I'm going to be honest with you, world: I don't understand The Descendants.
It's going to win best adapted screenplay - it won the Golden Globe for Best Drama - this technically puts it in the second slot (though I'd say slot #2 absolutely belongs to The Help). It's directed by one of the most acclaimed writer-directors working, its headlined by the biggest male star on earth - who is gunning for Oscar gold and who Entertainment Weekly puts ahead of du Jardin. That's right, kids, EW has Clooney taking it. But I've got to say, it just wasn't there for me.
I absolutely loathe going into what it is about a picture that I do not like. Particularly when all signs point to my opinion being in the minority and my having missed something about a film the world finds fantastic. I am willing to admit that I may be absolutely wrong about this movie - I'm just telling you how I felt when I saw the thing - and the fact that it's so out of line with the majority opinion "leaves me conflicted" (to be said as Rip Torn said the line in Wonder Boys). In fact, I am going to have to sit myself down some time this Oscar weekend - pop in my screener - and give this thing a second chance. I'm reacting to this thing the way I reacted to The Fighter last year. I had no idea what all the fuss was about - meanwhile Bale and Leo walked away with every supporting trophy out there. I had the same reaction this year to The Descendants. So what is there for me to say?
A few things.
First, I would like to say that this years Warrior put The Fighter to shame. I realize I didn't latch on to David O. Russell's Southie box-fest, so my opinion needs to be taken with a grain of salt. But I love me some boxing. I watch it whenever I get the chance. I love boxing movies. I love fighting movies. I love a good family drama. I love a sibling rivalry that is straight-up toxic. All these things are crack to me. Warrior slays every single one of those categories and does it with drunk old dad as the root of the problem -- expertly played by Nick Nolte -- who not only has von Sydow to deal with but the octogenarian juggernaut that is Christopher Plummer. So... there's that.
Secondly, I wonder what was going through people's minds when they put together the advertising for The Descendants. Mom's in a coma. Dad, you didn't know she was having an affair? That's right, Dad, you're George Clooney and Mom was banging the lanky guy from Scream (who was great, by the way -- all sorts of love to Matthew Lillard). But you basically lay that out there and then show me Clooney making hard turns in Hawaiian shirts and popping up behind manicured hedges like he's a cross between the dog from Duck Hunt and Mr. Brady on that fateful trip to Hawaii.
And that isn't even close to what this movie has in store.
Truth be told, Alexander Payne is a complex director. He manipulates form, adapts great pieces of literature, and has a quirkiness that walks a precarious line between comedy and drama. Whether it's Election and all it's off-beat sex, unflattering freeze-frames, and the absolute destruction of Matthew Broderick's ("Mr. M.!") life. Whether it's Giamatti crumbling to pieces in the Santa Ynez Valley while the sultry Virginia Madsen explains how life is like a glass of vino. Or perhaps its Nicholson floating in a hot tub with a naked Kathy Bates one moment, then crying his eyes out, streaking his face with cold creme while he writes letters to Ndugu. I loved them all! I was on the hook! I found nothing jarring about the balance of these films and found the performances remarkable.
This time it wasn't there for me.
It wasn't Clooney's fault.
It was something with the overall world of this film -- the Hawaiian responsibility to the land while my wife languishes and I wonder what my life's worth is THING. I'd honestly like to hear a Hawaiian's reaction. Keanu, Obama... are you there? Fill me in.
As I said, I'll watch it again. And this sucker is absolutely going to win some trophies. For me, The Descendants rave is a mystery. How it sidelined Pitt and Moneyball will be something I never understand... unless, of course, Keanu and Obama take me to dinner. I'm in the book, boys.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Picture Nominee Roundup: Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
The stress of this particular week and the fast approaching Oscars forces me to address the nominees a bit more quickly than I initially intended. My write-ups will more than likely not measure up the length of coverage I gave Moneyball and The Help -- and considering I already covered Tree of Life, I doubt I will again.
That having been said, let's dive into the Daldry.
Extremely Loud strikes me as one of the most critically misunderstood films of the year. Were it up to me it would have been one of the five and Daldry would most certainly have a directing nod. The fact that this adaptation of Jonathan Safron Foer's novel has met with mixed reception is not exactly a surprise -- but this should not give those who've not yet seen it the impression that it's a mixed bag of a film: truth be told, it's nothing short of excellent.
Yes, you have to be someone who is wiling to submerge yourself into the world of Daldry and someone who enjoys the way in which he constructs his films. Considering those films are The Reader, The Hours, and Billy Elliot, that's not a ridiculous request. The man is one of the top directors working and all four of his films has delivered straight down the line. Extremely is no exception. In fact, I would argue that as Daldry vies more and more for the chance to be heralded as the best British director -- considering the loss of Anthony Minghella and the fact that Mendes has been floundering of late. Additionally, Daldry, as I mentioned in my brief coverage of my personal top dozen or so films this year, has taken on the responsibility of bringing masterpieces of modern literature to the screen -- and doing so in a way that doesn't violate the intentions of the original text. To have done so with material as varied as The Hours, The Reader, and Extremely Loud is remarkable. There isn't a wobbly piece in any of his films. One just has to be prepared for the depth.
With Extremely Loud, the maestro has melded the strengths of The Hours and The Reader with his expert child-directing skills so evident in every form of Billy Elliot -- be it stage or screen. But here is where the film runs into its controversy and where there is a blatant -- nay, irresponsible reaction from critics who should be approaching a piece this sophisticated with more intelligence.
No, this kid is not Billy Elliot. He's not hammering out his coal town woes by kicking down the alleyway to some tough and tumble T-Rex. Nor is this kid Jamie Bell -- someone who hooks us all the moment we look into his eyes and who makes the audience fall in love with him by simply choosing to shadow dance with the heavy bag rather than throwing a few quick punches. The boy is a find the likes of Christian Bale and has proven to be far warmer as the years have gone by.
