rating: ****
the story: A struggling LA resident finds himself deep in the midst of a wild conspiracy.
review: Essentially Once Upon a Time in Hollywood without Tarantino, a sort of love letter to Hollywood culture. Under the Silver Lake is a one man spotlight for Andrew Garfield, letting him drift through the film and its kaleidoscope of craziness, in the process giving director David Robert Mitchell his highest profile movie yet.
Garfield has been a highlight in the movies for about a decade at this point, but two Spider-Man movies that weren't especially well received meant his profile began to suffer. Silver Lake is a reminder of his appeal. The movie, and the music around him, is a vision of Hollywood that only Hollywood itself could conjure, full of beautiful women and logic that makes little or no sense, except that it somehow does, and explains everything from pop music to the fates of the obscenely rich.
What's most impressive about the movie is that it's sort of classic noir, too. Not noir in the way you usually think, whether because you still think of noir for its black and white roots (such as recent examples like The Man Who Wasn't There and The Good German, wrongly dismissed as a Casablanca knockoff because...it features Nazis, and a romance), or general style (as in Brick, which I've never been able to entirely enjoy despite appreciating its overall achievement), but approach, which again, is why we follow Garfield around, and listen to the particular noir-style musical score accompanying him.
The result is a mood piece. Garfield is not a detective, but sort of stumbles into becoming one, as he attempts to solve a bizarre conspiracy theory. One of the running plot points is that he's going to be evicted because he's failed to make rent, but he never seems especially concerned about it. He exists in a wonderland where the only real concerns are ephemeral, and he doesn't mind the eventual solution to his real problem, even if he seems to have had many better ones available.
All of it really means that whatever Mitchell does next, I'll be paying attention.
Showing posts with label Andrew Garfield. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Andrew Garfield. Show all posts
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
The Amazing Spider-Man (2012)
rating: ****
the story: Peter Parker becomes Spider-Man.
review: This is the fourth Spider-Man movie, first not directed by Sam Raimi or starring Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst. In other words, it's the first of two directed by Marc Webb and starring Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone. I much, much prefer these movies. I get the goofy appeal of the Raimi films (the first two of which are greatly admired by the public at large, the third not as much). Ever since Adam West first dressed up as Batman, or even George Reeves as Superman, audiences kind of expect a little smirk in their superhero. The Avengers movies certainly benefit from that perception. I don't think it's necessary. I think you can take superheroes seriously. And I think along with Christopher Nolan and Zack Snyder, no one's done it better than Marc Webb.
The only thing I don't like about Amazing Spider-Man is the giant mutant lizard Rhys Ifans becomes. I think giant mutant villains of any kind is exactly what's wrong with a lot of superhero movies. I like the villains to be identifiable, not cartoons. The superheroes themselves are enough of a stretch in storytelling logic. To make any sense they need to inhabit the real world, as close to the real world as possible. That can't happen with giant mutant villains.
Other than the giant mutant lizard Rhys Ifans becomes, this is as intimate and realistic a superhero movie as you're ever likely to find. The classic template of the origin story is there, a lot like you saw it in Raimi's first movie, but it feels more authentic in Webb's telling. Webb's best film is (500) Days of Summer, a heartbreaking romance where the breakup is fore-ordained and never undone, and the whole point is trying to make peace with it, and why it happened in the first place. So why does Peter Parker become Spider-Man? Well, in this version it has a lot to do with his parents.
Yeah! In most Spider-Man stories, Peter's parents are dead and forgotten, right from the start. Their absence is taken for granted. We see him raised by his aunt and uncle, the one who also has to die in order for Spider-Man to be born. But in this version, even in their absence Peter's parents means a great deal. We see that they were involved in the science that eventually results in Spider-Man, and the giant mutant lizard played by Rhys Ifans. And it's Peter chasing after his absent parents that drives the story. That's full storytelling. Never let an absence become an absence.
I'm not faulting Ifans for the failure of the giant mutant lizard. Ifans is awesome! He's never gotten enough credit, or enough work, for the level of integrity he brings to the table. He's a perfect match for Garfield, and for Stone, who are both credible high school students (I can't say the same for the guy who inherited Garfield's mask). The whole idea of Peter Parker feels real in this incarnation. Uncle Ben is played by Martin Sheen, who like Ifans has never quite gotten the credit he deserves, despite at least two exceptional spotlights (Apocalypse Now, The West Wing, plus a supporting role in The Departed). Sheen feels real, too, and his death is a real tragedy. Field is Aunt May, and once Sheen is out of the picture, she fills in his void. This is a movie about voids being filled. That's what Spider-Man is all about, and that's what his movies ought to be about, and what the characters in them ought to represent. And Denis Leary plays Stone's dad, the police captain who fills the void the absence of J. Jonah Jameson creates, the cynic who rejects the idea of Spider-Man. Until he has a change of heart, when he no longer has a choice. At which point he has Peter make an impossible promise. But the last line of the movie is what ties it all together. Peter admits that promises you can't keep are the best kind.
