Blunt "Edge" -- or Ouroboros Cruise

     Yesterday, Warner Brother's released a trailer for the new summer Tom Cruise summer sci-fi romp “Edge of Tomorrow” (not to be confused with “Edge of Darkness” or “Edge of Glory”). The upcoming Doug Liman directed feature was adapted from a light Japanese novel by the name of “All You Need Is Kill” (written by Hiroshi Sakurazaka). Now, let that sink in a minute. Think of how awesome that title is for a second, and now express immediate disappointment that the title is now the remarkably bland “Edge of Tomorrow”. The cool title gods wept this day. At least the title would have been memorable. Or, heck, go with the video-game conceits and just call it “Respawn” or something of the like.

     The trailer’s premise is actually quite interesting (taking inspiration from “Groundhog Day” and mecha-anime tropes), focusing on Bill Cage, a soldier who finds himself stuck in a time warp of some kind, reliving a day in which his military deployment battles a battalion of cephalopod-inspired alien creatures. Each time he dies, he finds himself right back where he started, right about to get on a military transport to the skirmish. Emily Blunt, she of the pretty face, plays a fellow soldier who can process and sense his looping predicament.

     This looks like a neat little role for Cruise, playing a scared, meek soldier who is initially out of his element, but through some Blunt training, ends up becoming a fearsome battle-lord. This kind of role gives Cruise the chance to flash his innate vulnerable aura whilst being able to be a badass by the time the picture is over. I have always been a massive fan of Cruise – one of the most consistently great movie stars we have had in the modern era – and this role seems to be playing to his strengths.

     One of the most interesting features of the film is how distinctly Japanese it feels (it bleeds anime tropes). Looking at Blunt’s Cloud sword (Final Fantasy 7) to the appearance of mecha-suits, to the tentacled villain hordes, this production hits on a rising trend in Hollywood, where they are trying to encroach on the Asian markets. Today, big-budget Hollywood tent-poles have half of their revenue generated from foreign markets (especially the Asian market), so, we are seeing more and more instances of filmmakers utilizing international influences that might appeal to international audiences. We saw this with “Pacific Rim”, which was meant to appeal to anime/”Transformers” crowd (where they recouped nearly enough for a sequel green light in the Asian territories), with “Iron Man 3”, which shot specialty footage for the Chinese to ensure they got to get on that market’s screens, and many other examples. It will be interesting seeing what international elements absorb into Hollywood pictures over the coming years. 

     The trailer is very well put together, with a wonderful little vocoder ditty that gives the images a degree of propulsion. There are lots of neat hero shots of Cruise (a very Michael Bay-influenced one plays after the “Tom Cruise” intertitle shows), we get a good sense of the general milieu of the galactic brawls, all dirt and grime punctuated by bright globs of pastel orange. Thankfully, the mech-suits of a weight and heft to them (they look like they would take some effort to get used to them), a little clunky in a way in which you would imagine an enhanced robot-suit might be. The “Live,” “Die,” “Repeat” title cards are a fantastic little conceit, giving a sense of the endless, cyclical nature of military combat (or war in general), and giving the trailer a propulsive little marching beat. Some stand out shots include Cruise walking on a chalky grey battlefield alone, the little shot, reverse shot of Cruise and Blunt looking at one another as amber light dances across their faces (as Cruise’s mask visor begins to creep down), and the little shot thrown in of Cruise on his motorcycle (can’t be a Cruise vehicle without a motorcycle).

     This could just be a case of a trailer disguising a poor, schlocky work, but there is something in the general mood (not somber, but rather mournful in an appropriate way) and visual makeup that make me hope for a rollicking little genre piece. But even if it turns out bad, no worries, he’ll have endless chances to make better of his situation.

“Laurence” Always

     One of the best filmmakers in the world right now is Xavier Dolan. The 24-year-old Québécois artist has seen his first three features premiere at the Cannes film festival, with I Killed My Mother, Heartbeats, and, now, Laurence Anyways (a fourth film, the rural thriller Tom at the Farm is on schedule to be released next year). His films are chock-full of passion and indiscriminate flair, bold color choices; Dolan is not afraid to edge on the garish. The way in which he utilizes music is one of the most intriguing I have come across. Essentially, Dolan drops little music video-esque sequences into his films – setting aside little moments of vivacious emotional resonance for the characters, where they are led along by an exquisitely chosen pop tune of yesteryear.  Dolan, for all of his talents, perhaps has one of the best ears of any current young filmmaker, as his skills as a needle-dropper are perhaps second to none, using deep cuts from The Cure and Craig Armstrong to dazzling effect. (Seriously, who would think to score an exuberant club scene to “The Funeral Party” – that’s the magic of Dolan). 

