Lincoln–Review

If there’s one major flaw in Lincoln: it’s the title! The film is, arguably, about the greatest United States President, yes; however, rather than revolve around Lincoln’s life as a whole—his demons, his personal quandaries, his mentally fragile wife, his son’s denouncement of privilege and desire to go to war, even the far-fetched (unfounded) rumors of Lincoln’s homosexuality—we focus fixedly on only his final months, including his hard-fought battle to end slavery once and for all with a 13th amendment. It’s a film about the struggles, benefits and detriments of a Democratic system—one which should be examined, carefully, by our current members of Congress. Yet, even within this limited scope, Spielberg captures Lincoln’s essence. I left the theater thinking I knew him. I teared up as I mourned his passing (spoiler!). I felt his premature death and his absence from the present save for his unflinching historical influence.

It’s a complement to Daniel Day-Lewis who embodies all the trademark characteristics we think of when we think of Lincoln and a few more we didn’t know: his high-pitched voice, his masterful “under-the-table” negotiations and manipulations. Lincoln was a masterful storyteller. His seemingly rambling fables were so commonplace that, at one point, the impatient Secretary of War, smelling a long-winded recantation, makes an early retreat. Yet, Day-Lewis exudes Lincoln’s gifts: his ability to capture to hearts and minds of any who would listen. His stories, which at first might feel completely irrelevant, suddenly become potent allegories with the power to influence the strongest of wills. Day-Lewis remains graceful in his pacing, speaking each sentence with pitch-perfect timing and confidence, never allowing our attention to waver, always keeping us spell-bound to know what he would say or do next. He’s mesmerizing to the point that you can understand why so many people were drawn to him. 

There are many scenes that establish Lincoln’s brilliance. There is a secret discussion between him and abolitionist Senator Thaddeus Stevens (quietly hidden in the cellar, naturally) where Lincoln shares Stevens’ (Tommy Lee Jones) desire for complete racial equality, but explains that the public will only embrace one small step at a time, starting with abolition as it was described in the 13th amendment. Anything more radically challenging would likely have undermined everything. 

To procure the Democratic votes needed for a 13th Amendment, Lincoln had his regime promote the law as a means of crippling the Confederacy and ending the Civil War, even though the war was on the verge of ending. During these Congressional debates, Lincoln held secret negotiations with Confederate V.P. Alexander Stevens (Jackie Earle Haley), who was prepared to surrender should slavery be retained in the South. Lincoln’s refusal to negotiate with the Confederacy before their surrender at Appomattox Court House meant a pro-longed war could that cost thousands more lives, including endangering the life of his own son Robert (Joseph Gordon-Levitt). The exploits of the Amendment battle include many supporting players including Lincoln’s allies in his quest like his loyal Secretary of State (David Strathaim) and adviser Francis Blair (Hal Halbrook).

This may be Spielberg’s greatest collection of talents and performances in his career. It’s almost impossible to think that Spielberg was going to give Lincoln to Liam Neeson—a fine actor—but not up to snuff with what Day-Lewis delivers. His Lincoln is quiet, reserved, calculating, and leads with a soft but unwavering touch. During quiet moments when Lincoln is pensive, it’s impossible not to be spell-bound by him.

Sally Field also fares well as Mary Todd, Lincoln’s emotionally fragile wife. There’s only so much for her to do other than berate her husband’s decisions to prolong the war and condoning their son’s (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) desires to enlist in the army. The family drama is sidelined for the politics, leaving the two to sit by the sidelines and bear witness to Abe’s history-making. The brief interludes between husband and wife seem like another story; one that should be reserved for a three-hour epic that could add some meat to Lincoln’s personal trials.

The real side-draw is Jones’s Senator Stevens, whose cantankerous verbal pokes at his Democratic opposition in the House of Representatives are some of the film’s highlights. His opposing views with Lincoln beg for debate, and he engages real-world ideas for how change can be introduced to society. Jones is even afforded his fair share of emotional satisfaction, including the film’s climax that adds a brand new layer to a Stevens, who, by all accounts, was even more radical than Lincoln ever was.

