t arresting enough to make it more worthwhile than the numerous action movies that are available on DVD. 

And more to the point, the hard truth is that as competently assembled as “Jack Ryan” is (Mr. Branagh, who also directed “Thor,” knows from blockbusters), it fails to answer a key question: why does Jack Ryan fight?  To save America?  To save his loved ones?  Whatever the reason, it never registers strongly enough for us to truly want him to succeed. 

Movie Review: "Captain Phillips" (Paul Greengrass, 2013)

I AM THE REVIEWER NOW: A CLOSER LOOK AT “CAPTAIN PHILLIPS”

by Maxwell Meyers

Above: Tom Hanks as Richard Phillips

 

Who didn't hear the story about the Somali pirates that took over a ship and the heroism of one Captain Richard Phillips?  The answer is virtually no one, not least because the story is so incredible that it doesn't seem possible.  In fact, it sounds like a movie that some Hollywood writer would think up, beginning with the simple question, "What would you do if your boat was taken over by pirates?"

            Which brings us to the best picture nominee "Captain Phillips."  Directed by Paul Greengrass (of "Bourne" series fame), the movie stars America’s favorite actor, Tom Hanks, as the title character/real life captain, and Barkhad Abdi, in his debut role, as the leader of the Somali pirate gang.  They’re impressive, and I definitely think that the strongest points of the film have to be the acting.  In fact, Mr. Abdi's performance is so powerful that it garnered him an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actor (he’s also the one who gets to utter the memorable line, “I’m the captain now”).

Mr. Hanks, of course, was not granted a nomination, if only because the two-time winner was in a very stacked category this year and ultimately there weren’t enough nominations to go around.  It’s truly a shame because the things that make Mr. Abdi's performance so great directly correlate with Mr. Hanks’ performance.  In fact, together they have a chemistry that is electric, which is why I do not entirely agree with the Academy’s decision to nominate Mr. Abdi and not Mr. Hanks (although who doesn’t love the fact that Mr. Abdi is a limo driver turned Academy Award nominated actor?).

            Of course, “Captain Phillips” does a lot of things right outside the acting categories, which explains why it is up for the best sound mixing, sound editing, and best editing Oscars.  Still, I will be honest—I have a hard time distinguishing the difference between sound editing and mixing.  But as far as editing goes, this movie hits it right on the head and editor Christopher Rouse does an amazing job going between scenes with the pirates and scenes with the crew members and the navy SEALs coming to the crew’s rescue.  

            Still, there are some things wrong with “Captain Phillips.”  It does have the feel of a true-life event brought to you by the man who made some “Bourne” movies (which is not exactly a wonderful thing).  Plus, there are some facts in this movie that Phillips’ actual crew has said aren’t that accurate and more problematically, the third act of the film (where the pirate gang and Captain Phillips are on the life raft) drags a little.  It's mostly Phillips telling the pirates they aren't going to get away with this and they’re never going to win—all that classic dialogue that we have all heard before.

            That said, I won’t deny that by the time the film had concluded, I’d shed a few tears, especially because Mr. Greengrass does a fantastic job in making you feel for Phillips and the struggles he endures.  But at the end of the day, “Captain Phillips” is only alright—nothing terrible, nothing truly great.  Because of that, I doubt that it is going to take home best picture, though if you are looking for a taut thriller, a true-life story, and you enjoyed the “Bourne” series, then this is your movie.

I give Captain Phillips a B-.

Movie Review: "The Lego Movie" (Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, 2014)

THE TOYETIC FUN OF “THE LEGO MOVIE” by Mo Shaunette

 Above: Legos!

 

When I first heard that there was going to be a Lego movie I, like most of you, scratched my head.  Yes, the idea made sense in a sort of soulless, empirical way – movies based on toys have become popular nowadays, so why not adapt the biggest toy label out there? – but from my understanding, Legos don’t have any specific story in and of themselves, beyond recreations of genre iconography or just straight-up Lego’d versions of other movies, TV shows, etc.  At least the Transformers have actual identities filmmakers can work with (and then butcher), but Legos?  What, would the filmmakers have all the different Lego sets team up together?  Would Batman, Gandalf, the Ninja Turtles, and Shaquille O’Neil stand side-by-side against the forces of evil? 

As a matter of fact, yes.  That is exactly what happens and as a result, “The Lego Movie” is pretty much as amazing and funny as you might think it would be, while also being kind of an insightful riff on the very idea of a Lego movie itself. 

