Me and Earl and the Dying Girl

(Originally appeared in EXBERLINER on Nov. 19, 2015)

Whether you call them dramedies or tragicomedies, films that attack both your tear ducts and ticklish spots are now a firmly established genre, and prove particularly effective – sometimes even necessary – in telling stories about life, death and us curiously paradoxical human beings.

In the Pittsburgh-set Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, for example, the titular first-person narrator Greg (Mann) and childhood buddy Earl (Cyler) befriend schoolmate Rachel (Cooke) when she’s diagnosed with leukemia. It hardly gets sadder than witnessing burgeoning adolescence eaten away by cancer, obviously – you can practically hear the sobs in the audience from here. But it’s the humour, the sarcasm and the heroically naïve pretense that everything’s going to be fine that really works wonders and sets this movie apart.

Adapted by Jesse Andrews from his own bestselling YA novel, the script neither condescends to nor glorifies the goofy wisdoms of the young. It simply lets the sharp banter of the three leads fly while slowly peeling away layers of their self-defense mechanisms to reveal a true fragility inside. For that lovely discovery the well-cast trio, surrounded by a terrific group of supporting players, must be credited too. In a stand-out performance, Mann wins you over as the eloquent if chronically awkward protagonist. Through his open face that speaks mischief, kindness and regret, we enter a boy’s mind that knows no comedy or drama, but only compassion and the simple wish to make a girl laugh.

Directed with great verve and acute sensitivity, this film is not just a riot of emotions high and low, it says something poignant about loss, bonds, and how, on this one-way journey we must all undertake, it’s merciful to remember the fun along with the inevitable sighs.

Knight of Cups

(Originally appeared in EXBERLINER on Sep. 10, 2015)

Relationships are organic things. They evolve, adapt, blossom and, for one reason or another, perish.

Building on this premise, legendary filmmaker Terrence Malick uses the theme of journey to examine the metamorphosis of a man on his quest for love and fulfillment in the LA-set Knight of Cups. This being the City of Angels, our protagonist Rick (Bale) is – of course – a screenwriter, whose life is marked by –what else? – excess and emptiness. In answering the question “Where did I go wrong?”, more aspects of Rick’s past are revealed, including failed marriage to Nancy (Blanchett) and a budding romance with model Helen (Pinto),before we find him having an affair with the equally unhappy Elizabeth (Portman), who might turn out to be his one chance at salvation.

And so we witness the various incarnations of love, from the hormonal rush of courtship to the bitter scars left by a divorce. Technically echoing his recent work like To the Wonder and The Tree of Life, Malick goes about telling the story in a highly fragmented, freely associative way. Characters drift into the picture unannounced, only to drop out again unexplained. Seemingly random shots of geological formations or snippets of performance art are inserted at irregular intervals. In short, those who look for conventional narrative logic in their movies will not be pleased. That said, this film is propelled by such a strong sense of rhythm – the cuts so intuitively yet precisely timed, the changes of pace so masterfully controlled – you can’t help but get swept up in its maker’s momentous, psychedelic, thoroughly compelling stream of consciousness.

And not unlike the waves off the coast of Malibu, heavily featured and beautifully photographed by two-time Oscar-winning cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki, our lonesome hero’s musings on searching and finding seem also to culminate in an exquisite sigh of regret, a tentative hope for change.

The Invitation / Kill Your Friends

Apparent budgetary restrictions and screenwriting limitations inherent to such high-concept materials notwithstanding, American director Karyn Kusama's single-setting psychological thriller The Invitation, about a reunion party for members from a previous support group and the unexpected course the evening takes, showcases some of indie filmmaking's best qualities: the audacity to build and craft atmosphere for 80 minutes out of your 90-min film, the utter ruthlessness when it comes time to pop the bloated balloon, the added edge of rawness and unforseeability of it all. Similarly groomed but delivering characterizations from polar opposites, Michiel Huisman and Logan Marshall-Green got the yin and yang of the unsettling group dynamics just right. Her smile either too perfectly practiced or betraying a deep source of reluctance, Tammy Blanchard convinces as a woman caught between reason and salvation. Smartly reflecting on the human capacity to deal with loss, the thematic relevance and compositional brilliance of this movie only slowly reveal themselves after one's had a chance to recover from its particularly harrowing finale.

There are a handful of interesting moments in British director Owen Harris' 90's-set slasher comedy Kill your Friends, most notably when the aleatory nature and sheer opportunism of the music industry it satirizes threaten to come alive despite the broad, farcically two-dimensional treatment. Those funny and scary flashes of semi-insight are rare, however, as the majority of the film is devoted to the kind of ineffectual parody that lacks both sensory kicks and a narrative sense. Lead actor Nicholas Hoult offers his take on a Patrick Bateman type of manically ambitious A&R-manager but doesn't quite have the presence or vigor to back it up. Supporting players like James Corden and star cameos from the likes of Moritz Bleibtreu do their part filling the zany quotient, but the overall air of insipidness, exacerbated by a stylistic underperformance, makes sure the movie never approaches the level of scandalousness promised by its title.

It Follows

(Originally appeared in EXBERLINER on Jul. 9 , 2015)

It’s too bad this indie horror gem doesn’t quite know how to wrap things up, since what comes before the somewhat reluctant final act is a rare find – a cinematic scare orchestrated with style and suspense to spine-tingling perfection.

The premise of a teenage girl who starts seeing and getting followed by an unknown evil being after sexual contact with its previous host is as simple as it is genius. Instead of merely evoking disgust through a blood-and-gore treatment typical for the genre, it breaches your sense of security and grasp on sanity by breathing an air of paranoia into the commonest of scenes. Technically, Mitchell also brings formidable chops to the table. His visual language, elegant in its compositional leanness and temporal ease, communicates dread with utter authority while sonically, the synthesizer-based score rocking some ancient beats is just plain disturbing.

