Drama – Page 33 – Bitch Flicks

Indie Spirit Best Feature Nominee: Take Shelter

Take Shelter (2011)

This is a review from Monthly Guest Contributor Carrie Nelson.

Writing about Take Shelter for a website like Bitch Flicks is a challenge. Certainly, I can write endlessly about why I loved Take Shelter. There is no doubt in my mind that it was the best film I saw in 2011. I loved the story, I loved the performances, I loved the cinematography and the overall aesthetics of the film, and I loved the fact that it genuinely surprised me with its suspense. But while Take Shelter addresses a wide range of dynamic themes – family, mental illness, standing up for one’s convictions – it is not an explicitly feminist film, nor is it a film that discusses gender issues overtly. As I think about the film from a feminist perspective, however, I realize more and more that the story is actually quite feminist, even if it doesn’t advertise itself as such or appear to be at first glance.

In Take Shelter, Curtis LaForche (Michael Shannon, in a performance that should have garnered him a Best Actor Academy Award nomination) is a husband and a father, working as a construction worker in Ohio. He begins to have a series of nightmares about a storm, one that rains polluted water and causes people and animals to react manically. Fearing that his dreams are prophetic, Curtis decides to build a tornado shelter in his yard, in order to protect his family from the apocalyptic doom he senses is coming. Curtis’ actions cause stress in all of his relationships – familial, social and professional – because no one understands why the shelter construction is so important to him. Curtis does not know if his dreams represent a true impending natural disaster, or if they are actually symptomatic of mental illness, a condition he may be inheriting from his mother (Kathy Baker). Nevertheless, he is driven to build the shelter, and no one can deter him.

The heart of Take Shelter is the relationship between Curtis, his wife Samantha (Jessica Chastain, continuing her string of break-out roles in 2011) and their daughter Hannah (Tova Stewart). In many ways, the LaForche family structure is traditional. After all, the entire film is about the lengths one is willing to go in order to protect one’s family. Curtis and Samantha are good, church-going parents who put their family before anything else. But within that traditional model, the gender roles are less defined. Both Curtis and Samantha work outside the home to provide for the family, Curtis as a construction worker and Samantha as an artisan who sells crafts at local markets. Both are committed to raising Hannah, participating equally in school functions and spending time with her at home. Both are strong and determined, taking the sanctity and safety of their family incredibly carefully. The household and family may be traditional, but labor is not divided on gendered lines and neither Curtis nor Samantha is defined within the family unit by gender norms.

Samantha (Jessica Chastain) and Curtis (Michael Shannon)

The marriage of Curtis and Samantha is one of the most fascinating elements of the film. When their loving relationship is tested by Curtis’ increasingly erratic behavior, Samantha fears for his well-being, and for the well-being of herself and her daughter. But as worried as he makes her, and as little as she understands what he is experiencing, she stands by him. She doesn’t leave, and she doesn’t speak ill of him to others. She responds in a way that most loving spouses would.

Often in movies, the drama is increased by the collapse of marriages and otherwise committed relationships. I’m not going to say that marriage is easy, or that marriages always work out – it isn’t and they don’t, and it’s good for the media to reflect that reality. But it’s also true that marriages do not just fall apart over one problem. I’ve often seen films about failed marriages that give me pause, because I don’t understand how a strong commitment could fall apart so easily in real life. Part of what I loved about Take Shelter is how believable the LaForche marriage was in this respect. Curtis and Samantha have their problems, but they work through them the way committed couples in real life do. It was refreshing to see an image like that on-screen – an image that I do not think is presented often enough.

But this isn’t just a story of a woman who stands by her husband. It’s more complicated than that. In an interesting twist on traditional gender roles, it is Samantha who ultimately “saves” Curtis in Take Shelter. Without spoiling the film’s climax (a heart-wrenching, suspenseful scene which remains the best cinema I saw in all of 2011), it is important to note that Curtis only overcomes his nightmares with Samantha’s tough love. She doesn’t just support her husband through his struggles, she demands that he trust her and believe in her commitment to him, which is how he begins to rediscover his own strength. Without Samantha, Curtis may have completely lost sight of himself and his reality. It is she who grounds him and forces him, albeit kicking and screaming, to work with her, rather than against her out of fear or suspicion. Samantha and Curtis are able to protect and preserve their marriage, but it is Samantha who does the heavy lifting. She is no waif or pushover. She creates the marriage she wants to have and makes sure that nothing sabotages it, no matter what.

In an article for Ms. Magazine Blog, Janell Hobson sums up the message of Take Shelter as such:

Take Shelter asks us to put our faith back into our intuition (usually associated with women), to accept our maternal gifts (even as they veer off from patriarchal rationality), to listen to our inner voices when all others call us crazy and, most of us all, to surround ourselves with love.

I couldn’t agree with Hobson more. Take Shelter is about many things, but the theme of familial love is particularly strong. Curtis and Samantha have their struggles, but they survive together, and that sends a vital message. Storms do come. People do become ill. But as long as we have strength in our own personal convictions and love for the people who love us, we will survive those struggles. Traditional as it may be, it’s an important message, one that I wish I saw more frequently in films. Take Shelter presented it honestly and powerfully. Here’s hoping that more films can do the same.

