Lady Bird (2017, Greta Gerwig)

Lady Bird is a loving tribute to Sacramento, California, specifically growing up there as a teenager, from the perspective of a main character who hates Sacramento. Writer and director Gerwig opens the film with a travelogue of Sacramento streets and locations, a device she repeats sparingly (only significantly in the fantastic finale); Lady Bird is set in the fall of 2002; Gerwig and cinematographer Sam Levy shoot it in a grainy, succulent style. It looks seventies; only it’s very, very 2002 (and 2003). It’s particularly particular when Gerwig does an absurdist—but grounded—comedy aside.

It’s a gorgeous film, start to finish, and Gerwig’s enthralled with her subjects, whether setting, scenery, or character.

Despite an exceptionally on-point opening quote and irregular narration from lead Saoirse Ronan (and despite her being the Lady Bird of the title), the film is not a character study. Especially not of Ronan. Laurie Metcalf gets scenes from a character study, which ends up just making Gerwig’s big swing of a finale even more successful. Ronan is the daughter, Metcalf is the mom. Lady Bird is all about the two of them missing each other, hating each other, loving each other. From the start.

Before the Sacramento montage, which turns into a Catholic high school ground situation montage, Gerwig and Metcalf are on their way back from a college visit. They’re bonding over the Grapes of Wrath on audio cassette (2002), and then one of them says just the wrong thing, and the other one gets pissed off, and they argue and ruin their moment. As the film progresses, Gerwig’s going to reveal the depth of their emotionally rending relationship, layering in the details from conversations between the two, but also just comments from the supporting cast. Because Gerwig and Metcalf’s relationship is at the core of the family dynamics; dad Tracy Letts plays peacekeeper, while brother Jordan Rodrigues and his live-in girlfriend Marielle Scott watch from the sidelines. Everyone’s got a slightly different perspective on it, whereas Ronan just thinks Metcalf can’t stand her.

Which isn’t wrong.

The family drama is backdrop. In the foreground, it’s Ronan’s senior year of high school. She goes to a ritzy Catholic school on a scholarship. Her best friend is another scholarship kid, Beanie Feldstein. Their friendship is one of the film’s tectonic plates, and they’re fantastic together. Lois Smith is the nun in charge. She encourages Ronan to try theater, which leads to her meeting Lucas Hedges, her first love. Except then they all go to a Thanksgiving concert, and Ronan gets a look at moody boy Timothée Chalamet, and things start getting complicated.

Chalamet runs with an entirely different crowd—the rich and popular one—while being a tragically hip, soulful, Goth anarchist who sits through everything performatively reading A People’s History of the United States. Chalamet simultaneously looks twelve and thirty-eight; when he’s going, everything stops and stares—Ronan, Gerwig, the viewer. He’s captivating. And such a perfect little jackass.

But it’s not like Hedges doesn’t come with problems, and Ronan’s never met anyone like Chalamet. She’s not in college yet, where she’ll discover he’s just a trope, albeit with some substantial motivation with his own home life. Besides Ronan, the most family we get is from Feldstein and Hedges, but it’s there for all of the kids. Metcalf’s very aware she’s living working class in expensive circles, something she tries to impart to Ronan without success.

Things get worse when Letts loses his job, especially since it adds to the things he keeps from or downplays with Ronan. The character relationships are delicate and precise, with Gerwig and editor Nick Houy making all the right cuts.

The film’s technically superlative. Gerwig’s direction, Levy’s photography, Hoey’s cutting, Jon Brion’s music (though the soundtrack is more important, and—in what can only be described as a baller move—Gerwig has the stones to turn liking a Dave Matthews song into a plot point), and then April Napier’s costumes. But the film’s all about Ronan’s performance.

Watching Lady Bird is watching Ronan to see what she’s going to do next. The same thing happens with Metcalf, which is such an outstanding echo—but Ronan’s in the spotlight. Gerwig throws a lot at her but then—especially in the second act—skips significant dramatic moments, so Ronan doesn’t have a steady character development arc. Instead, Gerwig uses skip-aheads to adjust the narrative distance, finding a different angle to inspect Ronan’s performance. Ronan’s full-stop great, but Gerwig hinges the entire thing on her being able to do the development arc in summary; Gerwig’s incredibly trusting and fully rewarded for it.

Ronan, Metcalf, and Chalamet are the best performances, but there aren’t any slouches. Letts, Feldstein, and Hedges are all great too. Smith’s awesome, as is Stephen McKinley Henderson as the theater teacher priest.

Lady Bird’s one of a kind from its first story beat (in the prologue) and then, over and over, one of a kind. It’s even magical at times. Gerwig, Ronan, and Metcalf do incomparable work.

It’s so damn good.

This post is part of the Fake Teenager Festivus hosted by Rebecca of Taking Up Room.

Elmer Gantry (1960, Richard Brooks)

Elmer Gantry is all about possibilities. Possibilities for the plot, for the performances, for the film. Director (and screenwriter) Brooks watches the film along with the audience, specifically the performances. Everyone’s just waiting to see what Burt Lancaster, Jean Simmons, and Shirley Jones are going to do next. Sometimes, Brooks emphasizes the performance with quick cuts—the first act has some spectacular sequences, with editor Marjorie Fowler, Brooks, and composer André Previn in divine sync—sometimes, he lets the camera sit. Perfectly lighted scene (courtesy John Alton) and Lancaster or Simmons monologuing.

Though it’s not all monologuing. Gantry’s got some wonderful banter sequences; the film’s practically designed for them.

Set in the 1920s, the film opens with Lancaster amusing a bunch of traveling salesmen. They meet up for Christmas every year because Lancaster knows where to find the best booze (Prohibition-time) and the best women (bored housewives). Lancaster’s holding court, telling dirty jokes, and having a great time; only then the Sisters of Mercy come in asking for a donation, and the heathens are shitty to them. So Lancaster does a sermon, surprising the bar (and helping him seduce a lady) with his seemingly devout religiosity. The scene establishes the character, that duality, and Lancaster’s exceptional way of essaying it.

