mother!

The title mother! rhymes with "smother," which is a word that recalls the nature of many of Darren Aronofsky's films. His movies sometimes mix a "high art" sensibility with bludgeons of icky imagery. You feel for his miserable protagonists and the actors playing them because their suffering is bright, blunt, physical, breathy, and tear-stained. But there's also a strange sense of remove, as the incidents and the body horror (sanguine seeping wounds abound) in those character's lives, first pitched in a calming sense of reality, seem so outlandish. Very seldom does an Aronofsky movie have a settled place to land (think the ill-fated drop-to-mattress in Black Swan) or much humor. However, in the opening of mother!, there's the immediate cheekiness to the ridiculousness of the title (and the Shakespearean quill font presentation). The setting is peaceful, earthy and attractive with tinges of unease (throbbing walls, a delicate crystal glowing with bits of ember).

Jennifer Lawrence plays a reserved woman living with a poet (Javier Bardem) and obsessively renovating their remote mansion. The film, utilizing killer camerawork by Matthew Libatique, stays mostly in the constricts of Lawrence's point-of-view, with her long brown-gray hair and flowy white t-shirts, painters jeans, and nighties, moving throughout the rambling house. A couple (a pleasingly hammy Ed Harris and a perfectly calculating Michelle Pfeiffer) show up, disrupting the tranquil pale blue and taupe-walled household with discourteous behavior, neon underwear and smokers' hacking (this is a picture that refuses to breathe freely). Bardem eagerly takes them in while Lawrence expresses her displeasure to us through her vivid facial expressions (she's astoundingly good at this--doing so little to express so much with her countenance). It's this subplot where we see Aronofsky doing some of his best directing ever, with humor and unnerving tension. It's like a comedy of manners mixed with Polanski horror.

Then slowly, and in an increasingly garish way, the movie swings into screamy, gruesome farce with blatant shock scenes. Even though the filmmaker has been praised for this half of the picture, for his audacity, rabid energy and disdain for Cinemascore-squared mainstream audiences (you could physically sense the hatred in the theater for this movie after my showing ended), it also seems like an easy way (Aronofsky supposedly penned the script in five days) out of what seemed to be shaping up as a strong, sharp mystery. This is a filmmaker's film though, completely meta, in the vein of the rocket launchpad built on sand in 8 1/2, where the film scrapes away at itself until its destroyed (here, up in tacky CGI flames). There's also seemingly symbolic glimpses of the deification of artists, with worshiping crowds, badgering press and paparazzi, feeding off of the flesh of its targets. That poetry is the source of so much celebrity worship is also a good joke. The movie concludes sort of unsatisfactorily contextually and visually with a shimmer of Dan Curtis' Burnt Offerings. But both Libatique and Lawrence should be particularly commended for carrying us through this nightmare with skillful work and raw charisma. ***



-Jeffery Berg

mother!

Trailer for Darren Aronofsky's new film mother! starring Jennifer Lawrence, with Javier Bardem, Ed Harris, and Michelle Pfeiffer.

a look at 'skyfall' by karen g.

I was but a mere pup, fascinated by my father’s collection of classic literature, when one day, scanning his leather-bound volumes, I came across a dusty paperback written by someone called “Ian Fleming”.  I pulled this book from my father’s mahogany book-shelf and immediately asked him if it was there by mistake.  It was at that moment that my father, excited by his daughter’s interest, looked into my eyes and took the opportunity to tell me all about a book called: From Russia With Love.

And like that, a reverent lover of all things espionage was born.  It had been some time since I felt completely blown away and in awe of a Bond film.  Being a purist in many forms, I was definitely more of a fan of classic Bond, and when Pierce Brosnan entered stage left, I exited stage right.  (The Brosnan years, were dark years for me).  My faith in humanity was restored when Daniel Craig recaptured the essence of the classic spy I knew and loved.

While Quantum of Solace didn’t blow me out of the water, I was a true fan of Casino Royale but didn’t have very high hopes for the 50th Anniversary Skyfall. I expected some big explosions, a few fun stunts and nothing more.  Boy, was I wrong.

I was immediately transported back to the classic feel of what those Bond films used to be.  And the moment I was reunited with the DB5 Aston Martin, I turned into the starry-eyed Bond fanatic of my youth, bouncing in my seat, wishing the movie would never end.

Skyfall (the 23rd movie in the franchise) centers on a malicious cyber-terrorist with strong ties to the reclusive “M” and her past.  Judi Dench shines as the head of foreign intelligence, slowly quivering under immense pressure when an important hard drive, holding the names of spies throughout the world is stolen.  M tries to remain composed through a hardened “I did what I had to do” attitude.  Her pain and anguish is captured beautifully in close shots of her eyes, trying to hold back a world of inevitable regret and infinite sleepless nights.  When MI6’s computer system is hacked, ever-efficient and practical M is left to look like an old woman who has compromised too much, and is probably ready for retirement.  She is disgraced by the terrorist who is slowly revealed as a man who is so obsessed with M, that he knows no other way but to destroy everything she is and was.

