Being blind was powerful. It made me listen...

THE OA – "HOMECOMING"

Binge-watching Netlfix’s latest catalogue of original shows (from Grace and Frankie to Master of None) has become a sport for me recently. “Addiction” is probably a more apt way of putting it; after binging through one, I'm immediately compelled to pick up another. If 2016 was good for anything, it would be the re-branding of television. Safe to say the medium is thriving largely in part of the role Netflix has played in breathing fresh air back into television’s forgotten clout, getting audiences to take notice in the process. The OA is no exception to the studio’s success.

Like with Stranger Things, I decided to walk into The OA’s first cryptic episode “Homecoming” completely blind – avoiding trailers, reviews, tweets, even plot details. Brit Marling (Another Earth) – who I later learned wrote and created the OA series – was a captivating draw from the outset. “Homecoming” introduces us to her character Prairie, an icy and reserved young woman who takes her sweet time peeling off a very thick shell that harbors very puzzling secrets. The episode opens with Prairie being caught on film leaping off a bridge to what we can only assume to be her death. However, she later wakes up in a hospital bed where she’s reunited with her adoptive parents and quickly inquires whether or not she flat-lined. Instead, she’s reminded that she was registered blind before she went missing so her parents are naturally astonished to find that she’s regained her eyesight.

Prairie’s intriguing, but convoluted rabbit hole of a cold open begins to spiral from there. We aren't given much to go on aside from a mission she’s committed to carrying out involving a man named Homer, who flat-lined several years ago. Toward the end of the episode, she assembles a slapdash team of random individuals she’s encountered since waking up to assist her in “crossing a border that’s hard to define” in order to locate Homer. This team includes a high school bully-type named Steve (Patrick Gibson) who has an arc in the episode that ultimately meshes with Prairie’s after she seeks out his aid for Wi-Fi help to, of course, track down Homer. 

Once the team of six rendezvous for an odd ritual Prairie’s arranged, she narrates her Russian origins as Nina, triggering the opening credits a full 58 minutes into the episode. We learn that Nina was not born blind but chose the loss of sight as compensation for life after a tragic bus accident. She makes this deal with an Arabic-speaking necromancer (?) who warns her of far worse tragedies ahead. The episode ends on this bleak note and leaves one to either pick apart the story and piece together theories obsessively or hold their breath for the next episode. Luckily, unlike network television, Netflix blesses us with the ability to binge through the series opposed to waiting a full week to fill in the gaps.

I want to refrain from theorizing this early on, but with a show like this that offers so much yet so little right off the bat, theorizing is almost warranted. Prairie (or, the OA) seems to have mapped out a clear enough objective – find Homer – for the audience to chew on, but “Homecoming” leaves a little to be desired as far as what our other players’ aims are. Take her adoptive parents for instance, Abel and Nancy, played by Scott Wilson and Alice Krige respectively. Both turn in stirring performances during their limited screen time, but outside of the opening reunion sequence, these two gradually fade into the background to make ample room for Steve’s arc.

The biggest takeaway in this first episode is without question the motif of family, specifically parenting. We’re offered small tinges of several parental archetypes: Prairie’s anxious adoptive parents, Steve’s cold, punitive folks and even a glimpse at Nina’s father’s harsh parenting methods as well as his ties to the Russian underworld. But oddly enough, we get more insight into the mindsets of Steve’s parents (negligent and detached) and Nina’s father (stringent in making her less of a weakling suffering from night terrors) more so than we do the most pivotal pair introduced to us: Abel and Nancy, the ones supposedly traumatized by their daughter’s disappearance, yet barely an utterance of trauma out of them, especially Abel.

I’m sure their characterizations will develop in later episodes, it was just a tad odd how they quickly became absent after Prairie made her way back to them. I’d also like to see the show delve more into the theme of isolation and depression since the Ocean’s Six of sorts that Prairie has formed all seem to suffer from some sense of loss and detachment from the outside world, thus rendering them outcasts.

“You don’t want to go there until your invisible self is more developed anyway,” Prairie informs Steve to boost his morale after being rejected by a high school crush. Perhaps that line can be applied to “Homecoming” itself and more will indeed unravel and develop as the show progresses into its own "invisible self," for better or worse. 

7.5/10

She learns what it feels like to see color

EX MACHINA (2015)

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; whether human or humanoid. Malevolent forces ride the undercurrent of Alex Garland’s 2015 sci-fi psycho-drama Ex Machina on every front, which focuses on budding programmer Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) who is selected by prominent software director Nathan (Oscar Isaac) to facilitate a Turing test on the company’s latest project: Ava (Alicia Vikander), an android programmed with sophisticated artificial intelligence.

The black box in Ex Machina lies within Ava’s ever-developing psyche and Garland utilizes much of her cagey nature to reach under his audience’s skin to implant a sense of doubt toward not only the suggested ‘protagonist’ Caleb, but also toward the suggested villain, Nathan. Confined in her small apartment (or rather, holding cell) we begin to sympathize with Ava and yearn for her liberation as much as she does. Enter psychological manipulation. As Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard once said, “there are two ways to be fooled: one is to believe what isn't true and the other is to refuse to believe what is true.” Without spoiling the film entirely, one of our ‘protagonists’ falls prey to both.

Ex Machina is a procedural on certitude; both the audience and the film’s characters themselves are left scratching their heads wondering who is to be trusted and who is to be probed. By the end, the measures each of these characters take throughout are pinned by some sense of liberation (even those considered “human”) and Garland allows us to identify with their plights through clever dialogue; albeit oftentimes cold. The film’s sleek cinematography (on a fixed budget) and captivating score only add to this mood piece’s nerve-punching atmosphere, allowing Ex Machina's slow burn pace to ebb and flow in tension without overdoing any theatrics.

