Here is simple and happy. That's what I meant to give you.

BEGINNERS (2010)

While it might be the oddest comparison to make, I feel it’s more than warranted to bring up here: a few eons ago, I posted a short blurb on Jean-Luc Godard’s Two or Three Things I Know About Her, one of the French auteur’s more radical films which chronicles the prosaic day-to-day activities of an especially hollow housewife. My biggest gripe with the film was that any substantial plot that could have possibly livened up the housewife’s characterization was completely buried by Godard’s intrusive social commentary. The distance he places between his focal lead – the housewife – and his audience is vast and not once are we allowed the opportunity to feel any sympathy toward this woman's plight. Instead, we find a narrative dressed up in sermons that never hit home as hard as they should; largely because said sermons are being delivered to us in a wet, soggy cardboard box that we have no interest in opening because the subjects within are flat and stale.

During the first few minutes of Mike Mills’ Beginners, I might have wondered myself what any of the rambling above had to do with the romantic dramedy. But as the film progressed and its dry tone settled, I couldn't resist likening Mills’ approach in Beginners with the same approach Godard adopted whilst shooting Two or Three Things. While Beginners lacks the incredibly imposed documentary-feel most Godard films seem to pride themselves on, there's still an excess of fluff: mentions of the Bush Administration, social issues and adversities faced by gays and Jews and heaps of pop culture references to fit the film’s 2003 setting. These are all harped on by Oliver Fields (Ewan McGregor) in intermittent segments that don’t necessarily disrupt the film’s flow in the exhausting fashion Godard’s narration does in Two or Three Things, but bogs the film down a bit (needlessly) nonetheless.

Beginners is something of a mishmash of three different relationships that unfold over the span of nearly five decades. All three are recounted by Oliver and done so in a manner that is never sequential. The first – an account of his parents’ marriage – is somewhat vague as we never catch a glimpse of his father Hal Fields (Christopher Plummer) interacting in the mix. Instead we follow Oliver and his half-Jewish mother Georgia (Mary Page Keller) as they learn to cope with Hal’s questionable absence from home. It’s revealed shortly after Georgia's death that Hal is gay and has been aware of this since the age of 15. The second “romance” involves Hal and his younger lover Andy (Goran Visnjic) and could be considered a waste of an arc; its only purpose is to illustrate Hal’s experience embracing his new gay lifestyle as well as the emotional toils that come with being out at the ripe old age of 75.

Thankfully, this narrative isn't too domineering. The third arc between our protagonist Oliver and well-traveled French actress Anna Wallace (Mélanie Laurent), however, is. Naturally so, of course, but it’s this arc that stems right back to my initial gripe with Two or Three Things; the romanticism and humanity of this relationship is lost at the cost of Mills’ desire to quirk-ify the story with historical anecdotes – from Harvey Milk to Adolf Hitler – littered with still photographs and illustrations that, sure, have a place and a point to make, but this shouldn't come at the expense of our chief characters’ development. These gimmicks sort of quashed any interest I had in seeing Oliver and Anna wind up together in the end. I found myself remembering Beginners more for Mills’ stylish frills than any of the characters on hand. The silver lining: the deadpan contrivances here won’t leave you as arctic cold in the way Godard’s hate letter to consumerism does.

7/10

What have we done to each other? What will we do?

GONE GIRL (2014)

There’s really no clear cut way to review a film with such high intrigue like the brand Gone Girl puts on display without ruining its magic for those looking for an uncontaminated viewing experience. That's to say, without having read the source material from novelist Gillian Flynn – who also penned the film’s screenplay – or coming across a spoiler or two online. This is essentially why I’ve held off putting together a proper write-up for the film; analyzing this one in detail is a tricky undertaking. 

Directed by the always meticulous David Fincher, Gone Girl could almost serve as a companion piece to one of the director’s most – arguably – respected films Zodiac. Both exemplify how to get under an audience’s skin in such an unsettling way without bulldozing cheap thrills at you through the screen. In Gone Girl, the thrills have substance and are built up to – not added in arbitrarily – in a painstaking manner.

We find the stove set to low upon meeting Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck) a magazine writer married to trust fund princess Amy Elliot (Rosamund Pike) who happens to be the inspiration behind her parents’ popular children’s book series titled “Amazing Amy.” The heat’s notched up a few degrees when Nick returns home one day to find his living room in complete disarray and his wife missing. After local authorities get involved, damning evidence against Nick – from financial woes to marital disputes – is revealed and suggests that he might be a prime suspect in his wife’s disappearance, bringing us to the film’s boiling point.

Gone Girl’s narrative style is hinged on diary entries written by Amy that catalog the many rough patches endured throughout her marriage with Nick. These entries are recounted in the form of flashbacks and are really all the audience is handed to go on in terms of piecing together “what really happened.” The novel apparently doles out an equal share of individual accounts – both Nick and Amy offer conflicting versions of their story – which likely renders the events that unfold a bit blurrier and gives the reader a harder time taking sides.

Flynn’s cinematic take is less balanced, however, and sculpts Nick as nothing short of an awkward scapegoat crashing his way into blunder after blunder. His responses to criminal accusations are flimsy, his history of infidelity is milked by a Nancy Grace-patterned doppelganger on television daily, and his brash behavior around Amy’s parents and “friends” does him zero favors in the "charm" department. Nick is in a bind and given little room to breathe – or properly defend himself from an unwanted media circus – whilst Amy’s version of their marriage is being held as scripture by detectives on the case. But as in most failed marriages, neither party is fully innocent, and it’s this nugget of truth that one must ponder before pointing fingers.

Having majored in journalism, I know firsthand how relentless the press can be and the wrath they can incite and the damage they can cause when covering stories similar to Nick and Amy’s. It can oftentimes be a traumatic scenario for the scrutinized victims targeted, but Gone Girl manages to almost make light of the proceedings. The area of biting satire this film falls in – noticeably so – by its halfway mark is that of pure, unadulterated social criticism. What’s depressing – or perhaps humorous depending on who you ask – is how Fincher nor Flynn really hold their magnifying glass devilishly close over the press or exaggerate the press’ motives and conduct with blatant malice. This is American media in its truest, nastiest form and as silly as the film becomes past a considerably wicked reveal, it remains a genuine portrait of how much influence the press has over a news-reliant society’s naiveté and how vital it is to take most headlines with a grain of salt. Given the pervasiveness of mass media in this day and age and how easy it is to access breaking stories riddled with fuzzy, unfounded details – and be consumed and swayed by them – simply by swiping your finger across an iPhone screen, the degree of influence is more than evident, and Fincher and Flynn have a real blast bucking the "news" machine in a most entertaining way.

But more entertaining than the character of “modern media” itself is none other than the Amazing Amy. While I normally stray away from commenting on performances, Rosamund Pike’s work here is worth mentioning. Without giving much away, I feel comfortable enough saying that she brilliantly embodies the idiom “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Her haunting voice work over the flashbacks greatly complements Fincher’s direction and her deliveries elsewhere are deliciously dreamy with just the smallest pinch of menace that really demonstrate the makings of a sociopathic film character bound to be lauded as “iconic” years down the road. Kathy Bates in Misery-iconic. She knocks it clean out the park. Also deserving of a mention is Nine Inch Nails frontman Trent Reznor’s anxiety-inducing industrial soundtrack. Gone Girl marks Reznor’s third consecutive collaboration with Fincher – The Social Network and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo being their first two joint efforts – and it by far stands alone as his most gripping outing with the director to date, which is only appropriate, seeing as how Gone Girl is high on the list of Fincher’s most gripping feature films.

 8.5/10