11 Controversial Films that Aren’t Really that Controversial

Who doesn’t love a little controversy with their movies every now and again?  Controversial hype is a tricky card to play.  It can seriously help draw an audience (sure, I was curious why the MPAA initially slapped Blue Valentine with an NC-17 rating) or turn potential viewers away (The Brown Bunny is, and will always be, flat out dumb, controversy or not).

Some of the movies on this list are classics, others are complete duds.  Regardless, they’ve all earned their fair share of unreasonable controversy.  Some were banned, others were protested, some even inspired death threats. But looking back at these films now, I have only one question: seriously, what’s all the fuss about?

Lolita (1962)

You know the story: a professor agrees to marry a widower, simply because he’s attracted to her underage daughter. Stanley Kubrick changed several aspects of Vladimir Nabokov’s original novel to help appease censor boards (most notably, 12-year-old Lolita was made 14 in the film).   The result is a very fine film, but a tame one by all standards.  Through the professor’s sexual longing, Kubrick manages to pull off the most excruciating case of blue balls ever committed to film, which, contrary to what you may think, is very enjoyable to watch.

I imagine upon its initial release, Lolita made a few viewers squirm in their seats, but today we can see worse on network TV. 

For some real incestual controversy, see: Lolita, Adrian Lyne’s 1997 remake

Dirty Harry (1971)

I was an admitted late bloomer to the Dirty Harry films, having seen the first flick about five years ago, and I was shocked at how little controversy it contained.  You see, I had heard that Dirty Harry was one of the most racist, right-wing motivated cops ever put on film.  Huh?  Critics at the time flipped shit, labeling the movie as a “specious, phony glorification of the police and police brutality with a superhero whose antics become almost satire" and even calling director Don Siegel and star Clint Eastwood “right-wing bigots.” 

I just don’t see it.  As far as police brutality in films goes, Dirty Harry is badass, sure, but brutal?  Nah.

For some real dirty cop controversy, see: Bad Lieutenant (the Harvey Kietel version)

Michael Moore movies (1989-present)

Let’s be honest, Michael Moore thinks his documentaries are lot more controversial than they really are.  While I enjoy (some of) them, Moore’s films are not the policy-changing hybrids that he plays them off to be. 

Yes, it is very cool to watch K-Mart declaring that they will no longer sell ammunition in any of their stores, but most of the time, Moore aims way higher than he can deliver.  If John Kerry had become President in 2004, maybe Moore’s films could justly be labeled as “controversial game changers.”  But alas, we’re now stuck with hyped yawns like Capitalism: A Love Story.  Get over yourself, dude.

For some real documentary controversy, see: Triumph of the Will; Titicut Follies

The Silence of the Lambs (1991)

Was The Silence of the Lambs controversial because a whacked-out dude tossed semen at a woman’s face?  No.  Because a madman kidnapped women, kept them in a well and later skinned them?  Nope.  Because a serial killer wore a cop’s face as a mask?  No, The Silence of the Lambs raised a fuss because it portrayed a mostly unseen serial killer as being a… wait for it… homosexual.  And…? 

Every heard of Luis Garavito?  How about John Wayne Gacy?  Jeffrey Dahmer?  The fact that Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs liked to apply eye shadow and tuck his member back while belting out a Q Lazarus song is not of issue.  The dude got off on KILLING people.  Shouldn’t that be a bigger deal?

For some real serial killer controversy, see: Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer

Basic Instinct (1992)

Yes it has sex.  Yes it has a vag shot.  Yes it has mild bondage and lesbian jealousy and Jeanne Tripplehorn, but so what.  I could list you ten films in which the sex is kinkier, the nudity is more prominent and the acting is more atrocious. 

I actually really enjoy Basic Instinct.  It’s perfect Verhoeven/Eszterhas smut; a trashy and enjoyable blend of sex, drugs, death and revealing white dresses.  It’s worthy of attention, but not for overly controversial reasons.

For some real love story controversy, see: Antichrist

Funny Games (1997/2007)

Most of you probably haven’t seen Funny Games (either Michael Haneke’s 1997 German original, or his shot-for-shot 2007 American remake) which is a shame, because everyone deserves to have the shit scared out of them from time to time.

Funny Games is easily one of the most disturbing movies I’ve ever seen, which isn’t necessarily the byproduct of controversy. While vacationing at their summer home, an upper class family is greeted by two young men dressed in all white, who show up at their door and basically terrorize the shit out of them for the remainder of the evening. 

Many critics labeled the film as gratuitously violent, hell, a number of people even walked out of the Cannes premiere.  But here’s the kicker… none of the violence in Funny Games is ever shown on screen.  We only see the aftermath of violence, everything else is purely reaction based, which is a great credit to the actors involved in both films.

Haneke wanted to “make a film with a moralistic comment about the influence of media violence on society,” i.e., Funny Games is Haneke’s way of mocking (mostly American) movie audiences, who have become desensitized to the blood and guts and gore that litter contemporary horror films.

Funny Games is infinity more terrifying than any horror film I’ve seen in the last decade.  But, again, that doesn’t make it controversial, it just makes it deceiving.

For some real home invasion controversy, see: A Clockwork Orange; The Last House on the Left, Wes Craven’s 1972 original

Brokeback Mountain (2005)

Before the public even had a chance to form an accurate opinion about Brokeback Mountain (you know, by actually seeing it first), people all over the country were demanding it go unseen.  Mostly notably, Utah Jazz owner Larry H. Miller, who famously pulled the film from his movie theatre near Salt Lake City upon learning of its “dangerous” same-sex romance content.

Give me break.  Had Miller, or Bill O’Reilly, or John Gibson, or the many other social conservatives (none of which, I believe, are known for their film criticism) actually watched the film, they would’ve known that it contained one very brief, very darkly lit, clothed homosexual sex scene.  That’s it.  Sure Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal make out a few times.  Yeah… and?  Have these guys never seen an episode of Six Feet Under?  Queer as Folk?  The L Word? 

Brokeback Mountain was unjustly labeled as the “gay cowboy” movie, which is funny for two reasons: one because it denotes that there’s something wrong with being gay, which is just silly, and two because the film does not contain any gay characters (there is, after all, a difference between gay and bisexual).

Brokeback Mountain isn’t a movie about gay people.  It’s a movie about romance, and a damn fine one at that.  Many people believe that deep-rooted Hollywood homophobia caused this film to lose Best Picture to the far inferior Crash.  I believe there’s some truth to that, but regardless, we can all agree that Brokeback Mountain in no way deserves to be remembered for the commotion made by a slew of insecure talking heads.

