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Review: Quinceañera

2.5

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Quinceañera

Shot in Echo Park, which has seen substantial change since the days of Alison Anders’s Mi Vida Loca, Quinceañera is a mélange of dramatic episodes in the lives of three outsiders from the same Mexican-American family. Directors Richard Glatzer and Wash Westmoreland, perhaps guilting from the gentrification of the once predominantly Latin neighborhood they call home, insert themselves into the film by way of a gay couple, Gary (David W. Ross) and James (Jason L. Wood), who come to lust after a young, car-washing cholo, Carlos (Jesse Garcia), who lives with his aging uncle in a house adjacent to their property. The directors acknowledge a familiar lechery rarely seen on screen and hardly ever taken to task: the spectacle of white gay males thrilling in the objectification of the Latino male.

The directors avoid the leeringness of the Larry Clark teen-sexploitation, and in some of the film’s more tender scenes they use what the audience doesn’t know—that Carlos was apparently thrown out of his home because his family found out he liked men—to show-up the guys that would reduce him to a sex object. Carlos is a person who exists but is rarely seen in the movies. Because of his race, class, age, and lack of sexual experience, the boy is out of place in Gary and James’s world, which he doesn’t really care to belong to anyway. There’s a sense here that Carlos would have an easier time of it if he played a different, “whiter” game (pull up the socks and wear more form-fitting clothes—in short, look like the Latino male his lovers try to set him up with during their housewarming), but there’s also a sense that he’d rather risk heartache than sell out his sense of self.

In one scene, the subject of a dinner party hosted by James and Gary becomes the size of Carlos’s penis: eight inches uncut, James says. Gary doesn’t participate in the dehumanizing chatter because he’s fallen for Carlos after a few secret trysts. The theme practically flashes on the screen: get to know a papi chulo intimately and lovingly and you’ll probably have a hard time calling him a papi chulo. These types of crass gay men exist, and this sort of ridicule is common, but these cartoon gays deserve the complexity of the film’s sanctified non-white characters. Carlos is allowed a credible naughty side (he plays the innocent in an early scene, consciously exploiting Gary and James’s interest in him for his sexual gratification), but Gary and James are scarcely deep. Gary and Carlos may not be right for each other, but if Gary is so angelic, boy-band beautiful, and ostensibly above James’s brand of cattiness, why is he even with him? At the very least, why doesn’t he condemn James’s decision to banish Carlos and his family from their home?

In at least one respect, Glatzer and Westmoreland are Clark’s kindred spirits: as in Wassup Rockers, part of their project to humanize their Latino characters is making fools of Caucasians. You get a sense Quinceañera would be close to faultless had the directors done away with Gary and James altogether and, later, a lesbian couple who allows Carlos and his cousin to move into their refurnished, $1600-a-month apartment simply out of the goodness of their heart. In Wassup Rockers, white people do the damndest things, and in Quinceañera they seem to be apologizing for it.

Better are a series of good scenes that trace the pressures that often interfere with a Latina girl’s ritualized coming-of-age (not least of which is the shame of having to fit into a cousin’s taken-out, hand-me-down dress) and the horror of watching a mother use her daughter’s quinceañera as an occasion to flaunt her family’s privilege—like Carmella showing off her new car to all her friends during the first episode of the fifth season of The Sopranos. It’s clear that Glatzer and Westmoreland have witnessed a few of the titular ceremonies, and while the film benefits from such first-hand observation, there’s a sense of outsider-looking-in reticence to the proceedings. The opening quinceañera is scored and credit-fonted as to suggest what Anne Hathaway’s Sweet Sixteen might have looked like, but the filmmakers seem hesitant to pass judgment for what appears to be a Latin family’s pretense to whiteness.

You must look past the directors’ guilt complexes to recognize the sweetly observed portrait of a Latino community ousting its undesirables. Intercut with Carlos trying to find his sea legs are the pressures encountered by his aging uncle Tomas (Chalo Gonzalez) and cousin Magdalena (Emily Rios), who learns she’s pregnant even though she’s a virgin. There’s a scientific explanation—her boyfriend Herman (J.R. Cruz) ejaculated on her leg and his resilient sperm somehow got inside—but the girl’s father, a priest, isn’t having any of it. She leaves the house and goes to live with the ostensibly gay uncle Tomas, who took Carlos in when he was banished from his home (the film begins with him crashing and being violently excluded from his sister’s quinceañera).

