THE WEEKLY RECAP: April 23-29

The Great Dictator (1940)

Directed by Charlie Chaplin

* * * *

In his first talkie, the legendary Charlie Chaplin made one of the most fortuitous comedies of the 20^th Century: The Great Dictator. Set in the fictional country of Tomania, Chaplin takes on two leading roles, first as a Jewish WWI veteran who becomes a barber shop owner in a ghetto, a sort-of reprisal of Chaplin’s legendary Tramp. But when Chaplin’s not sporting a bowler hat, he’s donning a pair of jackboots as Adenoid Hynkel, the iron-fisted and rhetoric-sputtering dictator of Tomania. From there, it’s about what you’d expect: classic Chaplin slapstick that ultimately culminates into a wonderful (if sometimes morbid) comedy, closed by one of the most famous and inspiring speeches in the history of cinema.

The transition from silent movies to talkies is a challenge for many of the filmmakers from that time period. Even if the result is still a great film, the DNA of the silent period still runs through (in this case, I am reminded of Fritz Lang’s masterful M). As for Chaplin, though; he transitioned to the world of talkies flawlessly, which is an incredible feat for a filmmaker whose comedy of choice was slapstick, a style that maybe doesn’t work as well in talkies. In The Great Dictator, though it still works, and it’s still absolutely hilarious. Within the first ten minutes, I was already in tears of laughter watching Chaplin’s mishaps on a battlefield (that moment with the faulty artillery shell is pure gold).

But as funny as The Great Dictator is, it never overdoes it considering the touchy subject matter. Back then it is amazing how aware of Hitler’s tyranny Chaplin was aware of, but we didn’t know nearly as much about just how evil he was until a few years later, and knowing what we know now, I wonder if The Great Dictator could be made. I don’t know, but what I do know is that The Great Dictator is never naïve or oblivious to the horrors of dictatorship, the comedy never becomes insensitive or tasteless, and best of all, the film has aged wonderfully.

The Hidden Fortress (1958)

Directed by Akira Kurosawa

* * * *

A pair of idiotic and greedy peasants. A stern yet jovial warrior. A princess sizzling with ferocious spirit. How this unlikely team comes together is a result of circumstances I encourage the viewer to discover themselves, as The Hidden Fortress is a terrific journey of a movie from Akira Kurosawa, always unspooling with various twists and turns that leave the viewer confined to their seat, eager to discover how our heroes will get out of one sticky situation to the next.

The Hidden Fortress may not as epic in scope or as transcendent as Kurosawa’s magnum opus Seven Samurai, but that is a bar that cannot be surpassed, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, here we are still left with a terrific addition to an already exceptional catalogue of samurai adventures from the legendary Kurosawa, and this is without a doubt one of my favorites. And what an exciting adventure it turns out to be: great cinematography, solid sound design, terrific editing (keep an eye out for a horse chase), and incredible pacing already made me fall in love with this one, but the element that single-handedly steals the show are the characters. We grow to really like these characters and we are eager to follow them every step of the way, and every snafu they are thrown into makes our hearts race with anxious anticipation.

The saying “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” shines bright with The Hidden Fortress: it is almost a thing of legend that The Hidden Fortress is one of the primary influences on Star Wars, an entity of a film that I don’t think needs any introduction. Searching for the parallels between these two makes for a fun yet quite challenging task. However, The Hidden Fortress does not exist exclusively for Star Wars fans, as the end of this cinematic journey still results in a thrilling adventure that is great fun to this day.

Roger & Me (1989)

Directed by Michael Moore

* * * 1/2

Flint, Michigan; once a prospering town with a General Motors plant serving as the lifeblood and backbone of the town. Then comes 1986: the Flint plant is shut down, as GM is moving their plants to Mexico to save itself some money by paying Mexican workers obscenely low wages. This plant closure begins a domino effect that devastates Flint: countless citizens are laid off with no other employment opportunities. The town tries to make itself a tourist attraction, to no avail. Eventually, Money Magazine declares Flint the worst place to live in the entire United States. In a mission to set things straight in some way or another, Michael Moore sets out to confront GM chairman Roger Smith for, essentially, pulling the plug on Flint.

When I first started Red Eye, I seriously contemplated avoiding documentaries, my reasons being for just how manipulative and slanted they tend to be. Michael Moore, though a clever filmmaker, is probably the punch-line of offenders in this category, and here I am with his first film: Roger & Me. I have decided that I will regard it as a film before a documentary, and with this mentality, Roger & Me is terrific. Yes, it has many of the typical Moore tricks and techniques, but I must say that it is not as overbearing as much of his later output. And even then, there’s some material that’s hard to argue: there’s a sequence that cross-cuts between Roger Smith giving a speech and a mother and two young children being evicted on Christmas morning (this was a particularly gut-wrenching moment for me).

With Moore’s typical tropes comes his gift at story-telling with his compelling exposition. All the while, I was engaged in Moore’s journey as Flint slowly and tragically dies around him. But it’s not all gloom and doom; also on display for the first time is Moore’s clever and humorous with that never fails to win me over. Moore has always been a polarizing man in documentary filmmaking, and Roger & Me isn’t much exception, but it’s hard to fault a man using a cinematic call for justice on behalf of people screwed over big time by big business.

Shadows in Paradise (1986)

Directed by Aki Kaurismaki

* * ½

Kaurismaki regular Matti Pellonpaa steps into the shoes of Nikander, a lonely garbage man. Early in the film, his close colleague mentions starting a business of his own. He wants Nikander to be his foreman, to which he agrees. Unfortunately, this business doesn’t get a chance to take off after Nikander’s co-worker suddenly dies of a heart attack on the job. Frustrated, sad, and surrounded by folks whose only interest is seemingly alcohol, Nikander finds solace in the company of Ilona (the first role of fellow Kaurismaki regular Kati Outinen), a supermarket clerk who has just been fired from her job. As one might imagine, romance blooms between the two, but less out of genuine love than the need for companionship in a cold world.