It’s a testament to Spielberg for making Lincoln and referencing many political arenas that are hot debate topics in today’s world—the idea of government’s role, the fine-line between change and appeasement, the holes in the political discourse. But, as Spielberg tends to do, he exudes a heavy-hand, foregoing subtlety with outright message hammering. It’s nowhere near as forced as Amistad or even Saving Private Ryan, but it’s evident that one repeated diatribe toward slavery’s evils could have been supplanted successfully with more meat to Lincoln’s personal trials.

Technically, this film is a marvel to behold with historically pristine sets, costumes and candlelit lighting. For a film devoid of action (save for a short Civil War opening battle), there’s a lot for the senses to ingest whether it be Lincoln’s offices or the details of the White House bedrooms. John Williams’ score is surprisingly strong and reserved. Spielberg allows it to come to life only during key moments. There are even speeches in which you expect Williams to sound the trumpets, but they keep it at bay. Thankfully.

Like many, I felt the film could have ended five minutes before it actually does. There’s something powerfully moving about seeing Lincoln stroll the White House hallway one final time–his solemn, instantly recognizable silhouette leaving behind a legacy with each step he takes. His final words to his staff bear more poignancy than any grandiose speech Spielberg could add as a final curtain call. By the penultimate scene, we’re already convinced that Lincoln was a great man, this was a great film (Spielberg’s finest in over a decade) and Daniel Day-Lewis deserves yet another Oscar.

The Master–Review

The Master is a film that’s either lacking at least one pivotal scene or has grander scheme that will only reveal itself after much scrutiny and multiple viewings.  Walking out of The Master conjured memories of initial reactions–for myself and the audience–to PT Anderson’s previous two films.  Punch Drunk Love sent the Adam Sandler-crazed college audiences storming out of the theater bewildered.  There Will Be Blood left an indelible impression and a nagging suspicion that many layers continue shroud the deeper message.  Anderson’s films aren’t easy to penetrate but eventually award those who ponder over them.  The Master remains no different. 

What I do know is that The Master involves a deep connection, a friendship, between a sullen, drunken, sex-crazed ex-navy sailor Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) and the eloquent, nurturing Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), who’s supposedly based on Scientology founder, L. Ron Hubbard.  But the film makes no reverent claims on the religion’s validity or even on Dodd himself, who remains an enigma, save for his obvious insecurities and anger that gestates whenever his views are brought into question.  When one of his largest supporters, Helen Sullivan (Laura Dern), notes contradictions in Dodd’s second book, he momentarily explodes.  Is he a fake?  We don’t know for sure.

Yet Dodd’s lessons, his healing procedures, does manage to alleviate the rage of his pupil, Quell–albeit temporarily.  The two men meet by mere chance when the destitute Quell stows away on Dodd’s ported yacht.  Dodd catches him, but rather than throw him overboard, he allows him to stay.  Dodd is enchanted by Quell’s homemade alcoholic–and very toxic–brew.  Dodd also sees Quell as a primary candidate for his teachings and nurturing. 

The best scene in the film occurs when Dodd asks Quell to subject himself to an interview.  At first, Quell answers a series of intimate questions with careful thought.  To penetrate even deeper, beyond the lies and deception, Dodd presses Quell to respond to each question fast, without hesitation and or even blinking an eye.  If he falters, the process starts all over.  As Quell strains to meet Dodd’s demands, he gradually releases his barriers.  In one single shot, Phoenix carries his Quell from a moment of levity, to anger, to despair, to remorse–all with a single tear drop.  This moment will single handedly carry Phoenix back from career turmoil all the way to the Oscar podium in February.

