Heat Wave.

Head over to PopMatters and read my review for My Week with Marilyn.

Short Take: "Young Adult" and "A Dangerous Method".

The biggest problem with all of Jason Reitman's movies is that his characters never humanize the nifty, clever concepts they represent. Juno for example, never really was more than a smart-ass teenager who failed sex-ed, Ryan Bingham from Up in the Air failed to becomes something more than a symbol of the recession and  his female sidekicks in that one, were flat portrayals of society's insistence that women must play either whores or ice-queens. 

It results pleasantly surprising then to find a real human being in what posed to be Reitman's most artificial character yet. Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron) had all the potential to become a caricature: a beautiful but emotionally hollow divorcee, who writes young adult fiction and decides to visit her hometown just to get her high school boyfriend (Patrick Wilson) back.

Yet what Theron does defies expectations of both the character and the actress' own ability to use her beauty to construct an even more beautiful performance. Mavis is quite an ugly person, she drinks too much, holds contempt for everyone she knows and seems to have no regard whatsoever for anything or anyone that isn't her. As written by Diablo Cody, Mavis has remained trapped in eternal adolescence, she is the ultimate "mean girl". As played by Theron she is a flawed human being who has earned a right to be this way. The actress doesn't look for easy explanations, other than the fact that Mavis is truly a unique person who can not be defined by societal standards. It's a pleasure to see Theron, for once, collaborating with her extraordinary physique; she doesn't hide it under makeup, prosthetic pieces or miner wear, she owns up to it in such a way that during the movie's most tender scene, she actually allows herself to be "ugly" selfconsciously. She also displays a knack for comedic timing (she and Patton Oswalt make the most unique comedy duo of 2011) and if anything else, she proves that the best acting comes from within. Check out the last scene in this movie, you never get to hate and love someone this much.

Christopher Hampton's screenplays often boast astonishing literary pedigree and more often than not feel almost too pompous in their achievements. While this might've worked perfectly for the nihilist seducers of Dangerous Liaisons it truly feels misguided in A Dangerous Method, a film that like Liaisons and Atonement, features a fascinating menage a trois through which the author explores the darkest desires of the human mind.
The issue is that this time around, the characters are real life people and quite notorious for that matter. The plot centers on the relationship between Sabina Spielrein (Keira Knightley) and her psychoanalysts: Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) and Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen). Spielrein goes from being Jung's patient, to becoming his mistress which leads to melodramatic consequences and her eventual treatment with Freud.
For decades, David Cronenberg has been one of the most consistent researchers of what moves human sexuality and what desire consists of. It makes sense then that he would try to get to the essence of it by studying the men who obsessed over this as much as he did.
If Cronenebrg movies prove something is that the erotic element can be completely removed from intercourse and added to different elements. "Pleasure is never simple" adds one of the characters in this movie and the truth is that Cronenberg has been much more successful in exploring the complicated turns of sexuality in movies like Crash and even A History of Violence which successfully links the thrill of crime with the jolt achieved during an orgasm.
The film feels too polished for the subject it explores and its intellectualism is too often stalled by Hampton's excessive theatricality (the screenplay was based on his eponymous play). Perhaps the problem is that the movie is stuck between wanting to be a biopic and an auterist essay. Needless to say so, the cast is truly extraordinary with Mortensen creating a Freud for the ages. The actor infuses the famed analyst with his knack for knowing more about a character than he lets the audience knows. Watching his subtly passionate attempt to convince Jung of his beliefs is a true joy to watch and considering he could've spent the movie smoking cigars and mimicking Freud, his performance taps into something far more extraordinary.
The movie however owes itself to Knightley's brilliant work who as Spielrein gives the best performance of her career. Allowing her body to transform itself as Sabina endures the pain of her disorder, the actress disappears only to then blossom as her character finds new hope through intellectual development.

Grades
Young Adult ***
A Dangerous Method ***

Hugo ****

Director: Martin Scorsese
Cast: Ben Kingsley, Sacha Baron Cohen, Richard Griffiths
Frances de la Tour, Asa Butterfield, Chloë Grace Moretz
Ray Winstone, Emily Mortimer, Jude Law, Christopher Lee