8/10

The sport of wrestling is a low sport

FOXCATCHER (2014)

I was lucky enough to attend this year’s Savannah Film Festival where I had the opportunity to screen director Bennett Miller’s (of Moneyball and Capote fame) latest feature Foxcatcher. Following the hype leading up to this film’s premiere for several months prior, I was somewhat skeptical about what path Miller had chosen to lead former Daily Show correspondent and The Office alum Steve Carell down with such sinister material to tackle. The actor, who is typically known for his screwier turns in both cinema and television, abandons that jokey facade for heavy amounts of prosthetic makeup and chesty, monotone speech to undertake the role of anguished multimillionaire and convicted murderer John E. du Pont.

In future, some may reminiscence back on Carell’s performance here as a model example of casting against type, but if one were to scrutinize the similarities between Carell’s du Pont and his Michael Scott – as silly, and rightfully so, as that may sound – they might see that perhaps this wasn’t the greatest departure Carell has traveled outside of his element. Both Scott and du Pont are stubborn as mules, both are known for their varying levels of sociopathic behavior, and both strive for notability. However, acknowledging their similarities without acknowledging their differences would make for an unfair evaluation. And unfortunately, du Pont’s darker demeanor proves to be Carell’s Achilles heel. His Michael Scott brand of comedic stylings manage to somehow shine through in a noticeable way, robbing away from what could have made for a brutal display of spite, malice and vengeance in the hands of an actor with less of a fluff streak. That said, it would be absurd to call this an utterly botched attempt; when Carell goes to bat for this role, he really goes to bat for it.

Those unfamiliar with the 1996 murder of Dave Schultz needn’t worry about digging into the finer details of the events in order to follow the proceedings; Miller scants with backstory himself, which ultimately works in the film’s favor in terms of enhancing its bleak tone and leaving an arid taste in viewers’ mouths walking out. In fact, despite the vast amount of acclaim pinned on Carell, Foxcatcher is more of a warped Cain and Abel tale hinged on the relationship between two brothers, Mark Schultz, played by Channing Tatum and his older brother Dave, played by Mark Ruffalo. Both brothers are renowned Olympic world championship wrestlers, alas, while Dave is enjoying the fruits of his labor and is happily married, Mark is in flux, yearning to accomplish more with his burgeoning wrestling career yet seemingly incapable of reaching any higher highs. This is where John du Pont steps in to properly shake things up for the brothers.

Receiving an unexpected invitation from du Pont to enlist and train on a national U.S. wrestling team with its eyes set on Seoul’s 1988 Olympic Games, Mark becomes stoked about revitalizing his prospects in the wrestling game. He later asks his brother to tag along on his latest pursuit after relentless persuasion from the obstinate du Pont, but David is unyielding in relocating without his family in tow. So the entire Schultz family winds up on du Pont’s massive estate outside of Valley Forge where the affluent wrestling enthusiast’s neurotic side comes into clearer perspective; be it through rigorous training, a worrisome fascination with firearms or delusions of grandeur that range from being the savior of American wrestling to being a skilled wrestler himself. This dismal portrait of du Pont is painted at an accelerated rate and done so in a manner that leaves little doubt of du Pont’s deteriorating mental state in viewers’ minds. What’s left somewhat cryptic would be the motives underlying du Pont’s final act of terror – the eventual homicide of Dave Schultz – but given Miller’s and Carell’s depiction of the man on screen, deducting any conclusion outside the spectrum of the “unbalanced affluenza-ridden sociopath” variety would seem moot.

The categorically winning quality of this film is unquestionably the stony tone it grounds itself in. Perhaps with ironic intention on the director’s part, Foxcatcher’s brilliance rests in knowing how masterfully Miller was able to transcend a film surrounding a sport as violent as wrestling – not to mention a film illustrating an act as violent as the one du Pont committed – into such statically cold territory. Referring to Foxcatcher as “hollow” might come across a tad disparaging or even harshly critical, but the word’s used here as more of a compliment than a reproach.

The film never once allows you to draw in too close to any of its key players (as to analyze them decisively enough) du Pont especially. His goals are clear, his troubles are sparsely hinted at, and his nature is ruthlessly industrious, but this is all shown on a surface level. Miller restrains himself from delving too far into areas of du Pont’s life and the controversy surrounding the infamous shooting of Dave Schultz itself – on some novel, introspective level – that the public themselves aren’t privy to. Some may consider this a major flaw as it leaves a substantial amount up to one’s imagination, but to the contrary, the fact that Foxcatcher leaves you with so much to chew on after that final shot is a sign of exceptional storytelling, the kind that never resorts to spelling everything out or underestimating the audience’s intellect.

8/10

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

You are American; you think you can escape history

THE AMERICAN (2010)

There's a scene near the beginning of The American where George Clooney’s enigmatic Jack encounters a woman named Mathilde (Thekla Reuten) to discuss business pertaining to an assassination. Mathilde wants Jack to craft a custom-made rifle to be used in this assassination and Jack obliges her after requesting the rifle’s specifications in a suave, but monotone manner. The way this concise shop talk of theirs plays out is pivotal in that it sets the tone for the remainder of the film. It’s cold and mechanical much like the weaponry these characters handle for a living and offers no insight into their personalities. The audience is thus left with what’s on the surface; a shared interest (business) and little else.

As an obscure slow burn, American manages to work on somewhat of an atmospheric level thanks in part to Anton Corbijn’s (Control) gorgeous direction and keen eye for detail, but attempting to invest some form of emotional interest in Jack’s mission is where you begin to realize Corbijn's and 28 Days Later scribe Rowan Joffe's thriller slowly derail. The story (an adaptation of Martin Booth’s novel "A Very Private Gentleman") follows a particularly narrow line structurally. Jack, a hired gun who flees off to a remote Italian village following a botched assignment in Sweden is contracted with a final job through his handler Pavel (Johan Leysen) which involves designing the custom-made rifle mentioned earlier. During his stay, Jack is hounded by a Swedish assassin, considers seeking redemption with the aid of a local priest and falls head over heels for an archetypal hooker with a heart of gold. Each of these plot points, while not necessarily groundbreaking for the genre, might have worked to some degree on paper, but they lack weight on screen. None of what pans out during the course of this film is especially engaging, and therein lies the rub.