There are a few missteps, most notably the couple of effects shots where the film veers from the splendid mood piece it is and goes for optical gags, as well as the ending, which feels both protracted and truncated; but otherwise, it’s sweet, sweet torture to be held in the grip of something this creepy, thickly atmospheric and relentlessly terrifying.

The Voices

(Originally appeared in EXBERLINER on Apr. 30, 2015)

It's not everyday you get to see a horror comedy that's actually both scary and funny. For that French director Marjane Satrapi must be congratulated. Her latest work, about a psychologically imbalanced man who converses with animals and dismembered heads as he slips down a homicidal spiral, not only hits those tones but hits them hard.

Designed with pushy prime colors cast in artificial ambient light, the movie has a fantastical look that strikes one as hyper, slightly manic, an impression strengthened by the occasional musical choreography. Building on that chirpiness, the inner urges of the protagonist as voiced unfiltered through his cat and dog come across as innocently, genuinely loopy. Which makes it all the more surprising when the knife is out, the body parts start piling up and a real sense of dread toward this unhinged personality seeps through.    

Despite its delightfully wild range, the movie ultimately feels more uneven than layered. Ryan Reynold's performance lacks the necessary elasticity to pull off such an unpredictable character. A couple of sharp, rather heavy-handed dramatic turns and the somewhat ill-considered ending also suggest the filmmaker got too excited over an admittedly cool idea and bit off more than she could chew.

Interview: Ana Lily Amirpour (A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night)

(Originally appeared in EXBERLINER on Apr. 24, 2015)

Iranian-American writer/director Ana Lily Amirpour's feature film debut "A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night" was the talk of the town at the Sundance Film Festival last year. After a fruitful tour of the festival circuit, it arrives in German cinemas on April 23.

The first "feminist Iranian vampire Western noir" is quite an eye-catching label that's often used to describe your film. Did you set out to do a genre-bending project with all those elements in mind?

It's funny when you have to put a definition on something, because it's hard to do. But I guess you have to call it something for people to grab on to.
It all started with the first time I put on a chador. It was a prop from a different short film that I shot in 2009. I put it on and just felt like a bird, a bat or a stingray and it made me want to ride my skateboard. The minute I put it on I wanted to feel the wind because it had a weight to it and everything. Then I thought, "Oh, of course, this is a vampire. This is an Iranian vampire!" I couldn't believe nobody had thought about it before. It felt so obvious.  

Even on a presumably small budget, the film looks exceptionally stylish. What or who would you cite as your aesthetic inspiration?

I'm very into the anamorphic format, the vintage anamorphic lenses, as with all my favorite American movies from the 1990s and 1980s like "Back to the Future" and "Die Hard", or also "Legend" and "Blade Runner". Anamorphic lenses bend and distort a little bit of the sides of the frame. They flare with light and they have a soft quality to them. I find it beautiful. My next film, which I'm shooting in a few weeks, is also anamorphic. This one is going to be in colour. I love that format and I also loved the idea of doing it in black and white. I was looking at a few films when I was thinking of the idea of this story. There's a film called "Rumble Fish" by Francis Ford Coppola, And "Once Upon a Time in the West" by Sergio Leone. And also "Wild at Heart" for this kind of crazy, chaotic love story. A love story with this kinetic energy, where the world is kind of violent and hopeless around these two people who connect.

The scene where The Girl is putting on makeup at her house – it also reminded me a little of Wong Kar Wai films. 

It's funny you should say that. My director of photography, Lyle Vincent and I have a lovely collaboration. We're very much spiritual warriors together. He's shooting my next film in a few weeks too. He loves Wong Kar Wai. I like what he likes about it and I think it comes in a little bit, especially the patience. But Wong's a little too patient for me. I like to mix things up, with a little bit of a laugh, energy, a bit more light-hearted fun.    

It's also hard not to notice the killer soundtrack when watching the film. Can you talk briefly about it? 

I write with music. Sometimes I have the music before I even have a character. Sometimes a song would sound like a character or feel like this is what the moment should feel like or what the story is about. Every film wants different kinds of music, for that part, for that story, for that character. A film is such a ticket to adventure. It starts with something you're fascinated by, and then it needs things, and so you get to go look for things. I knew Kiosk, which is one of the modern Iranian groups. They have a song that opens the film and closes the film. I found Radio Tehran – they're such a lovely band. Their music is like the Persian version of The Pixies, like this sweet, nostalgic kind of rock. And then there was Daniel Brandt, who's a German friend of mine. He's a DJ and makes electronic music. The song that the pimp plays in the movie, this dirty, crunchy techno song, it's from his first electronic group called The Free Electric Band. Now he's in a group called Brandt Brauer Frick and they do electronic music with orchestra. So he was like, "Are you sure you want to put that song in the movie?" And I was like, "Yeah! It's perfect for the pimp!"    

Many of the key scenes in the movie are not very verbal. How did you make sure they remain potent/communicative?

I was born 30 percent deaf and I think I've always been interested in certain kinds of things. In movies where people talk too much I'd really get bored because I'd miss a lot of it. I also grew up watching a lot of Westerns with my dad. It's funny people often bring up Jarmusch, thinking that that's an influence, but I've never really liked Jarmusch's films because the people talk a lot. I also think words often make a big thing small. And I think one of the exciting things about cinema is that it doesn't just depend on what people say. It's about the mood, the world, the sound design, the light, what you see and what you choose to show or not to show... There are so many things, it's limitless, like a dream. So I think you don't need to say too much.

Your film feels effortlessly sensual, which cannot be said of the crop of young-adult vampire movies Hollywood has churned out of late. Have you seen any of them and wherein lies the difference?

