Jason Bellamy: On the same weekend that Robin Hood opened, Cate Blanchett turned 41. At least, most of her did. Watching her play Marion to Russell Crowe’s Robin, I found it difficult to ignore the glaring (apparent) reality that some of the actress is considerably younger. Blanchett’s cheekbones, for example, have such a suspiciously hard, dramatic contour that they look less like features of a human face than like accents of a sporty Mercedes-Benz, probably because they are equally unnatural. Blanchett, I think it’s safe to say, has undergone some cosmetic surgery throughout her movie career. And while I want to make it clear that it’s none of my business what Blanchett does to or with her body, I do feel I have every right to make the following observation: In Robin Hood, Blanchett’s too-perfect cheekbones look neither middle-aged nor Middle Age.
For me, this is a problem, not just in terms of how Blanchett’s face doesn’t fit the film but also because of the way it continues a somewhat disturbing trend. Particularly over the past 10 years, cosmetic surgery has become a kind of epidemic in Hollywood. Nicole Kidman’s forehead no longer wrinkles. Rene Russo’s skin is tighter than it was when she got her big break in 1989’s Major League. Meg Ryan hardly looks like Meg Ryan anymore. Meanwhile, almost every Hollywood actress over 35 seems to have Keira Knightley’s cheekbones, which makes one wonder whose cheekbones Keira Knightley has. Increasingly of late, I’ll come across one of these significantly remodeled actresses and silently shake my head, not in haughty admonition but in bewildered sadness, wondering what’s gone wrong with society to impel these already attractive women to transform themselves into stiff-faced approximations of beauty, sacrificing their uniqueness for some Hollywood Barbie “ideal.”
And then I remember All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard. And then I realize that the only thing new about what’s going on in Hollywood today is the available medical technology. Sixty years old this year, All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard each tell stories of actresses who are effectively washed up as a result of becoming middle-aged—the only significant difference being that one of them sees the writing on the wall, while the other is so deluded that she doesn’t even see the wall. This is certainly not the only way in which these films are united, but it strikes me that it’s a good place to start. Ed, I wish I could tell you that the experiences of All About Eve’s Margo Channing (Bette Davis) and Sunset Boulevard’s Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) strike me as something from our country’s shameful past. Instead, I think the way that these films suggest that, for actresses, wrinkles amount to irrelevancy is all too contemporary. How about you?
Ed Howard: Both All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard are the kind of movies that one hopes, 60 years later, would seem like dated time capsules from an earlier era. Instead, as you say, revisiting these films now gives the impression that we haven’t made much progress at all, that women—and especially women in the entertainment industry—are still dogged by these unreasonable societal standards about youth and beauty, this aversion to seeing a woman age naturally. It’s such a well-known aspect of popular culture that it’s taken for granted, and I don’t think I need to dwell on it too much. As an actress ages, with very few exceptions, she will get fewer and fewer parts, and more and more limited parts, so of course most Hollywood actresses will do anything they can to maintain some semblance of youth as they approach or pass the age of 40.
In somewhat different ways, both All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard (which were both released in 1950) deal with the phenomenon of an actress whose best years are behind her. Margo is a Broadway star who’s increasingly aware that she’s starting to look ridiculous playing 20-year-olds, and that maybe she isn’t at the apex of her profession anymore. Norma, meanwhile, has already retreated from Hollywood fame into a solitary existence where, with the help of her butler/former director/former husband Max (Erich von Stroheim, himself a former director) she can convince herself that she still matters. The films also create an extra layer of metafictional commentary from the fact that both actresses were arguably reflections of the characters they played. Gloria Swanson had been a star in the silent era and survived the transition to sound but not the transition into her 40s; Sunset Boulevard was her first film in nine years. Bette Davis was still making movies regularly in 1950, but certainly her years as a young starlet were behind her, and like her character Margo she was poised on the brink of middle age, perhaps fearing that her audience wouldn’t follow her into her maturity.
Maturity is perhaps a key word here, for while both films are concerned with the fear of growing old, neither of these characters is actually growing up. In fact, these films together make a compelling case that our society’s obsession with age, with youth and attractiveness, leads to misplaced values and stunted emotional growth. Norma and Margo, as their bodies grow older and they can no longer hide the wrinkles in their skin and the bags beneath their eyes, cling desperately to the shallow preoccupations of youth. They’re emotional children in aging bodies. Instead of embracing the maturity and wisdom that should come with age, they struggle to maintain an illusion of youthful “perfection,” and they project the attitude of entitlement, capriciousness and superiority that comes with it.
JB: I think that’s mostly right. To be fair, Margo ultimately does grow up: bowing out of a part she knows isn’t right for her, marrying the man she loves and coming to terms with the fact that Eve (Anne Baxter) isn’t a threat to her happiness. But Margo gets to that point all of a sudden, and only after a lot of kicking and screaming. In essence, she ignores reality until she has no choice but to confront it, lest she go insane, which is precisely what happens to Norma in Sunset Boulevard. So, yes, I do think these films say a great deal about how the desperate pursuit of external youth creates a kind of arrested development, because it’s easier to never grow up than to never grow old.
I suppose all of this is obvious. No one could watch these films and fail to grasp that Margo and Norma demonstrate how difficult it can be for women to pass into middle age. This theme isn’t just in the subtext, it’s often in the text itself. (Margo: “Bill’s 32. He looks 32. He looked it five years ago, he’ll look it 20 years from now. I hate men.”) And yet just because we’re conscious of what these films are saying doesn’t mean we’re as good about remembering what they’ve said. Given that All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard are about actresses under the extraordinary expectations of Hollywood (or Broadway as a stand-in for Hollywood, in the case of All About Eve), it’s tempting to regard Margo and Norma as movie stars only, thus forgetting that they are very much regular women, too.
So it is that Sunset Boulevard’s final scene, in which Norma slithers toward the camera like the vampire in Nosferatu, ready for her famous closeup, is often interpreted as a comment on Hollywood’s twisted ideals and the corruptive effect of fame. It is that, no question about it, but on a much more basic level that scene also reveals a woman driven not so much by a desire to be loved by the world (or the camera) as by a desire to be loved by just one man. Given Norma’s obsession with stardom, it’s easy to forget that what sends her into madness isn’t the realization that her movie career is finished but that her live-in screenwriter/quasi-boyfriend Joe (William Holden) is leaving her for a younger woman. For all the elements of these films that are specific to Hollywood, I think they each speak just as well to some of the inherent pressures of general womanhood, even if they tend to use dramatic, theatrical gestures to get their points across.
EH: That seems accurate. The Hollywood actress (and actor, for that matter) is often held up as some kind of paragon, an ideal of beauty and charm that “ordinary” people aspire to mimic. The Hollywood celebrity is a model for what the rest of us strive to be: attractive, successful, talented, poised and elegant. These films pierce that idealization to suggest that these rich, famous actresses aren’t actually so different from the rest of us; they too worry about growing old, about losing their glamor, about being unable to find love due to fading looks—or about losing what love they already have. As you make clear in your intro, such concerns are particularly acute in the years before universal plastic surgery, when these celebrities, just like the rest of us, don’t really have many options for avoiding the inevitable passage of time. The connection between these actresses and the non-famous women who go to see them is thus more pronounced than it is today, when those who can afford it don’t have to age (visibly at least) at the same rate as everybody else. The drama is exaggerated and stylized, but to some extent these films are mapping ordinary concerns onto the kind of fabulous women who some might assume would be above such problems. In that sense, certainly, neither of these films is just a satire of the Hollywood/Broadway cycle of fame and irrelevancy; they’re both also about the more prosaic concerns of “general womanhood.”
But all of that exists on a thematic level. I don’t think anyone would argue that, in other respects, either Margo or Norma (or anybody else in these movies) really seem like icons of typical femininity. They are very particular characters, played by very particular actresses who are drawing on very particular acting traditions to craft stylized, in some ways absurd performances. Although I’d agree with you that both these films resonate with universal concerns that aren’t limited to the insular worlds depicted onscreen, the actual textures and aesthetics in both films are far from realistic. Norma Desmond is, as you suggest, derived equally from Nosferatu and the tradition of the silent vamp, from literal vampires and vampiric screen seductresses. She spends much of the film with her hands gnarled into claws and her eyes nearly bugging out of her head. Sunset Boulevard, after all, isn’t only about the physical degradation of age, but about losing touch with societal norms and the rapid pace of aesthetic change.
Norma has lost relevance as much because she represents an outdated aesthetic as because she’s started to grow old. The silent movie stars acted with their faces and their bodies because they couldn’t use their voices; Norma lives her everyday life as if she’s still in a silent movie, still mugging for the camera, projecting her emotions in every twitch of her expressive face. Mitigating against the idea that Norma is a woman like any other is the way that the film surrounds her with the trappings of Hollywood’s past: not only von Stroheim as her butler, but cameos by other actors whose stars dimmed in the sound era (Buster Keaton, Anna Q. Nilsson, H.B. Warner). At one point, Norma even dresses up like Charlie Chaplin to do a mime routine as the Tramp. Norma’s biggest crime, as far as Hollywood is concerned, is her refusal to adapt to the times; in some ways the film suggests that society might be willing to forgive a few wrinkles, but it can’t countenance Norma’s intransigent devotion to silent movie (over)acting and old-school epic extravagance. The rest of the movie industry has moved on, and Norma’s been left behind, punished for sticking to her aesthetic convictions, as cheesy and out-of-touch as her preferences might seem to post-silent era audiences.
JB: That actually segues nicely into another of Sunset Boulevard’s famous moments: when Norma responds to Joe’s assessment that she “used to be big” by demanding, “I am big! It’s the pictures that got small!” It’s a magnificent line—truly one of the best in cinema history—and, like the film’s equally famous final shot, it’s tempting to think of that line as nothing more than a sharp dagger to the heart of a misguided Hollywood. I mean, just think of the countless essays you’ve read that use Norma’s quote en route to a proclamation that Hollywood’s best years are behind it. Sure, there are lots of movie lines that are more celebrated or better recognized, but I’d be hard pressed to come up with one that cinephiles, on the whole, find more personally resonant. Because we’ve all been there: staring up at the closing credits of a lackluster movie with that empty feeling that Hollywood used to make ’em better. Whether that’s true or not is beside the point. When Norma sneers that the pictures have gotten small, cinephiles reflexively nod their heads in agreement. We love her in that moment.
But let’s look at that line carefully, because it’s also evidence that Norma is, as you noted, tragically out of touch. With her card games among silent film stars (the “waxworks,” Joe calls them), her private silent-movie screenings and her antique car in the garage, Norma is doing everything she can to live in the past (not altogether unlike modern actresses trying to live in the past by undergoing cosmetic surgery). The truth is that Norma doesn’t actually know that the pictures have gotten small, because she doesn’t watch those pictures. Norma assumes—or convinces herself—that the movies have declined in quality simply because she isn’t in them. So it’s interesting that the same piece of dialogue that can make cinephiles high-five one another in triumph, as if Norma has reached into the future to bitch-slap Jerry Bruckheimer, can also be seen as the stubborn, clueless ramblings of someone bitter that the world has changed on them—the kind of stuff served up these days by Andy Rooney, who recently ranted against the micromanaging of medical professionals by bragging that he’s never brushed his teeth twice a day. In that light, Norma isn’t the woman that more reasonably disgruntled cinephiles should want as their spokesperson.