During a not so seemingly special moment in Hugo, the eponymous protagonist (Butterfield) and his friend Isabelle (Moretz) sit in a movie theater as they proceed to watch a film. That familiar clickety-clack sounds fill the air and then the camera focuses not on the movie being displayed but on the projector's light from which the images emanate. For a second or so, particularly because of the film being in 3D, audience members will undoubtedly feel as if they are the figures being projected. If cinema is life and god is but the projectionist changing the reels, then no other movie has captured this spiritual connection like Hugo.
Directed by the one and only Martin Scorsese (a god among filmmakers to continue with the metaphysical argot) the film is an adaptation of Brian Selznick's book The Invention of Hugo Cabret and centers its attention on the title character, an orphan living clandestinely in the Gare Montparnasse train station in Paris. After the death of his father, the little boy moved to the station where he's accidentally in charge of maintaining the clocks while trying to repair a mysterious automaton left behind by his father. 
Convinced that the curious contraption will reveal a message from his late father, he spends night and day trying to make it work, in the meantime stealing food and supplies from the station's various inhabitants. Scorsese (along with the majestic work of production designer Dante Ferretti) creates a microcosms in which the little boy moves around like a Dickensian hero, trying to stay away from the cartoonish Inspector Gustave (Cohen) and thoroughly fascinated by an enigmatic toy store owner who simply goes by the name of Papa Georges (Kingsley).
To reveal more plot points would be sinful but it's more than enough to say that Hugo along with Georges' goddaughter Isabelle, embark on an adventure to unlock the secrets of the automaton which leads them to a remarkable discovery.
Less obsessed with the telling of the story than with the universe that it tries to recreate, Scorsese too sets out on an adventure that's equally moving, didactic and thoroughly enchanting. Eventually the plot involves the creation of cinema and particularly the pioneer works of Georges Méliès who we are told was one of the first artists who realized films were the essence of dreams.
On the surface Hugo seems to be a simple story about finding your place in life - its protagonist thinks that a life without purpose is the equivalent of being a broken machine - and Marty isn't one to deny the little boy his dream. Lovingly he approaches the youngest characters and makes us question exactly how much responsibility does the world put on children?
As an essay on infancy, Hugo makes harsh questions regarding children's roles in a society that seems to ask so little and yet so much of them. Aren't children supposed to be the future? If so, then Hugo's own fate seems marred by the harshness of his past experiences and in order to survive he has obviated his creative nature for more mechanical duties.
Scorsese too wonders if in a way we aren't all machines trying to find our own purpose, waiting perhaps to be fixed. This is best expressed through the inspector who due to a war injury has to wear a mechanical brace on his leg. Other filmmakers would've simply turned the inspector into a Tin Man-like character trying to find the heart among the metal parts, but Marty knows best and lets us see that even if Gustave is the only one wearing a metal device, almost every character in the movie seems to be running on some sort of invisible clockwork, duly repeating their daily tasks perhaps unaware that there is magic out there.
This pessimistic look on life might seem to harsh for a family film which is why Marty joyfully lets us know that magic is still accessible to us and merely requires for us to buy a movie ticket.
In a way then, Hugo isn't exactly about the little child but about Marty himself, a notorious historian and film preservationist, whose mantra seems to be something along the lines of "movies are the gift that never stops giving".
The director takes us back to the early days of cinema which went from being a fad to turning into the most cohesive of the arts. The film meticulously constructs key moments in cinema history mostly involving Méliès work. We see the early master at work in his fish tank-like studio where mermaids coexisted with dancing skeletons and annoyed moon men. If you've often wanted to reach out and touch what was projected on a movie screen, this film literally gives you the power to do it, using an impressive work of 3D cinematography in which every layer seems to be thriving with life.
Towards the end of the film, we are treated to what can only be called a miraculous achievement as moments from ancient movies become nothing less than tangible dreams. Yet in order for us to appreciate cinema more Marty reminds us that because of its all-encompassing powers, movies require that we become familiar with the other arts. His film isn't merely a poem about cinema, but an ode to the power of creation and the power to achieve sublimity through arts. Hugo has countless literary, theatrical and graphic art references; if not just see the way in which the clockwork in the station resemble cubist masterpieces that force us to take a second look in order to determine their structures.
Few movies dare to find the soul in the machine with such effortless proficiency and undeniable love. During one of the film's most breathtaking moments, Hugo has a nightmare within a nightmare and when he wakes up we realize that this is Marty's way of reaching out to us and asking us to never let go of the dream of cinema. Like a Tinkerbell armed with a camera and unbridled passion for his craft we have no other choice but to applaud him and kindle the fire of his devotion.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close ***

Director: Stephen Daldry
Cast: Tom Hanks, Sandra Bullock, Thomas Horn
Viola Davis, John Goodman, Max von Sydow
Jeffrey Wright, Zoe Caldwell

When did manipulation become such a dirty word? Art after all is designed after the very concept of manipulation; whether it is to manipulate elements that become art (concept which goes from painting to the precise position of frames while editing films) or to provoke a reaction from audiences, artists throughout the ages have attempted to manipulate us into thinking, feeling or seeing differently.
It results quite baffling then that people often find themselves so surprised to "discover" an art piece is trying to manipulate them. Isn't this after all what is expected? Even those artists whose entire oeuvre is meant to provoke indifference, are asking something from their audiences.
Throughout his career, Stephen Daldry has been accused of being a manipulator who relies on specifically engineered elements to elicit pre-fabricated praise, stick to the whims of his producers and more often than not rake in some awards.
This shouldn't speak about Daldry's work more than about the industry he's working in, one where he has proved himself to be a highly efficient worker whose mastery of the medium reminisces the work being done by countless filmmakers during the studio system era. Perhaps this is what bothers most people about Daldry's success: his kind of machine-like filmmaking seems like it's set itself out there to invalidate the concept of auterism.
If so, such is the case with Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close an adaptation of Jonathan Safran Foer's
eponymous novel in which Daldry makes a case for his precise taste and manipulation abilities without trying to create something that remotely resembles a personal signature.
His movie is composed of quirks and settings that have worked before and therefore work again (the frenetic editing of Amélie, a musical score that evokes Daldry's own The Hours, a beautiful work of cinematography etc.) Daldry even goes as far as to extend this seeming laziness to the casting, to play the roles of two every-men (and every-women) he went with two of America's most beloved actors: Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock.
That these two get together to tale a story about 9/11 seems even more appalling! How does Daldry dare make Sandra and Tom suffer? And yet that's precisely what he does and unsurprisingly makes it work.
Daldry is one of those directors who is at the service of story and he concentrates on delivering just that, a well told tale with elements that work, too much, like clockwork.
Hanks plays Thomas Schell, a beloved husband (Bullock plays his wife Linda) and father (Horn plays his son, Oskar) who dies during the NYC terrorist attacks leaving his family without any closure. Oskar is angered at the fact that his mother buried an empty casket, until he finds that his oedipal trauma might have a cure when he finds a mysterious key his father left behind.
Not questioning whether this is a secret message or not, little Oskar sets out on a magical journey across New York City, trying to find the lock that will be opened by the key. Along the way he meets several characters who, like him, have lost someone or are enduring emotional pain (Viola Davis and Jeffrey Wright are particularly touching as a married couple) one of them being a mysterious elderly man (Sydow) who for no specified reason refuses to speak.
Oskar's adventure has less in common with Don Quixote than it does with the little boy from The Tin Drum  whose story is similarly placed against an unsteady historical background. Leaving behind all subtleties for an impressive, if often obnoxious, performance, child-actor Horn grabs all of Oskar's quirks and turns them into elements that eventually become believable. That he is able to both irritate you and warm your heart speaks about the actor's ability to overcome superfluous character details (he seems autistic but in old school fashion this is never alluded to in clear medical terms) and Daldry makes sure that he has enough to do around the adult actors. Watching the little boy with Sydow could've had creepy implications but instead evokes the legendary actor's devotion to his child in Pelle the Conqueror, in similar fashion, Horn stands perfectly against Hank's jolly demeanor and an impressive Bullock who forgoes all her usual movie star charm for an endless longing.
Perhaps the movie feels shallow because it doesn't devote itself to observing the suffering of 9/11 victims; instead attempting to find the universal in the specific, but touching a subject of that magnitude would always mean that catharsis would be impossible. Curiously to try and find answers within the movie would mean that audiences were recreating Oskar's journey, aiming for something higher than they can accomplish. Whether they take this journey with predisposed anger or hoping for the best and preparing for the worst is up to each of them.

