ANORA

By Marc S. Sanders

Anora, or Ani as she prefers to be called, had to have been a character that writer/director Sean Baker always intended on loving.  Not in an intimate way though.  Sean Baker had to deeply care about this twenty-three-year-old girl who has no connections or family or solid friendships or kinships.  Baker wrote about Anora, wanting her to be appreciated by someone who would finally embrace her. 

Anora—sorry…Ani…has a good heart.  She may be an exotic dancer at a New York City strip club, but she is someone who has every right to be respected and valued. If you choose to watch the film you’ll know why, as a pertinent prop referenced earlier in the picture suddenly resurfaces when you least expect it.  A minute or two later the closing credits appear amid the sound of flapping windshield wipers and there is no music to cue your emotional response.  You likely will have spent the last two and a half hours laughing loudly, dropping your jaw, and gasping in shock at what unfolds for Ani. In the end though, you’ll realize that you want the best for her, like her creator did when he originally drafted this script and shot the film about Ani’s episodic escapades.

Sean Baker’s film is eye opening right from the start.  Club music blares within the HQ, the name of Ani’s strip joint where she collects an exorbitant amount of dollar bills while she strategically flirts with middle-aged men and frat boys looking for an evening of debauchery.  She has a talent for one on one charm with any customer, as she repeatedly bares her chest and reveals her thong, but she also delivers a very satisfying service.  A young man named Ivan, sometimes it’s Vanya (Mark Eydelshteyn), specifically requests a girl who speaks Russian to cater to his needs.  Ani is the only one who can comply.  Ani and Ivan get to talking, mostly in Russian but limited English too.  She gets invited to his private, deco mansion, which is really owned by his Russian aristocratic parents, and a slap happy relationship of sex and more sex, and money, and drugs and drinking and partying and New Year’s Eve partying and money, and clothes and expensive coats, and travels to Las Vegas ensue.  (Yes! I know that was a run on sentence.  My elaborate text does not even come close to what these twenty-somethings indulge in though.  It must be seen to be believed.)

Anyway, since they’re in Vegas, why not get married?  Vows are taken, the bride is kissed and Ani is emptying her locker at HQ for a promising future of being a spoiled, but loved, aristocratic wife.

In the few times that Ivan calms down, he is only engrossed in his online video games while Anora lies on his chest with an expression of wanting more than to come in second to Call Of Duty. Baker focuses on Ivan’s childish habit a few times.  So be sure to observe how Ani sadly looks upon an inattentive Ivan.

A problem occurs though that neither character could ever expect.  The tabloids have reported that Vanya, this spoiled brat son of a Russian oligarch, has up and married a prostitute. Now the family image is at risk of being shamed.  Mom and dad are on their way back to the states and have summoned Toros (Karren Karagulian), an Armenian Catholic priest and the son’s Godfather, to round up Vanya and the so-called whore to get the marriage annulled immediately.  Not divorced!  Divorce does not happen within the legacy of this family.  An annulment is what is needed. 

Toros rounds up Igor and Nick (Yura Borisov, Paul Weissman) to get over to the house right away, get the marriage license and bring the kids in for the quick annulment at the courthouse.  If only it were that simple.

Watching Anora allowed me to reminisce about other films that catered to outrageous debauchery and led to a domino effect of problems.  Doug Liman’s Go for example, or True Romance written by Quentin Tarantino, or even a super ridiculous comedy known as Very Bad Things with Christian Slater and Cameron Diaz.  The first two examples are very good films because the dialogue is sharp with eclectic casts who elevated simplistic material.  Let’s not talk about the third one, but I will say it is delicious junk food.  With Anora though, just when you think you know where this story should be going it doesn’t.  You think it will turn right, but then it makes a sharp left and Sean Baker knows he just needs to keep the fighting and the screaming and the cursing at an organic natural level.  What do you do when the wards you are put in charge of will not cooperate?  What if one of them goes missing and simply won’t answer his cell phone?

Well, on a cold winter night you may get a broken nose, car sick, and your car might get towed.   Anora is not about big stunts or gratuitous violence.  It’s not mobster movie material either.  Anora works naturally for people in desperate situations, from a handful of different perspectives.

Oh yeah.  Anora—sorry Ani, is played by Mikey Madison and she is bound for marquee attraction over the next twenty or thirty years.  This performance is so concentrated in moments of natural glee, anger, and maybe despair and sadness.  You applaud her character’s strength.  Ani talks like an updated version of Judy Holliday from Born Yesterday, but she’s no dummy and she never succumbs to intimidation.  I’ll confess it right here.  If two hulking Armenian thugs approach me, I’ll do whatever they want me to do. Ani gets all my props though.  She will never settle.  She’s a married woman and no one will deny her of her rights.

Mikey Madison has such wonderous chemistry with Sean Baker’s camera.  There must be over a hundred and fifty close-ups on this young actor and each one is unique.  I was sad for Anora when Ivan would not give her attention.  I was cheerful when the two were overindulging in carefree sex and sin city fun.  I was on Anora’s side when she was restrained. I was admirable of her giving a good fight to the giants that enter her space.  I was exhausted with her as she was forced to sit in Toros’ car while brainstorming where her husband could be.  I was supportive when she makes appeals with the family to offer a good first impression.  She hates her name, but she introduces herself as Anora to Vanya’s steely mother. Ani is willing to make all of this work. Finally, I was angry—very angry–alongside of her whenever she was unfairly treated like garbage. 

Amid all of the chaos that ensues, Sean Baker works like the eyes of the film’s audience. We keep guard over Ani’s condition and state of mind as she’s coerced into looking all over Brooklyn and Coney Island for her new husband that the Armenians need to find before the boy’s parents arrive by noon the next day. 

None of the dialogue is crafty like Quentin Tarantino’s or Neil Simon’s.  I could not quote a single line.  The yelling and conversations and overtalking and interruptions are natural and raw.  Sometimes, the exchanges feel pointless until you arrive at another scene that demonstrates with brilliant insight why certain throwaway moments are preserved in the final print of the film.  It makes complete sense that Sean Baker did not just write, produce and direct this film.  He edited it as well. 

The whole way through the picture I kept wondering how this story would end.  I spelled out variations of doom for any one of the characters.  I considered gratuitous violence or swashbuckling adventure and daring escapes.  Man o’ man, have I become cliché.  Because just as you arrive at the picture’s conclusion, a meaningful prop puts the period at the end of the story and the last audible expression before the picture goes to black comes from Anora. You now realize that this girl, who is as self-reliant as many exotic dancers must be, has feelings too.  As defiant as Anora can be, she can also get pricked and bleed and the big laughs you responded to for most of the film are distant memories. Anora can feel pain like any of us.

When I drove home, I was hurting.  I was hurting for Anora, and my one wish is that I hope Anora will be okay.

Roger Ebert once gave a seminar that lasted for eleven hours as he commented on practically every shot and piece of dialogue in Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction.  My long shot wish is that on a subsequent viewing of Anora, I can deliver a similar kind of observational lecture to others who had already seen the film too.  I believe I could reveal sincerity and perception related to every close up, every chaos-stricken scene of panic or decadence, and especially when that one prop reappears. I’d likely spend a half hour simply discussing the value that this prop carries and what it means to Sean Baker’s film, and especially to Ani.

As messy and gritty as Anora may appear, it is also one of the most adoring and perceptive films to be released in a long time. 

Anora must be in my top five favorite films of 2024.  It might just be my favorite.  There are a few other candidates, but I left feeling so satisfied with Mikey Madison’s performance and Sean Baker’s sloppy, yet astute, little film. 