EH: Yeah, it’s funny that her words have become such a battle cry against mediocrity, because in fact Norma herself isn’t exactly a paragon of artistic integrity and inventiveness. She doesn’t miss the good old days because they represented a high water mark in cinematic aesthetics; she misses the movies of the past because they were more glamorous, more lurid, because they better suited her own particular talents and, as you say, because she was in them. Norma doesn’t fit in the modern movies because she’s too melodramatic, too over-the-top in her acting—whether she’s onscreen, trying out for a part or simply playing herself in her increasingly theatrical everyday life. The movie she wants to make is an absurd soap opera about Salome, the kind of movie that Cecil B. DeMille might’ve made in the silent era, which is why she wants DeMille to direct. But even DeMille, in the middle of directing a probably-not-so-different-on-the-surface sword-and-sandal epic, recognizes Norma’s ideas as outmoded. The pictures didn’t get too small for Norma, they simply changed, and she was unwilling or unable to adapt with the times, to adjust to new aesthetics and new ways of making movies. (Witness the overhead mic swiping her in the head as she sits on DeMille’s set, as perfect a metaphor as any for Norma’s relationship to sound.) As I said before, there’s something to admire in Norma’s refusal to compromise her own vision, but at the same time it’s a very conservative outlook, a desire to halt the natural evolution and development of a medium striving for new and different means of expression.
Director/co-writer Billy Wilder is striking a delicate balance here. Sunset Boulevard is a lament for a lost era, for those forgotten stars who failed to make the transition to sound, whose careers faltered when faced with the new economies and aesthetics of sound filmmaking. There’s something poignant even about the mere appearance of Buster Keaton, looking somehow wasted and gaunt, a premonition of the meditation on mortality and performance that he’d later deliver in the Samuel Beckett-written Film. There’s no doubt that Wilder feels genuine regret for the talents lost or forgotten during the transitional period from silents to talkies. At the same time, the film doesn’t idealize the past, doesn’t suggest that everything was better before sound came in and ruined it all; surely that would be hypocritical and silly coming from a director who started out as a writer and always knew the value of good dialogue. Instead, the film suggests that commerce always ruled, that the silent era represented not some golden age of artistic creativity but simply a different form of commerce, catering to different tastes and serving up different forms of spectacle. In the film, DeMille (gamely playing himself) rejects Norma and her ludicrous vanity project script not because he’s dedicated to his own noble artistic vision, but because he’s learned how to tailor his commercial products to new temperaments, while Norma is still serving up old-school kitsch. She hasn’t learned how to make modern trash.
Wilder, for his part, counters this artistic bankruptcy, which bridges the old and the new Hollywood, with some of his most compelling filmmaking. The film is packed with iconic images, like the early shot of a corpse floating in a pool, ingeniously shot from below the water, looking up at the body. Wilder matches Norma’s extravagance with baroque compositions that give the film the feel of an overblown Gothic fairy tale. At one point, Wilder shoots Joe’s arrival into a room from a distance, placing a pipe organ keyboard and Max’s white-gloved hands in the extreme foreground. Coupled with the film’s consistent depiction of Norma as a Nosferatu-like vampire, these shots further solidify the film’s links with the past, with Murnau and the German Expressionists—in other words, with the real artistic touchstones that might lend some credence to the argument that the pictures used to be bigger.
JB: Bigger, right. But, I agree, not necessarily better. As you said, it would be hypocritical, or at least inauthentically self-deprecating, for Sunset Boulevard to suggest that sound, and more specifically words, cheapened cinema. Sunset Boulevard is powered by words, in Joe’s omniscient screenwriter’s narration and even in the form of routine dialogue. And if other films, prior and since, have been made with such an obsession for “talk, talk, talk” that very little thought has been given to what’s within the frame (ahem, All About Eve, are you listening?), well, we can’t blame the technology (or the “words, words and more words”), only the filmmakers.
And so I wonder if over time the true meaning of Norma’s famous quote has become somewhat lost. Perhaps now we instinctually interpret the phrase as representing Sunset Boulevard and movies of its era, rather than the silent movies Norma is actually attempting to defend. On that note, I have to admit that over the past two years, when I’ve come across critics blasting away at 3-D as if its (re)arrival is the death knell of cinema, I’m startled at how much their diatribes (which I largely identify with, by the way) can come off like Norma Desmond offering her own technology-inspired obituary for movies: “They’re dead! They’re finished! There was a time in this business when they had the eyes of the whole wide world. But that wasn’t good enough for them. Oh, no. They had to have the ears of the world, too. Look at them in the front offices. The masterminds! They took the idols and smashed them.” Ed, is it possible we could reach a point, perhaps only 15 years from now, where the anti-3-D crowd and/or the anti-Robert-Zemeckis-motion-capture crowd sounds this loony? I shudder at the thought. In fact, don’t answer that question.
I’d rather get back to Sunset Boulevard’s images. You already mentioned one of my favorite shots, of Max’s fingers hammering on the organ keys, and the shot of Joe floating in the pool, which, incidentally, I think of every time I watch the opening credits of Mad Men. But there are so many other examples of this movie’s visual richness, particularly in contrast to All About Eve. For starters, consider that terrific moment when Joe first ascends the stairs toward Norma’s bedroom and Max steps into the frame to deliver one of the film’s best laugh lines: “If you need help with the coffin, call me.” Genius! Consider the shot when Joe walks into the parlor for the first time, and the camera pans left along with Joe and pulls back to take in the enormity of the room. Consider, of course, the famous scene in which Norma stands up into the projector light, drawn like a moth to the flame, in a maybe-somewhat-accidental moment that she milks for all the theatrics it can provide. Consider the very simple slow zoom over Joe’s shoulder as he peers into Norma’s empty bedroom trying to understand the woman who lives inside it. And, just because I have to stop somewhere, consider a few of the various shots during Norma’s trip to Paramount, like her touching moment in the spotlight, or the way the camera takes in the chaos of the set and then slowly zooms to frame Norma and “Chief” DeMille for their intimate conversation. Visually, as well as verbally, this is very much a “big” picture. And, as I’ve already implied, I can’t say the same of All About Eve.
EH: Neither can I. Talking about these two films together is interesting in all sorts of ways, but one way in particular is very fascinating from a meta perspective: All About Eve might be the textbook example of the kind of movie that Norma Desmond is railing against in Sunset Boulevard. It couldn’t be more perfect. This is what happens when words take over and the visual virtues of the cinema are neglected. Joseph Mankiewicz’s take on the subject of aging actresses really is all about “words, words and more words.” Though I find All About Eve reasonably interesting in terms of themes and, to some extent, performances, I have to confess that in virtually every other respect it’s a profoundly dull, aesthetically bankrupt film, with little to offer beyond the ideas that prompted the script. It might as well have been an essay about female aging for all the visual or aesthetic interest Mankiewicz brings to this material.
Virtually every shot in the film is utilitarian and little more. Mankiewicz frames the characters and occasionally moves the camera to follow them around if they happen to move—which they often don’t. It’s a shockingly static, theatrical film, which is perhaps fitting for its Broadway milieu but doesn’t really translate into satisfying cinema. I can hardly think of any shots, any camera moves, that enhance the themes or say something substantial about the characters or their relationships—at least, not until the very last shot of the film. This final shot is so striking, so potent, that it seems to have come from a different movie altogether. In the last scenes of the film, the narrative has already moved on from Margo, who has come to terms with her aging and gotten her happy ending. At the end, Eve has essentially become the next young Margo, a rising star, and when she returns to her hotel room she finds a young woman named Phoebe (Barbara Bates) waiting for her. The cycle is beginning anew, with Eve as the established star and Phoebe as the young wannabe who noses her way into her idol’s circle in order to get ahead. In the last shot, Phoebe dons one of Eve’s glittery coats and poses in a segmented mirror while ritualistically bowing as though accepting an award. Behind her, the fragmented mirrors create a multitude of Phoebes receding off into the distance, suggesting that this story will be played out again, and again, and again, one crass opportunist after another waiting to take over for those who grow old and tired of the game.
This one shot demonstrates the power of such visual inventiveness. If the rest of the film is an often tiresome gabfest with characters spitting out so many witty one-liners that it’s quickly deadening, this last shot is an elegant and memorable image that makes its point entirely without words. Norma Desmond would love it, but there’s not a whole lot else to love here. Jacques Rivette wrote, after revisiting this film in 1998, that “every intention was underlined in red, and it struck me as a film without a director! Mankiewicz was a great producer, a good scenarist and a masterful writer of dialogue, but for me he was never a director. His films are cut together any which way, the actors are always pushed towards caricature and they resist with only varying degrees of success.” I’m not sure I entirely agree with Rivette’s unqualified positive assessment of the dialogue—which is so on-the-nose that it’s maddening as often as it’s clever—but otherwise I think that sums it up nicely.
JB: Well, I guess I don’t disagree with you that the writing is on-the-nose, at least by contemporary standards. But it is very effective in places, and it remains one of the film’s strengths on the whole. However, as for your charge that “virtually every shot in the film is utilitarian and nothing more,” I wouldn’t disagree. Sure, the last shot stands out, as you noted. And I’ve always rather liked the shot of Eve standing just offstage at the end of one of Margo’s performances, watching her idol taking her bows. And yet, in the context of the rest of the film’s visual blandness, that shot is utilitarian, too, upon further reflection; the only difference is that we’re given something comparatively interesting to look at. So much of All About Eve is nothing more than the actors centered in the frame, barking their lines (some memorable, some not), often in front of rather bland backdrops. And so it is that one of the most memorable shots in the film is the one of Eve and Addison DeWitt (George Sanders) walking down a sidewalk—memorable, alas, because it’s so clumsily staged in front of rear-projection.
Sadly, in terms of the cinematography, that’s not the only time that an oddity stands out. Of late, I’ve been puzzled by a shot at the end of Bill’s not-so-happy welcome-back party: The party sequence ends with Eve saying goodnight to Karen (Celeste Holm) and reminding her to put in a good word for her about becoming Margo’s understudy. Karen, standing at the top of a stairway, assures Eve she won’t forget and then descends the stairs. As soon as Karen leaves the frame, the camera zooms past where she was standing to focus on a painting that had hovered unremarkably over Karen’s shoulder during her conversation with Eve. In a very brief closeup, no longer than a second, we see what appears to be woman sitting in a chair, looking to her right, with figures standing over each shoulder—perhaps an angel over her right shoulder and something that looks almost like a court jester over her left shoulder. The painting is there and gone so quickly that it’s hard to say exactly what it portrays. In fact, right now I’m studying the paused image on my computer screen and I still can’t quite tell what I’m looking at.
It’s entirely possible, of course, that the painting is quite famous. I freely admit that my knowledge of that art form is limited. Furthermore, I recognized Toulouse-Lautrec’s Aristide Bruant dans son cabaret hanging in Margo’s living room (hence, she likes famous art). So perhaps you know exactly what that slow zoom reveals, and maybe I should, too, and maybe that’s why neither of the two commentary tracks on my DVD makes any mention of the zoom or the painting. Then again, unless the painting is as recognizable as Mona Lisa, I find the haste with which Mankiewicz cuts away from the painting, after going through the effort to (a) hang it there and (b) zoom in on it, to be baffling. Giving Mankiewicz the benefit of the doubt—and thanks to my close examination of the painting on my computer—I’ll assume that the painting symbolizes Karen’s place between an angel she sees (Eve) and a kind of demon she doesn’t (Eve again). Still, I think it’s telling that one of Mankiewicz’s few attempts at cinematic storytelling is essentially mumbled.
EH: Interesting analysis. I don’t recognize the painting either, so maybe I’m missing something obvious too. But I think you nail it when you suggest that Mankiewicz rushes through this insert too quickly to make whatever point he wants to make, presumably something about good and evil, or the hidden machinations behind a seemingly sweet young woman’s blankly pretty face. The film’s overall undistinguished visual style makes me think, not that I’m missing out on a clever reference, but that Mankiewicz just isn’t getting across whatever he thinks he’s getting across.