For some real homosexual controversy, see: Midnight Cowboy

Crash (2005)

Racism!  Stereotypes!  Los Angeles!  Ludacris!  A good friend of mine once described Crash as “Buddhism on acid,” which I feel is appropriate.  Crash basically shows its viewers how damn near every single race-related stereotype is accurate, but that we should all still love and accept each other in the most profoundly Hallmarkian way. Aww. 

Look, I’m not trying to belittle some of the content of the film.  A police officer fingering a woman he’s pulled over is never a laughing matter, even if it is kind of hard to take Matt “Wild Things” Dillon seriously.  Crash experienced one of the most elaborate sugar highs of contemporary Hollywood.  People loved this movie when they first saw it.  It gained steady word of mouth and eventually won the Best Picture Oscar.  But ask around now.  Why is it that most people consider Crash to be second-rate?

Maybe because the film isn’t as hot-button as many people initially thought.  Maybe because its basic message is the same one delivered decades earlier in a film called Bambi.  Crash has its moments (namely the ones with Michael Peña), but controversial?  Meh.

For some real racism controversy, see: The Birth of Nation, Do the Right Thing

The Da Vinci Code (2006)

Here’s a perfect example of controversy helping a film.  From the get-go, several assorted Catholic factions got their panties in a serious bunch over Ron Howard’s film, which they said was full of “calumnies, offences, and historical and theological errors.”

Protests formed at movie theatres across the country, but to little affect.  The movie, which by nearly all accounts is a complete bore and not nearly as controversial as people were lead to believe, made a shitload of money, grossing $217 million in the U.S. alone (and more than double that abroad).  Granted, much of that money was probably doled out by fans of Dan Brown’s book, but The Da Vinci Code did a great job of cracking the formula.  Bad movie + popular book + loads of controversy = great success.

For some real religious controversy, see: The Last Temptation of Christ

Hounddog (2007)

When word leaked that Hounddog would feature Dakota Fanning getting raped, it was instantly dubbed as the “Dakota Fanning rape movie,” a tagline it has yet to live down.

After it bombed at Sundance, the film went through a number of reedits and was eventually released to virtually no fanfare.  And for good reason.  People didn’t stay away because Dakota Fanning’s character gets assaulted (which, incidentally, isn’t even shown), no, people didn’t see the film simply because the movie is bad. 

After hearing about the film (he admitted he hadn’t even seen it) North Carolina State Senator Phil Berger wanted all future films in his state to have their scripts approved in advance.  Really?  All that hubbub, just for a crappy little movie?  Next.

For some real sexual assault controversy, see: Irreversible

The Human Centipede (2010)

Like Hounddog, when The Human Centipede was announced, it was immediately slapped with a huge controversial label.  Also like Hounddog, the controversy proved to be ill spent, as The Human Centipede isn’t just bad, it’s goddamn boring, too.

You all know what it’s about: some psycho scientist kidnaps three people and sews them ass to face to ass to face, creating a living human centipede.  I was, naturally, curious to see how disgusting the movie would actually be.  And after watching it, I was struck with one thought: “That’s it?” 

The Human Centipede is gross, yes, but it isn’t’ that gross.  What it is, however, is a boring horror film with acting that’s a notch below that of soft core porn. I’ll put it this way, it could’ve been a whole hell of a lot more grotesque.  And by the sounds of it, director Tom Six’s sequel (which will now feature a 12 person human centipede) is aiming to be just that.

For some real gratuitously violent controversy, see: Salò, Or The 120 Days of Sodom; Cannibal Holocaust

The Tree of Life

Like all of Terrence Malick’s films, The Tree of Life is hyped in such a way that probably terrifies the director into hidden obscurity.  Malick, having only made five features in his nearly 40 year career, is film’s answer to J.D. Salinger. He doesn’t do interviews, he doesn’t go to premieres, he doesn’t post on Twitter, he doesn’t pop up on Blu-Ray special features, hell, the guy doesn’t even allow his picture to be taken on his movie sets.  He lets his films speak for themselves.  Which is fitting, because The Tree of Life, like all of his work, speaks volumes.

I knew absolutely nothing about the plot of The Tree of Life when I saw it, so how is it at all fair to ruin any of that for you here?  There are two ways to see The Tree of Life (which, for the record, everyone should): cold, knowing nothing about it, and again, because repeat viewings will be mandatory.

Many people, mostly professional critics and film historians, are going to seriously cash-in on thorough Tree of Life analysis.  “What does it all mean” psychobabble and the like.  And I suppose this is all right, but I don't believe that is Malick’s intention.  I do not think he aims for every audience member to pick and pull and prod at the tiniest details in the film and examine them incessantly.  The Tree of Life, more so than Badlands, Days of Heaven, The Thin Red Line, and The New World, is a moving poem.  You should feel free to study it, and look at it again and again, but endlessly analyzing it will only diminish its purpose.  Analysis paralysis, if you will.

To give some sort of context, I suppose the film could be labeled as Malick’s interpretation of the meaning of life, but that seems far too broad and absently-focused for Malick’s interests.  (Warning: for the remainder of the paragraph, I’m going to discuss very minimal plot details, feel free to skip ahead.)  The Tree of Life, in its most basic form, tells the story of a middle-class Midwestern family and their individual desires to figure out “what it all means.”  Jessica Chastain plays the warm, free-loving mother, a stark contrast to her loving but deeply strict husband (Brad Pitt).  They have three sons, the oldest of which is just now beginning to question and defy his father’s authoritarian methods.  The film intertwines the story of one of the now-grown sons (Sean Penn), but for purposes I won’t reveal.

Remember, that basic, rudimentary plot explanation in no way justifies the enormity of what this film contains, it’s just a tease.  But, as is always the case with Malick’s work, the execution of the story is equally as important as the story itself.

It took no less than five editors to fully encapsulate Malick’s distorted, shifting visualization of life, but The Tree of Life, I believe more so than any of Malick’s previous films, is technically flawless.  Emmanuel Lubezki deserves the next five Oscars for best cinematography, as he has created the best-looking film in years.  Alexandre Desplat seamlessly fuses his string-laced original score with the likes of Brahms and Bedřich Smetana, while production designer Jack Fisk recreates the ‘50s Midwest in a way that is holly believable. 

I’d be remised if I didn’t give specific mention to veteran casting director Francine Maisler's contribution to the film.   Jessica Chastain, who I’ve never seen before, is impeccable as the film’s lead.  She’s the moral backbone, balancing her husband’s sternness with her sons’ youthful joyfulness.  When her husband isn’t looking, she runs and plays with her boys like she’s one of them.  It’s as if she’s never grown up, and Chastain conveys this in a way that is utterly fascinating to watch. 

