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