Glatzer and Westmoreland have evolved as thinkers and filmmakers since The Fluffer, their ridiculous fantasy about a cute boy who gets to go to town on his favorite porn star’s cock. It’s a little surprising to read about the directors’ allegiance to kitchen-sink dramas, because Quinceañera is too jejune and precious in spots to ever earn comparisons to the films of Ken Loach and Mike Leigh, but there’s a lyricism to the film’s carefree swaths of incident from the lives of its three main characters, and Rios and Garcia achieve an intimate chemistry rarely seen on film. With minimal fuss and Afterschool Special moralizing, Glatzer and Westmoreland express this idea of Tomas, Magdalena, and Carlos as a wandering alternative family trying to eek out a living in spite of the community that doesn’t want them. Like them, the film is a compromised but humane vision.

Cast: Emily Rios, Jesse Garcia, Chalo Gonzalez, J.R. Cruz, Araceli Guzmán-Rico, Jesus Castaños-Chima, David W. Ross Director: Richard Glatzer, Wash Westmoreland Screenwriter: Richard Glatzer, Wash Westmoreland Distributor: Sony Pictures Classics Running Time: 90 min Rating: NR Year: 2005 Buy: Video, Soundtrack

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Review: The Hippy-Dippy Out of Blue Suggests a New-Age Law & Order

Carol Morley’s film wants to blow our minds, but it succeeds only at rousing our boredom.

1.5

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Out of Blue

Carol Morley’s Out of Blue begins with images of a supernova as an ostensibly brilliant astrophysicist, Jennifer Rockwell (Mamie Gummer), wonderingly intones that we’re all made of stardust. This meaningless observation, cribbed from Joni Mitchell’s hippy-dippy “Woodstock,” is an appropriate opening to a film that will prove to be every bit as trite, over-reaching, and goofy as its opening lines. With its endless references to black holes, the multiverse, and Schrödinger’s cat—the last of which is outlined in detail not once but twice—Morley’s film wants to blow our minds, but it succeeds only at rousing our boredom.

Loosely based on the novel Night Train by Martin Amis, Out of Blue attempts to combine the heady philosophizing of True Detective with the home-spun surrealism of Twin Peaks, but Morley’s writing is so ham-handed and her directing so blandly nondescript that the film ends up feeling more like a protracted new-age spin on Law & Order. It doesn’t speak well of Out of Blue that the film is at its most compelling when it’s just straight-up ripping off David Lynch’s stylistic idiosyncrasies, such as in a dream sequence where Jennifer lip synchs to an old-timey country song on a bandstand that looks nearly identical to the Roadhouse stage.

The plot, too, is suspiciously reminiscent of Twin Peaks: An enigmatic detective, Mike Hoolihan (Patricia Clarkson), investigates the brutal murder of a pretty young blonde (Gummer), which brings her into contact with an assortment of local oddballs. Out of Blue lacks the regional specificity of Lynch’s series—the film is set in New Orleans but you wouldn’t know that from what’s on screen—and its eccentrics, while played by fascinating character actors like Toby Jones, Jacki Weaver, and James Caan, are too vaguely drawn to be particularly memorable. But the biggest misstep is Mike herself, a blank-slate cipher who spends much of the film muttering clues under her breath and staring into the middle distance.

Of course, Mike has a dark past herself, one which, naturally, is intertwined with the mystery she’s trying to solve. Clarkson does her best to imbue the role with a certain offbeat gravitas, but Mike is too confusedly conceived to generate any real interest in her backstory, much less to carry the narrative. Morley hangs a lot of eccentricities on the character—she drives a vintage car, listens to the Eels, and, in one particularly baffling scene, climbs on stage at a strip club and starts writhing on the dancers—but none of these cohere into a comprehensible whole. To the end, Mike’s quirks exude a grab-bag-like feeling, ensuring that she remains an enigma amid the comings and goings of so many wacky side characters and all the pseudo-metaphysical blather of Morley’s muddled, unconvincing, and dull script.