Can everyone finally give Brad Pitt some respect and realize that his acting talent so wondrously surpasses his celebrity persona? We’re constantly uncertain of what his character in The Tree of Life will do next, which is terrifying and magnetic.  Sean Penn is, well, Sean Penn, which is enough said, and the three unknown actors who play the sons all convey that very specific breed of Malick emotion, a feat every working actor should be envious of.

Some will hail The Tree of Life as the century’s first masterpiece, others will dismiss it as philosophical garbage.  And, despite the fact that neither of those assertions are accurate, both trains of thought are completely fair.  Yes, The Tree of Life is slow, very slow in fact.  But slow is not necessarily synonymous with bad.  Ingmar Bergman never made a fast film.  Neither did Stanley Kubrick.  Let me put it this way: you know what Transformers 2, Fast Five and The Hangover Part II have in common?  They're all fast-paced films, and they’re all awful. 

There are extended, wordless sequences of The Tree of Life that are bound to draw comparison to Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, which seems appropriate.  Both films were critical revered but widely misunderstood upon their release.  One is considered a classic; the other is slowly making its way to those ranks.  The Tree of Life is the 2001 of 2011; it’s this generation’s ultimate trip.  Good luck finding a better American-made film this year.  A

X-Men: First Class

A funny thing has just happened. I’ve just now, not but two hours ago, finished watching X-Men: First Class, and I haven’t the faintest idea what happened during any of it.

Let me clarify.  The movie wasn’t confusing, nor was its narrative structure convoluted or elaborate.  So why can’t I remember damn near anything about it?  I wasn’t inebriated it any way, unless, of course, you consider boredom a drug, in which case I was wasted. 

So there it is, X-Men: First Class, like the majority of this summer’s blockbuster counterparts, is boring.  As all hell.  You’ll check the time, you’ll shuffle your feet, you’ll reposition yourself in your seat, and you’ll leave the theatre asking yourself why you bothered in the first place.

Here’s what I can recall: Kevin Bacon as a mutant Nazi, James McAvoy as a charming, walking, fully haired Professor X, Michael Fassbender as an angry, youthful Magneto, Lenny Kravitz’s kid with butterfly wings, Jennifer Lawrence cashing in on her post-Oscar nomination glory, January Jones as Betty Draper with sparkly skin.  There’s some talking, some shooting, some Fassbender foreboding, some mutant training, a lot more talking, and a final phoned-in battle which basically asserts that, if it were not for mutants, Russia and America would’ve blown each other to hell via nuclear missiles.

What’s with all these contemporary action franchises making the order of their films more confusing than the actual films themselves?  X-Men: First Class follows X-Men Origins: Wolverine which was a prequel to X-Men 3: The Last Stand which was a sequel to X-Men 2, but X-Men: First Class takes place before X-Men Origins: Wolverine… I think.  So, what does it all mean?  Who the hell knows, and more significantly, who the hell cares?

When I’m on the fence of apathy – a strong cocktail of equal parts boredom and indifference – my go-to grade is a C-, which, in my mind, is being kind here.  X-Men: First Class is worthy for two reasons, one more prominent than the other. Since The Last King of Scotland, James McAvoy has proved that, unlike the majority of American actors his age, he deserves to be taken seriously.  Likewise Michael Fassbender, who after a scene stealing performance in Inglourious Basterds and a game-changing performance in Hunger, is slowly taking the reigns as the most underrated actor of his generation.  If there is a sequel to X-Men: First Class, which there undoubtedly will be, then I’ll see it because of those two.  Until then, I’ll be busy trying to find a mutant power that combats boredom. 

A Great War Debate: Saving Private Ryan vs. The Thin Red Line

In the summer of 1998, American movie audiences were completely thrown off guard by the power of a war epic called Saving Private Ryan.  We’d all heard the hype: the eye-shielding opening scene, the gut-wrenching emotional drama, the subtle humor, and that kid who just won an Oscar for writing Good Will Hunting.  Hype is to film what kryptonite is to Superman; it can be irreversibly damaging.  Our expectations exceed their highest point, and we’re ultimately let down by the finished product.

Saving Private Ryan was not one of those movies.  It was, and remains, a perfect war film.  At the time of its release, it was the best war film, since, what… Platoon? And the best WWII film, since, what… Patton?  Which is to say, it was arguably the best war film ever made.  Steven Spielberg had done it again.  Just like he tackled the Holocaust in a way no one had seen, he had stormed the beaches of Normandy in a way no one was ready for.  And then, a few short months later, something odd happened. 

Storming the beach in Saving Private Ryan

In December of 1998, Terrence Malick released The Thin Red Line, his first film in 20 years.  The Thin Red Line was the antithesis of Saving Private Ryan.  It was slow and poetic and beautiful and, let’s just say it, kind of confusing.  But it was also undeniably brilliant.  As one critic said, The Thin Red Line was “the thinking man's war film.”

Saving Private Ryan is everything a great war film should be.  It has epic battle sequences, a heroic lead star, a strong supporting cast, mild humor to break the tension, and a tightly-wrapped conclusion.  It’s also, dare I say, rather conventional.  The plot is its only real function.  Eight soldiers are sent to find one man and send him home.  One by one, the men get picked off via an elaborate, individual death scene (mostly in the final battle), and, eventually, Private Ryan is safely sent home. 

It took me 12 words to describe the entire plot of Saving Private Ryan, but it’d take me 12 pages to describe the plot of The Thin Red Line, mainly because, there isn’t one. 

An anonymous soldier in The Thin Red Line

Whereas Saving Private Ryan is essentially the aftermath of a 20-minute battle scene, The Thin Red Line IS the battle scene, both literally and figuratively.  The main battle in The Thin Red Line, save a few breaks, takes up a bulk of the three hour film, as we witness the attack from start to finish.  Saving Private Ryan, rather brilliantly, throws us, without warning, onto Omaha Beach.  The Thin Red Line waits patiently with us as the soldiers grimly, and tediously, prepare for certain death.

In The Thin Red Line, we see the sun rise over a doomed hill on Guadalcanal. “Rosy-fingered dawn,” Nick Nolte’s angered, prepared Lt. Col. Tall, tells Elias Koteas’ fatherly, God-fearing Captain Staros before the battle.  Minutes later, hundreds of soldiers stealthily move up the hill, hiding as best they can behind tall blades of grass.  Minutes later, a young officer (Jared Leto), silently orders two Privates up the hill to their eventual death.  Leto has not one speaking line in the film, but his face says volumes as his two men are gunned down by soldiers in a hidden bunker. Seconds later, chaos ensues, and it never lets up.