Vampires go way back. It's one of the most juicy mythological characters. I mean, you have "Bram Stoker's Dracula", you have "Nosferatu". It's such a tool to explore so many different things and can go in so many different directions. But the Twilight movies don't do it for me. I've watched the first one – it's just different. I also think it's hard to be sexy when you're trying to be sexy. For me I'm very interested in tension between moments of something happening. I think all the power and chemistry happen in the anticipation of something. So holding things apart, things not being able to come together for complicated reasons... that tension makes you excited.

There's a subversive edge to your film that might especially appeal to Berliners. Have you been to the city and what's your impression?

Berlin is great. I love Berlin, I miss it actually. I was there for five months. That's when I started writing this movie. I don't know how to explain it but I really like the Germans... maybe because you guys are so bad. I have a lot of very good German friends, they're some of my favourite people.

Cake

When Marion Cotillard, as widely assumed, "stole" the fifth slot of the Best Actress nominations from Jennifer Aniston at this past Academy Awards, many Oscar watchers were surprised. After all, "Cake" is the classic example of popular comedian crossing over to hard-hitting drama by playing someone with (mental) illness while glammed-down to unrecognizability. Usually a formula for success- it worked this very year for Steve Carrell ("Foxcatcher") in the hotly contended Best Actor category- the former Friends-star wasn't able to ride it to nominees' land. As far as acting can be evaluated and ranked, though, there's really no contesting this particular call on the Academy's part. Both portraying middle-aged women combating depression, Cotillard's Sandra ("Deux jours, une nuit (Two Days, One Night)") is so soaked in and accustomed to pain she breathes, blinks, even smiles despair. Aniston is certainly more than fine herself as Claire, someone made bitter and crass by the trauma of loss. The opening scenes with her, especially, pack an instant impact- not just because the hardened lines and loosened skin contribute to a scarred and mirthless exterior that's a shocking far cry from everybody's memory of Rachel Green; but her eyes are lazied, posture stiffened, voice alarmingly chilled. For a first impression, this stylistic and vocal reinvention is quite compelling.

Partly due to the well-meaning but formulaic writing and the less-than-subtle direction, noticeable flaws in the performance do begin to pop up, however, as the story unfolds. The arc of the self-destructive lost cause opening up after finding a kindred soul feels too familiar and compromises the integrity of the character. Director Daniel Barnz's attempt to enrich the depiction of pure misfortune with some offbeat humor is commendable but often backfires under his broad strokes and an overtly Sundance-y air of affectation. As a result, Claire's motivations don't always seem reasonable nor her actions justified. Just on a technical level, Aniston can't entirely switch off her razor sharp comedic instincts and every, perhaps unconsciously, but nonetheless perfectly delivered deadpan contradicts somewhat the otherwise distraught façade with a supposedly broken core.

From the humanistic concern, spiritualistic approach to the stripped, transformative lead performance, this movie is full of admirable undertakings. But good intentions famously don't make for good movies. Lacking in consistency, authenticity and finesse, this is a cake that's made from healthy ingredients but tastes funny.

Spring

American directors Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead's sci-fi horror romance "Spring" doesn't quite work as a whole but definitely has some things going for it. Set in an Italian coastal town where a young Californian boy escaping from the woes of life befriends an enigmatic girl who may be more than the kind of crazy that he can handle, it transplants a Linklater-esque talky relationship drama onto hardcore genre soil. Ideally adventurous, atmospherically lush and optically striking, it's a refreshing splice that titillates more with the promise of alien fruit than what it actually bears.

While consistently intriguing thanks to its unconventional premise, the script is structurally and substantially off, with an hour of tease and no real danger, followed by a less than solid third act that feels faintly desperate in its attempt to be romantic. The two protagonists discuss about everything from living in the finite to regenerative embryonic cells but the prolonged exchanges sometimes sound affected and verbal communication just doesn't seem like the natural response to situations involving, for instance, the discovery of monstrous beings inside a loved one. Terrific visual-aural design does provide much lovely distraction though, compensating significantly for the failings in writing/editing. The cinematography by co-director Moorhead, with its tender, yellowish hue and delectably warm glow, dazzles from the first frame on. Whether gazing at crashing waves, blossoming flowers, writhing insects or decomposing livestock, the camera pulsates with the industry of life and death, rendering the film's cryptically concise title meaningful through an air of possibility and rebirth. Neither the score nor the sound effects are truly remarkable but individual insertions of artfully engineered noise crackle like live wire and succeed in giving the pervasive echo of restlessness even more buzz.

The two leads Lou Taylor Pucci and Nadia Hilker are both easily likable, with the former bringing a particular dose of earnest youthfulness that's casually disarming. Unfortunately the performances and their chemistry are overshadowed by the inadequacies of a film too high on one cool idea without realizing how to turn it into a full-fledged narrative.

The Guest

When done right, genre cinema stirs, scratches, satisfies a silly but very human itch for mayhem the way no sophisticated art film can. And American director Adam Wingard's "The Guest", a comically retro-fueled action thriller, does just about everything right.

Wasting no time whatsoever, the film introduces the unannounced arrival of the titular house guest right away- a mysterious, creepily sincere ex-army named David. Claiming to be a close friend of the family's deceased son during service, he stays to become everyone's new best friend until...people start popping up dead all over the place.

Wingard knows exactly what kind of movie he's making and luckily has the guts and chops to go through with it. Blessedly showing zero intellectual pretension, his is a precise, gloriously playful vision characterized by sleek narrative simplicity and a sizzling, single-minded drive. In reducing his protagonists to the most basic constructs of reactions and impulses, he's created a brilliantly coarse, perfectly self-contained other-world in which to stage all kinds of stylized wackiness. And what style there is! From the bold, loud color choices, the bluntly in-your-face choreography to the kitschy, 80's-inspired music, the movie proves to be one of those rare occasions where the purposefully bloated design and sound elements feel so organic and complete as a package you can't help but cave in to their trashy charm.