Short Take: "Nostalgia for the Light" and "Pina".

The Atacama Desert occupies over forty thousand square miles of northern Chile and is known for being the driest desert in the world. Its elements have been compared to Martial soil because absolutely no living organism could thrive in it. Director Patricio Guzmán argues that it's in this desolate place where the universe has created a portal where the past, present and perhaps even the future run into each other, but fear not, this isn't a sci-fi film, instead what the director creates is a moving non-fiction essay that contemplates our existence and how passing time is both tragic and solacing.
Guzmán is a child of the Chilean revolution and as such he tells in detail how his country went from being an exemplary land to a hell where people were murdered or kidnapped if they opposed the system. The documentary interweaves three different stories: we have Guzmán's observations and soulful narration, testimonials from concentration camp survivors and the families of those who never returned home, and there's also interviews with astronomers who run the observation sites in the Atacama desert, all of whom have more in common with each other than they would've guessed.
Guzmán makes a strange, if remarkably convincing case, about how all these people are united by history and the creation of the universe (this film would make a superb companion piece to The Tree of Life) and the director also displays an expert's eye for bending elements of real life into a narrative that's absolutely spellbinding and profound. In all of its essay-glory best, the film proves that Guzmán is as deft a creator as any supernatural force.

Pina Bausch was a pioneer choreographer who updated the concept of Tanztheater: a complex combination of movements and staggering sets which brought a new sensibility to the concept of modern dance. Bausch's longtime friend Wim Wenders had wanted to make a documentary about her life but she passed away a few days before shooting commenced. The project was then rescued by her pupils, who seem to have an utmost faith in their instructor, and the result is Pina, a wonderful nonfiction film that works as a supreme showcase of her legacy.
The film consists of several breathtaking setpieces in which the dancers display unbelievable physical skills, as well as a mystifying unity with their surroundings. Several moments have us rub our eyes in disbelief as we see deft dancers jump over a gargantuan boulder as if it was nothing but a step high, and some other moments explore the duality of the sexes by having a frail-looking female dancer use her humongous arms to do delicate moves (but this one has a twist so be ready to gasp). What remains persistent throughout each setpiece is the way in which Bausch found beauty in all her dancers; from the young and slender ones, to the ones whose faces are so rugged as to suggest they're "has-beens" in the age obsessed world of the arts,  you wonder then if Pina, more than a teacher was a spiritual guide who helped these people transcend the confines of mortality through her choreography.

Grades:
Nostalgia for the Light ***½
Pina ***

Bullhead ***½

Go to The Film Experience and read my review for Bullhead.

Martha Marcy May Marlene ***½

Director: Sean Durkin
Cast: Elizabeth Olsen, John Hawkes
Sarah Paulson, Brady Corbet, Hugh Dancy, Maria Dizzia, Julia Garner

Martha Marcy May Marlene begins with an escape: we see how a young woman (Olsen) having made sure no one is watching her, picks up a small bag and runs into the woods. Not a minute passes by before she is pursued by a group of people calling out her name "Marcy May! Marcy May!". The young woman hides from them - the look on her face one of complete dread and fear - before she feels safe to continue on her way.
Next, she picks up a pay phone, the woman on the receiving end asking "Martha is that you?", before the caller begs her to come find her. Sean Durkin's debut feature film begins with a bang - albeit an understated one - making us wonder how did this fragile looking woman, end up being known by two different names and what exactly is she running away from.
We learn soon that the woman Martha contacted is her sister Lucy (Paulson), a WASP-y well-doer who picks up her damaged little sister and takes her back to the summer house she shares with her husband, Ted (Dancy).
Lucy seems to be used to Martha pulling off these stunts and immediately assumes that she just got dumped by "some boyfriend". Martha decides to please her and just nod in agreement of whatever she says, without letting her know that she in fact was escaping from the overpowering abuses of a cult she'd joined.
Memories of the way she was forced into submission by, charismatic cult leader, Patrick (Hawkes) begin to haunt her and eventually she becomes convinced that her fellow cult members are coming to get her.
Durkin, who also wrote the screenplay, lets the story flow effectively on two levels, for we never know if Martha's fears are founded on reality or merely part of a persecution delirium.
Durkin's storytelling is so tight and controlled that the movie can work on both levels simultaneously, becoming a creepy thriller about cults as well as a superb study on the frail dynamics between fantasy and reality.
The director amps up the feeling of constant fear by relying on very basic techniques like ambiguous dialogues, a brilliant work of editing that blurs the lines between past and present and a camera that fixes itself on its subjects until it decides to zoom slowly towards them. It's in these moments when the camera tries to get closer that the film's themes manage to get under your skin.
That the camera has such an effect isn't just owed to the cinematographer, but also to Olsen who delivers an exquisite performance. Slowly she becomes one with every other element in the movie: the camera flashing us with the unconscious threats that plague her existence, the editing showing us that her present is constantly disturbed by images of her past and the sound design creating a world view that's haunted in the strictest sense of the word.
Lesser actresses would've let the screenplay's powerful story define their character, Olsen instead taps into something that's both disturbingly primal and beautiful to watch. She creates a persona for each of the women contained in the film's title, her Martha being a wild child who was always in the lookout for a deeper existence, her Marcy May being an illusion-filled girl whose crush turned into a nightmare and her Marlene being a completely fictitious creation that defines this woman's darkest intentions.
Olsen is able to overcome the fact that the movie could've easily become a critique of cults, instead making us understand why someone like Martha would be eager to be seduced by the "love for all" facade offered by strangers.
Watch the scene in which Patrick tells her "you look like a Marcy May", Hawkes complying with the slimy, but undeniably sexy, traits someone would need to convince you of joining their cult and Olsen displaying an almost childish coyness, surprised and moved that someone looks through her this way.
That Martha, Marcy May and Marlene never become completely defined people is testament to Olsen's capacity of inhabiting several lives, trying to find different truths in each of them, the only universal one - and also the film's chilling bookend- being that whoever she really is, she'll never be able to escape from herself.