Saving Private Ryan is bookended with two of the best-staged battles in film history.  Its violence is meant to shock, not to propel the story.  Guts spill out, a soldier looks for his arm, a knife is slowly eased into a chest, and so on.

Spielberg's violence

Malick's violence

Terrence Malick isn’t at all concerned with violence.  The war is the violence, not the actual dying.  So why is it that, with very little blood shown, The Thin Red Line is the more disturbing of the two films?  Simple.  Because we actually know, and grow to care about, the soldiers in Malick’s film.  But how is that?  We spend far more time with the Saving Private Ryan characters, and actually get to know their names and their personal histories.  Whereas in The Thin Red Line, some main characters only grace the screen for a single scene, others don’t even speak.

To be honest, I’m not sure how Malick pulls this off. I’m not sure how the most devastating scene of both films occurs when a soldier reads a letter from his wife in The Thin Red Line.  I’m not sure how the hardest scene to watch of both films is a soldier crying in the rain in The Thin Red Line.  I’m not sure how the most powerful scene of both films is Nolte and Koteas arguing with each other through the radio.

I’m not quite sure how Terrence Malick does it, he just…does.

Obviously, Saving Private Ryan was the successor of the two films.  It grossed $216 million, won five Oscars and remains a staple for Veteran’s Day viewing on broadcast TV.  The Thin Red Line made $36 million, won no Oscars and has never aired on broadcast TV.  And I understand why.  As I mentioned earlier, The Thin Red Line, upon first (or second, or third) viewing, is pretty damn confusing.  The persistent narration is done by a number of actors, and we’re never really quite sure who’s talking.  There’s no plot, no central character, no smooth resolution; it’s everything a war film shouldn’t be. 

Saving Private Ryan boasted big names, like Tom Hanks

The Thin Red Line's relative unknowns, like Elias Koteas, were as important as the film's big stars 

And that’s the point.  Malick doesn’t want you to know who’s doing the talking, or who the main character is.  The soldier is the main character.  The war is the story.  I once spoke to a WWII veteran who was, understandably, disturbed by Saving Private Ryan’s content, but loved the film nonetheless.  I urged him to watch The Thin Red Line.  After his viewing, his response was as follows:  “Well, I wasn’t exactly sure what the hell was going on in that movie, but The Thin Red Line is the only movie I’ve seen that accurately displays the hell of war.  That’s exactly how it is.”

Saving Private Ryan is a perfect war film, one of the best ever made.  The Thin Red Line is a perfect film, and the best war film ever made.  One is great with its tradition, while the other is masterful with its alternative style.

Earlier, I mentioned a powerful scene in The Thin Red Line between Nick Nolte’s Lt. Col. Tall and Elias Koteas’ Cpt. Staros.  Tall, with volcanic fury, orders Staros repeatedly to move up the front of the hill and attack a bunker.  Staros, knowing this order to be certain death, refuses to accept Tall’s order.  The subsequent five minutes are some of the finest moments ever committed to film.  At the end of the scene, Staros puts the radio down and quickly speaks a line in Greek.

We are not given subtitles. We are not given a meaning.  The soldiers around him have no idea what he said, and neither should we.  Exactly. 

The Double Hour

What a perfectly ingenious little thriller this is. The type of film that twists and turns with every passing scene. That hints and double-backs with subtle teases. The Double Hour is the kind of film that fools you throughout, but leaves you satisfied. It tricks you, without leaving any holes. And, perhaps best of all, it’s the kind of film that, once the closing credits commence, you have only one thought: “More…now.”

It’s also the type of film that is impossible to summarize in a way that entices, but reveals nothing. But for the sake of challenge: the film concerns itself with Sonia, a reserved Italian chambermaid who seems to be coasting through life, void of any sort of passion. Early in the movie (actually, in the movie’s first scene) Sonia is witness to something that should startle her out of her skin. But it doesn’t. Why? We’re not sure, but we ache to find out.

Soon Sonia meets Guido during a bout of speed dating. The two slowly hit it off and eventually fall for each other. But, this being a thriller, things are not what they seem. To reveal more would be to ruin what I confidently consider to be the best film so far this year. So plot details are mum from here on out.

So, why haven’t you heard of The Double Hour? Several reasons. The film was released in its native Italy in late 2009 before hitting a slew of foreign film festival circuits. It’s only now, finally, gotten a tiny domestic release, and will undoubtedly leave indie theatres quieter than it arrived. Which is a kind way of saying that its final box office gross won’t be one 100th of The Hangover Part II’s first weekend take.

Secondly, The Double Hour stars, and was made by, people you’ve never heard of. There’s no big name to give it that extra nudge. Click on director Giuseppe Capotondi’s IMDB page: nothing. No writing credits, no short films, nothing. Just The Double Hour. Surely editor Guido Notari has had a long career to perfect what he does so masterfully here. Nope. Cinematographer Tat Radcliffe? Nothing notable. Not even stars Kseniya Rappoport and Filippo Timi have made a dent.

But the lack of distribution and marquee names shouldn’t deter you, not when a movie is this good. The Double Hour is as suspenseful as Hitchcock, as patient as De Palma, as smooth as Nolan and as narrative-focused as Tarantino. And, believe me, I understand the dilemma. I understand that many of you don’t see the point in traveling more than an hour to watch a 90 minute movie when you can see one right down the road.

Well, here’s the difference. Right down the road, you’re going to pay $10 for the same pirates and robots and hangovers that you’ve already seen. What I’m proposing, rather strongly, is that you travel a little farther for something that is a.) probably cheaper, and b.) immensely more satisfying.

A few times a year (or maybe just once, if I’m lucky) I see a film that is so well done, I cannot rest until I’ve seen it again. The Double Hour is that film. It’s a never ending display of bravado filmmaking. There is no lacking aspect; everything works, seamlessly. Do yourself a favor and take a brief break from the blockbusters. It’s simply not possible that you’ll regret it. Expect this film to be one of my top ten of the year. A



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Midnight in Paris

There are two sides to Woody Allen’s coin.  Anyone familiar with Woody Allen is unavoidably cognizant of a few common traits: his films take place in New York, star a character who is (or acts just like) Woody Allen, involve farcical and possible fantastical elements, and will usually end on a positive note. 

That’s the Woody Allen most of us recognize, but what about the films that stray so beautifully from that formula?  Little-seen, but masterful dramas like Interiors, Stardust Memories, Another Woman, Husbands and Wives, and Match Point?  For my money, Allen’s dramas are almost always on point, whereas his contemporary comedies are, more often than not, grossly lacking.  Which is why I report, with great pleasure, that Midnight in Paris is a well deserved, pitch perfect romantic comedy.