Quell’s convinced.  He soon becomes Dodd’s disciple; following obediently while others, even Dodd’s own son, suspect falsehood.  The rest of the film occurs over a series of months during the late 1950s as Dodd wrestles between Quell’s demons and trying to spread his message: The idea that people spawn from various incarnations of former lives that originated since the dawn of time two trillion (that’s trillion with a ‘T’) years ago.  

Anderson crafts a series of moments that will remain ingrained in your memory; most involve the capricious whirlwind between the Master Dodd and his subservient patient, Quell.  There’s the obvious dichotomy displayed between both men when they’re imprisoned after Dodd is charged with performing medical practices unlicensed and Quell for assaulting the arresting officer.  Anderson doesn’t allow either man to comment on his own emotions or the others, but his camera remains fixed with Hoffman in one corner, and Phoenix in other–one calm, the other a raging animal, literally destroying his cell while the other observes.   There’s also their final moments together that begs us to question the core of their relationship; whether it was based on love, or need, or obsession or a hybrid of all of the above.

Inevitably, The Master asks us to posit our own answers.  But no one, I gather, will find grand conclusions on Scientology.  It’s easy to understand why neither the Church or the religion’s critics have been outspoken towards The Master.  There really is no cognizant claim for or against the faith’s teachings.  (Tom Cruise will do no couch-leaping here).

The Master boils down to the prophet, Dodd, and his loyal disciple, Quell; the friendship between them and their respected need for each other.  There are plenty of films that show a fatherly figure advocate growth and improvement, but this is one of the few in which the goal is obviously futile.  If there’s some subconscious point to be made about a grander theme–about religion, or about faith, or about science–that’ll have to wait for another viewing.

One things for sure: Anderson continues to make strides in his craft–displaying more faith in the audience rather than holding their hands and guiding us to an emotional and intellectual crescendo.  The issue lies in the actual crescendo.  The film constantly feels like it will reach far, even opening a discussion on religion or the nature of human existence, but it inevitably falls back on Hoffman and Phoenix, each performing brilliantly within the confines of their own wavelength.

Like many, I was baffled exiting the theater.  I had the opportunity to speak to many members of the audience, each of whom offered a cogent viewpoint.  We ultimately agreed that the film was missing something.  Yet, as the days press on, The Master continues to circulate into my conscience.  Today, it feels like a “very good” film that missed a mark.  Tomorrow, I could change my mind a brand it a “masterpiece”.

For now, it contains two Oscar-caliber performances by Hoffman and Phoenix.  Oh, did I mention Amy Adams gives a dazzling performance as Dodd’s wife.  Her part is about…you know what? I give up. 

Footnote: The Master is the first film in nearly two decades to be filmed in 70mm.  My venue projected at 35mm, which was still remarkable.  If you are within reach of a cinema with 70mm projection, it’s highly encouraged.

Bel Ami–Review

It was apparent pretty early in the film that I was in for trouble.  This may be the first feature length film I’ve seen with Robert Pattinson since he gathered the envy and lusts of teenage girls from the Twilight saga.  His acting limitations were never more apparent than in Bel Ami, based on Guy de Maupassant’s novel.  Pattinson switches between three expressions: smiling brightly, sulking anger, and utter nauseousness.  Somehow this is enough to seduce three powerful women (Christina Ricci, Kristen Scott Thomas, and Uma Thurman) in 1890s Paris.  The downtrodden George Duroy (Pattinson) is almost always in close-up–as if the directors Declan Donnellan and Nick Ormerod were also being seduced.  I didn’t buy it and neither did my wife, whose opinion really counts for a story like this.  

I won’t dabble into plot details, other than the talentless, penniless Duroy takes turns and occasionally overlaps between charming and sexually exploiting the three damsels.  Two of them even declare they love him.  Based on what little Duroy offers–financially or charismatically–I gather their love is based largely on his cheekbones.

