For those wondering when the absurdly consistent Romanians would falter, well, consider their first middling effort to be Radu Muntean's "Tuesday After Christmas."
Paul (Mimi Branescu) is having a joyful affair with his daughter's orthodontist, Raluca (Maria Popistasu), whom he plans to leave his wife for. Before she departs the city of Bucharest for the holidays, she tells him the next time they see each other will be — you guessed it — the Tuesday after Christmas. Now, without an escape from real life's demands, Paul must deal with his staggeringly dull wife Adriana (Mirela Oprisor, who also briefly appeared in Coppola's artistic rebirth "Youth Without Youth") and his prissy daughter. He floats through the day-in-day-out routines of family dinner, Christmas shopping, and overly formal double dates passively, going with the flow until he drops the bombshell on his wife a few days before the holiday. Now, he has no choice but to deal with the consequences of his actions as the family spends their last holiday together as a unit. While Romanian films tend to be simple in plot, this is probably the simplest yet, dealing with a more conventional subject than its brethren. What keeps it from being completely throwaway are the subtle nuances in acting and direction. The protagonist is perfectly cast and is probably the best embodiment of an "everyman," (truth be told, from certain angles he looks like a chubby Kevin Costner). The opening scene includes Paul and Raluca together in bed, playfully teasing one another and being very passionate. After that, he's almost a different character: when with his wife, he looks bored and drained, and future scenes with Raluca are tinged with the stress of leaving his family, apparent in his delivery and the composition.
In “We Are What We Are,” an urban family decays from within, infected with the sins of the father. His avarice in the face of his family’s compromised social strata has led them to tradition, to ritual. The free market has kicked them out quite literally, their street-side stolen goods stand threatened by fear from the natural aggression of animals backed against a wall. The politics of the small family - a mother, her two sons, and a daughter - have come to the forefront with dad’s departure, but one senses it’s been a long time coming.
On top of these complications, yes, they are cannibals. Maybe not spirited ones (yet) but the family undoubtedly knows the value of a good rib bone. It’s only apparent later on that, in our only glimpse of the father, we may have been watching a traditional George Romero zombie. Hunched over, drunk, gargling bile, he lurches forward in a memorable opening sequence, a marionette with the strings giving way. His last moments are spent - where else? - in a mall, gazing at the designer clothes his family cannot afford. The problem, of course, is that this is not a natural family of killers and cannibals. Mom certainly talks tough, but she seems at a motivational loss with her husband’s disappearance, spending time locked in her room, grinding what we can only assume is delicious gristle pie. It’s up to the two warring siblings, Alfredo and Julian. Alfredo has already been anointed the leader, and though he rejects the designation, he’s clearly the most clear-headed of the clan. He also may have the title by default since his brother is a restless, violent tough guy wannabe, a jittery combination of bottled frustration and jangly nerves.
With the unit unable to take initiative, the young daughter suggests finding victims for the ritual in the local prostitutes. Her feelings of self-worth appear to be damaged, poisoned by the proximity to warring brothers and an asexual mother. This bunch doesn’t socialize much, so when she greets the sound of a door opening by rising from her seat politely and straightening her dress to emphasize her figure, it speaks volumes. Is she reflecting jealously in the community of whores, tight-knit like a family, seen defending each other in battle and restoring their sisters’ honor? Perhaps she, like the rest of the family, blames them for taking her father away.
You can always hear the sound of a ticking clock in “We Are What We Are.” Once dad departs, the future no longer holds such promise. It is the mother who seems aware of this, sentencing her sons to labor while instructing her daughter to fix the broken clocks. The recurring motif of the tick-tock provides a soundtrack fueled by desperation which gains an added layer when one realizes it's actually the sound of a dripping faucet just out of reach.
There are no scenes of sex in “We Are What We Are,” but misplaced carnal desire fuels several key moments between characters. There’s a voyeuristic sheen to moments like one brother spying on his mother grinding up dinner through the crack of a door, or another peeking through the window listlessly while standing side-by-side with his sister, the two absentmindedly hiding this intimacy underneath window drapes. When Alfredo decides to follow a young teen male, it leads him to a gay club, where he encounters a conflict from within regarding his own identity. This sequence is notable for the sexual potency - the boy knows full well he’s being pursued - as well as a strong connection with a similar homosexual pursuit sequence in Paul Verhoeven’s “Spetters,” in both tone, playfulness and even matching camera angles.