Le quattro volte ***½

Director: Michelangelo Frammartino
Cast: Giuseppe Fuda, Bruno Timpano, Nazareno Timpano

Le quattro volte is the rare kind of movie that invites you to reexamine the concepts of life and cinema while remaining endlessly entertaining. Set in a small village in Calabria, the film takes the Pythagorean concept of metempsychosis and turns it into beautifully simple cinematic poetry. Pythagoras thought that once we die, our souls traveled and were born again in another element.
The film then features the transmigration of a goatherd's (Fuda) soul on to a fir tree, a goat and charcoal. All of this is done with the utmost subtlety, with the director never suggesting other than through clever editing that his movie is about reincarnation.
Through a series of visual cues he lets audiences grasp on to the fact that the movie has roots on ancient philosophical beliefs (Pythagoras after all lived in the area where the film takes place) but he never makes a point out of it.
The film instead settles to provide the viewer with various episodes that merely observe life around them. We see how the goatherd goes to church daily where he sweeps and collects the dust, which he then drinks as a health elixir. Because the movie has virtually no dialogues, its serenity resembles an Indian "om" which allows our minds to transport themselves in the middle of the movie.
This is especially remarkable because the film never limits us to the confines of its fiction. That it happens to have quasidocumentary qualities makes this easier and also invites us to wander through the confines of something less metaphysical (or is it?) than soul-traveling: the creation of movies.
How long did it take director Frammartino to make a movie of this scope? The major wonder in Le quattro volte is that everything feels like it's done on such a small scale, but upon second thought you realize that a movie without the benefits of CGI and even professional actors (how do you train a goat to follow directorial cues?) must've been quite an undertaking.
In the film's most impressive scene, a dog, upon realizing that his master has died tries to warn other villagers who are in the middle of a recreation of the Passion. Without using a single cut, Frammartino shows the dog's insistence, leading all the way to an act that would've made Lassie green with envy.
The film's sincerity grants it with some hilarious moments, like the sight of a goat standing on a table without the oppressing need of showing us how it climbed on it, and it also helps it achieve a tender humanity that makes your heart sink in your chest.
Because we are observing life we are granted a certain godlike quality: we are invited to invade the lives of people who couldn't be farther from where and who we are, while being bluntly reminded that perhaps we are all one and the same.

Short Take: "Take Shelter", "Margin Call" and "Texas Killing Fields"

In Take Shelter, Michael Shannon plays Curtis, a man who is having constant apocalyptic visions, and can you blame him? With the world going through one of its most severe cases of economic, cultural and sociological

crises, he would need to be heavily sedated to be optimistic. This is the film's magic, how writer/director Jeff Nichols transports all these feelings of impending doom and crafts with them, not a preposterous ode to negativity but an intelligent psychological portrait about the way in which our subconscious manifests its fears.

The film isn't clever because we wonder whether Curtis' visions are signs of insanity or actual premonitions, but because of the way in which Shannon taps onto the fear of losing one's mind when trying to remain a responsible member of society. The film is almost socialist in the way it so fixates itself on work, as Curtis builds a shelter to protect his family (the ubiquitous Jessica Chastain plays his wife and is nothing short of perfect). Nichols crafts a workman symbolism as we see, construction worker, Curtis dig deep down into the ground to escape from a sky that for the first time seems to be noticing him. He's trying to escape doom by working harder. Now how's that for a pitch perfect snapshot of our times?  

Margin Call deals with the corruption that goes behind the stock market and emphasizes on the "thrills" that make Wall Street such an adored object of Hollywood's attention. Why not make a comedy about  this for once? The film doesn't really contribute anything new to the genre with Penn Badgley and Zachary Quinto playing the wide eyed virgins willing to sell their soul to get a piece of the pie and Kevin Spacey and Jeremy Irons playing larger-than-life monsters who control everything with their ruthlessness and suspenders. The ensemble is quite effective (despite having the likes of Simon Baker and Demi Moore in its ranks) but the film's lack of actual excitement makes it endlessly dull.

Oy, Sam Worthington really needs blue aliens or Keira Knightley to turn in semi-decent performances, playing a violent detective in Texas Killing Fields does him no favors, but then again the material does none of the actors any favor (although Jessica Chastain somehow manages to deliver the goods). This serial killer flick had all the makings of a B-gore fest, but everything is so overdone that its intention to be some sort of feminist essay bites in the back by becoming endlessly stereotypical and cliché. The film was directed by Michael Mann's daughter and one would wish she had inherited some of her dad's stylish eye for crime movies.

