A few film journalists have noted recently that, despite their reputations as financially lucrative and zeitgeist-y documentarians, Davis Guggenheim and Michael Moore make very different documentaries: the former cedes the floor to his subjects (whether they be Al Gore, Jack White, or a quintet of underprivileged schoolchildren), while the latter makes damn well sure that we’re aware of his half-prankster, half-bleeding-heart presence. But as Waiting for Superman shows, Guggenheim hews closely to Moore’s emotionally charged aesthetics and people-powered message. And despite his lack of on-screen presence, Guggenheim’s voiceover throughout his newest documentary makes it clear that Waiting for Superman comes from his own perspective, that of a middle-to-upper-class white liberal whose nominal belief in the public education system is belied everyday by the three public schools he passes en route to dropping off his own children at a local private school. He may not be ambushing superintendents in the parking lot while wearing a baseball cap, but Guggenheim wants you to know that he has an education problem, and that you should too.
Luckily, Waiting for Superman mostly eschews plight-of-the-modern-progressive teeth-gnashing and keeps the focus mainly on the kids, all save one from lower-income urban neighborhoods and attending schools that are either failing them or cannot offer their parents the financial support to keep them enrolled. Their stories are heartrending, if not surprising. Daisy dreams of being a doctor, but statistics are against the precocious fifth grader: Six out of 10 students don’t graduate high school in her East L.A. neighborhood. Anthony, a Washington D.C. fifth grader who moved in with his grandparents after his father overdosed, likes to learn but will soon graduate to a middle school where students on average fall two to three grades behind. (In a particularly poignant scene, Anthony says that he hopes education will provide a way out of his neighborhood and greater opportunities for his children; when Guggenheim points out his surprise in hearing a fifth grader talk about plans for his children, Anthony gives him a why-not shrug.) Guggenheim proves particularly adept at juxtaposing the individual quirks and dreams of his subjects against the cold wall of statistical evidence—much of it presented in clear if too-cutesy illustrated graphics—that they and their parents run up against.
It gives cursory nods to such systemic issues as poverty and crime, but Waiting for Superman saves most of its criticism for dysfunctional teachers, or at least the unions that keep them from being replaced by more passionate individuals with innovative ideas. While Guggenheim briefly acknowledges the historical abuses against teachers that led to the formation of unions, he’s fairly unapologetic in how he views their current incarnation, which he presents as intractable, single-minded, and not open to any proposals that defy such hard-fought rights as teacher tenure and school-day length. In a particularly Moore-ish touch, Guggenheim even finds himself a quasi-boogeywoman in Randi Weingarten, the current president of the American Federation of Teachers, who the film treats as the definition of a bottom-line union bureaucrat. Certainly, some of the facts Guggenheim presents are positively blood-boiling, particularly stories of New York’s infamous “rubber rooms,” where delinquent teachers are held with full pay and benefits as they await termination hearings.
Still, the unions’ representation is debatable, and whether one views the film as presently unvarnished realities or ignoring key factors will certainly be influenced by one’s personal experiences and ideological persuasion. What’s more telling is how few members of the teachers’ unions we actually hear from. Weingarten gets to say her piece before Guggenheim’s camera, but the vast majority of members are only seen in union-meeting footage, yelling and waving signs. Certainly, such images succinctly put forth the groupthink mentality that seems to characterize the unions’ inertia on so many issues. Indeed, perhaps the film’s most stinging criticism boils down to what Washington D.C. school chancellor Michelle Rhee characterizes as adult politics overtaking the needs of the children they claim to serve. Even still, one questions whether the lack of union-teacher voices constitutes a blind eye or a purposeful elision.
It gets at the deeper issue that plagues Waiting for Superman; namely, a romanticization and/or condemnation of teachers’ actions without an analysis of what, exactly, makes a “good” and “bad” teacher. If Weingarten ends up being the film’s de facto antagonist, then its heroes are people like Geoffrey Canada, head of the Harlem Success Academy, a charter school that covers some of the most economically depressed areas in New York. He’s an undeniably charismatic and passionate presence, and his candor is matched only by interviews with Rhee, whom Guggenheim frames as a straight-shooting reformer who runs up against an impenetrable wall of union-backed resistance. But while the film offers a generalized view of how they view school reform, it would have been nice to see them or their staff at work within the classroom, detailing the day-by-day actions that result in better teaching. For a film that espouses a belief in the methods of such creative charter schools as Canada’s organization or KIPP LA PREP in Los Angeles, Waiting for Superman could have delved further into their mechanics and history, giving us a sense of how their methods work and whether they can be replicated elsewhere.