In spite of a significant presence in the foreign film world, this is only my second experience with Finland’s chief cinematic export Aki Kaurismaki. My first film of his was The Match Factory Girl, and after both of these films I can safely say that I don’t think Kaurismaki is my thing. You’ll hear me many a time criticize a film for being too forceful in the feelings it wants to convey. In the case of Shadows in Paradise, it is actually the opposite. The film is set in a gray and chilly (sometimes run-down) city environment, almost always overcast – to my recollection, there is only one instance of sunshine in the entire movie. Kaurismaki clearly wants to emphasize how important that warmth of romance is in this world, but he doesn’t really give us much opportunity to get to know his characters – we see the basic essentials of their daily lives, and that’s about it. Their demeanor throughout life is completely deadpan and seemingly emotionless. I read that this is a common technique from Kaurismaki, and it doesn’t quite work for me.

Granted, it’s not a bad film by any means. As downplayed as the film is, I actually quite like that the film expresses warmth through multiple small romantic gestures rather than one grandiose gesture – even then, though, I feel that that’s been done better (remember the penultimate bakery scene from Buffalo ’66?). Sometimes, the quite clever comedy out of the sheer deadpan style makes for a few chuckles here and there. Best of all, Shadows in Paradise wasn’t torturous whatsoever to sit through, clocking in at 74 minutes. Overall, it’s an admirable portrayal of off-color love, but just wasn’t fleshed out enough.

Street of Shame (1956)

Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi

* * * *

Japanese master Kenji Mizoguchi’s final film brings us inside a brothel in Tokyo’s red light district. It is a time of worry for those in the sex industry: talks of a legal ban of prostitution have been circulating national news. We are taken into the lives of those who work in this brothel, namely the women; while coping with the fear of their work becoming criminalized, we bear witness to their daily lives both inside and outside the brothel, their attempts to move on to the next chapter in their lives, and their attempts to keep warm from the brutal cold economy of the outside world, sometimes resulting in getting sucked back into the business.

Of course, being from the 1950s, there’s not much room for titillation or explicit sex, but that is not the point of Street of Shame, as the human lives are top priorities here. Mizoguchi’s swansong is one of the greatest films about the proverbial “Oldest Profession” ever made. Without indulging in melodrama or contempt for the industry (he was very sympathetic of women’s suffering), Mizoguchi so engagingly captures the emotional complexities of working in such a stigmatized business, the camaraderie between the women, and the difficulty of getting out of the industry. Even better is just how well this can translate to a non-Japanese audience, considering how borderline-inaccessible Japanese traditions and lifestyles can be at times.

I cannot say a single bad thing about this movie (I didn’t rate it a 4 for nothing), though it would have been nice to have gotten more in-depth with the johns. Granted, there’s no demonization of men present here, but the psychological dependency that goes with regular patrons of sex work is a major opportunity for a fascinating case study. In general, Street of Shame is actually fairly quaint and straight-forward in comparison to Mizoguchi’s previous masterworks like The Life of Oharu and Sansho the Bailiff. But these are not criticisms, but rather what would have made an already great film even better, and considering Street of Shame is a great film, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

THE UNSUNG: Zero Day (2003)

Directed by Ben Coccio

* * * 1/2

April 20^th, 1999 was a day that shook the world, the day 13 people at Columbine High School were murdered at the hands of two disturbed and enraged students. What could possibly drive two seemingly average young men to commit such a horrific premediated outburst of violence? 19 years later, it is a crime that not only continues to fascinate me, but continues to spur one single question from everybody – “Why?” In 2003, filmmaker Ben Coccio responded to the fallout of Columbine with Zero Day.

The intention of inevitable tragedy is established right away with friends Andre and Cal (played by their namesakes) taking their camera to their high school. They declare it their nemesis, with a statement about a “Big-Ass Mission” called “Zero Day”. Granted, they never initially state their full intentions initially, but it goes without saying. Their footage exhibits more and more disconcerting behavior, from simple juvenile antics (most notably when they egg the home of a mutually hated classmate) to legitimately alarming preparations as they build pipe bombs and steal firearms from relatives. When they’re not making preparations for murder, we watch them spend time at events like family outings, birthday parties, dates, and even prom. Watching all of this, there is no indication whatsoever that these two kids are in any way capable of the monstrous violence they will indeed commit.

It is well-known that the Columbine killers kept an extensive video log known as the Basement Tapes, which authorities have yet to release to the public.  Some may think that the answer to Columbine is buried in the Basement Tapes; something I highly doubt. Evident after watching Zero Day, Coccio most likely had these same doubts. Coccio took inspiration from the Basement Tapes: Zero Day is filmed almost entirely in the hands and DV camcorders of the two boys (the finale is shot in mock CCTV footage), and the result is perhaps the most interesting use of the found-footage style I’ve seen (and perhaps the best). As you could imagine, this makes the material all the more real. For 2003, perhaps too real considering Columbine was still in recent memory.

Zero Day, in general, has not gotten the exposure that I firmly believe it deserves, but perhaps that’s for the better, as it would probably have been buried alive under controversy if it did get more limelight. This film has the potential to infuriate and spur outrage, most likely for being “irresponsible”, but the reasons for people possibly labelling it “irresponsible” are part of why I believe it’s such a thought-provoking and effective film.

Take, for instance, a scene where Andre and Cal are making pipe bombs. Allow me to emphasize: two children are sitting making deadly explosives. Even more disturbing when they explicitly mention how to acquire the necessary ingredients, which are not black market items, but items that can be easily (and cheaply) bought at your local hardware store. One may initially be infuriated at the film for actually disclosing this information, but some may direct such fury from the film to hardware stores (as an example) for allowing such easy access to such components. Next thing you know, people will start talking about regulations for whatever murderous means, but where does that stop? I can understand arguments for gun control (I will not state my opinion on that here), but what will stop somebody from buying simple hardware to build bombs to kill instead? And should one’s ability to make household repairs be stripped away because of a couple of proverbial “bad apples”?

