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Archive for the ‘Frances McDormand: acting goddess’ Category

The Tragedy Of Macbeth

06 Jan

The Tragedy of Macbeth — directed by Joel Coen. Costume Drama. 1 hour 45 minutes Black And White 2022
★★★★★
The Story: A victorious general hears a prediction that he will be king and his wife convinces him to take the necessary steps — which produce dire consequences.
~
“The Tragedy Of” — what a title! Do the words mean we are meant to care about Macbeth from the start? You bet your life it does.

And you’d better bet your life or you won’t recognize what this movie of The Tragedy of Macbeth is about. It’s about someone who bets his life.

When Mike Todd died in an air crash, he was on his way to sign Lawrence Olivier and Vivien Leigh to make a movie of Macbeth. It was said to be Olivier’s greatest role. You will no longer wonder why theater folk never quote it or mention the play by name but refer to it only as The Scottish Play. Worse than bad luck — to theater folk sheer misfortune is always attached to the title and its contents.

Well, the Oliviers never made it, but Olivier did say this. He said that Mrs Macbeth was stupid. He meant that she was a Park Avenue bitch who got above herself by wanting her husband to become CEO Of The Corporation he was a mere field manager for. Olivier said that the tragedy of Macbeth was he fell victim to that inclination in humans of: “I know this won’t work, but I’m going to try it anyhow.”

The thing about Macbeth is that he is not by nature or inclination an executive. He is a soldier. His wife wants him to have a title that will give her a title, but she has no sense of whether he is right for the job. He isn’t and won’t be. Like Jackson, Eisenhower, Grant or Washington or, in another way, Donald Trump, he is out of place as an administrator. And we never see him as a competent king. Only as someone who wants to hold onto the title once it is his.

Macbeth is Shakespeare’s shortest tragedy. One thing this means that its story is brisk enough to play itself. Unlike Hamlet and King Lear it never threatens to be diffuse. But the role of Macbeth is nonetheless hard to play. And the reason for this is that once the cho-choo train of the play gets going with the assassination accomplished, the play tends to just carry the actor along — but after that it’s very hard for the actor to stay upright in the role and in the present. The conflict for him, once his wife is satisfied, is all offstage in England or Ireland. This means that the actor playing Macbeth can just ride it out. Or indulge the talent in his guts with those fabulous speeches.

Yes, Hamlet’s conflict is also internal. But, unlike Macbeth’s, Hamlet’s conflicts are always also on stage and right on front of his nose: with his father, his uncle, his mother, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and finally Laertes. All Macbeth’s enemies are fantasies. The only conflict King Macbeth is actually faced with is the Laertes figure of MacDuff at the end.

Some Macbeth actors fall asleep. They nap under the counterpane of their technique. Or their performing personality. This means they, when they sometimes wake up, must catch up, like Jason Robarts Jr. whom I saw do it with Siobhán Mackenna. John Colicos overplayed it, which meant he is always way down the track chewing ham to drag the engine forward, even with Carrie Nye, a little blonde flower, touching as Lady Macbeth perhaps because less shattered by the play than by Colicos’s explosion of scenery chewing. Geraldine Page got herself up like Ellen Terry in a wig with a huge red braid down the back but underplayed the role because she was playing it with a husband, an actor, Rip Torn, far less talented than herself and who hadn’t a clue. Orson Welles got in the engine and drove the train. Paul Rogers and Coral Browne were overblown provincials one discovered interloping the stage of the Wintergarden.

After Duncan’s death, the Macbeth train drives itself. And Denzel Washington tends to lag. When he catches up and jumps on board, he plays it as it lays, at least when he wakes to the fact that he has fallen asleep in the role, which is to say that Macbeth has fallen asleep — which, in Washington’s case, is not a conscious decision to be unconscious, but an unconscious one. Is Macbeth’s besetting sin that, outside the battlefield, he is terribly lazy? Or is it because he has nothing kingly really to do?

Perhaps the problem is that Denzel Washington does not have the vocal foundation for Shakespeare. Shakespeare wrote plays to be seen by thousands at a time in an outdoor theatre without microphones. The voice production they were written for, in, as, and require, has two effects. The actors who have it may become audible even of a whisper and they may become present in the parts, because the role may arise from deep in their being.