Carrie Nelson is a Staff Writer for Gender Across Borders and a Monthly Guest Contributor for Bitch Flicks. She works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit organization in NYC.

The Descendants: Oscar Best Picture and Indie Spirit Best Feature Nominee

The Good Patriarch: The Descendants, directed by Alexander Payne

This is a guest post from Stephanie Brown.

The Descendants is a movie about patriarchy, about husbandry and fatherhood as verb and action rather than noun and abstraction, about stewardship and responsibility. It implies that being a responsible and engaged and aware man is the key to being a responsible citizen and human being. It’s an important film that is very much of the current zeitgeist, but its ease and perfection and touches of comedy (very much like the persona of George Clooney himself) may mean that its depth is missed amid the excellent casting and the light touch of director Alexander Payne. The film is based on the book of the same name by Kaui Hart Hemmings, who was raised in Hawaii by her mother and step-father.

In The Descendants, Clooney’s character, Matt King, is the key decision maker for his family’s trust. Their family has lived in Hawaii for generations, part native Hawaiian and part white. They own a large undeveloped tract of land on Kauai. As the movie begins the family is in the process of selling the land to a developer and the group is poised to profit handsomely. His many cousins, also heirs, are portrayed as decent people, “good guys” who like to drink and hang out: contemporary landed gentry, enjoying their wealth and comfort in paradise. As decision maker for the fate of the fortune for a whole slew of cousins/subjects scattered around the islands and mainland, Matt is aptly named “king,” and he is affable, fair and aims to please. At the same time his wife, Elizabeth, has been in a water skiing accident and is now in a coma. Like many fathers and husbands, he is not very involved in his children’s lives and doesn’t know them very well, and is not really that knowledgeable of his wife’s life either. Soon after he retrieves his older daughter from her private boarding school (she is drunk when he finds her) to return home with him, he discovers from her that his wife has been having an affair. The movie is about the slow unfolding of this secret that has been kept from him by friends and family, and the slow strengthening of his bond with his daughters, especially his oldest daughter, Alex, played by Shailene Woodley. It’s a great performance by Woodley, who is utterly believably as an intelligent and strong but betrayed and angry teenager. She alone knows the exact nature of both her parents’ flaws but is powerless to make them change. Instead she causes problems as school and acts bratty and disagreeable. She is also shown schooling her younger sister in teenage survival skills, and while her methods and language are crude, one knows that this is likely the only practical advice the younger daughter has gotten from anyone. The movie is taken up with a road trip of sorts, actually jaunts between islands and neighborhoods therein, with Alex, the younger daughter Scottie (Amara Miller), and Alex’s friend Sid (Nick Krause) providing the comic relief. Matt and Alex search for and find the man with whom Elizabeth has had an affair and end up awkwardly befriending him and his wife (Matthew Lillard and Judy Green) as they move toward the conclusion—to finalize the sale of the land, and to see if Elizabeth will live or die.

Recent radio ads for The Descendants are comparing it to Terms of Endearment. I’m not sure Alexander Payne’s subtly crafted movies, Election, About Schmidt, and Sideways, while critical favorites, have become all-time-favorite-movie blockbusters in the way that Terms of Endearment has. I’m betting that the strategy of this comparison is to try to push it into the blockbuster box office realm. Will it ‘play in Peoria,” though? The Descendants does have an emotional death scene, where George Clooney says what is in his heart to his comatose and dying wife, but, like Payne’s other films, scenes such as this are restrained and Clooney’s soliloquy never veers into melodrama. By this point in the film, I didn’t like the wife and I was not sorry to see her die. I did not feel that the scene’s intention was to make me cry in an emotionally cathartic way. I don’t think the comparison between films works, and I think viewers who are expecting a Terms of Endearment will be disappointed. They may, however, see the powerful film that it is and come away awakened by its point of view. Think of the difference between Jack Nicholson in Terms of Endearment and Jack Nicholson in Payne’s About Schmidt. Schmidt’s character’s sad, reticent and somewhat baffled personality is naked and embarrassing to his daughter, and it’s a fine and restrained performance from Nicholson, who, like Clooney, is a masterful comedic actor. Both have elastic faces and trademark voices, and Payne’s direction keeps them true and honest in these depictions that move from comedic turns to profoundly honest portrayals of wounded American men.

The Descendants has many facets, touching on wealth and its effects on people and the history of the islands of Hawaii themselves, among other things, but to my mind, the most interesting theme in the film is the examination of fatherhood and manhood that is revealed via the relationship of Elizabeth to her father, Scott Thorson, played with frank ferocity by Robert Forster. Like a God, like Thor, Mr. Thorson has thunderous opinions and never wavers in them. We also know that he is wrong and pigheaded and the kind of person who is impossible to live with. He is certain that his daughter was a perfect wife and mother and that her accident could have been prevented if only Matt had bought her a safer boat to use rather than have her rely on her friends’ boats. Like his daughter, Mr. Thorson’s wife is shown as non compos mentis. She is in the throes of dementia and unaware of her surroundings. I do not think this is a coincidence. The only way to endure a man like this is to retreat into silence and passivity symbolized here as states of dementia and coma. His wife never speaks but she smiles. Mr. Thorson is an archetype of a Korean War-era father, all manliness, certainty and uncomplicated self-assurance. He has indulged his daughter and rejected his son—and he is not fond of his son-in-law. It is also clear that Mr. Thorson does not even know his daughter beyond superficial platitudes that he can shout about her being a good wife, mother and athlete (that she might be too much of a risk taker is ignored). He extols that she was a faithful wife when she was not. His fulsome praise has probably inflated his daughter’s ego and created a monster. Mr. Thorson is the figure of a crippled manhood that can exist only by rejecting deep feelings and hard truths about people, a style of fathering that may extol specialness, but rejects complexity and imperfection. Matt resembles him, unfortunately, in his own benign neglect of his children. Matt, whose style is more graceful and contemporary than Thorson’s, is of the generation that seeks to be seen as a “good guy” like his cousins—happy to take a profit and enjoy life, happy to live as a detached “back- up” parent (as he calls himself) who can easily just not pay much attention and not see any pain and suffering his children are feeling. They live in paradise and are quite wealthy, after all. It would never occur to the cousins or Matt to preserve the land for future generations; it is seen as inevitable that it must be sold and profit shared today. Benign neglect.