Perhaps what will enrage people the most about Zero Day is also what makes it such a compelling drama. It is a film that exercises the art of slow burn, and exercises it well. When Andre and Cal first declare war on their school, their demeanor is not menacing or a containment of gravid rage, but rather youthful joviality. Not in the sense that they’re excited to terrorize their fellow students, but as if they’re not totally serious about it. But as the film progresses, the more and more serious they get about it. In one heart-wrenching moment, after burning all of their worldly possessions, Andre, laughing in disbelief, states “We gotta’ do it now.” And sure enough, their colorful handheld fantasy of their video diary turns into static black and white reality upon the massacre when they’re caught on security camera.

But enough socio-political talk, as this is not the proper setting for that conversation. After all, there’s an entire movie to discuss. At Zero Day’s center, of course, are lead actors Andre Keuck and Cal Robertson, and these are two of the most remarkable child performance I’ve seen yet. Robertson has a few credits according to IMDb (including a role in a single episode of The Sopranos), but Keuck, who I would not hesitate to get in touch with if I ever get around to making a movie, has gotten no exposure after Zero Day whatsoever. Everybody else involved really helps out the film’s realism: all the actors feel natural and like real people, unlike most found-footage films where subjects try just a hair too hard at being “real”. In the case of Zero Day, it helps that many people involved had no idea what exactly they were involved in – from my understanding, many people thought they were in some insignificant home movie (this led to some outrage from a few participants).

Zero Day disturbingly reflects an especially ugly part of reality, where there are no easy answers to the unspeakable tragedy it depicts. Some may even ask why such a film needs to exists. It is often said that cinema, in one way or another, is a reflection of the world we live in. That world is sometimes one we would rather pretend doesn’t exist due to the utter ugliness of it at times, and I believe it is vital to confront that reality by whatever means in an effort to understand. With school shootings, maybe all there is to understand is that there’s nothing to understand. Maybe tragedies like this are ultimately unstoppable. Maybe not. I don’t have the answers, but then again, neither does the film. Zero Day offers no answers (or at least no easy ones), but simply projects an account of what happened. Yes, fictional, but nonetheless all-too-real. This is the kind of movie that will spur lengthy discussions after viewing, as it should. 

If we can't get answers, at least Zero Day lets us know we're not alone in our lack of understanding.

ADDED TO 'GREAT FAVORITES': Wings of Desire (1987)

Directed by Wim Wenders

To give just a basic plot synopsis of Wings of Desire is a disservice: an angel falls in love with a mortal woman and wishes to become mortal to be with her…yeah, how laughably trite does that sound? Additionally, I’m not too sure fans of traditional romance will find themselves at home with Wings of Desire; the woman that our angelic protagonist so desires is not introduced until some 20 minutes in the film, and nothing of romance culminates until the final scene in the movie – even then, we’re not given a knot-tight resolution.

Wings of Desire, from Wim Wenders, is an achievement of an almost ethereal quality and one of the finest odes to the beauty of existence itself. I don’t think I have ever seen a film that has stated such a testament of a film so beautifully. And as beautiful as it is, it is also a truly original work, one of those great films that are almost indescribable, like Last Year at Marienbad or the more recent A Ghost Story, and Wings of Desire is indeed a love story.

Early in Wings of Desire, the mortal humans that traverse the streets of Berlin, going about their daily lives. High above in the clouds, the angel Damiel (Bruno Ganz) gazes down upon them (in an iconic shot). Another day at the office for him, I suppose, as he is something like a guardian, always watching over the people. Personally, though, I’ve always seen the slightest sense of ponderous melancholy within Damiel here.

Then we follow Damiel through another day’s work, ethereally soaring the skies, streets, and towering buildings of divided Berlin. He reads the inner thoughts of countless pedestrians; musings, laments, repressed emotions, dreams, the works. Damiel meets up with a fellow angel, comparing their observations, when Damiel fantasizes mortality: “…it would be rather nice coming home after a long day to feed the cat, like Philip Marlowe, to have a fever and blackened fingers from the newspaper, to be excited not only by the mind but, at last, by a meal, by the line of a neck by an ear. To lie! Through one's teeth. As you're walking, to feel your bones moving along. At last to guess, instead of always knowing.”

The angel exists in a way we so deeply desire – immortality, painlessness (not to mention metaphysical means of travel), but is this really living? Yes, in life, we experience pain beyond description, but would we be able to experience joy and happiness of tear-jerking degrees? Sometimes we go through heartbreak, but how reassuring and warming it is to know that the goodness of our being was so capable of loving somebody (or something) so much.

And this is the conclusion that Damiel reaches, the catalyst being Marion (Sloveig Dommarti) a lovely trapeze artist. Her troupe is disbanded, and she must wander the streets of Berlin, in search of some sort of calling, some sort of answer, some sort of ultimate attainment – notice a key piece in her wardrobe here: a set of wings.

I mean no camp or hyperbole when I say this: Wings of Desire is a work of divinity, of almost celestial power, not just thematically, but on a production level as well. There was a showing of Wings of Desire here in Tucson some time in 2017. Having not seen the film in four years at the time, I wanted to make a point of seeing it in the theater, but I declined and decided to stay in and instead. Big mistake.

Wings of Desire is an entrancing watch, one of those films that can be enjoyed purely by just watching it without any kind of context, all of which is exhibited right from one of the greatest opening scenes I’ve seen, and the visual and aural bliss never descend in quality. Henri Alekan’s camera is always controlled and smooth, patient and carefree, almost as if the viewer is a fellow angel.  Working in perfect synchronicity is the score by Jurgen Knieper and Laurent Petitgand, which sounds like the inner thoughts of an angel during a period of philosophical musing.