Grades
Take Shelter ***
Margin Call **
Texas Killing Fields *

The Iron Lady **

Director: Phyllida Lloyd

Cast: Meryl Streep, Jim Broadbent

Olivia Colman, Alexandra Roach, Harry Lloyd

Richard E. Grant, Anthony Head, Nicholas Farrell

The role of biopics in the extensive firmament of movie genres is something that's more debatable now than ever. In the time of the internet and the wiki-generation, biopics have no more business being guardians of history (were they ever for that matter?) and those that choose to depict the entire lives of their subjects often fail because they become "greatest hits" movies, in which we see filmmakers meticulously recreate entire periods, but rarely say anything "transcendental" about the main character.
Such is the case of The Iron Lady, a film that not only fails to convey the grandiosity (whether that's a compliment or an attack is up to you) of former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.
As played by Meryl Streep, who gives yet another mesmerizing performance, the film is an impressionistic take on her life. The plot is framed by showing us Thatcher in her old age, facing dementia, as she has flashbacks of the great events in her life.
From being elected as a member of parliament (she's played by Roach as a young woman), all the way to becoming the longest running PM in the twentieth century, we see why Thatcher became such a controversial figure; her extreme conservatism being the center of polarizing views by people in her own country and foreigners.
Biopics now should have something specific to say, whether the figures it portrays are fascists or saints, which is why The Iron Lady's pointlessness can be portrayed as a sign of cowardice by part of the director and screenwriter.
The uneven way in which Thatcher's political actions are presented leaves us with nothing but a series of causes for us to despise the way in which this woman handled her government, with an utmost lack of humanity for anyone other than her family. Her obsession wit her husband Dennis (Broadbent) however, teases by saying maybe she wasn't as independent and assertive as she claimed to be.
The film can't for the life of it decide whether it wants to portray Thatcher as a monster or a flawed human being, we never perceive for example why she thought it so important to take action in the Falklands conflict when her country was facing one of its most serious economic crises. It doesn't help either, that by moving back and forth in time so much we don't ever get a real sense of time, one minute she's sinking Argentinean ships (1982) the next she's resigning as PM (1990).
Adding to that sense of confusion (is the film trying to recreate the effects of dementia for its audience?) then we are shown how the old Thatcher has sudden anxiety attacks missing her husband and going through old home movies. Is Lloyd implying that her dementia invalidates all the evil she did or is she suggesting that the dementia itself is her punishment?
Fortunately for Lloyd, Streep commands the film with a fearlessness better reserved for better movies, disappearing under Thatcher's skin and making it all her own. When the film tries to turn her into a demonic Pygmalion figure at the mercy of campaign managers who want her to win, Streep devours the scenery with a gusto that's almost too pleasurable to watch.
Then she has a blast recreating all the Thatcherisms we've come to know throughout the years, including the high pitched voice and the daring eyebrow lift. Playing her as an older woman, we see how Streep preserves the essence of a woman who now rarely makes public appearances. Her performance isn't only a marvel because of its technical accomplishments but also because of the way in which the glorious actress projects how a character will be once we no longer have access to them.
Early in the film, Thatcher declares "I can not die washing a tea cup", lo and behold, the very last scene shows her doing just that. If Lloyd pretended to elicit snickers, Streep gives one last look at the camera that declares that whether you like Thatcher or not, a human being's dignity must be the one thing they carry to their grave.

Short Take (Haiku Edition): "A Better Life"

Weitz ain't De Sica
Latino life comes down to
Redemptive white guilt

Grade: ** (only because of Bichir)

Drive ****

You'll have to go to PopMatters and read my review though.

A Haiku for "The Darkest Hour".

If aliens invade
Cast and crew of this movie
Should be first to go

Grade: *

Short Take: "War Horse" and "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy"

We get it, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is trying to show us how spying was done in the pre-internet, pre-GPS days, but few espionage thrillers have ever felt as downtrodden and well, lacking in thrills as Tomas Alfredson's adaptation of John LeCarré's novel. Gary Oldman stars as the iconic George Smiley, a British intelligence agent whose methods are as laconic as the underrated actor's ability to insert himself so effortlessly into all his characters.
With extreme attention to detail and an earthy color palette - as well as stylized 70s camera moves - by DP Hoyte Van Hoytema, the film concentrates enough on the surroundings and period details, that it forgets that there's a story to be told, and more importantly as it should be in most spy films, there is a mystery to be solved.
In this case the British suspect there is a Communist mole in their organization, but ask anyone how they solve this and most will come to realize that at some point the movie lost their attention. Its execution is admirable but unless Alfredson was trying to make a point about the dullness of bureaucracy, or deglam crime as David Fincher expertly did in his masterful Zodiac, which he certainly doesn't seem to be doing, the film turns out to be an exercise in dullness in which elegant British actors are killed or double crossed while dressed in uninteresting khaki tones.

Out of all the popular directors from his generation, all of whom claim to be devoted cinephiles, Steven Spielberg seems to be the one who cultivated the most middlebrow taste. If not, ask yourself why of all John Ford's films, he had to choose the tepid How Green Was My Valley as his point of reference for War Horse?
There is nothing wrong with him liking Valley per se but to choose one of Ford's most inferior, albeit award winning, works is the equivalent of being an opera singer and doing Christina Aguilera covers. With that said, War Horse desperately tries to recreate what once was Hollywood's way of filmmaking: interior sets, excessive melodrama and strong family values. Spielberg is either paying tribute to the least challenging productions of an era or writing a guidebook on how to win Academy Awards.
Everything in War Horse feels like it belongs in a different era, and more often than not, it should've stayed there. What once was sweeping, now is obscenely manipulative and as a postmodernist exercise the film doesn't have much to say about the current world.
Human characters are perhaps unnecessary as the movie follows the title horse, named Joey, as he goes from owner to owner, surviving WWI in the process. Because we are asked to devote our attention to an animal, the film gets away with complex character development and tends to rely too much on just how adorable we find Joey. The horse, like some sort of Jesus or Forrest Gump, changes the lives of everyone he touches, which more often than not results in unintentional comedy.
It's truly sad to see actors like Mullan and Arestrup at the service of an equine but by the time when Watson is forced to do her frumpiest Jane Darwell impression, the film reaches new lows in how it so cynically tries to squeeze tears out of its audience.
War Horse should've inspired the old fashioned adjective "jolly", instead it goes all out on the preposterous "mush".