The film will explore the contradictions in the appropriately lengthy second act, but first, it’s got to get Lancaster to church. Lancaster resists even as he sees posters for traveling tent revivalist Simmons alongside his own sales route. He ends up there one night out of boredom (and a busy housewife) and becomes immediately enraptured by Simmons. But Lancaster’s not her only admirer, though he’s the only one who’s planning to do anything about it. Both Arthur Kennedy and Dean Jagger revere Simmons. Jagger’s her business manager, a good Christian who thinks he’s enabling a prophet. Kennedy’s the atheist newspaperman tagging along with the tour.

Lancaster can’t give Simmons to give him the time of day—he’s too much of a smooth talker—until he seduces her band leader (Patti Page) and weasels his way along with them. But he still can’t convince Simmons he’s godly, except she doesn’t care, it turns out. She’s more than willing to put a smooth-talking bible thumper on stage if it gets butts in seats and pledge cards signed. There’s a business angle to it; after all, local churches pay Simmons and Jagger in advance to bring the revival to town.

We don’t find out about that side of things until around halfway through, when—thanks to Lancaster’s fire, brimstone, and sexy sermons—the local big city asks Simmons to bring her show to them. The film stays in the big city (Zenith, a recurring fictional city in novel author Sinclair Lewis’s work), which makes sense because it’s where Kennedy’s newspaper is based and Jones lives. Jones is an ex-lover of Lancaster’s with a very big, very sharp, very justified ax to grind. The film introduces her early, as Lancaster and Simmons start making news together, raising expectations for when she’ll figure into the main plot. Jones is exceptional.

So’s Simmons. Somehow, Simmons manages to give just as showy a performance as Lancaster (or Jones), but they’re absurdly extroverted, and she’s reserved. It’s Simmons’s revival, no matter what Lancaster or Jagger thinks. However, Lancaster and Jagger’s prickly relationship turns out to be one of the film’s sharpest, subtlest subplots. So good.

Kennedy’s good, too; he’s just not extraordinary. Lancaster, Simmons, and Jones all give these singular performances, while Jagger and Kennedy excel closer in character parts. Of course, Jagger and Kennedy’s characters are mostly reacting to the others, which also affects how they function and what they can do with the parts. The film’s practically overflowing with great performances; for instance, Page never gets enough.

All the technicals are excellent. Brooks’s direction is patient, enthusiastic, and reserved. He never rushes a scene or a delivery. He gives Lancaster and Simmons time for their preaching; the film’s about these characters’ relationship with religion, internal and external, and Brooks wants to showcase it. Done wrong, it’d be anti-climactic; Gantry doesn’t do it wrong, quite the opposite.

Alton’s photography, Fowler’s cuts, Previn’s music, all superb. Dorothy Jeakins’s costumes too. Lots of character development in the changing outfits, sometimes subtle, sometimes not.

Lancaster and Simmons are the whole show. Brooks and his crew are just trying to create the optimal narrative distance on Lancaster, specifically on his experiences with Simmons. Even when she’s not around, when it’s Lancaster and Jagger, Kennedy, or Jones, Simmons’s presence is always felt. She’s the show; they’re all spectators, except Lancaster wants to be on stage too. Kennedy and Lancaster have a great friendship throughout, two cynics on different paths.

As far as who’s better, Lancaster or Simmons, it depends on the scene. Though we get to know Lancaster better through the film, whereas Simmons gets to keep some secrets, which makes her performance inherently more complicated. They’re both so damn good. And then Jones. So damn good.

The whole picture. So damn good.

A Fish Called Wanda (1988, Charles Crichton)

A Fish Called Wanda introduces each of its main characters during the opening titles, cutting from one actor to another, starting with screenwriter John Cleese. He’s a barrister. Then it’s Jamie Lee Curtis; she’s a vivacious American. Then Kevin Kline is a deadly but dim-witted American. Finally, Michael Palin. He loves animals, including his fish (Wanda is named after a fish, but also Curtis’s character, who the fish is presumably named after).

Curtis, Kline, and Palin are pulling a jewel heist. Tom Georgeson is the mastermind. Curtis is the brainy moll, Kline’s the muscle, and Palin’s the utility man. Curtis and Georgeson are shacked up, but she’s really with Kline; to cover in front of Georgeson and Palin, Curtis and Kline pretend to be siblings. It gets some raised eyebrows until Kline—in one of the only intelligent things he does in the movie, but since it’s being shitty, he can figure it out—diverts attention in a very funny subplot.

Kline’s the breakout performance in the film. He’s got a mix of physical and verbal comedy, and he’s always better. It’s an exceptional, singular performance. Though, arguably, that description fits all four leads. But Kline gets the most laughs. He does dangerous and absurd in perfect balance.

When someone turns on the crew after the heist, Georgeson gets arrested. He’s moved the jewels, so when everyone else goes looking, they come up empty-handed. Worse, the prosecutors are offering a deal, provided Georgeson turns over the jewels and maybe his partners.

Curtis gets the idea to cozy up to his new barrister, Cleese, in hopes of getting some privileged information. Curtis flirting with Cleese drives Kline up a further wall, which just gets worse and worse for Cleese (and Curtis).

While Curtis and Kline are working Cleese for their own benefit, Palin’s trying to keep on mission; he just needs to take out a witness against Georgeson. A mean little old lady (a delightful Patricia Hayes) with three mean dogs. Except Palin can’t seem to find a way to kill the old lady without taking out her dogs, causing him quite the moral quandary.

It doesn’t help Kline’s annoying him most of the time. Palin’s character has a stutter, which Kline teases him about (first out of carelessness, then out of malice), and the assassination order just gives him more ammunition. Kline doesn’t think Palin can do it and tries to psych him out.

Meanwhile, Cleese is a successful barrister in a disagreeable marriage to Maria Aitken. His success doesn’t impress her (he married into money, which comes up later), and he doesn’t have any interest in her society goings on. They’ve got a daughter (Cynthia Cleese), who’s often around the house, but doesn’t really play in. She’s funny and good; she’s just very supporting.

Aitken’s awesome as Cleese’s wife, who’s got to be in the “unreasonable spouse” position, so Cleese’s flirtation with Curtis isn’t off-putting. Though Wanda initially plays Cleese as a rube, he ends up the protagonist, and he gets there through his infatuation with Curtis. He thinks she’s just an overeager American legal student who happens to be very sexy; she speaks his language and is interested in what he’s got to say.