In the end, Matt decides not to sell the land but to preserve it. It is not a popular decision with the cousins. It is, however, the right decision. Matt uses his power for the first time and he risks not being popular, affable, or liked, and he is not. That is what it means to be a father and a steward and a patriarch, however. It means thinking about the future beyond current gain and comfort. It means thinking of future generations, accepting responsibility and using it reasonably and well. It means choosing not to be part of the rather dissolute landed gentry and not encouraging your children in this direction either. As I watched the film and saw him choose to preserve the land for future generations, it occurred to me that this decision would not have been believable if the film were released ten or twenty years ago. I don’t think I myself would have agreed with the decision. I would have thought, development is inevitable so why not let these decent people profit from it? But it has been released in a very different economic and social climate, where we are questioning the realities of profit and gain run amok. What is the result of all the wealth that we acquired and lost in the last twenty years? The culture tried to live like landed gentry. We exported our jobs and we exported our pollution in order to create our crap without regulations, and we sought to live like the cousins, expecting a good deal to come our way and to continue to come our way. The Descendants got me considering these truths. If one is a patriarch, one should accept it and be a responsible one. One should father and husband as a verb. And that goes the same for matriarchs and mothers and wives. If Mr. Thorson was our father, we need to wake up and pay attention and change the traits that resemble his. We need to be stewards of our families and of the earth for our descendants.

I was talking to friends one night and I mentioned that I had seen this movie and Lars Von Trier’s movie Melancholia during the same weekend, and that I liked both of them. Von Trier gets at the gnawing dread that I think we all feel about the world being destroyed. I felt grateful that an artist had made this film, because it forced me to think about my own hopelessness in the face of that destruction. But I added that I felt that The Descendants was just as powerful of a film and just as profound, even if the tone is lighter. In the last scene, Matt and his two daughters are shown sitting on a couch together, eating ice cream and watching TV. We can hear the movie’s narrator, Morgan Freeman, and after a while one realizes that they’re watching March of the Penguins. As my husband pointed out to me as we walked out of the theater, the male penguin is the one who cradles the egg, who protects it and keeps it safe from danger until it hatches. Like the father who has learned to father in film.

Stephanie Brown is the author of two collections of poetry, Domestic Interior and Allegory of the Supermarket. She’s published work in American Poetry Review, Ploughshares and The Best American Poetry series. She was awarded an NEA Fellowship in 2001 and a Breadloaf Fellowship in 2009. She has taught at UC Irvine and the University of Redlands and is a regional branch manager for OC Public Libraries in southern California.

Oscar Best Picture Nominee: ‘Moneyball’

Brad Pitt stars in Best Picture nominee Moneyball

This is a guest post from Robin Hitchcock.

I didn’t know until the end credits that Aaron Sorkin had a writing credit on Moneyball. This is good, because I semi-irrationally hate Aaron Sorkin, and I wouldn’t want that bias to have influenced my take on the film. I’m frankly astonished I made it through the movie without recognizing Sorkin’s handiwork given his very specific, very stilted style. I’m not sure if that is a credit to the acting, the directing, the influence of also-credited writer Steve Zallian’s earlier draft, an uncharacteristic bout of restraint on the part of Mr. Sorkin, or a combination thereof. Sure, the dialogue is sharp and clever, not so aggressively sharp and clever that you feel like you’re being stabbed in the throat with wit. The snazzy dialogue is more there to entertain the viewer, instead of demonstrate the genius of the writer, which is pretty much the opposite of how I usually feel about Sorkin’s work.

While I didn’t know about Sorkin’s contribution to the script when I watched Moneyball, I did know I’d be reviewing it for Bitch Flicks. So I watched with my feminist glasses freshly cleaned and firmly planted on my nose. Which was tricky, because this is not a movie about women. Professional baseball is about as much of a man’s world as you could ask for, plus there’s the whole “based on a true story” business to validate keeping all the major characters men.

Which is fine! There are stories, stories worth telling, that are just about men. [Likewise, there are stories worth telling that only involve women, but its hard to get Hollywood to bankroll those.] Telling a story about men in a men’s world isn’t inherently sexist. But I think it is fair to subject whatever scraps of portrayal of women we get in these male-dominated films to a slightly higher scrutiny.