The traditional logic of Spider-Man is that like all superheroes he eventually makes a vow to do what's right ("with great power comes great responsibility"), but Spider-Man is an act of defiance against all logic, not in a destructive way, but a redemptive one. That's what his origin is meant to convey. For the first and perhaps only time, a movie reflects that. It's worth celebrating.
the story: Peter Parker becomes Spider-Man.
review: This is the fourth Spider-Man movie, first not directed by Sam Raimi or starring Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst. In other words, it's the first of two directed by Marc Webb and starring Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone. I much, much prefer these movies. I get the goofy appeal of the Raimi films (the first two of which are greatly admired by the public at large, the third not as much). Ever since Adam West first dressed up as Batman, or even George Reeves as Superman, audiences kind of expect a little smirk in their superhero. The Avengers movies certainly benefit from that perception. I don't think it's necessary. I think you can take superheroes seriously. And I think along with Christopher Nolan and Zack Snyder, no one's done it better than Marc Webb.
The only thing I don't like about Amazing Spider-Man is the giant mutant lizard Rhys Ifans becomes. I think giant mutant villains of any kind is exactly what's wrong with a lot of superhero movies. I like the villains to be identifiable, not cartoons. The superheroes themselves are enough of a stretch in storytelling logic. To make any sense they need to inhabit the real world, as close to the real world as possible. That can't happen with giant mutant villains.
Other than the giant mutant lizard Rhys Ifans becomes, this is as intimate and realistic a superhero movie as you're ever likely to find. The classic template of the origin story is there, a lot like you saw it in Raimi's first movie, but it feels more authentic in Webb's telling. Webb's best film is (500) Days of Summer, a heartbreaking romance where the breakup is fore-ordained and never undone, and the whole point is trying to make peace with it, and why it happened in the first place. So why does Peter Parker become Spider-Man? Well, in this version it has a lot to do with his parents.
Yeah! In most Spider-Man stories, Peter's parents are dead and forgotten, right from the start. Their absence is taken for granted. We see him raised by his aunt and uncle, the one who also has to die in order for Spider-Man to be born. But in this version, even in their absence Peter's parents means a great deal. We see that they were involved in the science that eventually results in Spider-Man, and the giant mutant lizard played by Rhys Ifans. And it's Peter chasing after his absent parents that drives the story. That's full storytelling. Never let an absence become an absence.
I'm not faulting Ifans for the failure of the giant mutant lizard. Ifans is awesome! He's never gotten enough credit, or enough work, for the level of integrity he brings to the table. He's a perfect match for Garfield, and for Stone, who are both credible high school students (I can't say the same for the guy who inherited Garfield's mask). The whole idea of Peter Parker feels real in this incarnation. Uncle Ben is played by Martin Sheen, who like Ifans has never quite gotten the credit he deserves, despite at least two exceptional spotlights (Apocalypse Now, The West Wing, plus a supporting role in The Departed). Sheen feels real, too, and his death is a real tragedy. Field is Aunt May, and once Sheen is out of the picture, she fills in his void. This is a movie about voids being filled. That's what Spider-Man is all about, and that's what his movies ought to be about, and what the characters in them ought to represent. And Denis Leary plays Stone's dad, the police captain who fills the void the absence of J. Jonah Jameson creates, the cynic who rejects the idea of Spider-Man. Until he has a change of heart, when he no longer has a choice. At which point he has Peter make an impossible promise. But the last line of the movie is what ties it all together. Peter admits that promises you can't keep are the best kind.
The traditional logic of Spider-Man is that like all superheroes he eventually makes a vow to do what's right ("with great power comes great responsibility"), but Spider-Man is an act of defiance against all logic, not in a destructive way, but a redemptive one. That's what his origin is meant to convey. For the first and perhaps only time, a movie reflects that. It's worth celebrating.
Lions for Lambs (2007)
rating: ****
the story: Two conversations tackle the state of America in 2007.
review: From the vantage point of 2018, the conversation in America sucks. Lions for Lambs captures perhaps the last real opportunity the nation had to correct this before it became impossible for differences to be set aside and people to be civil about their political differences. At the time of its original release, it was dismissed as talky, academic. I always found the results, all the same, to be fascinating. Today they're downright essential.