The Swede hired to kill Jack pops up intermittently and is only utilized as a tool to contrive tension here and there. The priest (Paolo Bonacelli) is introduced as a figure that might potentially play an important part in pushing the redemption angle, but his entire arc is ultimately squandered. And Jack’s relationship with dubious prostitute Clara (Violante Placido) suffers from an inadequate amount of character development, yet the film bookends on the notion that theirs was a passionate, yet tragic affair the likes of something Shakespearean.

It goes without saying that the film’s biggest hang-up is that each interaction referenced above is stale in execution, and a small share of the blame rests on Clooney’s uninspired screen presence. American is sort of akin to Michael Clayton in the sense that it’s a film that doesn't call for the actor’s trademark charm, but Clooney verges on being borderline comatose (as a contract killer, of all professions) it’s almost unnatural to think of him as anything other than a common tourist – despite some gratuitously placed tattoos. The script, of course, isn't without fault; ripe for a magnetic character study treatment, it fails to live up to its intrigue and makes little effort at cracking beneath the surface of Jack’s psyche.

At its best, American is reminiscent of Jean-Pierre Melville’s quiet thriller Le Samourai, a classic that also subverts the conventions films of its genre tend to abide by so often. Difference is, Samourai paces itself at a rate that holds the viewer’s attention with sequences that never stall the production, whereas American prolongs its more mundane elements (the assembling of a gun and its parts for instance) without much of a payoff substance-wise come the climax. Both low key shoot ‘em ups pride themselves on being succinct, but while one is firing on all cylinders, the other is firing on none.

6/10

Vows are spoken to be broken

MAP OF THE SOUNDS OF TOKYO (2009)

I could probably think of several worthier films to ring in the New Year with, but I’ve shelved this one long enough, so here we go. It seems that most films set in Japan – helmed by non-Japanese directors – share a common, irksome trait: the directors’ overzealous approach in exploring the cityscape, various customs and foreign lifestyles which, of course, is aesthetically pleasing, but ultimately transforms their work into a lengthy travelogue that turns out to be more taxing than enjoyable to sit through. Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation – which I really admired for its ethereal quality – suffered from “travelogue” syndrome in a few areas; focusing more on setting while leaving scant room for story, but at least Coppola was considerate enough to imbue some life into her script in terms of characterization.

With Map of the Sounds of Tokyo, Coppola’s fellow Japanophile Isabel Coixet (Elegy, Paris, je t'aime) not only managed to strike me as a travel agent under the guise of a filmmaker, but also as someone who seems overenthusiastic about bathing their film in ornate visuals to cover up a weak story. However, despite being a prime example of style over substance, what Map does well, it does extremely well.

The film opens with a gratuitous nyotaimori scene, showing a roomful of international businessmen eating sushi off the chests of five or six nude women, but radical feminists needn't concern themselves because Coixet makes sure to wag her finger at the practice by having the film’s soon-to-be griever Nagara (Takeo Nakahara) frown upon the display. But here’s the real kicker: the very same women are shown again in an arbitrary shower scene mere seconds after Nagara receives a distressing phone call informing him that his daughter has committed suicide. Not only is it one of the most out-of-place – and tasteless – scenes I’ve seen in, well, years, it’s also a mark of the poor craftsmanship and integrity that exudes in this film; not to mention the insufficient cultural research that was most likely doled out during production.

Nagara – alongside his faithful associate Ishida (Hideo Sakaki) – eventually discovers that his daughter’s suicide may link back to her recent breakup with David (Sergi López), a Spanish wine-seller based in Tokyo. Distraught over Nagara’s suffering, and personal matters of his own, Ishida hires Ryu (Rinko Kikuchi) – a fish-market employee who doubles as a hit-woman – to kill David and attain retribution. But Ishida’s act of vengeance is put on the backburner when romance blossoms between Ryu and her target.

What really threw me for a loop is how Coixet incorporates the film’s fifth player: a character simply referred to as “the narrator”, played by Min Tanaka, who gives a spectacularly nuanced performance, but like the rest of the cast, is cheated of better material. His intriguing setup in the beginning – from his observational musings of Ryu’s silent nature to his odd profession of audio engineer (one who records prosaic, but distinctive sounds) – is completely ousted the moment David and Ryu’s series of romantic trysts comes into play. Tanaka provides one hell of a compelling character, and it’s almost upsetting the way Coixet tunes out his potential. Having a narrator recount the story is swell, but if a director opts for the unconventional route and decides to play up the narrator’s role as a pivotal character, they should at least leave room for effective characterization.

The “love story” between Kikuchi and López that shadows any evidence of the narrator’s existence is largely forgettable, even bland compared to the quaint aspects of Tanaka’s few scenes. But like Tanaka, Kikuchi and López manage to somehow transcend the spiritless dialogue they’re given – animating flat lines in semi-coherent English – and their chemistry, while not electrifying, revolutionizes the norm. As I mentioned above, Coixet’s fixation here is clearly on visuals; capturing the colorful and “cute” features of Japan – all relatively embellished to re-establish the setting in case the viewer forgets – but her general handling of the scenery remains solid throughout, noteworthy even. Unfortunately, the compliments wane there. Pure technical exercise – and visual eye candy – opposed to an engrossing experience, Map of the Sounds of Tokyo exhibits ambition on the surface, but very little underneath.

6.5/10

There's something terrible about reality

RED DESERT (1964)

It’s amazing what color can do for a film. All that was sterile and desolate in Michelangelo Antonioni’s prior black and white films seem to take on a more cryptic form in Red Desert, the Italian director’s first foray into color film. The film’s working title – Celeste e verde or Light Blue and Green – denotes the significance of color in this postmodern landmark and Antonioni makes spectacular use of his resources to utilize dull, pastel colors as a means to illustrate the film’s jarring atmosphere. Being Antonioni’s first color film, his approach in Desert is unique and experimental, but reminiscences back on familiar themes – isolation, modernization – from his earlier films.