Cast: Mamie Gummer, Patricia Clarkson, James Caan, Jacki Weaver, Toby Jones, Aaron Tveit, Jonathan Majors, Alyshia Ochse, Gary Grubbs, Yolonda Ross, Lucy Faust, Brad Mann, Thomas Francis Murphy, Carol Sutton, Lawrence Turner Director: Carol Morley Screenwriter: Carol Morley Distributor: IFC Films Running Time: 109 min Rating: NR Year: 2018

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Review: Genesis Lyrically Captures the Heartache of Sentimental Education

Philippe Lesage’s film understands that we submit ourselves to the perils of affection because of its outweighing graces.

3

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Genesis
Photo: Productions l'Unite Centrale

Writer-director Philippe Lesage follows up The Demons with another coming-of-age saga that fixates on the relatable, if grim, blues of self-awakening. Primarily following the teenaged Guillaume (Théodore Pellerin) and his college-aged sister, Charlotte (Noée Abita), Genesis charts how both are shaped by their experiences with sexual desire, subtly observing their behavior and, occasionally, the darker side of affection.

Guillaume commands much of the film’s attention. From the first shot, in which he stands on a desk in his all-boys boarding school and leads his mates in a barroom shanty, it’s obvious that Guillaume is a charismatic class clown who knows how to force all eyes onto himself. Yet the teen can also be withdrawn and introverted, and his relationships with his friends and teachers are constantly in flux. His puckish behavior is often celebrated by classmates and even some teachers, like the sardonic Perrier (Paul Ahmarani), who in one class invites Guillaume to do his impersonation of him, which the teen performs with hilarious specificity and to the initial delight and then discomfort of the professor.

Wounded by the boy’s exposure of his flaws, Perrier subsequently singles out Guillaume for harassment, berating him without cause and even screaming at the kid over the slightest perceived transgression. Guillaume’s peers are less extreme, but the same kids who applaud his classroom antics are also quick to ignore him inside their shared dorms or in social situations, content to simply use him for amusement during class time.

Guillaume’s awkward relationship to others at the boarding school is exacerbated by his closeted sexuality, which isolates him from the heteronormative activities of his friends. In one scene, Lesage films the boy in slow motion as he wanders through a house party surrounded by boys and girls kissing, trying to fit in by cautiously snaking his arm around a girl, who casually shrugs him off as he keeps walking. Like much of Genesis, the moment is at once thematically obvious and beautifully moving, with the sudden swell of morose pop transforming the scene into a lyrically intense expression of the boy’s sentimental education. The impeccable blocking places the other kids in every square inch of the room save for a pocket of dead space around Guillaume, poignantly emphasizing his loneliness.

Charlotte, by contrast, seems to have an easier time of things. More carefree and confident than her brother, she’s at first hampered only by her inane boyfriend, Maxime (Pier-Luc Funk), who broaches the subject of an open relationship with a forced sense of casual suggestion, only to later sobbingly backtrack after she kicks him to the curb. Charlotte ends up with the older Theo (Maxime Dumontier), whose charming demeanor and respectfulness suggests actual maturity. When Lesage films Charlotte in a club using the same slow-mo style that he did for Guillaume’s glum traipse through the house party, the tone is considerably brighter, with the young woman free and ebullient about her contentment.

Soon, however, Charlotte must also contend with the fallout of various sexual stresses. Lesage grapples with matters that are all too common to darker coming-of-age stories, and he captures the film’s most harrowing scenes in single takes. Yet if the filmmaker doesn’t shy away from plainly depicting such horrors as sexual violation, he avoids wallowing in the misery he piles onto his characters. Guillaume and especially Charlotte suffer, but Lesage pulls focus onto the aftershocks of trauma rather than the traumatic events themselves. Sometimes Genesis even ducks reinforcing the bleakest of expectations, as in a scene of Guillaume baring his soul to his classmates that ends in a surprisingly warm fashion.

Indeed, the bright colors and sedate direction of Genesis isn’t an ironic contrast for the difficult content within but a cue for the perseverance of hope in trying times. That optimism is borne out in the final act, which shifts focus to Felix (Édouard Tremblay-Grenier), the protagonist of The Demons, now a cheery teen attending what appears to be a bible camp. As he plays guitar with counselors and plays around in camp, he gravitates toward Beatrice (Émilie Bierre), a young girl who’s clearly as interested in him as he is in her. Compared to the more vicious heartbreak facing Charlotte and Guillaume, Felix and Beatrice’s budding feelings are presented innocently and sweetly. Their first flirtations end the film on a hopeful note that suggests that not all stories of young self-discovery need be solemn, and that we submit ourselves to the perils of affection because of its outweighing graces.

