Submarine (2010, Richard Ayoade)

I didn’t know Submarine came from a novel going in. I didn’t know it came from the “Great Welsh Novel” until a few minutes ago. I was checking to see if the novel—written by Joe Dunthorne—was YA. Turns out it’s literary fiction, which makes the film adaptation, screenplay by director Ayoade, slightly more interesting, slightly less interesting. Submarine is a coming-of-age story for teenage protagonist and narrator Craig Roberts; he’s just an eighties Welsh kid who reads Nietzsche, literally spies on his parents, and likes a girl (Yasmin Paige). It’s one of those coming-of-age stories where it could be a Cat Stevens-only soundtrack and it’d just work. That sub-genre.

Only Ayoade doesn’t want to rely on the music too much, not soundtrack stuff, because music plays in an interesting way into the narrative. Submarine’s got a very tidy narrative, which makes the film feel like a literary fiction approach to a YA adaptation. It’s just actually more the inverse.

Right away, it’s clear Roberts is going to be a different kind of protagonist. His first big sequence is coldly participating in bullying Lily McCann to impress Paige, only to realize it might not be the best behavior when you consider other people may have feelings. It plays out in the narration and it’s great. Right up until the third act, Submarine is a very impressive character study of a wisening Roberts. It’s just the third act is a bunch of action montages (Ayoade and editors Chris Dickens and Nick Fenton seem to be fans of David Moritz’s excellent Bottle Rocket cutting) and trite resolves. You can be didactic, you just can’t be so obviously didactic, no matter how beautifully muddy Ayoade and cinematographer Erik Wilson shoot the film. The film’s meticulous in its visuals, like they’re going to sustain the narrative.

So it’s confident, which is good. It’s confident and ostensibly ambitious. The ending’s really pat. And cloying. And semi-cops out. But since it’s an adaptation, it was always working towards that ending, which affects whether or not it’s particularly ambitious. It’s enthusiastic.

Great acting throughout. Roberts is a transfixing lead. Paige is fine as his girlfriend, who unfortunately implies more than the conveys since she’s got to remain something of a mystery to Roberts. Though Ayoade doesn’t zoom in on the female characters, with Sally Hawkins (who’s subtly phenomenal) having to do the implying bit too. Submarine’s very much about boys and their dads. Noah Taylor plays Roberts’s dad, whose dreams of televised science communicator success have washed up because he’s too awkward and instead he’s a research drone. He’s great. It’s kind of an easy part because it’s a caricature but Taylor brings depth to it. Eventually. Hawkins is the bored housewife mom trope so it’s even more impressive how great she gets. The inciting action is her ex-boyfriend, a psychic motivational speaker played by Paddy Considine (who’s fine but not special), moving in next door. Old jealousies and flames rekindle, with Roberts trying to keep his world from changing. It’s all very epical, with lots of pseudo-cynically portrayed teenage hijinks. Submarine is an incredibly nostalgic picture, even though it always tries hard to appear stoic.

Some good jokes. Not the eighties kid homophobia, which doesn’t get used for jokes exactly but also doesn’t get examined. It’s just decoration, along with the casual misogyny and whatnot. Submarine, again, is a boy story.

And, outside the confines of that genre, it’s a good one. It’s not original but Ayoade packages it originally. His application of familiar techniques is always inventive, occasionally inspired. The writing is excellent, just not the plotting and then only because the end’s a whiff. Albeit a not ineffective one.

The Double (2013, Richard Ayoade)

The Double opens with a look at lead Jesse Eisenberg’s monotonous, solitary life. He takes the train to his job, where he’s worked for seven years and only one person has bothered to learn his name, he’s got a crush on a girl (Mia Wasikowska) at work who doesn’t seem to know he exists, and he takes care of his mother (Phyllis Somerville) in her retirement home, suffering her constant berating. Eisenberg’s meek, in a too big suit, apprehensive and nervous about everything, starting with two altercations on the train—where he watches Wasikowska (in the next car) try to find some momentary relief from her own monotonous, solitary life—and even when Eisenberg’s got a great idea at work, he can’t get boss Wallace Shawn to listen.

Everything changes when Eisenberg finally gets up the courage to ask Wasikowska to hang out; they’ve just gone through a traumatic event: Eisenberg saw Wasikowska’s neighbor jump off their building. Eisenberg’s trying to process seeing it, along with cops Jon Korkes and Craig Roberts’s peculiar questioning—they’re the local suicide cops, just for the neighborhood, as suicide is so common, which surprises Eisenberg. Meanwhile, Wasikowska turns out to have history with the dead man. She and Eisenberg talk through it at a local diner (Cathy Moriarty is fantastic as the rude waitress).