But maybe the problem is that after the assassination, the role of Macbeth seems to be something that is merely happening to the actor. Why? Maybe because once Macbeth is out of his depth as murderer, the role loses its dramatic force because missing on-stage conflict. Once he gets on the slide and must go down — doesn’t only great Gravity run the show?

How, without dramatic opposition is one to act, then, the major part of the play? Does the play then not become a case study of human dissolution? Or a program of gorgeous monologues? Or a series of set pieces? Or a catalogue of predictable lost causes?

Denzel Washington’s Macbeth is not deeply lodged in his body. He is vocally ordinary. His is filmspeak technique. The actors rehearsed the play a good while before they performed it for camera, but never before a large audience. It needs from him depth of attack. He needs to dive into it and rise from it.

The role of Macbeth is that of a person who thinks he must fight, kill, and cheat fate to hold his job. The trouble is he is not fit for the king position to begin with. For, while as a general Macbeth has legitimately killed many people and knows how to do it, he is not an assassin. He is a soldier. He would never consider killing the president — but his social-climbing wife convinces that his role as a male means he must become one. Besides the witches have foreseen him as king. But Washington’s vocal level is a choice inapt to such a massive situation. Denzel Washington is not hammy, but the role of Macbeth is not a slice of Nebraska bacon either.

Denzel Washington brings other forces to Macbeth. His male presence, his bowed legs, his height, his looks, his heft, his vast martial arts training, his ability to wear period costume, his searching eyes, and our expectations for what a superstar such as him might offer — for whether he produces its effect or not, we assume he has done so. And this is understandable with this play in which for most of the play the part of Macbeth plays itself.

It may be the director’s choice, but Denzel Washington is allowed to play it more contemplatively, meaning that some of its big scenes are played with him sitting down — which they were not written to be. Washington is very good at contemplation, no one better, but contemplation is not the same as being to this degree upset. Indeed, Macbeth is a role in which the actor must never stop pacing the floor.

One person who is right for the job is Lady Macbeth as Queen. She is a quick, slick operator and a canny administrator. She is right about being Queen, wrong about her husband’s being King.

Arthur Miller said of Macbeth that there is a scene missing — a final scene between Lady Macbeth and Macbeth. It is an interesting observation because Lady Macbeth does tend to disappear from the action that she has been instrumental in bringing into being. The play as written confirms the Macbeths’ marital separation by her absence from the stage. Before and after the assassination of King Duncan, in addition to being his wife, she is also Macbeth’s head nurse. After the assassination, she is not his wife, but only his nurse. But then the nurse herself goes crazy. Once she becomes Queen her roles run down, and she disappears from him even as spouse, he who is espoused only to remain supreme.

What first can be noticed about Frances McDormand’s Lady Macbeth is her skirting of the monster-wife Judith Anderson brought to Maurice Evans’ Macbeth. Instead she dives under the role and brings us a woman whose own strength is disabused by its outcome in a series of the gruesome effects of it on her husband. She takes him to be as strong in the same way as she herself is. Her wishes in the matter are her undoing, and McDormand brings us a character so firmly rooted in the inevitability of her own strength that the derangement of her husband’s mind that her own strength causes deranges her own mind. As to madness, the Macbeths are simply contagious of one another. They are both incarnadined by their murder of the king, but, when she goes off the deep end, it is from a very high platform — which is to say that the actress does not begin the role, as many actresses do, playing Lady Macbeth already as a cold neurotic vicious bitch but as sexually warm and sane.

On the other hand, McDormand is never ordinary in the sense of every-day. It’s not McDormand’s nature as a human. Frances McDormand is always special. She knows how to bring queenly confidence from before even her first scene. Her confidence will result in a ghastly success. Frances McDormand — who would ever imagine her to be a movie star! Yet, who could ever doubt it. Our incredulity rivets us to her. For another contribution of Frances McDormand to the tragedy is that, unlike every other actress I have seen in the role, and I have seen a great many good ones, one believes from the start that Frances McDormand loves her husband.