Cast: Théodore Pellerin, Noée Abita, Édouard Tremblay-Grenier, Maxime Dumontier, Jules Roy Scicotte, Pier-Luc Funk, Paul Ahmarani, Antoine Marchand-Gagnon, Émilie Bierre Director: Philippe Lesage Screenwriter: Philippe Lesage Running Time: 130 min Rating: NR Year: 2019

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Review: Dragged Across Concrete Is an Uncanny Shot of Pulp Fiction

With his latest, S. Craig Zahler doubles down on the best and worst elements of the pulp film.

3.5

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Dragged Across Concrete
Photo: Summit Entertainment

With Bone Tomahawk, Brawl in Cell Block 99, and now Dragged Across Concrete, writer-director S. Craig Zahler has refined a highly particular style of pulp that runs both hot and cold. The tone is communicated up front by the films’ titles, which are garish and plainspoken, as if to say that operatically bad shit happens as a matter of course.

That’s the attitude that Zahler’s characters adopt as well, as they tend to face atrocity with the air of people who derive their strength from low expectations. Violence erupts in Zahler’s films with an offhand suddenness that’s often authentically shocking, which is heightened by a variety of formalist contradictions. Zahler pays intricate attention to deliberately crummy, vague, “universal” settings, and invests stereotypical characters with behavioral curlicues that render them just human enough so that their deaths sting. Zahler’s scenarios are deliberately absurd, yet he pumps them up with all sorts of odd, nearly docudramatic details, and this mixture of the banal and the hyper-specific imbues his films with an element of the uncanny.

Following a bruiser as he killed his way toward the inner sanctum of a surreally hellish prison, Brawl in Cell Block 99 was pointedly unpolitical—implying, in a macho manner typical of revenge films—that politics are a luxury for those who’re insulated from the “real world” of killed-or-be-killed. Which is to say that this apolitical texture is actually reactionary, suggesting, via omission, the essential futility of liberal humanist ideals. Dragged Across Concrete renders this idea much more explicit. The film’s theme is articulated when the poor and multiple sclerosis-plagued Melanie Ridgeman (Laurie Holden) says that she’s as liberal as an ex-cop can be, and that she never thought she was racist until she moved into her current neighborhood, which is low-income and rife with juvenile delinquents of color, who’re shown, in a reductive scene, to harass Melanie’s daughter.

The various cops and criminals of Dragged Across Concrete, white as well as of color, take the fraudulence of liberal beliefs as a given, writing them off as fantasies indulged by a populace that’s prosperous enough to evade their ramifications. (This theme is in the air right now, also driving Jordan Peele’s Us.) The film’s plot kicks into gear when Melanie’s husband, Detective Brett Ridgeman (Mel Gibson), and his partner, Anthony Lurasetti (Vince Vaughn), are suspended for exerting excessive force while arresting a Hispanic drug dealer, which a civilian films on a phone. Zahler acknowledges the detectives’ cruelty, while, per the dictates of the crime genre, also allowing us to revel in their bitterness and power.

This have-it-both-ways quality is another of Zahler’s provocations, as he’s explicitly saying that we come to these sorts of films to see the rough and cathartic exertion of force, and in spite of whether we think that force jibes with our real-world ideals. Zahler is right. The cruelty of his films, which is laced with a biting wit, has a way of clearing pop-cultural air that’s often inhabited by preachy think pieces and well-meaning Oscar bait, or even by genre films that nevertheless feel the need to solicit approval via a redemptive theme. Zahler heads for the gutter instead, asking us to empathize with characters who refute our idealisms.

After subduing the drug dealer, Ridgeman torments the dealer’s sexual partner, Rosalinda (Liannet Borrego), by showering her with cold water and forcing her to stand in a bedroom in her underwear while they question her. This footage isn’t filmed by other parties, so the extent of Ridgeman and Tony’s vigilante tactics are unknown by the public, prompting us to wonder what else they’ve gotten away with over the years. Yet they feel cheated for being suspended—feelings which their superior, Lt. Calvert (Don Johnson), casually shares. Such scenes elucidate the thorny specificity of Zahler’s vision while deliberately screwing with our moral compass. Ridgeman and Tony’s treatment of Rosalinda is disgusting and Zahler sensitively dramatizes her humiliation. So are the racist jokes the cops exchange with Calvert, though the actors’ performances and Zahler’s dialogue and staging are kinetically snappy. Zahler recreates that discombobulating split in sympathies you may have when someone you like says they voted for Trump, or rues the days of comparatively less fettered police brutality.