     The idea of such a diverse filmography at such a young age has, in my eyes, caused many to look past the innate quality of his works, always relegating him to the status of a child director (a Aisin-Gioro Puyi of the film world). The worlds Dolan creates are those of fierce emotions, of break-neck subjectivity, where the emotions of the characters rip out of their flesh and decorate the surrounding environs. Big visuals, big passion, and big music. In the hands of a less skilled artisan, the dense aesthetic canopy of his works would be meaningless posture, a cry out for attention. But for Dolan, these aesthetic choices are rooted in the classic melodrama tradition. He is carrying on the spirit of artists such as Douglas Sirk or Rainer Werner Fassbinder, bending the frame into a sterling reflection of the interior.  His films are not a mirror, as one would see life as they peer through a window, of “real” life, but of the soul.
     His third feature “Laurence Anyways” is one of gargantuan scope, a “period piece” of the 1990’s, spanning a decade in the life of Laurence, a wondrous Melvil Poupaud (valiantly stepping in for the originally cast Louis Garrel), a high school teacher in a loving relationship who decides early on that the life he has been living has been a lie, and goes about his transformation into a woman. Now, with a premise such as this, one might think of pictures such as “Transamerica” or other such nonentities that sanctimoniously “explore” the issue of transexuality from a distance, acting as glorified (though well-intentioned) Saturday morning specials on the topic, often containing all the depth of a particularly sad bowl of Wheat Thins. But instead of isolating the issue and viewing the subject as a lab rat, Dolan makes the decision to not focus on the issue of transexuality itself, and rather just chronicle how the change effects the main couples relationship, which, ironically, gives a fuller and more natural depiction of the issue than if he just treated the issue as if it was under glass.
     The main relationship between Fred (a genuine, no-nonsense star-making turn – seriously, she’s utterly fantastic) and Laurence is utterly enticing and potent, as the transexuality that comes into play could stand for any of the roadblocks that tend to prey on those who love. It explores the minute alterations and shifts relationships take when faced with challenges. On a metaphorical level, it could stand in for how we see our friends and loved ones change in distinct yet subtle ways until we are not sure that the person we once knew is even relating to this new incarnation. The story, rather than just its epic length (a rewarding yet draining 168 minutes), has the depth that the description as a simple “love story” description cannot provide. It does not treat transgender as taboo, but simply as another element in the character’s life story. The trials and tribulations are heavy and rock their formerly solid standing, but their true love for each other always shines through.

     When Laurence and Fred finally say goodbye for good, Dolan projects a maturity far beyond his years, staging it not as banal tragedy, but instead as a moment of self-discovery. They will always love one another deeply, but they both realize that they are on separate tracks that will never converge again. So, with no words between them, they exit separate doors of the cafe. Nature itself (through wind, and a torrent of leaves) greets them warmly when they exit, a metaphysical friendly hand on their shoulders, letting them know they are going to be alright. A moment of emotional transcendence rendered perfectly on screen.

     Dolan, ever the romantic, flashes backwards to when they first met on a movie set. The tone is not one of lost love (no echoes of tragedy here), but of love experienced, and fondly remembered. What matters is that they had it at all.                                               

     You thought Steven Soderbergh was the ultimate DIY filmmaker?  Dolan’s got him beat, acting as director, writer, editor, executive producer, and costume designer on all of his films. His works drip with his enlivened fingertips, each an exquisitely crafted work of an auteur on the rise. His cinema has the high-wire passion of an early Truffaut, and the assured visual vernacular of Pedro Almodóvar. Yet, his cinema (especially "Laurence") feels singular and distinct, working on a plane all his own. How many filmmakers do you know that shoot their features in Academy ratio? Dolan feels fully-formed, dropped from the heavens to show filmmakers just how banal they have become. His cinema excites me for the future of film.
     Dolan is in love with the outsider – whether a teen who is disenfranchised, a third wheel of a love triangle, or the titular Laurence, Dolan is obsessed with those on the outskirts: the dreamers, the outcasts, the rebels. He is the best director you haven't heard of (yet). 