Moneyball becomes pretty cringeworthy when you do that. The film has a runtime of 133 minutes, and by my rough count women “characters” are featured in slightly less than 8 of those minutes. That’s 6%. [This whole “math” thing is kind of a double-edged sword, eh, Moneyball?] In those 8 minutes we see three wives/mothers, two daughters, three markedly cheerful and helpful secretaries, and one bitchy sports reporter. Yep, that’s right, the only woman in the movie who isn’t in a family or subservient relationship to the male characters is established as pushy and mean in a scant ten lines of dialogue.

Casey, played by Kerris Dorsey

The only even remotely well-rounded female character is Billy Beane’s twelve-year-old daughter, Casey (Kerris Dorsey), and the character is only as well-rounded as a dented egg. She’s your standard shy-yet-precocious pre-teen on the brink of womanhood, a favorite stock character of lazy male writers. [See also First Daughter Lucy in Sorkin’s The American President]. Casey feels a bit shoe-horned into the movie, to soften Brad Pitt’s Billy Beane and give him some scenes where he’s not flipping tables or arranging complicated player trade deals, all the better to bait that sweet, sweet Oscar honey. The other reason for Casey’s character to exist is to provide an explanation of Beane’s decision to reject a lucrative offer from the Boston Red Sox to become the best-paid GM in the game. I have no idea if Real Life Billy Beane stayed in Oakland to be near his children (although this Sports Illustrated piece from the time suggests as much), but I am sadly reminded of Aaron Sorkin’s “but you guys remember Rooney Mara, right!?” defense against the feminist criticism of women in The Social Network. When you’re only including women in your story because they motivate the men in the story, it’s not enough to win you any points with feminists.

The other women in the film (aside from an entirely wasted Robin Wright as Beane’s ex-wife) are all presented as service-providers to men. On top of the cheerful secretaries, we also see one of the player’s wives bring out coffee for Beane and his associate when they invite themselves into her living room to recruit spurned former catcher Scott Hatteberg (Chris Pratt) to play first base, and quickly scoop up her and Scott’s young daughter when she toddles her way through this important meeting between the menfolk. I was so distracted by the antiquated gender dynamic playing out in that scene I had to watch it a second time to pay attention to the plot advancement.

Antiquated gender dynamics mar Moneyball

A later scene leads me to believe that the strange emphasis on women as helpmates was intentional, hopefully trying to say something about the old-fashioned hyper-masculine world of baseball. When Beane meets with Boston Red Sox owner John Henry (Arliss Howard), his cheerful and helpful secretary cheerfully and helpfully serves coffee, prompting this exchange.

Henry: You know, it’s her birthday, and I need to get her a present, but she’s usually the one that does that for me. So, do you have any ideas?

Beane: Uh, scarf.

Henry: You mean like wool?

Beane: No, I meant, uh, what women wear with, uh… decorative.

Henry: Where would I get something like that?

After which Beane cuts him off with something like, “I have no time for such frivolous lady issues! Let’s talk about serious matters of vital importance, like BASEBALL!” I believe this exchange is in the movie to highlight the strangeness of the general absence of women in this universe and subservient roles the few present women are in. At least, I hope that is what is going on, because otherwise I get the sinking suspicion that Sorkin wrote all these helper women in the movie as a deliberate fuck you to those who criticized the portrayal of women in The Social Network. Or worse yet, he thought by making all these helper women so markedly cheerful and polite, and by not having anyone snort coke off their bodies, that he was course-correcting. But that’s all wild speculation, given I don’t know the content of Sorkin’s contributions to the script.

Regardless, its inarguable that Moneyball does no favors for women in cinema. Aside from that, it’s a perfectly fine movie, not something I’d generally consider in the echelon of Best Picture nominees, but well worth watching nonetheless. All the same, I wish there were more movies with virtually all-female casts to counterbalance all the Moneyballs I’ve seen over my lifetime.

Robin Hitchcock has previously reviewed The Descent and Michael Clayton for Bitch Flicks. You can read her movie reviews at her blog HitchDied and other feminist pop culture commentary at her blog The Double R Diner.

Oscar Best Picture Nominee: An Oscar for Oskar? ‘Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close,’ the Surprise Nominee

Thomas (Tom Hanks) and Oskar (Thomas Horn)

This is a guest post from Jennifer Kiefer.

Potential viewer beware: the trailer for this film is awful. Terrible. Even worse than Alexander’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But that’s because this film deals with, as young Oskar dubs it, “the worst day.” When I first saw the trailer, I hated it. I thought it would be an overblown, sentimentalization of 9/11. But it was way above that. (For the record, I hated the trailer, loved the book and film.) Even so, it would be immensely difficult for anyone to make a two-minute-or-less trailer of any film including the events of 9/11, because to not disclose that the event is involved would be to hoodwink and outrage viewers when they discovered this upon viewing the film, but to include it in such a short duration automatically leaves the impression of emotional warfare. Even the tagline is horrible, perhaps a desperate attempt to grab the potential viewer by the collar and shout, “Don’t you see! This film is not about September 11! It’s about every day after!”

A better tagline: “A boy’s search for his father.” Even: “Based on the novel by Jonathan Safran Foer.”