Indeed, if there is one thing that Guggenheim seems painfully aware of throughout Waiting for Superman, it is how heartbreakingly limited these charter schools are in terms of the number of children they can take. All five children Guggenheim follows end up applying to these extremely selective schools, and he structures the film’s climax around whether any of them will defy the odds and actually get in via random lotteries (sample state: KIPP LA PREP chooses 10 students from 135 applicants). The suspense that he creates, however, feels less like audience goosing than a sorrowful acknowledgment of how limited these children’s options really are. Waiting for Superman lacks the depth of detail to register as a way forward for public education reform. But in those moments when Guggenheim sets his gaze upon the children whose lives rest so much on fate (of skin color, of economic status, of whether their number is called in a lottery), its galvanizing power is undeniable.
Director: Davis Guggenheim Screenwriter: Davis Guggenheim, Billy Kimball Distributor: Paramount Vantage Running Time: 102 min Rating: PG Year: 2010 Buy: Video
Review: M. Night Shyamalan’s Glass Is Less Than Half Empty
M. Night Ghyamalan’s film is aimed at an audience from whom he cringingly craves fealty.2
What a difference nearly two decades makes. When writer-director M. Night Shyamalan released Unbreakable way back in 2000, the superhero genre was hardly the mass-cultural malady that it is today. An oddball take on caped crusaders and the like had a better chance of standing out in theaters, and Unbreakable was certainly one of the more eccentric uses of $75 million Hollywood studio dollars.
Shyamalan’s tale of a Philadelphia security guard, David Dunn (Bruce Willis), who, after surviving a devastating train crash, discovers he has inhuman strength and a psychic ability to predict danger, was photographed in languorous long takes, with most dialogue spoken barely above a whisper. Unbreakable was really more of a slow-burning family relationship drama—especially between Dunn and his hero-worshipping son, Joseph (Spencer Treat Clark)—than it was a men-in-tights, or, in this case, man-in-rain-slicker action flick. But a cartoonishly clothed Samuel L. Jackson did often pop up as a brittle-boned character named Elijah Price, who pontificated about comic books as if they were a socio-cultural Rosetta Stone.
In one of his patented, P.T. Barnum-esque twist endings, Shyamalan revealed that Price fancied himself Dunn’s brainiac archnemesis. “They called me Mr. Glass,” he says of his childhood torturers. And so the stage was set for a future showdown, though lower box-office receipts than expected appeared to put the kibosh on that. But now here we are with the frivolous and protracted Glass, which finally pits Dunn and Glass against each other. Though there’s one other person involved…or perhaps we should say multiple people in one.
That would be Kevin Wendell Crumb (James McAvoy), the dissociative identity-afflicted villain known as The Horde, who was first introduced in Shyamalan’s 2016 hit, and stealth Unbreakable sequel, Split. McAvoy is once again the whole show here, with the actor receiving top billing over his co-stars. He shares several scenes with Split’s damaged final girl, Casey (Anya Taylor-Joy), and he leans full-tilt into The Horde’s various personalities. Among these interior others are prim British matriarch Patricia; nine-year-old dance freak/Drake fanboy Hedwig; macho sexual deviant Dennis; and a cannibalistic savage known only as The Beast, who’s as close to a Big Bad as the film gets. McAvoy’s energy and go-for-brokeness is infectious, and it’s something Glass could use a whole lot more of.
The film’s first 20 minutes or so put Dunn, now nicknamed The Overseer, and Crumb on a collision course that eventually lands them in the same mental hospital where Glass is incarcerated. The trio’s physician is Dr. Ellie Staple (Sarah Paulson, seemingly rehearsing for her eventual role as Nurse Ratched in Ryan Murphy’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest prequel), an icy unbeliever, so she says, in anything superheroic. It’s Staple’s goal to talk her three charges into renouncing their phenomenal powers. And talk. And talk. And talk.
Much of Glass’s running time is given over to static therapy sessions in which Crumb cycles through his personas, Dunn looks alternately befuddled and constipated, and Glass lolls his Frederick Douglass-coiffed head to the side in drooling catatonia. (Is he faking his unresponsiveness? What do you think?) He’s barely the star of his own film, though Shyamalan has said in interviews that Glass is meant to reflect the character’s fragile, erudite nature, as Unbreakable did Dunn’s reluctant heroism and Split did Crumb’s anything-goes psychosis.