We find the director breaking new ground that allows him to express these themes more cognitively than ever before – while L’eclisse was primarily dependent on its bleak cinematography, Desert gave Antonioni free reign to manipulate environments with color; having his crew coat the ground and surrounding debris with muted colors and spray-paint forests black are just two examples. It was all an incentive to emphasize a haunting, but beautiful industrial world, one that Antonioni held no qualms against, but was in fact fascinated by. In the opposite corner is his protagonist – played by muse Monica Vitti – who reacts aversely to this world and shields herself from the reality of her condition. What Antonioni seeks to convey most in this film is that Giuliana’s neurotic tendencies are indeed amplified by her stark surroundings, but the root of her maladies runs much deeper than the director lets on.

Vitti plays Giuliana, an unhinged housewife recently released from the hospital after a severe car accident – which we later learn was the result of an attempted suicide. She feels estranged from her husband Ugo (Carlo Chionetti) a plant manager who is very much aligned with modernization and often dismisses Giuliana’s condition in order to make sexual advances. Giuliana’s anxiety also hampers her ability to connect with her son who, like his father, seems more inclined to adapt to industrialization than shun it. She's eventually introduced to Ugo’s partner Zeller (Richard Harris) who’s in Italy for business and appears to understand her troubles far more intuitively than her husband ever has. But what appears to be a budding romance on the surface for Giuliana and Zeller ultimately foreshadows their inability to communicate with each other.

There’s something deceptive, but compelling about the relationship that develops between Giuliana and Zeller. Although both manage their plights from two different ends of the spectrum, they relate in feeling alienated from the industrial world. We're able to discern that these two characters are at a compromising stage in their lives, yet neither is willing to compromise with the society they live in.

As the film progresses it becomes clear that both Giuliana and Zeller seek to avoid this bourgeoning society filled with factories and large scale manufacturers, but despite feeling so close to one another, there’s still some dissonance in their communication. Zeller, with all his machismo and fortitude, has successfully realized his fantasies of escape – he’s constantly traveling to recruit new workers from all over. This, however, is merely an illusion of escape, and by the end of the film Giuliana – who’s bound to the objects and people around her, thus incapable of escaping – realizes that she can no longer seek refuge in a man who’s just as crippled as she is.

Apparently Ingmar Bergman – one of my favorite directors of all time – detested Monica Vitti’s performance in this film, but amusingly enough I’d rank Vitti’s work in Desert alongside Ingrid Thulin’s best in any of his films, including The Silence. I suppose he found her a pinch too intense, but the most difficult aspect about playing neurotic characters is finding a balance between going too far and not going far enough. The mannerisms, ticks and nuances that comprise the standard unstable protagonist pose a complex challenge for actors; a single slipup could prompt a comically theatrical performance. But Vitti manages to circumvent caricature and achieve a remarkably understated portrayal of a woman inflicted with severe neurosis without taking things too far.

I suppose Desert can be interpreted as a grim social commentary on industrialization, but as I mentioned above, Antonioni actually loved the idea of progress and found factories beautiful – obviously they played a large role in inspiring the film's concept. The art direction only further confirms this; blurring out characters and placing objects in the foreground to insinuate the importance and potential of technology, etc. As for Giuliana’s cold reception to the modern world, Antonioni’s merely suggesting that many individuals – especially during the industrial revolution that was unfolding during this period – were unable to adapt to such a social metamorphosis and therefore were impaired psychologically. Giuliana is a representation of those who failed to make the transition from the natural world to the industrial one, and Vitti's performance encapsulates that demographic wonderfully.

8/10

What kind of man are you?

LE SAMOURAI (1967)

I was first introduced, cinematically, to French filmmaker Jean-Pierre Melville in Godard’s Breathless, where he makes a rather satirical cameo appearance as a highbrow novelist near the film’s climax. Little did I know that the man I was watching churn out existentialist nonsense was also the man behind a number of exceptional films including Les enfants terribles, Army of Shadows, and of course, the film I’ve decided to review, Le Samourai. Some of his more enthusiastic contemporaries have actually dubbed him as the “father of the French New Wave,” but naturally, many – including myself – would argue otherwise.

He followed the New Wave rules of thumb (filming on location, working on a budget, etc.) but like most foreign directors, he was also known for conforming to American influences; drawing comparisons between Samourai and noir films like This Gun For Hire isn’t exactly a chore. I suppose this western charm was one of many factors that contributed towards his success, but despite Melville’s mainstream appeal, the fact remains that he established himself outside of the studio system, preferring to adhere to his roots in New Wave cinema throughout most of his career. Samourai is a great example of how he trades in big-studio customs for a more subtle, independent approach. Melville took a typical "genre film" and reworked the more conventional elements in order to craft something truly abstract. Samourai is slow, meticulous, and unwavering; attributes you wouldn’t expect in a standard, shoot-em'-up thriller, but here they work beautifully.

The film opens with a line written by Melville that refers to the film’s Bushido (“Way of the Warrior”) influence: “There is no greater solitude than that of the samurai unless it is that of the tiger in the jungle… Perhaps…”. Following this seemingly cryptic text, we’re introduced to our “samurai” who goes by “Jef Costello” (Alain Delon), a contract killer hired to off a nightclub owner. Like clockwork, Costello devises a methodical double-alibi – involving his girlfriend (Nathalie Delon, Alain’s real-life wife) and a late-night card game with a group of shady individuals – before he commits the crime.