But that is not what Extremely Loud called for -- and Daldry had the balls to know it and a kid with the innate chops to pull it off. Whether Thomas Horn - the young chap playing Oskar Schell - was merely the kid "Jeopardy" star who mimics this character best -- already having his personality -- or whether he's an expert actor who got right into the groove of Schell and heeded the words of Daldry is something only those who worked on the film will ever know. And frankly, who gives a damn? In the end, he pulls it off remarkably.
Is this the warmest kid under the sun? Do you want him to challenge his father face to face in a tutu and be the charmingest little kid there ever was? Well -- if you do, then you should rent Billy Elliot. This kid is a different beast entirely and he hits this role square between the eyes. He is a special needs kid of undefined diagnosis that is absolutely on the autism spectrum. Any critic who claimed he was "precocious" or "unlikable" is nothing short of a jackass. I try to keep these reviews somewhere within the realm of decorum -- but sometimes braying brainless jackass who'd be better of trapped on Pleasure Island is the most accurate way to categorize irresponsible "journalists" who have absolutely no experience with the ever-growing population of special needs children who are more demanding, a bit icy, perhaps too direct and fact driven -- but just as much in need of love and warmth as anyone walking the earth. Way to be the adult who has no problem disliking a child that's more difficult to handle and to take the shortcut to thinking this consequently makes him more difficult to love. Children are easy to love. Their lives are normally simple. When their internal structures are heartbreakingly complicated, it's a call for more from us "grown-ups," not an invitation to cast them aside and write off their plight.
It behooves me to point out that this Thomas Horn's Oskar Schell needs no great decoding. He is clearly this boy - trapped within himself, struggling to make sense of a complex world where cut and dry facts don't work in all aspects of everyday life. For the most part -- Schell's mission is to take the over-stimulation of life and to narrow it down even more than the most myopic of us. Wouldn't that be the quest of any person whose system is on overload? Horn does this with mere speech patterns - a stiff blink of his eyes - a rude quip - a shake of his tambourine.
The brilliance of making this boy's only harbor in the storm his father (at first, anyway) -- and then making that father Tom Hanks -- gives Hanks one of the best "latter part of his career" roles a man of Hanks' prowess has had in ages. It's a Jimmy Steward move. It's a Henry Fonda move. It's a Donald Sutherland move. He steps out of the spotlight. Lets his overwhelming magnetism elevate the work of the younger actor whose character loves you so thoroughly. And allows his screen time to be as limited as possible.
(He and Bullock - as amazing as they are - are a bit of a mismatch as a couple. It dings the film in a minor way. But that's neither's fault and they spend so little time together it's barely worth mentioning.)
In Hanks' case -- his fate as Oskar Schell's father lies in the crumbling Twin Towers on the fateful morning of 9-11. None of us has been able to make sense of that day. The best each of us can do is recount what we went through and to relate some of our friends' tales or perhaps the near "urban legend" like miracles we've heard of survivors, coincidences, and sheer insanity. Now ask Oskar Schell to process the fact that the person he thought understood him best was obliterated by one of the most senseless acts in history. Amazingly, Safron Foer - adapted by the amazing Eric Roth - then in the hands of Stephen Daldry - did just that.
How does one do all this and steer it away from the rocky cliffs of films like The Hours and The Reader and keep a 9-11 movie infused with hope? So few of us are Virginia Woolf or the cutest boy in the world whose icy mother was Julianne Moore. So few of us wandered home one day with a controller of a German streetcar only to have a hot affair with a bosomy Nazi. But far too many of us felt the shock of 9-11 rattle through our lives and change our perception of the world forever. Few of us were able to see the possibility of hope rising out of such a tragedy. This story does just that. I won't give a damn thing away because you all need to see it. But my goodness does this thing put your heart in a vice and then hand it back to you -- tear-soaked as all hell -- in the most glorious place.
Finally, I must talk about Max von Sydow and Sandra Bullock -- two of the year's best performances. Sandy Bullock continues to prove herself to be so much more than the industry allows her to be. While her Oscar for The Blind Side may seem to some that it was more of a lifetime achievement award than it was a deserving statue for a specific performance -- Extremely Loud demonstrates that the lady can act. Man can she ever. You wonder what the hell she's doing all movie. And then you have your mind and heart blown to pieces. Brace yourselves.
And then there's the Exorcist himself, Mr. von Sydow - who went up against death in a chess game, who dated Barbara Hershey in a Woody Allen film and lived to tell the tale. One of the greatest living actors, it's a shame von Sydow had to be nominated in a year where a fellow elder-statesman already has the momentum to snag supporting actor gold. Were this any other year, he would have deserving taken the trophy -- all without muttering a word -- all by simply holding up his tattooed palms bearing the words "Yes" and "No." Max's eyes show his deep understanding of Oksar's struggle as he accompanies the boy on his post-9-11 quest. His work is amazing.
My personal pick for best picture of the year remains Midnight in Paris. That doesn't seem like it has the clout to take the gold - let's be honest, the tap-dancing Frenchman who does a bit with a dog has it all locked up. But that seemed to me to have more to do with the fact that Woody Allen is the kind of guy who is going to win one best picture - and that's all. Extremely Loud, on the other hand, is the kind of movie that would ask the Academy to really have a brain and have some balls. This is an important film that could recalibrate the nation's heart about our greatest tragedy. Let go and let it take you on its ride. Daldry has handled the material admirably - any open mind will be overwhelmed.
That having been said, let's dive into the Daldry.
Extremely Loud strikes me as one of the most critically misunderstood films of the year. Were it up to me it would have been one of the five and Daldry would most certainly have a directing nod. The fact that this adaptation of Jonathan Safron Foer's novel has met with mixed reception is not exactly a surprise -- but this should not give those who've not yet seen it the impression that it's a mixed bag of a film: truth be told, it's nothing short of excellent.