A political science professor played by director Robert Redford and a brilliant but disenchanted student played by Andrew Garfield form one of the conversations. A hotshot Republican played by Tom Cruise and a liberal reporter played by Meryl Streep form the other conversation. Soldiers played by Michael Pena, Derek Luke, and Peter Berg participate in military maneuvers, illustrating the realities of what their talking about. I love the idea of Redford, Cruise, and Streep converging on something. I love Garfield already submerging himself in vital material. I think few actors today have chosen as interesting material, as consistently, as Andrew Garfield.
Cruise was still working at winning back his credibility after his affiliation with the Church of Scientology had become toxic. Today he subsists mostly on Mission: Impossible movies. The opportunity has definitively, it seems, been lost. Back in 2007, though, Lions for Lambs is a kind of latter-day answer to Born on the Fourth of July, the Oliver Stone movie where Cruise plays a real-life veteran who after having become paralyzed in Vietnam becomes disenchanted and begins protesting the war. Garfield's role is the complete opposite of that role; he never even signs up. That's exactly the legacy of the Vietnam era right there. I saw it myself on campus in the early part of the century. Garfield doesn't believe he can affect change, despite his passionate, well-considered opinions. Today we see students protesting...everything. But we don't see them inserting themselves into the process. We've collectively decided the process is broken, just as Garfield's character does. But Redford challenges Garfield to choose a different path. He admits he was a Vietnam protester, too. But to motivate Garfield, he tells him about two other students he had, Luke and Pena, who chose very different paths, enlisting in the army. They give a brilliant presentation in his class explaining exactly why.
It's the juxtaposition of their thought process, Garfield's, and the fact that Redford is willing to support all three of them despite having other ideas. He sees it as essential that participation, not protest, is chosen as a reaction. When Obama was first elected, he was called a symbol of hope, that the system could still work. After the Bush presidency, voters wanted to believe in positive change. Yet Obama ended up presiding over a further polarized culture, not because he was black but because protest became a permanent way of life, disengagement, cynicism.
And that's what Cruise and Streep's conversation reflects. Meryl Streep's career fascinates me. At this point she hadn't yet chosen to represent the protests of Hollywood. That was still reserved for documentary filmmakers. She was only a few years removed from portraying a pastiche of Hillary Clinton in The Manchurian Candidate. Later, she'd rocket to new levels of acclaim playing all sorts of morally superior figures, and be rewarded with a staggering array of Oscar nominations. She'd become a figure out outrage. Her character in Lions for Lambs ultimately decides on that path. She opts to give up the idea of dialogue with the other side, after sitting through the conversation with Cruise. Her producer begs her to keep trying. She decides it isn't worth it anymore.
It's the kind of conclusion you can either agree with or find unsettling. I find it the latter, and I see that as exactly what happened, over the past decade, and I think that was a massive mistake. This is a movie that reflects what could've been. And now it stands as a testament to what didn't happen, and why.
Maybe it's a little hard to watch, because it is talky, but sometimes that's exactly what's necessary. Arguably, more than necessary. And now it serves as testament to what should have happened, and why. The sad part is, we know it was rejected at the time, as well as the idea it represented.
the story: Two conversations tackle the state of America in 2007.
review: From the vantage point of 2018, the conversation in America sucks. Lions for Lambs captures perhaps the last real opportunity the nation had to correct this before it became impossible for differences to be set aside and people to be civil about their political differences. At the time of its original release, it was dismissed as talky, academic. I always found the results, all the same, to be fascinating. Today they're downright essential.
A political science professor played by director Robert Redford and a brilliant but disenchanted student played by Andrew Garfield form one of the conversations. A hotshot Republican played by Tom Cruise and a liberal reporter played by Meryl Streep form the other conversation. Soldiers played by Michael Pena, Derek Luke, and Peter Berg participate in military maneuvers, illustrating the realities of what their talking about. I love the idea of Redford, Cruise, and Streep converging on something. I love Garfield already submerging himself in vital material. I think few actors today have chosen as interesting material, as consistently, as Andrew Garfield.