Dan Stevens gives a sensational performance as the dangerously charismatic killing machine. By turns amused, flirtatious, psychopathically intense and often snapping from one mode to another within split seconds, this is a magnetizing star turn that sustains the pumped-up crazy vibe around it. Of course the film is altogether a pointedly shallow exercise in sensory pleasure, but like most things in life this unhealthy, it's nothing if not extremely appetizing and devilishly gratifying.

Berlinale: Elser (13 Minutes) / H.

(Originally appeared in EXBERLINER on Feb. 13, 2015)

When a film clearly has its heart in the right place, doesn't make particularly damning mistakes and is all-around likable, educational, even a little purgatorial, you obviously want to endorse it. But a technically accomplished and thematically important movie like "Elser (13 Minutes)" could also feel so standard, rehearsed, so exasperatingly safe you just can't seem to get worked up about it.

Screening out of competition, German director Oliver Hirschbiegel's latest work sees him returning to WWII territory which helped him gain worldwide renown in "Der Untergang (Downfall)" a decade ago. This time around the focus is on Georg Elser, a fun-loving everyman from the south who ventured one of the most famous assassination attempts on Hitler. The film starts literally with a ticking bomb, as we see Elser secure dynamite and a detonation device in place. Of course the plan didn't pan out and our hero ended up in detention. Convinced he couldn't have pulled off the attack by himself, NS-officers proceed with extreme interrogations, shedding light on an ordinary individual with an extraordinary life in the process.

In many ways reminiscent of this year's Oscar contender "The Imitation Game", this movie occupies itself with a personality well worth knowing and does so with skill and great care. The narrative is meticulous and orderly, guiding the viewer ever closer to an unlikely resistance fighter. The performance by lead actor Christian Friedel as a womanizer-turned-political-assassin is technically sound and the mood-setting score appropriately brooding/menacing. On the whole, however, the storytelling is so conservative it evoke serious Nazi-film-fatigue, as in the case of the Benedict Cumberbatch-starred film with traditional Oscar-season biopics. Although its opening scene is charged with an exhilarating, unexpected thriller sensibility, the film slowly but surely sinks back into a very familiar arc that does what it's supposed to do but affords no surprises whatsoever.
   
On the other end of the spectrum we have films that are wholly unconventional, that follow no customary narrative pattern and don't care if you can keep up. One (not so extreme) example at this year's Berlinale would be the futuristic/existential drama "H.", which screens in the Forum section.

Written and directed by Rania Attieh and Daniel Garcia, the film is told through two parallel storylines both featuring a main female character named Helen. An old woman fixated on nursing plastic babies finds her husband missing after a fishing trip in one. In another, a young couple coping with the disappointment of a false pregnancy starts experiencing physical changes after a meteorite strike. Stringing its total of four chapters together are furthermore shots featuring the head of a large sculpture. In short, you learn very quickly the three-act routine is probably not in order and logic might not be the best way to approach this thing. Without those safety nets, it takes an open mind to experience something this foreign, instinctual, entirely its own.  

While it's certainly a little frustrating, for some even downright infuriating, not to have all the questions answered in a movie, the two filmmakers here are able to describe a visual landscape pregnant with meaning by using a highly evocative cinematic language. The sleek, wintry art direction keeps you constantly intrigued, as do the numerous symbolic icons scattered throughout the picture. And although this kind of idiosyncratic experiment with narrative and style tends to allow for multiple, open-ended interpretations, the movie's central themes of loneliness, detachment and the overpowering need to escape are conveyed with impressive clarity and urgency.

Berlinale: El Club (The Club) / I Am Michael

(Originally appeared in EXBERLINER on Feb. 10, 2015)

Chilean director Pablo Larraín's dark and darkly comical competition entry "El Club (The Club)" is set in a seaside apartment that houses five clergymen and -woman. It's not immediately clear how this living arrangement came to be, although you do sense there's something off with this group of people who dine in silence and seem to have an uncommonly keen but carefully disguised interest in dog racing. With the arrival of a new priest who's determined to get to the bottom of a fatal incident that has transpired on their doorstep, all the dirty laundry hidden behind those walls finally comes to light.

This is a remarkable movie not only because of the all-around superb storytelling, but its pointed, ruthless indictment of the Catholic Church. Whether for the archaic dogmas, the countless acts of sexual transgression or just its habitual, firmly programmed tendency to cover things up, the Vatican is attacked, condemned, ridiculed on all fronts and no one from the church comes off clean. Through partly comedic portrayals, we see the absolute misery and psychological wretchedness in which people both sides of the altar live. And the accusatory, almost hopeless tone reaches its incendiary peak toward the end, when the figure seen as the conscience or even salvation of a rotten institution decides on a rather unexpected course of action. Suffice it to say this film is not going to win any favors with the Pope.          

The daringly confrontational stance aside, this is simply a wicked story expertly told. All major characters are vividly drawn. From someone so repressed as to project his need for attachment on a dog to another who's willing to risk everything to preserve what little sense of community and purpose there's left, these unfortunate souls are distinct, memorable creations that leap from the screen and linger in your imagination. The wonderful cast of actors including Alfredo Castro and Antonia Zegers swims in and out of parodic territory with ease and collectively makes this eerie, sad club feel even more iconic. That the deadpan humor would work so well in a film this heavy must be credited to Larraín, though. It's those unlikely touches of lightness that complement the tragic core of the story and take the whole film to another level.

Though not without its faults – the photography is occasionally underlit and the cello-dominated score gets a bit overbearing at times – "El Club (The Club)" wows with the force of its cinematic strokes and dares everyone to picture the horrible fates at play inside any ordinary-looking residence.

Screening in Panorama, American writer/director Justin Kelly's "I Am Michael" is also very much about sex and church, seeing that it's a biopic of gay activist-turned-Christian pastor Michael Glatze. Chronicling Glatze's life over a decade-long period, it tries to make sense of this drastic change, promising explosive material if done right.