Director Jorge Michel Grau’s debut can be considered a black comedy, though at times the tone wavers. When events turn towards the dire, you’re not far from one character emerging from offscreen to surprise someone by caving their head in. At times, this tonal shift is welcomed - the gang of female and transgender prostitutes is straight out of a Troma production, a concession made in good humor - but in others, it’s merely repetitive, as social commentary from a pair of purposely lackluster cops only distracts from the story. But “We Are What We Are” remains a vital piece of cinema, a story of family under duress given a little extra spice. Maybe oregano. And a slice of arm. Mmm, delicious. [A-]
All too often in heist movies, pesky nuances like character or motivation, are pushed to the wayside in favor of exhilarating action set pieces. A great recent example of this is Ben Affleck's technically proficient "The Town," in which we know very little about any of the characters (besides the fact that they sport Boston accents of varying authenticity and are all very mad), but which feels crammed, every 20 minutes or so, with high-octane heist sequences. All of which makes "The Robber," an Austrian thriller based on a novel (which itself was based on a series of actual crimes), such a blast: it's a heist movie which is almost completely character-based. For this reviewer, it was the surprise thrill of this year's New York Film Festival.
"The Robber" begins, appropriately enough, with Johan Rettenberger (Andreas Lust from "Revanche"), running around a small track in an Austrian prison. He's a bank robber about to get released from jail, but judging by his interview with an interested parole officer, he hardly has any feeling on the matter. Still, there's something glistening behind those eyes: he'll get out, do his part to be in society, but still keep up with his passion, er, passions (more on that in a minute). Almost as soon as he's out of prison, Rettenberger is out robbing banks. He does so with ease, choosing smaller banks, mostly in daylight. Stylistically, the heist sequences are handled with a low key smoothness: long, effortless tracking shots that stay with him as he goes about his business, watching him exit the building and not picking up with him until he's back at his shitty little apartment, going over his loot. The movie is mercifully devoid of any mess psychology or sentimentality that would clutter the narrative. He just does what he does and he does it well.
The other thing that he does well, we learn, is run in marathons. Although it's never made explicitly clear (see the lack of psychology), he engages in these high-endurance races (many times winning them), because it's the only way he can replicate the raw thrill of robbing banks, on an almost bio-chemical level. It's an incredibly interesting character trait, and one that the character shared with his real life contemporary (in a post-movie press conference, the director Benjamin Heisenberg, said that cops brought down the real-life robber by matching the shoes he wore in races to the ones he robbed banks in). The race sequences are treated with the same stylistic commitment, as we race alongside him, in elongated, slickly realized shots. When Rettenberg takes up residency with an old flame (and soon begins an affair), the movie takes on an element of emotional danger, because we don't want to see her let down. If she's the noose that will prove to be his undoing, then an unfortunate run-in with his probation officer, pretty much cinches it tight. The movie's last act elongates into a protracted chase, and besides a few of his bank robbers having some kinks (there's a breathless sequence where he sprints through the basements of a small town), it's the first time we've really seen him run for his life. It's a startling emotional shift: we want him to get away, even though he's done some very bad things, and for the first time in the entire movie, there's a very distinct possibility that he won't make it through the wide net of the law.
"The Robber" works so well because of Lust's pitch-perfect performance, one that is just as physical as it is intellectual, and because Heisenberg remains so restrained in areas that would have been blasted out of proportion in all sorts of fantastically sentimental directions by a lesser director (we only have a cursory understand of how he knows the woman he ended up living with). Heisenberg takes us along for the ride in a way that few filmmakers would dare to do, rarely deviating from the robber or his inner circle (no cutaways to authorities barking orders), and through the fluidity of the filmmaking and narrative closeness of the story, makes us implicit in the crimes. But, whew, what a rush. [A-]
Where did the American Independent cinema of the '70s go, exactly? Did it fizzle and die, or did George Lucas scare it away with his mammoth sci-fi extravaganza? No one knows for sure, but there's something suspicious about the films of Chilean director Pablo Larrain. "Tony Manero," his debut feature, looked and felt like one of those movies, with a more brutal story. In fact, the main character even kind of looked like a young Al Pacino circa "Panic at Needle Park" or "Dog Day Afternoon." The story was political, focusing on Chile during the Pinochet regime, but the director was smart enough to let it play in the background while the main character did his own thing, that being a disco John Travolta impression. No preachy dialogue, no condescending messages. It wasn't a perfect film, but it was a new, skilled director slamming his arms on the table and ordering everyone to take notice. Unfortunately, the film was moderately embraced by critics and mostly wallowed in relative obscurity. A mere 2 years later, the director decided to attack again with "Post Mortem," a refined and more understated piece, with the same style and code of ethics of his former film.