As Eisenberg finally starts getting the courage to pursue a relationship with Wasikowska, initially leading to more disappointments and failures, he quickly gets derailed by the appearance of a new coworker. Who just happens to look exactly like him (also, obviously, Eisenberg). Where the first Eisenberg is a terrified introvert, the second one is the opposite, a charming extrovert who’s able to ingratiate himself with all the people who don’t like the original model—not just boss Shawn, but even waitress Moriarty. The first Eisenberg quickly starts looking up to his double, inspired by the seemingly boundless confidence in the exact same physical model.

Making the two Eisenbergs pals so quickly and so well is one of the best moves in director Ayoade and co-writer Avi Korine’s script (based on a Dostoevsky novella); the film’s always got an uncanny tone, with Ayoade—with help from the crew, more on them in a bit—shifting that focus from the setting to the first Eisenberg’s investigation of the second, then to their friendship, and finally to exploring their unique relationship (after the dissolution of said friendship).

See, when the second Eisenberg, an accomplished womanizer, sets his sights on Wasikowska, things get serious for everyone involved leading to a series of harrowing events for the first Eisenberg, as he watches the world he already has no control over or say in slip away even more.

The film runs ninety taut minutes, with exquisite editing courtesy Chris Dickens and Nick Fenton, never giving the viewer or Eisenberg a chance to relax. Even during the most mundane and humorous sequences, The Double is ever anxious, ever discomforting.

While the whole film revolves around Eisenberg (and Eisenberg) and his performances are excellent, it’s a plum lead in a technically outstanding project. Ayoade and his crew—cinematographer Erik Wilson, editor Dickens and Fenton, music Andrew Hewitt, production designer David Crank, costume designer Jacqueline Durran—create a reality only ever seen through opaque lenses. Ayoade and Korine imply just enough in expository scenes to get the point across, then move on, but without ever overloading on the information.

Because work is rarely important, outside how it affects Eisenberg’s relationship with Wasikowska or boss’s daughter Yasmin Paige, who he’s supposed to be mentoring.

Wasikowska is good. She steps up when she needs to step up, after playing “The Girl” for the first half, and everyone else does fine. No one’s in it anywhere near as much as Eisenberg, obviously, but also Wasikowska. The supporting cast is memorable—with some fun cameos—and populates the background well.

The Double’s not entirely successful—the ending has a lot of momentum behind it and Ayoade’s trying not to get too literal but maybe he does get too literal or maybe he doesn’t get literal enough—but it more than accomplishes its rather high ambitions. Ayoade’s direction is quite spectacular, ditto the work of his crew. It’s a dreary, glorious hour and a half.

Suicide Squad (2016, David Ayer)

Suicide Squad is a terrible film. It’s poorly directed, it’s poorly written, it’s poorly acted (some of the bad acting is the fault of the script, which doesn’t have a good moment in it, some of it’s just the actors), it’s terribly photographed, edited, it’s got lousy special effects, it’s this kind of bad, it’s that kind of bad.

Suicide Squad is the pits of mainstream motion pictures–though, you take a movie about a bunch of comic book supervillains and give them lame, pseudo-edgy back stories, and try to entertain the eight year old boys seeing it, with director Ayer and his risibly inept crew, what else could it be? From the first few minutes–outside a couple decent flashback sets (not shots, not scenes, just the sets)–it’s clear the film’s terrible. Once it’s clear Viola Davis is going to have a terribly written role and be terrible in it–you can see the pain of accepting the role in her eyes–there’s nothing to look forward to in the film.

Almost every performance is either bad or awful. Scott Eastwood has about four lines and is background scenery the rest of the time, but he’s far better than most of the other actors. Cara Delevingne is easily the worst performance in the film, followed by Joel Kinnaman as her love interest and the guy who bosses all the supervillains on their lame mission (Ayer’s script is crap at exposition, it’s crap at character development, it’s crap at plotting).

You know, let’s go through the performances bad to best. I might be able to handle that approach, because otherwise the reaction to Suicide Squad is to never want to see another film again. It’s such a disservice to the medium.

Worst is actually Jared Leto, not Delevingne. Delevingne’s awful, but Leto’s far worse. His Joker isn’t crazy, just a blinged-out crime lord who doesn’t so much commit crime as fetishize committing crime. In clubs. Where girlfriend Margot Robbie pole dances. She used to be his psychiatrist. Robbie seems way too young to have gone from clinical psychologist to deranged “queen of crime,” but there are far more obviously deficiencies as far as her character goes. Director Ayer relishes objectifying her; along with the casual violent misogyny and occasional but consistent racist jokes, Robbie betrays Ayer’s target audience: immature male viewers stupid enough to think his movie is cool. Because Suicide Squad isn’t even chilly. Not at its most outlandish moments does it even approach chilly, Ayer’s really bad at directing his bad script. His photographer–Roman Vasyanov–is incompetent at shooting it. His editor, John Gilroy, can’t cut it either. Though Gilroy gets the closest to a pass because it’s not like there are any good takes or setups.