Yes, you have to be someone who is wiling to submerge yourself into the world of Daldry and someone who enjoys the way in which he constructs his films. Considering those films are The Reader, The Hours, and Billy Elliot, that's not a ridiculous request. The man is one of the top directors working and all four of his films has delivered straight down the line. Extremely is no exception. In fact, I would argue that as Daldry vies more and more for the chance to be heralded as the best British director -- considering the loss of Anthony Minghella and the fact that Mendes has been floundering of late. Additionally, Daldry, as I mentioned in my brief coverage of my personal top dozen or so films this year, has taken on the responsibility of bringing masterpieces of modern literature to the screen -- and doing so in a way that doesn't violate the intentions of the original text. To have done so with material as varied as The Hours, The Reader, and Extremely Loud is remarkable. There isn't a wobbly piece in any of his films. One just has to be prepared for the depth.
With Extremely Loud, the maestro has melded the strengths of The Hours and The Reader with his expert child-directing skills so evident in every form of Billy Elliot -- be it stage or screen. But here is where the film runs into its controversy and where there is a blatant -- nay, irresponsible reaction from critics who should be approaching a piece this sophisticated with more intelligence.
No, this kid is not Billy Elliot. He's not hammering out his coal town woes by kicking down the alleyway to some tough and tumble T-Rex. Nor is this kid Jamie Bell -- someone who hooks us all the moment we look into his eyes and who makes the audience fall in love with him by simply choosing to shadow dance with the heavy bag rather than throwing a few quick punches. The boy is a find the likes of Christian Bale and has proven to be far warmer as the years have gone by.
But that is not what Extremely Loud called for -- and Daldry had the balls to know it and a kid with the innate chops to pull it off. Whether Thomas Horn - the young chap playing Oskar Schell - was merely the kid "Jeopardy" star who mimics this character best -- already having his personality -- or whether he's an expert actor who got right into the groove of Schell and heeded the words of Daldry is something only those who worked on the film will ever know. And frankly, who gives a damn? In the end, he pulls it off remarkably.
Is this the warmest kid under the sun? Do you want him to challenge his father face to face in a tutu and be the charmingest little kid there ever was? Well -- if you do, then you should rent Billy Elliot. This kid is a different beast entirely and he hits this role square between the eyes. He is a special needs kid of undefined diagnosis that is absolutely on the autism spectrum. Any critic who claimed he was "precocious" or "unlikable" is nothing short of a jackass. I try to keep these reviews somewhere within the realm of decorum -- but sometimes braying brainless jackass who'd be better of trapped on Pleasure Island is the most accurate way to categorize irresponsible "journalists" who have absolutely no experience with the ever-growing population of special needs children who are more demanding, a bit icy, perhaps too direct and fact driven -- but just as much in need of love and warmth as anyone walking the earth. Way to be the adult who has no problem disliking a child that's more difficult to handle and to take the shortcut to thinking this consequently makes him more difficult to love. Children are easy to love. Their lives are normally simple. When their internal structures are heartbreakingly complicated, it's a call for more from us "grown-ups," not an invitation to cast them aside and write off their plight.
It behooves me to point out that this Thomas Horn's Oskar Schell needs no great decoding. He is clearly this boy - trapped within himself, struggling to make sense of a complex world where cut and dry facts don't work in all aspects of everyday life. For the most part -- Schell's mission is to take the over-stimulation of life and to narrow it down even more than the most myopic of us. Wouldn't that be the quest of any person whose system is on overload? Horn does this with mere speech patterns - a stiff blink of his eyes - a rude quip - a shake of his tambourine.
The brilliance of making this boy's only harbor in the storm his father (at first, anyway) -- and then making that father Tom Hanks -- gives Hanks one of the best "latter part of his career" roles a man of Hanks' prowess has had in ages. It's a Jimmy Steward move. It's a Henry Fonda move. It's a Donald Sutherland move. He steps out of the spotlight. Lets his overwhelming magnetism elevate the work of the younger actor whose character loves you so thoroughly. And allows his screen time to be as limited as possible.
(He and Bullock - as amazing as they are - are a bit of a mismatch as a couple. It dings the film in a minor way. But that's neither's fault and they spend so little time together it's barely worth mentioning.)
In Hanks' case -- his fate as Oskar Schell's father lies in the crumbling Twin Towers on the fateful morning of 9-11. None of us has been able to make sense of that day. The best each of us can do is recount what we went through and to relate some of our friends' tales or perhaps the near "urban legend" like miracles we've heard of survivors, coincidences, and sheer insanity. Now ask Oskar Schell to process the fact that the person he thought understood him best was obliterated by one of the most senseless acts in history. Amazingly, Safron Foer - adapted by the amazing Eric Roth - then in the hands of Stephen Daldry - did just that.
How does one do all this and steer it away from the rocky cliffs of films like The Hours and The Reader and keep a 9-11 movie infused with hope? So few of us are Virginia Woolf or the cutest boy in the world whose icy mother was Julianne Moore. So few of us wandered home one day with a controller of a German streetcar only to have a hot affair with a bosomy Nazi. But far too many of us felt the shock of 9-11 rattle through our lives and change our perception of the world forever. Few of us were able to see the possibility of hope rising out of such a tragedy. This story does just that. I won't give a damn thing away because you all need to see it. But my goodness does this thing put your heart in a vice and then hand it back to you -- tear-soaked as all hell -- in the most glorious place.
Finally, I must talk about Max von Sydow and Sandra Bullock -- two of the year's best performances. Sandy Bullock continues to prove herself to be so much more than the industry allows her to be. While her Oscar for The Blind Side may seem to some that it was more of a lifetime achievement award than it was a deserving statue for a specific performance -- Extremely Loud demonstrates that the lady can act. Man can she ever. You wonder what the hell she's doing all movie. And then you have your mind and heart blown to pieces. Brace yourselves.
And then there's the Exorcist himself, Mr. von Sydow - who went up against death in a chess game, who dated Barbara Hershey in a Woody Allen film and lived to tell the tale. One of the greatest living actors, it's a shame von Sydow had to be nominated in a year where a fellow elder-statesman already has the momentum to snag supporting actor gold. Were this any other year, he would have deserving taken the trophy -- all without muttering a word -- all by simply holding up his tattooed palms bearing the words "Yes" and "No." Max's eyes show his deep understanding of Oksar's struggle as he accompanies the boy on his post-9-11 quest. His work is amazing.