The sad news is, then, that it's done not quite right. To begin with, the narrative is straightforward in an uninspired way, giving the impression of merely connecting the dots of the various landmarks in our protagonist's life. And the few times where the director actually breaks away from reenacting a biography to try some tricks, it doesn't have the desired effect. Instead these flashbacks or imaginary scenes expose an inexperienced hand behind the camera still looking for a style. The actors, including James Franco as Glatze, are passable, if never truly outstanding. Franco is mindful of not taking the theatrics too far, but one never has the feeling that he has shaken off his own skin to become somebody else. As his one-time partner Bennett, Zachary Quinto's performance is decidedly one-note and doesn't leave much of an impression at all.

What makes this film nonetheless interesting is, besides the unique personality at its center that's well worth knowing about, the fact that it manages to retain some level of political ambivalence regarding homosexuality. Strangely reminiscent of Clint Eastwood's "American Sniper", it could conceivably be interpreted as ideological munition for both the conservative and the liberal. It's not necessarily the anti-gay movie nor the anti-anti-gay movie. Exactly that flexibility of perspective hints at a tantalizing, if ultimately unrealized potential of creating someone complex and three-dimensional.      

Short takes

"Blue Ruin" is unapologetic, well executed genre fare that should satisfy the bloodlust of fanboys and -girls. The straightforward setup of revenge and counter-revenge, however, might prove too elementary for a higher level of viewer engagement. American writer/director Jeremy Saulnier certainly shows artistic ambitions in the long stretches of time where we're just treated to a quiet protagonist on a mission, wordlessly but fervently. With great sound design and a discerning eye for effective camera angles, he manages to build tension and communicate foreboding even in the absence of a full-fledged plot or much dialogue. The shot of the hero emerging from around the corner with a rifle trained on his targets near the end, for example, is hugely exciting for its sheer boldness in construction and idea. The lack of a more developed, nuanced backstory does disappoint though, affording all that violence graphically portrayed a whiff of pointlessness and juvenile inevitability.  
        
"Exhibition" is one of those Art Films with a capital A that are so tremendously empty they tend to alienate everyone in the audience before breaking any ground. Set around a middle-aged artist couple living in an immaculate townhouse, there's no noteworthy story to speak of. Hints of intimacy issues and personal safety incidents are dropped but overall British writer/director Joanna Hogg is far less concerned with narrative than the conveyance of a highly abstract, idiosyncratic sense of space. The focus of her camera is on the architecture itself, with its every aspect prominently featured and almost fetishistically considered. While such militant experimentalism shouldn't be punished, in this case the endless takes of shutters, staircases, skylights along with all the other shapes and surfaces of the compound just don't evoke much beyond a flatly aesthetic appreciation. Neurotic and self-centered, this is only suitable for those who can endure prolonged nonsensical contemplations in film.        

"Men, Women & Children" turns out to be a perfectly tolerable affair thanks to drastically lowered expectations from all the stinky press. The preachy, melodramatic non-ending is very damaging for sure, but what came before is a colorful if extreme exposé on sexuality in the age of instant messaging, a piece of horny Americana presented with linguistic and cinematic finesse. American writer/director Jason Reitman again brings a decidedly, alluringly modern sensibility to his storytelling, injecting a brisk blood flow and a healthy dose of cynicism to the proceedings and characters, making them seem dangerously present. The cast is solid, Rosemarie DeWitt and Judy Greer are their dependable selves, even Adam Sandler's performance as the frustrated, hormonal father is nowhere near bad. Though the whole thing gradually collapses in the third act, the calm enunciation of Emma Thompson as the foul-mouthed narrator and the coolly indie-flavored soundtrack spiked with warmly lurid desires remain a blast.

"Paddington" brings the beloved bear gloriously to life in a holiday film that actually deserves the attention of everyone in the family. The themes of displacement, cultural acclimation and finding a new home are dealt with genuinely, without condescension and made funny by the dry, self-deprecating London humor. British writer/director Paul King moves things along at a lively pace, playing with animation and live action with a splash of magical surrealism to seamless effect. The human cast is superb, with the divine Sally Hawkins bringing a ton of heart and the delicious Nicole Kidman whipping up some cartoonish evil. Best in show is probably Ben Whishaw as the voice of the 3' 6''-tall hero though. Brimming with sincerity, naïveté, wonderment and vulnerability, it's a captivating vocal performance that matches the achievement of the character design in brilliance. Textured both in looks and tone, it's a truly 3-dimensional creation that delights no end.            

Filmfest Hamburg: Whiplash

(Originally appeared in the Berlin Film Journal on Oct. 17, 2014)

Calling American writer/director Damien Chazelle's "Whiplash" the sadomasochistic version of "Dead Poets Society" is certainly an oversimplification. But they do both feature a talented, aspiring artist motivated, pushed by a driven, passionate mentor. Only in this case the story is set in the circle of competitive jazz bands and instead of being nurturing, the teacher-student relationship portrayed is all kinds of abusive.

Centered around the young drummer Andrew (Miles Teller), who's desperately trying to make it in the jazz band of his conservatory, the screenplay isn't particularly subtle in its writing, especially when it comes to crafting dialogue outside the musical arena- a dinner scene that bluntly demonizes every un-jazz-savvy family member of the protagonist comes to mind. But it's based on refreshing, convention-defying ideas which it explores to their merciless end. For one, it takes a look at the unbelievable, sometimes debilitating work that goes into becoming somebody on the concert stage. Through a series of swift and publicly humiliating replacements within the band, we're soon reminded of how elusive the notion of glamour or the association of cultured elegance are in this context, and just how brutally real the necessity to constantly prove yourself is. An even more interesting aspect of the story is of course the dynamic between the newbie and the monstrous bandmaster Fletcher (J.K. Simmons). Throwing all clichés about the inspirational educator out of the window, this weathered, volatile, incredibly mean musician shows no inkling of attachment to his underlings. He makes it very clear they're but the vessels for his vision and he has no time for a leaky vessel. Exercising every form of psychological torture on the band members without blinking an eye, this character is a fascinating creation who finally meets his match near the end of the film, when the disgraced disciple comes back with a vengeance and all bets are off.