That said, I will admit that the over-the-shoulder shot you mention of Eve watching Margo from the wings is another rare exception to the film’s general blandness, especially since it mirrors the earlier shot when Eve sees the inside of the theater for the first time, and Mankiewicz similarly sets up behind her, looking out into the empty rows of seats beyond the curtains. These shots aren’t showy, but they’re substantial, especially in comparison to the purely functional images throughout the rest of the film, in which Mankiewicz often seems to have paid little attention to composition or mise-en-scène.
This approach naturally puts the film’s emphasis on the performances, relying on the actors to carry the story. In that respect, at least, All About Eve acquits itself well enough. Bette Davis as Margo isn’t as iconic or as overpowering as Gloria Swanson’s Norma, despite some almost equally famous lines (“Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!”) but it’s a fine central performance. We feel, through Davis, the desperation of this woman, the way she lashes out at those around her because she seems to feel that’s what required of her in her star diva role. Her face, realistically worn and aged without losing its striking qualities, radiates this aura of unmistakable sadness beneath the rage. Anne Baxter’s turn as the treacherous Eve is a little less convincing; she’s great at selling the angelic sweetness of a small-town girl awed by the theater, not so great at selling the switch to a conniving manipulator. Nevertheless, the subtle touches are very satisfying, like the way we occasionally catch Eve giving Margo an almost leering evaluation whenever the older actress isn’t looking. The rest of the performances do pretty much what they need to, which is to convey the wit of Mankiewicz’s admittedly witty script. The only other notable turn is by Marilyn Monroe, who shows up in a small role, pre-fame, and of course completely steals every scene she’s in with her characteristic bombshell enthusiasm and some delightfully naughty lines: “You won’t bore him, honey, you won’t even get the chance to talk.” Now that’s funny, and proof enough that Mankiewicz is a good writer, if not quite a good director.
JB: Yeah, I think that’s fair. Of course, I feel obligated to point out that Mankiewicz’s underwhelming shot construction isn’t always detrimental to the story being told. As you noted earlier, the stage-like presentation of the drama seems perfectly appropriate for a movie about Broadway. On top of that, the basic camera set-ups and the frequent long takes (at least by today’s standards) allow us to appreciate the art of actors acting; that isn’t always the ideal, but it works here. A perfect example would be Margo’s spirited argument with Bill after he’s come back from Hollywood. Their three-minute verbal sparring session is composed of only a few takes, and the final one puts Margo and Bill in the same frame, first facing one another, and then standing almost side-by-side, with Bill looking toward Margo and Margo looking off into the distance, toward the fourth wall. Bette Davis is particularly fun to watch in that last setup—staring intensely at Gary Merrill as she listens to him, standing quietly when he’s talking, so as not to distract from her fellow actor’s performance, and even timing her biggest reactionary facial expressions for the moment he finishes a line. These are stage tactics, of course, but Mankiewicz is filming his actors in a theatrical style, so it’s appropriate. Plus, there’s a throwback appeal to that scene as an alternative to today’s shot/reverse-shot norm.
On the whole, Davis’ turn isn’t as impressive as Swanson’s, but then the character isn’t as interesting or as well-written. It’s an interesting bit of trivia that both actresses, and Baxter, went up against one another in the Best Actress category at the Academy Awards, although none of them won the Oscar. (The award went to Judy Holliday for Born Yesterday, a film that was nominated for Best Picture in a year that The Third Man was overlooked, by the way, which should be a reminder to the Oscar-outraged that those awards have never been particularly successful at identifying classic performances or films. But I digress.) As for Baxter’s performance, it now strikes me that we probably should have been referencing it in our conversation about Mulholland Drive Her affected performance, which even from the beginning feels like, well, acting, and then turns out to be exactly that, is more or less the blueprint for Naomi Watts’ approach to Betty. I’m kicking myself for not realizing that earlier.
The only performance you might have left out in your recap would be George Sanders’ as Addison DeWitt, which is really an achievement in writing more than acting, which is why it’s no surprise that Sanders did win an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, beating out Erich von Stroheim as Max in the process. (To fill out the Oscar recap, while we’re here: All About Eve also took Best Picture, Best Director (really), Best Costume Design and Best Writing/Screenplay, while Sunset Boulevard took Best Art Direction/Black-and-White, Best Music and Best Writing/Story and Screenplay.) It’s a good cast, and Monroe’s brief appearances add some charming zest, but I admit to being partial to Sunset Boulevard in this area, too. I’m not so sure the actual acting is vastly superior, but, man, those are characters!
EH: Yes they are. I’m reminded, in a strange way, of your stance on Tarantino, that when his characters speak you hear them, not as individual characters, but as undifferentiated mouthpieces for the writer/director. That’s how All About Eve hits me. I often felt like I was listening to Mankiewicz himself orating, particularly in the insufferable info-dump voiceovers (Sanders’ smug, trite narration being the worst offender in that regard). The performance style makes sense for Baxter’s Eve, who as you astutely point out is intentionally projecting an exaggerated innocence that hides an equally exaggerated manipulative evil beneath the surface. It works, too, for Davis’ Margo, a woman so used to being on-stage that she acts as though she is even when she’s stalking across her own living room rather than walking the boards. The rest of the cast, however, has the same style. They all speak in the same stilted rhythms and ornate language, with the same tortured enunciation of every word. There’s no sign here of the balancing presence that Joe Gillis and his down-to-earth romance with Betty Schaefer (Nancy Olson) brought to Sunset Boulevard.
It also helps, as you point out, that Norma and Max, that film’s most stylized and outrageous personalities, are true characters, with real histories and a real sense of the events that brought them to this point. In that respect, Wilder’s clever use of real Hollywood history imparts another layer of tragedy to these characters. When Norma watches movies of herself in her glory days, the actress Gloria Swanson is watching herself as well, in Queen Kelly, a 1929 film directed by, of course, Erich von Stroheim. The pathos of this scene is well-earned because it draws on deep wells of feeling involving these characters and the actors playing them; the audience that knows of Swanson and von Stroheim’s shared career paths with their characters will feel the heartache of that scene even more intensely. And even for those unaware of these metafictional layers, those scenes—and the loving pans across the rows of old photos that seem to be everywhere in Norma’s house—suggest that this character came from somewhere, that she has a rich past that informs her wild current behavior. We’ve compared her to Nosferatu’s Count Orlock, which suggests that she’s a monster, but if so she’s a very sympathetic monster, a woman driven to caricature and insanity by the relentless downward trajectory of her life.
I’d argue that this depth, this richness of character, is what’s missing from All About Eve, in which the voiceover often gives us the only background information we get about these characters—words, words, words against the emotionally precise imagery of Wilder’s masterpiece. Maybe that’s why Sunset Boulevard hits me so hard, with all these intimations of nostalgia, melancholy, loss and change, while the ostensibly similar themes and story of All About Eve seem somewhat abstracted.
JB: Yes, whether it’s the characters, the dialogue, the sets or the camera techniques, All About Eve feels a little unfinished. It reminds me of one of those making-of extras for a modern blockbuster in which a computer animator shows off the featureless skeletal frame used to map out a digital character’s movements before other animators add the detail. All About Eve feels on the way to being Sunset Boulevard, but it needed another round of revisions and fine-tuning.
That said, before we move on, I want to keep the conversation focused on the characters for the moment, because I want to give more credit to Nancy Olson’s performance, which I think is Sunset Boulevard’s most underrated strength. Olson’s Betty doesn’t just balance the cocksure manner of Joe Gillis, she balances the entire cast, almost singlehandedly. On one side of the scale we’ve got Joe, Norma and Max, these three outrageous personalities. On the other side of the scale we’ve got Olson’s Betty, a comparatively small part, and also Cecil B. DeMille, an even smaller one. Even though Joe, Norma and Max are distinctively different, the same way that, at least in theory, Mr. Pink, Jules and Stuntman Mike are distinctly different across three Tarantino films, I wonder if that undifferentiated mouthpiece effect might still apply to Wilder’s film if not for Betty’s calming presence—so unaffected, so normal, and yet by no means uninteresting. (She’s got personality.)
Part of the reason that Betty has such a balancing influence is because of the way she’s written, and because of Olson’s lovely performance. But equally significant is that Betty never steps foot into Norma’s house of horrors until the very end of the picture. She doesn’t belong there. It’s a clashing of the real (Betty) and unreal (Norma & Co.), and to combine the two too often, or too early, would be to blur the all-important line between them. Wilder clearly grasps this. I’ve always loved that when the doorbell rings, announcing Betty’s arrival at the end of the film, Norma recoils in a horror movie pose as if it’s Betty who is the monster, as if the chainsaw killer has found her doorstep. Likewise, when Betty steps inside, Max looks her up and down as if she is the oddity. Then when Betty urges Joe to leave with her, she tries to pretend away the entire scene, saying: “I’ve never heard any of this. I never got those telephone calls [from Norma] and I’ve never been in this house.”
It’s Betty who allows us to see that Joe, in his own way, is almost as monstrous as Norma and Max. Without Betty, Joe would always be contrasted by the unrivaled extremes of Norma, leaving him to seem normal, pure. But he isn’t pure. He’s tainted. It’s because Joe was as desperate as Norma for attention and fame that he allowed himself to live in her house in the first place. It’s because Joe senses his own Norma-esque traits that he doesn’t run away with Betty after all, even though he realizes he can no longer stay in Norma’s grasp. And it’s because Joe has allowed himself to live in a morally corrupt fantasy that he’s punished for his sins. Norma goes crazy. Joe gets three bullets to his torso. Neither of them can escape their illusions.
EH: You’re right, Betty is crucial to this film. Among other things, she represents the freshness, creativity and idealism of the young artist, which is otherwise entirely absent from this film about the cynical, corrupt Hollywood establishment. (It’s absent from All About Eve altogether.) Virtually everyone else in Sunset Boulevard is artistically bankrupt, warped by Hollywood’s warped value system. Joe once had that idealism, the desire to write something good and meaningful—but at the beginning of the film, years of failure and poverty have made him content just to make a sale, to scratch up some money, even if it means churning out countless formulaic scripts. His first meeting with Betty is the first indication of the gap between what he is now and the promise he’d once shown; she holds his lame scripts to a higher standard because she was aware of his one-time talent. Later, she awakens a new energy and enthusiasm in the washed-up writer, encouraging him with her purity and her hopefulness until he finally begins writing something personal again, collaborating with her on salvaging and reworking some of the best aspects of an earlier story he’d written.
The brief moment of optimism that takes over the film during Joe’s collaboration—and eventual love affair—with Betty makes the tragedy of the denouement even more poignant. Of course, there was never any illusion that things could’ve worked out fine. The film opens with the story’s tragic conclusion, and the whole thing is narrated by a dead man, which naturally creates an inescapable aura of destiny. Even so, even knowing in advance how it all ends, even when I’ve seen the film countless times over the years, those interludes with Betty are so moving, so suggestive of an alternative to the tragedy, that I can’t help but hope that Joe will wake up, will make the right choice for once. It’s not just the romance, of course, but the fact that Betty is a creative partner for Joe as well, and she reminds him that there’s more to this movie business than money and fame. At one point, while they’re wandering around the shadowy studio lot one night, she tells him a story about her brief flirtation with being an actress, and how it taught her that she should remain true to herself and her talents rather than twisting herself into something she’s not—the exact opposite of Norma. Wilder stages the scene in the kind of moody, romantically dim lighting that suggests love blossoming, but the point of the scene is the other emotions that Betty awakens in Joe: self-respect, hope, the satisfaction of honest work, the pride in one’s substantial creations.