Vocally, she is more at home with the text than Denzel Washington. On a deeper level, she is comprehensible always. Arthur Miller is wrong in thinking a scene is missing between Lady Macbeth and Macbeth. Her death-scene exists in a single line, the sentence, “She should have died hereafter.” That’s all he has to say. So we never learn how she died, because Macbeth does the unthinkable — he never asks. Divorce knows no greater spectacle to demonstrate itself than the absence of this natural husbandly and human question.

My first reservation about this production came before I saw it, and that was the actors were too old. These parts are usually played by actors twenty years younger, but ripe enough so that the ambition for a life-long royal status would be understandable in them. But I was mistaken. These two are both in their 60s and both are grounded in the material, nonetheless. I witness that ambition is not age-specific.

Nor is the film race-specific. This results from the film being in black and white which has the effect of washing out race difference. That Denzel Washington’s face is masked in a grey beard washes it out also. And costuming remains uniform between the races, which tends to blend them. So my experience of this Macbeth did not bring any sense of race to mind as I watched, but only now as I summon the matter.

The film is enhanced by the physical production of it, which includes the music by Carter Burwell which never attempts music of the Middle Ages or the country of Scotland, but rather halos the action in the realm of its zeitgeist, which is its true locale, a possibility floating like a dissonant tune in our human potential, the music of this sin in the atmosphere of life itself.

The German Expressionist style of sets by Stefan Dechant does the same thing. We are never in some dank castle in Scotland and do not need to be and do not want to be. We are in the straightened corridors of truth itself or the vast chambers of state of a story, such that nothing distracts from us from the tragedy once the startling effect of each the set dissolves into what it more importantly contains.

Bruno Delbonnel’s photography works to the same end. We are never in the Highlands. We are always in The Mind Of Us All.

The costumes by Mary Zophres accomplish the same narrative clarity — they never existed in the Middle Ages. They exist only as a meeting ground for the veracity of this catastrophe.

All this enables us to fall into The Tragedy Of Macbeth without obstacles. Down we go, right into it. Pointless to hold on for safety. Clarity and Simplicity clear the space for us. Everyone knows about this story because everyone has its temptation in them.

Kill them. Kill them all. Until there’s no one but Me left standing.

 
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Posted in Denzel Washington, Frances McDormand: acting goddess, WRITTEN BY: William Shakespeare

 

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Moonrise Kingdom

27 Aug

Moonrise Kingdom—directed by Wes Anderson. Slapstick Comedy. 94 minutes Color 2012.
★★★★★
The Story: A twelve year-old girl and boy run off into the woods together and a whole town seeks to find them.
~
Glad to see this from its start to its finish, for me it is as though Buster Keaton transmogrified himself into a technicolor camera and let loose a whopping good fable. Actually Moonlight Kingdom is It Happened One Night updated to 1965, and It Happened One Night was actually The Taming Of The Shrew 1591 updated to 1934. I am watching a movie with an animated cartoon aesthetic, except the aesthetic is belongs to Wes Anderson rather than Looney Tunes. Spectacular silliness.

For Anderson is not so much funny in what he says as in how he shows. And the acting style the actors hop onto is Anderson’s odd bandwagon of straightfaced dedication to the preposterous and necessary. The pictorial symmetry of the camera opens up my brain, as though both my eyes were finally and concurrently put to separate use and flattered so to be. As a story teller he compliments and complements me at every turn.

Here we have Harvey Keitel, Jason Schwartzman, Frances McDormand, Bill Murray, Edward Norton, Bob Balaban, Tilda Swinton, and Bruce Willis to chase the children through the woods, and every one of them knows exactly what tone to pitch.

They are helped by a posse of a zillion boy scouts and a hurricane and Benjamin Britten’s Young Person’s Guide To The Orchestra, his Noah’s Fludde, and a fanciful score by Alexandre Desplat. Indeed I experienced the movie itself as a duet between the movie itself and its score.

Moonrise Kingdom is candy from one’s childhood, the kind I hadn’t tasted since long ago, the sort I didn’t think they made anymore. It put a smile on my face. It puts a smile on my face to search for the words to send you its way.