Indeed, what makes this movie a brilliant character study is how readily unlikable it paints its protagonists. On the one side is the man put in charge of training, guiding a new generation of players but who embraces that task with such a militant attitude it borders on terrorization. And just when a tragic incident or an impassioned speech during an after-work drink lets you think there's a soft core inside this ruthless dictator after all, the script actually bends it backward again with yet more twists that reveal an even darker side to a personality utterly, beguilingly unknowable. In the other corner is the bright-eyed and bitterly tormented boy who starts out like your typical sympathy figure, only to surprise you later with the depths of his obsession and an almost twisted greed for success. Playing with such forceful, compellingly vile characters and leaving no room for common decency, the movie spins into a thrilling mind game in its all-out crazy finale which might not seem entirely plausible in its outcome but nevertheless electrifies with its energy and the sheer unpredictability of how things will go down.        

The terrific acting duo of Teller and Simmons infuses the lively antagonism between coach and pupil with practically combustible fuel. As the ambitious and furiously single-minded Andrew, Teller shows, if not enough nuance, such intense vigor and burning will you not only believe the sweat, blood, spit and tears flying off him and dripping all over the drum kit, you can almost feel them. And in those breathtakingly quiet moments before the first drumbeat drops on stage, the screen is as much stretched tight by the sonic anticipation as by the weight of his concentration. Simmons is frightening and mesmerizing as the conductor, general, God of the troupe. As natural as he is barking obscenities or welling up at a memory, he truly shines when he's only acting with his eyes, fingertips and the slightest flicks of his wrists. It's the lack of flamboyance and the Swiss-watch precision of his movements that sell someone who's seen and heard it all, who's too good at and too sure of what he does to waste any second on unworthy sounds. From idolized reverence to murderous hostility, the two of them share a dance through the emotions that's never less than riveting to watch.

The movie is not without its faults. As mentioned above, the screenwriting is rough at times and the ending has believability issues. And while it's a great touch for Chazelle to try to visually reconstruct jazz using free-flowing, very spontaneous shots and cuts, the editing can appear a little manic, unnecessarily erratic in places. But overall, this is something so violently alive it can't help but be exciting. Plus a soundtrack as cool and groovy as that, and one could even be forgiven for falling in love with this enthralling, fervent imperfection.

Filmfest Potsdam: Jamie Marks Is Dead

American writer/director Carter Smith's supernatural drama "Jamie Marks Is Dead" plays with interesting themes but the way they come together is so absurd one soon stops to care.

The title doesn't cheat- the meek, badly bullied high school student Jamie Marks is indeed dead from the get-go. He still plays a part in the story though, as his ghost starts to turn up at his classmates' houses. What's annoying about how the plot then unfolds is not that, despite some heavy hints offered later in the film, we never truly find out the why's and how's of Jamie's death. This could still be chalked up to deliberate character-building through mystique and intrigue. The fact that the movie never cares to explain the "laws" of the underworld as envisioned here, how it works and how beings from both sides interact, is very problematic though. It borrows freely from the genres of horror and children's fantasy without ever elaborating on the reasons or rules, so every new development seems disconnected, arbitrary. What makes matters worse is how poorly the motivations are established everywhere in the film. Why the sudden interest of the jock-y Adam in his dead classmate? Why does he decide he needs to get away with Jamie and subsequently pisses off that other ghost Frances? What is with all that "word-feeding" Jamie demands and what puts his troubled soul to rest in the end? Most ridiculous of all is probably the way the two supporting female characters- Adam's mom and the woman who paralyzes her in a car accident- are drawn. This whole subplot actually feels like a strangely irrelevant afterthought, but whenever these two show up, they never fail to sound and act so fake you half expect them to be exposed as just imaginary figures at any moment.

It's apparent the filmmaker wishes to address adolescent sexuality and other subjects such as forgiveness and redemption though all this paranormal activity, but his direction is often wishy-washy/inexpressive where subtlety and clarity are needed. The emptily busy script and only average acting (lead actor Cameron Monaghan is wooden and sometimes stiffer than the dead) don't help either. It's no coincidence that the one place where dramatic pretensions are dropped and we're allowed to just enjoy the spectacle of a mean spirit going berserk- where the much angrier ghost Frances shows her true colors after her place gets burned down- also happens to be the one scene in the whole film that at least stirs up some decent tension.

Venice Film Festival: Burying the Ex / Court

"Burying the Ex" is a lifeless, biteless, incredibly generic thing that in no way lives up to the name of its maker, horror maestro Joe Dante. Helping itself to an assortment of genre clichés and ha-ha one-liners, it's lazily plotted and, as a zom-rom-com, neither scary nor romantic. It doesn't work as a parody of those traditions either, lacking the necessary intensity of cinematic language. So it ends up being this very predictable, very tame, mildly amusing wannabe joker dying of lethargy. Lead actor Anton Yelchin is probably not at fault here, even if he doesn't exactly win you over with any fresh on-screen creation. Ashley Greene, on the other hand, confirms she's one the least gifted actresses out there, managing to be forcefully unmenacing, unfunny, uninteresting all at the same time. Her zombie ex-girlfriend is the centerpiece, the raison d'être of this movie, so it's hard to get people to care when her presence is as non-existent as it is. Everything in the tech department, from sound to special effects make-up, is unremarkable. Not even horror fans just seeking to get their fill would be happy with this one. .