Wanda is a heist comedy, not a heist spoof or noir spoof. The film doesn’t play around with twists and reveals in the third act. Instead, it establishes the characters pretty quickly in the first and second acts—with Cleese’s protagonist role being the last bit of establishing—and then the second act is all about Kline screwing up Curtis’s plans, complicating things with Cleese, and consequently his home life. Often hilariously. Maybe always hilariously.

Then Palin’s off mostly on his own, checking in with Curtis and Kline occasionally.

It’s an incredibly well-constructed plot. However, there’s nothing not incredible about Wanda. The dialogue’s not just fast and funny; Cleese’s script ties the character development to it. Curtis gives away insight into the femme behind the fatale as she has to react to unexpected, complicated situations. It’s obvious what all the men see in Curtis and what she sees in most of them, but when she and Cleese’s chemistry starts driving their scenes—mutually—instead of the plot machinations, she’s got to make it believable.

Phenomenal work from Curtis. She’s so good. The script gives her a Basil Fawlty rant at one point, and the way she channels it just informs her and Cleese’s chemistry; he’s almost entirely rant-free. Well, loud rant-free. Cleese isn’t just in an expired marriage; he’s also sick of being British. He’s done it all his life, and it sure looks like Americans have more fun.

Cleese is great. As a writer, he knows how to share. He and Kline have some great scenes together, and then there’s a wonderful one with Palin.

And Palin’s excellent, too, of course. For most of Wanda, he’s just in his own little movie amid the bigger story. When they bring him in it, it’s always great.

The film’s technicals are outstanding too. Crichton’s direction is breezy but never hurried. He knows how to showcase the actors. Excellent photography from Alan Hume and a fun score from John Du Prez.

And Hazel Pethig’s costumes are essential, particularly for Curtis and Kline.

A Fish Called Wanda is a masterpiece of comedy. Peerless comedy acting from Kline, Curtis, Cleese, and Palin, and Cleese’s script is superlative. Wanda’s wonderful.

Pickup on South Street (1953, Samuel Fuller)

Pickup on South Street is not based on a novel; the opening titles have a story by credit for Dwight Taylor, with director Fuller getting the screenplay one. The film’s got a peculiar plotting and roving protagonist, plus some terrific monologues, and I was wondering if they were Fuller or someone else.

They’re Fuller. Fuller and his actors, but it’s his script. It just makes Pickup even more impressive.

The film opens on a hot New York City morning; on the subway. Jean Peters is hanging onto a grab handle while a couple men ogle her. Fuller really leans into the creepy guy bit for a moment before Richard Widmark slides up next to her. They share a polite smile as Widmark reads his newspaper and picks her purse.

Fuller wanted to call the film Pickpocket, but the studio said no.

What Peters and Widmark don’t know is the oglers are actually government agents; they’re following Peters because she’s passing secrets to the Soviets, and one of the agents, played by Willis Bouchey, saw Widmark rob her. Jerry O’Sullivan plays the other agent; he doesn’t get credit (and barely any lines), but he’s very much part of the opening sequence tension. Fuller starts Pickup tense and never lets it slow down. Even when Widmark’s taking a break at one point, he’s got to hurry.

Bouchey heads to the cops, teaming up with captain Murvyn Vye to track down the pickpocket. Meanwhile, Peters has to explain to her creepy ex-boyfriend (a perfect Richard Kiley) about not being able to deliver the package to his boss. He’s been telling Peters it’s industrial espionage, just business stuff, barely illegal. Peters goes along with it because she was a working girl, and Kiley helped her go legit. Though it turns out his idea of legit is being a Soviet spy.

There’s a timer on the delivery; the whole point is to catch Peters’s contact, so Vye calls local stoolie and neighborhood pal Thelma Ritter. She ostensibly sells neckties, but it’s a cover for her information racket. She’s got a personal code for selling out her fellows, an arrangement she assures everyone is understood. There’s this wonderful class tension between the cops and regular crooks like Widmark, then Peters realizing she doesn’t understand how that part of the world works, even if she can navigate her way through it.

Ritter gets the film’s best scene, a lengthy monologue about her life at that point, struggling to save enough cash to ensure a proper burial and not Potter’s Field. Absolutely devastating stuff, with Fuller laying the groundwork for it from Ritter’s first scene. She and Peters will team up later on, with Peters and the cops looking for Widmark, and Ritter wants to make sure Widmark makes it out of this mess okay.

The film’s a smorgasbord of phenomenal sequences, with Fuller taking advantage of a studio budget to showcase himself and the film. Widmark and Peters have numerous sweaty, sexy scenes together as they both try to play one another. Once Peters gets some context for Widmark from Ritter—and once Ritter vouches for Peters to Widmark—the relationship gets even more layers. Unlike the Ritter monologue, I couldn’t believe the Widmark and Peters “courtship” was from a novel; it’s too filmic.

But Fuller’s also got a bunch of action sequences. There are lots of crane shots, lots of long takes with multiple actors, and a couple of harrowing scenes as the Commies get serious (and murderous).

Even with the “red herring,” the bad guys are just greedy bad guys, and Fuller never commits too hard with the jingoism. It’s all talk for Widmark, a three-time loser who’s a week out of prison and either facing a life sentence for picking Peters’s purse or some treason charge; he’s the film’s enigma. Everyone else—including Bouchey, Vye, Kiley—explain themselves at one point or another. Widmark doesn’t; can’t. So we watch the intricate plot unravel and become clear on his face, which is one of Fuller’s best moves.

Along with all the other great moves.

Pickup’s surprisingly serious. Like, it’s got a happy-go-lucky score from Leigh Harline for most of it, and there are some jokes, but it’s not funny. It’s dangerous, and it’s tragic, and it’s beautiful. Fuller, with a budget, is peerless because he’s exuberant about the film, has recurring sight gags for the audience, and invites active participation and enthusiasm.

The film takes place over about two and a half days. First day morning, Widmark picks Peters, the cops start looking for him, she starts looking for him. By that first night, she’s already negotiating to get the MacGuffin back. No one’s getting any sleep; everyone’s bouncing around with nervous and worse energy. It’s a New York movie, too; enough location shooting and solid sets (there’s a fantastic library sequence), so they’re bouncing around the big city, adding the urban isolation bit, which informs the three main characters.

It’s wonderful.