This is superb filmmaking.

MRS. MINIVER

By Marc S. Sanders

To watch a classic film, usually reserved for Turner Classic Movies, is to get a history lesson while realizing that people’s perceptions have hardly changed.    In the early 1940s as World War II was occurring, happiness in many corners of the world was still moving forward.  Presently, I believe that happens today.  For example, Israeli hostages are only now being released from Hamas.  Until the conflict is over though, a childhood friend of mine chooses to run every Sunday morning.  He declares that he runs because they can’t.  This friend is not a soldier bearing arms.  He is acknowledging a violent and frightening conflict that persists.  On the side, he’s a devoted New York Yankees fan.  In 1942, when William Wyler’s Oscar winning film Mrs. Miniver was released, the well to do characters were performing comparably as Europe was in the thick of staving off the Nazi militia.

Mrs. Miniver opens on a bustling metropolitan district in England.  The title character, Kay Miniver (Greer Garson), is in a mad rush for something.  She hops on and off the double decker bus and weaves her way through the crowd.  Finally, she arrives at the destination.  The glamorous hat she’s had her eye on is still available to purchase.  Her only dilemma now is what will her husband think when he learns of the extravagant purchase.

Upon her arrival home, Clem Miniver (Walter Pidgeon) hides from his wife in a brand new convertible.  When she goes in the house, he makes a decision.  It’s expensive, but he must have the car and so he buys it.

In this tranquil part of England, the most immediate concern among these well to do people is deciding whether or not to treat themselves to gifts that will bring them joy.  Talk of a German invasion seems like a possibility, but the Minivers, with their two young children and their twenty-year-old son at Oxford, insist on living comfortably and happily.

Lady Beldon (May Whitty) is the elderly and intimidating aristocrat who suffers a terrible dilemma.  It seems the bell ringer, Mr. Ballard (Henry Travers), has grown a beautiful rose that looks like no other.  He cherishes it so much that he names the flower “Mrs. Miniver.”  The real person is honored for the personal recognition.  Yet, Lady Beldon’s concern is her yellow rose will not win this year’s prize trophy cup at the village flower festival.  Her granddaughter Carol (Teresa Wright) gracefully asks Kay if she’ll convince Mr. Ballard to withdraw his entry so that her grandmother can win once again.  She’s elderly, she’s accustomed to winning each year, and it would mean the world to her.

This request will also lead to a romance for Carol with the Minivers’ son Vin (Richard Ney), who has just enlisted in the Royal Air Force so he’s ready to fight the Axis forces of World War II.

All of this seems frivolous during the first half of Mrs. Miniver.  These people live comfortably but gradually grow a little more unsettled as they soon hear planes flying overhead their homes while the sounds of battle play off in the distance.   The possibilities of war coming to their front door seems to be an unlikely scenario.  The battles and bloodshed are out of sight, but only partially out of mind. 

I appreciate the editing of this film.  Clem is woken in the middle of the night to join the other neighboring husbands at the local saloon.  They are being requested to join the historic small boat rescue at the battle of Dunkirk.  The men down a drink and sail off without hesitation.  No one gives protest or stands behind their wealth or stature.

Midway through the picture, Kay is reading a bedtime story to her children in a dimly lit room.  We never see the entirety of this cramped space.  The scene simply begins with no transition.  The walls appear to be made of aluminum and then I realize the Minivers have taken shelter in an underground bunker.  Soon, they will be living through one unimaginable night of shelling and bomb dropping. Director William Wyler never turns off the camera through the extended sequence.  The bunker shakes and rattles.  The children cry in fear.  Dirt rains down them.  Books and belongings fall among the family. The pounding explosions carry on outside.  It seems to never end and the concern over a lady’s fashion hat or a beautiful new automobile are distant memories.

When Vin and Carol arrive home from a honeymoon, the Minivers home is wrecked.  So is Clem’s boat following the Dunkirk incident.  However, they happily remain living there with the youngest child playing a welcoming number on the piano.  

Amid all of these episodes, the people of this small English town uphold their positivity, but they never lose sight of what is nearby.  It’s just a house.  The Minivers are surviving and remain together.  Their biggest concern is that one day Vin won’t return from battle. Yet, time and again he does with hugs and kisses for everyone.

I’ve provided a lot of what occurs in Mrs. Miniver because I was not entirely sure of the purpose of all of these happenings until the final act is served and surprising outcomes arrive.  For much of the film, William Wyler delivers an impression of life away from the front lines.  These people live with a devotion to help their country and abandon comfort when necessary. Flower festivals, gleeful children, young romance and materialistic tranquility will carry on regardless of terrible interruptions of war.

Amid turmoil in our present state with political divides, unjust prejudice, natural disasters, and a resurgence of Cold War threats, I can’t help but wonder if many of us live like this family.  I believe we do, and I see nothing wrong with that.  We have to escape and live happily no matter what terrible future might befall us because otherwise what is the purpose of living?  Still, we choose to remain alert and especially empathetic and ready to aid our fellow neighbors when the need arises.

Visually, a shocking set design for the final scene of Mrs. Miniver sends a message that is only enhanced by a sermon delivered by the town minister.  I learned later that this speech was written at the last second by William Wyler and the actor portraying the minister (Henry Wilcoxon).  It perfectly demonstrates the overall purpose of the entire film.  Mrs. Miniver is the story of a fight for ongoing freedom; an independence to live and to treat oneself happily and lovingly.  People perish during the course of the picture.  The minister explains with convincing validity why they had to die so undeservedly and unexpectedly.  It’s an ending that really touched me, and upon the movie’s conclusion a message appears urging Americans to buy war bonds.  

This speech had such an impact at the time that it circulated in propaganda films and on radio airwaves as a means to deliver a shared triumph among the Allied masses.  It reminded people that simply because you live at home, does not mean you are exonerated of the fight for continued freedom.  The fight is not exclusive to hoisting a rifle or dropping bombs from planes.  A unified front of country must be upheld.  

Mrs. Miniver begins as a romanticized film of people living glamorously and happily but it effectively segues to a reality of uncertain times.  I went from questioning what is its purpose to an understanding of a reason to live and to strive.  

EMILIA PEREZ (FRANCE)

By Marc S. Sanders

I never watched a telenovela from start to finish.  At best, the only footage I’ve seen are on GIF scenes that tease at the over exasperated expressions (bulging eyes, big teeth, big hairstyles, lots of lipstick) of the actors and the characters they are portraying.  The Funny Or Die You Tube clips draw their comedy by having the straightest voiceover summarize a season of these miniseries. The stories were not meant for humor, but on the surface, I can’t help but think they are operating with a Naked Gun tongue firmly in an Airplane! cheek. 

Emilia Pérez looks like a telenovela compiled into a two-hour film, but as outrageous as the storyline and the sequence of events play out it’s anything but silly.  I held an appreciation for the circumstances that writer/director Jacques Audiard set up so that the insurmountable conflicts appeared convincing, and most especially overwhelming.  Emilia Pérez performs like an episode of Three’s Company – the one with the misunderstanding – but there are complications that border on bloody violence, life, and death.

Zoe Saldana portrays Rita, a defense attorney for Mexico’s worst criminals, and she despises the purpose she serves for the murderous scum she represents as she assists in getting one thug exonerated after another.  Early on in the picture, Saldana espouses her remorse through song and dance all within the middle of a courtroom, because as you quickly learn Audiard’s film is a movie musical. 