Of course, any piece of art (perhaps excluding documentaries) more than mentioning 9/11 will endure endless criticism, regardless of the usage or the piece’s merit, and this film is no exception. As opposed to a film like Remember Me, which uses the event really as a surprise ending—sorry if I spoiled that incredible film for you—Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is, as the tagline pleads with you to believe, not necessarily a story about the events of the worst day. Yes, Oskar’s dad dies in the World Trade Centers. Yes, they show the buildings, but ninety percent of that is actual footage shown on television screens, and never once do they show a plane tearing into the building. In fact, the most exploitative thing about the movie’s portrayal is hazy shots of a man falling from the building, and only then because Oskar wonders whether that could have been his own father. “The other kids probably see their dads, too,” he says.

Thomas Horn as Oskar

EL&IC is about Oskar’s journey to deal with his father’s death, to analyze the artifacts, to constantly question why or how someone could or would kill thousands of people he did not even know, but also about Oskar’s connection to the people of New York City as he searches for the missing lock which fits the key Oskar found in his father’s closet a year later. For a young boy who possibly has Asberger’s (“The tests were undetermined,” Oskar says), his father was his best friend. They look in the New York Times for mistakes together, they practice karate techniques and have oxymoron wars in the living room. His father created “Reconnaissance Missions,” which forced Oskar to talk to other people, which he says is hard for him to do. In the tragedy of his father’s death, he creates his own reconnaissance mission, even larger than anything his father could have imagined, proving that even in tragedy there is community.

Perhaps Oskar’s precociousness (some argue over-precociousness) and grieving sentimentalized his father’s death—the film can be very emotional in this young man’s personal tragedy (played beautifully by Thomas Horn, but more on that later), but it is also humorous and honest. But why shouldn’t a smart, questioning nine-year-old boy be sentimental, even overly so, about his father’s premature, sudden death? Any death of a parent at that age would be devastating, even a year or two afterwards. The film is most moving and honest in the scenes where Oskar remembers or simply misses his father, resulting in fear, explosive anger, and solitude.

But still, some people have called this the “worst movie ever.” First, that’s not possible because films like Absence of Malice and Open Water exist. Second, I would be surprised if these opinions were based on more evidence than “the film is about 9/11” (or “the kid’s demeanor annoyed me.”). It is such a recent wound for Americans that even a sensitive, well-made film such as EL&IC will invoke backlash and extreme criticism. It is surely a gutsy and risky topic.

Some have argued that the film would not be that changed had Oskar’s father died in another way, say an automobile accident. Sure, the story would still be honest and heart-wrenching and beautiful, but it wouldn’t be as meaningful. Here’s where I go English Major on you.

Oskar is constantly trying to make sense of this tragedy and his father’s death. One of the most moving and emotional scenes pits Oskar against his still-living mother, crashing the kitchen, yelling for her to make sense of it. But she cannot, and he tells her, “I wish it had been you.”

Oskar and his mother, Linda (Sandra Bullock)

The tragedy of 9/11 holds much more meaning and complexity than an accident. What would it have shown about the human condition if his father died in a crash? Shit happens? Humans are really bad drivers? Bad luck? Oskar is conflicted, because the events of the worst day seem to prove that people are horrifying and everything is an unsafe target, yet in his search for the lock, his only clue being an envelope labeled “Black,” he finds that people can also be generous and surprising. Even though a very, extremely tragic event, 9/11 did unite the residents of NYC. Oskar similarly connects with this city a year later in his search, emphasizing once again that tragedy breeds community. Everyone Oskar meets, as he says, “has all lost someone,” sometimes sharing Oskar’s tragedy and sometimes not.

Oskar’s father wasn’t a regular worker in the World Trade Center—he was a jeweler who had a meeting at a popular coffee shop there on a higher floor for the view. Rather than being “emotional warfare,” (a term I have tossed in before) this serves to prove how the worst day affected everyone and anyone.

Not as much discussed in the film, the Renter, an unspeaking man living with Oskar’s grandmother, is a survivor of the Dresden bombings. The juxtaposition of both atrocious events confirms the inevitability of war and the violence of human nature, both events being essentially “pointless” in that both incidents killed innocent civilians for political purposes. What was that about a car accident being the same?

And simply plot-wise, other types of death would have made the artifact of the answering machine, with messages from his father on the worst day trying to reach someone at home, which Oskar replaces and hides, “Just like nothing ever happened,” more difficult, if not impossible, for Oskar to have.

This film is so gorged with symbolism (the food of English majors) that even each of Oskar’s little facts serves a deeper meaning—a story of a researcher who played recordings of dead elephants’ calls to relative elephants who recognized the calls, the eight minutes of light that would remain on Earth even if the sun went out, ad nauseum. I didn’t even attempt to process the symbolism of the name Black in the midst of everything else.

The Renter (Max von Sydow) and Oskar

I promised you early on that this film incorporates humor. Jonathan Safran Foer is a pro at quirk, wherein some of the humor lies, though genuine. In his first novel, Everything is Illuminated, the main character is named Jonathan Safran Foer. The first and many chapters of the book are written in a broken translation of English by Alex, both funny and poignant. The driver believes he is blind. The novel EL&IC includes photographs, blank pages, pages with one sentence, pages blacked out from overwriting, and a flipbook in the back. The character of the Renter is typical of Foer’s signature quirk (can you have a signature on your second novel?)—he is a survivor of tragedy who has lost his words and cannot speak. He writes everything down in a daybook and even has “yes” and “no” tattooed on his palms.