Despite these painstaking measures, he’s eventually apprehended for homicide, but is let off due to insubstantial evidence supporting his arrest – although the station’s inspector (Francois Perier) remains a bit overzealous about indicting him. But this isn’t exactly good news for Costello. His employer wasn’t expecting him to get caught, so in classic gangster vein, Costello’s contractor orders one of his goons to dispose of him. Making matters worse, the dogged police inspector from earlier becomes determined to somehow fetch Costello and charge him for the murder. With fluid, ninja-like strategies, Costello must now avoid two oppositions who are tracking his every move.

Samourai isn’t traditionally “New Wave”, but it also isn’t built around an accelerated plotline with stylized action sequences. What I loved most about Samourai was its ability to move fast at a slow pace. Melville is instinctively aware that the audience’s excitement lies in the mounting tensions before the action takes place, and that’s essentially what this film is; a large build-up of tension. There’s only two moments of fatal violence in the entire film – one at the beginning and one at the end. Both scenes are almost identical in execution and in a way bring the film full circle. The events that occur between these crucial moments are conveyed in the most minimalist manner and handled with a controlled sense of direction; Samourai knows where it’s going and how it intends to get there.

Dialogue is scarce and only implemented when absolutely necessary. Character development is motivated by plot, not vice versa. Costello’s actions and mannerisms are subdued in even the most hostile environments. It’s, oddly enough, – given the genre – a quiet film, but it makes sure not to sit statically in place. The story doesn’t exactly echo the high-octane antics of the Bond or Bourne series’, but it manages to come across as far more genuine in terms of the way an expert in this field would actually behave. Naturally, the film has its inauthentic moments – there isn’t a police department I can think of that would dispense that much manpower for a single homicide case – but nonetheless, Samourai is still a gem to behold. It’s truly cinema in its finest, most succinct form.

8.5/10

Will time pass and roses fade?

POETRY (2010)

German art director Hermann Warm – known for his distorted set designs in Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari – once said that “films must be drawings brought to life,” and if there was anyone who knew how to breathe expressive verve into a film, it was Warm; his work in the early years of German film not only spoke for itself, evoking dark pathos through mere appearance, but also established the art director as a key figure in the birthing of German expressionism.

While watching Lee Chang-dong’s Poetry, Warm’s quote felt incredibly relevant to what Chang-dong had achieved on screen; his ability to balance both heavy and light themes through visual projection without resorting to the conventions of sentimental tearjerkers – instead framing the often disregarded beauty of everyday life around perverse subject matter – is warm, breathtaking and, despite the events that unravel, an uplifting experience. It’s a reaffirmation that beauty can be found in even the bleakest of circumstances, the coldest of individuals; all explored in Chang-dong’s grim illustration inspirited by the joys of life and nature.

The opening of Poetry struck me as a throw-back to Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria, except here our drownee’s motives were intentional; we find the body of a schoolgirl floating facedown in a riverbank, muddied up, lifeless, and eventually learn that she decided to commit suicide after months of being raped by a group of six schoolboys. One of these schoolboys happens to be the ill-bred grandson (Da-wit Lee) of Mija (Jeong-hie Yun), a woman in her sixties weathering through bouts with Alzheimer’s and barely scraping by on government subsidies and a part-time maid job; yet her wardrobe is considered “chic”.

Said to have a “poet’s vein”, Mija enrolls in a poetry class that challenges her to “see” the beauty around her and become inspired by it. Of course, this proves difficult after being approached by the father (Nae-sang Ahn) of her grandson’s friend Kibum who requests that she – along with the fathers of her grandson’s other pals – persuade the suicide victim’s mother to settle outside of court; obviously to avert media spectacle and ensure their sons' futures. Cornered on all sides by apathy and immorality, Mija struggles to attain the perception she needs to reach the zenith of poetic inspiration.

The capacity at which Chang-dong streams his ideas in Poetry – both sentiments of beauty and the fouler aspects of humanity – is unwavering and cements his capability as a director with a point to nail. His concrete look at corruption isn’t brutal or gritty, but rather understated and unobtrusive, yet still effective in elucidating the film’s major themes.

Chang-dong manages to contrast elements of beauty with despair in many scenes; one of my favorites being Mija’s lighthearted conversation with the victim’s mother out in the boondocks about gorgeous scenery, apricots and bountiful harvests, all wonderful subjects, but none pertaining to the dark incident she came there to address. Earlier we find Mija in a doctor’s office being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, scrutinizing a bouquet of artificial camellias – which she describes as “flowers of winter, flowers of pain,” providing another instance of anguish found in something beautiful. The way that Chang-dong presents his motifs is crystallized to a point of immediate comprehension, but much of Poetry’s basis, like actual poetry, is left to the viewer’s own interpretation.

The ingenious placement of benign, restrained actress Jeong-hie Yun amongst such self-interested and crooked characters – in itself – is an uncovering of beauty within corruption, leading us to posit the film as a metaphor for something specific, yet the depth that Chang-dong hollows out from such a simple story is practically bottomless; infinite readings can be spun from his creation. Poetry’s final shots are brilliant, summing up 2010’s most touching film with lines from Mija’s poem that symbolizes departure – death – but in a manner that portrays it as something splendid.

9/10

It takes two to love, as it takes two to hate

THE LAST METRO (1980)

Overlooking its penchant for melodrama and formalism as well as its domineering theatrics, Francois Truffaut’s The Last Metro strikes a personal, humanistic chord that rang more introspective than I had anticipated. Perhaps the prevalence of war motifs helped anchor the nuances of realism found underneath Metro’s gaudy color palette, but the way confinement is perpetrated as this powerful central theme is poetically human.

What’s most fascinating about Truffaut’s approach in Metro is the way he perceives the foreboding grip that Germany held on France during their occupation in World War II; it’s subtle, yet simultaneously intense. The cliche of Nazi Germany’s menacing ways also isn’t illustrated quite the way you’d expect in Metro; in fact, it’s virtually absent. However, the hostilities that France was subjected to during Germany’s occupation echoes loudly in Truffaut and Suzanne Schiffman’s script. But the nature of war and marginalization eventually take a backseat to a more romantic tale.