My personal pick for best picture of the year remains Midnight in Paris. That doesn't seem like it has the clout to take the gold - let's be honest, the tap-dancing Frenchman who does a bit with a dog has it all locked up. But that seemed to me to have more to do with the fact that Woody Allen is the kind of guy who is going to win one best picture - and that's all. Extremely Loud, on the other hand, is the kind of movie that would ask the Academy to really have a brain and have some balls. This is an important film that could recalibrate the nation's heart about our greatest tragedy. Let go and let it take you on its ride. Daldry has handled the material admirably - any open mind will be overwhelmed.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Picture Nominee Roundup: The Help
Considering this blog was started to track the awards seasons, make some predictions, and give the McGut reaction to what's happening out there -- it behooves me to open this edition of "Roundup" by saying I still think The Help can take it next Sunday. This sucker could Crash its way right in - and be a more deserving winner. No, it doesn't have a director nomination or a screenplay nomination -- those are serious hamstringers. But this is purely due to the fact that The Help was adapted and directed by Tate Taylor and there seems to be some resentment toward the actor cum helmer. But a picture needn't have script or director in the bag to take film. Plenty of pics didn't take director - Driving Miss Daisy, Shakespeare in Love, Chicago, Crash. The list of pics that lost screenplay would take up the rest of this blog. The SAG win for ensemble and the increasing possibility of both Octavia Spencer and Viola Davis taking home gold could well land The Help with the big one.
As the summer came to a close, the adaptation of Kathry Stockett's juggernaut best-seller burst onto the scene. Though it was certainly being presented as if it had the pedigree of a best picture nominee, there were doubts whether it could go the distance -- even to nominee-ville had this not been the awful era of ten. Who knew that it would be far and away the second strongest contender, holding the number two spot as the front-runners went through their continual shift. The Help could have easily fallen into the pit so many films like Steel Magnolias, Fried Green Tomatoes, The Joy Luck Club and How to Make an American Quilt before it. SOLID films anchored in a female cast that become perennial favorites but simply don't win awards. There's something about serious female dramas that stymies their chance at victory. From 1980 until now it's nigh on impossible to point out a picture winner that's femme based. Chicago? Shakespeare in Love? Those are about as close as it gets. How great it would be if those tables turned.
The criticism has been that The Help has sugar-coated the struggle of African American domestics in Jackson Mississippi. Some have gone as far as to say that it's just another film where a white person comes to the rescue. Really? Is this the reaction to The Help? From a "sugar coating" standpoint, the critics seem to have missed the boat on what this film was trying to do. This isn't Mississippi Burning. This isn't To Kill a Mockingbird. This isn't The Maid. It was never trying to be and frankly I don't know why it should have to be. The characters were treated with dignity. The situation was presented with a balance of seriousness and humor that never belittled those who struggled, but mocked the biggest and lent a richness to characters' lives that could have been presented as dour rather than full.
Each character's thread was a well-constructed arc woven through the length of the film and tidily tied off at the picture's end. After 50/50 and The Help, one wonders if Bryce Dallas Howard will ever be forgiven or whether she may well end up the world's youngest Louise Fletcher. Jessica Chastain's ostracism, her marriage with Mike Vogel, and her glee at shaking a bag of battered chicken -- let alone her work in Tree of Life and The Debt have solidified her spot as this year's hottest female breakout. And what can't be said about Emma Stone that hasn't been said already? This lady isn't going anywhere. She's here to stay. The way her Skeeter stepped back and let the actual "help" take the spotlight of this film is what makes it such a triumph.
I haven't even mentioned the older generation of Janney, Spacek and Steenburgen!
Then there's Viola Davis whose only stumbling block on the way to the podium for actress will be her Streep-ness in a world-class career highlight performance. Whether it was her heart-wrenching turn in Doubt or her brief, but captivating performance in this year's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Viola Davis has become a watermark of greatness. Her performance as Aibileen is no exception. Coupled with her voice over and her soothing mantra -- "You is kind. You is smart. You is important."-- the amount of heartbreak or swell Davis can inflict with a single look is second to none. Davis' acting is the sort where one either has to write next to nothing or unleash a tome of frame-by-frame adoration for her the tiny shifts in her facial expressions that dictate the audience's response. Her SAG win bodes well -- as actress has aligned with SAG far more often than not these past years. Being bested by Streep's Thatcher after a 29 year Oscar drought isn't exactly a loss either. This one's neck and neck.
For this fair blogger, the scene (and picture) stealer was Octavia Spencer. Though Davis functions as the film's narrator and guides us in and out of the story her on-screen time bordered on supporting. My initial reaction was that she, Chastain, and Spencer were all going to land themselves in the Supporting Actress category, overly duking it out like the Corleone boys -- only to watch Joel Grey walk away with it all. (What a shock it would be if Grey repeated that victory this year over The Help ladies.) But as the loud-mouthed Minnie -- pie baker, extraordinaire -- Spencer turned in one of the best and inarguably most memorable performances of the year. Whether she's talking about Crisco, going head to head with Bryce Dallas Howard, or stepping on the gas to get Skeeter's book to plow ahead full steam -- Spencer's comedy never turned Minnie into an unbelievable character. She's a dead lock for supporting actress barring any Weinstein Bejo stunner. And well she should be. It's damn clear that The Help must take home trophies. We'll see next Sunday if Spencer's deserved victory is the only one -- or whether her statuette -- bound to be presented early in the telecast -- is the start of a 3 Oscar run.
As the summer came to a close, the adaptation of Kathry Stockett's juggernaut best-seller burst onto the scene. Though it was certainly being presented as if it had the pedigree of a best picture nominee, there were doubts whether it could go the distance -- even to nominee-ville had this not been the awful era of ten. Who knew that it would be far and away the second strongest contender, holding the number two spot as the front-runners went through their continual shift. The Help could have easily fallen into the pit so many films like Steel Magnolias, Fried Green Tomatoes, The Joy Luck Club and How to Make an American Quilt before it. SOLID films anchored in a female cast that become perennial favorites but simply don't win awards. There's something about serious female dramas that stymies their chance at victory. From 1980 until now it's nigh on impossible to point out a picture winner that's femme based. Chicago? Shakespeare in Love? Those are about as close as it gets. How great it would be if those tables turned.