While Wings of Desire is not a character or performance-driven film, it is difficult to talk about without talking about leading man Bruno Ganz. I cannot believe that Ganz would masterfully portray the brutal dictator Adolf Hitler almost two decades later in the terrific Downfall. Here, in Wings of Desire, he is such a pleasant sight to behold. His mere presence is one that brings calm and reassurance, with softened features, a subtle yet gracious smile, and eyes always filled with wonder and amazement. One can’t help but relish with Damiel in his awe of the gift of being.

What I find most compelling about Wings of Desire is how it achieves its thematic ambitions. It is not a sappy ode to life where there is no bad to the point of fakery, as if life is forever tuned to R.E.M.’s “Shiny Happy People”, nor is it a film that is mercilessly bleak in its depiction of suffering that forces the viewer to be grateful for their ability to live. Granted, there is suffering in Wings of Desire as the angels study the inner thoughts of their mortal subjects: many are emotionally and spiritually crestfallen (one young man commits suicide), not to mention that the setting of ‘80s Berlin makes for a cold backdrop.

Though there is suffering in life, there is nothing more reassuring, if not uplifting, when we realize that we’re not alone in our struggle. The angels in Wings of Desire read the thoughts if literally everybody they pass, and their thoughts reveal a mutual sense of struggling endurance. They may not know each other in the physical realm, but perhaps there is a spiritual connection that links every human to one another, as if there’s a metaphysical reassurance that they’re in this together – even if they don’t know of their otherworldly acquaintanceship.

Wings of Desire is titled appropriately: wings are, indeed, a product of desire. Desire really has given humanity the power to fly, in some sense or another. We desire expression, we speak. We desire knowledge, we read. We desire spiritual consolation, we pray. Humanity has shamefully strayed off course in its flight with atrocities of war and oppression. But look around you: there’s still many a human that surrounds you, as long as we are still here, we can desire to end the pain. Let’s desire. Let’s keep flying.

FILM REVIEW: A Quiet Place (2018)

Directed by John Krasinski

* * * 1/2

A Quiet Place forced me to make a strange observation: boy, there’s a ton of sound in our everyday existence. So much that we don’t recognize it, from traffic cruising down the road to commercial airliners traversing the skies. Now imagine living in a world where all of that is practically non-existent, but to make the slightest noise will result in a horrifying fate. Picturing this is not only surreal, but also difficult because there’s so much sound going on around us we don’t even notice, but A Quiet Place believably paints this world with a terrifying color palette. Oh, the things we take for granted.

Some sort of apocalypse has stricken the world, and it’s the 89^th day after when A Quiet Place opens. Pretty typical post-apocalyptic setting: cars stopped in the middle of the road, trash riddled on the sidewalks, crumpled newspapers headline the fate of the world. We meet a family of five scavenging a general store, and they are intensely cautious with every move they make, taking their time with every item they take off the shelf, tiptoeing on bare feet, and speaking in sign language. A toy catches the eyes of the youngest (about 5 or 6), but dad doesn’t let him take it – “Too loud”. They move on from the store, but not before the older sister hands the boy the toy. Because of this, they become a family of four on the walk home.

We catch up with this family a little over a year later. They’ve settled into a farm house, and they have adapted to this world quite well, and life seems good…all things considered. But good things can’t last forever: the father and son go out to the wilderness, the daughter goes to visit the grave of her youngest brother, and the mother, who is expected to deliver a baby in the coming weeks, is doing chores when her water breaks. Nobody around to help her, nobody to call out to…let’s just say it’s going to be a long night.

The number one concern of A Quiet Place is not only establishing but maintaining the atmosphere of a world so unreal to us. Not an easy task, but A Quiet Place not succeeds, but succeeds cleverly. The film never stops for bloated or redundant exposition – it tells us everything we need to know about the world minutes after the film starts, and the most mundane of tasks become do-or-die trials by fire. Oh, and vocal dialogue is substituted with subtitled sign language.

What may matter to some in a film is not the little details, but the big picture. Fair enough, but never forget that the big picture is made up of those little details, and A Quiet Place never forgets this: characters are never seen with any kind of footwear on (though you’d think they’d at least wear socks). In a scene where the children play a game of Monopoly, game pieces are replaced by felt and cotton balls (dice are rolled on the carpet). All of these careful details set a cement-solid foundation of A Quiet Place, and it makes the climactic third act all the more terrifying.

But at the center of all this terror and tension is a family, wonderfully played by Emily Blunt (mother), John Krasinski (father), Millicent Simmonds (daughter), and Noah Jupe (son) – according to IMDb, the characters do have names, but I don’t think they were ever referred to by name the entire movie. Horror fans might be somewhat bored throughout the first half of A Quiet Place. After the horrific opening scene, the film goes a long time without anything really happening; the film just shows this family and their daily lives in this apocalypse, but it is all quite touching. The daughter blames herself for the death of her youngest brother (she gave him the toy, after all). The son is terrified of going into the wilderness with his father, but it turns out to be a warm father-son kind of day. There is a moment where they relax at a waterfall and let out loud hollers – this was a borderline tear-jerking joyous moment.

To those same horror fans that may be put off by the family drama, trust me when I say that it is worth the climactic third act. I’ve already mentioned the general set-up of the scenario (and it’s in the trailers), but it’s always worth it to see for yourself. The utter horror of the creatures is also a morbid sight to behold. We never get a good look at the creatures except for a few moments near the end, but the best way I can them; imagine demonic Phasmatodea that took predatory lessons from Jurassic Park’s velociraptors.

I must say that I wasn’t 100% in belief of the setup of the climax, being the mother’s pregnancy. It’s one thing if the delivery was due within at least a month, but she was due just a couple of weeks before the incident, and I can’t help but feel like if this were actually happening, the family would stick around the house until after the baby is born unless they’re in dire need of supplies (which is not implied in the movie). This wasn’t enough to make me stop caring about the family, nor was it a brightly glaring issue, but it still kind of irked me. But that’s really the one complaint I have.

