Category: Film Review

2016.  Directed by Tom Ford.

The end of a relationship is an idea that is often equated with death. It’s a theme that has pervaded the film industry for years, offering a plethora of various interpretations in which the aftermath of amorous annihilation has been deconstructed to the point of excess.  Tom Ford’s second directorial effort, Nocturnal Animals, abandons any sense of convenience and presents the concept as a blistering crime story that doubles as a warning about betrayal, both of the partner and of the self.  Ford’s extremely mature marital fable is an assault by cinema, an unforgettable revenge story in which love doesn’t conquer all, it kills every transgressor with calculated malice.

Beginning with the an unforgettable credits sequence,  the film puts the viewer into a complex stranglehold and never relents.  Seamus McGarvey’s cinematography is the perfect companion to Ford’s unique vision.  Hideous beauty, both in the human subjects and the landscape is always on display, with dark clouds hanging over blood red meridians, harshly removed from the violence that fills the sun baked highways beneath.  The fictional world is offset by sterile art galleries and empty houses, devoid of the extremes within the novel at the center of the narrative.  The thundering catharsis of the crime story is rationed by Mike Austin’s editing, seamlessly transporting the viewer between the forlorn desert of the mind and the coldness of reality.  The story within the story is presented as imagery conjured by Amy Adams’s character’s subconscious and no supposition is needed to explain the physical representations therein.  You know, with almost certainty where things are going and that precognition is a result of the extreme control Ford uses in every aspect of the film to bring everything to a perfectly malign conclusion.

Amy Adams does an adequate job with her character’s vulnerability, but Ford’s script reveals his continuing struggles with female characters.  Her dialogue with Jake Gyllenhaal is stilted, almost pastiche, but the moments between, the physical cues, overcome this.  Michael Shannon supports as the lawman in the crime portion, giving a tragic turn as the devil on your shoulder, representing the rage and despair of the abandoned lover.  Gyllenhaal brings his underrated pathos to bear, but his segment is soft balled into the happenings with intent.  His dual character is both a hopeless romantic and a scorned, but darkly motivated respondent.  All of these remarkable performances are underscored by Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s beautiful monster.  His performance is the definition of excellence in a supporting role, bringing an unhinged sexuality to an easily repugnant role.  He doesn’t chew the scenery, he eviscerates it with stone cold glares and an intoxicating presence that oozes from his sweat soaked killer with ease.

Malanie Romero’s makeup design is flawless, and brilliantly understated.  The characters are presented at different times in their lives and this is accentuated by subtle skin tones and intimidating mascara, bringing the eyes of each emotional combatant to the fore in every altercation.  Donna O’Neal’s costume design encases each character in fabricated armor.  Adams’s art gallerist is adorned in crystalline ensembles, perfectly equating her emotional weakness while the fictional characters are soiled and broken, caked in the dust of their predicaments, dutifully embodying an imagined world of natural recompense.

In theaters now, Nocturnal Animals is one of the best films of 2016.  Ford’s glitzy reality may leave some viewers alienated, but the undeniable maturity of the content is what pushes it to greatness.  An older, wiser, and less accusatory sibling to The Neon Demon, this is a film about the truths of self denial and the ultimate comeuppance for harming the ones we love.  Featuring beautiful, but extremely unsettling imagery, Ford’s renowned compositions, and a one of a kind cast, this is a film that will haunt you long after it fades to black.  If you’re looking for an anti feel good experience, that is devilishly liberating in its exploration of vendetta, Nocturnal Animals is the perfect choice.

Highly Recommend.

2016.  Directed by Nicolas Pesce.

Nicolas Pesce’s debut feature, The Eyes of My Mother is a reverse horror film that uses a three act format, stark black and white cinematography, and an intriguing central performance to deliver a disturbing and emotionally cold origin story.  Featuring creepy visuals and odd pacing elements, this is a unique genre offering that fails to capitalize on it’s surprisingly humane subject matter, focusing on themes of isolation and the morality of violence as a means to connect.

Zach Kuperstein’s Noir camera work is spellbinding.  Initially, the various static shots immediately conjure a likeness to Night of the Hunter, presenting ominous farmhouses and bewitching forest locales as hidden nightmares, bathed in deep shadows that are intricately manipulated by bold lighting and ingenious blocking compositions.  The camera refuses to move for the majority of the film, only coming to life whenever the main character ventures from her rustic abattoir.  Kuperstein’s decision to not double down on the odd angles of German Expressionism is a bold choice, clearly emulating the classics, but also presenting a fresh imagining of an overdone concept.  There are several long takes, the best of which has the viewer looking through a curtained window into field in which a brutally slow horrific act is occurring.  The body work by the participants and slick editing by Sam Daley uses the absence of violence and barely audible sound effects to terrorize without surrendering to visceral gore that allows the viewer’s mind to do the work.