The criticism has been that The Help has sugar-coated the struggle of African American domestics in Jackson Mississippi. Some have gone as far as to say that it's just another film where a white person comes to the rescue. Really? Is this the reaction to The Help? From a "sugar coating" standpoint, the critics seem to have missed the boat on what this film was trying to do. This isn't Mississippi Burning. This isn't To Kill a Mockingbird. This isn't The Maid. It was never trying to be and frankly I don't know why it should have to be. The characters were treated with dignity. The situation was presented with a balance of seriousness and humor that never belittled those who struggled, but mocked the biggest and lent a richness to characters' lives that could have been presented as dour rather than full.
Each character's thread was a well-constructed arc woven through the length of the film and tidily tied off at the picture's end. After 50/50 and The Help, one wonders if Bryce Dallas Howard will ever be forgiven or whether she may well end up the world's youngest Louise Fletcher. Jessica Chastain's ostracism, her marriage with Mike Vogel, and her glee at shaking a bag of battered chicken -- let alone her work in Tree of Life and The Debt have solidified her spot as this year's hottest female breakout. And what can't be said about Emma Stone that hasn't been said already? This lady isn't going anywhere. She's here to stay. The way her Skeeter stepped back and let the actual "help" take the spotlight of this film is what makes it such a triumph.
I haven't even mentioned the older generation of Janney, Spacek and Steenburgen!
Then there's Viola Davis whose only stumbling block on the way to the podium for actress will be her Streep-ness in a world-class career highlight performance. Whether it was her heart-wrenching turn in Doubt or her brief, but captivating performance in this year's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Viola Davis has become a watermark of greatness. Her performance as Aibileen is no exception. Coupled with her voice over and her soothing mantra -- "You is kind. You is smart. You is important."-- the amount of heartbreak or swell Davis can inflict with a single look is second to none. Davis' acting is the sort where one either has to write next to nothing or unleash a tome of frame-by-frame adoration for her the tiny shifts in her facial expressions that dictate the audience's response. Her SAG win bodes well -- as actress has aligned with SAG far more often than not these past years. Being bested by Streep's Thatcher after a 29 year Oscar drought isn't exactly a loss either. This one's neck and neck.
For this fair blogger, the scene (and picture) stealer was Octavia Spencer. Though Davis functions as the film's narrator and guides us in and out of the story her on-screen time bordered on supporting. My initial reaction was that she, Chastain, and Spencer were all going to land themselves in the Supporting Actress category, overly duking it out like the Corleone boys -- only to watch Joel Grey walk away with it all. (What a shock it would be if Grey repeated that victory this year over The Help ladies.) But as the loud-mouthed Minnie -- pie baker, extraordinaire -- Spencer turned in one of the best and inarguably most memorable performances of the year. Whether she's talking about Crisco, going head to head with Bryce Dallas Howard, or stepping on the gas to get Skeeter's book to plow ahead full steam -- Spencer's comedy never turned Minnie into an unbelievable character. She's a dead lock for supporting actress barring any Weinstein Bejo stunner. And well she should be. It's damn clear that The Help must take home trophies. We'll see next Sunday if Spencer's deserved victory is the only one -- or whether her statuette -- bound to be presented early in the telecast -- is the start of a 3 Oscar run.
Picture Nominee Roundup: Moneyball
In any other year, where there were five nominees, Moneyball would certainly have made the cut. Amazingly, as the category further expanded to a possible ten, it made Moneyball's nomination chances slimmer and slimmer. For some reason, this excellent film about the Oakland Athletics' Billy Beane reconstructing his team once it suffers a post-season gutting simply didn't catch on with audiences the way it should have. Considering it was masterfully directed by Bennett Miller, beautifully filmed, sports one of Brad Pitt's greatest performances, a career-changing turn from Jonah Hill, and a near perfect script from heavy hitter combo Steve Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin -- it seemed a surefire recipe for success. But its box office and the level of warm support that has sprouted up around Moneyball is middling at best.
Often, when tudios set out to make an Oscar slam dunk - getting all their ducks in a row the way folks seem to have done for Moneyball, the end result is a piece weighed down by just a bit too much hubris. Whether it's Benjamin Button -- with Fincher, Roth, Pitt, Blanchett, and F. Scott Fitzgerald source material -- or Amistad -- Spielberg with heart-wrenching source material, Sir Tony, and the discovery of Djimon Honsou -- the Academy may toss some nominations their way, but the truth is the end result is generally off the mark. These films come across like a chef in the kitchen who was afraid to stray just a bit from "the perfect recipe" -- never, of course, having tasted the dish before to verify whether the recipe works in the first place.
Such is not the case for Moneyball. Each of its A-List components delivers straight down the line. So much of the excellence of this film seems to be written off as a Pitt vanity piece -- "the baseball movie that isn't about baseball," as Clooney put it at the Globes -- calling it boring, slow, empty. It's anything but.
Let's get right to the heart of Moneyball, Mr. Pitt. Not only has Brad Pitt spent the past 20 plus years carefully navigating his career through a chain of lead performances in top quality films -- he often proves to be the best thing in them. I needn't recap Brad's bursting onto the scene with Thelma & Louise, A River Runs Through It, and the 1994 one-two punch of Legends of the Fall and Interview with the Vampire (the hair, my God, the hair!). We all know how great he is and how that's often overshadowed by the fact that he's probably the best looking man alive (I know, boo hoo -- my talent is overshadowed by my unstoppable looks). But it's something to take a look at. Much like the Redford he so often emulates, Pitt has a difficult time being taken seriously as an actor. Button didn't help. But things like producing The Departed, doing a turn as Lt. Aldo Raine, and this year's double threat of Tree of Life and Moneyball make his prowess undeniable. So why isn't this man the hands down winner for actor?