Shortly after the opening number Rita is summoned by Manitas, the most powerful head of the Mexican drug cartel.  He has unlimited resources and cash, and he hires Rita to do a worldwide search for the finest physicians to complete his sex change operation.  Once that is complete, the two will arrange the publicly known death of Manitas, send his wife Jessi (Selena Gomez) and their two children off to hiding in Switzerland, and the drug czar will be replaced by the woman Emilia Pérez.  Emilia and Manitas are portrayed by real life trans actress Karla Sofía Gascón.

Four years jump by, and Emilia catches up with Rita, who remains the only person to know of the ruse that took place.  Emilia wants Rita to deliver Jessi and the children back to her.  The former father will now pose as the wealthy aunt and they will live together in Mexico, going forward. 

Rita discovers a new kind of respect for Emilia as the bloody past of this individual have ceased since her sex change.  As such, Emilia recalls that her former self was responsible for countless murders and kidnappings, many of which took place under her command.  Now she seeks redemption by making herself public with a well-funded campaign that will focus on the recovery of missing people and set up proper burial arrangements so next of kin can have closure.  Emilia reveals a common burial site where hundreds of bodies were secretly laid to rest.  No one questions how she knows of this area.  Yet, she becomes a philanthropic woman who has earned the respect of millions within Mexico.  The irony is that she recruits other cartel lords to make sizable donations to this cause.  If anything, it makes them look more noble in a public eye.

Elsewhere, simplicity does not hold for her relationship with Jessi.  I won’t reveal what occurs because it lends to an ending you might expect.  All three leads embrace different perspectives of this storyline, and it only heightens the complexities of the film.

Jacques Audiard is of French descent, and after seeing the film I learned that many have taken issue with him overseeing this project.  He does not speak Spanish, has no Mexican heritage and according to many has not embraced a true account of Mexican culture or activity.  The movie was also submitted for Oscar contention as the French candidate in the Best Foreign Film category. I’m glad I did not learn of these objections until after seeing Audiard’s film, though.  It did not interfere with my take on the picture, and I believe it should not cloud your viewpoint if you intend to see it.  (It’s currently showing on Netflix.)  There were moments in the film that I predicted would occur such as where a boy on a bicycle is heading with a plastic shopping bag in tow.  By that moment, I knew what was to be revealed inside the bag. 

The film is soap opera like, especially with the musical numbers that are included.  I’d think the songs were composed by Lin Manuel Miranda if I didn’t know better because the lyrics work like dialogue much like you would see in Hamilton or In The Heights.  I was taken with the singing performances of Saldana, Gascón, and of course Gomez who works part time as a professional singer anyway.  It’s almost operatic how they and other cast members express their conflicting feelings in character.  Out of context of the film, I don’t think any of these songs work or would draw an attraction to leave the radio tuned in.  The songs are storytelling, but not memorable or catchy with chorus versus.

While I did not mind the song portions, I never missed them when scripted dialogue, primarily in Spanish with English subtitles, was being played.  I guess you could say the music makes the film different.  A different kind of telenovela, a different kind of crime drama, a different kind of soap opera, and certainly a different kind of musical.  Whether you take to the assembly of the film or not, you cannot deny that Emilia Pérez stands out within any one of these categories.

The film is up for the most Oscar nominations in the year 2024, thirteen in total.  One thing that is odd though is that Zoe Saldana is competing in the Best Supporting Actress race while Karla Sofía Gascón is up for Best Actress.  Even though Gascón plays the title character, I insist it should be the other way around. Saldana occupies most of the running time of the film and as complicated as the character Emilia Pérez is, I found Saldana to be more conflicted as Rita, the outsider looking in with all the secrets held tight in her subconscious.  The best way to share her struggles with the audience is to sing them aloud.  The long-time action movie star (Guardians Of The Galaxy, Avatar) sets the stage for the whole movie, as soon as the five hundred million studio logos get their street cred at the beginning of the film.  (I empathize with Peter Griffin on Family Guy.) Saldana is marvelous in this picture.  A stunning performance.

As Emilia Pérez, Karla Sofía Gascón pulls off an intricate stretch as she convincingly plays two very different roles.  Had the film not told me, her character could have easily been the second coming of The Crying Game. Unlike Saldana though, once Emilia is brought into the film I didn’t so much see a performance as I heard the problematic narrative that came from the script.  I don’t recall any special moments or scenes that wowed me to the point of an Oscar nomination.  It’s certainly one of the most unique roles to come along in films lately.  So I guess that’s where the justification for special recognition stems from.

Selena Gomez is a powerhouse in her role.  She was worthy of a nomination that regrettably did not come.  As I understand she cannot speak Spanish fluently and was challenged at times with the dialogue and the singing involved.  Beyond Saldana’s introductory number, Gomez has the standout song with her portion of El Trio.  Gomez has so many dimensions to this character, as the bubbly airheaded and spoiled wife of the drug czar, who then transitions to a sorrowful and cold caricature after time has passed since her husband has been killed, and later she is vengefully outraged.  This is such a standout performance from her lighter material found in Disney programming and Only Murders In The Building.  She’s quite fierce.

I liked Emilia Pérez.  Artistically speaking, I question the worthiness of some of the recognition though.  It’s up for Best Cinematography.  Often the picture is grainy, which I believe was deliberate, but intent does not imply the highest order of artistic measure.  Maybe it is earning praise due to the transitions during the musical numbers.  Nevertheless, this film does not look as sharp as Dune, Alien: Romulus or The Brutalist. 

As well, I did not find anything special for its nomination in Sound.  Perhaps the sound lends to the music embedded throughout the film.  I don’t know.  I can’t figure what was merited here, when there are arguably dozens of other films that likely deserved more recognition. 

The creative licenses are where the strengths lie in Emilia Pérez.  The editing and directing are good with expansive footage of Mexican locales, and transitioning film work during the song and dance portions.  It has a screenplay that grabbed me right away.  The compounded conflicts that arise feel fresh as one new development introduces itself after another. None of the material is so much for shock value like you would find in a telenovela.  The crises all seem to make sense. 

It’s not easy once a gender transition is complete, especially for a murderous drug lord.  Likewise, it’s not going to be easy for the immediate family or the one person who carries all the secrets that no one else does.  Regardless of his background, Jacques Audiard’s film lays enough groundwork and attention for each of these women’s perspectives.  He’s simply a storyteller who triumphs with impressionable tales to unfold. 

THE BRUTALIST (2024)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Brady Corbet
CAST: Adrien Brody, Felicity Jones, Guy Pearce, Joe Alwyn, Raffey Cassidy
MY RATING: 7/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 93% Certified Fresh

PLOT: When a visionary architect and his wife flee post-war Europe, their lives are changed forever by a wealthy client.


Maybe I’m a victim of too much hype.  Maybe that’s partly my fault, too, as I waited to see Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist until after it had been nominated for a whopping ten Oscars, including the so-called “Big Five:” Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, and Screenplay.  As a result, my expectations were possibly a little too high.  I admit it.  However, even if my expectations hadn’t been inflated, I don’t believe The Brutalist would have affected me any differently.  It never lost my interest during its 3.5-hour running time, but it never achieved the kind of liftoff I felt I was being prepped for.  At the end, I was left with more questions than answers, which can be acceptable for some films, but for this one, I felt like I was left out of the loop.