Great horror usually has one of two effects: either it haunts the viewer for days, or it relentlessly assaults the viewer the entire runtime, and A Quiet Place fits perfectly in the latter. On top of being an unbearably tense experience, but it is also clever in its setup and confident in its execution, and that makes for an exceptional film. As for me, I left the theater not cautious of my movements, but I was certainly more aware of the noise my steps made. Perhaps I shouldn't have worn my Doc Martens.

FILM REVIEW: Chappaquiddick (2017)

Directed by John Curran

* * *

Here is a man – a politician, no less – who expresses integrity and intentions for the benefit of the American people, yet not only is he responsible for a death, but he continues to dig himself into a rabbit hole of lies and deceit to maintain a pretty face for the Oval Office. Perhaps a story we’ve heard too many times, disconcertingly more in real life than the movies, but hear me out: while Chappaquiddick tells this story, it paints said man in a sympathetic and somewhat tragic portrait. While I was never fully in sympathy with Ted Kennedy’s predicament, Chappaquiddick nonetheless had a captivating grip on me and never loosened once. I think everybody can agree that Ted Kennedy’s action was a mistake. I don’t dare excuse or apologize for the actions of the man in question, though; sometimes our mistakes will haunt us for the rest of our lives, and sometimes we deserve it.

Chappaquiddick recalls the incident at an island in Massachusetts that forever stained the conscience of Senator Ted Kennedy (Jason Clarke), where he drove off of a one-lane bridge into the water. This would result in the drowning of Secretary Mary Jo Kopechne (Kate Mara), who was riding passenger. He is advised to immediately report the situation to the police. There is sincerity in Kennedy’s tone when he says he will. The police are notified of the crash. Not from Ted, but rather two passerby’s.

The police arrive at the scene and manage to get Kopechne’s trapped body out of the car. Police Chief Arena (John Fiore) is summoned back to his office by request of Kennedy, who has Attorney Paul Markham (Jim Gaffigan) by his side and a statement on the incident prepared. The rabbit hole starts here. The statement is analyzed and dissected by journalists; lies and discrepancies are immediately spotted in the statement. Kennedy consults with colleagues, and they begin strategizing the next move – as long as it benefits their political agenda for Kennedy. So, the hole of lies and deceit digs deeper and deeper, all of which leads to Kennedy’s televised statement to the American public, leaving it up to them to decide if he is the right man for the country.

There is a nervous energy to Chappaquiddick. It always feels like there will be a combustion of chaos at any moment, but that moment of chaos never comes. Like the character of Ted Kennedy, to remain cool, calm, and collect is absolutely essential, and this makes Chappaquiddick all the more riveting a watch – this is further bolstered by the terrific cinematography and surprisingly compelling score.

Films set in time periods like this always seem to get caught up in the times and forget about the drama that is supposed to be the focus, often resulting in nostalgic pandering. Not the case in Chappaquiddick. Many times, I forgot I was watching a film set in the ‘60s, resulting in a timeless quality that makes it all the more accessible (especially for somebody who was not aware of the Chappaquiddick incident until the release of this film).

While the performances aren’t spectacular, they at least move the film along just fine. Seeing Jim Gaffigan in a dramatic role was really difficult to get used to, but that’s not going to lose the film any credit from me (and, to his credit, Gaffigan displays some dramatic potential). Most importantly, however, is Jason Clarke. I think somebody was hoping Chappaquiddick would be a big break for him. While Clarke plays the character just fine (not to mention he does bear great resemblance to Ted Kennedy), there’s nothing particularly mind-blowing in his performance.

Then again, I don’t think this is entirely Clarke’s fault, which leads to Chappaquiddick’s biggest problem. As I mentioned earlier, the film wants to paint somewhat of a sympathetic portrait of a man who screwed up big time. Fine by me, and sometimes the film does this: there are scenes where Kennedy is on the trail of a breakdown, conflicted as to whether he wants to do the right thing or save face for political gain – I can understand this inner conflict, considering how much effort he’s put into this. Other times, however, his character almost manically shifts gears into a dirty, deceitful politician, aware of his mistake with selfish regard, ready to knock out of the way anybody who gets in his way. When the film ended, I was never totally sure how to feel about Kennedy.

A remarkable scene reveals much about the character of Ted Kennedy, where he confronts his ailing father (Bruce Dern): he allegedly pushed all four of his boys into politics. Three of them are gone, and the only one left just made a mistake that will forever taint the Kennedy legacy. This is such a great dramatic scene that reveals so much about the character, and I feel with more exploration into this dynamic, the motivations of Kennedy would be better understood (considering his unusual shifts in behavior), but the dynamic I so deeply desire is never expanded upon and is dropped right after this scene.

Chappaquiddick makes a few attempts at Coen Brothers-style humor. There’s a scene where Kennedy is preparing a neck brace. He is confronted, and the result is a tackle that bears more resemblance to children fighting over a toy truck rather than a confrontation of awful behavior. Though not as forced as the Coen Brothers style, these scenes are present here in there throughout, and they don’t fit the weight of the situation. Though not insulting, they still feel inappropriate nonetheless.

I can’t exactly say that Chappaquiddick is a marvelous film. It’s not quite fleshed out enough to be the masterpiece it could have been, but it still treats the story with compelled fascination that makes for an exceptionally engaging watch, even after it’s over. Yes, I was confused about the portrayal of Kennedy, but the epilogue suggests that I should be confused. If so, good on you, Chappaquiddick.

FILM REVIEW: Loveless (2017)

Directed by Andrey Zvyagintsev

* * * 1/2

I was about eight or nine when my parents divorced. Don’t worry, I’m not crying for sympathy: it is way in the past and I’m not angry or bitter about the situation or anybody involved. Sometimes life just happens like that, and I can accept that, but I can’t deny that it was one of the absolute toughest things I’ve ever went through in my life. Perhaps this is why Loveless was such an arresting film for me. Even if I hadn’t though, I believe it would have had the same impact. I wish I could make some sort of joke or jovial quip about just how appropriate the title is, but I just can’t bring myself to: Andrey Zvyagintsev’s Oscar-nominated film is an unbearably cold and ultimately devastating trial through the dissolution of marriage (one that probably shouldn’t have happened in the first place).