Of course, the film’s story is a conventional student of the Hero with a Thousand Faces playbook, beginning with its everyman protagonist Emmett (Chris Pratt), a construction worker living in a meticulously organized metropolis run by Lord Business (Will Ferrell).  However, everything changes for Emmett when a chance encounter leaves him in possession of a mystical artifact called the Piece of Resistance, whose user is prophesized to stop Lord Business from destroying the universe.  

Thus, a race through various Lego worlds begins as the newly-messianic Emmett, action girl and love interest Wyld Style (Elizabeth Banks), wizard Vitruvius (Morgan Freeman), and a host of other resistance members called the Master Builders try to outrun Lord Business’s forces and awaken Emmett’s true potential. 

It’s an entertaining journey, and it allows “The Lego Movie” to live up to its title and become the sort of animated feature that cartoon nerds like me dream of: a movie whose own aesthetic is so well-realized it’s actually a joke in and of itself.  The punch line?  That everything in this world is Lego, from the paper to the clothes to the water to the fire and smoke.  And though the filmmakers use 3-D digital animation, they employ it to make something that looks like stop-motion, and I cannot tell you how much it pleased me not only to see this style in play, but to see it work so well. 

What’s more, the cast doesn’t phone it in either—Chris Pratt still rocks the loveable goofball persona he mastered on “Parks and Recreation”; Morgan Freeman almost seems to be parodying his usual role as ‘important voice guy/God’; and supporting players like Nick Offerman and Allison Brie are almost unrecognizable in their roles, but still bring the funny.  Of course, all of them are outshone by my favorite of the bunch—Liam Neeson, who pulls double-duty as “Good Cop and Bad Cop” and plays with and against type as much as Mr. Freeman.

            But what of the story they populate?  That has to be mentioned because at the heart of “The Lego Movie” is, well, some actual heart—a surprise, since directors/writers Phil Lord and Christopher Miller have made a career of gag-fueled parodies that have trouble with sincerity.  Sure enough, when “The Lego Movie” tries to give its characters conventional story arcs, it comes off as off-putting, to the point that you find yourself awkwardly waiting for the jokes to come back.  And yet, once we get to the third act and certain truths about the story are revealed, there’s genuine emotion to be found.

            So certainly, that’s an achievement.  But maybe what I love most about “The Lego Movie” is its unbridled optimism.  In a Hollywood scene where nostalgia properties have to ‘grow up’ with their audience and sentimentality is shunned, “The Lego Movie” stands tall and says proudly that there’s no wrong way to play with your toys, so long as you’re playing with them.  And as a result, it’s funny, it’s gorgeous, and it’s a complete blast.

Essay: Sex in Movies

TRANSCENDING TABOO: A DEFENSE OF SEX IN MOVIES

by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Margot Robbie and Leonardo DiCaprio in "The Wolf of Wall Street"

 

“I had to get two penicillin shots so I could safely consummate the marriage.”  Those sneakily immortal words come from the mouth of millionaire Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) in Martin Scorsese’s “The Wolf of Wall Street,” a film in which consummation is an almost hourly act.  But surprisingly, there has been little astonishment among audiences at the film’s ferociously rampant sex scenes, even as viewers have gasped over the lovemaking of two young women in “La Vie D’Adele – Chapitre 1 Et 2” (better known here by its American title, “Blue is the Warmest Color”).

            Needless to say, there is a discrepancy here, one that I’m determined to address.  But I also want to draw your attention to another concern.  As long as I can remember, sex has been the ultimate taboo in film, something that has been encouraged to be suppressed or at least safely swathed in the crass comedy of films like “Wedding Crashers” and “The Hangover.”  This, in itself, is a form of censorship and it is the reason why I argue that it is time for us to accept sex as a natural part of serious movies, not only so we can become broader minded filmgoers, but so we can live our lives as fully as possible.

But more on that later.  First, we need to examine the place where I first encountered this ideological rosebush—Portland State University.  As some of you know, that esteemed institution is where obtained my film degree and had the privilege of debating movies like “The Bad and the Beautiful” and “The Searchers” with my classmates.  And it was during one such intellectual argument that a professor pointed out something that I have been unable to forget—that older movies were often constrained by the original motion picture code, which was designed to insure that all films would be appropriate for any audience. 