 

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

27 Nov

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri – written and directed by Martin McDonough Melodrama. 155 minutes Color 2017
★★★
The Story: A woman, to uncover the murder of her daughter, a crime about which she believes everyone else has fallen asleep, wakes them up.
~
Grand Guignol is a writing style whose aim is to cover the audience with as much gore as room-service can carry in on the tray of its plot.

The effect is shock. Outwardly.

Inwardly the outward emphasis on shock forbids depth.

Who suffers from this lack of depth in the writing most cruelly is Frances McDormand, whom we all love, for the style leaves her character of the heroine in the same position in which it first presents her, of rigorous retaliation. It isn’t her fault. Woody Harrelson, as the local sheriff, plays the angel, so of course, he never changes. Sam Rockwell suffers less, simply because his character of the villain is more mobile and less predictable.

In one sense his performance is so good, you think it’s being performed by an amateur. A part of every human being is dangerously stupid. Rockwell does not play-act this stupidity; he discovers, embraces, and revels in it.

Of course, in another sense, Rockwell sufferers most of all, for we are expected to swallow that he undergoes a fifth-act character change from a man who can’t foresee two feet in front of him to a man who can strategize himself into the solution of an unsolvable case. A maniac into a maven on the turn of a dime? Now, I ask you.

What you get with Grand Guignol is a picture drooling with violence and the improbabilities necessary to support its presentation.

If what you want is this, then this is what you want: Cancer blood coughed all over your face, having your mother kick your schoolmates in their groins, covering your head with a velvet bag and shooting your brains out, wife strangulation, a chemo tube wrenched from one’s veins and its blood splashed over the walls, Molotov cocktails tossed into the local police station for no reason, an innocent boy beaten to a pulp and thrown out a second story window, that boy’s young female office mate smashed in the face with a Billy club, pyromania as an act of wifely correction, a window engulfed in flames smashed through by a man to burn almost to death on the street, a lovely teenage girl, murdered, then raped, then set ablaze.

This is the realm of Grand Guignol. It is the realm of BDSM. With the writer/director the dominant/sadist, and the rest of us having to endure the punishment of reading a movie review recording his bent.

 
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Posted in ACTING STYLE: AMERICAN REALISTIC, Frances McDormand: acting goddess, Sam Rockwell, Woody Harrelson

 

Hail, Caesar!

18 Feb

Hail, Caesar! – written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. Comedy. 106 minutes Color 2016.

★★★★★

The Story: Scandals that flare up must be doused by the studio fixer.

~

What do I make, one asks at first glimpse, of this Jollywood piece?

It opens in a confessional with Josh Brolin disgorging petty sins with wracked soul. When the priest asks him how long since has been to confession he says something like 27 hours, and is fobbed off with the penance of a few hail maries. We know at once by the solemnity of Brolin that we are in Jollywood land, that is to say we are in the selfsame satire-land as Singing In The Rain, dealing with the same object, and at just about the time Singing In The Rain was shot; that is, we are in the dread early ‘50s and we shall, therefore, now gorge on a full blown and deftly played Jollywood satire.

Jollywood? A comedy actually making fun of Hollywood.

And what pleasures there are, to be sure!

We have Tilda Swinton as vicious identical twin sisters, as antipathetic to one another as de Havilland and Fontaine. Swinton does the spitting cobra better than anyone around. Then we also have Scarlett Johansson in a major impersonation of Esther Williams in full fishtail and from the Bronx.

With this sort of acting, the actors do not have to do anything but – as Jack Nicholson has told us – “act accordingly,” which means that all Johansson has to do is inquire about the strength it must take for a legal clerk to stamp a page, and all Jonah Hill has to do it raise his big clerk’s to say “It’s my job” and let them fall on the first woman who has ever flirted with him in his life – and you know, no further word said, that something hysterically unlikely is to happen.

How do actors do that?

The words are not nothing, but the fleeting attitude of the actor seals it.

And here every actor is in sync with a subtlety of style which the Coen Brothers command from every side. It’s called making fun of something without using a pig bladder.

