Th
e King’s Speech is one of those old fashioned dramas about the English royal family—so old fashioned, it never goes out of style (The Private Lives of Henry VIII to The Queen and Young Victoria).
The U.S. may have thrown off the yoke of George III back in 1776, but we can’t get enough of those who have replaced him.
It’s like penis envy.
The King’s Speech is very enjoyable; it’s a lot of fun; it’s a great time waster.
It’s not a lot more than that, which may be because the movie (directed by Tom Hooper, written by David Seidler) which was based on an unproduced play, often comes across as a series of pas de deux acting scenes, exercises almost, that seem to betray their stylistic origin (the scene between Geoffrey Rush, playing the speech therapist, and Colin Firth, playing the King, when Firth discovers that Rush isn’t a real doctor, is especially a bit obvious and stale).
In addition, the final climactic scene of the king’s speech (hence one of the references of the non-sexual double entendre title) after England enters WWII is hampered by a certain inherent humor (the scene can’t really be written any other way), that prevents it from fully becoming the heart stopping moment one would like.
But oh, that acting.
The British can be genius (from James Bond, to Harry Potter, to Lawrence of Arabia) at filling every part, no matter how brief, with outstanding performers, from Michael Gambon to Claire Bloom to Guy Pierce (in England there are no small parts, only big actors in small parts).
The leads are beautifully played by Rush and Firth, often as if they are engaged in a tennis match.
Helena Bonham-Carter is the Queen Mother—she’s fine, but for me a bit bland; just one of those things.
Whenever I see her, I can only think how brilliant she was in Alice In Wonderland.
I went to Rabbit Hole (I know, it sounds like a bar, but it’s not, it’s a film about parents trying to come to terms with the death of their little boy in a traffic accident) with my friend Jim and after it was over, we both had the same feeling: it was an excellent okay film. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s well done with expert and moving performances by Nicole Kidman and Dianne Wiest (especially heartbreaking), with able support from Aaron Eckhart. But beyond that, like The King’s Speech, it doesn’t quite rise above what it is: one of those Broadway or off-Broadway plays that is very, very serious about its subject matter, serious enough to get an audience, but not too serious or edgy to alienate them (the director, John Cameron Mitchell, and the writer, David Lindsay-Abaire, who adapted his own play, are stage veterans extraordinaire). The whole thing feels just a tad safe and familiar, especially the through line with Eckhart’s character thinking about having an affair (but the movie just can’t seem to go there). There is one plot development that threatens to raise the film above what it is and that is the confrontation and growing relationship between Kidman and the teenage boy who accidentally hit the child with his car. The teenager has created a graphic novel that seems to be growing out of his life and experience, a detailed and imaginative look at parallel worlds and how they are all connected. How I so wanted the movie to focus more on that.
How one responds to 127 Hours probably depends on how one responds to James Franco. For moi, Franco is someone who has never worked for me. It’s just one of those things and I’m being quite sincere when I say it’s not him, it’s me, because I simply know too many people who like him very much. I do, however, admire his determination to increase his range as an actor and chose edgier and more independent films to do. However, again, I have to say, 127 Hours just didn’t do much for me. Danny Boyle does everything he can to keep the story interesting (including a rain storm that’s beautifully shot), but the movie didn’t really connect with me until Franco does you know what to his arm and has to find his way back for help. The combined awfulness of the scene and the uplifting, spiritual music almost brought a tear to my eye. I also felt that the script (by Boyle and Simon Beaufoy), in striving to find meaning to the incident, played it a little safe, and maybe even a tad shallow, by saying that problem for Franco’s character was that he was a loner. I could just as easily come up with a scenario in which his going on this trip with someone actually could cause his death; but I wouldn’t then come to the conclusion that one should always go out alone.
I saw the original True Grit when it came out. The most that could be said for it was that John Wayne was hysterical fun in a part that seemed to almost parody himself and Robert Duvall was around as a villain. Beyond that, no one I know really remembers much else about it. The Coen Brothers’ True Grit is an exhilarating piece of movie making that leaves the original in the trail of dust from an old timey stagecoach. There is almost nothing wrong with this movie. The writing, using the tongue tying period speech of the time; the acting by Jeff Bridges (who does just fine in John Wayne’s boots, thank you very much), Matt Damon (who, the more he disguises himself to look like someone else, the better a performance he gives, and those mutton chops definitely disguise him), newcomer Hallie Steinfield (an astonishingly assured performance by a twelve year old) and baddies Barry Pepper and Josh Brolan (who plays a convincingly dimwitted murderer); the beautiful cinematography by Roger Deakins; the costumes and set designs; the music that is influenced by Protestant hymns, are all excellent. Even the habit of the Coens throwing away the climax (here where Josh Brolan is killed) works to their advantage, as the drama becomes about whether the Steinfield character will survive a snake bite. A wonderful remake of a less than okay film.