Alexey’s (Matvey Novikov) parents – mother Zhenya (Maryana Spivak) and father Boris (Aleksey Rozin) – are going through a nasty divorce. Cramped inside a microscopic apartment, he can hear every argument, which is a shamefully regular occurrence (Alexey must cry himself to sleep every night). To Zhenya and Boris, as much as they hate each other’s guts, it is what it is, and they move about their daily lives. The film goes on and on, depicting the daily lives of Zhenya and Boris. One day, Boris is at work when Zehnya unexpectedly gives him a call. Alexey has gone missing.

They contact the police, but are referred to a local organization that searches for missing children (the police would take too much time with all the bureaucracy involved). A search party is gathered, and off they go to find the missing child in a procedural drama. Zhenya and Boris participate in the search, but even with the welfare of their own child on the line, they can’t put their contempt aside.

This is one of the most shameful and despicable couple of people I’ve seen in a movie. First, there’s Zhenya, who not only vocalizes her contempt to her husband, but also to her own child right in his face. She’s always glued to her iPhone, always somewhat detached from the harsh reality that is the real world. Boris is the opposite; always involved with bleak current events, from political turmoil to superstitious paranoia (the film takes place in late 2012, if you remember all the Mayan calendar scares). At least Boris is less despicable than Zhenya: at one point, the two are separated. Boris assists the search party while Zhenya calls up her rich boyfriend and stays the night in his cushy loft, but this is never enough to make up for his behavior.

One of the keys to the film’s grip factor is Mikhail Krichman’s cinematography, who has clearly taken many a lesson from Andrei Tarkovsky and Michelangelo Antonioni – regarding the latter, Loveless had countless parallels to Antonioni’s seminal L’avventura. Loveless is a brutally cold movie. From everything you’ve already read, you could probably imagine how chilly it is on a thematic level, but the film itself is freezing. It is set during the wintertime, but not with pearly-white snow to brighten things up. This is one of those gray winters, and the cinematography is masterful in capturing such a specific kind of winter.

A theme I sense in Loveless is history’s inevitable tendency to repeat itself. Right from the beginning, just by looking at Alexey’s face, we can sense how long this struggle has gone on. The theme goes further, though. Take Boris and Zhenya’s new partners, for instance. Everything we learn about these characters and seeing the climate of their current relationships, we can see that there is no hope for their futures: the same thing is bound to happen (which we can witness happening in the film’s coda). Back to Krichman; his shot composition only emphasizes this with these long telephoto shots that make the environments seem endless.

Loveless is a terrific film, but it doesn’t go without something to be desired, mainly with its unbalanced concern for its characters. I won’t be surprised if Zvyagintsev is accused of some sort of contempt for women. I don’t believe this is the case, but Zhenya is such an awful character, and Loveless never lets you forget what a bitch she is. There is a moment where she tells her boyfriend about her past – this clearly says something about who she is, and should have given me some sympathy for the character, which it did…but only for a brief moment. It’s especially frustrating when we turn to Boris. Granted, not exactly an upstanding fellow either, but the film clearly has a bit more concern and sympathy for him (until the end, that is), and I find the lack of balanced portrayal a bit unfair. More balance would have made an already compelling film even more so, and definitely would have gained the film a 4-star rating from me. But, this is not the case, and such is life, I suppose.

I read a lot about how Loveless is saying something (or trying to) about the current sociological environment of contemporary Russia. I can’t comment on this, as I’m not a scholar on the subject of Russia. That said, I don’t believe I need to know what’s going on over there. Loveless knows that truly great drama must be concerned with its human inhabitants before the big picture issues – after all, it’s the people that make up the big picture. Loveless, as heavy and emotionally draining as it is, is a riveting and arresting trip to the movies. It may not be pleasant, but I guarantee you’ll never forget it. I am sometimes cynical about the overly-prevalent “think about the children” sentiment (best, albeit excessively, ranted against by George Carlin), but when it comes to something like divorce, I can’t think of anybody who should take more priority than the children.

FILM REVIEW: The Death of Stalin (2017)

Directed by Armando Iannucci 

* * * 1/2

The iron-fisted ruler of the Soviet Union has died. They know this, yet they carry on with a nervous energy on the verge of combustion, as if Stalin is still watching their every move and listening to their every word – whatever it takes to be placed on one of Stalin’s “lists”. This clueless ineptitude (from high-ranking politicians, remind you) is that first domino that kicks off the ensuing hilarity of events, and is perhaps the funniest and most clever joke in the movie, something that The Death of Stalin is never lacking in.

So, Stalin (Adrian McLoughlin) croaks, and in come the buffoons that somehow became politicians, let alone reaching near the top of the Soviet totem pole: Khrushchev (Steve Buscemi), Beria (Simon Russell Beale), and Malenkov (Jeffrey Tambor), Stalin’s closest associates. Completely clueless as to what action to take next, they have to break out the literal handbook that guidelines the necessary actions in the event of Stalin’s death – this is implied via red-screened interludes with the instructions displayed on the screen, and then the required actions are carried out.

Beria makes Malenkov the nominal Premier (who is not suited for the position whatsoever), but only to use him as a puppet, essentially. I could almost say “let the games begin”, because the events following Stalin’s death is an endless deluge of insults, childish bickering, and backstabbing (figuratively), which all culminates in the climactic fiasco that becomes of the funeral for Josef Stalin.  

Imagine two young siblings bickering over whatever children bicker about these days. Then their mother tells them to simmer down or face the consequences. They may quiet down to their mother’s joy, but they don’t stop bickering, and it doesn’t take long for the obnoxious quarrelling to go right back to where it was. That is what The Death of Stalin is like. It never once lets up or stops for serious drama, but also never becomes overbearing in the comedy. From start to finish, there is always something to stir dispute and be argued about, and laughs always ensue – at least from me, anyway.