Kika Magalhaes gives layered performance that entrenches itself in the constant alienation that saturates every part of the narrative.  She is awkwardly sexy, bounding from victim to victim with child like wonder that is astutely juxtaposed from the viciousness.  This is part of the film’s frustrating assembly.  The idea of a coming of age story, in which the morality is murder and not tribulation is a fragile thing.  Pesce’s command of the various elements used to communicate this is excellent for an initial work, but ultimately pushes the isolation theme to a place where the viewer can’t relate.  Killing, sex, blood, and bondage all play a part, while underdeveloped themes of parenthood are forced at every turn, with chains undulating like umbilical cords and male bodies being contorted into a fetal positions.  The ideas are there, but there is very little to support their inclusion, aside from the blatant symbolism.

Available now for digital rental, The Eyes of My Mother is a fantastic debut effort.  Featuring some 2016’s best cinematography, this is a film that will scratch the horror itch, but for anyone less than a horror fanatic, the film’s unfeeling insinuations rebuke as much as the visuals entice.  Despite this glaring flaw, The Eyes of My Mother is worth viewing for the spectacular presentation and delirious lead performance.

Recommend.

1950.  Directed by Billy Wilder.

As American cinema plunged into the heart of its noir period, transitioning from the golden era of silent films and historical epics, Billy Wilder’s tragic dissertation on the cost of fame threatened the foundations of the industry and shocked audiences by obliterating the divide between art and reality. Its opening sequence, with the title stenciled on a forgotten gutter, could not be clearer with its intent.  Casually described as a poisoned love letter to Hollywood, Sunset Boulevard is an uncomfortable refutation of the insatiable limelight and a masterfully constructed satire on the craft itself.

The central theme of the film explores the consumption of idols by the masses, the discarded remnants of youth, sexual fixation, and uncanny melodramatics filling the crumbling manse in which Gloria Swanson’s ghastly starlet holds counterfeit court from a tabloid torpor.  Her Norma Desmond is an animated apparition, moving and communicating as if she were a celluloid wraith given life.  Initially her performance comes across as over the top, but as the film settles into its celebrity quagmire, her actions and delivery reveal themselves as the perfect representations of an appalling culture in which youth is a finite currency.

Self indulgent illusions are one of the film’s profane tenants.  John Seitz’s abrasive black and white cinematography is both complex and synthetic, using elusive trickery to frame each composition as a series of waterlogged memoirs.  The opening pool sequence was filmed by placing a mirror on the bottom of the pool and shooting the reflection.   Swanson is always enshrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke, twirling her fingers through the vapors, signifying her desperate attempt to hold onto a dream that was never real in the first place.  William Holden’s lascivious screen writer is framed in morose shadows and rigid compositions whenever he is within the mansion, contrasted by bright lights and open air wide shots whenever he sneaks away to a production set.  Holden’s formidable talent is a boon in what is essentially a supporting role to Swanson’s planetary presence.  He presents as the common man, the unseen face that provides the life blood for the silver screen behemoths, disenchanted by the truths of the business.

Wilder used actual directors for many of the roles.  Eric von Stroheim, who plays Norma’s “butler” actually directed Swanson in a silent film.  Cecil B. Demille plays himself and the legendary Buster Keaton makes an appearance as a “waxwork”, the dubious moniker Gillis gives to Norma’s archaic colleagues.  Swanson herself landed the role because she was a silent picture star who never made the transition to talkies, a literal embodiment of Norma’s purgatory. The blending of on and off screen concepts was initially rebuked by Wilder’s fellows, garnering a disdain for the picture upon its debut.  The film would go on to be nominated for eleven academy awards, signaling the industry’s surrender to the film’s accusatory allure.

The ambiance of the film doubles as throat clutching protest and a tragic love story.  Stroheim’s butler protects Norma’s fragile sanity by penning fan letters and yet constantly appeals to Holden’s Gillis to end the charade.  Gillis begins as a screen writing huckster, all to eager to take advantage of the glitz and then slowly, irrevocably, comes to loathe what he has become.  There are glimmers of hope sprinkled among the shadows, with Gillis finding actual love in a colleague and Norma seizing upon the promise of a return (Never a comeback!) by subjecting herself to a menagerie of cosmetic transfigurations.  The use of a dead man narrator subverts these kernels of respite, constantly reminding the viewer that there is no escape.  The end result is a passionate, but ultimately bitter acceptance of the reality of American cinema.

Available now for digital rental, Sunset Boulevard is an exceptional film, evoking every aspect of an age where films were more than just entertainment.  Featuring a legendary lead performance, vicious dialogue, and unforgettable set designs, this is truly one of the greats.  Words cannot adequately explain this film’s importance or implore you to view.  In the end, be it spandex blockbuster or a last minute Oscar contender, Norma’s ghost is a specter that haunts every theater and every bedroom streaming solution.  Pyrrhically relevant and universally cherished, Sunset Boulevard is a landmark achievement whose corrupted heart quietly beats underneath the box office veneer, warning about dangers who have been ignored in the CGI and social media saturated landscape of modern American entertainment.

Highly.  Highly Recommend.