The best performance is obviously Ritter, who’s incomparable. Then Peters, then Widmark. Peters has a tricky part—tough girl stuck in the femme fatale role she doesn’t want to play—and does really well. Widmark’s just got to be a charming asshole who wises up to human connection.

All the technicals check out—Joseph MacDonald’s photography, Nick DeMaggio’s cutting, Al Orenbach’s sets, Travilla’s costumes—Pickup on South Street is an outstanding motion picture, start to finish.

The Private Lives of Pippa Lee (2009, Rebecca Miller)

The Private Lives of Pippa Lee is a narrated character study. Protagonist Robin Wright is talking herself through her life while the film observes her, seeing where she’s gained the perspective of time and where she hasn’t. The film starts in the present, with Wright and husband Alan Arkin having just moved to a retirement community from New York City. Arkin is a successful publisher who’s had three heart attacks and needs to partially retire. Wright’s his dutiful, doting, much younger third wife; the perfect “artist’s wife,” their friend Mike Binder calls her in the opening scene, even though she married a publisher.

Arkin and Wright’s relationship is central to Pippa Lee, except it turns out the most important parts aren’t when Wright’s playing the role because Pippa Lee is Wright recounting her whole life for examination starting with her birth. Maria Bello plays her mother. Tim Guinee plays her father, a pastor of some cloth who’s never around. Bello’s got something like five sons and then Pippa, played by Madeline McNulty as a child. Bello’s phenomenal, with these early flashbacks laying foundation for later. She treats McNulty like an object, which will be a recurring theme.

In the present, both Arkin and Wright are having trouble adjusting to the new setting. They’ve got a couple grown kids; Ryan McDonald is the son in law school. He’s the rounded, quiet one, who loves mom and dad. Zoe Kazan plays the daughter; she’s the wild one—a photojournalist traipsing around the world’s war zones—and she hates Wright and adores Arkin. Kazan and Wright’s relationship will be significant in the third act, so it’s exceptionally impressive how well writer and director Miller slow cooks that subplot.

Wright makes a local friend in Shirley Knight, who’s awesome (lots of awesome performances in Pippa Lee but Knight’s special even among them). Knight’s got the common problems for community’s residents—her son’s a mid-thirties burnout, not a still succeeding twenty-something. Keanu Reeves plays the son. There’s a lot of impressive direction from Miller, and, obviously, the way she directs Wright and Wright’s narration and Blake Lively as young Wright is the film’s most masterly achievement.

But, damn, does Miller get a great performance from Reeves. He and Wright form a tender, tentative friendship; in reality, Reeves is a couple years older than Wright—cinematographer Declan Quinn’s going to shoot Arkin in flashbacks with soft, forgiving light; presumably, Reeves got some of it, too–but it works. Something about it just works.

They get to be friends because Reeves is a clerk at the convenience store Wright frequents. She needs help one night, and he’s there.

The film’s second act is mostly the flashbacks with Lively. She starts as teenage Wright and goes to early twenties Wright (the film teases the transition between the two actors in dialogue then later does a great job with it). Lively gets all the great scenes with Bello, running off to live with her aunt Robin Weigert and aunt’s late seventies, early eighties “roommate” Julianne Moore. Wright’s narration from the present packages these memories in three layers. There’s the original impulse for the memory, whether it’s reacting to something in the present or just the next scene in a subplot, Wright’s combination observation and explanation narration, then what the film sees about Wright, through present-day connection, framed narration, and Lively’s performance in the flashback.

Lively’s got it rough for a while—running away from home, complicated new living arrangements, early eighties New York art scene floundering—so she doesn’t smile. But her expressions so closely match Wright’s in the present; when Wright smiles, you know what Lively’s smiling will look like. As events progress, Wright’s got more sadness, contrasting a happier Lively in the past, but the expressions are all from the same pool. It’s a fantastic two-person performance.

The most drama in Lively’s flashbacks end up involving how she meets Arkin, who’s still married to second wife Monica Bellucci at the time. Bellucci’s a wealthy, glamorous eccentric who Arkin can’t stand anymore; he’s immediately taken with Lively. They “meet” about halfway through the film, and it’s got to inform Wright and Arkin’s relationship, which the film established in the first scene, but then Wright and Arkin need to forecast where Lively’s going. Such good work from Miller, just achingly good work.

If the film’s a series of echoes rhyming between the past and present, the second act ends with a drum solo, the sticks hitting so fast the beats overlap; no one has a chance to slow down.

Then Miller has to wrap it all up in the third act, putting it all on Wright to synthesize this performance she’d only been partially responsible for (plus and minus the narration, which keeps Wright very present in the Lively scenes), and it’s a resounding, gentle, careful success.

So good.

There aren’t any bad performances. Binder’s annoying as the annoying author friend with the mad crush on Wright; he’s married to poet Winona Ryder and doesn’t like her having interests other than homemaking. It never occurs to him Wright’s homemaking might not be her whole thing. Ryder’s got a relatively important role in the present-day story, and she’s excellent.

Kazan and McDonald are good as the kids. They never have the heaviest lifting in any scenes, though Kazan’s got a particularly lovely little arc.

Moore and Weigert are good in their cameos. Bellucci’s got a similarly sized role, but it’s more important, and she gets a killer scene while Moore and Weigert are just support.

Bello’s phenomenal. Arkin’s good, Reeves’s great.

Wright and Lively are mesmerizing. It’s more surprising when Lively’s so good because it seems like the flashback device will constrain her, but she’s got a movie of her own in Wright’s movie.

No surprise, the film’s technicals are strong. Miller’s composition’s good, beautifully shot by Quinn, perfectly timed by editor Sabine Hoffman against Michael Rohatyn’s score. It’s a great-looking film, great sounding film.

Miller, Wright, and Lively make a remarkable Pippa Lee.

This post is part of the Other Than A Bond Girl Blogathon hosted by Gabriela of Pale Writer and Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews.

Persona (1966, Ingmar Bergman)

Persona begins with a series of unrelated, sometimes startling, sometimes disturbing images. It’s leader on the film reel, and it establishes the film’s narrative distance. We’re not just removed from the action; the action’s on display at multiple levels, including one involving a young boy, played by Jörgen Lindström, who provides bookends for the film.