Cruise was still working at winning back his credibility after his affiliation with the Church of Scientology had become toxic. Today he subsists mostly on Mission: Impossible movies. The opportunity has definitively, it seems, been lost. Back in 2007, though, Lions for Lambs is a kind of latter-day answer to Born on the Fourth of July, the Oliver Stone movie where Cruise plays a real-life veteran who after having become paralyzed in Vietnam becomes disenchanted and begins protesting the war. Garfield's role is the complete opposite of that role; he never even signs up. That's exactly the legacy of the Vietnam era right there. I saw it myself on campus in the early part of the century. Garfield doesn't believe he can affect change, despite his passionate, well-considered opinions. Today we see students protesting...everything. But we don't see them inserting themselves into the process. We've collectively decided the process is broken, just as Garfield's character does. But Redford challenges Garfield to choose a different path. He admits he was a Vietnam protester, too. But to motivate Garfield, he tells him about two other students he had, Luke and Pena, who chose very different paths, enlisting in the army. They give a brilliant presentation in his class explaining exactly why.
It's the juxtaposition of their thought process, Garfield's, and the fact that Redford is willing to support all three of them despite having other ideas. He sees it as essential that participation, not protest, is chosen as a reaction. When Obama was first elected, he was called a symbol of hope, that the system could still work. After the Bush presidency, voters wanted to believe in positive change. Yet Obama ended up presiding over a further polarized culture, not because he was black but because protest became a permanent way of life, disengagement, cynicism.
And that's what Cruise and Streep's conversation reflects. Meryl Streep's career fascinates me. At this point she hadn't yet chosen to represent the protests of Hollywood. That was still reserved for documentary filmmakers. She was only a few years removed from portraying a pastiche of Hillary Clinton in The Manchurian Candidate. Later, she'd rocket to new levels of acclaim playing all sorts of morally superior figures, and be rewarded with a staggering array of Oscar nominations. She'd become a figure out outrage. Her character in Lions for Lambs ultimately decides on that path. She opts to give up the idea of dialogue with the other side, after sitting through the conversation with Cruise. Her producer begs her to keep trying. She decides it isn't worth it anymore.
It's the kind of conclusion you can either agree with or find unsettling. I find it the latter, and I see that as exactly what happened, over the past decade, and I think that was a massive mistake. This is a movie that reflects what could've been. And now it stands as a testament to what didn't happen, and why.
Maybe it's a little hard to watch, because it is talky, but sometimes that's exactly what's necessary. Arguably, more than necessary. And now it serves as testament to what should have happened, and why. The sad part is, we know it was rejected at the time, as well as the idea it represented.
Saturday, April 22, 2017
Silence (2016)
rating: *****
the story: Two Jesuit priests investigate the disappearance of their mentor in 17th century Japan.
what it's all about: I almost regretted having read the book before watching the movie, this time. Usually, I can't abide people who suggest such things, because the two mediums are two very different creative expressions, and there's no reason to split hairs between them. They have their different strengths. But Silence is a particular story, in both prose and film form, where the same thing seems so similar in both forms, you begin to wonder what's lost in translation. In the book, it's very important what Andrew Garfield's character thinks, and not so much only what he does or says. Martin Scorsese, surely now and forever a master of filmmaking, knows this, and so there are a few voiceovers meant to fill the void a little, but he also knows that the story means the same thing, in the end, regardless of what is lost along the way.
That's what's truly remarkable about Silence, that it tells such an unexpected story, one that seems totally contrary to established narratives. It seems to be a rebuke of criticisms on two scores, both in the context of the story, and what commentators today have attempted to say about the Christian faith, too. It runs counter to everything Hollywood has been attempting to do in recent years. Scorsese is a famously pragmatic Catholic, and that makes him the ideal adapter of such material. It abhors mindless reverence, but it also embraces a level of faith totally unknown to most adherents. How's that for a paradox?
Garfield, whom I know from a few movies (The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, the two Amazing Spider-Man films), emerges as a new breed of lead actor in it. At first he seems like the last actor capable of pulling off the "Jesus look," the long hair and beard. He's made a career of looking young, right? He doesn't seem to possess the right amount of gravitas. Yet he and Scorsese use these apparent limitations to their advantage. His character is meant to be totally self-assured and yet naïve at the same time. After watching Silence, you'll be convinced that Garfield has found a new archetype. He seems to have played something similar in Hacksaw Ridge, also released last year, but the results couldn't seem to be more different. Mel Gibson's movie (it's funny, Garfield starring in the films of two Catholics) is pretty straightforward, when it comes down to it. Silence is anything but.