Grades
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy **
War Horse *

The Artist ***½

Director: Michel Hazanavicius
Cast: Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo
John Goodman, James Cromwell, Missi Pyle, Penelope Ann Miller
Malcolm McDowell, Beth Grant

The one thing that was truly magical about movies when they first became popular was their immediacy. The fact that they had no spoken dialogues - and important lines were conveyed with title cards - meant that people the world over could digest them in the same way, regardless of what language they spoke and wherever they lived.
The movies values were never universal but at least everyone had the same chance of dissecting them without the undeniable effect language has on them and films had the same opportunity to be enjoyed by global audiences regardless of where they had been made. After sound was introduced, language became both the medium's most innovative technical achievement but also its greatest separator.
Except for that one genius who speaks every language in the world, the movies have lost their universality. Out of all the arts they are the one that perhaps are more affected by translation; whether its English subtitles determining that characters in an American production are speaking the language of Cervantes, or an Italian dubbing of a Japanese samurai movie, translation alters the way in which we decipher the conveyed messages. They challenge our perception of what the world we live in is actually like and more often they not they trick us into accepting societal and anthropological conventions that aren't our own.
We assume that if they're speaking in a way addressed to us, there must be some truth to what they're saying.
The Artist may not have these concepts behind its creation but it's a time appropriate reminder about the effects of globalization. This, almost entirely, silent film directed by Michel Hazanavicius was conveyed as a love letter to Hollywood's Golden Era and as such recurs to title cards and black and white to transport us to another place and time.
The film's story has shades of City Lights, A Star is Born and Singing in the Rain and centers on the life of movie star George Valentin (Dujardin), a silent era god who finds himself out of a job when he refuses to give in to the new "talking pictures". As his own star dims, George sees Peppy Miller's (Bejo) achieve blinding brightness. She becomes an overnight sensation doing the thing he refuses to do, even if the audience can't hear her talk either.
Directed with loving grace and style by Hazanavicius, the film isn't a strict silent film, it takes its visual cues from movies that range from Citizen Kane (look at the ceilings! Dark projection rooms lit by cigarette smoke!) to Sunset Boulevard (even if Cromwell makes a less creepy driver than Erich von Stroheim) and as such it isn't a silent movie as much as it's a greatest hits of the Golden Era flick.
However the film relies too much on the silent gimmick and refuses to create deeper characters; a flaw that must've been obvious from its screenplay, and one that sadly makes it difficult for audiences to connect with the characters because they don't even become archetypes.
To condemn the movie for its shallowness however would be to deny the pleasure that is watching Dujardin light up the screen with his Douglas Fairbanks smile or to surrender to Bejo's It Girl charm. It's no use to pretend you won't be enthralled by the tricks of Uggie the dog either, but upon its sparkly finale the film begs that we go and look out for the films it so meticulously homages.
Hazanavicius has proven to be a superb director of faux nostalgia films, for a less intimidating example check out his OSS 117 (also starring Dujardin) spy films which are James Bond by way of Serge Gainsbourg, and in The Artist he proves his worth as a cinephile with a great eye for symbols, references and masterful visuals.
He also has an adorable sense of humor, with several key moments in The Artist reminding audiences that they are in a silent film. "Why do you refuse to talk?" asks George's preoccupied wife and this elicits laughter in spite of its potential for eye-rolling.
The Artist is a harmless crowdpleaser that aims for the heart often forgetting about the brain. Its entire essence is conveyed in its very first scenes where we see George Valentin anxiously waiting behind the screen to see how the audience reacts to his latest picture. We see the title card announcing his movie had ended, this is followed by a haunting silence - what else could it be followed by - until the camera cuts to the audience who is enraptured and applauding incessantly. The movie selfconsciously invites you to love it or leave it and such sincerity should too be applauded.

The Descendants *½

Director: Alexander Payne
Cast: George Clooney, Shailene Woodley, Amara Miller
Judy Greer, Matthew Lillard, Beau Bridges, Robert Forster
Rob Huebel, Nick Krause

With his rugged handsomeness and sweet puppy eyes, George Clooney has gone from being a "movie star", in that unattainable, gold dusted sense, to becoming the perfect embodiment of the American midlife crisis. In movies like Up in the Air we are asked to suspend our disbelief and consider him not a star but a person: like the rest of us.
Clooney's likability has made this easy, if not entirely convincing and in The Descendants his charm is replaced by suntanned smugness as he plays the ruling patriarch of the Hawaiian King family. He plays Matt, an attorney who also is the sole trustee of a family legacy that owns 25,000 acres of virgin land in the island of Kaua'i.
When the film begins, and we are teased that richer, profounder themes lie ahead, we learn that Matt's family came to own this without making any effort and now, due to a law against perpetuity, they have to get either sell or lose it within the next seven years.
This plot twist suggests that we are about to find ourselves in the midst of a soul search, through which Matt would need to come to terms with his legacy in the midst of the modern world, for who can say they uphold such high values in these days?
The film then becomes something else, as Matt's wife falls in a coma, forcing him to raise his two young daughters: Alexandra (Woodley) and Scottie (Miller). Added to this, Matt begins to learn his wife kept secrets from him, including an affair.
This leaves Matt with no option but to fully become the patriarch his inheritance demands he is, but how can he do it when he's not even in control of his immediate family's life?
Clooney does his best "everyman" act but the film suffers from its imminent vapidity. Why should we care about these people when their problems seem so aristocratic?
The film even jokes when it begins that people think no one in Hawaii has issues but in all honesty can they blame us? When Alexandra learns her mother might die, she isn't in a hospital room but in a pool and when Matt decides to confront his wife's lover (Lillard) he does so through a series of real estate tricks. It's true that some movies have been able to hook and interest us in the lives of kings, queens and the extremely rich, but to try and do so, after hinting at larger themes ahead, isn't only ridiculous, it's an exercise in reverse empathy. Director Payne too, has become a specialist in chronicling the lives of men who can only be described as assholes, as they try to gain the humanity others around them seem to have. In movies like Sideways and About Schmidt, Payne's horrifying heroes have achieved salvation through the help of people around them who have more earthly values (remember Virginia Madsen in Sideways) and there would be nothing wrong if they never achieved it. After all life isn't always perfect and movies should under no circumstances be morality fables. What Payne understood so well in previous movies is that as humans we are flawed and what he does here is try to correct each of them by the time the movie is over. Not only does his practice backfire, it also makes sure we never want to see these people again.