The Last Metro documents the trials of Theatre Montmartre, a French theatre struggling with censors and other torments during Germany's occupation of Paris. Marion Steiner (Catherine Deneuve), the director – and in some senses matriarch – of this theatre somehow handles distressful predicaments with calm and ease, including the sheltering of her Jewish husband and former theatre director Lucas Steiner (Heinz Bennent) from the Nazis. From the theatre’s cellar, Lucas begins to use Marion as a conduit to oversee production of an upcoming play via notes, suggestions and even light criticisms toward Marion herself. The integrity of their marriage is ultimately tested by Bernard Granger (Gerard Depardieu), an aspiring resistance member who plays Marion’s romantic opposite on stage.

Metro accomplishes all the standard truisms you’d expect to find in a melodrama centralizing on the theatre; backstage elements, scandalous affairs, etc. But what separates Metro from films like To Be or Not to Be is the painstaking detail imbued into Truffaut’s script. A great portion of this detail can be accredited to Truffaut’s childhood, which saw accounts of black marketing and the like on several occasions. Subtleties like women drawing stocking facades on their legs or Parisians smuggling black market hams in cello cases – instances all witnessed by Truffaut – serve as a distinctive border between Metro and his other melodramatic works; see The Story of Adele H.

The strict confinement of action to Theatre Montmartre is my only quibble with Metro, yet this sense of confinement has a way of alienating the viewer in the same way Lucas is alienated in his cellar, so perhaps it’s simply clever symbolism on Truffaut's part. Deneuve, Depardieu and Bennent all play their roles convincingly enough to pull off a rather complex love triangle, but the element of romanticism is undercut by the vagueness of this triangle; which is especially vague in Lucas’ sudden familiarity with Marion’s affection for Bernard. There’s also a little resistance subplot involving Bernard that materializes infrequently alongside the central plot; an exciting angle wasted.

Although I don’t view Metro as an actors’ film where mesmerizing performances take center stage – though Deneuve performs wonderfully outside her element – it does manage to convey the climate of occupation realistically as well as the conditions that Jewish civilians in France lived under during the war. The notion of displacement and the subsequent pathos that emerge is a remarkably profound subject, and the script is more than effective in getting that across. Having only seen a handful of Truffaut films, I’d rank Metro amongst my favorites.

8/10

Why deny the obvious necessity of remembering?

HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR (1959)

Far from my favorite nouvelle vague director, but equally far from the ones I abhor, Alain Resnais’ individual approach to themes of memory and forgetfulness has never seemed quite as fundamental as it does in Hiroshima mon amour. Where Last Year at Marienbad was cleverly abstract and even a bit daunting, Hiroshima seems to cater more to the layman unfamiliar with Resnais’ work. Its atmosphere is also more accessible in the sense that it envelops a crisis we’re all familiar with – the atomic bombing of Hiroshima – and analyzes the notion of how similar events often have a way of re-socializing individuals for better or worse. At heart, Hiroshima is a story of love and intimacy, but layering that is a trial between two lovers burdened by traumatic pasts, somehow managing to cope with life after tragedy.

Like Marienbad, the lovers followed in Hiroshima remain unidentified throughout the course of the film. The opening sequence is not unlike a documentary in detailing the morbid devastation caused by the Hiroshima bombing in 1945. Narrating this sequence is an actress, referred to as “She” (Emmanuelle Riva) by most critics, filming in Hiroshima who becomes embroiled in an affair with a married Japanese architect referred to as “He” (Eiji Okada). After their brief fling, the two prepare to part ways, but find themselves constantly gravitating back to one another. Through poetic vignettes and reminiscent dialogue, they begin to reflect on the bombing’s aftermath, gradually reaching a sense of Riva’s past and how it juxtaposes the terror witnessed by the victims of that fatal August morning.

The structure that Resnais employs in Hiroshima has a more conventional feel to it than the hodgepodge of contradicting scenes in Marienbad. The memory motif is also more effectively realized here, as flashbacks to Riva’s past are introduced with lucid, but subtle cuts. Perhaps all that was innovative and uniquely disorienting in Marienbad is lost on Hiroshima, but the unambiguous path from beginning to end is far and away more reassuring. In fact, many of the concepts Resnais attempted to convey in Marienbad seemed more deliberated and thought out in Hiroshima. The idea of forgetfulness, a theme returned to occasionally in Hiroshima, reaches its boiling point in the film’s climax as Riva’s character becomes a symbol of love’s forgetfulness and the brevity and dismay that culminates after a compelling affair.

Hiroshima is largely successful in depicting the mythos of memory on-screen on a personable level, making it easier for viewers to relate to the story in some individual sense. The lovers here aren’t statues or phlegmatic puzzle pieces we’re forced to jam into some convenient slot in order to understand. They’re carefully developed individuals who, for lack of anything else, demonstrate the draining of self and identity more powerfully than I’ve witnessed in any Resnais film thus far. Hiroshima is certainly a landmark of its genre and traces of its influence are notable in the works of many classic and modern filmmakers. For me, it’s one more step towards fully appreciating Alain’s craft.

8/10

Welcome to the live funeral party of Mr. Felix Bush

GET LOW (2009)

A concept that has Robert Duvall contemplating a living funeral with Bill Murray as the ceremony’s overseer suggests a nice dosage of dark humor, but save for Murray’s predictable follies here and there, Get Low – cinematographer Aaron Schneider’s debut feature film – posits a more meditative experience than one of satirical proportions. Just imagining what the Coens could have produced with this material sort of spoils Schneider’s work, because by Duvall’s second or third vague rumination, you begin to wonder how those ingenious brothers would employ some of their wry comic relief to spice up the script. Sure, it’s nice to mull over the story’s many nuances, but the notion of “what could have been” remains taut throughout the bulk of Low. The performances are on point, the cinematography is stellar, but the meat of this stew is standard at best.