Brolin, a marvelous actor, once again carries the film. He plays the role of the fixer, Eddie Mannix from MGM days (although Capitol Films is what the present firm is named), and he goes about putting out fires that might incinerate reputations.

The main of these is the kidnapping of superstar George Clooney, almost through filming a film of the bloated Quo Vadis ilk, but snatched off by a covey of commies who claim blackmail from Brolin. Clooney is the most deft of light comedians, but his funniest scene in the film is his most serious: I shall not tell you; you’ll know it when it comes.

As side dishes we have Frances McDormand as an overdressed obsessive film editor, Ralph Fiennes as an Edmund Goulding type director, and Channing Tatum superbly dancing a big Gene Kelly sailor-on-leave production number. Each one hits the comic nail delicately on the thumb.

But the performance that seals the film and steals it too is by the darling Alden Ehrenreich – at least he plays a darling – as a young singing cowboy thrust into a drawing room comedy. He’s great at rope tricks and fancy bronc riding, but he can’t seem to get his lips around a word beyond “Tarnation!” He’s a wonderful actor and fresh as a daisy. You must delight yourself with this performance. Don’t miss him.

The film is pure entertainment.

Pure?

Sheer entertainment. That is, it is transparent. You think maybe that the values of the ‘50s Hollywood are dead and gone? Think it at your peril. The ‘50s are gone, but the values are in full force in 2016. How could it be otherwise?

The Coen Brother are, after all, masters of the hollow.

 

 

 

 

 

Mississippi Burning

21 May

Mississippi Burning –– directed by Alan Parker. Drama. Two FBI agents search a small Southern town for the murderers of three young civil rights workers. 128 minutes Color 1988.

★★★★★

It hasn’t dated one day.

Two widely divergent investigative styles cross their purposes in this recounting of the actual murders. And in this the film has its only flaw, which is the casting of Wilhem Dafoe as the conservative by-the-books young Turk agent whose methods overwhelm the investigation. He is either miscast or not a good enough actor to play the role unconventionally. Instead we get the conventions: the glasses and the stuffy manner. We get the primness and the stiff necked pride. The problem is as soon as the role is played that way the audience dismisses the character as known.

It needed to be played with easy physical flexibility and charm. The character would still have to say the same lines, it’s just that you would never be able to expect what was coming. It needed an actor much more temperamentally lithe than Dafoe – Robert Downey Junior, say – an actor with whom you never know what’s coming, an actor who can play against the script and still reveal it.

Particularly as opposite him, Gene Hackman, as the second string agent, gives what may be his finest screen performance, in a character so fluid and variable that he can infiltrate a den of snakes and out-writhe them. Every choice is subtle and pertinent. His scenes opposite that great actress Frances McDormand, as the modest wife of the criminal deputy are exquisite.

The film uses Southern negro townsfolk, and their wonderful faces and beings illuminate the screen with telling force. The same is true of the sets and set decoration, which is first class (I know those Southern bungalows) and the locations, most of which were taken in the deep South. These lend an astonishing veracity to the poverty and down-troddenness of the black folk, and the brain-damage of the white folk whose blind bigotry strong-arms and gentles the negroes into the shanty mind of second class citizens in a free nation. Which changes with glacial rapidity. Not even that.

Yet it happened, and they caught those rats.

I was moved by the story and impressed by the authenticity of everything I saw in Mississippi Burning. All of it still pertains.

 

Promised Land

14 Jan

Promised Land – directed by Gus Van Sant. Drama. Two oil salespeople interlope a Pennsylvania farm town to sign it up for oil fracking, and come up against an informed populace and a charming environmentalist. 106 minutes Color 2012.
★★★★
Everything else is decor. There are three elements in a movie. The acting, the story, the narration. And here’s a film you really want to root for.

The acting is impeccable. Matt Damon is one of the few actors who can actually mull on camera. He can transfer from a likeable hero to a likeable wretch in the same role and you go with for the ride. He is the most useful actor in films today. Frances McDormand, belovèd of all, has an inner humor and heart that is staunch in all dire straights. John Krasinsky is masterfully fluid and appealing here, and if I have never seen him before, I would be interested to see him again. We have Hal Holbrook – when has he ever wronged us? – while Rosemarie DeWitt upgrades every scene she is in.