I mentioned fantasy earlier, and this is true, although you may not realize it.  Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, Sleeper, Stardust Memories, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Alice, and Deconstructing Harry are just a few Allen movies that rely heavily on fantasy to help propel the story.  Allen always roots his fantasy content in reality, thereby stripping the characters of any form of boring, prolonged denial.  And when he pulls it off, as he does whimsically in Midnight in Paris, the result is utterly delightful.

So when a self-proclaimed “Hollywood sellout” screenwriter drunkenly stumbles into a party and is soon sharing cocktails with the likes of Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, don’t expect his denial to last too long.  He’s going to enjoy this moment, and so should we.

Gil (a fantastic Owen Wilson, no, that is not a typo) is tired of being a sellout.  He’s tired of the success he’s earned by rewriting Hollywood blockbusters.  He wants to write, really write.  Novels, poems, whatever, as long as it’s meaningful prose.  His fiancé, Inez (a perfectly bitchy Rachel McAdams) does what she can to thwart Gil’s literally romantic efforts, but her labors soon bear fruitless.

One night, while vacationing with Inez and her parents in Paris, Gil, having had a little too much to drink, stumbles around the streets of Paris before being picked up by a few immaculately dressed party goers in a fancy old car.  Gil is taken to a party, and soon chatting with the likes of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Picasso, and plenty more.  This is Gil’s lifelong wish, you see.  He can’t remember the last time his 21^st century surroundings inspired him.  He’s always wondered what it would be like to live during The Golden Age.  And now he knows.

Gil does this for days on end, seamlessly wondering into 1920’s Paris and soaking up the scenery before he is magically transported back to 2010.  During his midnight trysts, he meets a slew of colorful characters, and even wins the affection of Picasso’s mistress (Marion Cotillard, seriously, can this woman do no wrong?).  Whether you recognize the names of the people Gil runs into or not, it’s utterly wasteful to spoil them here.  (But let me say that the actor playing Salvador Dali deserves an Oscar nomination for his brief but spot-on performance.)

A lot could go wrong in Midnight in Paris, namely, the casting of Owen Wilson, who still has a bad taste in his mouth from the complete waste of shit that was How Do You Know.  But to say Wilson nails it is an understatement.  He’s got Allen’s shifty enunciations and nervous vernacular down perfectly.  Rachel McAdams plays lovingly against-type, sinking her teeth into Woody Allen’s malevolence in a way that could make Judy Davis jealous.  While Michael Sheen, Kathy Bates, Kurt Fuller, and Tom Hiddleston all bring the proper amount of charm required of their respective roles.

Midnight in Paris is a great kind of film.  The type of movie in which a master returns to form and delivers well beyond what is expected.  Woody Allen has mostly kept his films out of New York for the past decade, and that’s fine.  As long as he churns out films as worthy as Midnight in Paris, we’ll all reap the benefits. A-

For more on Woody Allen, click here.

The Hangover Part II

A group of friends travel to an exotic city for a bachelor party.  They drink, are drugged and wake up in a ransacked hotel room with one of the guys missing and not the slightest clue of how or why.  They spend the next day and a half retracing their steps, getting themselves into all sorts of farcical messes.  At some point a naked Asian dude pops out of an obscure location.  At some point some money is made in hopes of finding their missing friend.  At some point pictures from their forgotten night are shown to the audience, too much hilarity.

That’s the plot of The Hangover, and given the fact that it remains the highest grossing R-rated comedy of all time, I’m sure you already knew that. What you may not already know, and I sincerely hope you don’t, is that that is also the exact same plot for The Hangover Part II.  And therein lies the problem.

Why the hell would you want to see the same movie again?  No no, I’m sorry, let me clarify: why the hell would you want to see the EXACT same movie again?  At the risk of bogging myself down with superfluous exaggerations, I can confidently assert that The Hangover Part II will offer you nothing new, and perhaps worse, it only offers you precisely what you’ve seen before.  I quite simply do not see the fun in that, especially if you’re forking out ten plus dollars a head.

Instead of Vegas, the guys are in Bangkok.  Instead of a missing groom, it’s a missing brother of the bride.  Instead of a missing tooth, it’s a Mike Tyson tattoo. Instead of a baby, it’s a monkey.  Instead of a Mike Tyson cameo, it’s a… Mike Tyson cameo.  Instead of hilarious pictures during the closing credits, it’s “Really? Haven’t we seen this all before?” pictures during the closing credits.

I make it a point to never reveal conclusive plot elements from a film.  I am in no way interested in ruining a movie for you, regardless of how good (or bad) it is.  I give just enough, then let you decide for yourself if a movie is worth seeing. So, forgive me, but I’m pissed off.  I’m pissed that the artistic medium I have loved for as long as I can remember is domestically turning into a complete waste of time.  I pissed that Hollywood runs like such a business, that they are literally making the same films over and over, just because they know those films will generate a handsome profit.

But most of all, I’m pissed at the storytellers. The Hangover cost $35 million to produce.  A grand budget for the scope of the film, but at least it was entertaining.  The Hangover Part II cost $80 million to make.  But why?  Does it take an extra $45 million to produce such recycled garbage?  What kind of movie could director Todd Phillips have made with that kind of money, if he wasn’t limited by the commerciality of Hollywood? 

I don’t know, and, to be honest, I’m starting to not care.  And that’s what scares me.  With each passing year, my subtle apathy toward the poor state of American cinema is slowly brewing into a faint resentment.  The Hangover Part II is the worst kind of film.  Second-hand compost with not a shred of originality, and in no way worthy of your time.  F

Cave of Forgotten Dreams

When Werner Herzog eventually dies – which I imagine he hopes will come at the expense of something related to art, and maybe even captured on film – I sincerely hope there is a stipulation in his will mandating that his body be examined by eager scientists.

Through his remarkably eccentric career, he’s traveled to an evacuated Guadeloupe in hopes of filming a volcano that is set to erupt at any moment; he’s hypnotized his entire cast while shooting a film; dragged a ship over a mountain; threatened to kill the star of his movie; been shot at by the star of his movie; been shot in the abdomen during a television interview; spent time on Antarctica; eaten his own shoe; and directed a damn fine Nicolas Cage film.  In short, the man has done it all, and, thankfully for us, he shows no sign of ceasing his obsession with testing himself.

His latest self-imposed challenge was butting up against the French ministry in hopes of getting access to the Chauvet caves of Sothern France.  When three men discovered the caves in 1994, they had no idea that the plentiful drawings that wallpapered the interior of the caves were more than 33,000 years old, by far the oldest known graphic creations in history.  But, for several bureaucratic reasons, the caves have only been open to a slew of scientists, far from public view. Until now.