Pattinson’s minimal range, his pretty-boy exterior doesn’t translate into another Don Juan.  During his first meeting with the three ladies as well as their husbands (actors Colm Meany and Phillip Glenister), Pattison says little and has to force any hint of seductive prowess.  It takes the strong wills of three talented actresses to fill in the gaps.  The best is Ricci, whose doe-eyes emote desire and undying love to counter Pattinson’s vacant expressions.  When their “love” is severed so he can hop into the bed after marriage nuptials with Uma Thurmas’s character, Ricci looks dismayed, Pattinson looks like he’s on the verge of vomiting.  

His relationship with Thuman is bizarre.  She seems to have no use for him other than as a plaything.  There is even an unexpected (and poorly shot) sequence where Duroy pleads for sex and she obliges.  Soon she ravages Duroy untils he’s on the verge of pleading for mercy.  If you walked into Bel Ami midway, you might believe that the film was about Thurman’s character tempting–and even dominating the poor Duroy.  Seriously, she’s practically raping the guy! 

How in the hell did Duroy seduce any of them?  This kind of film conjure images of the famous male sexual figures who charm ladies off their feet and out of their corsets.  There was the average-looking John Malkovich seducing Michelle Phieffer (as well as Thurman, imagine that) in Dangerous Liaisons, which involves women falling prey to the seductive powers of mischievous men with hidden agendas.  Hint: it has more to do with charisma than how they look in top hats.  Pattinson’s smile is so bright and ill-timed that one could mistake Duroy for a possessed serial-killer rather than a suave seducer.  There is not one moment where he conjures up a subtle smirk.  Again, my barometer was based on my wife’s reactions, who found Pattinson charming for the first two minutes and an amusing bore for the rest. 

The story is also a mess.  Somehow Duroy is yanked into becoming a writer.  There are moments when he showcases some glimmer of talent, but I couldn’t quite understand what he wrote or who wrote what for him.  There’s never even one word of his writings that’s read aloud to hint at his talents.  The story also includes much murmuring of the social political upheaval in France at the turn of the century that’s completely lost in the translation.  Thurman, particularly, seems motivated by nationalistic agendas that don’t lead anywhere.

Inevitably, the film boils down to some variation of a battle-of-the-wits between Duroy and Thomas’s husband (Meaney), who knows he’s bedding his wife.  There’s a scene where the two play a game of cards with suggestions of a fierce negative and combative vibe.  The always pleasurable Meaney looks fierce and determined.  Pattinson looks bored and eager to get back to Twilight.   And my wife was digging Meaney more. 

Note: Considering how formulaic these films have become, it might have been interesting to see a film in which Uma Thurman turns Robert Pattinson into her male sex-slave.  Tell me that wouldn’t attract the Twilight crowd!

Video Pick: Shame

The affliction known as “sexual addiction” has been branded as something of a hypothetical taboo–a petty excuse for those who commit infidelities and perverse behaviors.  In Shame, Brandon Sulliven (Michael Fassbender) does neither.  He uses sex as a means of alleviating an unknown emotional trauma.  After he reaches sexual climax, his torment has not been diluted, but temporarily replaced with guilt.  Brandon’s affliction prevents him from establishing normal human connections.  His wounds are so deep that he even refuses to answer the phone calls of his persistent sister, Sissy (Carey Mulligan).

Brandon’s daily routine in his life has been narrowed to eating, sleeping and showing up to work while making time for some method of sexual release in between.  One morning, Brandon’s computer is taken away for maintenance.  Brandon’s boss, David (James Badge Dale), reports that a massive amount of lurid material was found on his hard drive.  Brandon is emotionally detached to the point that his boss believes him when he diverts the blame on another employee.  Or perhaps David suspects Brandon’s lie, but neglects to make accusations in lieu of his own extramarital exploits.  On occasion, Brandon will tag along as his boss scopes the bars and clubs of New York City, always striking out as the women set their eyes on Brandon instead, who makes no attempt to make contact.  When one persistent lady offers Brandon a ride home, the temptation is too great and the two wind up humping in an alley.