Simply put? People don't think Pitt does "enough" as Billy Beane. They're wrong.
As I'll be mentioning throughout this Oscar round up as we close in on the awards a mere week away -- actors make up the lion share of the Academy's voting body and consequently have the power to set the tone which performances are victorious, which films take the cake, and the direction Hollywood is headed. Rarely do they wise up enough to wield this power. But their failure to latch on to Pitt's performance is a true shame and, frankly, just a plain old misstep.
As the struggling Billy Beane who is up against history, adversity, and a limited checkbook -- Pitt's measured performance has more silence than leading male performances normally include. (It's certainly not as quiet as Jean du Jardin!) The moments when Beane speaks are carefully selected, his words are direct, no moment is extraneous or questionable. A great deal of that credit -- as Pitt has lauded at length -- goes to Steve Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin, arguably the two best screenwriters in Hollywood -- certainly when it comes to the adapted side of things. The point of all this is that expertly playing a regular man who has an old school sense of chivalry where he opts to suffer alone and who rallies the troops when it's demanded of him -- even though it challenges his comfort zone -- is something to write home about.
So his wife's not in a coma and he doesn't scamper around hairpin turns in Hawaii.
So he doesn't tap dance with a dog.
As a Terms of Endearment lover who listens to people use it as the touchstone of over-sentimentality year after year -- doesn't all the hyper-drama and uber-comedy that's being celebrated this year fall far more under that umbrella?
Chew on that.
I'd be remiss not to mention Jonah Hill. From Superbad to Oscar nominee. Each of his Knocked Up / Funny People cohorts has been his career closer and to closer to Oscar gold. Of the "Freaks and Geeks" related crew, Franco has been the true crossover with multiple noms and a Hindenburg of a hosting gig. But now Hill has jumped past Rogen and Segel to a supporting actor nod -- often the fiercest category there is. Hill was the perfect counterpart to Brad Pitt. The silent, hot headed would-be slugger who couldn't hack it in the majors and soon found himself shouldering the weight of the struggling back office, paired up with the "Go Eli Yale" economic nerd whose calculations may be the key to a winning team. No scene speaks better to Pitt and Hill's magical pairing than the final day of trades. There multiple phone chess game, where we never get to see whose on the other line relied solely on their interplay and personal moments. To head into a glass office with Brad Pitt and hold your own -- as a force and a performer -- is something few have done. Hill hit it out of the park (look, I made it this far without a baseball reference, so shut it).
And then there's Bennett Miller -- director of Capote and well... nothing else. This Larchmont-Mamaroneck native (that's right!) has been dubbed one of the more pick helmers in tinsel town for having taken six years between pics. The calm perfection of Capote that so expertly executed Dan Futterman's script and got some of the best performances evah from both Hoffman and Keener -- is back again, doing the same for Zaillian/Sorkin, Pitt and Hill. There's a deliberate precision to Miller's work that seems perfectly in keeping with a man who'd take six years between films. It's almost like Miller is a novelist, taking time to select the exact story he wishes to tell and then taking the time to get it onto the screen just as he sees fit. To end up with a film this crisp, it's a wonder Miller didn't snag a directing nom. Well, sometimes there's a Mallick.
Moneyball -- it doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning picture. In some ways, it's this year's "better" Seabiscuit. It has everything a best picture should -- in some years it could damn well win. This year, it just doesn't have the support. Fingers crossed for Pitt -- but he seems the third horse in the race.
Often, when tudios set out to make an Oscar slam dunk - getting all their ducks in a row the way folks seem to have done for Moneyball, the end result is a piece weighed down by just a bit too much hubris. Whether it's Benjamin Button -- with Fincher, Roth, Pitt, Blanchett, and F. Scott Fitzgerald source material -- or Amistad -- Spielberg with heart-wrenching source material, Sir Tony, and the discovery of Djimon Honsou -- the Academy may toss some nominations their way, but the truth is the end result is generally off the mark. These films come across like a chef in the kitchen who was afraid to stray just a bit from "the perfect recipe" -- never, of course, having tasted the dish before to verify whether the recipe works in the first place.
Such is not the case for Moneyball. Each of its A-List components delivers straight down the line. So much of the excellence of this film seems to be written off as a Pitt vanity piece -- "the baseball movie that isn't about baseball," as Clooney put it at the Globes -- calling it boring, slow, empty. It's anything but.
Let's get right to the heart of Moneyball, Mr. Pitt. Not only has Brad Pitt spent the past 20 plus years carefully navigating his career through a chain of lead performances in top quality films -- he often proves to be the best thing in them. I needn't recap Brad's bursting onto the scene with Thelma & Louise, A River Runs Through It, and the 1994 one-two punch of Legends of the Fall and Interview with the Vampire (the hair, my God, the hair!). We all know how great he is and how that's often overshadowed by the fact that he's probably the best looking man alive (I know, boo hoo -- my talent is overshadowed by my unstoppable looks). But it's something to take a look at. Much like the Redford he so often emulates, Pitt has a difficult time being taken seriously as an actor. Button didn't help. But things like producing The Departed, doing a turn as Lt. Aldo Raine, and this year's double threat of Tree of Life and Moneyball make his prowess undeniable. So why isn't this man the hands down winner for actor?
Simply put? People don't think Pitt does "enough" as Billy Beane. They're wrong.
As I'll be mentioning throughout this Oscar round up as we close in on the awards a mere week away -- actors make up the lion share of the Academy's voting body and consequently have the power to set the tone which performances are victorious, which films take the cake, and the direction Hollywood is headed. Rarely do they wise up enough to wield this power. But their failure to latch on to Pitt's performance is a true shame and, frankly, just a plain old misstep.
As the struggling Billy Beane who is up against history, adversity, and a limited checkbook -- Pitt's measured performance has more silence than leading male performances normally include. (It's certainly not as quiet as Jean du Jardin!) The moments when Beane speaks are carefully selected, his words are direct, no moment is extraneous or questionable. A great deal of that credit -- as Pitt has lauded at length -- goes to Steve Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin, arguably the two best screenwriters in Hollywood -- certainly when it comes to the adapted side of things. The point of all this is that expertly playing a regular man who has an old school sense of chivalry where he opts to suffer alone and who rallies the troops when it's demanded of him -- even though it challenges his comfort zone -- is something to write home about.