Yet there’s also a sense that Zahler is outside of Ridgeman and Tony’s self-pity; one suspects that politics mostly matter to the filmmaker in terms of aesthetic. If he’s nostalgic for the good old days, presumably before our culture grew so “politically correct,” that nostalgia is primarily directed toward genre films. Zahler is fighting for art’s right to be offensive and disreputable, voicing sentiments that are shared by many people in this country which cannot, and should not, be aired without scrutiny. He grooves on straight talk, however nasty, fashioning crime thrillers that force even liberal audiences to confront their inner fascists.

Zahler particularly appears to miss the days when violent Mel Gibson vehicles were relevant, and he concocts a role for Gibson that weds the actor’s own prejudices and controversies with his masochistic “Mad Mel” persona—two sides that were always closely intertwined anyway. Gibson rises to the occasion with a tightly coiled performance that’s so unapologetically closed-off that it’s deeply and disturbingly poignant, bringing to mind the conflicted range of emotions that’s elicited by John Wayne’s performance in The Searchers. Ridgeman’s feelings of being put out to pasture are aligned with Gibson’s stint in movie jail after recordings of his abusive rants at his wife were released. It’s no accidental coincidence that recordings destroy Ridgeman not once but twice over the course of Dragged Across Concrete.

Ridgeman is the film’s central avatar of rage—an embodiment of working-class American discontent that Zahler reveals to be shared by characters of varying colors, genders, and social statuses, most notably Henry (Tory Kittles), an African-American ex-con with limited options, with whom Ridgeman forges an uneasy alliance. Tellingly, given the aversion of Dragged Across Concrete to left-wing politeness, their emotional epiphany springs from their mutual willingness to call one another, and to each be called, the n-word.

Zahler takes a standard action-movie scenario—in which crooked cops try to rob drug dealers—and stretches it out to an epic, ultraviolent, and comic study of the petty, often working-class-centric nonsense that stymies people on a daily basis. When Henry rousts his mother’s john out of the house, Zahler lingers on the man as he fumbles with the locks on the door. Following Ridgeman and Tony as they tail a requisitely heartless Eurotrash killer, Vogelmann (Thomas Kretschmann), Zahler fashions an elaborate and ingenious set piece that alternates between two cars’ worth of men talking strategy. When a struggling mother, Kelly (Jennifer Carpenter), returns to work at a bank after a prolonged maternal leave, Zahler devotes a lengthy, weirdly touching and funny moment to the speech her verbose boss, Mr. Edmington (Fred Melamed), gives for the occasion. And this scene only intensifies the pain of what follows, which Zahler foreshadows with a masterful composition where we see a van of killers pass Kelly in the reflection of a window as she checks her make-up.

Dragged Across Concrete is a lurid ode to detail—to the professionalism that Zahler questionably admires in Ridgeman and Tony. (His lack of sentimentality, in the tradition of pulp writing, is ironically quite sentimental.) The film’s settings, like those of Brawl in Cell Block 99, are drab and anonymous, though Zahler shoots them with an exhilaratingly pared-down sense of purpose, with sharp physical details that complement the unexpected narrative flourishes. These backdrops suggest every place and no place at once, and are rendered with hard lighting and symmetrical framing that recalls the glory days of John Carpenter. The film’s dialogue is terse, intelligent, yet often somehow un-showy, suggesting the flip and funny things people often say while at work, which are rarely captured in cinema. These qualities cohabitate with a deliberately nasty vision of America—a union that Zahler embraces for its intense and suggestive social tension. He’s already a master of the pulp film, and with Dragged Across Concrete he doubles down on its best and worst elements.

Cast: Mel Gibson, Vince Vaughn, Tory Kittles, Jennifer Carpenter, Michael Jai White, Laurie Holden, Don Johnson, Udo Kier, Thomas Kretschmann, Liannet Borrego, Justine Warrington, Fred Melamed Director: S. Craig Zahler Screenwriter: S. Craig Zahler Distributor: Summit Entertainment Running Time: 162 min Rating: R Year: 2018

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