He’s star Liv Ullmann’s son, but he’s never identified as such. Instead, he’s just the one with the most vested interest at the level.

Ullmann plays a famous theater and film actor who, all of a sudden, stops talking one night during a performance. It only lasts a minute, but the next day, she’s not talking at all, and she isn’t moving around either. She’s stopped expressing herself in any way, which lands her in the hospital, where she gets a full-time nurse to look after her. Bibi Andersson plays the nurse.

According to the doctor (a fantastic Margaretha Krook), Ullmann has nothing physically or mentally (though, sixties mentally) wrong. Andersson is patient and kind, trying to bond with Ullmann, who does react at times—like when Andersson starts reading her a letter from her husband—but there’s not much change.

The audience knows Ullmann is moving and reactive; we watch her watch Vietnam War news coverage in the middle of the night, recoiling in horror at the reality she finds herself in. The war footage calls back to the opening imagery; Ullmann’s experiencing and shutting herself away from the miserable world around her.

With no change as far as the medical staff can see, Krook decides it’d be best for Ullmann and Andersson to head out to her vacation house. Krook thinks she knows what’s going on with Ullmann; she’s just let the disconnect between apathy and empathy break her, and now she’s working through it, researching like an actor. The scene—Krook’s final one in the film and absolutely phenomenal—sets up two recurring themes. First, someone projecting their assumptions of Ullmann’s thoughts and feelings on a silent Ullmann. Second, the acting a part bit.

With the minor exceptions of the opening leader montage, the finale, and an act break—with the film “burning” to remind us we’re not on holiday with Ullmann and Andersson, we’re watching them far removed–Persona has a relatively standard epical arc with Andersson as the protagonist.

She gets this strange but not necessarily unpleasant assignment—Andersson goes into it assuming Ullmann wants to play a mind game with her companion, something Krook dissuades but informs Andersson later on—which turns into an extended holiday out at the beach. Andersson and Ullmann become pals, drinking wine, sunbathing, reading books, writing letters. It’s a holiday. Only Andersson does all the talking, though Ullmann does respond non-verbally to questions. So her condition’s changed a little, in relative line with Krook’s parting diagnosis.

Things change for the pair when Andersson gets super drunk and shares a very personal memory with Ullmann. Andersson becomes convinced Ullmann speaks to her briefly, then comes to visit her in the middle of the night. The next day, Ullmann’s again not talking and denies either event. Must’ve been drunk dreams.

When Andersson’s heading into town the next time for supplies, she takes the outgoing mail, including a letter from Ullmann to the doctor. Andersson can’t help but read the contents, which mainly concern her, with Ullmann making some very callous, mercenary observations. From then on, Andersson doesn’t think she can trust Ullmann but also finds herself becoming more and more wrapped in Ullmann’s “performance.” She just does it knowingly and often hatefully.

The film doesn’t show Ullmann speaking to Andersson when Andersson thinks she is speaking to her. It doesn’t expressively determine whether the middle-of-the-night visit is actual or dream. But it clearly shows Ullmann hurrying to finish the letter and leaving it unsealed for Andersson to take. Persona’s got all sorts of mysteries to it, but Ullmann’s never not an enigma. We get the two private moments with her, the Vietnam footage, then her looking at a photo from World War II showing the Nazis terrorizing civilians. The horror of the world is very much on Ullmann’s mind. But is it on her mind for actor’s fodder, or what’s underneath it?

Andersson becomes convinced Ullmann’s using her as an avatar: it’s not Andersson projecting on the unspeaking Ullmann; it’s Ullmann doing it the other way. Except, of course, it’d be a reflection of that projection, which leads to some fascinating scenes and performances. From the start—in no small part thanks to the opening sequence—Persona seems ready to submerge itself in the surreal, but Andersson and Ullmann’s performances are always firmly grounded. The confusion and hurt are always genuine.

Director Bergman’s got some phenomenal sequences, both directing and in the script. The script’s deliberate in presenting the pair’s evolving relationship, which scenes it shows, which it skips. The direction’s all about the performances, down to a sequence where we literally get to see it from each character’s perspective.

There are numerous second-half plot reveals—mostly about Ullmann’s husband, Gunnar Björnstrand, and son Lindström–and they’re perfect for deepening the existing character drama. At times, Persona is a character study; at times, it’s a psychological thriller; it’s always mesmerizing.

Whether Andersson or Ullmann’s better is probably a matter of personal preference and, of course, what a viewer’s projecting on the character and its actor. It’s a perpetually fascinating film.

Great black and white photography from Sven Nykvist, editing from Ulla Ryghe, music from Lars Johan Werle. Bibi Lindström’s production design is the third star after Ullmann and Andersson. Mago’s costumes are probably fourth.

Persona is an exhilarating, singular experience.

Passing (2021, Rebecca Hall)

Passing is a genre-buster, which heavily contrasts the very strict mores the film’s subjects live within. The film is an occasional Southern Gothic (set in 1920s Harlem), occasional character study Hitchcock homage. Harlem Renaissance society lady Tessa Thompson has a peculiar day when shopping for her son’s birthday; the sometimes very shitty white folks just assume she’s white. So, on a whim, she goes to a hoity-toity hotel to get out of the heat.

We have none of Thompson’s backstory or context at this point. Instead, director Hall guardedly introduces her to the film, then follows her, the camera as hesitant as Thompson in her whim. Once she gets to the hotel, however, things get real when she’s people-watching, and one of the people starts watching her back. When this other person approaches her, Thompson’s fear of being found out pervades the film, breaking her collected demeanor (which only happens a few times in the film and always echoes beautifully).

Except this person is Ruth Negga, and she knows Thompson, and Thompson knows her. But Thompson knows Negga as a fellow Black girl, not a vaguely Southern white lady with her husband (Alexander Skarsgård) in a ritzy New York hotel.

Negga’s thrilled to see an old friend, even as Thompson gets increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. Their impromptu reunion culminates with Skarsgård revealing himself to be an avowed white supremacist; we watch as Thompson experiences the awkward, problematic situation become grotesque. Understandably, she gets out of there as soon as possible, heading home to normality.

Normality is doctor husband André Holland, two sons (Ethan Barrett and Justus Davis Graham), a housekeeper (Ashley Ware Jenkins), and loads of charity work for the Negro League. The first act is set against Thompson preparing a charity ball. But, eventually, Negga will get herself invited, effectively inserting herself into Thompson’s life and home.