In that light, I see Joe’s belated rejection of Norma slightly differently than you do, in a way that arguably makes the conclusion even more heartrending. Sure, Joe was desperate for fame, and sure, he stayed with Norma as long as he did because he didn’t want to give up the comfort and security she gave him, as opposed to the scary freedom of being his own man. But when he refuses to leave with Betty, when he tells her to go get married to his friend Artie (Jack Webb) instead, he does so not because he’s still obsessed with these ideas about fame and security, but because he’s realized it’s too late for him, that he’s too corrupt to be any good for the naïve, good-hearted Betty. His tough-guy act with Betty when she shows up at Norma’s mansion is just that: an act. He’s playing the unrepentant gigolo for her because he knows it’ll turn her away from him for good, but the obvious subtext is Joe’s desire to do just the opposite, to run away with her and try to regain his one-time optimism and self-sufficiency. Joe, by the end of the film, has escaped his illusions. He just hasn’t been convinced that he deserves a second chance.
JB: I think we’re on the same page here. I agree with you that Joe puts on an act for Betty (he implies he’s going to stay with Norma, even though he’s clearly made up his mind to do otherwise) and that when he leaves Norma it signifies that, yes, he has escaped his illusions. What I was trying to suggest is that Wilder doesn’t let Joe get away with it, any more than he lets Norma get away with it. There are consequences to their extended make-believe. Joe hasn’t been convinced he deserves a second chance, and Wilder confirms Joe’s sins for him by having him murdered, even though a few minutes earlier Joe selflessly lets Betty escape with her purity intact. This is a grim ending, one that’s hard to imagine coming from a Hollywood movie today, and you’re not alone in finding yourself wishing that Betty can somehow save Joe from his foretold doom. (Incidentally, that’s an unusual emotion for me to have in regard to a William Holden character, because I usually find Holden tremendously irritating; his Sunset Boulevard performance is the only one in his career that I truly enjoy.)
You know, considering where this conversation started, it’s interesting that the scene in which Betty’s purity is best revealed is the one in which she describes having undergone a nose job early in her ill-fated acting career. Betty went through with the surgery, without regret, it seems, but it’s as if that was the moment she started to realize that coveting the attention of the camera and an audience can be dangerous business. And that turns us back toward All About Eve: Until now our discussion, like every other comparison of these two films that I’ve ever seen, has given the impression that Norma and Margo are the most similar characters in these pictures—the aged (by Hollywood standards) forgotten actresses, infatuated with themselves and clinging desperately to their fame. But, really, it’s Norma and Eve who are most alike. Even though Mankiewicz’s film implies, particularly in its conclusion, that Eve is a younger version of Margo, the next in a long line of glory-hungry stars, a closer examination spots some differences.
For example, I don’t think it’s insignificant that when Karen first shows up with Eve, Margo doesn’t want to see her. Margo actually looks down her nose at her most adoring fans, partially out of elitism, but perhaps also out of healthy skepticism. There’s no denying that once they meet Margo is flattered by the attention. But can you imagine Norma turning down a chance to let one of her fans bow at her feet? I can’t. Also, I think it’s only fair to point out that some of Margo’s less attractive behavior, particularly her paranoia that she’s going to lose Bill to the younger woman, turns out to be not altogether unjustified. Yeah, Bill’s faithful. But Margo’s intuition about Eve is acute. Eve really is desperate not only to be like Margo but to be her. It’s not the acting Eve cares about. It’s the fame. I don’t mean to imply that Norma isn’t genuinely in love with acting. She is. Or at least she was. But at the end of the day, Eve turns out to be much more like a young Norma than a young Margo, wouldn’t you say?
EH: That’s an interesting thought. Certainly, at the end of All About Eve, Eve’s wannabe successor Phoebe desires the fame and the glitzy lifestyle, the possessions and riches, rather than the acting talent. The line of succession that we see in All About Eve is one of regression, in terms of substance. It suggests, as does Sunset Boulevard, the degradation of creative standards over time; where earlier generations wished for talent, successive ones seem to want to skip that step and jump right to the fame part. (That reminds me of all those modern starlets, reality show contestants and pseudo-celebrities who, as far as I can tell, are mostly famous for promoting themselves really well. Marilyn Monroe’s character in All About Eve suggests, quite presciently, that TV is the place for those without talent to get famous based on their, uh, other assets.) Margo, of course, is in it at least partly for the acting, as someone who really loves the stage and the craft of acting, or so we can presume anyway, from the way she talks about it. Eve, for her part, is awed enough by her idol’s acting to obsessively watch Margo’s performances and, again based on second-hand knowledge, we can assume that she’s a fine actress as well. Still, for Eve the acting seems secondary, at least the acting she does onstage—acting and manipulation have become a way of life for her offstage as well. She’s in it for the fame and the acclaim, for the glamor, and her own protégé, Phoebe, seems even shallower, even more single-minded in her pursuit of wealth and glory.
Norma, too, hungers for the admiration of her fans more than she does for the creative rewards of acting and performing. Yes, she loves being under the lights on the set, but that’s more because she loves the attention of being in the literal spotlight rather than because she’s so committed to the profession in itself. Norma is at her most alive when she’s the center of attention, as when she visits DeMille’s set and an old stagehand turns a spotlight on the former star. A crowd is drawn to her, drawn to the light that glitters around her in the spotlight; it recalls the earlier scene where she stands up into the light of the projector and closes her eyes in pleasure, as though she’s basking in the glow of the sun. She’s obsessed with the fame, and with herself, as evidenced by her parlor, which is packed with photos from her prime and boasts a movie screen on which she never shows anything but Norma Desmond movies.
This brings me to one other aspect that unites these two films: the less than flattering depiction of female ambition and the female ego. Sure, none of the male characters come off too well either (except for the ultimately loyal Bill in All About Eve, I suppose), but the women especially are depicted as greedy, superficial, self-obsessed and often manipulative. So while both films are certainly concerned with the unfair expectations placed upon women as they grow older, it’s hard to ignore that in the process, both women are also turned into bitchy, fanged-and-clawed monsters. Margo eventually steps back from the edge of destruction—and finds happiness with a man, retiring from the stage into an implied domestic role as a married woman—while Norma pursues her monstrous path through to its (il)logical conclusion. One monster is tamed, with the implication that maturity means abandoning ambition, while the other monster remains vile and caricatured to the end, chasing her ambitions into insanity. I’m not sure which is more limiting.
JB: I’m not quite sure that Margo’s retirement into domesticity suggests that “maturity means abandoning ambition.” Close, but not quite. The problem with framing it that way is that it implies her ambition is always sensible, when we’ve already demonstrated that it isn’t. Actually, a line from Joe to Norma applies best here: “There’s nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25.” Both Margo and Norma are ambitious in ways that are unrealistic. Unrealistic in part because of Hollywood’s contemptible habit of ignoring women who show their age. (Even now, Hollywood pretty much has two classifications for female actresses: Potential Sex Object, which Hollywood apparently defines as looking under 35, so that even the “cougar” type actresses do everything in their power to hide their age, and Grandma, the nonsexual senior citizen, who might actually be played by a sexy older woman like Helen Mirren but who Hollywood doesn’t demand we find titillating.) Unrealistic also because Margo and Norma are trying to play something they are not—young women.
So I think what these films show is that maturity means letting go of one’s illusions. Margo does that, and she finds happiness with Bill. Eve does that to a degree, thanks to Addison DeWitt calling her on her bullshit, and although she doesn’t find happiness she at least finds a place in the real world. Meanwhile, in Sunset Boulevard, Joe lets go of his illusions, and that gets him away from Norma, and gives him integrity, even if it also gets him killed. Even Betty gets a wake-up call that she needs about the messiness of adulthood and the prevalence of impure people, signaling that perhaps her square boyfriend Artie isn’t so bad after all. The one who doesn’t see the light is Norma, and we know what happens to her. (Max, by the way, operates in a strange middle ground, because he’s always been aware of the truth and yet he’s completely devoted to manipulating it on Norma’s behalf, so that in front of her he’s a slave to the illusion.)
That said, All About Eve and Sunset Boulevard both provide limited and limiting options for women, which is what you are getting at. Both pictures imply that a singular existence, one without a man, is either less happy or less realistic. Margo and Betty submit to marriages that at least seem to make them happy enough, but in doing so give up lifestyles that they seemed to want more. (The films conveniently ignore this.) Eve sees the light when Addison takes ownership of her, and they’re by no means a happy couple, but at least they operate without illusions. The one who doesn’t find peace is the one who loses her man, Norma. So while I think it’s anti-feminist to imply that women can’t find happiness in a relationship, if that’s what they want, these films certainly aren’t rallying cries for women’s lib. No question about that.
EH: Yeah, both films have a complicated view of gender, so it’s not a simple either/or proposition. The problem with Margo’s retirement, as I see it, is that it suggests the impossibility of a compromise, a happy middle ground: she’s either a miserable, out-of-touch bitch trying to maintain unrealistic ambitions of extended youth, or she’s a contented housewife who gives up her career altogether in order to be a full-time wife. Sure, you could interpret that as an indictment of the limited roles available to women in acting, as in life: you’re either a young sex kitten or a grandma, and there are by far more roles for the sex kittens. But the film itself seems to accept this reality a bit too easily. There’s no hint of any regret from Margo, at the end, that she’s been forced to make this choice, and that rings a little false to me. Norma, at least, goes out kicking and screaming against an industry that’s left her behind in her old age—she may be delusional and insane at the end of Sunset Boulevard, but she’s not acquiescing to the system’s insistence that actresses remain eternally young or get off the set.
That’s a big part of what I love about Norma, what makes her such an unforgettable character. In spite of her monstrousness, in spite of her insanity, in spite of how her doting on Joe risks ridicule, she has a certain dignity to her—even Joe has to begrudgingly admit it, though he tries to laugh it off, watching her bury her monkey with such solemnity on his first night at her house. It’s there in the way she drawls out her signature phrase, “It’s the pictures that got small.” She says it with such certainty, such contempt, that it leaves little room for doubt. We spoke before about the irony of so many nostalgic cinephiles unquestioningly adopting Norma’s pronouncement as their own, and maybe that’s why. The way she says it inspires that head-nodding reaction. She insists that, as a silent star, she doesn’t need words—“we had faces”—but at moments like that she seems like a born orator, stirring up her audience with grand rhetoric and anecdotes of the good old days.
It’s a complex film that can inspire such contradictory responses. Sunset Boulevard makes Norma a vampire, a diva, a legend, an icon of a sadly overlooked earlier era, a figure of pathos and pity, a symbol for all the women like her in Hollywood and beyond, for better or worse. Sunset Boulevard encompasses all of these facets and more. It is simultaneously an elegy for a lost Hollywood, a satire of the industry’s present and a commentary on broader issues of gender roles. It is also, of course, a fabulous and clever melodrama, with some of the most memorable characters to ever grace the Hollywood screen. I wish I could say the same of All About Eve, but as much as there is to admire in that film, its accomplishments seem more limited, more prosaic. It seems more bound by the conventions it depicts rather than straining, as Sunset Boulevard does, messily and angrily against those bounds.
JB: That’s true. Sunset Boulevard is an all-around fantastic film: funny, thoughtful, mysterious, romantic, nostalgic and critical of its own characters as well as of the mostly unseen forces that made them the way they are. Any film can be plenty great and still pale in comparison. In that sense, discussing these pictures together is the worst thing we can do to All About Eve. In effect, it’s like putting an aging actress next to a young sex symbol and expecting them to look the same. Sunset Boulevard highlights all of All About Eve’s flaws, including the ones we don’t notice when looking at that film by itself. To alter Joe’s quote from earlier: There’s nothing wrong with being All About Eve, unless one tries to pretend it’s Sunset Boulevard.