"Court" is a somewhat bulkily written but beautifully directed legal drama that, belying this simplified categorization, extends its concern beyond the criminal dispute at its heart to the lives of all parties involved. Indian writer/director Chaitanya Tamhane is a skillful storyteller, setting up a distinctive stage as he introdruces the central figure in the possibly incendiary folk music singer, upping the stakes along the way as he presents the justice system in the country governed by archaic, politically motivated statutes, and then flesh out his characters as he regularly visits their off-courtroom life, allowing the viewer to observe them from a completely different angle. Marked by creativity, daring and a level-headed efficiency, the direction elevates the story from a single case to a broader narrative, a common cause, a big picture. The editing is just as great, knowing where to let the scenes breathe and how to jump cut to the most impactful next frame, surprising yet always reasoned. Technically raw but boasting a realism that's not mocking or sentimental, this is the kind of effort that shows promise in a first-time filmmaker.

Venice Film Festival: Good Kill / Белые ночи почтальона Алексея Тряпицына (The Postman's White Nights)

It's hard to find anything to like in American writer/director Andrew Niccol's flat, somber drama "Good Kill". Set around the time military drones were increasingly employed in America's war on terror, it is bluntly written, mechanically self-explaining without ever coming up with a fresh angle on how wars take a toll on their participants. Basically all it does is recycle the age-old mantra of all anti-war movies: taking lives will make a crazy person out of you! And it does so not through scenes of combat but of people sitting around pressing buttons, over and over again. No matter how many times they stress this is just as bad as slaughter in the old way, it remains breathtakingly dull to watch. Probably attributable to the direction, there's a rigidity to the proceedings throughout, nothing seems dynamic but strangely, poorly rehearsed. Lead actor Ethan Hawke certainly doesn't help matters donning a zombie face and uttering his lines ever so robotically. January Jones fares just as poorly. To be fair, she's not been given the juciest role to play, but this performance as the suffering wife is just grating. The sense of omnipotence from the drone controls and the panning aerial shots brings to mind "The Truman Show", which Niccol also wrote. But the parallel ends there, as not an ounce of the originality and empathy of that movie can be found here.

Russian writer/director Andrei Konchalovsky's "Белые ночи почтальона Алексея Тряпицына (The Postman's White Nights)" is a sedate, hyper-realistic but somehow also dreamy portrait of a group of villagers from rural Russia shot in near documentary style. It's notable for how closely its narrative resembles the spontaneous, disorganized trajectory of life. There's no plot to speak of. Instead, we just follow the titular character as he delivers mail, runs errands, goes about his daily routine and meet the other residents of this lakeside settlement. The dialogue is composed mostly of busy chatter or petty complaints, often sounding too relaxed to be scripted. While the movie might not rock anybody's boat for its absolute stillness and everyday plainness, it definitely has its moments, especially those where art spills over and approaches something incredibly simple like truth. Plus, it looks lovely from start to finish. Whether it's the serenity and dazzling color palette of nature or the warmth and vibrant clutter of the interiors, the film evokes a child-like wonder in you with its charming storybook aesthetics. The mysterious grey cat and the inexplicable rocket launch add a seemingly paradoxical but lyrical layer of mythical surrealism to the picture, a genius touch from the helmer.

Venice Film Festival: Manglehorn / She's Funny That Way

American director David Gordon Green's "Manglehorn" is a rambling, inconsequential, flat out uninteresting character study of an aged locksmith. Said character pines constantly for a lost love, leads an otherwise harmless if sheltered life but could turn obnoxious when family shows up for help. Through a densely written but drearily inexpressive script we don't get to learn much more about him through the course of the film, seeing how thinly his personality is sketched out and how poorly his motivations, or the change thereof, communicated. Al Pacino mumbles, rants, acts up the misanthropic type but can't elevate the material or bring us to care. Poor Holly Hunter is wasted in the thankless role of a lovestruck bank employee. The scene of their unromantic first date doesn't feel revelatory but strained and derivative. The supposedly life-affirming ending rather just sends the eyes rolling.

There's a serious Woody Allen vibe going on in American writer/director Peter Bogdanovich's relationship comedy "She's Funny That Way". Neurotic, manically wordy, sweetly contrived, it's an endearing crowdpleaser with some memorably hilarious bits. The bubbly script cooks up scenarios where a group of fiery characters are set on collision course with predictably disastrous results, which are genuinely amusing to watch especially when there's such comedic gold as Jennifer Aniston, Rhys Ifans or even, in a cameo appearance, Lucy Punch in the cast. Lead actress Imogen Poots also turns in a fine performance as the naive callgirl-turned-movie star but is outactd by nearly every one of her co-stars. Her delivery of the Audrey Hepburn quote near the end is winningly infectious though. Also welcome is an old-fashioned air of inoffensive jokes. Overall, no high art but unexpectedly entertaining.

Venice Film Festival: 99 Homes / Réalité (Reality)

"99 Homes" is a somewhat timely dramatic thriller that has a decent start but slides downhill all the way to a reluctant, sappy ending. American writer/director Ramin Bahrani has a knack for pumping adrenalin into scenes of confrontation. In the excellent introductory sequence where the central character and his family get mercilessly evicted, he lets the tension play out, the dynamics change and the gravity sink in. With this one scene he drives home the horror of displacement and the deep psychological wound it leaves behind. This jolt of directorial grittiness seldom sees a replay though, as the rest of the film gradually settles into an insipid groove of predictability. The script should be commended for bringing attention to a very specific subject, even if that third act, where the naive young man inevitably gets seduced by materialism and turns corrupt, only to then inevitably redeem himself, can't be forgiven. Andrew Garfield's performance is flawed not only because he never looks like a construction worker with a school-age kid, but that he has yet to harness the subtlety of his physical expression like co-star Michael Shannon. The great Laura Dern is sadly underused.