There’s a certain clinical elegance to the crisp digital cinematography by Mike Gioulakis, much in keeping with Glass’s eye-catching, purple-accented wardrobe (love that monogrammed cravat!). It’s telling, however, that the most striking scenes here are flashbacks to the Eduardo Serra-shot Unbreakable. This includes a terrifying deleted scene from that film in which a young Elijah Price (Johnny Hiram Jamison) rides an amusement park Tilt-A-Whirl, with bone-shattering results and to the palpable distress of his mother, played by Charlayne Woodard. She reprises her role, as Clark does Dunn’s now-grown son, in Glass’s present-day scenes.
A bigger issue is that the film’s earnest deconstruction of comic-book mythology seems antiquated given our present glut of superhero media. It’s no longer a genre to be elevated since it has become the norm. Plus, the unintentionally hilarious way that Paulson says, “Have you ever been to a comic book convention?” is one of several signposts suggesting that Shyamalan’s geek cred is about, say, 20 years behind the times.
It certainly might have helped if Shyamalan were able to more humorously poke at his own pretenses. The wet-noodle climax in which all of Glass’s characters have a staggeringly non-epochal confrontation in a friggin’ parking lot could only have benefitted from a sense that the stars and the multi-hyphenate auteur were enjoying themselves. It’s only too appropriate that Jackson’s Glass sternly narrates this skeletally smack-a-doo finale as if he was a distressed academic lecturing attention-starved stoners.
Perhaps genuine fun is too much to ask from an artist who once wrote a po-faced tome about closing America’s education gap (put “I Got Schooled” into Google and delight, such as it is). There’s also another twist or two on the horizon, though it gives nothing away to say that the reveals amount to little more than “the real superhero…was mankind.” In the end, Glass proves to be another of Shyamalan’s pompous sermons about faith in oneself, aimed at an audience from whom he cringingly craves fealty.
Cast: James McAvoy, Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson, Sarah Paulson, Anya Taylor-Joy, Spencer Treat Clark, Charlayne Woodard Director: M. Night Shyamalan Screenwriter: M. Night Shyamalan Distributor: Universal Pictures Running Time: 129 min Rating: PG-13 Year: 2019
Review: An Acceptable Loss Is a Morally Urgent B Movie
The film is a cynical critique of American foreign policy wrapped up in an uncluttered narrative that thrives on pulpy thrills.2.5
Writer-director Joe Chappelle’s An Acceptable Loss is a B movie with a morally urgent message, a cynical critique of American foreign policy in the Middle East wrapped up in an uncluttered narrative that thrives on pulpy thrills. By positioning the U.S. government as the film’s primary antagonist, Chappelle takes to task the repeated killing of innocent lives as collateral damage in the hunt for terrorists and other ostensible enemies.
The ethical quandary that arises from such an operation is embodied by Elizabeth “Libby” Lamm (Tika Sumpter), a former national security adviser to Vice President Rachel Burke (Jamie Lee Curtis) who’s taken a teaching gig at a Chicago university. As Libby secretly transcribes her experiences, and faces civilians who are angry over her role in a controversial military operation in Syria, Chappelle shows a surprising empathy for the character. The filmmaker outlines that Libby’s memorializing of her experiences and her honest attempt at assimilating within a society that more or less shuns her is borne out of feelings of regret.
But An Acceptable Loss’s compelling take on moral reckoning is compromised by the distracting presence of Martin (Ben Tavassoli), a grad student who consistently exposes lapses in the storyline’s logic. Martin mysteriously stalks Libby and sets up an elaborate surveillance system in her house, but it’s never explained how Martin can operate with the skill, knowledge, and proficiency of some kind of intelligence officer. Dubiously, when Libby and Martin need each other’s help in a moment of crisis, the film oddly passes on holding the latter’s disturbingly voyeuristic behavior accountable; Libby shakes her head, and then the film drops the matter completely. For a film eager to ponder the ethics of people’s actions, it comes off as strange that Chappelle doesn’t scrutinize Martin’s own.
Still, it’s difficult not to get swept up in An Acceptable Loss’s technical virtuosity. The film’s propulsive narrative is nothing if not efficient, aided in no small part by crisp editing that relishes the fine art of cross-cutting. The dark interiors that Chappelle favors create a Tourneur-like atmosphere of dread that subsumes Libby, underlining the covert nature of her documenting her secrets; even scenes in daylight have a strangely nocturnal feel to them. This visual style complements An Acceptable Loss’s pessimistic view of America’s foreign policy, which is sustained right up to the film’s hopeful coda. The film shows that if policy is to change, it greatly helps to be supported by people like Libby, someone who had been complicit in committing atrocities but ultimately embraced her humanity.