In 1947, László Tóth (Adrien Brody), an Austro-Hungarian Jew, successfully emigrates to America, fleeing intolerable conditions at home, but is forced to leave behind his wife, Erzsébet (Felicity Jones), and his mute niece, Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy).  He was a respected architect in his home country, but now he is part of the huddled masses, represented in a sensational shot as his ship sails past Lady Liberty, the camera tilting so she is upside-down and cattywampus in the frame.  That really got my attention, for some reason.  If you want to really drill down, it could be visual foreshadowing for how László’s American experience will not be quite as stable as he had hoped.  Or maybe director Corbet just liked how it looked.  Either way.

Although László’s overriding priority is to somehow get his wife and niece to America, he must first get a job (after first engaging in a surprisingly frank and raunchy sex scene with a prostitute).  His first safe harbor is with his Americanized cousin, Attila (Alessandro Nivola), who runs a custom furniture company with his shiksa wife, Audrey.  It’s through this job that László meets American millionaire Harrison Lee Van Buren Sr. (Guy Pearce), a man who will unwittingly shape László’s life for the next several years.  Harrison has a son, Harry (Joe Alwyn), who looks like a distant relative of the Hemsworth clan and is a condescending racist, let us not mince words, but who, in his own words, tolerates László’s presence because of his architectural skills.  (Harrison wants László to design a community center in honor of his late mother.)

This is all just in the first act of the movie, before the intermission.  The Brutalist moves with a deliberate calmness, in spite of its thriller-esque title.  I was reminded of Doctor Zhivago [1965], as it covers large swatches of László’s life with nice attention to detail, never hurrying, but never losing my interest.  The second act finally introduces Erzsébet, László’s wife, for the first time in two hours (hope that’s not too much of a spoiler).  The plot spins out for the rest of the film as a series of conflicts between László, his wife, Harrison and his son, and the crew building the community center that László has designed.  László becomes more irascible as changes are proposed and approved without his knowledge, plus he must deal with a change in his wife’s condition.  There is a detour to Italy where László and Harrison must decide on which marble to use for the center’s, er, centerpiece, and it’s here where an act is committed that, although it feels like it came out of left field, does not seem too surprising considering the behavior of the perpetrator during the first couple of hours.

As I was watching The Brutalist play out, I was repeatedly reminded of another film, featuring another madman with a single-minded focus, also played out in an earlier era of American history, though it takes place decades earlier than The Brutalist: Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood [2007].  Both films have the same deliberate pacing, the same focus on men of industry, their familial and professional challenges, even the same kind of jarring, atonal score playing in the background during key scenes.  But while The Brutalist is at least equally as well made as There Will Be Blood, the latter movie reached out and grabbed me by the lapels and didn’t let go until the final scene, ending with a bang and not a whimper.  I cannot say the same about The Brutalist.  I give props to the craft of the film, to the filmmakers who clearly had a lot to say and needed the time to say it.  The editors knitted everything together and gave the film a very specific voice.  But as the film’s epilogue played out, and I realized how it was about to end, I sank a little lower in my seat and thought to myself, “Well, this is mildly disappointing.”

Sidney Lumet once wrote words to the effect of, “If your movie is over two hours long, you’d better have a lot to say.”  The Brutalist does have a lot to say about the Jewish experience in post-war America, about the single mindedness of gifted artists, about the casual racism embedded in white America that persists even today.  But I couldn’t get away from the feeling that it could have said it in a movie that wasn’t long enough to require an intermission, that didn’t answer questions that were left unanswered (how and when did Zsófia suddenly start speaking?  where did Harrison go??  what exactly happened on that stream bank between Harry and Zsófia???), and that didn’t leave me feeling as if I’d watched a correspondence course video on American architecture instead of a movie.  Again, it’s well-made and occasionally beautiful to look at.  It’s not a BAD movie.  It’s just not a GREAT one.

WEEKEND (France, 1967)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Jean Luc Godard
CAST: Mireille Darc, Jean Yanne
MY RATING: 8/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 93% Fresh

PLOT: A married couple go on the road trip from hell to visit the wife’s parents, intending to kill them for her inheritance.


You don’t risk the time it takes to do this…unless the act itself has meaning. – Detective Somerset, Se7en (1995)

In my personal opinion, there are few things more dangerous than a skilled director who genuinely has something to say.  Oliver Stone.  Stanley Kubrick.  Martin Scorsese.  Spike Lee.  Even Kevin Smith (Dogma, 1999), among many others you or I could name.  Give these guys a finished script and a camera and watch the fireworks from a safe distance.

In 1967, iconoclastic filmmaker Jean Luc Godard became disgusted or disillusioned or just plain pissed off about the class division in France and around the world, especially with how the middle class/bourgeoisie had forsaken human connection for the accumulation of material wealth.  So, he dashed off a screenplay, gathered up a crew and some actors (including a lead actress that he specifically did not like, because he needed her to play a CHARACTER he did not like), and made a film that defies classification or genre.  Is it a comedy?  A drama?  Satire?  I’m still not sure.  All of the above?  None of the above?  Weekend stands stubbornly apart from anything I’ve ever seen, thumbing its nose at the world with one hand while flipping the bird with the other.  It is many things, but timid it is not.

The movie begins with a simple enough scene, interrupted by title cards that say things like, “A FILM FOUND IN A DUMP”.  A husband and wife calmly discuss their plans to murder her parents so she can get her inheritance.  They might as well be talking about what movie to see tonight.  When the husband leaves the room, the wife takes a call from her lover.  In the driveway of their house, a fight breaks out among three people about…what?  Doesn’t matter, they’re never seen again, and the husband and wife observe the fight without commenting on it or making any attempt to stop it.

This is followed by an extraordinary scene, in a film full of extraordinary scenes, in which the wife, apparently speaking to her analyst, describes, in graphic detail, a sexual encounter she had with a strange man and his other mistress.  Meanwhile, Godard’s camera does a slooow zoom in to the woman’s face, then a slooow zoom out to reveal she’s in her bra and panties, then another slooow zoom in, and out, and in, and out, and you get the idea, right, wink, wink, nudge, nudge?

Is Godard being too obvious in this scene?  Clearly.  So, what is he trying to say here?  By being so blatantly obvious, is he parodying earlier French New Wave and Italian neo-realist films, some of which invested a lot of screen time in long conversations about nothing?  Sure, let’s go with that.  What’s with that in-and-out camera move that I read someone describe as “masturbatory” that occurs during the explicit discussion?  Is he also poking fun at other filmmakers who lack subtlety?  Yep, that works, too.  In a weird way, I was reminded of Tarantino’s Kill Bill cycle, movies that took every kung fu trope imaginable, turned the volume up to eleven, and then turned it up some more.  That’s what Godard is doing here.  Why?  As Robin Williams once said, “Because we’re French.”

That’s just the first two scenes.  Later, there is a justly famous tracking shot (really two or three that are spliced together) that lasts for nine minutes and covers 300 meters of ground.  It tracks past an endless traffic jam as our “heroes” try to get around them on their way to kill her parents.  The camera passes cars, convertibles, trailer trucks, a flatbed with two caged lions and a monkey on a leash, horns honking, people yelling at each other.  THIS part reminded me of some of the best “Family Guy” gags where something is spun out for a ridiculously long time, where the duration of the event becomes the gag, instead of the gag itself.  In the film, it actually did become kind of funny…until finally, nine minutes later, we see the cause of the traffic jam, and my jaw dropped.

Car accidents are a recurring motif throughout the film.  Perhaps they represent Godard’s assertion that his country was, at the time, more or less a trainwreck.  With other filmmakers, showing just one or two car wrecks would get the point across.  Not Godard.  They’re everywhere.  And you don’t get just twisted and burning metal; there’s also broken and bloody bodies adorning the wrecks and the roadside.  And through all of this (and more), our main characters walk or drive, apathetic to the chaos, asking everyone – even the dead bodies – how to get back to the main road, blind to the madness around them.