J. Edgar *½

Director: Clint Eastwood
Cast: Leonardo DiCaprio, Armie Hammer, Naomi Watts
Judi Dench, Josh Lucas, Ed Westwick, Jeffrey Donovan, Denis O'Hare

Somewhere between his cross-dressing and legacy as one of the most controversial figures in 20th century history, J. Edgar hoover might have been a fascinating man; however you can't tell this judging by Clint Eastwood's biopic.
Leonardo DiCaprio plays Hoover as a young idealist man, all the way to the eccentric, paranoid creature he turned into towards the end of his life. The film's framing device is having Hoover dictate his biography to several typists (among them Westwick in full Chuck Bass mode), highlighting his feats and hinting at events in his private life that make us wonder if they are part of said framing device or slips in Eastwood's uneven narrative.
Shot in absolute darkness by Tom Stern, who foregoes the chiaro in chiaroscuro, the film feels like if it wants to hide things from us because it's not even sure how to tell them or if it's even allowed to tell them. We see Hoover as a young man taking charge of the newly created Bureau of Investigation, trying to solve crimes as famous as Charles Lindbergh's (Lucas) baby being kidnapped and taking credit for arresting famed gangster John Dillinger.
Throughout the film there's a sense of conflict between the screenplay and the filmed result and this makes sense because the screenplay was written by openly gay writer Dustin Lance Black who, with reason, tries to push the film's gay agenda by stressing out Hoover's infamous love of cross dressing and his strange relationship with Clyde Tolson (Hammer). There is of course nothing wrong with revealing aspects of a public figure that might've been unknown by most people, but to do so when the film being made is an homage to old studio filmmaking only works out in disastrous ways.
You get a sense, because of the film's structure, that every time Hoover's homosexuality is hinted at, Eastwood immediately "denies" it with something more "macho" and has him abuse someone or explode in a political tantrum.
The performances don't really help convey any coherent message either with DiCaprio mumbling his way throughout the running time, Hammer being eaten alive by his ridiculous old age makeup and Dench as Mama Hoover not even trying to come up with a decent American accent in her Shakespearean mama-wolf portrayal.
With its conflicting ideologies, excessive running time and preposterous selfimportance, the only person who comes up truly revealed in J. Edgar is its director, who despite a productive run as one of the most iconic American heroes is revealing signs of sad, albeit expected, senility.

Short (Slightly Homoerotic) Take: "August" and "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows".

The premise of August is simple: Troy (Murray Bartlett) returns to Los Angeles after living in Spain for years and decides to contact his ex, Jonathan (Daniel Dugan). Their reunion is marked by nostalgia and sexual tension, propelled by the notion that Troy wants Jonathan back but there are two problems: Jonathan still hasn't forgiven him completely for having left and he's also in a relationship with Raul (Adrian Gonzalez).
Where the movie could've been trashy and perpetuated the idea that gay men are promiscuous and soulless, it uses a very sensitive approach taking its time to explore who these men truly are.
You understand why Troy left and you understand why Jonathan would want him back. The film offers glimpses of their lives that could've been used for lurid purposes (how Raul for example is married to a woman in order to get a work permit) but instead it focuses on who these people are when no racial or sexual labels are attached. Troy's deep selfishness is heartbreaking in its black-hole voracity and Jonathan's naivete makes us all remember that sometimes we truly would give everything up to be with the one that got away.

The first Sherlock Holmes installment was enjoyable because it essentially conveyed the love story between Sherlock (Robert Downey Jr.) and Watson (Jude Law). Director Guy Ritchie is the master of the modern homoerotic action flicks (unless those slow motion sequences of ripped, sweaty bodies are in fact to attract all kinds of audiences).
The second one suffers because they aren't together all the time, in fact a recurring joke has Watson's fiancee (Kelly Reilly) worried about Sherlock getting in the way of her wedding. Give or take the queer subtext - even if in the end Watson always goes for Sherlock- the movie pretty much consists of sequence after sequence in which the heroes get in trouble while trying to save the world from the evil Moriarty (Jared Harris). Despite its glossiness and inarguable technical mastery the film drags because it reaches a point where you don't even know what mystery Sherlock is trying to solve. Ritchie always lets the big action scenes get the best of him and forgets to emphasize on the plot (an essential part of any mystery movie). Then all of a sudden Sherlock irrupts into Watson's honeymoon train compartment in full drag and you can't do but wonder how much better the movie would be if it had explored an angle as unique as this one.

Grades:
August ***
Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows **

Short Take: "The Muppets", "The Adventures of Tintin".

Appealing to nostalgia might not be the best angle to use in a society where history is constantly relegated to a previous, usually inferior, level of existence, however this is exactly what The Muppets does and it does it magically. Based on the beloved characters made famous by Jim Henson in the late 1970s, the film tries to rekindle the memories of those who loved the Muppets, while introducing them to a whole new generation.
Injected with the fresh blood of director James Bobin and musical composer Bret McKenzie (two of the men behind the amazing Flight of the Conchords) and writer/actor Jason Segel, the movie is a pure labor of love, done by the people who grew up with these characters and who wanted younger people to get to know them.
The movie in a way is a fictitious version of its creation. When it starts we meet Gary (Segel) and Walter, two brothers who live in Smalltown, USA and who grew up loving the Muppets (one of the first scenes has them watching the show together in an episode with Steve Martin as a guest). Walter has a special reason for loving them more: he is a Muppet himself.
Gary and his girlfriend Mary (Adams) take Walter to Los Angeles so he can make his dream come true and visit The Muppets' studio, however once there, Walter is appalled to find out that not only is the lot practically deserted, but an evil businessman (Cooper) has decided to steal it and turn it into an oil refinery.
Walter sets out on a mission to get all the Muppets back together and raise the money to save the studio.
Call it a mix between a telethon (moviethon?), an old fashioned "let's put a show together" spectacle and a trip down memory lane.
The film goes the extra mile to put a smile on audience faces while paying tribute to the enormous legacy The Muppets have had in pop culture but more than that it works as a superb exercise in postmodern theories regarding memory and its direct relation with mass entertainment.
Many people may not remember when they took their first step or when their first tooth fell out but they're more than likely to remember the first time they watched their favorite movie or their favorite TV show. Why and how media has developed parallel to our sensory is perhaps a matter best left to anthropologists and sociologists, however the issue with this film is that it taps onto something similar to an imagined collective consciousness; its pleasures exclusive to those who feel at home watching The Muppets.
The film's meta elements wonderfully convey the nature of filmmaking and interestingly enough lead us to question the prevalence of film as a medium, for example how will future generations feel about the use of current celebrities as "stars"? The film itself makes a point - in some truly outrageous jokes - about the ups and downs of star power. If people fifty years from now think of Jack Black as a movie star, then the movie will have huge nostalgic power, however if they wonder who the hell the fat guy with the weird smile is, the film will prove a point. Either way The Muppets come out winners.