It’s Harlem Renaissance, so white people are touring north of the Park, meaning Negga can be seen without raising too much suspicion. After all, regular white tourist Bill Camp, who’s Thompson’s closest thing to an actual friend, is always around. In the second act, Thompson’s tea party for Camp will be another significant moment in the film and for Thompson.

While Thompson and Negga’s rekindled friendship only goes so far, with Negga less interested in society goings-on than taking Thompson’s roles in her home. Negga befriends housekeeper Jenkins, who Thompson treats curtly. Then, when the boys need someone to play with them in the afternoons, Negga joins them. The first act establishes Negga and Skarsgård have a daughter, and motherhood is on her mind, but pretty soon, it seems like she’s more interested in playing mom to Thompson’s kids, not her own. The motherhood theme is one of the film’s most subtle, but it does a lot of heavy lifting throughout.

The biggest change with Negga’s presence is Holland, however. He goes from thinking of her life as a curiosity to be ridiculed to being her most ardent supporter. Perhaps too ardent a supporter, especially as Thompson becomes more and more bewildered by Negga’s ability to exist in a state of constant deception.

The second half of the film becomes a psychological thriller without the thrills, instead focusing tightly on Thompson’s experiences and observations of her changing life. Holland wants their sons to be aware of white supremacist murders, while Thompson intends to keep them as sheltered as possible. Their fears and frustrations run underneath the surface, informing performances and events. It’s delicate, nimble work.

Because the film sticks to Thompson, Holland remains something of an enigma throughout, as does their marriage. The first act introduces them formed; there’s the perfect, party-throwing, party-going society couple, which Thompson contrasts with Negga’s mysterious, duplicitous, dangerous marriage. The film takes its time revealing more about Thompson and Holland’s marriage, relying on conversations and moods—and Camp and Thompson’s friendship—to fill in.

The third act is a pitch-perfect synthesis.

Passing is black and white, era-appropriate Academy ratio, beautifully photographed by Eduard Grau, with picture-perfect composition from Hall. It’s an urban fairy tale turned nightmare. Great patient, often lyrical cutting from Sabine Hoffman and a lovely, sometimes diegetic, sometimes not, sometimes maybe not score from Devonté Hynes.

After starting with a literal spotlight on Negga, Passing soon becomes Thompson’s film. The whole production hinges on her performance; both are a success. Thompson’s fantastic. For a while, her performance is reactionary—to meeting Negga again, to seeing how others react to Negga—but in the second act, Thompson stops getting fresh stimuli, and her performance essays internal experience, particularly of her status as a society wife and mother. The third act’s a mix of both styles, revealing even more about the character as events unfold. Thompson’s good in the first act, but it really does seem like Passing’s going to be Negga’s movie; then, starting from the inactive position, Thompson dominates the frame. So good.

Holland’s excellent, Negga’s really good, Camp’s really good, Skarsgård’s distressingly perfect in his part.

Great production design from Nora Mendis and costumes by Marci Rodgers.

Passing is spectacular. Hall, Thompson, and company do an outstanding job.

It’s so good I can’t even be sad Gbenga Akinnagbe isn’t in it more. I mean, I’m sad he isn’t in it more, but he doesn’t need to be in it more.

Gattaca (1997, Andrew Niccol)

Gattaca is a science fiction triptych character study by way of film noir. And while the film’s a murder mystery, it only uses the film noir device—narration—for a non-mystery section of the film. The narration ends with the murder mystery, not coming back until the finale. It’s an absolutely fantastic structure from writer and director Niccol, who’ll then lean into the character study elements, sometimes employing noirish visuals but always slightly not.

But Gattaca doesn’t take place in a dangerous world, and noir’s all about danger.

The film takes place in the near future when parents-to-be go to their location geneticist, and they pick out the best egg to grow into a baby. The film actually doesn’t get into whether or not the mother carries the baby at all, but it seems like maybe not. Not important. The film takes place in the future, where the next pandemic kills off all the anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers, and the rich liberals need to figure out what to do about the icky poors.

Anyway.

Ethan Hawke is a “God-child;” his parents left his genetics up to fate, and fate delivered them someone with a bad heart, among other ailments. We find out Hawke’s origins in the summary flashback, which he narrates. It starts a few minutes into the film, five or seven minutes; the film opens with Hawke scrubbing loose skin from his body and being a neat freak, shows him getting tested at work, then the flashback to explain he’s not like everyone else at the Gattaca installation; additionally, because he’s pretending to be someone else.

The Gattaca installation is a future NASA, where the best of the best prepare to explore the galaxy—or at least the solar system—and the even better best get to actually go on the missions. It’s finally Hawke’s turn, boss Gore Vidal tells him; one more week. The week will be the present action for most of the film but first is the thirty-plus minute flashback establishing Hawke and the future.

A murder kicks off the flashback, but that murder’s got nothing to do with the material it covers. Niccol lucks out at Hawke’s ability to narrate and make his character more sympathetic—he comes off like a prick in the pre-flashback setup, just another prig in a world of them—just through his vocal performance. The film traces his childhood, as mom Jayne Brook wants the best for her son, and dad Elias Koteas just wants a better son next time. Then the younger brother excels because he’s got the right genes, and how even mom gives up on young Hawke. It’s devastating, especially since Hawke—narrating from the future—doesn’t remark on the obvious psychological turmoil.

He runs away from home as a teenager, and in the next scene in the flashback montage is Hawke, now a custodian at the Gattaca installation. Since he was a kid, he’s been a space junkie, and everyone thought cleaning the spaceships would be the closest he ever would get, but he’s got a plan. Just because you’ve got perfect genes doesn’t mean you might not get hit by a car or fall down the wrong stairs, and then what can you do. Tony Shalhoub brokers a deal for Hawke to assume partially paralyzed Jude Law’s identity, which requires lots of cosmetic and mental work; in exchange, Hawke supports Law. Presumably, Gattaca pays well. They never talk about money in the future. Maybe there isn’t any.