Godard adds intertitles at random intervals, some of which are laden with French cultural references that escaped me.  Some of them didn’t even get translations on my Blu Ray.  One of them says “THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL”, which is the title of a famous film by Luis Buñuel…sly wink to the cinemaniacs in the audience.  Go Godard, celebrating geek culture before it was cool.  Some of them are repeated while the film backtracks as if the projectionist is having a spasm.  At one point, the film jumps and skips forward as if there was a bad splice in the reel. At another, a scene occurs in a field full of abandoned cars. Then, JUMP CUT, and the cars are now a flock of sheep. Take THAT, audience expectations!

At every stage, Godard is constantly reminding the viewer that they’re watching a movie.  One of the characters even says, “What a rotten film, all we meet are crazy people.”  Later there are scenes that approximate some kind of revolution.  Battles are fought.  The gunplay looks curiously amateurish.  There’s a scene with a pig.  I don’t want to give too much away, but let’s just say that it was definitely harmed in the making of this movie.  Same with the chicken.

The chaotic nature of the movie was mesmerizing, like…a car accident that you can’t turn away from.  To fully analyze every historical, literary, and cinematic reference would be like trying to catalog every single pop culture reference in Ready Player One [2018], and that’s something for which I have neither the time, the inclination, the education, nor the space to do.  Weekend is not for everyone, he said, blatantly stating the obvious.  But I ultimately enjoyed it because it’s not that often I get to listen to the voice of a really angry filmmaker.  I may only understand the basics of what Godard is angry about, but that doesn’t diminish the power of his statement.

FAME

By Marc S. Sanders

Sometimes a movie can only be accepted of its time.  The storylines, the music, the performances and the direction no longer appear as genuine or innovative in comparison to films that arrived later, after its own appreciation has floundered.  That is especially true of movies that stand on the heels of the pop culture it pioneers.  

I believe Alan Parker’s high school hit Fame was a landmark film.  Jumping forty-five years into the future though and I’m sad to say it has lost much of its staying power. 

Perhaps, as the 1980s were just beginning I’d believe that Christopher Gore’s script would get an Oscar nomination.  Maybe I’d cheer on a performance by a not yet Tony award winner named Barry Miller whose praises were sung by the media along with the likes of Barbra Streisand and John Travolta for a performance that mirrors a lot of what comedian Freddie Prinze experienced, both successfully and tragically.  Today however, I find much of what is preserved in the final cut of Fame to be unforgivingly cheesy, overacted and oversaturated with one “very special episode” trope after another.  

Parker and Gore outline Fame around four aspiring students within all kinds of performing arts from dance to song to acting and scene writing.  The film cuts from one storyline to another broken down over five sections of life within a Manhattan performing arts school – Auditions followed by Freshmen, Sophomore, Junior and Senior years.  We see the students move from nervous, unsure personalities to mature young adults comfortable in the cloth of a school with artistic passions and confident of where they want to steer their futures that hold no promises.  However, just because they have dreams on their horizons following graduation, it does not automatically spell out financial success and fame.  The purpose of Fame is to demonstrate an ongoing uphill battle while these teens try make it either on Broadway or in Hollywood.

In 1980, there’s attention drawn to what was not expected to be customary like the gay student who’s certain to be an outsider.  There’s the Jewish kid and the kid who can’t read and will flunk out.  There’s also the one who realizes he could become a great stand up comic and the young lady who must face the hard truth from a teacher that she’s not cut out to be a dancer.  There’s hints of suicide and drug use.  For one of the most likable characters named Coco (Irene Cara who famously sings the unforgettable Oscar winning theme song), she gets caught in a disturbing casting couch experience.

Watching Fame today, you can easily predict what’s coming as each new scene begins. Many of the stories are anecdotes limited to these brief episodes.  Storylines don’t wrap up just as life doesn’t.  We are simply reminded that these are the pains of enduring as one of any kind of performing artist during the throes of high school.  Because I’ve seen Blossom and The Facts Of Life and all of John Hughes movies, all which came after Fame, I was never moved or surprised with Alan Parker’s film.  Today, Fame looks like it’s just going through the motions.

What still works though is the independence to freely express a love for theatrics.  All of these kids take what they do very, very seriously.  I never underestimated or doubted one character’s passion.  They are especially in love with this stage of life when they can joyously storm out of the school to dance on top of cars and in front of traffic to the film’s title song.  They turn lunch time into their own personal orchestra of piano, saxophone and yes, more dancing.  These are the moments that remain timeless.

In 2023, Fame was inducted into the Library of Congress’ National Film Registry for preservation of its historic significance in the world of film.  It belongs there.  I have no doubt that in 1980, as the disco era of the 70s were waning in interest,  Fame set a gold standard for themes and presentations of movies released during the decade that followed with adored soundtracks and well edited needle drops that memorialized classic scenes in other films like Flashdance, The Breakfast Club, Back To The Future, Beverly Hills Cop, Ghostbusters and Dirty Dancing.  

Ironically, those other films, at least for me personally, have the staying power to…ahem…”live forever.” Yet, one thing is certain.  Whatever those movies accomplished…

…ultimately…

…Fame did it first!  

A REAL PAIN

By Marc S. Sanders

Sometimes I take notice of how the title and credits appear in a film.  The director or the title supervisor had to put some thought into how the font and lettering appears on the screen at the start of a film.  Woody Allen was always very simple with his basic white lettering centered on a black screen.  Star Wars jumps at you across a galaxy of stars and then zooms away from you.  The Godfather appears with that hand grasping strings of a marionette.  I imagine writer/director Jesse Eisenberg opted to put the words A Real Pain to the left of Kieren Culkin’s closeup shot as the film begins.  When it concludes, the title again appears but now it is to right of a nearly identical pose of the actor.  During a five-day guided tour through Poland, we are accompanying the two leads, and we will uncover what defines a real pain all the way from left to right.

Eisenberg and Culkin portray Jewish cousins, David and Benji, who are reconnecting during their adulthood by joining a tour group in Poland that is focusing on historical locations related to the Holocaust.  Their grandmother recently passed away and earmarked monies for them to take this trip and visit her childhood home that she lived in before the Nazis took over and erected the Warsaw Ghetto along with concentration camps that killed millions of Jews and Europeans by the command of Adolf Hitler. Their tour guide promises an informative but likely triggering experience for the men and the four others who are accompanying them.  What becomes concerning though is that Benji wildly expresses himself during unexpected and inconvenient moments.

Even if David is uncomfortable with his cousin’s behavior, Benji is at least funny at first as he upstages James the tour guide (Will Sharpe) and gains a quick influence over the group.  Later though, Benji will alarm and frustrate everyone.  His grandmother was the most treasured person in his life.  Now that she’s gone, there’s a deep void left for him, and he has been exceedingly hyperactive and perhaps harmful to himself.  A train ride in the first class section is declared inappropriate to Benji as he reminds everyone of the purpose of this little vacation and journey into the dark times of Polish history.  Should they be able to live so comfortably, eating the finest delicacies as they journey to places mired in deep suffering from a horrible past?  David will eventually share what truly disturbs him personally, when he thinks about his cousin.  