So his wife's not in a coma and he doesn't scamper around hairpin turns in Hawaii.
So he doesn't tap dance with a dog.
As a Terms of Endearment lover who listens to people use it as the touchstone of over-sentimentality year after year -- doesn't all the hyper-drama and uber-comedy that's being celebrated this year fall far more under that umbrella?
Chew on that.
I'd be remiss not to mention Jonah Hill. From Superbad to Oscar nominee. Each of his Knocked Up / Funny People cohorts has been his career closer and to closer to Oscar gold. Of the "Freaks and Geeks" related crew, Franco has been the true crossover with multiple noms and a Hindenburg of a hosting gig. But now Hill has jumped past Rogen and Segel to a supporting actor nod -- often the fiercest category there is. Hill was the perfect counterpart to Brad Pitt. The silent, hot headed would-be slugger who couldn't hack it in the majors and soon found himself shouldering the weight of the struggling back office, paired up with the "Go Eli Yale" economic nerd whose calculations may be the key to a winning team. No scene speaks better to Pitt and Hill's magical pairing than the final day of trades. There multiple phone chess game, where we never get to see whose on the other line relied solely on their interplay and personal moments. To head into a glass office with Brad Pitt and hold your own -- as a force and a performer -- is something few have done. Hill hit it out of the park (look, I made it this far without a baseball reference, so shut it).
And then there's Bennett Miller -- director of Capote and well... nothing else. This Larchmont-Mamaroneck native (that's right!) has been dubbed one of the more pick helmers in tinsel town for having taken six years between pics. The calm perfection of Capote that so expertly executed Dan Futterman's script and got some of the best performances evah from both Hoffman and Keener -- is back again, doing the same for Zaillian/Sorkin, Pitt and Hill. There's a deliberate precision to Miller's work that seems perfectly in keeping with a man who'd take six years between films. It's almost like Miller is a novelist, taking time to select the exact story he wishes to tell and then taking the time to get it onto the screen just as he sees fit. To end up with a film this crisp, it's a wonder Miller didn't snag a directing nom. Well, sometimes there's a Mallick.
Moneyball -- it doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning picture. In some ways, it's this year's "better" Seabiscuit. It has everything a best picture should -- in some years it could damn well win. This year, it just doesn't have the support. Fingers crossed for Pitt -- but he seems the third horse in the race.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Demian Bichir - The Leading Men's Indie Nom
Demian Bichir is perhaps most famous for his tumultuous border running romance with Mary Louise Parker on "Weeds." It's hard to picture him doing much of anything without wearing slick suits, shouting quick deliberate orders to his lackeys, and keeping a short leash on that pesky Nancy Botwin.
A Better Life shows a side of Demian Bichir he has been unable to share previously. Though directed by Chris Weitz of the great Weitz brother duo who have collectively climbed there way from American Pie (not a shabby place to start), through About a Boy, In Good Company, The Golden Compass, and The Twilight Saga: New Moon -- A Better Life is a true indie.
The plot is very small, very genuine, very contained, and very poignant. The simple fact of the matter is that Bichir wants a better life for his son, Luis. Like so many immigrants before him, Bichir has trimmed legal corners in the hopes of incrementally improving his -- and more importantly his son's -- quality of life.
Bichir works as a gardener, a bit older than some, but willing to do what it takes to get the job done. He clamors at Home Depot to land jobs with wealthier Angelinos who pull in looking to hire a crew for the day -- but that kind of work has no guarantees. Bichir's true chance at happiness comes in the form of a pick-up truck. His friend and employer is ready to sell and Bichir will have the opportunity to be the sole proprietor of his own business. Of course, there are major drawbacks to a plan of this kind. First off, Bichi has no paperwork and who knows, as he says, what will happen to him should he get pulled over for something as simple as a taillight. Furthermore, he just doesn't have the cash to cover it.
Of course he gets the truck. Of course a great many things go wrong. It has never been the Film Nook's place to spoil plots. This one, though a touch on the sparse side, is good. I will admit there is an element to the script -- particularly when it becomes directly preachy about how American legal and immigration policy work that has the feel of a movie of the week. Then again, it is the mission of A Better Life to give the rest of us an insight into what is happening every day. There is no epic journey through the naturalization process here -- that is not what this film is about. But when the topic is raised, the presentation of information was simply too dry. I wonder if anything -- beyond Bichir's relationship with his son and his determination to provide solid future -- was necessary. Broadening the scope in the final third of the film detracted from the heartfelt confrontational moments.
Along the lines of award recognition, Bichir is a bit of a conundrum. The film is small. It's audience was limited. Outside of the festival and rental circuit (or the screeners) I wonder how many folks out there saw A Better Life in the theater. According to boxofficemojo, the film took in a mere 1.8 million considering its 10 million dollar budget. I always look at nominations of this sort as a great boost for a film that didn't get a chance. A Better Life certainly deserves an audience that crosses the 10 million threshold -- Bichir's press ought to grant them that. But how does this nomination square with the actors who were omitted?
It certainly is not Demian Bichir's "fault" that Leo, JGL, Owen Wilson, and Ryan Gosling didn't make it to the big dance. Bichir also snagged a SAG nom and Leo was among the nominees last Sunday. It was the influx of Mr. Oldman that knocked Leo aside. Truth be told, if one were lining up the best male performances of the year, Leo should have perhaps made his exit from the award run a bit earlier. JGL and Owen Wilson suffer from comedy disease. This year it seems only Jean du Jardin is permitted a nomination for hilarity -- despite The Descendants' marketing putting forth the notion that Clooney -- along with being a heartbroken man -- sure is a hoot when he's poking his head over a hedge or making a hairpin turn.