This concept immediately made me uneasy and as much as I love the classic Hollywood era, I still can’t help thinking that the code was a terrible idea.  Movies for everyone?  What had ever made anyone think such a thing was possible?  After all, not only are audience members diverse in age, but they have different tastes.  Brad Bird’s “The Iron Giant,” for instance, may be a G-rated movie that many people love, but I’ll never forget how unpleasantly creepy it was to my younger self.  As moviegoers we are, most inevitably, different.

Such differences are probably the reason why code-era filmmakers sought clever ways to tastefully imply sex and violence while adhering to the code’s strictures (only now do I fully appreciate the delightful dirtiness of Preston Sturges).  And, upon calling our attention to this, the aforementioned professor remarked that even though the code was a form of censorship, it was a blessing in disguise, an artistically nurturing limitation that forced filmmakers to be more creative.  In fact, he asserted that the sly innuendos of Mr. Sturges’ films were much sexier than the more explicit lovemaking scenes featured in modern movies.

I hope that I don’t take anything away from Mr. Sturges when I say that I disagree completely.  Yes, innuendos are a great cinematic pleasure, but surely they shouldn’t be seen as satisfying representations of actual intimacy.  After all, how can the frustration and ecstasy of desire be captured in cheeky witticisms alone?  And as much as filmmakers may adore the delectable art of insinuation, aren’t there times when it’s necessary for a movie to just break down and show two actors pretending to do the deed? 

That is, of course, exactly what “La Vie D’Adele” does and as a result, many people have accused the film of turning the romance between its heroines (played by Adèle Exarchopoulos and Léa Seydoux) into an erotic and unrealistic fantasy.  It’s a charge that many critics have fixated on, though personally I’m more concerned with the fact that no one has subjected the sex in “The Wolf of Wall Street” to similar skepticism.  Sure, the intercourse in Mr. Scorsese’s film is less explicit, but it’s far more pervasive.  Which makes me wonder—what does it say about our society that a film about two women in love has been savaged, while a film about a heterosexual man snorting cocaine off the breasts of prostitutes has been nominated for five Academy Awards?  Indeed, can you believe that anyone thought people would accept this homophobic hypocrisy?  That we’d accept this hypocrisy?

I don’t mind saying that I’m disgusted.  But identifying this problem also leads us to the root of another issue—the taboo against sex on film.  It’s the very convention that marred the public perception of “La Vie D’Adele” and the reason I feel compelled to point out that the movie is too ruthless in its reality to be the result of mere fetish.  But I also believe that artists and audiences both have a right to explore their erotic desires through creating and watching cinema.  Oh fine, I’ll grant you that doing so runs the risk of turning art into porn, but what does that really mean anyway?  Why shouldn’t we be turned on by a film that’s particularly sexy?  After all, moviegoers, whatever they may believe, are only human.  Woman or man, gay or straight, you’d have to be made of pure rock not to enjoy the sight of Leonardo DiCaprio or Adèle Exarchopoulos naked.

Of course, some viewers might be ashamed to admit as much.  But sex-driven artistry is already a part of moviemaking.  Just listen to director Nicolas Winding Refn’s summation of his filmmaking style in Entertainment Weekly: “It’s all about what arouses me.  It's about what turns me on.”  A foul admission?  I think not, especially when you consider that by cuing himself into his sexual desires and using them as inspiration, Mr. Refn made “Drive” into one of the most beautifully emotional movies of the new millennium. 

But I’m not arguing that sex should serve merely as a creative prompt for autuers—I’m arguing that we all have a hunger to see romantic and arousing sights in intelligent and easily accessible films, a hunger that we shouldn’t be ashamed to fulfill.  And by that count, Mr. Scorsese deserves applause for allowing “The Wolf of Wall Street” to double as both a serious meditation on greed and a crowd-pleasing sexual spectacle.  Because by milking his protagonist’s sex drive (which is best displayed in a hilariously nasty scene involving nudity and candle wax) for seductive entertainment value and creating a thought-provoking story, this seasoned director has done something spectacular—he’s made a movie that’s not trashy erotica, but is just as stimulating as if it were. 

Of course, asking people to openly relish such provocations might be suggesting too much.  But just think of the possibilities.  We’re no longer living in the days of old Hollywood restraint; filmmakers now have the freedom of NC-17 and R ratings and we, the audience, have the freedom to enjoy not only tantalizing innuendos and insinuations, but the sight of beautiful bodies onscreen.  And though doing so could be construed as an exploitation of actors, I can’t help feeling permissive.  Because after all, movies are an extension of our lives and to deny their connection to our fundamental physical desires would be to limit ourselves, both as viewers and as people. 