Once Herzog got access, which was limited to say the least, he went for broke and shot the majority of his footage using 3D cameras.  The resulting film is, I can safely assert, the very first live action film worth paying 3D-priced tickets to.  (For the record, it’s difficult for me to declare Avatar as mostly live action.)

I know what you’re thinking: how can 3D possibly enhance a flat surface?  My answer: I have no idea.  But believe me, it does.  Herzog’s camera slowly swoops in and around assorted stalagmites to uncover works of art that will leave you speechless.  Painted on the walls is everything from handprints to various animals.  Some of the animals’ features are outlined with fuzzy lines, giving off the sense of movement, “much like still photos that make up an animated film,” Herzog says in his soothing narration.

The shots inside the cave are nothing short of miraculous, a sensation that is only enhanced by the 3D technology.  Most 3D films currently littering theatres are converted after the fact, which is a technical way of saying that you paid an extra $4 for absolutely nothing.  And the legitimate 3D films spend a bulk of their running time reminding you that the movie is in 3D, usually by having assorted objects thrown at the screen.

Cave of Forgotten Dreams is different.  Not all of the film is in 3D, a point Herzog discloses early in the film, but the scenes that are in 3D use the technology to help fuel the atmosphere of the story.  There are no cheap parlor tricks; no ridiculous gimmicks.  It’s the real deal; and it makes a movie about cave paintings, which could understandably sound drab to some audience members, imperative viewing for any cinema enthusiast.

Herzog, right, with a subject from Cave of Forgotten Dreams

Werner Herzog is upfront with his proclamations.  He has no problem blending truth with fabrication, declaring that his documentaries contain fiction and his narrative films contain fact.  Little Dieter Needs to Fly and Rescue Dawn, for example, tell the same story about the same man.  One is a documentary; the other is a narrative film.  Both have truths, both have inaccuracies, Herzog has said.

My point is, Werner Herzog does not make conventional films for conventional audiences.  To see a film like Cave of Forgotten Dreams, or Encounters at the End of the World, or Grizzly Man, or, hell, Bad Lieutenant, is to expose yourself to the warped mind of a man who may very well be clinically mad. Regardless of the legitimacy of Herzog’s sanity, his films are something more than just “films”.  They are documents of genuine human emotion.  And, in the case of Cave of Forgotten Dreams, they deserve to be put into a sealed time capsule, available for people to examine thousands of years from now.  A

the Directors: Paul Thomas Anderson

Like fellow classmates Quentin Tarantino, Spike Jonze, David O. Russell, and Wes Anderson, Paul Thomas Anderson was born from the school of ‘70s American cinema.  Their teachers include Mr. Scorsese, Mr. De Palma, Mr. Coppola, and, most notably for Anderson, Mr. Altman.

Having released five films in 15 years, Anderson may not be the most prolific filmmaker around, but that matters little, considering the breadth of influence he’s brought to the medium.

He can be flashy (the opening shot of Boogie Nights, the TV studio shot in Magnolia), heartfelt (“Will you help me?” from Boogie Nights; “You need to be nicer to me.” from Magnolia), hilarious (Adam Sandler in a Hawaiian phone booth in Punch-Drunk Love; Adam Sandler in a restaurant bathroom in P-D L), horrifying (Daniel Day-Lewis + bowling pin); and all together masterful.

Anderson’s next project – about a WWII vet who creates a new belief system  – is set to begin filming in mid June.  The long-delayed film, which many suspect will act as a metaphor for the birth of Scientology, will star Anderson regular Philip Seymour Hoffman and Joaquin I-Guess-He’s-Acting-Again Phoenix.  Porn, life, love, oil, religion – who cares, it’s PTA.  I’ll be there, and so should you.  Here’s why.

Hard Eight [aka Sydney] (1997)

Many don’t know that a mere eight months before Boogie Nights hit theatres, Anderson’s first feature, Hard Eight (which he prefers to refer to as Sydney), was released domestically.  Despite its edgy script, fluid photography, pulsating music, and the presence of Samuel L. Jackson (fresh off Pulp Fiction) and Gwyneth Paltrow (fresh off Se7en), Hard Eight was a commercial disaster.

Ask Anderson why the movie only grossed $222,000 and he’ll rattle off more reasons than can fit in a DVD commentary.  In short, Anderson clawed and battled the studio every step of the way throughout production.  This is unfortunate, because the movie – about an aging hustler who takes a down-and-outer under his wing – could have been better than it is.  However, Anderson’s trouble with the studio did result in a major plus: from here on out, Anderson refused to make a picture unless he had final cut.  And, considering his age at the time (he was 25 when he made Hard Eight) that is rarer than all hell.

For die hard Anderson fans, Hard Eight is a must.  It amusingly displays the promise of what is to come.  Everyone else can probably just skip straight to Boogie Nights. B+

Favorite scene: I love when a movie tells us how to pull something off, never excluding the slightest details.  Hard Eight does this masterfully when Sydney (Philip Baker Hall) shows John (John C. Reilly) how to recycle a small amount of money through the casino cashier until it appears as if he’s spent thousands of dollars.  

Boogie Nights (1997)

Sharing the coveted title of the most entertaining movie of the ‘90s, (with the likes of Goodfellas and Pulp Fiction) Boogie Nights begins with a bravado opening sequence (introducing all of the main characters in one extended tracking shot) and spends its remaining 150 minutes high off cocaine-fueled adrenaline.  

Set in Los Angeles during the porno industry boom in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, Boogie Nights chronicles the highs and lows of a local production company and its wildly popular star, Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg, delivering one of the best performances of the decade).  The film isn’t concerned with plot, as it doesn’t contain a shred of it.  Instead, we follow around Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds, never better) and company as they sunbathe by the pool, snort cocaine ceaselessly, engage in casual sex, and occasionally shoot films.

Boogie Nights breaks all the rules.  It steals from other films (Goodfellas, I Am Cuba and Nashville are direct lifts), never lets its music conclude (whether it’s the disco-inspired soundtrack or Michael Penn’s score, or both), introduces main characters in the third act (“Todd…Parker!”), never lets its camera sit idle (thanks to the ever-impressive, Robert Elswit), and so on.

It’s a breathtaking film; one that never gets old.  In fact, its impact continues to grow and grow and grow and grow and grow and grow.  A

Favorite scene: If I was an actor reading this script, I’d be terrified of the confrontation between young Eddie and his mother.  On paper, the dialogue sounds dime-store corny (“You’re stupid!” “I’m not stupid! Please don’t be mean to me!”, etc.)  But thanks to Wahlberg and Joanna Gleason, the scene plays out like a horrific portrait of adolescent hell. But the kicker, it must be said, is the dolly shot of Lawrence Hudd, who plays Wahlberg’s reserved father.  The camera quickly cuts to the parent’s bedroom and tracks left, revealing Hudd sitting motionless on the edge of his bed, listening to his wife berate his son in the next room.