And that talk of pretending brings us back around to the start of the conversation, to Cate Blanchett and her curiously sharp cheekbones. Given that I’ve been to a grocery store and spotted the tabloids by the register, I didn’t need to revisit these films to realize that Hollywood tells actresses (implicitly or explicitly) that their relevancy is directly related to their “beauty,” or to realize that Hollywood has some twisted ideas of what “beauty” is. But it’s impossible for me to come in contact with these films without feeling an extra dose of sympathy for aging actresses (and women in general), not to mention an extra dose of frustration with the system. I think what bothers me most isn’t that actresses feel compelled to look younger but that they feel compelled to look a specific kind of young—small noses, symmetrical chins, angular cheekbones, pouty lips. If an actress doesn’t look like that when she finds fame, her plastic surgeon is likely to alter her face that way in order to maintain it. “We had faces!” Norma says proudly in Sunset Boulevard. Yes, and now? More and more, actresses have one face. It’s enough to make one yearn for the good old days, whenever those were. Margo and Norma could relate.
Ed Howard chronicles his film viewing at Only the Cinema.
Jeonju IFF 2019: Coincoin and the Extra-Humans, L. Cohen, & Introduzione all’oscuro
These are three enigmatic, challenging, and weird works of art by filmmakers pushing at the boundaries of the cinematic form.
Shortly after arriving in Jeonju, the mid-sized Korean city about 200 kilometers south of Seoul that serves as the site of the Jeonju International Film Festival, I pulled my bedraggled, jet-lagged body over to the guest center to pick up my press credentials. As I made my way through the carnivalesque open-air city block known as Jeonju Cinema Town, I found myself, to my surprise, in the midst of a rather peculiar, almost surreal scenario as a bunch of white- and black-suited stormtroopers marched in lockstep toward me, weapons at the ready, flanking none other than the Grand Imperial Poobah himself, Darth Vader.
The group maneuvered around me without incident, eager to pose for selfies with the crowd of locals assembled in the area, but after over 20 hours of travel, the encounter took on a vaguely sinister air, as if the forces of Hollywood monoculture had been dispatched to this relatively remote cinephile retreat to ensure that no one here got the wrong idea: Have fun with your cute little art films, but remember who really wields the power in the world of cinema.
I suppose these are the sorts of strange inclinations that strike you when your body’s circadian rhythms have been shaken up like a snow globe, but, despite the presence of the Walt Disney Company as one of the festival’s premier sponsors, the films I saw—personal, challenging, at times exhilarating work from all across the world—couldn’t have seemed further away from the market-tested franchises that clog American cineplexes. Having said that, it’s with some irony that one of the first films I took in at Jeonju IFF was in fact a sequel—albeit one whose eccentric sense of humor and repetitive, unresolved narrative mean it’s never going to be mistaken for the latest from the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
The sequel in question is Coincoin and the Extra-Humans, Bruno Dumont’s follow-up to Li’l Quinquin. One of the great left turns in the history of auteurism, Dumont’s 2014 miniseries signaled his transition from austere Bressonian miserablism to a singular brand of deadpan grotesquerie that gleefully explodes the thin line between the clever and the stupid. Dumont doesn’t vary his style too much for the sequel, as it’s another bizarre sunlit mystery set in the windswept countryside of Dumont’s native Nord-Pas-de-Calais. And Dumont has reassembled the same cast of non-professional local oddballs led by Bernard Pruvost as Commandant Van der Weyden, a twitchy, hapless police detective investigating matters way beyond his depths.
Dumont, though, still finds ways to mess with his audience’s expectations, starting with the baffling and completely inexplicable change of the title character’s name. If the earlier film felt like Dumont’s riff on popular international crime dramas like Broadchurch and The Killing, Coincoin turns out to be his spin on The X-Files, a sci-fi pod-people procedural featuring a mysterious black goo from outer space that inhabits its victims and forces them to give birth to their own uncanny clones. Like many stories about body-snatching, the series is a satire—here on provincial racism, the poor treatment of African migrants, and the rise of the French far right—but Dumont isn’t simply interested in topical point-scoring against Marine Le Pen, the anti-immigrant politician who represents Nord-Pas-de-Calais.
Rather, with its ambling, directionless narrative and lackadaisical long shots that perversely undercut the screenplay’s gags, Coincoin evokes a deep-rooted spirit of reactionary malaise, of people whose lives are hopelessly circumscribed by their own fears and prejudices. Dumont rigorously resists developing his plot or deepening his characters: They’re all trapped in an absurd loop, doomed to endlessly say the same things and reenact the same jokes.
Van der Weyden sums up that mentality in a single line: “Progress isn’t inevitable.” There’s a group of black men who periodically appear throughout the film only to be consistently and summarily dismissed in a fit of racist panic. Each time, we expect the film to create some meaningful interaction between the white townsfolk and these migrants, and each time we’re rebuffed—that is, until a final musical explosion of kumbaya-like camaraderie that’s somehow goofy, moving, tedious, and invigorating all at the same time.
Dumont is one of the few artists in cinema willing to risk exhausting his audience to induce a particular effect, but he’s not the only one, as demonstrated by James Benning’s L. Cohen, a 45-minute static shot of a seemingly unremarkable field with a mountain visible in the distance. It’s an elegantly composed frame, reminiscent of an American Regionalist painting and whose centrally located peak perhaps coyly refers to the Paramount logo.
After 20 minutes, even the most hardened cinephiles are bound to be squirming in their seat, at which point Benning reveals his remarkable trump card: As the sky quickly darkens and blackness falls over the Earth, we realize that we’ve been watching the leadup to a total solar eclipse. It’s a moment of quiet astonishment and confusion for anyone who doesn’t know it’s coming, bringing us close to the feeling a caveman might’ve had when the same event occurred. With typical mathematical precision, Benning has placed the eclipse at the exact center of the film, allowing us to explore the subtle shadows that precede and follow it.
The film, however, isn’t just some academic structuralist exercise, as it’s also a meditation on death, a fact highlighted by the next startling moment: the inclusion of Leonard Cohen’s “Love Itself” on the soundtrack, a stark divergence from the ominous drone (identified by Benning during his festival Q&A as the hum of airplanes flying overhead) that fills the rest of the film. This song and the dedication of the film to the recently deceased Cohen add a deeper layer of meaning to Benning’s precisely calibrated study of light and time.
L. Cohen is in essence a meditation on temporality. All things are fleeting, even grand interplanetary ballets. Considering the brief alignment of these celestial bodies puts one in a cosmic mood and calls to mind a cryptic, haunting line from a different Cohen song, “Stories of the Street”: “We are so small between the stars, so large against the sky.”
One could also find the specter of death looming over Introduzione all’oscuro, an expressionistic tribute to director Gastón Solnicki’s good friend, Hans Hurch, the recently departed director of the Viennale, the Vienna International Film Festival. Described by the director not as a film about Hurch, but a film for him, Introduzione all’oscuro dispenses with biography entirely, instead evoking its subject’s buoyant, ragtag spirit in an almost subliminal fashion: through music, film, and the city of Vienna. Hurch “appears” in the film primarily through his letters and through his voice, recorded by Solnicki when he provided notes on one of the director’s previous films. Solnicki does appear on screen: a comically lonely figure visiting some of Hurch’s favorite Viennese haunts—such as the Café Engländer, from which he would periodically steal cups—on a journey that drolly recalls Holly Martins’s investigation into the apparent death of his pal Harry Lime in The Third Man.
Like Solnicki’s Kékszakállú before it, Introduzione all’oscuro is what might be called “slideshow cinema”—a procession of taut, piquant compositions whose relationship to one another isn’t precisely clear but which, when taken together, create an indelible impression of a highly specific milieu. Structured more like a piece of avant-garde music than a narrative work or traditional documentary, the film has a hypnotic yet often dissonant allure. It pulls us into a strange liminal zone where Hurch seems to be simultaneously present and absent, haunting the film like a benevolent spirit. Solnicki simply has one of the best eyes in cinema today, and it’s the pungency of his images which makes the film such an endlessly compelling experience, even when the reasons behind Solnicki’s individual choices remain obscure.
Abstruseness, though, is no crime. In fact, the greatest pleasures of Jeonju IFF were to be found in grappling with “difficult” films such as Coincoin and the Extra-Humans, L. Cohen, and Introduzione all’oscuro: enigmatic, challenging, and even downright weird works of art made by filmmakers pushing at the boundaries of the cinematic form.
The Jeonju International Film Festival ran from May 2—11.
Review: As Teen Comedy, Booksmart Is Sweet and Nasty in Fine Balance
It’s an R-rated teen comedy that proves that you can center girls’ experiences without sacrificing grossness.3
An uncharitable way of describing Olivia Wilde’s feature directorial debut, Booksmart, is as a gender-flipped version of Superbad. Like Greg Mottola’s 2007 film, it concerns a pair of best friends who’ve spent their high school years as outsiders but, at the end of their senior year, decide to attend the biggest, coolest graduation party imaginable. As in Superbad, getting to the party devolves into an almost picaresque gauntlet through suburban nightlife, consisting of comical encounters with outlandish characters (both films even feature a “creepy car guy”). Booksmart and Superbad also share a ribald, R-rated sense of humor and a sex scene interrupted by vomit—even the same casting director (the venerable Allison Jones).
For all that, Wilde’s film is less a derivative of Mottola’s teen comedy than a corrective to it. Its exaggerated universe is less mean-spirited than the one depicted in Superbad, where so much of the humor depended on Jonah Hill loudly proclaiming his character’s misogyny. Booksmart isn’t above getting laughs from sex jokes that land somewhere between honest and outrageous—there’s a recurring bit about Amy (Kaitlyn Dever) masturbating with her stuffed panda doll—but it does show that teenage conversations about sex can be funny without being demeaning. And its belief in its main characters as more than just stand-ins for the most distorted beliefs that virginal high schoolers have about sex gives the film a fuller, more satisfying arc.
Amy and her best friend, Molly (Beanie Feldstein), are their elite Valley High School’s A-type-personality do-gooders, well-meaning in their ambition and their wokeness, but with streaks of haughtiness and self-righteousness. Beanie is class president, the kind of kid who pushes the school principal (Jason Sudeikis) to arrange a budget meeting with the juniors on the last day of class. In contrast to the brashly assertive Molly, Amy is meek, barely able to eke out syllables when talking to her crush, Ryan (Victoria Ruesga), but she’s also intensely woke, adorning her denim jacket with feminist-slogan patches and her car with “Elizabeth Warren 2020” bumper stickers. The pair are so close that they’re often mistaken for being a couple (Amy has been out since the 10th grade), and they definitely don’t party.
As school is letting out, Molly discovers that her and Amy’s monk-like approach to high school life has been for naught. Although the two pride themselves on respectively getting into Yale and Columbia, it seems that virtually all of their classmates have a similarly propitious future lined up. Even the horny goofball Theo (Eduardo Franco), who repeated seventh grade three times, was recruited for a six-figure job with Google. Molly adopts partying as her new project, dragging the reluctant Amy, all the more anxious because Ryan will be at the party, along with her. The problem is that, not being a part of their school’s social scene, they have no idea where the party actually is, and limited means of figuring it out.