Kieren Culkin delivers one of the best performances you’ll find anywhere in 2024.  His timing is so rhythmic even if you cannot predict when Benji is going to detract focus from the tour, and over towards what tremendously irks him.  The comedy he delivers, from Eisenberg’s very intuitive and sensitive script, is quite amusing but it all stems from an anger and sadness that the character cannot contain.  I can’t think of many actors who could play this kind of part.  It’s like watching Robert DeNiro in one of his manic roles that he performed under Martin Scorsese, like in The King Of Comedy or Taxi Driver.

Jesse Eisenberg is worthy of accolades as well.  He directs a heartbreaking monologue of his character trying to explain his cousin’s unhinged behavior.  His focused composure eventually is shaken as he directs his camera to zoom in closer and closer to him, across a dinner table.  David may have a sustained foundation of life with a loving wife and child back home, but he carries a pain that resides within his first cousin.  Eisenberg’s script compliments his well-planned direction, and he handles every perfect beat of the man he plays from the schlubby way he dresses to the baseball cap he wears over his bushy hair.  Despite their thirty-something ages, David and Benji connected as kids with their grandmother there for them.  Now that she’s gone, the sorrow normally found in a kid does not live as comfortably well in an adult body.

A Real Pain will motivate you to book a flight to Poland.  Eisenberg’s film works like a vivid travelogue and every backdrop is rich in color and restored history. That is until the tour group arrives at the Majdenak Concentration Camp.  The horrors that played out here are preserved so that visitors will realize the most absolute cruelty that man is capable of.  Other than the footsteps of the actors and the whisper of green nature on a sun-drenched day, no one speaks other than a few comments from James.  We see a caged collection of old shoes that belonged to men, women and children who were imprisoned and died at this location.  Eisenberg shows us the showers that gassed so many people to death.  The walls are splotched in blue smears.  Watch the film and you will discover their significance.  Life size ovens are also on display.  It’s terribly overwhelming.

What you may believe was a real pain in Benji no longer compares when the film arrives at the camp.  It’s not so much that Benji is a pain.  He only carries the pain that his grandmother and ancestors endured and witnessed.  

Reader, just writing this out leaves me shaken, quite frankly.

There’s a wholesome feeling when the boys, who are now men, arrive at their grandmother’s childhood home.  A spirit seems to talk to the pair and they share some dialogue but Jessie Eisenberg’s film also seeks some closure for his characters.  I will not reveal what they do at the front door. Once I finished watching the picture, I read an insightful quote from Jesse Eisenberg regarding this scene.  He says he was looking for David and Benji to do something that might have been most appropriate during a time when their grandmother lived here as a child, but now, nearly ninety years later, the gesture only serves as an inconvenience or a hazard.  I could relate.  History changes the course of how we live and abide. What seemed right to do at one point in life can no longer be accommodating at another time, regardless of if the sentiment was meant with noblest intention.

A Real Pain could be considered a coming-of-age film.  The characters resort to sneaking on to rooftops to smoke pot or hitch a train ride without paying, or travel with the most basic duffel bags for a European trip.  They dress like high school or college kids.  One dresses primarily in blue and the other in red until a well-timed turn of events has the characters switch colors. Benji speaks with what appears to be a lack of respect for his elders, despite the intelligence and sensitivity in the points he makes.  This trip allows the former boys to grow up, according to their grandmother’s design, long after her death.

Some people have told me they were unsatisfied with the open-ended conclusion to A Real Pain.  Not me.  Like the positioning of the film’s title at the beginning and end, I feel like I went on a journey from point A to point B; from left to right.  I looked back in history and for a short while lived among a present period, in a different part of the world.  These experiences are with me now.  Yet, for a guy like Benji, he should not be less lonely or less melancholy or less of whatever he feels on any given day.  His pain has not subsided.  Maybe though, it feels more reasonable and accepting.  I still carry empty places in my heart now that my parents are gone, and I’ve had to accept the surprising loss of a close friend. The way Benji or any of us learn to carry on is to find a justice for the pain and sorrow we carry under a new kind of normal. 

David returns to the loving welcome of his wife and child.  Only now, he has a better understanding of the real pain his cousin is experiencing and what his grandmother survived.

A Real Pain is worthy of more than just the two Oscar nominations it received (for Culkin’s performance and Eisenberg’s screenplay).  It is one of best and most engaging films of the last few years.  A triumph in natural dialogue and thought, while serving as a visual masterpiece in silent anger, sadness, and sensitivity.

What is especially evident is that Jesse Eisenberg is an accomplished director, and an even better writer. In addition, Kieran Culkin is a blazing dynamo of both comedic and dramatic talent. In A Real Pain, he wears both masks exceptionally well.

THE BRUTALIST

By Marc S. Sanders

Before I started writing this article, I had to marinate on my impression of Brady Corbet’s magnum opus film, The Brutalist.  It has the makings of a biography but it’s fiction.  It indulges practically every inch of a Holocaust survivor’s life after immigrating to America.  It takes daring approaches in its photography particularly since it was filmed using an antiquated 35 mm print in Vista Vision. (The director found it appropriate to use the filming methods that were available during the mid-century decades when most of the film takes place. Wise and insightful choice.) Despite using questionable AI techniques, two of the leads use impressive dialects and fluently speak in Hungarian and Hebrew as well.  Set designs, score, sound, visuals.  It’s all here.  Yet, I don’t feel I wholeheartedly enjoyed the experience of watching the picture, and this is coming from a guy who had the entire AMC auditorium #16 to himself on a chilly Thursday afternoon at 4:45pm.  Not a cell phone lit in my line of sight or a crying baby within earshot.  The theater was my oyster.  The Brutalist was not.

Adrien Brody won his first Oscar at age 29 for Roman Polanski’s The Pianist.  He earned his accolades for a heartbreaking performance.  He arguably works even harder as a visionary architect named László Tóth.  This nuanced creation from Brady Corbet is a most convincing historical character…of fiction, that is.  

László arrives on Ellis Island, separated from his wife and niece by concentration camp assignments during the war.  The ladies remain in captivity while he reunites with his brother, Atilla (Alessandro Nicola) and Christian sister-in-law who reside in Philadelphia, operating a custom furniture and carpentry shop.

Enter a raving mad and wealthy industrialist named Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) who arrives home to find out his son Harry Lee (Joe Alwyn) has hired the carpenters to redo a library as a big surprise.  Harrison is outraged at the finished product and denies payment for the job, thus causing a permanent rift between László and Atilla.  László is kicked out of his brother’s home following an accusation of making a pass at the wife, and he can only find refuge within a church shelter.  

Harrison has a change of heart however when his socialite friends take a special liking to the new room.  He tracks László down, pays him for the work, invites him to a Christmas party and subsequently insists he stay on the property while also connecting the Hungarian with an attorney who will make efforts to reunite him with his wife and niece who remain overseas.  

Meanwhile, an ambitious Harrison conjures up big plans right off the top of his head.  He wants to commission László to design an enormous building consisting of a library, a gymnasium, theatre and a chapel on a wide expanse of Pennsylvania land nearby his grand estate.  The building will be erected in honor of his loving mother’s memory.  A humble László accepts the assignment though he’s funding a heroin addiction with the monies given to him by Harrison.  

Though The Brutalist is fiction, I believe it should still be considered a lesson in north eastern American history.  As building gets underway, a perfectly timed intermission in the middle of the film arrives when we learn of Pennsylvania state’s aggressive campaign to manufacture and build with the precious commodity of US steel.  Fictionally speaking, we have Harrison Lee Van Buren and László Tóth to thank for these newly created jobs of construction and commodity developments.