As hilarious as The Death of Stalin is, it never makes light of Stalin’s merciless rule over the Soviet Union, which is expertly captured (with comedy) in the opening scene – go and see it for yourself. Trust me.

The writing is absolutely terrific. I don’t think there’s one scene that didn’t make me chuckle at the very least, and at most there is at least one laugh-out-loud one-liner in each scene. One may argue that The Death of Stalin tries too hard at times, but I didn’t find this to be the case. Additionally, the film moves at a wonderful pace, always moving in that goofy sneaky speed-walk kind of pace. The entire film feels like something about to blow, and each scene only furthers toward combustion.

This is made all the better by the wonderful performances, especially from our three leads. Each of these characters has a very distinct personality, and the actors truly capture their characters so well, from Beria’s calculated coldness to Khrushchev’s colorful run-on commentary. Jeffrey Tambor as Malenkov is the performance that does it for me. Malenkov is one poor clueless sap: never really aware of what’s going on, passive and disconnected attitude about absolutely everything. It is a masterful comic performance that must be seen to be believed.

The production design is absolutely fantastic. While it was good, it wasn’t something I originally intended to write about. Yet here I am; the more I think about The Death of Stalin, the more I hope it gets decorative recognition for its production. Costumes and set designs are exactly what I picture when I picture circa-1950s Soviet Union. What I was most impressed by was the cinematography. As far as how shots are composed, it’s not too spectacular (save for a few shots), but what it makes up for is the color palette. The color palette is very bright and vibrant; lots of reds and earth tones. Not only is the film colored like the Soviet Union, but it also lessens the weight of the situation and makes room for more laughs.

There is one issue that was just a little too irksome for me. It’s actually kind of embarrassing for me considering how superficial it is. I try not to let insignificant details like this get in the way, but it kind of bugged me in The Death of Stalin: I read online that the film is a British co-production. This explains a lot, considering how almost everybody in the film speaks in a British accent. I do not expect a film to go all-out in geographic accuracy, but it would at least be nice if they actually spoke in Russian accents. This complaint faded away pretty quickly, though, as the humor has a very British feel to it, so the British accents actually make it funnier. That said, Buscemi and Tambor are American actors who do not speak in any kind of accent in the film, and the fact that they’re the only two Americans in a sea of Brits makes their out-of-place awkwardness stick out like a sore thumb.

Then there’s the music. Granted, this is not so much a complaint as much as pointing out a major missed opportunity. Here would be a great time to conduct a Russian-sounding score that over-exaggerates the stereotypical notes of Soviet music, but instead the music is rather generic. Once again, nothing bad, just a shame to think about what could have been.

A lot of reviews extol how timely and important this film is because of the circus sideshow that the current political climate has become, but isn’t how it’s always been? I don’t think The Death of Stalin will be remembered as a masterwork of satire, but it is hilarious with some witty writing and terrific performances, and as far as I’m concerned, politics always warrant savage parody. It’s just not news at this point.

IN MEMORIAM: Roger Ebert (1942 - 2013)

Please excuse me for opening on a rather morbid note; celebrity deaths almost never phase me. I assure you it doesn't come from any kind of place of heartlessness. It's just that I can only be so impacted by the death of somebody I never knew, even if I adored their output. Yeah, it is truly unfortunate that they won't be around to bless the world with whatever artistic gift they have, but at least we've got what we got from them. For me, I simply pick myself up and move on. With that said, I woke up on the morning of April 4th, 2013 to the shattering news. Roger Ebert had died.

My jaw hit the floor and my breath became nonexistent. I swear I could even feel the world physically becoming smaller, even if it was only by a slight bit. On this day, five years have passed. I have picked myself back up, but there is a space that Ebert left that nobody else can ever fill.

"Siskel and Ebert" was a little before my time, so I never grew up on the show, though I do watch a lot of it on YouTube. However, I have always been watching movies. From my young days of renting VHS tapes from Hollywood Video to my teenage days of avid DVD collecting, I feel like almost every movie I ever picked up always said "Two Thumbs Up!", and the names attached were Siskel and Ebert. Sometimes it was just Ebert. Seeing the name all of the time, it's hard not to be curious. I went to his website and started reading some reviews. I don't think I did anything else for the rest of the day.

The way he talked about film was like nothing I'd ever read or heard. His reviews were never "This Movie Was Good (or Bad) Because A, B, and C." Instead, he took you on a literary journey, and his feelings on whatever movie he was reviewing were expressed almost purely by the tone and style of his reviews. Whether he had a jolly good time with mindless popcorn entertainment, a profound experience that could only be described as spiritual, or one of the worst pieces of cinematic fecal matter in existence, Roger always knew how he felt, what to say, and how to say it. And most of the time, he was concerned purely with the movie, and politics and ethics were not of concern (though there are numerous exceptions, especially in his earlier reviews). He treated almost every film he saw fairly and always kept context in mind.

But there was something else there beyond his captivating style and clever wit. Let me put it this way: for as long as I could remember, I've always wanted to become a name in movies in some way. Believe it or not, one of the biggest reasons for me was to have a good chance to actually meet Roger. I can't begin to tell you how much our tastes in film align (I was rather relieved to find out I'm not the only one who didn't care for Full Metal Jacket), and what I would give to just sit down and talk movies with the man. Not to have some sort of history lesson on the French New Wave or Golden Era of Hollywood. Just sit down, BS, and geek out about movies. Five years ago, it hit me like a freight train: I will never, ever have that chance.

It's no secret that Roger is undoubtedly a huge influence on me; how I watch movies, how I analyze and interpret them, and how I review them. Hell, my writing style is greatly indebted to his. As far as film criticism goes, I've always looked up to Roger as my mentor, even if we never knew each other (on a physical plain, anyway). You know those old martial arts movies? Where the hero is left to fend for himself after the death of his teacher? That's how it really feels.