Returning from "Tony" is Alfredo Castro, the Chilean Al Pacino look-alike, though this time he has no interest in Saturday Night Fever nor in random acts of murder. Instead, Castro plays Mario, a guileless man that works in a morgue as a transcriber. Smitten by his neighbor Nancy, a burlesque dancer/revolutionary, gives her a ride home and soon finds himself caught in a political demonstration lead by the Communist Youth of Chile. An amusing visual and also foreshadowing what's to come, a man in the parade notices Nancy and encourages her to join up. Mario makes his way through the crowd, quietly frustrated that his romantic plans have been thwarted. In a surprise later on, she visits him while he's eating dinner, tired of the political talks taking place at her house. Cut to rowdy sex, and following that is a long date that probably should've occurred first. It's a precious date, with Mario proposing they get married in an awkward yet sincere way. She blows it off as a joke, and it's at this point that every party involved- both characters and audience - assume the rest of the flick will be a little deranged love story. They're not entirely wrong, but just as the next day hits, Mario finds Nancy's house empty and destroyed, and discovers the hospital taken over by the military. Relieved of his transcribing, he must tag and label dead bodies, wheeling stacks of them through the long, somber hallways of the morgue. Characters often act in an unpredictable manner, which is thankfully believable within the context of the film but also renders any assumptions on where the narrative will go impossible. Castro's performance is the most interesting, naive like a child and emotionally impulsive (which leads to a magnificent finale), but also wholly compassionate, something that was absent from his "Tony Manero" character. While searching the destroyed neighboring home, he finds the wounded family dog and takes it along with him to the hospital, fixing its wounds and caring for it while he searches for its owner. This could've easily been either too cute or used incompetently as a sentimental narrative device, but Larrain carefully restrains the sequence. By not being wholly manipulative, it doesn't come off as superficially touching, but shows the caring side of Mario and his ability to help without thinking twice. His child-like behavior is admirable, only noticeable in subtle instances, such as him referring to Nancy as his "girlfriend" in front of her boss. It's little tiny moments like these that feature the character's slight disorder, adding depth to a muted appearance. If "Tony Manero" seemed to avoid the politics of the circumstance, "Post Mortem" can't, constantly throwing its characters into the middle of Communist meetings or military junta. It's thankfully not overbearing, focusing on the people that find themselves caught in the middle of the mess and painting both sides of the coin negatively. Larrain's opts to observe the situation and let it speak for itself, from the military take over of the hospitals to the boarded up shops that line the town. It's a bleak life, one that's inescapable no matter where you go, and it breaks each character down one by one. Even Mario, who eventually finds his woman and hides her, loses himself when he finds her stowed away with communist boyfriend from the beginning demonstration.
Thankfully, the overall depressing tone is offset by its incredibly strange sense of humor, which focuses on awkward visual moments and dialogue. Sometimes it's a shot held too long: Nancy cries during dinner, and Mario joins her, spitting and bawling, for seemingly no reason. Other times, it's the bizarre decisions characters make, and the degree of how serious they take them: Mario barters with Nancy's employer, exchanging his dinky car so she can keep her job. These instances bring a bit of joy to a story that could've been dreary straight-through, and it's nice to see a director not taking his work terribly seriously. That said, these moments don't come as often as they should, and once the state of war is declared, they're even more sparse and it makes the remaining time more wearisome.
Not a forgettable movie by any means, but there's also really not much to reflect on post-viewing. Sure, there's the given things, such as the acting and the cinematography and so forth, and those wanting to learn more about the political history of Chile due to the subject matter goes without saying, but nothing else in the film warrants an after-thought. There's only appreciation of the product: how well it was made, how the story was handled, etc. But similar to the escapist films it stands apart from, there are only general, simplistic impressions afterwards, such as what a terrible time it was for the country or how Nancy took advantage of Mario's kindness and love. For all its subtleties and intelligence, the ideas don't run as deep as they should.