Max von Sydow, as the Renter, has great comedic timing in his nonspeaking role. The people Oskar meets, his interactions with his father, the brief lies Oskar counts (“Why aren’t you in school?” “They said I know too much already.”) all produce genuine laughter, even after moments of potential, authentic tears. (Was it Vonnegut who said that laughter is a response to overwhelming tragedy in an essay about his own experiences in Dresden?)

Thomas Horn, in his first-ever role, carries the film with wonderful wit and beautiful pathos. Subtleties make his performance—his expressions during unspoken moments, his over-enunciation even when speed-talking (a quality of his possible Asberger’s?), the fear in his eyes as he rides the subway (an easy target in his eyes). The panic in his demeanor as he decides whether or not to cross a bridge. Sticking his key absently into stray locks at the locksmith shop. His performance is so good I was honestly surprised that this was his first role—Oskar is a complex, emotional, challenging character, and would be a difficult feat for any actor. Horn is honest and pretty amazing throughout, particularly convincing in the most affecting, most difficult scenes—pinching himself to cause bruises because he feels guilty, screaming because he has lost his father and cannot understand why, telling his mother that he wishes she had been the one to die. Though he was not nominated for Best Actor (why don’t they have a Breakthrough or Best Young Actor award?), his performance surely landed the film its nomination for Best Picture, which could not have been fueled solely by Max von Sydow.

Oskar and The Renter

So, will it win the Oscar? Probably not, though for my money it deserves it, and the Academy did previously award the also-controversial Crash. It would be a tremendously exciting surprise, but don’t bet your house on it. Max von Sydow has a chance, perhaps based on his age—Alan Arkin said after his win for Little Miss Sunshine that he thought it was because he was getting older (though both are great performances).

If none of this has convinced you, if for no other reason, you should rest assured that this is a beautiful, premium film because my father, who is notorious for falling asleep in the darkness of the theater, stayed awake for the entire film during at 9:55 PM showing.

Jennifer Kiefer holds a BA in Creative Writing from Western Kentucky University. She currently resides in Louisville, Kentucky where she is using her former movie theater employee discount and waiting to hear back from graduate programs.

Indie Spirit Best First Feature Nominee: ‘Another Earth:’ From George Orwell to Nicholas Sparks

Another Earth (2011)

This is a guest post from Diana Fakhouri.

I haven’t cracked open a math book since 2005, so excuse me for glossing over Another Earth‘s astrophysical ambiguities. Fortunately, the film is less concerned with the space/time continuum than May/December romance, leaping from Orwellian tragedy to Nicholas Sparks rom-dram in under 100 minutes. Despite its flippant scientific disregard, Mike Cahill (director) and Brit Marling’s (writer/producer/star) interpretation of the archetypal parallel universe artfully weighs the millenial dilemma: to set forth on a predestined path, or forge a wild journey through the unknown? Another Earth never commits to either, but forces Brit Marling’s Rhoda to wade in the Styx between the two.

Like all good sci-fi flicks, Another Earth opens at a high school kegger. Rhoda is a Connecticut senior heading to MIT’s astrophysics program and celebrating her upcoming graduation. I’m not sure how typical Rhoda – all waifish, golden-haired, middle-class, white – would be of the MIT student body, but let’s grant them some artistic license, shall we? After partying late into the night, a dazed Rhoda climbs into the driver’s seat and engrosses herself in DJ Flava’s highly scientific radio report on the discovery of another Earth (dubbed Earth 2), a mirror image of our planet inhabited by carbon copies of the population. The drunk teen tempts fate, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the mysterious planet. Seconds later, Cahill offers a striking bird’s eye view of her head-on collision with Yale composer John Burroughs’ vehicle, leaving him in a coma and killing his pregnant wife and child.

Brit Marling as Rhoda Williams

Fast forward four years, and Rhoda’s skittish parents pick her up from a correctional facility, treading lightly and scolding her brother for asking what it’s like “on the inside.” Rhoda’s yellow locks have lost their luster, lying in tangled knots against her prison-issue garb. At home in her plaid wallpapered bedroom, she gazes at model planets descending from the ceiling and fingers glittery make-up tins lining the dresser. Rhoda finds work as a janitor at her old high school, ignoring pleas from a job counselor to accept more challenging work better suited to her intellect.

Since DJ Flava’s announcement, the space race has been running overtime. An international team of astronauts and scientists will soon blast off on the inaugural trip to Earth 2, and a wealthy benefactor offers a delightfully quaint essay contest to win a spot on the crew. Rhoda pens a thoughtful entry likening her outcast status to the criminals of yesteryear who ventured out and populated the unknown, earning her a spot on the manifest.

The dichotomy between Rhoda’s life plan and unexpected reality are highlighted by a chance encounter in a bodega. Rhoda chats with a former male friend stocking up on champagne to celebrate his acceptance to business school, wearing her shame on her sleeve while the future MBA candidate infers her failures. Her embarrassment speaks volumes, revealing that she feels unable to rejoin her peers in the rat race.

Enter obligatory romantic entanglement.