The obliviously indefatigable Molly is a star-making role for Feldstein, who keeps let her highly dynamic character—Molly can be both very rigid and very foolhardy—from feeling inconsistent, or leading to broad caricature. As the quieter Amy, Devers’s role is mostly reactive, but, in the tumultuous climax, she supplies the film’s most poignant and relatable moments. As the omnipresent Gigi, a troubled party girl who inexplicably appears at each of the girls’ wayward stops on their journey to the party, Billie Lourd channels a chaotic energy, becoming the film’s strung-out jester. Lourd is just part of an altogether impressive ensemble that also includes Jessica Williams as the teacher who loves Amy and Molly perhaps a bit too much, and Will Forte and Lisa Kudrow as Amy’s super-Christian, super-supportive parents.
For the most part sharply written, and tighter and more consistently funny than the fragmented improv-style Superbad, Booksmart nevertheless has a couple of stretches that don’t quite land. There’s a claymated ayahuasca-tripping sequence that neither suits the rest of the film nor is followed up on in any way by the narrative. And the film’s conclusion is more than a little formally messy, with Wilde relying on a too-rapid succession of non-diegetic pop songs as emotional accents and to fast-forward the plot—at one crucial moment even drowning out the dialogue. But despite these small missteps, Booksmart feels like an innovation, an R-rated teen comedy that proves that you can center girls’ experiences without sacrificing grossness, and that you can be gross without being too mean.
Cast: Kaitlyn Dever, Beanie Feldstein, Jessica Williams, Jason Sudeikis, Billie Lourd, Diana Silvers, Mason Gooding, Skyler Gisondo, Noah Galvin, Eduardo Franco, Lisa Kudrow, Will Forte, Mike O’Brien Director: Olivia Wilde Screenwriter: Olivia Wilde Katie Silberman, Susanna Fogel, Emily Halpern, Sarah Haskins Distributor: Annapurna Pictures Running Time: 102 min Rating: R Year: 2019
Terminator: Dark Fate Official Trailer: Going Back to the Well with Sarah Connor
Linda Hamilton at least makes a killer impression as Sarah visits fiery justice upon Gabriel Luna’s terminator.
Today, Paramount dropped the trailer for the sixth entry in the Terminator series, Terminator: Dark Fate, which promises to deliver…more of the same? With this film, Deadpool director Tim Miller aims to give the series a reboot: by pretending that none of the films that came after Terminator 2: Judgement Day ever existed (sorry, Rise of the Machines fans), maybe even Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. “Welcome to the day after judgment day,” reads the poster, promising the badass return of Linda Hamilton’s Sarah Connor. And on that front, the film looks to deliver, as Hamilton certainly makes a killer impression as Sarah visits fiery justice upon Gabriel Luna’s terminator.
But based on everything else that’s on display throughout the trailer, we’re worried that there’s not anything new that a film in this series stands to bring to the table besides running and gunning, with the occasional wink thrown in for good measure. Cast in point: Mackenzie Davis stars as Grace, an “enhanced human” who looks to fill the hanger-on role to Connor that Edward Furlong’s John Connor did to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s T-800, now apparently living in woodsy retirement, and at the ready to give sage advice. In short, we’re not impressed, and that also holds true of that cover of Björk’s “Hunter” by some zombie man singer.
Watch the official trailer below:
Paramount Pictures will release Terminator Dark Fate on November 1.
Review: Woodstock Offers a New Look at the Three Days that Defined a Generation
Throughout, the era-defining yet problem-plagued music festival astounds in large part for all the disasters that didn’t occur.3
According to Woodstock: Three Days that Defined a Generation, the 1969 Woodstock festival seemed fated to fail. But a rare convergence of good luck, good intentions, and good vibes somehow snapped into place and crystallized over a few days in August the aspirations of a counterculture about to hit its peak. The festival’s planners, mostly promoters and music-industry pros, talk off-camera throughout this gloriously gleeful documentary about their somewhat spur-of-the-moment concept in a purposefully overlapping mosaic that makes it difficult to determine who’s saying what. Their original idea was simply a big concert that would celebrate the opening of a recording studio in the bucolic artist community of Woodstock, NY and take advantage of the musicians living nearby.
That conceit ballooned into a sprawling three-day cultural amoeba of feel-good psychedelia billed as “An Aquarian Exposition” to be held in a bucolic setting. It would ideally seem, according to one organizer, “like visiting another world.” Creating that gateway to paradise, however, hit one snag after another. Conservative fears about an invasion of hippies led to much anger among locals and triggered permitting issues. Original desired stars like Bob Dylan, the Doors, and the Rolling Stones all passed on the vent. Months’ worth of construction at the original site in Wallkill, NY had to be scrapped at the last minute.
But Woodstock shows also how both lucky circumstances and in-depth planning saved the day. The lineup swelled with a killer roster of acts whom David Crosby defines simply as “everybody we thought was cool”: Jimi Hendrix, the Who, Sly and the Family Stone, Santana, Creedence Clearwater, Janis Joplin, and so on. According to writer Bob Spitz, interest grew as the organizers put the word out through the underground press, and though their top estimates of attendance topped out at 150,000, the eventual total was closer to a potentially unmanageable 400,000. Seemingly foolhardy ideas like hiring Wavy Gravy’s Hog Farm commune to handle what they termed “security” and what Wavy defined as trying to “spread grooviness,” helped the increasingly massive enterprise maintain an appealingly mellow tone. Then, a Republican dairy farmer named Max Yasgur, who just happened to have a visually gorgeous sweep of land shaped like a natural amphitheater, agreed to host the festival.
Just about everyone interviewed in Barak Goodman and Jamilia Ephron’s documentary still marvels a half-century on at the scope and tranquility of what happened, though the potential for disaster provides some dramatic grit to the narrative. Much of the festival’s harmoniousnes was a result of on-the-spot empathetic resourcefulness, from Hog Farm’s thrown-together Sunday-morning “breakfast in bed” and “freak-out” tents for people on bad acid trips to the previously resentful locals who spontaneously emptied their pantries to feed the long-haired kids who had been tromping through their front yards. The crowds were soothed by the reassuring voice of the festival announcer, whose “we”-focused addresses over the PA system strengthened the communal spirit, which is then echoed in the film’s starry-eyed reminiscences of interviewees who all sound as though they wish they could go back.
Woodstock cannot hope to supplant Michael Wadleigh’s more symphonic and experiential 1970 documentary. But conversely, its tighter, narrower focus on narrative and context ultimately tells a bigger story at roughly half the length. Co-director Goodman has shown in some of his darker work for PBS’s American Experience, like his episode about the Oklahoma City bombing, a knack for building suspense. He deploys that skill here marvelously when showing the sea of humanity converging on Yasgur’s farm, balancing a fear of impending disaster (short supplies, last-minute glitches, a crowd many times larger than the highest estimates) with the dawning realization that things might just work out.
That tightrope-walking drama is maintained through the actual concert portion of the movie. The musical highs, Hendrix’s squalling “Star-Spangled Banner” and Richie Haven’s raucous two-hour jam (filling the gap while helicopters ferried musicians in over the blocked roads), play out while the vast crowd contends with food shortages and an unexpected rainstorm. But even though the attendees rushed past the mostly unbuilt fencing and by default created what organizer John Roberts here terms “the world’s greatest three-day freebie,” he and his partners appear now happier about the instant community that metamorphosed in the mud than the fact that as a business venture the concert was “in deep shit.”
Woodstock hits many of the expected notes about the concert’s place in the nation’s cultural history. But it’s refreshingly less self-satisfied than awestruck at the simple beauty of what happened at the Woodstock festival and the utopian example it provided to the world. Though unmentioned here, the disastrous music festival that occurred four months later at Altamont Speedway, in the hills of Northern California’s East Bay, where the organizers’ callous indifference to advance planning led to chaos and multiple deaths, shows just how rare the event that occurred in Bethel across three days back in August ‘69 remains to this day.
Director: Barak Goodman, Jamila Ephron Distributor: PBS Distribution Running Time: 90 min Rating: NR Year: 2019
Review: Joanna Hogg’s The Souvenir Is a Knotty Trip Down Memory Lane
Its stylistic fluctuations are a sign of a filmmaker really wrestling with how she became the woman and artist she is today.3.5
True to the mission of its protagonist, a well-meaning student filmmaker working on a thesis feature about a community foreign to her, writer-director Joanna Hogg’s The Souvenir is engaged in a running dialogue with itself around the notion of how—and how not—to make a personal narrative. Julie (Honor Swinton Byrne) is a London-based, upper-middle-class young woman coming of age in Margaret Thatcher’s England who feels a moral imperative to transpose her own experiences onto a fictional story set in working-class Sunderland, and she’s given ongoing opportunities in her film workshops to try to articulate why that is. Hogg, who based the character on her own early experiences as an artist, views Julie’s trajectory tenderly but through the lens of a greater maturity, dotting the young woman’s path with interlocutors who challenge and redirect her inclinations. Gradually, Julie’s certitude seems to fall out from under her, transforming Hogg’s film in the process.
Pivotal among these forces is Anthony (Tom Burke), a spectacularly smug older man with ambiguous professional and personal affiliations who becomes inexorably drawn to Julie, and she to him. When he first appears on screen across a table from Julie at a café, Hogg frames the scene in the kind of spacious, sophisticated master shot that defined her 2013 film Exhibition, snapping The Souvenir out of the close-up-heavy, fly-on-the-wall aesthetic with which it opens. The shift in style registers the exhilarating impact Anthony has on Julie, who is up to that point seen as a wallflower at college parties, taking photos and rolling a Bolex in the corner while bouncing in and out of conversations. Sizing up Julie’s film project with suave dismissiveness, Anthony suggests that she might heed the influence of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, who were able to express personal emotions free of the constraints of realism, and later proposes that “it’s not enough to be sincere or authentic.”
Julie takes such counseling in stride even when it comes from her casually condescending professors (also men), giving her a headstrong resilience that Swinton-Byrne beautifully underplays. But Julie’s toughness doesn’t equate to stubborn pride, and soon The Souvenir turns away from its portrait of early filmmaking ambition and toward the knotty dynamics of Anthony and Julie’s strengthening relationship—itself modeled off a fling in Hogg’s past. The director orchestrates this formal shapeshift with sly subtlety, first introducing the couple’s scenes together as elliptical diversions from the central storyline, then gradually lengthening them until the sequences set in and around Julie’s film school take a backseat entirely. Now sharing an apartment, Anthony and Julie go through the growing pains of coexistence—the former posits a “Wall of Jericho” made of pillows in a reference to It Happened One Night to solve his discomfort in bed—but nonetheless find a strange harmony in their dissonant personalities, with his brutal honesty charming her and her placidity disarming him.
In Anthony’s case, however, this apparent personality yardstick proves misleading, as it turns out that he’s frank about everything but his own life. Talk of a vague government job creates an impression of a posh background belied by Anthony and Julie’s trip to visit his parents, and later, an offhand remark made by one of Anthony’s friends when he’s in the bathroom yields the startling revelation—cued by spatially disorienting mirror shots and the gentle use of Dutch angles—that Julie’s boyfriend is a heroin addict. Hogg omits the scene where Julie confronts Anthony about this revelation, but the mark it leaves on their relationship is implicitly, delicately apparent in every part of The Souvenir moving forward. The neatly organized, white-walled apartment where much of the action takes place becomes charged with tension, not only from the threat of dissident bombing that percolates outside its windows (a reality contemporaneous to the film’s early-‘80s setting), but also from Anthony’s frequent, unexplained comings and goings, which starkly contrast Julie’s more fixed physicality as she spends her time hunched over a typewriter.