Cast: Tika Sumpter, Ben Tavassoli, Jamie Lee Curtis, Jeff Hephner, Alex Weisman, Clarke Peters Director: Joe Chappelle Screenwriter: Joe Chappelle Distributor: IFC Films Running Time: 102 min Rating: R Year: 2018
Review: The Heiresses Is a Contemplative Look at Class
Ana Brun’s performance as Chela anchors our attention where Marcelo Martinessi’s understated visuals might otherwise lose it.3.0
In writer-director Marcelo Martinessi’s The Heiresses, middle-aged lesbian couple Chela (Ana Brun) and Chiquita (Margarita Irún) live together in a bourgeois household with only the leftovers of its former grandeur. The house and its furnishings, Chela’s inheritance from her parents, have a dated, hand-me-down quality, and the couple is gradually selling off the expensive furniture and china to pay for Chiquita’s debts. The emptying of the house of Chela’s possessions reflects the greater emptiness that Martinessi makes the audience feel in the space, where hardly anybody but the couple appears, and where the lights seem to always be off, presumably to save money.
But selling off Chela’s inheritance is to no avail, and Chiquita ends up in what’s essentially a debtor’s prison (the bank she owes money to charges her with fraud). Chiquita had been the dominant personality in their relationship, and after she’s sent to prison Chela finds herself in an even emptier house, without much to do. When an elderly neighbor, Pituca (Maria Martins), asks her for a ride one day, and insists on paying her for it, Chela finds a new vocation, becoming a kind of unofficial chauffeur to the neighborhood’s still-wealthy ladies. Although she doesn’t have a license, she begins driving Pituca and her friends around the city, picking up a regular gig driving the younger Angy (Ana Ivanova) to visit her ill mother. Initially flummoxed by the way she has fallen from her bourgeois indolence into a working-class job, Chela begins to embrace the relative freedom offered by driving, as well as the independence her bourgeoning relationships with the other women give her from Chiquita.
Martinessi cites Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant as his inspiration for the film, but The Heiresses has little of Fassbinder’s grandiose flair. This film’s characters spend more time staring contemplatively off screen than they do erupting into sudden emotional outbursts, for example, and Martinessi doesn’t accentuate the superficiality of Chela’s bourgeois home by arranging a literally glittering mise-en-scène, as Fassbinder might have done. Instead, Martinessi’s images are rather static and quite dark, relying on the natural lighting of the dimly lit house and Chela’s cramped Mercedes, the two places where most of The Heiresses’s scenes take place. The result is a film that’s more grounded—and more stylistically pared down—than Fassbinder’s performative melodramas.
In other ways, however, The Heiresses does recall Fassbinder’s drama of failed domesticity. In their shared home, Chela and Chiquita are surrounded by the signs of a disintegrating upper-middle-class patriarchy, represented in the ornaments of wealth Chela identifies as coming from her father. And like Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, though patriarchy is a structuring absence in The Heiresses, Martinessi’s film is overwhelmingly female: Angy has an ex-boyfriend who appears in the background of a couple shots, but no man’s face is seen throughout the entire film. While The Heiresses presents an almost exclusively female world, it uses very few exterior shots, communicating a feeling of confinement—most literally in those scenes in which Chela visits Chiquita in the women’s prison.
This sense of confinement reflects on Chela personally, as well as on the women in the film more broadly. As the nouveau riche come to look over her possessions, Chela spies on them through a cracked-open door. Martinessi presents these scenes from Chela’s voyeuristic point of view, reflecting her isolation and trepidation in relation to the outside world: She’s ashamed to now be reliant on selling her family’s possessions, but she’s also afraid of making contact with anyone outside of her and Chiquita’s world.
At times, paradoxically, the visual and dramatic quietude of The Heiresses feels a bit excessive, but Brun’s performance as Chela anchors our attention where Martinessi’s understated visuals might otherwise lose it. In downward glances and semi-dazed glares, she captures a character who at once is overwhelmed by her new circumstances and emotionally shields herself from them. Slowly and ambivalently, Chela finds a sense of self apart from her overbearing partner and the legacy of her father—breaking away from, rather than merely avoiding, her oppressive circumstances.
Cast: Ana Brun, Margarite Irún, Ana Ivanova, Maria Martins, Nilda González, Alicia Guerra Director: Marcelo Martinessi Screenwriter: Marcelo Martinessi Distributor: Distrib Films US Running Time: 98 min Rating: NR Year: 2019