In an attempt to assuage her conscience, Rhoda tracks down John and learns that he woke from the coma and returned to his home on outskirts of town. She heads to meet him, absent a plan of action. Stunned by the drunk, disheveled man who emerges from the squalor inside, Rhoda swallows her confession and concocts a lie that allows her to remain anonymous while helping him get his life back on track, though inextricably entangling herself in it.

Rhoda (Marling) and John (William Mapother)

The sexual relationship that develops between John and Rhoda brutally mars the film, relegating an insightful, ethereal drama to a Lifetime after-school special. It feels wrong; it feels unnecessary. While Rhoda ostensibly consents, it’s clear that she feels she owes a debt to John she can never repay. Once John takes note of her sexually, Rhoda’s femininity blossoms on screen: she sheds the drab janitor’s jumpsuit and haphazard braids for flowing skirts, drapey cardigans, and glossy Middleton hair. Their transition from awkward, wounded companions to passionate lovers feels forced, and prevents Rhoda from piecing her world back together. The safety, albeit forged, of her relationship with John further separates her from a normal life. To make matters worse, when she finally confesses her part in the death of his wife and child, John banishes her from his life.

In a not-so-shocking (spoiler alert!) twist, Rhoda discerns that the reflexivity of the two planets was interrupted at the moment of discovery, possibly precluding the fatal accident from affecting the John and Rhoda of the other Earth. In a final act of penance, Rhoda offers John her passage on the maiden voyage to Earth 2, hoping to reunite him with his family. Shortly after, she comes face to face with her own persona from the alternate universe, clad in the twenty-something yuppy uniform that corroborates the broken parallel hypothesis.

The bold cinematography carries the film. While it’s a gorgeous take on sci-fi, Deep-Impact-meets-2001: A-Space-Odyssey-meets-Instagram isn’t doing the modern heroine any favors. Rhoda is unable to overcome the tragic accident that throws her life off track, and the final scene intimates that the unblemished Earth 2 Rhoda is as much a stranger to her as her friend from the bodega.

Diana Fakhouri earned her BA in English Literature from The College of William and Mary in 2009. She lives in Richmond, Virginia and has never turned down a Mimosa. Check her out on Twitter and Tumblr.

Indie Spirit Best International Film Nominee: Melancholia

Melancholia (2011)

This is a guest post from Olivia Bernal.

As I’m leaving the theatre, the booming volume of two planets crashing still causing a hollow echo in my ears, the gentlemen who sat behind me remarks to his wife, “Well, that was…odd.”

“What did you say?” his wife replies, apparently as temporarily deaf as I.

This was the same guy who asked his wife during the beginning collage of the movie – a symphony of images, slow-paced and gorgeously rendered, whose disparate tones fit together like an orchestra – whether the whole movie would be like this and could they leave if it was.

Odd is probably one of the more tame opinions ever bestowed on a Lars von Trier movie. After Antichrist, which gave me nightmares solely from the descriptions, I was hesitant to see Melancholia. I had never seen a Lars von Trier movie and his reputation was one of Nazism, misogyny, and violence.

So I was surprised at this beautiful, thoughtful, and often funny movie. Told in two acts, it begins at Justine’s (Kirsten Dunst) wedding reception, which is held at Justine’s sister Claire’s (Charlotte Gainsbourg) mansion. It is clear early on that Justine suffers from a potentially debilitating depression, one that is being held carefully in check. Claire and her husband care for Justine as a Mother would, constantly fortifying her, usually through guilt, to return to the crowd of people there to celebrate her wedding. As the evening wanes, she escapes time and again to take a bath, have sex with a random guest on the golf course, and cuddle with her nephew, all to the ruination of her new marriage. Her husband, at first patient and understanding, abandons her to her demons by dawn.

Later, as the second act begins, Justine is delivered back to the mansion sometime after her failed wedding. This time, her depression has fully consumed her. She can barely stand, much less eat or walk or bathe. She recuperates as news comes that a rogue planet called Melancholia may collide with Earth – a potential destruction that would cease all life on the planet. In the wake of this potential tragedy, Justine becomes calm – even coherent – at the inevitability of the collision. She comforts her nephew, as her sister and brother-in-law lose themselves in terror. At one point, in the best scene of the movie, Claire stuffs her son into a golf cart and drives madly away from the mansion, as if escaping their isolation could somehow save them. And of course, it can’t. Melancholia looms over their heads, its inevitability a sordid reminder of their impending mortality.

It’s no secret that Lars von Trier manages to produce an excessively offensive quote every time he’s interviewed. Reports that he hired a “Misogyny Consultant” abounded after the release of Antichrist. While being interviewed during the Cannes film festival to promote Melancholia, von Trier announced, “What can I say? I understand Hitler.” I have never seen another Lars von Trier movies and it is difficult to assess someone’s philosophy based on only one of his works or based only on publicity-inducing quotes. But I would argue that von Trier is full of shit. Melancholia is one of the most stunning, understated, and complex depictions of women I have seen in ages.

This is not to say it does not have its flaws. Though the images are unbelievably beautiful, some of the dialogue is terrible. The ideas presented are challenging, but the way in which they are presented is awkward. Towards the end, Justine and Claire confront each other about their varying degrees of concern at the future tragedy.

Justine: All I know is, life on earth is evil.

Claire: Then maybe life somewhere else.

Justine: But there isn’t.

Claire: How do you know?