Bichir's lone head-to-head fight remained Ryan Gosling -- who will be getting his own blog post. The simple truth of the matter is that the critics circles -- particularly with their handful of Albert Brooks' victories -- gave the impression that Drive was very much in the game. One could sure bring up Ides, too. But it seems if Ryan were getting a nom, it was for the bad-ass jacket, not the tailored suits. But Gosling hasn't appeared among the latter half of nominees -- nor did he personally appear at the HFPA Golden Globes. Though Gosling was only nominated for Half Nelson it seemed he was destined for noms with Lars and the Real Girl and Blue Valentine. The Academy did not see things that way.
Whatever the case, Bichir is now among the five. His role is important. His performance is one that certainly showed a great deal more depth than anything he has done in the past. Whether it is one of the top five performances of the year seems a battle of opinions. For this chump, his nomination makes perfect sense. While the academy has railed about a lack of diversity in the nominees, it seems that outcry often applies only to African Americans. There is a great lack of nominations from the Latino culture -- particularly when one considers how many films like A Better Life are out there. A Better Life is a story taking place in the streets of Los Angeles and touches Academy voters on a daily basis. That combined with Bichir's solid work makes his nomination feel inevitable.
Frankly, having seen the film now, I wonder why Jose Julian wasn't nominated for his role as the adolescent Luis. Then again, this little indie should be satisfied with what it has received. The supporting actor category simply doesn't have space for Mr. Julian if Mr. Brooks was omitted. What's more, if a youngster was getting nommed this year, the choice was The Descendants' Shailene Woodley.
A Better Life shows a side of Demian Bichir he has been unable to share previously. Though directed by Chris Weitz of the great Weitz brother duo who have collectively climbed there way from American Pie (not a shabby place to start), through About a Boy, In Good Company, The Golden Compass, and The Twilight Saga: New Moon -- A Better Life is a true indie.
The plot is very small, very genuine, very contained, and very poignant. The simple fact of the matter is that Bichir wants a better life for his son, Luis. Like so many immigrants before him, Bichir has trimmed legal corners in the hopes of incrementally improving his -- and more importantly his son's -- quality of life.
Bichir works as a gardener, a bit older than some, but willing to do what it takes to get the job done. He clamors at Home Depot to land jobs with wealthier Angelinos who pull in looking to hire a crew for the day -- but that kind of work has no guarantees. Bichir's true chance at happiness comes in the form of a pick-up truck. His friend and employer is ready to sell and Bichir will have the opportunity to be the sole proprietor of his own business. Of course, there are major drawbacks to a plan of this kind. First off, Bichi has no paperwork and who knows, as he says, what will happen to him should he get pulled over for something as simple as a taillight. Furthermore, he just doesn't have the cash to cover it.
Of course he gets the truck. Of course a great many things go wrong. It has never been the Film Nook's place to spoil plots. This one, though a touch on the sparse side, is good. I will admit there is an element to the script -- particularly when it becomes directly preachy about how American legal and immigration policy work that has the feel of a movie of the week. Then again, it is the mission of A Better Life to give the rest of us an insight into what is happening every day. There is no epic journey through the naturalization process here -- that is not what this film is about. But when the topic is raised, the presentation of information was simply too dry. I wonder if anything -- beyond Bichir's relationship with his son and his determination to provide solid future -- was necessary. Broadening the scope in the final third of the film detracted from the heartfelt confrontational moments.
Along the lines of award recognition, Bichir is a bit of a conundrum. The film is small. It's audience was limited. Outside of the festival and rental circuit (or the screeners) I wonder how many folks out there saw A Better Life in the theater. According to boxofficemojo, the film took in a mere 1.8 million considering its 10 million dollar budget. I always look at nominations of this sort as a great boost for a film that didn't get a chance. A Better Life certainly deserves an audience that crosses the 10 million threshold -- Bichir's press ought to grant them that. But how does this nomination square with the actors who were omitted?
It certainly is not Demian Bichir's "fault" that Leo, JGL, Owen Wilson, and Ryan Gosling didn't make it to the big dance. Bichir also snagged a SAG nom and Leo was among the nominees last Sunday. It was the influx of Mr. Oldman that knocked Leo aside. Truth be told, if one were lining up the best male performances of the year, Leo should have perhaps made his exit from the award run a bit earlier. JGL and Owen Wilson suffer from comedy disease. This year it seems only Jean du Jardin is permitted a nomination for hilarity -- despite The Descendants' marketing putting forth the notion that Clooney -- along with being a heartbroken man -- sure is a hoot when he's poking his head over a hedge or making a hairpin turn.
Bichir's lone head-to-head fight remained Ryan Gosling -- who will be getting his own blog post. The simple truth of the matter is that the critics circles -- particularly with their handful of Albert Brooks' victories -- gave the impression that Drive was very much in the game. One could sure bring up Ides, too. But it seems if Ryan were getting a nom, it was for the bad-ass jacket, not the tailored suits. But Gosling hasn't appeared among the latter half of nominees -- nor did he personally appear at the HFPA Golden Globes. Though Gosling was only nominated for Half Nelson it seemed he was destined for noms with Lars and the Real Girl and Blue Valentine. The Academy did not see things that way.
Whatever the case, Bichir is now among the five. His role is important. His performance is one that certainly showed a great deal more depth than anything he has done in the past. Whether it is one of the top five performances of the year seems a battle of opinions. For this chump, his nomination makes perfect sense. While the academy has railed about a lack of diversity in the nominees, it seems that outcry often applies only to African Americans. There is a great lack of nominations from the Latino culture -- particularly when one considers how many films like A Better Life are out there. A Better Life is a story taking place in the streets of Los Angeles and touches Academy voters on a daily basis. That combined with Bichir's solid work makes his nomination feel inevitable.
Frankly, having seen the film now, I wonder why Jose Julian wasn't nominated for his role as the adolescent Luis. Then again, this little indie should be satisfied with what it has received. The supporting actor category simply doesn't have space for Mr. Julian if Mr. Brooks was omitted. What's more, if a youngster was getting nommed this year, the choice was The Descendants' Shailene Woodley.
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