The Fighter, the true life story of boxer Micky Ward, is a lot of fun with an excellent feeling of time and place, especially when it comes to the working class clothes, hair style and sets. The directing by David O. Russell is solid. And it’s hard to fault some of the best acting of the year in Christian Bale (a tad over the top until you see the real person he’s portraying at the end and you realize he got it spot on), Melissa Leo and Amy Adams, and a bunch of new comers playing Ward’s gaggle of sisters. Mark Wahlberg, always a presence when he’s around in a movie, underplays in contrast, which apparently is true to the real person he portrays as well. The movie is stirring and moving and works until a climactic scene between Bale (playing Ward’s brother) and Adams (playing his girlfriend) near the end, when the whole thing comes to a screeching halt for a reconciliation scene that seems forced and not remotely convincing. I felt sorry for the writers (all four of them); the scene had to be written (it happened in real life in some manner), but how to write it and make it believable is beyond me. Adams and Bale do their best, but it almost robs the movie of all the good will that came before.
Black Swan is a love it or hate it movie, though I was a bit more indifferent. It has a great, grainy look with a fun supporting royal for Milas Kuna as a possible Eve Harrington on the prowl. Natalie Portman is also effective. But it’s a bit unclear whether the director Darren Aronosky wants to be Repulsion or All About Eve and it never came together for me. And when Portman starts turning into a swan at the end, complete with extending neck and sprouting feathers, that was it for me. However, I think the real problem lies in the way the characters of Portman and Vincent Cassel are written. Cassel plays the director of the production of Swan Lake. He picks Portman to play the lead because he thinks he sees a hidden depth to her. But once the rehearsals begin, Cassel does almost nothing to help her create the character (he gives her one acting note and then mysteriously leaves her to her own devices—no wonder she goes crazy). If the story had been about Portman’s attempts to find this character, instead of the somewhat vague series of scenes it is now, the story might have worked for me. As it was, it left me a big cold.
Biutiful (sounds like the misspelled name was inspired by the movie The Pursuit of Happyness) has a great, gritty look (direction by Amores Perres and 21 Grams director Alejandro Gonzelez Inarritu—someone who wallows in grittiness) and the background of various people living on the edge of illegal immigrants, sweat shops and black marketeering in Spain does have inherent interest. Javier Bardem also gives a strong, solid performance. But I’m afraid to say, this sort of went over my head. By the time it was over, I wasn’t quite sure what it was about or what the authors (Inarritu, Armando Bo and Nicolas Giacabone) were trying to say. It’s about a man who finds out he’s dying and then proceeds to find redemption; the problem is that he does something so horrible (and something that is telegraphed a mile away) so late in the film, that there’s not enough time for him to be redeemed. So in the end, the movie came across to me as a rather nihilistic; there’s no point in looking for meaning in life, because there isn’t any. Even that idea, a valid one, seems to be dramatized a bit awkwardly. Because of this, I’m afraid I found much of the movie a bit tedious as it struggled to find a focus and strong through line. The idea of a man who can contact the dead to help them find piece before moving on to the next world (and that man not being the most moralistic banana in the bunch) is a good one, but I’m not convinced that the movie made that central enough for it to work. A movie with some interesting ideas, but in the end, one that just didn’t work for me.
Whether Blue Valentine works for one probably depends on how you see the central characters and their decaying relationship. My friend Jim liked it and found the story to be about a relationship that started out strong, but then went sour like so many relationships do; and often for reasons no one understands. I, on the other hand, saw the story as a woman who married a man to get out of a situation, who never loved him (though she might have convinced herself she did), and now years later has to face the consequences of that decision. Even that wasn’t the problem for me. The problem for me is that the woman won’t admit that that is what is going on. Instead of taking any blame on herself, she manipulates things to place all the blame on her husband, who has no idea why the wife is acting the way she is. There is a tough, grittiness to the whole thing. The costumes and sets are wonderfully working class, the sort of design that never gets the recognition it deserves. And Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are great. But I have trouble getting into a movie in which two people argue and disagree, but it’s never clear what they are disagreeing about.
Th
e Illusionist is a sweet animated film from France based on an unproduced screenplay by Jacques Tati. I had a good time and the charm went a long way. I do think that since there was essentially no dialog, the authors had a difficult time telling the story and there were times I did get a tad lost. But it was nice. That’s about all I have to say.