Blue Is the LukeWarmest Colour Part 2

     Three motifs abound in Kechiche's work: Butts, spaghetti, and crying. These elements are repeated over and over again. We constantly peer into Adèle's mouth, watching her chow down on spaghetti or oysters (which she eats after she makes love with Emma - apparently Kechiche thinks that lesbians cannot grasp irony). Kechiche has a strange fascination with shots of food, shooting a glob of spaghetti with more tact and admiration than his actresses.

     Now, I did not hate this film. It has virtues that push it into "Good" territory. Exarchopoulos is really as amazing as you've heard. She can flash a seductively radiant smile one minute, and bawl her eyes out on the turn of a dime whilst maintaining an unteachable natural authenticity (her post-cry snot-streams are up there with Heather Donahue's). Exarchopoulos is radiant, and holds a frame like a star. Her performance keeps the film afloat. Also, there are some fun weird touches thrown in the film, like Adèle going ham on Emma's fingers, sucking them down in a crowded restaurant as a desperate plea for reconciliation. Like, her whole fist is in her mouth. A touch goofy, but effective.     

     But then again, I would be allot kinder to the film had Kechiche known how to compose a frame. Here, he tries to ape the Dardenne brothers shooting style (uncomfortably close to subject, camera always in lockstep with the face), but fails, instead sharing more of an aesthetic likening to a poor mumblecore film. One can spot the merit of a director by his use of space in long shots (how one positions characters in a frame should help you establish character dynamics through spatial manipulation), and here every long shot is an eyesore, the most standard coverage possible - that pseudo-verite, broadcast television style not too far divorced from "Modern Family". Aside from a few pretty close-ups (one standout being Adèle and Emma kissing in the park, the sun showing out of their mouths as their lips collide and dissipate) this is plain Jane cinematography 101.
     
     You should see where this story is headed: tragedy lurks ahead. But instead of using his three hours of runtime to set up the relationship's demise, he instead focuses on endless classroom sequences - giving the cheating/breakup revelation buildup maybe fifteen minutes in all, leaving it awkward and abrupt (painting Emma as a violent harpy). Again, the acting redeems the scene, but it is strangely structured and executed. Kechiche must have run out of footage having shot 400 hours worth of the craft services table.

     The pieces of a great romance/tragedy are just out of arms reach. The love story should feel fresh, but instead Kechiche serves reheated leftovers.

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Blue Is the LukeWarmest Colour Part 1

     Here comes the latest sensation from the Festival de Cannes, a love story between two young women strung across three hours. It has the pedigree (Abdellatif Kechiche, the Tunisian filmmaker, has carte blanche over his French productions (he is viewed as a master in France, creating works like "The Secret of the Grain," which swept the César Awards in 2008), it has two beautiful starlets (Léa Seydoux and the unconscionably gorgeous newcomer (pun intended) Adèle Exarchopoulos), yet Kechiche, for all his probing, can't get these ingredients to sizzle.

     The film concerns itself with Adèle (Exarchopoulos), a high school girl who constantly hikes up her jeans and wants to be a teacher. She has the standard fling with a patchy-facial-hair dreamboat Frenchie, but he cannot fulfill her ravenous passion for something more, leading Adèle to break it off under the canopy of a cherry tree (the best shot in the film by a country mile (pinks, oranges, and blues coalesce into a melancholy stew that suits the mood marvelously)).
     
     Then, through a fateful encounter (which is groaningly foretold by Adèle's teacher in her classroom the scene before) she spots the mysterious Emma (Seydoux). They lock eyes and it is love/lust at first sight. Once they end up meeting by chance (see a pattern here?) at a "gay bar" (Kechiche shoots it like an opium den - with a similar leering Orientalism-esque remove/voyeuristic eye for the patrons) they chat, later meet in a park, and finally, while smoking cigs and staring at the sky, begin to swap spit and Sartre/Bob Marley philosophy. What comes next (after a brief butt-watching crusade through an art  museum) is the much talked about nine minute sex scene between the two sirens.

     Until this sequence, the cinematography had consisted of prolonged, subjective close-ups of Adèle's face - a Dardennian gambit. We have been seeing Adèle's world through Adèle's eyes. When we smash cut to the sex scene, we see the two actress's asses, with their faces cut out of the frame. Whose point of view is this? Oh, right, it's Kechiche's (poorly composed--figures). Kechiche betrays his intentions here. He shoots them plainly against a white wall (shades of Terry Richardson), and just sits back (except for the occasional close-up of butt-smacking/rim job). We are not Adèle in this sequence (the only sequence not from Adèle's point of view), we are seeing this display through the gleam in a director's eye. This sequence, by consequence, feels mechanical, feigned, and sterile. This is no fault of the actresses, who give it their all.