The flashback changes speed throughout, emphasizing teenaged Hawke’s adversarial relationship with his brother (Chad Christ and William Lee Scott play the teenage versions, respectively), then also Hawke and Law’s initially testy relationship. In addition to being a depressed drunk, Law thinks Hawke’s genetically inferior and resents having to be in this arrangement. Especially since it means sobering up (at least occasionally).

As the flashback gets closer to the present, Hawke explains he’s running out of time with his heart defect—they can predict when your body’s going to give out with 99% surety, and he’s passed due—and the only thing impeding his space dream is this one crappy mission director at work.

Who turns out to be the murder victim.

And Hawke carelessly left an eyelash near the scene. His eyelash; not one of the ones Law plucks for him to plant.

The film runs 106 minutes, so the next seventy minutes (minus credits) take place over the few days before Hawke’s mission is scheduled to depart. The police show up at work, initially led by old school detective Alan Arkin, who’s convinced the eyelash guy must be the killer—one of the other things they screen out in the eugenics is the propensity for violence and criminal behavior—so Hawke’s got to stay on his toes.

Simultaneously, his coworker Uma Thurman starts getting interested in him romantically, but in Gattaca, romantic interest comes after running a potential partner’s genetic code. Thurman’s good enough for Gattaca in the brains department, but she’s not going to get a shuttle mission because she’s got a bum heart; sometimes, even with the eugenics, things still go wrong with the science.

Back at home, Law’s preparing for a year without an identity—Hawke’s leaving the planet; he can’t be in two places at once, which means Law can’t be anywhere.

Then there’s Loren Dean’s genetically superior police commander, who thinks presumably regular guy Arkin’s investigating the wrong leads, but Arkin thinks Dean’s all genes and no gut. The murder investigation gives the film a different, contentious structure running through the already established one-week-to-lift-off structure. It throws a wrench in Hawke and Law’s plans, but they need to adjust around it. Similarly, Thurman’s last-minute romantic interest in Hawke further complicates things.

The film gradually becomes that triptych character study: Hawke, Thurman, Law. Maybe Dean sharing some of the third spot with Law. The script mixes drama—family drama, as Hawke and Law have become the brothers neither had—romance, the general hard sci-fi of future eugenics and spaceflight, and murder mystery. Niccol’s script is phenomenal.

Along with that already considerable success is Niccol’s breathtaking direction. Gattaca’s a muted future, filled with people genetically engineered not to be impressed with the wonders around them. Niccol and cinematographer Slawomir Idziak shoot it clear but saturated with color. Then there’s the Michael Nyman score, which tracks the emotions of Hawke and the other actors throughout. The colors and the music mix and mingle, creating an encompassing backdrop for the actors’ performances.

Niccol does a great job with the actors. Hawke, Law, Thurman, Dean. Arkin’s kind of an extended cameo, along with Xander Berkeley, Ernest Borgnine, and Shalhoub. Everything about Gattaca—except Nyman’s score—is controlled or constrained. The music soars with the possibility of breaking free, and when characters actually get to do it too, Niccol scales appropriately.

Gattaca’s an exceptional film.

Punch-Drunk Love (2002, Paul Thomas Anderson)

There are probably better movies with seven-minute end credits than Punch-Drunk Love but I doubt there are any where those seven-minute end credits are padded to give the film a more respectable run time. Punch-Drunk Love is an approximately eighty-eight-minute marathon where writer and director Anderson hones in on his protagonist, played by Adam Sandler, and relates the chaos of his life.

Sandler’s a plumbing supply manufacturer in business with Luis Guzmán, his only friend. As close as Sandler has to a friend. Guzmán’s performance is profoundly, beautifully dry. He doesn’t have much to do, but when he gets something, he nails it. Guzmán is also the human side of Sandler. The film opens with Sandler alone at a desk in a corner—he has an office in the rest of the movie; it’s unclear why he’s using that phone—calling to confirm he’s read the fine print correctly on a Healthy Choice and American Airlines promotional deal; you get a five hundred mile credit for every ten items, but you can double it with a coupon, and there are no limits.

After that phone call, Sandler wanders out into his industrial park, looking at the early morning sky, and witnesses a bewildering car accident. Soon after, he meets a lady dropping off her car for a nearby mechanic; Emily Watson plays the lady. She’s the love interest. Sandler will change his entire life for Watson as the film progresses, conquering known and unknown fears.

The character definitely has OCD as well as some kind of anxiety disorder. He’s got seven sisters who call him at work to pester and berate him. They tell stories about how they bullied him to outbursts as a kid, joking about it as adults, all of them entirely indifferent to the turmoil it causes Sandler. Even when he acts out because of the teasing. All the sisters but one are only in the film’s first act. Mary Lynn Rajskub sticks around to antagonize Sander throughout.

So it’s never clear how the lifelong bullying has affected Sandler’s social behaviors, but the family’s not just indifferent to the effect of the teasing; they also don’t acknowledge the OCD. Sandler wants therapy but knows his sisters would mock him for seeking it, so it seems like he’s never been to see anyone for the OCD either. The party scene with the sisters is emotionally exhausting, both for the film and Sandler.

Home alone with no one to talk to–having been shut down by a brother-in-law Sandler mistakenly thought would be sympathetic—Sandler calls a phone sex line. Anderson shoots the scene continuous—lots of Punch-Drunk is long, complicated, moving scenes, sometimes with a single shot, often with multiple shots; great editing makes it seems like a single shot when it’s a dozen–and it’s exceptionally discomforting. Especially listening to the operator manipulate Sandler.

The next day, the operator calls back, demanding money. Sandler told her he had his own business, and she took it to mean he was wealthy; the phone sex operation is part of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s mattress and furniture sales store (important details later on), and Hoffman doesn’t take kindly to someone not wanting to be shook down.

Once Sandler starts getting the extortion calls, Punch-Drunk accelerates for the rest of the film. Jon Brion’s music initially ramps it up, seemingly the constant, relentless soundtrack in Sandler’s head. The music does slow down, but it’s set the pace, and Sandler soon finds reaching out for human connection is full of pitfalls. Particularly when his sisters, even off-screen, continue to mess with him.

But then there’s Watson, a calm amid all the chaos, even as it rages around her, even as she surprises Sandler. The plot with Hoffman and the extortion is tough, mean, absurd black comedy, and the romance with Watson, happening simultaneously, is a Technicolor romance. Albeit not in Technicolor. Sandler’s aloof but meticulous performance holds the two plots together, his intensity shared between them.