Adam Driver continues to be a fascinating discovery in his own right. My personal experience with him had previously been limited to The Force Awakens and Midnight Special. Almost more than Garfield, he manages to bring a mature presence to his role, so effortlessly that again you aren't surprised in the least that he and Garfield are leading a new generation of actors. Liam Neeson, meanwhile, in a supporting role again confirms that he's capable of anything. Here he seems to contradict everything you might have seen him do previously, in a long series of mentor roles he's done over the years, and no doubt that was a deliberate casting effect.
Even if you don't care for the religious elements, Scorsese still presents a look at life in Japan in the century before the world had finished expanding. Japan, in fact, was in the midst of shrinking back, headed toward a period of isolation that would have a perilous effect not just on itself but many other countries besides. Silence becomes a story of self-justification, the things we tell ourselves to try and make sense of the irreconcilable. If you find yourself siding with the Japanese over the priests, which is valid, you may still end up wondering if you were right, knowing what was to come. This doesn't even mean the priests were right, either, but that this was an untenable situation, which Scorsese no doubt meant to parallel secular matters in today's world, too, of Muslims and the West and where things continue to stand between them.
I chose Arrival as my favorite movie of 2016 before having seen Silence, but I'll still stand by that now. The two movies, however, stand together as among the smartest filmmaking I've ever seen, and that's extremely good company. Both came from books. What does that matter? The story resonates. That is all.
the story: Two Jesuit priests investigate the disappearance of their mentor in 17th century Japan.
what it's all about: I almost regretted having read the book before watching the movie, this time. Usually, I can't abide people who suggest such things, because the two mediums are two very different creative expressions, and there's no reason to split hairs between them. They have their different strengths. But Silence is a particular story, in both prose and film form, where the same thing seems so similar in both forms, you begin to wonder what's lost in translation. In the book, it's very important what Andrew Garfield's character thinks, and not so much only what he does or says. Martin Scorsese, surely now and forever a master of filmmaking, knows this, and so there are a few voiceovers meant to fill the void a little, but he also knows that the story means the same thing, in the end, regardless of what is lost along the way.
That's what's truly remarkable about Silence, that it tells such an unexpected story, one that seems totally contrary to established narratives. It seems to be a rebuke of criticisms on two scores, both in the context of the story, and what commentators today have attempted to say about the Christian faith, too. It runs counter to everything Hollywood has been attempting to do in recent years. Scorsese is a famously pragmatic Catholic, and that makes him the ideal adapter of such material. It abhors mindless reverence, but it also embraces a level of faith totally unknown to most adherents. How's that for a paradox?
Garfield, whom I know from a few movies (The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, the two Amazing Spider-Man films), emerges as a new breed of lead actor in it. At first he seems like the last actor capable of pulling off the "Jesus look," the long hair and beard. He's made a career of looking young, right? He doesn't seem to possess the right amount of gravitas. Yet he and Scorsese use these apparent limitations to their advantage. His character is meant to be totally self-assured and yet naïve at the same time. After watching Silence, you'll be convinced that Garfield has found a new archetype. He seems to have played something similar in Hacksaw Ridge, also released last year, but the results couldn't seem to be more different. Mel Gibson's movie (it's funny, Garfield starring in the films of two Catholics) is pretty straightforward, when it comes down to it. Silence is anything but.
Adam Driver continues to be a fascinating discovery in his own right. My personal experience with him had previously been limited to The Force Awakens and Midnight Special. Almost more than Garfield, he manages to bring a mature presence to his role, so effortlessly that again you aren't surprised in the least that he and Garfield are leading a new generation of actors. Liam Neeson, meanwhile, in a supporting role again confirms that he's capable of anything. Here he seems to contradict everything you might have seen him do previously, in a long series of mentor roles he's done over the years, and no doubt that was a deliberate casting effect.
Even if you don't care for the religious elements, Scorsese still presents a look at life in Japan in the century before the world had finished expanding. Japan, in fact, was in the midst of shrinking back, headed toward a period of isolation that would have a perilous effect not just on itself but many other countries besides. Silence becomes a story of self-justification, the things we tell ourselves to try and make sense of the irreconcilable. If you find yourself siding with the Japanese over the priests, which is valid, you may still end up wondering if you were right, knowing what was to come. This doesn't even mean the priests were right, either, but that this was an untenable situation, which Scorsese no doubt meant to parallel secular matters in today's world, too, of Muslims and the West and where things continue to stand between them.
I chose Arrival as my favorite movie of 2016 before having seen Silence, but I'll still stand by that now. The two movies, however, stand together as among the smartest filmmaking I've ever seen, and that's extremely good company. Both came from books. What does that matter? The story resonates. That is all.
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