Hudd says nothing, but his face says everything.  It’s an incredibly chilling moment that, given the content of the rest of the film, should feel out of place.  Thanks to those involved, it remains absolutely vital.

Magnolia (1999)

Coming off the critical acclaim of Boogie Nights, Anderson sought to push the envelope further with his next feature.  In Magnolia, the envelope isn’t so much pushed as ripped wide open, the result of which should in no way work as a cohesive, three hour film.  But it does, magically, and then some.

Taking place over the course of a single day in Los Angeles, Magnolia deserves to be ranked among the very best ensemble films ever made.  Any one of its many stories could sustain a feature film, but the gift of Magnolia is that Anderson includes only what is absolutely necessary to further, and enhance, the character’s motivations.

From its exhilarating, urban legend-inspired prologue, to its Book of Exodus denouement, Magnolia is a genuine masterpiece. I can think of no contemporary film that better encapsulates the themes of love, loss, regret, cruelty and forgiveness. If this film is unseen by you, I cannot think of one reason why it should stay that way.  A+ 

Favorite scene: Movie moments don’t get much better than the simultaneous breakdowns of Jimmy Gator (Philip Baker Hall), Linda Partridge (Julianne Moore), Quiz Kid Donnie Smith (William H. Macy), and Frank Mackey (Tom Cruise).  But to be fair, that takes up, what… 20 minutes?

So instead, I’ll choose something more succinct.  I’m obsessed with great character introductions in films.  Johnny Boy in Mean Streets, Harry Lime in The Third Man, The Joker in The Dark Knight, and the like.  So what better way to introduce Magnolia’s best character than to the operatic sound of Richard Strauss’s Also sprach Zarathustra?

With the light cues synching perfectly with Strauss, a silhouette soon appears to uproarious, male-driven fanfare. Soon, a voice speaks: “Respect…the cock.”  The crowd loses it.  We can’t help but smile.

People love to rag on Tom Cruise.  And I get it.  Yeah, the dude is kind of a douche and he stars in some shit films.  But those haters surely haven’t seen Magnolia.  For if they have, they would know that Cruise’s incarnation of Frank T.J. Mackey grants him a lifetime career pass.

Punch-Drunk Love (2002)

Motivated by the need for a complete 180 from Magnolia’s style, and the fact that he loves Adam Sandler comedies, Anderson crafted a simple story about a simple guy with simple dreams.  

Barry Egan just wants to be liked.  He wants respect from his seven overbearing sisters, a successful business, and, just maybe, the love of a woman. 

After a turn of purely Andersonian events, Barry finds himself wanted by an Utahan thug, falling for the girl of his dreams, and scheming to legally rip off a food company.  

Punch-Drunk Love is odd.  Quite odd, actually.  Jon Brion’s music is a never ending romp of delight and mania.  Elswit’s overexposed camera displays European-cool tones yet is strangely raw.  Anderson’s script is random yet harmonious.  And Sandler’s performance is puzzlingly brilliant.  The lasting result, like most of Anderson’s work, boasts a love it or hate it mentality. 

There are sequences of Punch-Drunk Love that rank among the best of Anderson’s career.  It’s a meditative, breezy character study that has all the right things going for it, as long as you’re willing to meet it halfway.  A-

Favorite scene: One of the best dialogue exchanges from the last decade goes a little something like this:

“I said ‘Calm down and shut the fuck up’ what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, if you give me a chance to explain, one of your employees, that girl I was just speaking with, has been threatening me, and four blonde gentlemen just… attacked me, and smashed my car, and hurt my girl—"

“All right, go fuck yourself, that shit has nothin’ to do with me, all right?  I run a legitimate business here."

“Listen to me… WHAT’S YOUR NAME, SIR? ANSWER ME!”

“What’s your name, asshole?!”

“I’m Barry Egan!”

“How do I know? You could be anybody.”

“You’re a bad person, you have no right taking people’s confidence in your service. You understand me, sir?  You’re sick—"

“No no no.  SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT UP WILL YOU—SHUT UP SHUT UP. SHUT SHUT SHUT SHUT SHUT UP…..SHUT UP!......NOW…..ARE YOU THREATENING, DICK?!"

“You go FUCK YOURSELF!”

(groans audibly) “FUCK! Did you just say go fuck myself?”

“…yes, I did.”

“THAT WASN’T GOOD, YOU’RE DEAD!”

There Will Be Blood (2007)

There Will Be Blood ruined contemporary American cinema.  Its pace is deliberately tedious, yet utterly seamless.  Its acting is flawless, from the lead actors to the extras in the background.  Its music, by Radiohead’s Johnny Greenwood (with some help from Brahms), is forebodingly game-changing.  Elswit’s cinematography redefines how to light a scene and maneuver a camera... in short, There Will Be Blood is cinematic perfection, something that hasn’t been achieved in this country since its release.

Daniel Plainview, as incarnated mercilessly by Daniel Day-Lewis, is a man of few passions and desires.  He wants only one thing: to become filthy rich.  Human feelings, acts of murder, broken legs, religious fanaticism, deaf children; these things need not deter him. And for two and half hours, we, the viewer, are fortunate enough to watch Plainview do everything in his power to achieve his dream.

  

If you were to break up every scene individually, and examine them as a collection of short films, you’d have more than dozen masterful sequences at your disposal.  The fun (and beauty, and conviction) of There Will Be Blood is that, by placing all those scenes together, you’re left with a feature film of impenetrable importance.  

No amount I write here will adequately describe how accomplished this film is.  In my original review, I feared that many audience members would either completely ignore the film, or let it be lost on them.  Given its modest box office draw ($40.2 million) and not-at-all justified number of Oscar wins (two; Day-Lewis and Elswit), my fears were relatively accurate.  But I also made a bold prediction in my initial write-up.  I said that decades from now, people would look back and consider There Will Be Blood an incontestable masterpiece.

Initially ignored then regarded as a classic, echoing the impact of Orson Welles’ first feature.  That’s a prediction I stand by today. A+

Favorite scene: Bowling alley.  Eating steak off the floor like a dog.  Drainage.  Milkshakes.  False prophets.  Third revelations.  Blowing pin.  Heavy breathing.  “...Mr. Daniel?”

“…I’m finished.”

Not hardly, Mr. Plainview.  Not hardly.    