Also, obviously, Anderson doing a bunch of work to keep things synced, with lots of help from composer Brion, cinematographer Robert Elswit, and editor Leslie Jones. Punch-Drunk Love is fastidious to the extremis. So it stands out when they use some transition animation to get the third act done. It’s a jarring, wanting device, but Anderson manages to make up for it almost immediately. It’s probably the film’s most impressive accomplishment; to build off of literally nothing, rebounding from what ought to be a debilitating low. It’s exceptional.

And it’s not even over. As Sandler finally gets to the last stretch of his sprint, the last few minutes just get better and better, with a postscript lifting it even more.

Punch-Drunk Love is a singular success. Sandler grows his performance to greatness, and Watson’s a true enigma. The film marvels at her performance as it unfolds. Anderson directs the heck of it.

So incredibly, so unimaginably good.

Tangerines (2013, Zaza Urushadze)

Tangerines has such a profoundly straightforward plot and limited cast I expected it to be a stage adaptation. It’s not; writer and director Urushadze just knows how to perturb character development without theatrics. The film’s about the War in Abkhazia, but its protagonist isn’t Georgian or Abkhaz, rather an Estonian. The film itself does a fine job laying out the complicated particulars of the ground situation (with one lingual exception); I’m going to try getting straight to the film proper without recapping Wikipedia here.

The protagonist is carpenter Lembit Ulfsak. He makes crates for neighbor Elmo Nüganen, who is a tangerine farmer. They live in a now otherwise empty village; they’re both from Estonia; the village was mostly or entirely Estonian immigrants; everyone else has gone back to Estonia since the war broke out. The only time the film leaves the road where Ulfsak and Nüganen live is to go around the bend to the other side of Nüganen’s plantation. So it’s very finite, very focused. Urushadze keeps the film incredibly constrained, though it also shows how big the men’s worlds can feel.

The film starts with Chechen mercenaries, led by Giorgi Nakashidze, hitting Ulfsak up for food. The Chechens are just passing through. Nakashidze interrogates Ulfsak about his allegiances and history, but it’s not a bad encounter. It could’ve gone much worse, which Urushadze never describes in dialogue; instead just permeates through the mood. In fact, the Chechens are so satisfied with Ulfsak and his food donation they don’t even bother neighbor Nüganen.

Except when there’s finally fighting, it’s in front of Nüganen’s. The Chechens, in a jeep, have a firefight with some Georgians in a van. There are two survivors; one is Nakashidze, and the other is Georgian Misha Meskhi. Ulfsak’s going to help both of them, with Nüganen somewhat reluctantly assisting. Nüganen’s got to get the tangerine crop picked before the war reaches them and makes it impossible, so he’s busy. Ulfsak’s got to make him crates in time for the helpers Nüganen’s arranged; the timing provides Tangerines a built-in structure, which is a nice move. And one of the reasons the film feels like a stage adaptation. Even though the film’s cagey about the ground situation, it’s incredibly robust.

Ulfsak and Nüganen enlist local doctor Raivo Trass—another Estonian heading home any day now—who manages to get both soldiers stable enough to recover. Nakashidze wakes up first and is very unhappy to hear Ulfsak’s housing enemy Meskhi, though once Meskhi joins the action, he’s not much happier. In fact, he’ll prove more actively hostile.

The first act sets up the impromptu recovery ward, including some specifics about how Ulfsak keeps house and the relationship between Ulfsak and Nüganen. The second act starts with Nakashidze and Ulfsak continuing their arc from the first scene, the two men learning more about one another, though each has hard limits on how much they’re going to share. However, once Meskhi’s well enough to join everyone in the kitchen, Nakashidze’s hostility towards him puts he and Ulfsak’s quasi-friendship in immediate jeopardy.

Because Nüganen’s got nowhere else to go (and no one else to see), he hangs out with them too, which doesn’t aggravate the situation as much as emphasize its tensions. Nüganen’s the impartial observer. He’ll eventually get a character development arc of his own; the film starts the work on it early. Of course, Urushadze always starts work early, deliberately laying the foundation for where the film be headed later on. A lot is going on with Tangerines, obviously. The film addresses stoicism, toxic masculinity, jingoism, religiosity, and bigotry, but never outside the context of its characters. The men are also incredibly private. Nüganen knows Ulfsak’s backstory, but there’s no reason for him to exposition dump to get ahead of Ulfsak wanting to share it. Nakashidze and Meshki are both tangled clumps of unasked questions and refused answers. The film doesn’t unravel them; it reaches in and pulls out one or two strands to examine before returning them to the mess.

As a director, Urushadze’s got a remarkable, fervent confidence in his actors. He asks a lot of them for the film’s runtime, only escalating as it progresses—at the start, he’s only really worrying about Ulfsak and Nakashidze, but then adds Meskhi and Nüganen’s performances to the mix. The actors have to do the exact right amount of character development—usually in how their expressions change throughout a scene; even when they get to do something (relatively) theatrical, Tangerines brings it back down to the character observing how the other characters are experiencing that behavior. The hardest part is Ulfsak’s, especially since he’s got the most mystery to him. The best performance is probably Nakashidze, but it’s also the showiest. Meshki, who starts the film silent, is then the most impressive because his recovery’s often onscreen and dramatic.

It’s excellent direction from Urushadze, especially since the first half of Tangerines is deliberately understated. His composition is usually about helping the performances along, only occasionally zooming out to give a physical context. Actually, after the first act—when they’re still dealing with the firefight’s literal damage—Urushadze might not use any expositional long shots at all. It’s all about the characters and their experiences of the events.

Great photography from Rein Kotov and production design from Tea Telia. Alexander Kuranov’s editing is notable in its unassuming naturalness. Similarly, whenever the film needs Niaz Diasamidze’s music, it’s right on, but it doesn’t need it often.

Tangerines starts pretty good and keeps getting better. The third act is phenomenal and elevates the film even more. Urushadze doesn’t really bring everything together so much as reveal the two everythings going on—the four men stuck in a challenging but not inherently dangerous situation, the war around them—and how those two threads are tragically inseparable.

It’s a great film. Urushadze, Nakashidze, Ulfsak, and Meshki all do outstanding work.