Javier Bardem is one of the most diabolical and enjoyable Bond villains I have had the pleasure of getting to know.  Memories of Auric Goldfinger danced in my head as I watched Bardem do his sinister and unsettling portrayal of a broken man, once loyal to the organization, now completely consumed by his need for revenge.  The chemistry and tension between Craig and Bardem is palpable.  Look out for a particularly nerve-wracking scene between the two as Bardem slowly starts to touch Craig in a heavily sexual manner. (I remember watching some men in the audience, with their wives or girlfriends, squirming in an extremely uncomfortable way as this particular scene played out).  One also sees Craig, portraying an older and less agile Bond, having his moments of self-doubt as the world of espionage he knows and respects is crumbling around him.

When all hope seems to be lost, Bond and M realize the only way to salvation is to face the one thing they both hoped to take to their graves – their pasts.

Skyfall is a symphony of hard-hitting action, jaw-dropping stunts and heart-wrenching emotion played out perfectly by a stellar cast.  An honorable mention goes to Ralph Fiennes who plays the salty Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee, Gareth Mallory.  Mallory makes no secret of how he feels about the agency’s “old ways” and need for fresh perspective and leadership.

My deepest and most humbling respect goes to Sam Mendes for successfully completing such a daunting task – remembering who the classic Bond character was, and making him relatable to today’s audience.  I truly believe Mendes has reawakened a whole new legion of Bond fans with Skyfall.

-Karen G.

eat pray love

Ryan Murphy is certainly gutsy for taking on two acclaimed memoirs (Running with Scissors and Eat Pray Love) and turning them into films. Personal, quirky, and in some cases, far from actual truth, memoirs are tricky to adapt.

Unhappy with her life in New York, Elizabeth Gilbert divorced, left a hasty relationship with a younger man and for one year, trekked Italy, India, and Indonesia. The book is still a phenomenon: Oprah Winfrey touted the tome and devoted shows to its subject matter. Gilbert's story is extremely readable (I breezed through it in a day and a half), full of wordplay and unusual observations--an intensely personal journey but also a sometimes humorous and charming travel guide. The symmetry of the story (inherent in its title) ends up being pretty exquisite, if too precious.

Despite an overall faithfulness to the book, the interior spark and its immediacy (diary-like chapters go in and out of present and past tense), is lost in translation. It's definitely a rich feast for the eyes (Robert Richardson of Kill Bill and Snow Falling on Cedars did the cinematography) and Murphy (the editing work on all his projects are always fantastic) seamlessly blends the looks of each locale together. The soundtrack too (Neil Young and Joao Gilberto) is apt and appealing to Gilbert's generation of Starbucks yuppies.

Yet the emotional frailness of Elizabeth, magnified on the big screen, feels trite in an era of sullen faces in unemployed lines on the evening news. Liz is often oblivious to her privilege and the constant support around her, complaining over trivial matters. It's premature to say what effect the film will have but perhaps watching Julia Roberts clad in leather and Anthropologie-esque tops eating pizza and prosciutto on melons is our contemporary version of Busby Berkeley. Roberts certainly has more vulnerable moments than in any film she's done and the film seems to have struck a chord with her (she is now practicing Hinduism), but Liz's sweeping travels are a lot for her to balance on her shoulders. One wonders if an actor like Toni Collette with stronger chops would have made it more touching. Any emotional investment hinges far too much on how one responds to Elizabeth as a character.



This is why it's refreshing whenever we have a glimpse into the lives of those she meets on her travels. Luckily here they are portrayed by great actors like Viola Davis, Richard Jenkins and Javier Bardem. The gifted Davis, is essentially given a throwaway part in the slack opening scenes (before all the eating, praying and loving), burdened with listening to Gilbert's incessant griping. Bardem, as Gilbert's Brazilian lover, is a natural. Jenkins has one particularly strong, loosely done monologue, a style of which I think would have benefited the film overall. But it blind sides us a bit, coming too quickly, before we feel we have gotten to know him enough.

Issues of race and cultural appropriation inherent in a story of a well-off white American will ignite controversy as it did with the book. Particularly cloying is the parallelism of the arranged marriage of an Indian girl and the plight of Bali's poor to Liz's emotional debilities. I guess one should be grateful that mainstream Hollywood took on such a messy project (female soul searching hasn't really been seen in pictures since the heyday of Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore). It's a mess that's often too cute, glossy and not ambiguous enough (Bali and India are fetishistic visions here), but an attempt nevertheless. **

-Jeffery Berg