Pablo Larrain is certainly carving out an interesting resume, with two films that are stylistically harking back to the lauded but unfortunately lost cinema of the 70s, and a third film on the way to close the "trilogy." He's got his chops, and if he can keep up the skill while honing in on the unique style of humor he imbues into his films, plus have more of a conversation with the audience, he'll be set to have a truly great film. "Post Mortem" is at times genuinely unsettling and seems like a lost film from those times, but the director's more substantial work seems to lie ahead. [B-]
There has obviously been a number of iconic rock musicians that have been taken from the world way too soon, and one of the biggest ones is John Lennon. Famous Beatle, political peace figure, and silly clown; Lennon has seen multiple iterations of his character in recent times committed to celluloid: his youth is explored in the upcoming film "Nowhere Boy," the narrative account of his murderer in the too-awful "Chapter 27," and the similar documentary "The US. Vs. John Lennon," which dealt with the anti-war movement and subsequent deportation conflict due to the aforementioned political dissent.
"Lennon NYC" focuses on the last 10 years of his life, mostly in New York City. It touches upon his relationship with Yoko Ono, their brief (albeit messy) break-up, his post-Beatles music career and his short concentration on fatherhood. Impressively, the film shoots off and in a simple 20-30 minutes, it negates the existence of previously mentioned doc "The US Vs. John Lennon," skillfully spending just the right amount of time on the peace concerts and goofball publicity stunts. The film explores Lennon's character mostly through his musical career in these times, and a lot of footage of various studio sessions with the "Elephant Memory" backing band and even ones with Phil Spector are exhibited.
Superficially speaking, the fact that director Michael Epstein is the helmer here raises a bit of a red flag, as his resume mostly contains PBS docs like "The American Experience" and "American Masters." While always informative, these pieces have a habit of being bone-dry and terribly formal. Luckily, Epstein is very passionate about his subject, and the structure of the film directly represents these feelings, producing a delightfully consistent flow and never a dull moment. The documentary is made up of the standard talking heads interviews, pictures of the subject, and various video clips, but most interesting is the inclusion of various audio recordings and interviews. Some are radio interviews of John talking about his personal life, about his interest in fatherhood or him opening up about a particular new album, others are outtakes and studio banter between band mates and the producer. These snippets, too good to pass up, are accompanied by various animated doodles often drawing John himself or other things related to his life, some even working directly with the accompanying audio. This delicate style could certainly have been too cute and overbearing, but it works with the tone of the film, keeping it going and giving it a playful energy to go along with the already consistent flow.
More importantly, it connects the viewer with the subject, as the drawings directly correlate with the rocker's personality and even give it a piece of his heart, considering the man would often leave various doodles on whatever writings he was working on at any given time. This seemingly small inclusion is one of the film's best assets, as it gives life and personality to a type of documentary that usually ends up being nothing other than standard.
Some of the most interesting stuff included is his brief bachelor life in LA and his dedicated parenting of second child Sean; these rare moments are are usually either forgotten or merely glossed over in favor of more obvious life moments such as Beatle-mania or his Peace Rallys. The doc is at its darkest when it gives attention to the California years, as John drinks his way through life and ends up in the paper nearly every day, accounting for the previous night's boisterous dealings. While Beatles fans shudder at the mere mention of Yoko Ono, Epstein reveals a candid interview with her speaking of the John that nobody wanted. "I won't take him back and take care of him, you take care of him," she recounts, knowing full well her reputation as a dart-board for Lennon loyalists. The film is careful to show that John is a mess without her, unproductive and lacking control of his life, the times when he is productive (such as the Spector sessions) are more frightening than anything, considering his self-destructive behavior. The return to NYC finds John in a happier place; back with Ono, off the bottle, and fathering his second child. Here his musical career takes a backseat, with the only concern being his newborn son and actually being a good Dad this time around. Though much of the doc is sandwiched around the studio recordings, the film still manages to find its own among the intimate moments between father and son, when the songwriter is caught at his most fulfilled, and legitimately happy, without the anchor of goofiness.
Quite possibly the only problem is its neglectful focus on "New York City" the character. It's admirable and masterful how much time the film covers without feeling rushed or squeezed in, however, the New York life that the musician so loved is barely given an eye. His outings in the Village are nothing but a flash, never allowed to flourish."Jean-Michel Basquiat: The Radiant Child" comes to mind, as it successfully dealt with the title artist and the surrounding New York art scene (at least in the first half), detailing the area and giving a brief history. That movie showed the freedom of ambition, the nurturing environment, and the wild time that was downtown New York. There's none of that in "Lennon NYC," it's almost a wonder as to why the city is included in the title at all.