Gus Van Sant’s direction of all this is balanced, easy on the eyes, sure. His sense of place gives us town and farm scenes that make us confident that we are there.

And the story? Ah, the story. It is like Frank Capra’s State Of The Union with Matt Damon playing Spencer Tracy. It’s the story of a man setting out on a worthy course, only to be seduced by his own rhetoric. And it would work – but it has a trick ending, and trick endings o’erset everything as a rule, including the audience’s faith in what they have just committed their trust to.

The issue of every story is: How do you get out of this predicament? But the problem here is divided predicament. Is the predicament how inconscionable large corporations are? That is to say, will Matt Damon realize he mustn’t continue in his career because corporations are wicked and manipulative?

Or is the predicament, how can he be gotten to see that fracking is poisonous and that he should not embrace a career that promotes it?

The answer to the second is that the Matt Damon character should already know that fracking kills water tables, long before he gets to Pennsylvania; he is 38, after all. Or is he a dope? – which is not the way he is presented. As to the corporations, the trick ending leaves us in no uncertainty about that. But that is a trick to cover a defect of focus. The trick ending shatters our credulity, and in our betrayal such questions snap to the surface, where they should never arise at all.

Damon and Kasinsky produced the picture as well as wrote it and stared in it, so there was no way such questions could snap to the surface of them. They lost us because they were lost. The film would have been far more successful had it been much less pat, more at loose ends. Does Matt really regain his manhood just so that he can walk into the arms of Rosemarie DeWitt at the end? Is that all there is: a hardon? What does he do then? Raise chickens? Children? Cain? Well, that too is unanswerable. As to the film? Well, I liked it, but, obviously, oh, I wish I had liked it better.

 

Laurel Canyon

10 Jan

Laurel Canyon – directed by Lisa Cholodenko. Sex Drama. Conflict arises when an uptight young doctor and his fiancé move into the house of his libertine mother. 104 minutes Color 2002.
★★★★
“Do I have to review this film?” I whine. “I only watched it because of Frances McDormand. If I write it, I’ll have to pigeon all over Christian Bale, and I don’t want to pigeon all over anybody. What’s wrong in this actor?”

It has been pointed out that he has no sense of humor of any kind, and that certainly seems to be the case. But perhaps it is also true that, an Englishman, he should not be playing Americans. Or at least it seems so, since this particular character looks like he learned his personality from watching TV acting. Did the character do that or did the actor do that?

The problem, for me, is that there seems to be that within Christian Bale that cannot play a character who can be trusted.

He is brilliant, powerful, and adept, but this so dominates his energy that it supervenes all other character needs, such as being affectionate, loving one’s mother, or one’s brother – which is why he was so perfectly cast in The Fighter for which he rightly won a supporting Oscar. He cannot be trusted. All the more so, since Bale’s humorless solemnity and self-seriousness seems not that of the character he is playing, but a form of artistic arrogance. Watching him, we feel always up against the ingrown vanity of his craft. He seems always self-tragic. I find it sickening. I also question it as true. True as an introvert.

For is this character an uptight introvert? Or is not his fiancée the uptight introvert? Yes, she is. And what seems obvious in his playing his character as an introvert is that he actually is not one at all when, at a certain point, he flies into full blown rage against his mother, played by Frances McDormand. This outburst looks far more natural. Otherwise he sits there responding by twitching his mouth and making-the-masculine. For Bale is brilliant in extrovert scenes – although the power of their acting this one with McDormand is lost by being shot with them moving down hotel stairs, and by a failure of the writing to let them really face off.

McDormand is an astonishing actress and more than holds her own against Bale’s real power. She brings fully integrated character forth for us, an L.A. record producer, doing dope and screwing and running a band’s recording sessions as an accomplished executive, biting and hospitable, smiling and baffled. She is completely convincing and funny as can be. The film succeeds largely because of her.