And that, above all, is why I believe that we should accept sex as a crucial part of cinema and proudly embrace the declaration that defines “La Vie D’Adele”:

“It’s beyond my control.”

Movie Review: "Inside Llewyn Davis" (Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, 2013)

STILL STRUMMING: “LLEWYN DAVIS” IS A MUSICAL MASTERPIECE

by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

 

 

 Left: Oscar Isaac and a cat

 

A silver microphone outlined sleekly in shadows; a bearded man lightly singing; an audience applauding with unexpected enthusiasm.  Those are the first images we see in “Inside Llewyn Davis.”  They’re snapshots of a performance at New York’s Gaslight Theater by the movie’s titular hero (Oscar Isaac) and under the soft, faded lenses of Bruno Delbonnel’s camera, his beauty is unmistakable.  But that doesn’t matter.  For though “Llewyn Davis” is visually wondrous, it’s a tale not of artistic triumph, but of drifting ambivalence and painful coincidences.

            In Llewyn’s case, “drifting” is a literal state of being.  Trying to make it as a folk singer in Greenwich Village (the film is set in the 1960s), he compensates for his lack of income by performing in cafés and couch-surfing with both friends and strangers.  In principle, Llewyn is proud of this penniless artistry (he scorns the comfortable domestication embodied by his sister Joy).  Yet we soon realize that depression is creeping up on him.  Llewyn may be devoted to his music, but he is also deeply weary, so much so that when he sings, his voice has a distracted, searching quality, as if he were floating out of the moment and into oblivion.

            You should know that the film has a similar nature, thanks in main to the estimable writing and directing of Joel and Ethan Coen.  Early on, they offer surprises (like Llewyn’s discovery that a former girlfriend has born his child) that tease the possibility of a melodramatic and inspiring narrative.  But that never happens; instead, Llewyn spends most of the story failing those who help him the most, including an older couple (Ethan Phillips and Robin Bartlett) whose cat he loses and a sickly man (John Goodman) whom he abandons by the side of the road.

            To be sure, any reality that includes such occurrences can’t help but feel bleak.  Yet there is a magnificence to “Inside Llewyn Davis,” and not least because of its bumbling hero.  Yes, Llewyn is a fallible and often cruel character, but there’s something oddly likable about him; even when he’s forced to leave the aforementioned cat alone in a car, the grim resolve etched on his face renders him both callous and sympathetic.  And it certainly doesn’t hurt that the Llewyn’s surroundings are smoothly easy on the eyes as well; from the green-walled bathroom he visits on an elegiac road trip to the snowflakes that fly by as he drives through the night, the film is never anything less than immense in its visual poetry. 

            Of course, that poetry depends on what you hear as well as what you see.  The music is of “Inside Llewyn Davis” is certainly excellent (T. Bone Burnett’s “Please Mr. Kennedy” is the film’s standout song), but the sound effects by Skip Lievsay are remarkable as well.  Against all odds, he’s devised a sonic signature for cars whizzing by that is markedly different from the masterful oral auto cues that Richard Beggs created for Sofia Coppola’s “Somwhere.”  In that movie, spotless vehicles roared dully, exuding a keening blast that evoked the film’s theme of soul-numbing isolation.  But tuning into the nimble grace of Llewyn’s world, Mr. Lievsay imbues each passing car with a well-rounded, airy whirr that feels at once gentle and all-encompassing.

            It’s details like that that make “Inside Llewyn Davis” so thoroughly watchable.  And that’s quite an achievement, considering how much the movie tests you.  To be honest, there were moments when its deliberately uneventful narrative made me hunger for something dramatic or romantic to happen.  For instance, would it have been too much for the Coens to let Llewyn make out with his gorgeous and foul-mouthed sparring partner Jean (Carey Mulligan)?  Maybe, but in the midst of the film’s ambling realism, I wouldn’t have minded a little emotional warmth and, frankly, a happy ending.

            Then again, “Inside Llewyn Davis” is not exactly unhappy.  At times, the film seems to suggest that life is tragically pointless, especially since it begins and ends with the same sobering scene (Llewyn being beaten in a shadowy back alley).  And yet, it is hard not to be cheered by the movie’s eloquence.  Why?  Mainly because the Coens conclude by suggesting is that existence is not comic or tragic, but instead sad, strange, awkward, bizarre, and, why not, very cool-looking.