Gravity Review Part 2

Even though it touches lofty themes regarding the human condition,  “Gravity” also provides wondrously lucid spectacle of the highest order, with Cuarón putting current Hollywood directors to shame through his precise blocking and staging of action set pieces. With elaborately Ophüls-esque long takes providing a vice-grip command of audiences’ heart rates, Cuarón utilizes staunchly classical filmmaking grammar whilst bringing it to life through the latest digital technologies – resulting in a beautiful melding of the old and new.

     First, one might approach the issue of the relative “lack” of narrative complexity – that this is somehow a negative trait in and of itself. This kind of superficial reading of a film betrays the inherent potential the cinema carries – that meaning beyond that of the “plot” at hand can be inferred through visual, aural, emotional manipulation. The image is the medium; story is simply a consequence that comes about through montage (Kuleshov). The meaning posits itself in the interior inspirations a director imbues in said image, and it is through this (this is why Brakhage “works”) where the impact (whether intellectual, artistic, or emotional) is delivered.  If a film were just a “story”, of what use would an image provide? Like Nicholas Ray said, “If it were all in the script, why make the film?”

Even on a base emotional level, “Gravity” does its job with aplomb. Though I have never been a fan of Sandra Bullock, but she does wonders here, effortlessly conveying the wide gambit of emotions she cycles between. This is a transformative, terrifically subtle turn, in which Bullock is more than up to the considerable task of carrying the film.

The character beats, while traditional, work marvelously – with Cuarón and Bullock selling Stone’s transformation from panicked desperation to fearless tenacity. Once we arrive at the finale, Stone plummets through the atmosphere in a great field of fiery majesty (back to the birth imagery, one can see the sequence resembles sperm piercing the ovum).  

Stone, not coincidentally, decides to let go of her daughter and the guilt harbored before she returns to Earth. This is made visual when the pod lands in the ocean and begins to flood. Her spacesuit, the specter of death and the guilt that comes with it, is shed, keeping her from drowning. It is when she emerges onto the island shore (not so subtly evoking the Galápagos) where she is shown as a new creature, ecstatic but struggling as she juts forth from the primordial ooze. The images of evolution lay bare on the screen. Cuarón, and by extension Stone, have earned that literal display of rebirth.

Godard once said, "The cinema is Nicholas Ray." That sentiment holds true (one need only watch "Johnny Guitar"), but if I were to provide an addendum, I would posit that “Gravity” is what American cinema should strive for – a return of auteur-fueled studio spectacle where story is the conduit in which the image is paramount to imbuing the narrative with the filmmaker’s distinct fixations and themes. With the continued use of Hollywood-sanctioned, coverage-based shooting (where image creation is an afterthought, leaving the scraps to be sorted out in post), Cuarón offers a rebuke of this horrendous tendency, returning the image to its rightful throne, a wondrous conduit through which the mindscape can be projected.

Before moving forward, cinema needs to look backward, and peer upon the silent era, where the image was king (Vidor). Cuarón is leading the charge within the studio system, and for that I am grateful. 

 Pair:

Gravity Review Part 1

Both a virtuoso display of Mann-esque muscular filmmaking as well as a sobering humanist tract, “Gravity” plumbs the depths of the human soul.

The story concerns Dr. Ryan Stone (portrayed by a Madonna-like Sandra Bullock), who, as a Mission Specialist, is on her first mission in the depths of space – working on the space shuttle Explorer. She is joined by George Clooney’s Kowalski – a smooth ladies man veteran astronaut who, whilst thrusting around on a propulsion-fueled jetpack, is having a ball on his final expedition. Stone, obviously a little shaky due to her relative inexperience, and Kowalski – in the process of working on the electronics modules outside the Explorer – receive a distress message from Houston (voiced Ed Harris, space picture veteran) that the Russian demolition of a satellite has caused a vast field of debris to barrel towards them, a veritable field of space shrapnel.

We watch rapturously as the formerly serene, still beauty of space is perverted into a cacophony of shredding metal and terrified, muffled gasps as the Explorer is decimated. Stone, now acting as a centrifuge due to her connection to a mechanical arm that links her to the ship, detaches herself, and out drifting into the void she goes, hyperventilating, panicked. Lost among the vast expanse of stars, she must make her way to a nearby international space station if life is to remain in her grasp.