To this day, I still go to Roger Ebert's website and keep up with what his successors have to say about current releases. I want to say that I visit because if his successors are good enough for Roger, then they're good enough for me. Really, though, I think that it's because deep down in my being, I just hope to see one more review penned by Roger Ebert. I know that will never happen, so I make due with what I've got. I can't exactly say I'm happy with what I see, not because the critics on his site are bad writers, but because...I'm not exactly comfortable saying exactly why here, but go and read their review of Isle of Dogs (I stopped reading after the first paragraph). Granted, it's not always bad over there, but I just feel like nothing was learned as to why Roger was such a terrific critic.

Well, life goes on, and so must mine. Roger may not be with us anymore, but with all he has written over the years, I know I will always have his legacy to turn to and learn from. Maybe do yourselves a favor and watch one of his favorites for your next movie night. I know I will, so here's to you, Roger. We never knew each other, but I miss you dearly. I may not say it, but every piece I write for Red Eye is dedicated to you. See you at the movies.

Love, 

Jakob

FILM REVIEW: Pyewacket (2017)

Directed by Adam MacDonald

* * 1/2

I continuously find myself wondering why the subject of teenage angst is so condescendingly deprecated upon. Whether we were the social outcast or prom king/queen, it is a subject so universal to all of us. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, yet the topic still brings about dismissive scoffs. Perhaps revisiting angst-ridden days too painfully reminds one of troubling and regretful thoughts. Pyewacket will take you to those dark days, but take comfort, as I doubt many of us have had thoughts as grisly as those of Leah Reyes (Nicole Munoz).

While Leah may not be totally alienated, she definitely makes a point of staying on the social sidelines of high school. She has a very small circle of friends, she’s a goth and a metalhead, and she’s into the occult, her bookshelf filled with various tomes of black magic and pagan rituals. Things aren’t too well at home: her father has passed away and her mother (Laurie Holden) is an emotional wreck, almost always in tears and seemingly never without a bottle of wine. Finally, Mrs. Reyes can’t take it anymore: with the house being a frequent reminder of her husband, she sells it and moves to a small house in the woods.

Leah, having to leave her friends behind, is devastated. There has been mother-daughter tension in their relationship, but the move has only worsened it. Arguments get more frequent, and one debacle gets exceptionally heated. Enraged, Leah storms into the woods with relics and one of her occult books in hand. She goes through the ritual, calling upon the power of Pyewacket, hoping that it will curse her mother and ultimately destroy her. Strange things begin happening: Leah wakes up one morning to see the front door open with a trail of dirt dragged in; driving home, they have a split-second near collision with another car; one night, Leah hears footsteps in the attic.

As all this is happening, Mrs. Reyes opens her arms back up to Leah in understanding of her daughter’s frustrations. Leah soon regrets having conducted the ritual, and all of these bizarre episodes lead her to maddened paranoia.

You’ve heard me say it before, and you’ll hear me say it again (and again (and again)): the best of horror works with human drama setting the foundation. Pyewacket wisely followed this, so much so that for a while I forgot I was watching a horror film. While it depiction of teenage angst will not go down as one of the greatest, but it was well done, thanks to Nicole Munoz’s portrayal of Leah. Not an extraordinary performance, but she hits all the right notes in giving the character authentic angst-driven frustration as well as regretful paranoia – I truly believed Leah and all her struggles. Laurie Holden, though not on par with Munoz, has decent chemistry with Munoz. Not much to say, but then again, she’s not the central focus of Pyewacket, so it’s not too much of a problem.

You become engaged in the drama that you almost don’t notice the tension rise up, and it effectively sneaks up on you. It turns into an exemplary depiction of paranoia. We look at every single situation in the eyes and shoes of Leah – on one hand, perhaps all the weird stuff going on is either just coincidence or all in Leah’s head. Or is it the result of the Pyewacket ritual? These thoughts circle in your head over and over again and just tightens the tension. By the climax, Pyewacket goes from psychological suspense to bona fide horror. I dare not say a single thing, but let me just say that my jaw might as well have hit the floor. Stunning, terrifying, arresting.

The visual style also boosts the scare factor. Visually, Pyewacket is heavily indebted to the likes of The Evil Dead and The Blair Witch Project. If we’re not ethereally cruising through the forest in some sort of paranormal POV shot, we’re dashing through that same forest complete with jagged shaky-cam (for the record; this is not a found footage film). All at once, it makes the paranormal presence all the more real, while ironically making the situation feel more like paranoid delusion.

Pyewacket is a film that admirably keeps its mouth shut. When it comes to the exposition, it is addressed rather than explained, and any gaps that may be present can be easily filled by the viewer. The minimal dialogue also makes the already horrifying tension even more so. Unfortunately, the film went a little too far with staying “quiet”, so to speak. Pyewacket’s primary weakness is how underwritten it is. Yes, some moments work better with nothing said; other moments could really use some talking.

Take the title for instance: you might be wondering what the hell Pyewacket means. The online plot synopsis tells me that the titular namesake is some sort of witch of occult lore. Perhaps it is mentioned at some point in the movie, I don’t know. If so, I must have missed it. When the name is mentioned during the ritual, if seems more like some sort of mantra. Additionally, this underwritten script prevents any relationships in the movie from truly flourishing: as mentioned earlier, Leah is sad when she has to leave her friends, but those other kids are just kind of there and serve next to no purpose to the story, with the exception of Chloe Rose as Janice, who is involved in one of the film’s most terrifying sequences.

Some may complain about the score, which is about what you’d expect from a horror film. I didn’t mind it: the movie would work just as well without it. As an exercise in psychological horror, Pyewacket is truly terrifying, but Pyewacket still leaves a bit more to be desired than I would have liked. It’s worth a trip to the cinema for horror aficionados. Everbody else: do put it on your radar, but wait for the rental.