Aside from its strange reluctance to delve into the city that he loved, "Lennon NYC" is a dear and efficient account of the last decade of Lennon. It doesn't break any new ground, but is an excellently crafted and often intimate portrait of one of the most beloved musicians in rock and roll. [A-]
For a long time, "Aurora" is a guessing game. There's no exposition, the camera simply observes the secretive main character (Viorel, played by director Cristi Puiu) doing questionable things, such as purposely missing his bus or train, and spying on a family as they leave for school. This effectively builds up intrigue, raising questions of his motives and inciting close examination of nearly every thing he does. Even the smallest moments, such as Viorel berating a co-worker for his lack of manners, seem to be more than meets the eye. Something is brewing, and it's just unclear what, exactly, but it's likely that this man will snap. Gradually the story starts to piece together, but not before he picks up two customized rifle firing pins and commits murder in a parking garage.
The sparse story goes something like this: Viorel, troubled by his recent divorce and the passing of his father, slowly breaks down and plans to murder his wife and the people around her. A singular motive isn't necessarily given, verbally, and all of the conflict contained in this story is completely insular. There could be more going on, and Puiu leaves it open purposefully, which the last scene at the police station reinforces: "You listen like you understand me. That bothers me. You don't." These things can't be explained, and what's going on in the character's head is much too complex to be a simple reason for his depression and the subsequent murders. It raises the question, should we be able to connect with a murderer, and if we do, doesn't that belittle the subject matter? Boiling it down to a digestible conclusion isn't something the filmmaker is interested in, and it's probably his smartest decision on how to handle the subject matter. Slowly but surely, information leaks out, bits and pieces of the main character's life are discovered. If not big on story, the picture is huge on atmosphere, and nearly every shot in its setting of Bucharest is dreary, with the interiors similarly dingy. If it sounds like an exercise in extensive depression, it is. Though it is an effective one, it's also admittedly a very slow burn, similar to its Romanian kin "4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days" or Puiu's own "The Death of Mr. Lazarescu." These films require a great degree of patience, and saying that for "Aurora" is generous considering it's probably the longest at 3 hours on the dot. The epic length doesn't really jive with the attitude of a character piece, and a slimmer cut would've benefited the film. Whereas "4 months..." had superbly directed shots and singular tense scenes, "Aurora" works more as the sum of its parts. Its mood is terrific but it lacks the stand-alone sequences that kept "4 Months..." moving.
Director Cristi Puiu's performance in his own character examination is commendable, he displays the isolation and darkness of the man with ease. A lazy performer might wander around aimlessly and argue the confusion of the main character. Instead, Puiu shows in his actions a plan carefully thought over and executed. He is not without weakness, though, and at times exhibits both fatigue of life (one scene has him, before testing the gun, attempting to shoot himself) and personal insecurity (the few scenes in which he stands up for himself, including one in a clothing store surrounded by condescending teen employees, are just as uncomfortable as any of the murders). Viorel's unpredictable nature feels less forced than it does human; never does it seem like Puiu is being mysterious for the sake of keeping the audience's attention (remember "Lost"?). Rather than connect us with a character, the filmmaker opts to create a rounded person at a very dark point in his life. The effect is downright startling. Though we don't necessarily understand Viorel, his plight is unfortunately believable.
Quite often these movies are wrongfully accused of being empty, with the direct attack on those critics or cinema-goers smitten with the Romanian new-wave, claiming they make substance where there is not. Such is the backlash against any lauded minimalist work, and "Aurora" is likely to get the same reception a lot of these films have gotten as it slowly seeps into the rest of the world. Running a tad too long and maybe a little too simplistic in its conclusion, it's really a hard film to shake from your head. Predictable it is not, and those willing to be absorbed in this existential piece are likely to find suspense in its original approach to the subject. [B+]
While Julie Taymor's getting geeks' panties in a bunch for her gestating "Spider-Man" Broadway show, her latest endeavor in cinema is an adaptation of William Shakespeare's "The Tempest," with an estimable cast that includes Helen Mirren, Alfred Molina, Chris Cooper, Alan Cumming, Russel Brand, and Ben Wishaw to name a few. Taymor's no stranger to Shakespeare's work, as her last cinematic foray into his oeuvre was her adaptation of "Titus Andronicus," shortened simply to "Titus" way back in 1999 with Anthony Hopkins in the title role. Adding to her experience is the fact that she had already done "The Tempest" on three difference occasions, so suffice to say, she probably knows the piece like the back of her hand.