The year is 1938 and Felix Bush (Robert Duvall) is introduced to us as an elderly hermit whose will to live is waning. Bush is the stuff of legend around town and his history is surrounded by wild allegations, most of which he has little interest in addressing. Instead, he decides to orchestrate his own funeral prior to actually dying in order to hear what his fellow townsfolk have to say about him. Without divulging his full intentions, Bush hires huckster funeral director Frank Quinn (Bill Murray) and his protege Buddy Robinson (Lucas Black) to promote the ceremony and attract a huge crowd for the roasting. The only problem with Bush’s “get out of jail funeral” is his reluctance to actually face the transgressions that have locked him away in solitude for the past forty years.

The redemption motif has been explored exhaustively in cinema, so to explore it further in uninspired detail without any quirks or deviations makes for a bore. Since Low guns for pensive drama opposed to cynical romp, I wanted to see a bit of revelatory progression, a shift from focusing on the funeral’s preparation – and every arbitrary story arc in between – to focusing more on the enigma that is Felix Bush.

There isn’t nearly enough runtime to split equally amongst the cast – especially with such a multifaceted character like Bush on the table – yet Schneider tries to make scant room for everyone, foiling the film’s pace and depriving Duvall of his rightful spotlight. But I suppose these flaws can be compensated by the cast’s magnetic chemistry; they’re all believable in their roles sans any melodramatic contrivances.

A tad forgettable, but pleasant enough to sit through at least once, Get Low provides a slew of interesting themes that are only lightly touched on. But with performances from seasoned pros like Duval and Murray, it’s hard to completely write off Schneider's first effort.

7/10

Games are for people who don't care enough

SUMMER WARS (2009)

Mamoru Hosoda’s Summer Wars finally made its way to the top of my Netflix queue and its timing couldn’t be more appropriate. In the midst of Japan’s recent disasters, it’s hard not to reflect on themes pertaining to family, and the relationship between the quake and Wars correlates not only in the importance of pulling together as a unit, but also – coincidentally enough – in the way of a nation faced with a nuclear crisis.

That is where Hosoda eventually navigates this family-driven drama, and although the events that lead up to its finale seemed a bit arbitrary, I suppose watching Wars in the thick of the mess overseas sort of raised my appreciation for Hosoda’s second feature film. It’s as cliché as they come – which was to be expected from an anime of this nature – and the family in question was more often than not unbearable to put up with, but all in all Hosoda’s harbinger of the pitfalls of a ubiquitous social network is simply a heartwarming treat to experience; now, perhaps, more than ever.

Wars could possibly make a case for being the more relevant social networking film of 2010 – in the states – because unlike Jesse Eisenberg’s star vehicle, Hosoda’s allegory actually takes aim at the consequences a society dependent on technology could potentially face in the near future. It’s a great concept executed in the most refreshing way, but beyond the spectacular eye candy that is OZ – the story’s endangered social network – lies the rather poor execution of themes; they’re heavy-handed thanks to the characters’ melodramatic handling of family matters. If only the brilliance that lied dormant somewhere in this innovative plot could have flooded out the constant preaching imbued in the dialogue, we could have had ourselves a top-shelf anime classic.

What we have is a scrawny, mathlete protagonist named Kenji (Michael Sinterniklaas) who’s taken up a summer job as an IT guy for the interactive computer world OZ. When summer crush Natsuki (Brina Palencia) bombards him with a second “job opportunity” that entails traveling to a historic estate in Ueda – a city in Japan – to celebrate her grandmother’s 90th birthday, he accepts the proposal failing to realize that said proposal happens to be one of marital proportions.

After catching on and considering opting out of the agreement, Kenji is introduced to Natsuki’s family consisting of a couple-dozen strong, including her no-nonsense grandmother Sakae Jinnouchi (Pam Dougherty). Growing an attachment to the Jinnouchi clan compels Kenji to follow through with Natsuki’s scheme, but after solving a mathematical code sent to him via e-mail, Kenji becomes a public enemy overnight when an A.I. program called Love Machine hijacks his account and begins orchestrating a large-scale assault within OZ’s mainframe that puts the network’s several million users at risk.

The film’s Achilles' heel comes in the form of Hosoda’s staggeringly poor representation of women. I can only assume that he was inspired by traditional perceptions of gender roles and perhaps by how he found his own family particularly “hard to deal with” – as he stated while promoting the film – but the women of the Jinnouchi clan are just insufferable; especially in their coarse attitude toward Kenji.

An uncle of Natsuki’s (or perhaps a cousin; keeping track of them all is a chore) mentions that the family is brimming with “take charge women”, yet when the technological world is on the brink of collapse, we find these bold ladies watching baseball games and making catering plans. They’re so distracted in their materialistic pursuits that they remain oblivious to what’s happening right up until the very end. Without exaggerating, I can genuinely say that the lot of them make up the most frustrating, self-interested group of characters I’ve ever seen put on screen.

Obnoxious elements aside, the story arcs that unfold in Wars are solid enough in structure to hold one’s attention for the film’s two hour runtime. I found myself more irritated by the world outside of OZ than bored with it. The sequences that dazzle colorfully on screen within OZ serve as gorgeous throwbacks to Hosoda’s Digimon days, but viscerally, the film as a whole doesn’t quite meet the bar his debut film The Girl Who Leapt Through Time set back in 2006. The amount of product-placement seems wildly misplaced and the overt anti-American connotations may not sit well with the Western crowd, but the message behind Wars remains genuine and heartfelt despite the story’s shortcomings.

7/10

Why do we ask so many questions?

L’ECLISSE (1962)

Part of me regrets not taking in more of Michelangelo Antonioni’s filmography before tackling L'avventura and now L’Eclisse – the head and tail of a trilogy that includes La notte – because in retrospect I'd say these films belong in a class of their own, a class that perhaps requires a special taste only acquired after viewing and really appreciating the Italian director's prior films. The territory that both L'avventura and L’Eclisse cover is so alien and almost barren of human emotion that investing interest in the sparse developments that occur becomes a bit exhausting. Having not seen La notte, I can only assume that it breathes the same air of emotional indifference, and considering the period these films were released – in the throes of the Cuban Missile Crisis – it’s not hard to understand why optimism seemed absent on Antonioni’s agenda.