There is a whole lot of story to tell in this three-and-a-half-hour picture that traverses through decades.  Brady Corbet’s depiction of his main character, László, runs the gamut of so many circumstances.  He’s a stranger in a strange land, even towards his newly Americanized brother who has shed his Jewish identity for prosperity.  The Anglo Christian mentality of Harrison Lee Van Buren, along with his family and fellow socialites, curiously study László as the alienated man he appears to be.  Loneliness is not a direct message that Corbet offers in the film, but how can László not feel lonely in this new land without the sensibilities of a wife to help him mind his boundaries and stay away from the poisons of heroin or personal betrayals that will challenge him?

The second half of The Brutalist oversees László growing accustomed to reuniting with his wife, Erzsébet (Felicity Jones), who has drastically changed in her physicality since they were last together.  Their primarily mute niece, Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), has arrived as well.  The problem is that László has had opportunity to shed his weakness of being a Holocaust prisoner while taking charge of his most mesmerizing architectural design yet. His family’s arrival does not feel conducive with his new way of life, both intimately and religiously. The Brutalist covers a lot of conflicts while also showing massive progress for Harrison’s grand investment and László’s treasured work.  

After providing all of this exposition for the film, I think I’m ready to deliver my point.  It’s too much.  There’s so much story here that some of it feels unwelcome.  László’s heroin addiction never seems to add up or intrude effectively enough.  Because of the long running time of the movie, there are long sections where any reference to his yearning for heroin feels neglected.  This man of energetic and artistic passion is hardly ever weighed down by his vice and I questioned just how important it was for the drug addiction to be included in the film.  The script goes in so many different directions at times, it feels like it forgot about this important monkey that should be on László’s back.

László also gets challenged by Harrison’s American business and architectural partners which is one more conflict.  Unexpected fallbacks also occur that affect both László and Harrison’s years-in-the-making plans.  Then there is László’s friendship with an assistant who started as a fellow drug addict.  Finally, there is László and Erzsébet and the problems they face intimately and as common partners. The reunification of the married couple has new, unexpected dynamics to face.

It’s a lot.  While I never minded the running time of The Brutalist, all of these layers of storytelling become exhausting.  

Guy Pearce actually impressed me the most.  I loved his character and the shrewdness he exhibits to everyone he shares a scene with.  His gruff dialect with a pencil thin mustache, slicked back hair and perfectly tailored suits are distinct, but his presence in a room is always felt even when the camera is not on him or if he has nothing to say.  His stature gave me an impression of Rockefeller, a man with the appropriate and seemingly out of reach dreams that will deliver a future of advanced American building and development.  I may have loved Harrison Lee Van Buren’s story more than László Tóth’s.

However, I got angry with the film as the story was beginning its descent towards the end. Harrison commits a truly unexpected and heinous act that arrives out of nowhere.  This is a fictional story. So, I feel comfortable with my stance that what Brady Corbet opts for Pearce’s character seems wrong and unjust; a downright inappropriate take that did not add up for me.  Guy Pearce is giving a career high performance, but I did not care for how his character’s trajectory concluded.

Felicity Jones is a powerhouse actress as Erzsébet.  She appears so confident within the skin of her character as a defiant woman, unhinged by any sort of attempted intimidation from her husband or the Van Burens.  

Adrien Brody is the sure front runner to win a Best Actor Oscar, though I wish Ralph Fiennes would finally get his due recognition for Conclave.  There are so many directions that László Tóth is pulled in.  This is a very challenging personification for an actor to belabor.  For this one character alone, The Brutalist feels like five different movies are being played at once.  If you have read my reviews before then you may know that I’m a big admirer of multi-dimensional characters.  It’s hard to find a character this nuanced.  Michael Corleone is a comparison that comes to mind.  As I write this review, it astounds me how much depth I’m reflecting on within Corbet’s script and Brody’s performance.

I told a friend who has also seen the film that The Brutalist feels like a marriage between Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood and Milos Foreman’s Amadeus.  While these characters are considered audacious, great artists beyond comparable realms, they are never the most powerful people in the room.  The power belongs to those with the resources of wealth and those who proudly carry the rank and titles bestowed upon them.  For the artists, men of power stand in the way of the achievements they strive for, forcing them to vent their frustrations with self-harm and abuse towards the ones closest to them.

Everything I saw in Brady Corbet’s film is interesting.  Beginning with the arrival on Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty towering over a lost László, all the way to a visit at the seemingly unreachable mountains of Italy where beautiful, white porcelain exists in the highest reaches of nature.  You feel like you have traveled to places uncharted by most people of this Earth.  It’s breathtaking.  

The Brutalist follows the trajectory of a man arriving in America to accomplish his dreams and obtain a destiny he feels worthy of.  Only there are obstacles that will divert his path and thus a different outcome may arrive. 

Visually and with Brady Corbet’s ambition for this picture, The Brutalist is often astonishing to absorb.  Still, at least on my one and only viewing thus far, the film was overwhelmingly abundant, and I could not feel comfortable with all of it coming at me once.  Then again, that is likely how László and Erzsébet Tóth felt upon their arrival in the land of the free.

THE LEOPARD (Italy, 1963)

by Miguel E. Rodriguez

DIRECTOR: Luchino Visconti
CAST: Burt Lancaster, Claudia Cardinale, Alain Delon, Paolo Stoppa
MY RATING: 9/10
ROTTEN TOMATOMETER: 98% Certified Fresh

PLOT: The Prince of Salina, a noble aristocrat of impeccable integrity, tries to preserve his family and class amid the tumultuous social upheavals of 1860s Sicily.


Visconti’s intimate epic The Leopard evokes the spirit of so many other films, in all the best ways, that it’s hard to know where to begin.

It’s epic in scope and intimacy, like Doctor Zhivago.  The opulent costumes reminded me of Amadeus, and the lush scenery reminded of Barry Lyndon.  The final ballroom sequences must have influenced the wedding party in The Deer Hunter.  The literate screenplay refining tons of background exposition resurfaces in movies like JFK and Nixon.  The theme of a grizzled older man facing his own obsolescence is echoed in scores of Westerns from The Wild Bunch to Unforgiven to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

In short, The Leopard takes bits and pieces of many of my favorite films and consolidates them into an absorbing movie that held my interest from beginning to end, despite its esoteric setting: Italy during the tumultuous years of the “Risorgimento,” when the aristocratic ruling classes were faced with extinction as the middle classes rose up, rebelled, and created a democratic Italy.

We first meet Prince Don Fabrizio Salina (Burt Lancaster) as he and his extended family are attending vespers in an upstairs room of their palatial mansion.  Their ritual is interrupted by sounds of commotion and argument coming from outside the room; turns out the dead body of a soldier has been found in the garden.  (In retrospect, this seemed to me an elegant metaphor for the entire rest of the film: a family’s stability and comfort in ceremony and formality being interrupted by outside forces intent on tearing down the old order in favor of the new.)

The dead body is forgotten very shortly amid the return home of a beloved nephew, Tancredi Falconeri (the dashing Alain Delon).  His return is short-lived as he intends to leave and join the middle-class army under General Garibaldi.  Meanwhile, Prince Salina comprehends the way the wind is blowing in his country and befriends a man, Don Calogero Sedara (Paolo Stoppa), who USED to be in a lower class, but who is now on the same social footing as the Prince himself.  As the newly instated supervisor of elections, Sedara wields considerable power in the imminent new society on the horizon, and the Prince knows what must be done, despite his misgivings.