This time, however, the director wasn't interested in completely sticking to the script, which called for what is essentially the main character of Prospero to be played by a male actor. Instead, Helen Mirren expressed interest, and the two were careful with the decision to gender swap. "We did a reading a year in advance, it was extremely critical to both Helen and myself that this not be a gimmick, that putting a woman into this role had validity for the Shakespeare play," said Taymor at the New York Film Festival press conference. Would she really turn down a performance by great thespian Mirren? It's doubtful, but the concern is understood and shows that the female filmmaker's head was in the right place during pre-production, recognizing that the change would call attention, and so it would be necessary to avoid it being a mere contrivance. The swap, in fact, gave certain scenes a different and deeper layer. She spoke of one of the final scenes, where Prospera relinquished her magic and shed her island dwelling appearance for a more regal one.
"When you watch her go from these androgynous free clothes that you'd wear on an island to be comfortable, back into that severe female corset, she's not just giving up her magic, she's giving up her freedom for her daughter's."
These visual moments were sought out by Taymor, who said, "I wanted to have certain moments of breathers from the language." And indeed, while the film version has been whittled down from a play that's roughly 4 hours in its entirety, there's still a plethora of dialogue to be digested — which she acknowledges as hard to break up because of its specific rhythm. Instead, she expounded on the newly opened doors that the film medium had presented her, such as the previously mentioned scene and the focus on the costume design. And also the environment the characters inhabit, which directly represented their feelings or the theme of a particular scene:
"When the king falls asleep," she explains, "we're in this incredible iron wood forest that we would get lost in. We're doing a conspiracy here, so we need to find a place for these actors to hide, for these actors to go. When the clowns get drunk, they're in what we call the 'Ramble Forest' and it's all gnarled and it looks like 'Hansel and Gretel' and it's like what's going inside of them."
In particular, Taymor found inspiration in the 1964 near-perfect Hiroshi Teshigahara film "Woman in the Dunes," in which an unwilling couple live in a sand-dune with no way out.
"I never lost the love for this film, where the two lovers were down in a pit and everyone was watching from above. They couldn't get out because it forced them into that incredible sexual moment. It pushes the two together, every piece of scenery was used to represent inner landscape."
Those especially familiar with the play also know that it's very musical, with the spirit Ariel, played by Ben Wishaw, performing many songs. No stranger to contemporary musicals, having directed the Beatles-inspired "Across the Universe," Taymor and her constant collaborative composer Elliot Goldenthal opted for something a little different from the norm. Goldenthal still used many instruments of the time, such as didgeridoos and wood flutes, but they spoke of blending in current styles while still keeping the atmosphere of what they would've used around the birth of the play.
"We talked about this combination of contemporary sensibility and electric guitar. 'The Tempest' does have orchestral elements, but a lot of those elements are electric guitar. He uses (these) as an orchestra. I wanted to bridge time."
Bridge time she did, as the conclucsion features the final monologue by Prospera as sung by Beth Gibbons, lead singer of the band Portishead. The closing speech was originally scrapped by Taymor, but when it came down to it, she realized it was incomplete without it. With no money left, she and her producers tried to come up with clever ideas to fit it back in, and a song by Gibbons just happened to be the idea that won. "Beth came to mind because she feels like Helen to me. She has the vulnerability and the power simultaneously." The finale song puts a proper close on things, and amusingly enough, some even thought that it actually was Mirren's voice over the music. "Some people think that it's Helen singing, but Helen will tell you that she doesn't sing."
Whether Taymor succeeds in attracting audiences to her mix of past and present elements remains to be seen, as regular joe moviegoers (and honestly, even those into the art of cinema) often find the density and general wordiness of Shakespeare films to be a bit exasperating. The director seemed to be confident with her film and very adamant about her choice, simply stating "I didn't want to update it. Shakespeare is all-time."
When it was learned that Martin Scorsese would be constructing a film-essay piece centering around the films of seminal American director Elia Kazan -- the man responsible for cinematic touchstones like "On the Waterfront," "East Of Eden," and "A Face In The Crowd" to name just a few -- cinephiles began salivating at the thought.