Another Year is the latest entry from British director/writer Mike 
Leigh. It has all his trademark strengths: incredible characters with remarkable dialog, and cast to an inch of its life. No one gives a bad performance, with Lesley Manville as a clinically depressed woman who drinks too much. The story is about Tom and Gerri, a very, very, very happy couple—very—you know the kinds, people so at peace with themselves they drive all their friends to the bottle. They are nurturers in metaphor (they spend weekends at a community garden), but not quite literally (they are surrounded by people in need of emotional help, but neither of them can do anything but listen patiently and make that English cure all of all cure alls, tea—with an occasional whiskey and bottle of wine thrown in for good measure). I loved the film and don’t want to fault it. Mike Leigh, the director and writer, is one of Britain’s finest filmmakers. At the same time, there were some aspects that did disturb me. Tom and Gerri never stop and ask themselves why they only seem to attract people who have serious emotional problems and whether letting them hang around is good for these people. And there is one scene where Lesley Manville is confronted by their son’s new girlfriend, a shock since she is secretly (well, not so secretly, everyone knows it, it’s just not admitted) in love with the son. It is so incredibly obvious that she is in deep pain by this revelation, yet everyone seems to do little but rub it in her face, and then blame her for not being the life of the party. Still, another success from Leigh, one of the best films of 2011.
saw the Myth of the American Sleepover at the AFI film fest where other people were talking about it was if it was the next Breakfast Club (or any other John Hughes movie). For me it was a poor man’s American Graffiti. The acting was amateurish, the plotting tedious, the whole thing fairly predictable and formulaic. I suppose one should feel relieved that someone made a film about teenagers in which our reaction is supposed to be that the world isn’t going to hell in a hand basket like Kids, The River’s Edge and even Gregg Araki’s apocalyptic movies. And there is something a bit calming in the normality and everydayness of these characters and their situations. But does something have to be tedious just because it’s not outrageous or edgy? Does normal have to be this uninteresting? 
iness Runs, in contrast, is about how our youth were going to hell in a hand basket back during hippie times. The story revolves around a young man coming of age on the hippie commune where he was raised. The screenplay, by director Adam Sherman, wants to blame all the bad things the kids are doing, their sociopathology, on these peace loving, Birkenstock wearing, free love practicing adults (where is Eric Cartman when you need him). The problem with this is that the teenagers here are acting no differently from movie kids who live in the suburbs and blame their hypocritical, money loving, spousal cheating parents on their socipathology or the sons of conservative, Republican, off spring of entitlement parents who blame their mommies and daddies as well. The criticism seems just a tad shallow and way too easy. If every background, no matter the socio economic, religious and political leanings produce sociopaths for kids, then it can’t be due to the socio economic, religious and political leanings of the group. And if the kids are the way they are because of their parents, then you can’t blame the parents, because they are the way they are due to their parents, ad infinitum. The problem in Happiness Runs, though, is that though it feels like an inside look at a hippie commune, the characters still come out a little flat and not particularly vibrant. Not helping are Andie MacDowell, who seems rather bland, and Rutger Hauer, who seems miscast. 
iny Furniture is about a college student who comes home and moves back in with her mother because she doesn’t know what to do with her life. This might have been an interesting story if it had been about the character actually trying to figure her life out. Instead, it’s about an immature, whiny, selfish young adult Aura (played by the writer/director Lena Dunham) who feels she’s entitled and doesn’t have to do anything with her life. Her mother Nadine is one of the most patient person’s in the world. No matter how irresponsible and immature Aura acts, all she has to do is throw a childish tantrum and Nadine lets her off the hook (where are belts and woodsheds when you need them). At one point, Aura wins an argument by asking Nadine whether Nadine’s house is Aura’s home or not; how I so wanted Nadine to tell her that now that Aura has graduated from college, no, it’s not her home, Aura is now a guest and/or a tenant and must act accordingly (it’s one of those loss of innocence times that all kids have to go through). Aura proceeds to arrive home from college and not do one thing to try and pursue her chosen career (something in film, it’s a big vague). She’s supposed to move in with a fellow student when the student moves to New York (she’s even supposed to be looking for an apartment). Instead, she lets two men take advantage of her sexually (one by not taking advantage of her sexually). What’s frustrating here is that it’s so obvious what the men are doing, it’s hard to feel sorry for her. At the end, she seems completely at a loss as to why she was treated the way she was while everyone in the audience saw it coming a mile away. At the end, Nadine tells her daughter that she is extremely talented; it’s hard to know how to feel about this since this talent of Aura’s has never remotely been dramatized; is Nadine’s remark just a comment a mother makes to make her child feel better, or does she really believe it? Who knows? Who cares? However, in the interest of full disclosure, I went with my friend Jim and he found it very interesting. So there.
Guy and Madeleine On a Park Bench is a low budget, indie musical that is magical whenever it’s a musical. The rest of the time, I couldn’t even follow the plot or know why I was supposed to be interested in what was going on. Maybe I saw it at the wrong time and was too tired to follow it. I mean, enough people and critics liked it so someone obviously had no trouble figuring it all out. But for me, I recommend two French movies that do the same sort of thing, but with a more interesting plot and engaging characters: Love Songs and Up Down Sideways. But then, as I said, maybe it’s not them, maybe it’s just me. 