It was a bleak period not only for the working class, but also for the bourgeoisie and unlike most neorealist directors who focused on struggling proletarians, Antonioni chose to scrutinize the upper crust of Italian society. The final act in Antonioni’s trilogy examines social alienation in the modern world and while certain moments are hauntingly meditative, for the most part the story's quite simple. L’Eclisse introduces us to Vittoria (Monica Vitti), a woman who finds herself at the end of an affair that her significant other makes little effort to reinvigorate. Unable to make a connection, she leaves him and eventually falls for an enterprising, but shallow young stock broker named Piero (Alain Delon). After relishing momentary flashes of bliss and passion, the two eventually realize they have nothing concrete to offer each other.

There’s this sense of isolation that swells in L’Eclisse and although that sense is at its peak during the finale, the bulk of the film is essentially one large metaphor for being alienated by the looming modern world. The two scenes that take place in the stock exchange are absolutely primitive, depicting a mob of brokers and investors as jostling pawns of the capitalist machine. Vittoria responds to both the hustle bustle of the exchange and the effect it has on its dependents – one being her distant mother – with a curiosity denoting a growing fear that isolates her further from the fast-paced society she lives in.

Antonioni holds no reservations when it comes to forcing his arctic cold atmosphere upon the audience. It’s the antithesis of classical romance, in stark accordance with reality, but not quite authentic enough to pass for a documentary on failed relationships. Delon and Vitti exhibit these characters in ways that convey pure heartache and a desire to break free from routine, but they seem far more interested in preserving their individualism than seeking refuge in someone else. They’re lost, and as viewers we find ourselves lost in their digressions throughout the film – which ends on an obscure, sort of open-ended note. It’s a common dilemma only made disturbingly eerie and real by the utter loneliness Antonioni subjects these characters to. What Piero and Vittoria seem to be after in life is a question Antonioni fails to bring up, but perhaps it’s a question that's impossible to answer.

7/10

Who says Santa's pants have to be red?

HAPPYTHANKYOUMOREPLEASE (2011)

In an age where it’s practically the norm for actors – both highly and just moderately successful – to try their hand behind the camera, I’ve become virtually unfazed when I hear word that the likes of Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Love Hewitt are planning to helm their first feature film. It’s become a pattern in Hollywood and if an actor has the funds and means necessary to realize a script, why not take a stab at directing it as well? Will it result in a sloppy, lumbering mess? Probably, but credentials aren’t often taken into account when actors experience these whims of inspiration and creative impulse. Audiences don’t seem to care either as it’s the name on the poster – directed by insert-overexposed-celebrity-here – that tends to garner their interest, the very same interest studios need come opening night. But who would be interested in seeing a film directed by Ted Mosby?

I’ve seen less than a handful of How I Met Your Mother episodes and the material honestly does zilch for me. So when Josh Radnor, who plays Mosby on the show, decides to follow in the footsteps of his credential-less peers, I’m not exactly overwhelmed about what he has to offer. If anything’s getting my attention it’s an interesting script with fleshed out characters, which the trailer for Radnor’s debut film Happythankyoumoreplease appeared to boast. Unfortunately, while watching Radnor’s ridiculously scrambled presentation of plotlines, I slowly began to realize that this first effort of his was the furthest thing away from the indie comedy I anticipated and more along the lines of mainstream melodrama.

Happythankyoumoreplease tries to sell itself as an ensemble piece, but clearly Radnor – who is the Jerry Seinfeld of his own Seinfeld show here; the indisputable weak-link – is our focus. I say “ensemble piece” because not unlike those sappy romantic comedies that revolve around some commercialized U.S. holiday, Happythankyoumoreplease moves several related, but unrelated (story-wise) characters down a very obscure path made even more obscure by the film’s slew of disjointed themes.

First up is Radnor who plays Sam, a freelance writer in a rut who’s suddenly burdened with the responsibility of caring for an abandoned foster child named Rasheen (Michael Algieri); a rather absurd concept that just becomes less conceivable as the story progresses. Through Sam, we’re introduced to his best friend Annie (Malin Akerman), a loveless, but animated young woman coping with alopecia – a form of hair loss. Her arc is the typical “true love standing right in front of you” archetype that we’ve seen plenty of times, but lucky for us her “true love” is played by the spectacular Tony Hale – there's an outstanding monologue of his towards the end that reaches unexpected dramatic territory for an Arrested Development alum. The least interesting, but most genuinely performed arc finds a twenty-something couple (Zoe Kazan and Pablo Schreiber) soldiering through an emotional disconnect after Schreiber is offered a lucrative partnership that would force him and Kazan to relocate to Los Angeles; something Kazan, a proud New Yorker, is openly averse to.

About a quarter way through Radnor’s uneven attempt at wheedling sympathy for these characters, you begin to realize that separately these stories could have possibly succeeded as standalone films rather than a mishmash of arcs, especially Hale and Akerman’s. Alas, Radnor chose to go with what seems to be the rage these days – ensemble films – and compress these outwardly complex individuals into such a short timeframe that they're ultimately served up as two-dimensional cutouts of three-dimensional characters.

Take Radnor’s love interest Mississippi (Kate Mara) who’s been “feeling a little fragile.” You'd expect that remark to develop into something, but being pressed for time, Radnor bypasses this profound angle to concentrate on his other players. Why is she so emotionally fragile? Why should we care? It’s the ultimate foil and my single greatest irk in films: poor characterization. It riddles this film, and instead of growth and introspection, Radnor’s cast is subjected to the most banal clichés and romantic comedy conventions, making it difficult to take any of the film too seriously.

6.5/10