True, these visual dissertations aren't always the most exciting bodies of work, but those who know anything about Marty himself know he's a human catacomb of cinema knowledge. Despite his spotty recent offerings, there's no question that he really, really knows his shit, so a focus on any filmmaker should prove to be nothing short of fantastic. Naysayers too focused on his current output ought to check out his incredible and exhausting study of American films, the conveniently titled "A Personal Journey with Martin Scorsese Through American Movies," which is probably most similar to this project. Will "A Letter to Elia" similarly restore one's faith in the director and be more up-to-par with his universally lauded classic films?
It certainly seems like it, as the piece (co-directed by Kent Jones) is terrifically well-thought and immensely enjoyable. The most successful element in the essay is the fact that it is made to please everyone, functioning for fans and non-fans alike, and doesn't suffer from it. Beginning with "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" and ending with "America, America," Scorsese argues the worth of Kazan's films, including nice things to say about his debut feature 'Brooklyn' that he didn't even consider one of his personal best. Die hard Kazanites will love the extensive analysis, and even those who weren't convinced of his excellence are likely to take a second look at his oeuvre. Marty's passion for cinema is most apparent in these moments, as he describes why each is an accomplished piece of work and the different ways he's perceived them as both a child and an adult, always holding them close and even using them as reference when directing the actors in his own films, however different they are from Kazan's. On paper, the structure of the essay is typical: it mixes film footage, still photographs, and shots of the narrator speaking directly to the camera. Luckily, the strength and flow of the footage in addition to Scorsese's intense enthusiasm for the subject manage to surpass the conventional framework. Even the selection of clips is oddly masterful, if only because it's not relegated to the obvious choice of general conflict scenes. Instead, myriad scenes are focused on; ones that differ in emotion, pace, and tone. From Marlon Brando confronting his brother in "On the Waterfront," to a seemingly simple dialogue scene in "Wild River," Kazan's mastery of the medium is obvious, and Scorsese takes a backseat with his vocal arguments and allows the clips to speak for themselves. He seems to know exactly when to bow out, and exactly when to shift to a different motion picture or topic. Nothing in "A Letter to Elia" overstays its welcome, thankfully, and Scorsese's smart enough to know that any large amount of speech will bore an audience regardless of the topic or speaker, and he's also smart enough to play just enough of a film to incite audiences everywhere to quickly fill their Netflix queue with the appropriate DVDs.
He soon delves into his personal relationship with the subject, one that started when he was just a film student at the prestigious New York University. Kazan originally blew him off when he was approached after a guest lecture, though later started a friendship after the "Raging Bull" director had a few films in the can. Aside from a rough start, the two had a pleasant time together, with Marty quipping "He liked some of my films, and he told me, and he didn't like some of my films... and he told me that, too." Companions were rare to come by for Kazan, who infamously took the stand in the 1950s to testify in front of the House Committee on Un-American Activities.
Using his earlier involvement in an American communist group, the courts coerced him to name names and the incident tarnished his career irrevocably. It was a moment of weakness that the director was never proud of, and unfortunately one that affected his later career. Many infamously scoffed and scowled at his Lifetime Achievement Oscar, though a few figures such as Warren Beatty stood in his defense. It's here where the film becomes more than just a rundown of memorable work by someone well-known in the film community. Scorsese, who always found it difficult to speak to Kazan about how much his work meant to him, steps up to the plate and fights for the man, arguing that his body of work is rich and that he shouldn't be completely discredited for one mistake, regardless of how grand it was. The movies speak for themselves. It is through cinema that Scorsese not only pays respect to a friend, but also is finally comfortable enough to spill his heart out to a mentor. It's without a doubt one of Scorsese's most personal projects, and it's so invigorating that you can feel the heart of the project.
Just about the only negative thing is that the doc really has no replay value, once you get through the review of movies and truly understand Scorsese's plight, there's not much to come back for. That said, it's still worth the time, and at an briskly paced 60 minutes there's really no excuse. Recently acquired by PBS and premiering October 4th, "A Letter to Elia" will also be available in the monster 15-Disc Elia Kazan boxset on November 9th. [A]
For those wondering when the absurdly consistent Romanians would falter, well, consider their first middling effort to be Radu Muntean's "Tuesday After Christmas."