Shame won’t appeal to everyone, or even most people.  It’s raw, graphic and unnerving.  Fassbender exposes much of himself (in so many ways) without ever dictating the exact reason for his affliction.  The ambiguity of our protagonist’s past is one of the film’s greatest strengths.  If you look hard enough, you can piece together clues to Brandon’s pain, such as when Brandon’s sister first arrives at his apartment and asks to stay with him, having just broken up with her boyfriend.  Brandon tolerates her presence, but clearly wants her to leave.  There is odd undercurrent between the two that’s hinted during their bizarre first encounter or whenever Sissy attempts to formulate an morsel of emotional bonding.   

Sissy is also a scarred soul, but not in the same capacity as her brother.  When Sissy procures a singing gig at a local nightclub, both Brandon and David come to watch her perform.  Sissy recites a long, melancholy rendition of “New York, New York” in one an unbroken closeup, allowing us to peak into her eyes and into her soul.  Brandon clearly sees something and begins to weep.  Is he crying for her, for himself, or for something the two share between them?

Shame is the second feature of director Steve McQueen (not to be confused with deceased movie star), who injects his film with nuances of emotional traumas, while fully displaying the futility of Brandon’s sexual escape and coping mechanisms.  There is a great moment that occurs after Sissy finishes her song and begins the mutually flirt with David.  When the three return to Brandon’s apartment, the other two parties begin to have sex.  Fassbender’s performance is perfection as his discomfort begins to trickle into his nervous system.  Anyone would feel awkward being within hearing distance of the sexual exploits between their sister and their boss.  Brandon’s unease goes beyond this and in a panic flees his apartment to jog through the streets of New York in one, unbroken shot that lasts for at least a full minute.  By the time Brandon arrives at Time Square, he stops to wait for a light.  He can continue running, but what’s the point?

McQueen’s never-ending shots are so long-winded that they invoke a sampling of the discomfort Brandon feels.  One of the film’s best scenes is when Brandon goes out on a dinner date with a beautiful co-worker, Marianne (Nicole Behaire).  The entire conversation is one long shot that slowly creeps in as Brandon carefully lowers his shields.  The awkwardness of the scene is so genuine–even the constant interruptions of the inept waiter are distinctively natural.  Unlike Brandon’s other relations with women, Marianne is not interested in a purely superficial relationship.  She’s funny and interesting and turned off when Brandon shuns the very idea of marriage and long-term commitment.  But there is just enough chemistry for a second date.  When the two finally attempt to have sex, there are some unforeseen barriers that reveal much of Brandon’s disconnectedness. 

Many have criticized the Academy for not nominating Fassbender for his impeccable performance.  Perhaps it had a lot to do with Fassbender’s internalization.  When he shares scenes with Mulligan, the Brandon character is unable to put his emotions into words.  Sissy’s very presence unravels his world based on the manner of his body language rather than his dialog.  There are no great soliloquies, only faces of inner turmoil.  Yet, Fassbender’s Oscar robbery was for telling so much while saying so little.  Mulligan was also deprived for her equally enthralling take as Sissy, who is sometimes callous, but is really a lost soul in need of someone to show her love.  Perhaps the Oscar voters were also unsatisfied by the lack of an explanation for the sibling’s torment.   

Shame is filled with at least three great scenes and no bad ones.  However, there is a missing element from the third act that keeps it inches away from greatness.  There are inevitable conclusions and the script could have used a little more meat in its third act.  But there is undeniable sadness and empathy generated.  When Brandon faces his hardest torment, he roams the streets of New York seeking sexual release wherever he can, which includes engaging in a homosexual encounter at a sleazy club.  Brandon is not a gay man, but he’s addiction is so tremendous, his pain is so overbearing, that he will subject himself to any means of relief–just like any addict would.  Shame is a remarkable film and contains some of the best acting from 2012.  For those who can stomach the subject matter, it’s a must see!