 

Listen to my podcast on Paul Thomas Anderson!

Bridesmaids

Bridesmaids, one of the best, most hilarious comedies in years, tells the story of a down-on-her-luck, middle aged beauty who, despite recently being named maid of honor to her best friend’s wedding, can’t get over the fact that she doesn’t have what others do. And, if your philosophy concerning romantic comedies at all aligns with mine, then I know what you’re thinking: We’ve seen it all before. But believe you me, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

As mentioned, Annie (Kristen Wiig) is seriously down and out, which can mostly be attributed to her lazy self pity. Since her bakery business went under, she works a dead-end job behind a jewelry counter. Since she doesn’t want to put the time in to find a proper man, she answers late-night calls to her douche bag man toy (Jon Hamm). And on and on. But once her best friend (Maya Rudolph) announces her engagement, Annie puts her problems aside to deliver the perfect pre-wedding festivities with a newly-assembled collection on bridesmaids.

There is no better compliment to pay a comedy than that of lost time. To explain: when you see a comedy in the theatre – a good comedy, that is – you may be fortunate enough to come across a scene that is so hysterical, that the audience’s laughter completely drowns out the film’s dialogue. To say that I lost time in Bridesmaids is a gross understatement. For example, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what was said during the scene in which the gals attempt to pick a bridesmaid dress for the wedding. Five minutes, completely lost through gasps of breath and streaming tears of laughter.

Taking full, but not overly crude, liberties with its R rating, Wiig and writing partner Annie Mumolo have drafted a script that makes for the best comedy in recent memory, not to mention the best Judd Apatow-produced feature since, well… possibly ever. But there’s something else here, too.

Bridesmaids manages to do something that nearly all other romantic comedies ignore: make its characters human. Usually, the new love interest of the main character would be played by someone like, say, Jon Hamm. A perfect-looking man tailored specifically to sweep our hurting dame off her feet. But really, how often does a lady nab the “perfect” guy? Instead, Bridesmaids casts actors that actually look like, and share faults with, normal people. The groom is slightly overweight, the roommates are oddly shaped, the men have receding hairlines, the women have imperfect skin; it all accumulates to a glorious breath of fresh air. Finally, a comedy that actually casts people who look, and act, like people we know.

Wiig has stolen scenes in a number of films including Knocked Up, Adventureland, and Extract, and basically owned Saturday Night Life since she debuted in 2005. And although she’s mostly been on the sidelines of feature films, her acting and writing in Bridesmaids should finally catapult her to the A list status she so deserves. She’s the funniest woman in the business (sorry, Ms. Fey), and it’s time to seriously let her freak flag fly.

Now, while I love Kristen Wiig (and believe me, I love Kristen Wiig), the real showstopper in Bridesmaids is Melissa McCarthy, who plays the groom’s overweight, tell-it-like-it-is sister.

It is no exaggeration to say that every line out of McCarthy’s mouth is better than the one before. In a cast of very talented individuals, McCarthy (whom I’ve only seen in seldom minor roles, but I’m told is great on CBS’ Mike & Molly) manages to steal every single one of her scenes, to the point that it should warrant her an Academy Award nomination.

Take, for example, a scene late in the film, in which Wiig and McCarthy sit on a couch and contemplate all of life’s troubles. At the start of the scene, McCarthy spins into a hilarious bit of physical comedy, before delivering a slew of perfectly-timed lines. But then something strange happens. Subtly, McCarthy smoothly slips into a monologue that is so tender and earnestly heartfelt, it’s enough to make the toughest viewer misty eyed. The scene immediately shifts from being insanely funny to genuinely emotional. I’ve never experienced that during a movie before. A

The Conspirator

The Conspirator, Robert Redford’s new, never dull film, tells the story of the confusing, revenge-seeking aftermath following the assassination of President Lincoln.  Or, more specifically, the trail of Mary Surratt (Robin Wright), who ran a boarding house once occupied by tenants later involved in the plot to kill the President.  And because Mary’s son, John, who was said to be John Wilkes Booth’s right hand man, is nowhere to be found, officials want justice in the form of a hanging Mary.  The innocence of Mary doesn’t initially concern her young attorney (James McAvoy).  He’s more focused on making sure Mary receives a fair trial, when the powers that be demand anything but.

Don’t worry, the verbose, historical plot is executed in a way that hardly appears verbose and overbearingly historical.  Basically, the film isn’t muddled with obscure historical references and the characters don’t spit out more old English dialogue than is absolutely necessary.  It’s an easy film to take, and one, I suspect, people who aren’t great fans of historical dramas (guilty) will enjoy.

Much can be credited to this, including Mr. Redford, whose swift pace, warm photography, and careful casting allows The Conspirator to rank among his best films as a director.

At the heart of The Conspirator is a breezy, well-informed screenplay by James D. Solomon.  Solomon’s script is the rarest of things, moving along unsuspectingly without lending itself to cheap tricks and dime store twists.  As Mary Surratt’s court proceedings progress, the political corruption of not letting her stand a fair trial becomes absurd.  And soon, without us even realizing, we aren’t concerned with whether Mary is guilty or not, but rather, if the verdict she faces will be true justice.

Gus Van Sant often speaks of the importance of casting every role, no matter how small.  Whether they are Will Hunting or the dude at the back of the bar with one line, every casting decision needs to be deliberate and precise. 

I bring this up because that is exactly what Redford has done here.  Every speaking part in The Conspirator is done with such conviction by the perfect actor, that it is impossible to point out a weak link.  The call sheet of bit players reads like a dream list of character actors.  Shea Whigham, David Andrews, Stephen Root, and Jim True-Frost are all effective in their brief roles.  Supporting roles are cast invaluably to Colm Meaney, Danny Huston, Tom Wilkinson, Kevin Kline and Evan Rachel Wood.  While James McAvoy and Robin Wright perfectly fall into the lead characters.

Wright deserves specific praise.  In what quickly turns into the first truly great acting performance of the year, Robin Wright does wonders with Mary Surratt.  She keeps her moving, both physically and emotionally.  Her subtle facial and neck ticks seamlessly display her hidden guilt.  But guilt from what?  Did she know her son was plotting the assassination of the President?  Did she know he was plotting his kidnapping?  Did she know anything?  Those questions, I suspect, were the basis for Wright’s exercise in breaking down her character.  Whatever method Wright lent to her role, it worked, flawlessly. 

The Conspirator is a damn fine film, the best I’ve seen so far this year.  My only fear is that, given it’s less than modest box office gross, The Conspirator will soon fade from the minds of voting members of the Academy, just as quickly as it is fading from our theatres.  A-