The Souvenir flirts with a few conventional movie premises—the doomed romance, the spiral into the hell of drug addiction, the pursuit of self-actualization—without ever fully engaging one, which doesn’t indicate an uncertainty on Hogg’s part so much as a supreme confidence in the intricacies of her own material. Likely to some viewers’ dismay, Julie’s story isn’t one that ever comes to hinge on an a-ha moment, a sudden realization that she’s strayed from her artistic passion in her entanglement with a toxic partner. Rather, Hogg evokes both the seductive appeal of an irrational romance and the less sexy but nonetheless potent comfort of falling into the role of nurturer, a discipline shown in a few touching scenes to be inherited by Julie from her mother (Tilda Swinton). What’s more, it can’t be said that Anthony’s influence is purely deleterious, as his bouts of real vulnerability, carried off with a persuasive display of wounded pride by Burke, repeatedly push Julie toward greater sensitivity and awareness.
Perhaps ambivalent herself to Anthony’s recommendation that Julie seek inspiration from Powell and Pressburger’s work, Hogg shoots in a grainy, underlit 16mm palette that has less to do with period fetishism than with draining the sparkle from Julie’s privileged upbringing. The Souvenir is shot from a measured distance, often with the camera in rooms adjacent to the actors so that walls and other objects populate the foreground, and the resulting sense is of being simultaneously immersed in the spaces of Hogg’s early adulthood and at an intellectual remove from them, a fusion seemingly reflective of the director’s own mixed emotions in revisiting this story. In this case, however, that quality of fluctuation isn’t a deficiency but a virtue, a sign of a filmmaker really wrestling with how she became the woman and artist she is today, and the mark of a film that’s beholden to no recipe but its own.
Cast: Honor Swinton Byrne, Tom Burke, Tilda Swinton, Jack McMullen, Frankie Wilson, Richard Ayoade, Jaygann Ayeh Director: Joanna Hogg Screenwriter: Joanna Hogg Distributor: A24 Running Time: 119 min Rating: R Year: 2019
Review: Aladdin Is a Magic Corporate Ride to Nowhere Special
Guy Ritchie’s live-action remake is content to trace the original’s narrative beats with perfunctory indifference.1
Compared to a few other recent live-action remakes of Disney’s animated films, which at least attempted to bring striking story wrinkles or an auteurist perspective to bear on their interpretations, Guy Ritchie’s Aladdin is a remake in the most literal sense. Much of the film’s first act traces the narrative beats of the 1992 animated feature, and in shot-for-shot fashion: Thieving street rat Aladdin (Mena Massoud) meets and charms the princess of his native Agrabah, Jasmine (Naomi Scott), and ultimately runs afoul of scheming grand vizier Jafar (Marwan Kenzari), before obtaining a magic lamp containing a genie (Will Smith) who has the power to transform the young pauper into a prince worthy of Jasmine’s station.
The steadfastness with which every aspect of the original is replicated by this new Aladdin makes Ritchie’s film a grueling example of the streaming-era notion of art as content. Because there’s no chemistry between Massoud and Scott, the legitimacy of Aladdin and Jasmine’s flirtations is largely sold on the basis of the viewer’s preexisting knowledge that these two will become a couple. Elsewhere, the relationship between Jafar and the Sultan (Navid Negahban) is an even paler imitation. In the original, Jafar’s viciousness was at least partially driven by his hatred of the Sultan, who issued inane commands to his grand vizier in all sorts of parodically infantile and buffoonish of ways. Here, though, the Sultan is a negligible figure, neither callous nor especially influential, thus robbing his subordinate of a compelling motive. The Jafar of this film is evil simply because he’s been designated as the story’s big bad.
If the dogged faithfulness of Ritchie’s film to the original proves consistently stultifying, it’s the most noticeable deviations that ultimately damn the remake. In an attempt to give Jasmine something to do other than be the object of men’s affections, Ritchie and co-writer John August blend the character’s traditional frustrations at being trapped behind palace walls with a newfound resentment over how her capacity to rule as sultan is thwarted by traditional gender roles. Nonetheless, her desires to lead are bluntly articulated and reflective of a broader tendency among the film’s characters to express their awareness of their own repression by tilting their heads back and staring off into the distance as they speak extemporaneously about their dreams. Poor Scott is also burdened with the film’s big new song, “Speechless,” an instantly dated empowerment anthem that suggests the sonic equivalent of that old woman’s botched restoration of the Ecce Homo fresco in Borja, Spain.
The film does come somewhat to life during its musical numbers. Though these sequences are marked by simplistic and unengaging choreography, they don’t quell the verve of Howard Ashman and Tim Rice’s original songs. Less successful is Smith, who, unable to match the intensity of Robin Williams’s performance as the Genie in the original film, leans into his signature drawling sarcasm to bring his spin on the character to life, effectively draining the Genie of everything that made him so memorably larger than life in the first place. Even when portraying some of the Genie’s more antic behavior, Smith mostly takes the path of least resistance, injecting just enough energy into his performance to hint at Williams’s memorable take on the character but without seeming as if he’s actually working up a sweat.
Elsewhere, Massoud mostly goes through the motions in establishing Aladdin as a rakish pauper, but the actor comes alive in a comic scene that sees his street urchin, newly styled as a prince by the Genie, presenting himself to the Sultan’s court. Having never been trained on any points of social graces, Aladdin can only stammer out pleasantries, using strange honorifics to refer to the Sultan as he curtsies instead of bows. Later, the Genie helps Aladdin perform an elaborate dance by controlling the young man’s body in order to wow the Sultan’s court. Impressively, Massoud manages to perform complicated steps while looking as if every movement is done against his will, giving Aladdin’s flailing motions a slapstick quality.
Such flashes of personality, though, are few and far between in this remake. Certainly there was a lot of room to bring a contemporary perspective to this material—to counter the original’s problematic representation of its Middle-Eastern milieu and deepen its characters. Instead, the film settles for telling you a joke you’ve already heard and botching the delivery.
Cast: Mena Massoud, Naomi Scott, Will Smith, Marwan Kenzari, Navid Negahban, Nasim Pedrad, Alan Tudyk, Frank Welker, Billy Magnussen Director: Guy Ritchie Screenwriter: John August, Guy Ritchie Distributor: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures Running Time: 128 min Rating: PG Year: 2019 Buy: Soundtrack
Review: Brightburn Is a Soulless Mishmash of Disparate Genre Elements
The way the film shuttles through its 90 minutes, it’s as if it’s been stripped of its most crucial narrative parts.1
Like a lot of kids squirming through puberty, Brandon Breyer (Jackson A. Dunn) is an asshole. Unlike most, however, he’s from outer space and possessed of formidable superpowers. Soon after learning of his abilities, he stalks a classmate, Caitlyn (Emmie Hunter), who consoled him in class after he was teased for his incredible smarts. Brandon makes a show of controlling Caitlyn’s laptop before appearing outside her bedroom window, eerily floating in the air. By this point in director David Yarovesky’s Brightburn, one is still optimistic that Brandon’s creeper tendencies will be the most insidious of his problems. But when Caitlyn calls him a pervert, after letting him fall to the ground during a “trust fall” exercise in gym class, Brandon crushes the bones in her hand after she’s forced to help him up. By the end of the film, Caitlyn will prove to be one of the lucky ones.
That Yarovesky and screenwriters Brian and Mark Gunn don’t exactly push the link between Brandon’s pubescence and his growing self-awareness isn’t the first sign that something is amiss here. Right out of the gate, Brightburn reveals itself unwilling to animate its characters’ emotional dramas, using visual shorthand to simply hint at them. In the opening scene, set more than 10 years in the past, the camera pans across a bookshelf full of fertility books, informing the audience that Brandon’s parents, Tori (Elizabeth Banks) and Kyle (David Denman), really want to have a baby. Later, while helping his dad with chores, Brandon accidentally throws a lawnmower halfway across the family farm. This is when he recognizes that he has superpowers, but rather than prolong the kid’s doubt across more than one scene, the film zips straight to the moment where he’s about to shove his hand into the lawn mower’s spinning blades to confirm his suspicions that he’s nothing short of invincible.
More genre films—more films, period—could stand to have a lot less fat on their bones, but the way Brightburn shuttles through its 90 minutes, it’s as if it’s been stripped even of its most crucial narrative parts. Outside of one pulpy hallucination sequence, the film stubbornly refuses to give a concrete sense of the desperation that drove Tori and Kyle to adopt Brandon, just as it can’t be bothered to give shape to the mythology of his creation—or rather, his arrival. For a spell, though, this suggests a purposeful show of evasion. Much is made of the red light that peeks out from the floorboards in the family barn and to which Brandon is drawn throughout the film. If you’re a fan of Larry Cohen’s canon, you may wonder if the kid will be revealed as a kindred spirit of the ever-glowing human-alien antagonist from God Told Me To, here to make sport of our biological urge to procreate in our increasingly decaying world.
No such luck, as Brightburn is a meaningless mishmash of disparate genre elements. The truth of what lurks beneath the floorboards turns out to be of no particular consequence—not exactly a red herring, just a bit of hogwash that confirms Brandon to be a gene splice of Damien and Superman. Maybe a sense of majesty, of mythic grandeur, might have made him feel as if he was less arbitrarily willed into being, though Yarovesky certainly conveys the weight of the kid’s killing spree. Not its existential weight, only its repugnant force. At one point, one of his victims struggles to hold up the lower part of his grotesquely shattered jaw, as Brandon pulls off the mask that he wears because, presumably, he understands that that’s what someone with superhuman powers should do. Brightburn never shows us how Brandon came to such a realization, but it does let us glimpse the stone-cold delight he takes in erasing human life—a spectacle of violence that exists for its own soulless sake.
Cast: Elizabeth Banks, David Denman, Jackson A. Dunn, Jennifer Holland, Matt Jones, Meredith Hagner, Becky Wahlstrom, Gregory Alan Williams, Steve Agee, Emmie Hunter Director: David Yarovesky Screenwriter: Brian Gunn, Mark Gunn Distributor: Screen Gems Running Time: 90 min Rating: R Year: 2019
The Nightingale Trailer: Aisling Franciosi and Sam Claflin Star in Jennifer Kent’s Follow-Up to The Babadook
Today, IFC has released the first trailer for the film, which is set during the colonization of Australia in 1825.
Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale, the Aussie filmmaker’s much-anticipated follow-up to The Babadook, premiered way back in September at the Venice Film Festival, and to mostly positive notices. Today, ahead of its U.S. theatrical release in August, IFC has released the first trailer for the film, which is set during the colonization of Australia in 1825 and follows a young Irish convict settler, Clare (played by Aisling Franciosi), who, after finishing her seven-year sentence, struggles to be free of her abusive master, Lieutenant Hawkins (Sam Claflin). According to the studio’s official description of the film:
Clare’s husband Aidan (Michael Sheasby) retaliates and she becomes the victim of a harrowing crime at the hands of the lieutenant and his cronies. When British authorities fail to deliver justice, Clare decides to pursue Hawkins, who leaves his post suddenly to secure a captaincy up north. Unable to find compatriots for her journey, she is forced to enlist the help of a young Aboriginal tracker Billy (Baykali Ganambarr) who grudgingly takes her through the rugged wilderness to track down Hawkins. The terrain and the prevailing hostilities are frightening, as fighting between the original inhabitants of the land and its colonizers plays out in what is now known as “The Black War.” Clare and Billy are hostile towards each other from the outset, both suffering their own traumas and mutual distrust, but as their journey leads them deeper into the wilderness, they must learn to find empathy for one another, while weighing the true cost of revenge.
Watch the official trailer below:
IFC Films will release The Nightingale in NY and LA on August 2.
Cannes Review: The Lighthouse Is a Hilarious and Grotesque Genre Pastiche
Robert Eggers loosens the noose of veracity just enough to allow for so much absurdism to peek through.3
Willem Dafoe farts and Robert Pattinson masturbates vigorously in Robert Eggers’s creepy and unexpectedly, if grotesquely, hilarious follow-up to The Witch. Set in 1890s New England, The Lighthouse finds Eggers again mining the past for an air of mythic portent but loosening the noose of veracity that choked his meticulously researched yet painfully self-serious debut just enough to allow for so much absurdism to peek through.