But the film fails in terms of the sexual values the script exposes. For it assumes these values are up for whim or will. But they are not; sexual values are not learned; they are inherent. Men don’t learn their sexual code from Cosmo or from other males. They are born with it, like any other genetic code, so the idea that Bale could have a flutter with the Israeli doctor, played beautifully by Natascha McElhone, who rolls her gorgeous eyes at him, is nonsense. It is a non-starter as a dramatic premise. Other different codes display themselves, McDormand’s and that of her singer boyfriend, beautifully played by Alessandro Nivola. And they too are inherent.

But the real problem with the script is that the conflict between the mother and the son is never run to a thorough battle and thus to a convincing truce. Indeed we are falsely forced in another direction entirely. Because of the overture of his eating out his girlfriend which, for some reasons, precedes the credits, we are forced to know that Bale is sexually competent, which makes no sense, since he finds his mother’s nature and her way of life intrusive. She does not intrude but to him her very existence intrudes. This matter is not settled by her shy admission at the end that she loves him. It works no better than his intern scenes in the hospital, for one would no more trust Christian Bale as one’s therapist than one could trust his Bruce Wayne to lurch toward honor and social restitution as a character the only properly cast quality of the actor being those fang-pointed wings.

 

Almost Famous

26 Jun

Almost Famous – directed by Cameron Crowe. Music Drama. A teenager becomes a stringer for Rolling Stone Magazine to cover the disintegration or rebirth of a famed Rock and Roll band. 124 minutes Color 2000.

★★★★★

Well, Frances McDormand is the best actress ever. Here she plays the pestering mom of the boy journalist, and each time she appears she is both dead on true and dead on funny. The boy is a gawky pubescent chap adopted by his journalist mentor played brilliantly, of course, by Phillip Seymour Hoffman, a master of eccentric timing to allow a real life character to spring up through the cracks of his lines, as it were. The whole story is a dear adventure, based on the director’s actual experience as a fifteen year old kid sliding into the world of the big Rock stars, participating in their tours, being taken as an experienced journalist, and eventually filing the story. Crowe manages the mise-en-scene immaculately. He lived the boy’s story when young, and he brings it to life with relish and a loving eye. Billy Crudup is the target of the young journalist’s particular aim for a scoop, so we see a good deal of him. Crudup does not quite nail the inner life of the character, but depends on the story to do his work. In the crucial scene, when an apology is due from him to the boy, his failure to make it goes unregistered by the actor. But still, it is always a pleasure to see this fine actor, very beautiful twelve years ago, and in fine form as a Rock star, first deranged by modesty, then by drugs. Kate Hudson is the band-aide 15 Year old sex object of both the boy and Crudup, and she plays it out with remarkable presence. Anna Paquin is in it, but for some reason is not used properly. But Jason Lee is dynamite as the less-talented leader of the band, too full of himself to face the fact. It’s a good movie, even if you don’t, like me, care about Rock and Roll. A sort of open-heart surgery on the music world of that time, but the heart, while stricken, is sweet.

 

Miss Pettigrew Lives ForA Day

15 Oct

Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day — directed by Bharat Nalluri  Period romantic comedy in which a ditzy 1930s chanteuse is rounded by up an imposter housekeeper who heads them both for romance. 92 minutes color 2008.

* * * * *

Yes, for the presence of the great Lee Pace. He seems to be unrecognizable from role to role — from the transgender Calpurnia in Soldier’s Girl, to Dick Hickock the Clutter murderer in Infamous, to this forthright male in love with a woman he will sacrifice not one iota of his lyrical being to gain. At 22 as Calpurnia, the arch-archer of feminity, to the male of males now, here at 28, and at the peak of his masculinity. Pettigrew was the first picture I noticed him in, and now I make a rewarding investigation of his contributions to the art. What a great actor! As to the picture itself, I liked it. It’s poorly directed visually and narratively, but there are wonderful actors in it, among whom is the manly Ciaran Hinds and that devious little minx Shirley Henderson, and they are tip top. Our beloved Frances McDormand as the housekeeper whacked-out on ethics, and Amy Adams as the Spring Byington-in-the-making, scatter-brained object of Pace’s perfect love. Pace and Adams play a night club duo, and both sing superbly. I saw it with an older crowd in the theatre, and they applauded, and I can understand why. I applaud here. It’s not for the puerile.

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