All this information is communicated in one solitary long-take, which is thirteen minutes long – without a cut. Using CGI technology to its fullest extent, Cuarón (at the top of his powers, working with the inimitable Emmanuel Lubezki) glides his camera through the scene, setting up the relations of the characters as well as their relationship with the environment around them through masterfully precise mise-en-scene. Though many articles (here) it has been posited that “Gravity” could be classified as an animated film (Bullock’s and Clooney’s visages remain the only facets not manipulated by CGI), but the abundance of ones and zeroes that dot each frame are so immaculately sculpted that that the artifice drifts away.

The canvas Cuarón paints this tale upon is literally cosmic in scale, and in accordance with said scale, the images that he produces are massive in their dense cultural cachet. Mainly Cuarón utilizes archetypal imagery (primarily images that pertain to birth), putting loaded iconography onscreen in a manner that does not seek to posit banal symbolism, but rather to render the torment (and later, triumph) of the soul through elemental semiotics.

Upon reentry, when Stone assumes the fetal position, while it does work on a basic, rudimentary level (as a visual metaphor for the character’s rebirth), the imagery is also, more importantly, a cruel cosmic reminder of her deceased child. Stone is shown, in this gesture, to be flogging herself – image as expression of interior agony. It is here in which we must succumb to the wavelength Cuarón is operating on. 

Cuarón, rather than simply providing an elegant survival story, gives an allegory that tackles the process of grieving. It is an existential tract in which humanity (in the form of Stone) examines its relationship with death. Everywhere Stone turns, an element of her surroundings is a reminder of her child (relating to her daughter’s manner of death, Stone also violently hits her head while attempting to extinguish a blaze; the centrifuge-like mechanical arm Stone is attached to resembles a crib mobile). Space is purgatory – where each element externalizes inner trauma.  When looked at through this lens, the film begins to resemble another film examining humanity’s struggle with grief and death: Tarkovsky's “Solaris”. Both are achingly spiritual paeans dealing with the powerlessness of mankind in the face of mortality.

Cuarón thus makes the subjective interior concrete exterior through the bombastic imagery on display. This story of loss could ostensibly take place in any locale, but the environment affords the tale extra metaphorical heft, as space becomes a character unto itself, standing in for the death (oppressive, omnipotent) that surrounds her and weighs on her soul. 

(Continued in Part 2)

Beyond(er) the Black Rainbow

It has been nine long years since 2004’s "Birth", but fear not, dear Jonathan Glazer devotee, "Under the Skin" now has a trailer that has the same effortlessly cryptic quality that defines his filmography. Based on the titular novel by Michel Faber, and having premiered at the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival, "Under the Skin" concerns a fetching alien being (played by fetching human being Scarlett Johansson of "Home Alone 3" renown) who drives about the Scottish countryside, picking up hitchhikers who unwittingly will be eaten by a vast, black alien entity more void than Mac of "Mac and Me".

Rip-off of "Species", perhaps? Don’t count on it; at least if this trailer delivers on the tactile aural and visual schema when it finds its way to cinemas. Continuing a delightful trend of phantasmagoric trailer offerings as of late (such as the stunning trailer for the delightful retro-freak-out picture "Beyond the Black Rainbow"), "Under the Skin"’s trailer looks wonderfully bonkers (in the classy sense, think Brakhage or Frampton more than Russ Meyer), conveying striking minimalist imagery that aims for a confluence of the mythic and elemental.

All the natural elements are here and ferocious in their appearances, mainly fire and water, giving the sense of an apocalyptic cleansing for the poor denizens that will cross ScarJo's path. The most jaw-dropping shots, however, revolve around the black void, which suspends the victims mid-void, only to warp their form and swallow them whole, like a Hot Topic version of "The Blob"). It is here where Glazer’s searing minimalist vision meets his thematic obsessions. Throughout the trailer, we are shown the alien seducing helpless hitchhikers, only to be led to a black pit of nothingness. With this, Glazer shows his propensity towards yonic imagery.  In "Birth"'s indelible opening long-take, we follow an errant jogger emerge from a womb-like tunnel. Yet, moments later, when he enters another symbolic tunnel, the jogger crumples up and dies – birth and death in the womb rendered effortlessly. With "Under the Skin", it appears that Glazer is once again conflating his dueling themes of sex and death, and probing at the inherent connection the topics share.

This looks like another triumph for Glazer, with a welcome bit of stunt casting to boot with Johansson, whose frequent roles as object of desire should be put to good use. Now, hopefully we won’t have to wait another nine years for a follow-up. There is no planned release date as of yet.

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