From the moment that lighthouse keepers Thomas Wake (Dafoe), an experienced old “wickie” with a shuffling gait and a hair-trigger temper, and Ephraim Winslow (Pattinson), his handlebar mustache-sporting assistant, set foot on the tiny island where they’re to spend the next four weeks, they start to get on each other’s nerves. Wake is a slave driver who’s said to have made his last assistant go crazy, and who ignores any and all regulations, while Winslow, who’s on his first assignment as a lighthouse keeper, refuses to drink and be merry with Wake, which causes its own problems. Before long, the two men kick into motion a game of one-upmanship, a raising of the stakes to see who will be the first to drive the other to madness—with flatulence and horniness among the many, many factors fueling that pursuit.
Eggers’s willingness to get goofy, and to not worry about humor defusing his narrative’s macabre horror—as in, say, the cartoonish pummeling that a devious seagull receives—makes The Lighthouse something of a breakthrough for the filmmaker. Diverging from the formula of coiled tension followed by sudden and jolting release that’s favored by so many contemporary arthouse horror films, Eggers parcels out the action in the film, steadily and methodically building toward the psychological breaking point of his characters.
Dafoe and Pattinson are crucial to selling that trajectory, ensuring that every moment here bristles with performative bluster. Dafoe’s surly former sea captain is a blowhard who’s given to sentimental reverie whenever he gets hammered, while his foil is played by Pattinson with slyly vacillating docile subservience and scheming spitefulness. The veteran character actor and dressed-down movie star play off each other exceptionally well, especially when, as is often the case in a two-hander, they have to pull-off a tricky role reversal.
Taking advantage of a bigger budget than The Witch, Eggers shot The Lighthouse on 35mm film. He’s also utilized the 1.19:1 Movietone aspect ratio, which was briefly standardized in the 1920s and is tighter than the already boxy 1.37:1 academy ratio, as a means of emphasizing his vertical compositions and the at times literally stratified relationship between his main characters. At one point, Dafoe’s old codger refuses to share lantern duty, while Winslow toils down below, swabbing decks and maintaining the dilapidated station.
Eggers successfully approximates F.W. Murnau’s stark and dynamic use of light and shadow in images that ensconce his characters in darkness and place them in geometrically unbalanced positions within the frame. But the quirkiest influence on this film is Night Tide, Curtis Harrington’s 1961 supernatural farce of a noir, which Eggers cribs from blatantly in a surreal sequence where Pattinson’s character has an erotic fantasy about a mermaid, and in a delirious body-horror montage—realized through largely practical effects—that co-opts Harrington’s hybridization of Roger Corman and Kenneth Ager’s stylings.
And like Night Tide, a send-up of beach-party movies and cheap ‘50s sci-fi, The Lighthouse aims for self-aware pastiche and pulls it off without smugness. Unlike Harrington’s film, though, it doesn’t register much affection for the forms it’s working with, and can come off like a calculated exercise. Still, Eggers’s ability to take the piss out of his inflated genre movie pastiche, without lapsing into parody, is an impressive and an entertaining feat.
Cast: Robert Pattinson, Willem Dafoe, Valeriia Karaman Director: Robert Eggers Screenwriter: Robert Eggers, Max Eggers Distributor: A24 Running Time: 110 min Rating: NR Year: 2019
Maryland Film Festival 2019: The Hottest August, Donbass, & American Factory
This year’s selections exhibit a scope and ambition that should continue to draw adventurous filmgoers for years to come.
Judging from the enthusiasm of the surprisingly high number of New York filmmakers and critics this writer met in Baltimore this past weekend, the Maryland Film Festival isn’t seen as a pale shadow of Big Apple filmgoing. Rather, it’s a vital supplement to it—a program that compresses many of the festival season’s essential offerings into a manageable four-day run in an easily walkable city with comparatively chill crowds.
Those who made the commute to Baltimore for the festival this year had the chance to encounter one of the more trenchant New York-set films of recent memory in Brett Story’s The Hottest August, an essayistic documentary made in the intellectually vagrant spirit of Chris Marker. Shot in August of 2017 around a principle of “organized spontaneity,” per producer Danielle Varga, the film spans New York City’s five boroughs while adhering to a nebulous, difficult-to-define but nonetheless valuable objective: to take the temperature of the times we live in and tease out the collective mood of the country’s most densely populated area.
Willfully biting off more than it can chew, The Hottest August features rich people, poor people, scientists, skateboarders, entrepreneurs, intellectuals, barflies, artists, and more waxing extemporaneous on topics including climate change, economic inequality, automation, racism, and the future. The mood is off the cuff, conversational. A pair of women in lawn chairs joke about how their street’s rat population has swelled as a result of gentrifying construction in adjacent neighborhoods. Two former cops reframe the term “racism” as “resentment” in a sports bar just moments after demanding that no politics enter the hallowed space of the drinking hole. A loft-dwelling futurist pontificates on what the tax system might look like if the country embraced robotics instead of fearing it as a job killer. Occasionally we hear the filmmaker off screen, tersely prompting her subjects with open-ended questions, but mostly this is an ensemble of eager talkers, their openness running contrary to the old chestnut about closed-off New Yorkers.
Finding form in this seemingly disconnected mass is editor Nels Bangerter, who managed a similar feat with Kirsten Johnson’s Cameraperson. The film drifts subtly from subject to subject, pointedly using B roll not just to evocatively provide a sense of place, but to extend someone’s thought or offer counterpoint. Three streams of information exist at once: whatever opinion is being put forth by the person on screen; whatever in-the-moment perspective Story takes on her subject’s response through the questions she asks or the camera angles she chooses; and the question of how that segment ultimately interacts with the film in its final form, where images have been invested with meaning through context.
The Hottest August is a film that’s constantly “thinking,” and that thought isn’t fixed or authoritative, but rather in flux and negotiable. Story isn’t setting out to answer any pressing political issues so much as capture the tactile sense of how those issues permeate everyday settings. Hers is a form of ambient reportage that feels very welcome in our contemporary moment, when the daily barrage of information can sometimes make it difficult to recall how one felt about something two days earlier, let alone in that turbulent August of 2017.
Similarly macro in its approach is Sergei Loznitsa’s Donbass, which adopts a sprawling, vignette-driven structure as it catalogues the miseries and grotesqueries of the eponymous eastern Ukrainian territory. A region occupied by pro-Russian paramilitary forces (specifically the Donetsk and Luhansk People’s Republics) ever since the Ukrainian Revolution in 2014, present-day Donbass is a morass of conflicting sympathies and ideologies that Loznitsa doesn’t so much seek to clarify with this film as reflect in all its muddy complexity.
In fact, Loznitsa goes so far as to call into question the very possibility of the truth of this situation he captures on camera. Whenever reporters appear on screen, they’re portrayed as ineffectual stooges waiting to be chewed out as propaganda peddlers by their political opponents, and the film’s bookending sequences, set at the trailer park of a movie set, build toward a thesis statement on the dubiousness of contemporary reporting with its tendency to stage and reframe reality according to the mandates of whatever affiliation is being placated.
Cameras, we’re repeatedly reminded by the mise-en-scène, are violators, as they merely augment the dangerous power of the person wielding them. Donbass’s most harrowing elucidation of this theme comes in a scene on a public street, where a Ukrainian loyalist, tied to a telephone pole by a pair of armed separatists, endures a humiliating beating at the hands of a growing mob of passersby, one of whom decides to record the grisly spectacle with his smartphone. As Loznitsa’s camera circles the action, the heckler’s phone presses right up into the face of the prisoner, relishing in the man’s suffering, and we get the sense that the escalation of violence may have never come to pass in quite this way were it not for the spontaneous idea to turn it into a video meme. Later, the recording gets shown to a hooting crowd of Novorossiya sympathizers at an absurdly overemphatic wedding celebration, assimilating smoothly into the atmosphere of nationalist fervor.
Donbass is fueled by such collisions between the grave and the comic, a tonal oscillation mastered by Loznitsa in his documentaries and carried over here to support a vision of a society cracking under the weight of its own inconsistencies, corruption and mob mentalities. Less tightly structured than Loznitsa’s preceding fiction work, the film adopts the immersive observation of films like Maidan and Victory Day with a more active, roving camera but a similar degree of durational endurance. In one scene, Loznitsa even seamlessly integrates an extended use of documentary language into a longer fictional setup when his camera descends into a cramped and overcrowded bomb shelter, where a local host, lit by a camera-mounted source, walks us through the destitution of those living inside. As with the later street scene, the dreariness is eventually spiked by a dash of absurdism, but the counterpunch isn’t intended to lighten the mood so much as further disorient, ultimately giving Donbass an unnerving precarity that must come somewhat near the feeling on the ground.
If these two films, content as they are to revel in ambivalence, seek to grasp the experience of the now in all its bewilderment, Julia Reichert and Steven Bognar’s American Factory takes a more committed stance on an issue that’s equally topical. Fuyao Glass America, an outgrowth of a global glass manufacturer owned by a Chinese billionaire, opened in Moraine, Ohio in the shell of a shuddered General Motors plant toward the beginning of the decade, persisted financially for years while pursuing its awkward goal of unifying Chinese and American work cultures, and then inevitably ran up against controversy in 2017 when safety concerns and low wages encouraged the local employees to vote to unionize.
American Factory charts this entire compelling history with surprising comprehensiveness: When a late scene plays out as an illicit audio recording from an employee over a black screen, it stands out for being one of the only instances when the filmmakers don’t appear to have unencumbered access. But this sprawl has its downsides. Though briskly edited and tonally varied, Reichert and Bognar’s documentary skims over the surface of some of its most fascinating threads while in pursuit of a rousing decade-long tale.
The American workers depicted in the film, disgruntled by their diminished earnings and recalling a recent past with less bureaucratic oversight, too often blend into one undistinguished mass of Midwestern homeliness, and the few individuals who do get singled out for attention—a woman living in her relative’s basement and a rancher who befriends one particular Chinese co-worker—often get neglected for long stretches of time. The Chinese are perhaps even less differentiated, their insistence on dogged work ethic and company allegiance repeatedly emphasized almost to the point of xenophobia. That Fuyao chairman Cao Dewang, who weaves through the film as an amusingly oblivious villain for its majority, eventually gets a moment to fondly reminisce on China’s pre-industrial past and contemplate his own complicity in the country’s shift to globalized capitalism comes across as penance for the film’s occasional treatment of foreigners as misguided corporate drones.
What American Factory ultimately amounts to, however, isn’t an exploration of culture clash or a penetrating depiction of rust belt dejection, but rather a rallying cry for worker solidarity (in America, if not across the globe), a message it pulls off resoundingly in the final hour. Reichert and Bognar smartly detail all the insidious ways in which corporate messengers mischaracterize unionizing as a threat to individual liberty, and the populist filmmaking vernacular they employ as the union vote nears—fluid crosscutting between different intersecting narratives, plenty of emotional close-ups, a score of almost Spielbergian grandiosity—gives the documentary a genuine shot at trafficking radical politics to a relatively wide audience. If it’s any indication of future success, American Factory was one of the most well-attended screenings I went to during my time in Baltimore, but it’s a testament to the Maryland Film Festival’s outreach that healthy crowds congregated throughout the weekend. Though modest and inviting, this year’s selections exhibit a scope and ambition that should continue to draw adventurous filmgoers for years to come.
The Maryland Film Festival ran from May 8—12.
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