From there, The Leopard evolves into a vivid tapestry of life in the rustic Italian countryside, set among some of the most beautiful Tuscan/Sicilian backdrops I’ve ever seen.  Some of the exteriors, showing seas of wheat or olive groves with peasant workers in the foreground, looked like museum-quality oil paintings.  Some soapy material is introduced, but it never panders, never descends into schmaltz.  For example, Tancredi falls in love with Don Sedara’s daughter, the luscious Angelica (Italian knockout Claudia Cardinale), at the expense of breaking the heart of Concetta, one of Prince Salina’s daughters.  We watch as the Prince boldly strides into a seedy quarter of town to visit the rundown apartment of his mistress.  When his priest rebukes him for this transgression against his wife, the Prince explodes: “What do you want from me?  I’m a vigorous man.  I can’t be content with a woman who crosses herself before hugging me!  …I had seven kids with her.  You know what?  I never saw her navel!”

While this dialogue is both funny and not, it highlights the way the Prince has always viewed himself: as a man of noble birth whose behavior is no one’s business but his own, regardless of morality or social niceties.  But this same man is intelligent enough to know which way the wind is blowing and how to modify his behavior accordingly.

Everything concludes with a magnificent ball held by a neighboring nobleman, attended by “anybody who’s anybody” including the Prince, his family, Tancredi and Angelica, and literally hundreds of others, decked out in some of the greatest costumes I’ve ever seen on film.  During this lavish party, some final decisions are made, and the Prince contemplates what will happen to him and his family, and his entire class, after his death.  The live orchestra plays several waltzes and dances by the one and only Nino Rota, the scorer for Coppola’s The Godfather and numerous Fellini films.  As a result, yet another great film is evoked: as the celebrants dance in a line and weave their way throughout the great house, I was reminded of the famous ending of Fellini’s 8½ [1963] and its conga line of circus performers.

Some time ago I read Donna Tartt’s Pulitzer-prize winning novel The Goldfinch.  While it didn’t deliver breathless thrills like a Crichton technothriller, it was nevertheless engrossing.  The language of Tartt’s prose transported me into the world of her hero and his morally complex journey like few other books had before or since.  That’s exactly what happened with The Leopard.  I expected it to be a “spinach” movie [good for you, but yucky taste], so my expectations were a bit low, despite its massive reputation in film circles.  But, like the other Visconti film that I’ve seen [Rocco and His Brothers, 1960], it breaks free of the mold I had created for it and becomes something grand and operatic.  I have a slight issue with the very final scene (I was hoping for something a little less open-ended), but if you have the patience for it – and if you don’t mind watching Burt Lancaster overdubbed into Italian – The Leopard is a treasure worth digging for.

CAPTAIN PHILLIPS

By Marc S. Sanders

“You had thirty thousand dollars, and a way to Somalia. It wasn’t enough?”

– Captain Richard Phillips

Paul Greengrass is a director with a documentary style technique.  Look no further than his salute to the hero hostages of United flight 93 on 9/11.  United 93 depicted an ordinary Tuesday of people going about their business on commercial airlines and in working in radio towers. Eventually, it was nothing but ordinary.  Greengrass reminded us of the day the world permanently changed.  He applied the same technique to his film Captain Phillips when a commercial cargo ship was hijacked by Somali pirates looking for a large amount of American dollars to bring back to their tribes. 

Tom Hanks is Captain Rich Phillips, an Irish American Naval captain residing in Vermont.  When the film starts, the captain is packing up one last bag and signing off his computer.  The screen shows a trajectory course that he will command the American cargo ship Maersk Alabama around the horn of Africa and make do on his delivery of hundreds of corporate cargo containers.  Though he’s well aware, he is given official warnings to be mindful of Somali pirates in the area.  When he rides with his wife (Catherine Keener) to the airport though, it is not international threats that concern him.  Rather it is whether their son is going to start taking his life seriously with grades and aspirations.  Whatever Captain Phillips does faces professionally is simply routine.  No matter how dangerous, it’s his family back home that concerns him most.

Even in this opening throw away scene, Greengrass looks like he’s shooting reality TV with a cameraman placed in the back seat of the characters’ SUV, getting shaky side shots of the husband and wife taking a drive to the airport.  The handheld technique will carry over the course of the film and sometimes it will relax itself when caution is of utmost importance.  Other times, it will emote frenzied chaos when desperation and time have overloaded the senses.

The film allows time for the Somali pirates led by an unknown, but eventual Oscar nominated actor named Barkhad Abdi to assemble a group of four to lead a charge into the deep waters seeking out a target to hijack and pillage.  They are armed with machine guns and foolish gusto, which will be hard to negotiate.  After one day’s failure, the pirates manage to overtake the ship and then Captain Phillips must subvert the pirates away from the majority of his crew hidden within the confines of the large engine room of the ship. 

As the second half of the film takes over, it becomes a claustrophobic encounter aboard a small lifeboat.  The pirates have taken Phillips as their hostage along with thirty thousand dollars in cash and their plan is to return to the shores of their country and negotiate with the United States for the Captain’s release.

With no navigation for the pirates to follow, the Navy intercepts the lifeboat with a battleship and an aircraft carrier in nearby waters. Now it becomes a strategic plan for Phillips to stay alive while the armed services try to peacefully end this conflict with no harm to the hostage.

The length of Captain Phillips is close to two and a half hours and you realize it because that is the point.  The main subject at the heart of this true story was held in this tiny boat with limited vision of what was occurring outside, fighting rough seas while constantly being berated in a foreign language by his captors.   It’s also never easy for any authority to negotiate with powers that are operating with dizzying confusion and helplessness.  The only advantage these pirates have is to hold on to their prized captive.  There is nowhere to run, or swim, or much less spread out in this tiny ocean vehicle that lacks any kind maritime direction or security.  Paul Greengrass makes sure you know this as he often points his camera upwards from tiny crevices on the floor, lining up at the pirate players along with Barkhad Abdi and Tom Hanks.  Sometimes a cameraman must have been standing and pointing a handheld down at Hanks watching his captors while he tries compute his next move.  Within these cramped quarters, you can smell the body odor and feel the desperate need for a shower, a drink of water or a morsel of food as these people remain contained within this floating box.

Elsewhere, I’m especially impressed with how Paul Greengrass observes the routines of the Navy and US Seals who are doing their best to end this situation.  The Seals, who are also sharpshooters, covertly parachute on to the nearby aircraft carrier, gear up and position themselves.  It’s so routine even though I know they are being especially careful.  Some tactics for easy movie narration are likely adopted here.  The commander makes clear that they need green targets, not red.  I’m sure it is more complex than that. How these military men speak and carry stoic expressions like it is another day at the office works in converse to the chaos occurring in the tiny boat that everyone has their eyes set upon.  Yet, Greengrass’ documentarian strategy remains consistent in both environments.  You are getting a “You Are There” experience to uphold the film’s authenticity.

Tom Hanks is great and easy to rely on as usual.  However, his performance does not seem so impressive until you finally witness his sensible and alert demeanor deteriorate and crumble to pieces.  You might know the ending to this heart pounding story, but I won’t spoil it here. A final scene bears the right side of an equal sign to all the hysteria you watched add up before. Tom Hanks’ penchant for improvisation is what strengthens the epilogue of the film, following a harrowing climax.  It might just be his best scene ever on film.  Knowing his celebrated career, I gave that declaration quite a bit of thought.

Captain Phillips is a taut, sensational thriller where common sense cannot easily win against irrational thinking. Still, that is exactly what took place. You involuntarily hold your breath until the film suddenly goes quiet, the director’s camera stops in place, and a sharp order is given.  Only then do you finally exhale and slowly sit back in your seat.  Paul Greengrass is a master at timing out the tension.