The Adventures of Tintin might very well be the best movie Steven Spielberg has made in a decade. Unlike his "live action" projects which suffer from his excessive use of sentimentality and his need to tie everything up with a lovely bow, this graphic novel adaptation is served from its source material's no-bullshit approach to entertaining, which is something Spielberg has truly excelled at.
Tintin reminds you of the Indiana Jones movies and some of his family classics like E.T.: The Extra-terrestrial because you can feel how the director is loving every minute of it. Motion capture seems to have opened up a door that he's kept shut in favor of more "serious" films. From its lovingly detailed opening sequence, to its wonderful homage to Lawrence of Arabia the film thrives with a restlessness that becomes truly addictive. The work of the actors is superb and the film has one of the most exciting sequences Spielberg has ever shot.
It's refreshing to see how medium experts are finding new life in modern techniques.

Grades:
The Muppets ***½
The Adventures of Tintin ***

Certified Copy ****

Director: Abbas Kiarostami,
Cast: Juliette Binoche, William Shimell
Jean-Claude Carrière, Agathe Natanson
Gianna Giachetti, Adrian Moore

The entire world of ideas that lies behind Certified Copy is best summed up in its final shot - fear not, no spoilers ahead - just before the credits start rolling the camera fixes itself inside a hotel room, right in front of a window: a church's bell-tower erected outside, surrounded by other roofs. The window itself is surrounded by an alluring darkness which perfectly frames the external landscape. For what seems to be a split second we wonder if we are watching a hanging picture or real life. Then again, what is "real life" within a motion picture?
Based on the idea that the entire world might as well consist of a series of copies of absolutely everything, Abbas Kiarostami delivers a cerebral movie that also happens to be ravishingly romantic.
The film opens during a lecture given by art historian James Miller (Shimell) who's written a book called "Certified Copy" in which he ponders if the reproduction of an art piece has any intrinsic value or is this worth exclusive to the "original". A woman (Binoche) leaves the lecture early to have a meal with her son (Moore) but meets Miller the following day to have him sign the six copies of the book she bought.
They end up spending the rest of the day together, discussing art, relationships, language and well, life in general.
Along the way there is a twist of sorts but to linger on it would be a disservice to a movie that feels almost dreamlike in its structure.
The movie seems to operate on two different levels, on one part we have the relationship between the lead characters. Since we never know the woman's name, she could easily embody anyone (even us) and her chemistry with James is fascinating.
You could spend the entire day following them around and never get bored with their musings. The film makes it so easy for us to intrude in their conversation that at no time do we feel like we're eavesdropping. During one point even, the woman looks straight into the camera and waves, as if she's aiming at us. The movie invites us to be part of the central dialogue, it expects us to have an opinion, even if the characters never seem to agree on whether opinions are worth anyone's time.
That the film is both elitist and approachable is an achievement in itself and perhaps a lot is owed to the delicious performances given by Binoche and Shimell. Opera singer Shimell debuts onscreen with an electric performance, making James an intellectual we'd actually want to listen to and nobody out there lights up the screen with the effortlessness of Binoche.
All of her moves contain such grace that she might be talking about the weather and we'd still be fascinated by her. The fact that she doesn't talk about peculiarly superficial topics makes her beyond alluring, like one of the art pieces mentioned throughout the film.
Even if in a way, she's merely playing a symbol, Binoche fills this woman with such warmth that we find ourselves staring at the eternal battle between heart and intellect.
Because regardless of how entertaining the film is, it's an unquestionably intellectual movie, which dares the audience to participate in its game. "We are only the DNA replicas of our ancestors" establishes Miller, as Kiarostami rejoices in displaying repetition (during the first sequence the same joke is repeated within five minutes, Miller tells a joke about the simplicity of repetition, the woman buys six books etc...)
The film is filled with clues about a puzzle we're probably not even supposed to be solving. It makes for such pleasurable viewing that you don't want to enter its world of ideas right there and then, you want it to let it wrap around you with its strictly carnal pleasures.
"It'd be stupid of us to ruin our lives for an ideal" says a wise café owner (Giachetti) during one of the film's greatest scenes and she might as well be referring to the experience of watching the movie. Of course, afterwards you can't seem to get the film's concepts out of your head. What is Kiarostami saying about life? About art? "Art is not an easy subject to write about" says Miller, aiming towards the film's elusive center. In the end you have to wonder if Kiarostami had something specific to say or is this a stream of consciousness essay. For proof of how the movie stimulates the brain, here's a question: considering you're watching the movie on home media or a theater and that these are themselves copies of a first print, does the film's value diminish? Even in case you're watching it for the second or third time, does each viewing add any value to it?  Certified Copy invites you to explore art and cinema in particular as a window to the soul and in the process will make you wonder what are souls even made of. Instead of feeling frustrating in its constant wondering about the world, it makes you feel that food for thought rarely feels this pleasurable.