I generally appreciate the particular brand of weird humor of French filmmaker Quentin Dupieux: not sinister or threatening like Lynch, nor extravagantly unrealistic like Gilliam, but more based on déjà-vu's, memory lapses, reveries... things of the everyday that could just seem benevolently wrong. However, in his latest film "Réalité (Reality)" he really lets himself get carried away, creating characters so immediately improbable in behavior and speech the whole thing quickly turns into a farce. It's certainly a doozy when the different narrative strains- a girl who finds a VHS tape in the innards of a hog, a man searching for the best groan in history, a young guy troubled by invisible rashes- end up connected in one big multi-dimensional plot, but when every trick in the surreality genre from doppelgänger to dream within a dream is employed to confuse and distract the audience, one must ask if there's anything substantial at all behind a could of hot, muddled air. The cinematography is appropriately, creepily pristine. Acting-wise nothing noteworthy, as none of the actors has a meaningful character arc to work with.

Venice Film Festival: Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)

Even when it boasts top-notch technical credits, including some surprisingly lavish effects shots, and a star ensemble of big-name Hollywood actors, "Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)" remains resolutely indie-spirited, both in its daring approach and its metaphysical, zen-y concerns.

Composed of long tracking shots so edited together as to give the impression of one (almost) unbroken shot, there's already a hardcore experimental nature to the picture. While the inevitable transitions do feel forced sometimes under this illusion it tries so elaborately to hold up, at its best this decision for drawn-out takes and extended scenes that branch out and keep racing forward allows for an aliveness that's incredibly invigorating. Surrounding a washed-up ex-superhero actor bent on resuscitating his career by a Broadway comeback, the script is expertly structured, leisurely but precisely ping-ponging the narrative between life on and off stage. Although there are dialogues here and there that may be a little too caught up in their own existential profundity and don't fully ring true, in constantly snaking in and out of the realms of reality, playacting, fantasy and those heightened moments of awareness like wild fame lost or found, this is a dazzling piece of writing that calls into question the very essence of performance, of being.

The cast is individually brilliant but even more electrifying as a colorful bunch. Former Batman Michael Keaton is, if not entirely flawless in his many monologue deliveries, absolutely compelling as former Birdman, registering the weariness, rage, hunger of someone no longer loved by many and bringing with him of course a further layer of truth meets fiction that fuels the trippiness of the film. Edward Norton is fantastic as the slightly crazed actor hired to save the play. Loose, jacked, wonderfully unself-conscious, you can tell he gets this dynamite of a character completely, brains, fears, neediness and all. In limited roles, both Andrea Riseborough and Amy Ryan add glorious sparks to the eclectic happenings. And so fresh is Zach Galifianakis' performance in this movie that, even when looking exactly the same, he's almost unrecognizable.

Ultimately the movie belongs to two men: Mexican director Alejandro González Iñárritu is on fire here, playing with both storytelling and visual styles so freely the gleeful showmanship threatens to implode on screen. It's a testament to the maturity of his hand that throughout all the craziness, as an audience member you always feel safe and ready to be astonished by what comes next. His fellow countryman Emmanuel Lubezki proves yet again he's one of the very best cinematographers we have. Such evocative lighting and lensing, supernatural in its beauty but also truthful in its attentiveness, such flow and assurance of camera operation even within confined spaces. Aided sonically by a sexy, kinetic, if at times a bit domineering drum score provided by Antonio Sanchez, this camera is so magnetic and forceful it has chi to spare.

Short takes

"Night Moves" is an eco-thriller that's not very thrilling. Centered around a dam-bombing by environmental extremists, American writer/director Kelly Reichardt goes about it in a flatly sensible, coolly routine, decidedly untheatrical manner. The first two-thirds of the movie strikes one like an everyday terrorist's manual for its practicality and general placidity. The last part finally raises the emotional stakes and cooks up some tension here and there, but it's still pretty frustrating as nothing ever comes near the boiling point. The performances are all correspondingly sedate. Of the principal cast, Dakota Fanning fares best thanks to the perturbing vibe from those big, hollow stares while Jesse Eisenberg falters, hopelessly trapped in the limitations of an impenetrable role.

"A Most Wanted Man", faithfully adapted from spymaster John le Carré's novel of the same name, inherits the original's problem of lacking a strong, compelling plot. The juicier aspects of global counter-terrorism are underused in the construction of the story, which instead gets tangled up in lofty, rather affected concerns of human rights, so that even when every effort is made to suggest some unspecified dark forces of international intrigue, it's never really exciting. Philip Seymour Hoffman proves as watchable as always, adding with each sideways glance and unexpected hardening of his features a much-needed presence to the screen. Visually also underwhelming, one wouldn't suspect from the modest production and cinematography of the film that it's shaped by the hands of Dutch director/ famed style wizard Anton Corbijn.

"Jersey Boys" can't transcend the customary trajectory of biopics and ends up looking quite generic, readily forgettable. Which is not to say that, along the forseeable curves of the known format, the movie doesn't offer a familiar, if lazy, form of entertainment. Lead actor John Lloyd Young is convincing as the man caught between mega-stardom and the unberable ordinariness of an off-stage existence- and boy can he sing. Clint Eastwood's direction isn't in any way inspired but he does guide the decades-spanning life story of a Rock 'n' Roll legend along with a dependably steady hand. There are occasional failings in the technical departments like the crude soundstage in the earlier scenes and some poor old-age make-up near the end, which are not fatal, but definitely distracting.

"Wir sind die Neuen (We’re the New People)" is one of those comedies that most likely come from a real place, mean well, have a big heart and try to impart comforting wisdoms- in this case about how old people are just cool people with experience- but can't find the witty, authentic way to do so. Though the idea of pitching three senior citizens regrouped in a shared flat against their young neighbors is nifty, what follows is a string of caricatures about the generation gap (somewhat flipped but still) and oversimplified resolutions that have zero plausibility. German writer/director Ralf Westhoff does put a spring in the film's step, so things move along with painless briskness, and lead actress Gisela Schneeberger gives an appropriately relaxed performance. Otherwise rather slight and unmemorable.