Back to the actors. Leto’s the worst, then Delevingne, then Kinnaman. At that point it starts to get a little confusing. Robbie’s not good. Her part’s lousy, Ayer’s direction of her is lousy, but she never gets a good moment across either. Maybe because Ayer really enjoys victimizing her throughout. Oh, Adam Beach. He likes to hit women. Though he’s convincing in the role. He doesn’t do anything else really.

Maybe sorting the performances isn’t a good idea. There a lot of crappy supporting ones too.

The least embarrassed actor is Jai Courtney. He doesn’t have enough material and his “manic” character is barely around enough to leave an impression, good or bad. He’s trying though. Jay Hernandez is also trying. He’s got a lot of terrible material, but he does try. Will Smith isn’t as bad as he could be. He’s got some bad dialogue and a dumb character arc, but he’s better than most of his costars. Ike Barinholtz is terrible. Sure, his part of abusive sadist is thin, but he’s still bad.

Suicide Squad is an abject waste of time. It’s not well-made in any way, its only surprises come from Ayer’s constant inabilities to direct any of his crap screenplay. The saddest thing about the film is its existence at all. It’s embarrassing it could get made. Any Warner Bros. executives with their fingerprints on this piece of excrement should take the Long Walk as an act of contrition.

Street Kings (2008, David Ayer)

I wonder who came up with the title Street Kings, as it has nothing to do with the film’s actual content. I didn’t realize Fox Searchlight had a dimwit exec in charge of re-titling movies. Silly me. The original title, The Night Watchman, actually makes sense (especially since the movie appears to be shot with the title in mind, with Keanu Reeves watching the sunset a few times throughout, waiting to get to work).

Before I get to the good, I need to get through the bad. David Ayer, apparently pissed off he didn’t get to work on the script (or at least, a credited amount), sort of directs against the script. The first act of the script has very blunt, very hackneyed dialogue. Ayer could have directed around it but doesn’t. He plays it straight and it doesn’t work. I mean, Ayer has the greatest gift–Keanu Reeves playing a dumb guy who can get away saying these lines and still, he messes it up. Ayer’s not a good director, but I didn’t expect him to sabotage his own first act (he gets a lot better the rest of the movie). He’s got an irritating swooping camera move he does once every couple minutes. It’s bad. The other bad stuff–because there’s a lot of mediocre work here and it’s fine–seems to be when he’s aping Michael Mann. There are a couple techniques from Miami Vice and about a hundred from Heat here.

The rest of the bad is mostly Amaury Nolasco in one of the supporting roles. He’s atrocious.

Street Kings greatest success is two-fold in regards to James Ellroy. First, he managed to modernize his standard of the dumb cop who wises up. Here, it’s Keanu Reeves and he never wises up too much (he’s always a blunt instrument) and it works wonders. Second, he’s managed to get in an utterly depressing ending. Street Kings is, at its core, a depressing story about a dumb guy who wises up and learns ignorance might be bliss–kind of a story better titled The Night Watchman.

Most of the acting is excellent. Forest Whitaker doesn’t do anything fantastic, but he’s very sturdy and quite good. Hugh Laurie’s okay, but his character has a handful of quirks straight from “House.” Chris Evans is, no shock, excellent. Once he and Reeves partner up, the movie starts toward its higher plane. For the most part, Jay Mohr, John Corbett, Terry Crews and Naomie Harris are wasted. Harris is so underutilized, I didn’t even realize it was her until I read the credits.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Reeves carry a movie this well before–there’s a great scene when the dirty cops are bragging how easy it was to get it all over on him–and, title and director aside, Street Kings works fairly well.

2/4★★

CREDITS

Directed by David Ayer; written by James Ellroy, Kurt Wimmer and Jamie Moss, based on a story by Ellroy; director of photography, Gabriel Beristain; edited by Jeffrey Ford; music by Graeme Revell; production designer, Alec Hammond; produced by Lucas Foster, Alexandra Milchan and Erwin Stoff; released by Fox Searchlight Pictures.

Starring Keanu Reeves (Detective Tom Ludlow), Forest Whitaker (Capt. Jack Wander), Hugh Laurie (Capt. James Biggs), Chris Evans (Detective Paul Diskant), Martha Higareda (Grace Garcia), Naomie Harris (Linda Washington), Jay Mohr (Sgt. Mike Clady), John Corbett (Detective Dante Demille), Amaury Nolasco (Detective Cosmo Santos), Terry Crews (Detective Terrence Washington), Cedric the Entertainer (Scribble), Common (Coates) and The Game (Grill).


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