Justine: Because I know things.

Claire: Oh yes, you always imagined you did.

Justine: I know we’re alone.

Claire: I don’t think you know that at all.

Justine: 678. The bean lottery. Nobody guessed the amount of beans in the bottle.

Claire: No, that’s right.

Justine: But I know. 678.

Claire: Well, perhaps. But what does that prove?

Justine: That I know things. And when I say we’re alone, we’re alone. Life is only on earth and not for long.

The bean lottery, a game at Justine’s wedding, is a silly and ultimately ridiculous way of proving that Justine knows anything. This revelation is supposed to reveal a level of prescience in Justine’s character, a fact that had never been established before. It is the only inconsistency in her character and weakened an otherwise excellent movie. It is then the images, and those big ideas that von Trier is not afraid to take on, that raise this movie to such an exciting level.

If Melancholia is a meditation on the nature of depression, the first act, I believe, is meant to exhibit the self-destruction and eventual depletion of those who suffer from it. Justine’s ruin seemed imminent, even as she smiled and laughed in her white dress and perfectly-coiffed hair. Her father, drunk and addled, remarks upon her happiness, only to have Justine later admit to her new husband that she is not happy at all. Von Trier is so skillful at making his audience despise and empathize with Justine at the same time. You can see the strain on her face as she once again escapes the confines of the crowd and realize the intense effort of her façade, yet you want her to suck it up and be normal. It is the intricacy of this first act, the turmoil within Justine at having to conform that makes her a refreshingly three-dimensional character.

Her mental illness is born in sharp relief to her sister, who is practical and efficient in the first act. The genius of the movie is in the second-act reversal by non-reversal. As Melancholia threatens our planet, Justine loses none of her pessimism, yet now, with death looming, this seems lucid, even logical. What once was absurd about Justine now becomes rational. As Claire becomes desperate to regain control over her world, her competence is now insanity. It is the context that changes – their characters remain frustratingly consistent. Justine’s depression is rational; Claire’s control is fanatical. As an audience member, I almost wanted Justine to admit what she will lose by this tragedy or Claire to stop trying to fix the situation and give in to her destiny.

I believe that in any creation of a character, the portrayal of a character as simple is a worse crime than the portrayal of that character as negative. Honoring the intricacy and spirit and individuality is a greater boon to women than depicting us as good or positive or non-offensive. Justine and Claire are excessively flawed and in many ways are tremendously unlikeable. But, von Trier, ever skillful, will not give in to convention and never gives his audience easy solutions. What he gives us instead, is an intimate view of civilization – of two responses to terror, tragedy, and mental illness. That he does so within the framework of these women, exhibits a level of concern for humanity that his sound bytes from interviews don’t express.

At the end, the earth does end in a deafening explosion of sound as Justine, Claire, and Claire’s son hold hands under a tent of sticks, built by Justine to calm Claire’s son. Justine is placid, almost trance-like; Claire is despondent. This is indeed an odd movie, just as the gentleman said. It is odd because it defies type. Von Trier, for all his bullshit ballyhoo, might have proven himself, perhaps unwittingly, a feminist.

Melancholia trailer:

Olivia Bernal is a public school teacher from Kansas. She writes for The Independent Book Review.

Indie Spirit Best International Feature Nominee: Shame

Shame (2011)

This is a guest post from Clint Waters.

“We’re not bad people. We just come from a bad place.”

Shame, Director Steve McQueen‘s second feature-length film (which he also co-wrote the screenplay for) tells the tale of Brandon Sullivan, played by Michael Fassbender. This is McQueen and Fassbender’s second film working together, the first being Hunger (2008). Mr. Sullivan is a successful bachelor who has struck a tremulous balance between his professional life and his secret addiction to sex. The comfortable routine that he has settled into is disturbed, however, when his sister Sissy Sullivan, played by Carey Mulligan, decides to crash at his place for a few nights.

Although that little synopsis might not sound so riveting, it is McQueen’s writing/direction along with Fassbender and Mulligan’s acting abilities that makes this a truly awesome film. And I don’t mean to say “awesome” in the watered-down, lackluster way that it is used every day. I was literally awe-struck for at least 9/10s of the movie. Although it gets off to a slow start and the narrative isn’t necessarily complicated, the two main characters will put you through a gamut of emotions.

Aside from excellent performances, the cinematography of this piece is responsible for every stricken nerve. This is due to the camera’s unapologetic presence in each scene. Sometimes over the shoulder or sneaking from the side, each shot is generally in the characters’ faces, quite literally.

For example, in a scene where Brandon and his boss (who turns out to be a real sleaze) go to see Sissie sing at a ritzy establishment, the camera is intimately close to her:

Carey Mulligan as Sissy Sullivan

That picture doesn’t necessarily serve the scene justice, as at one point Mulligan’s face is the only thing visible, almost invoking the famous singing lips of the Rocky Horror intro. The camera’s (pardon the pun) in-your-face position subjects the viewer to every minuscule tremor of emotion present in the lips and eyes. It is almost unsettling, as it does not offer a safe place to rest your eyes (which, of course, makes it a magnificent tactic).

You may notice that I use words like “uncomfortable” or “unsettling” a lot throughout this review. The music doesn’t do anything to alleviate the general discomfiting feel of the film. Saying that the score of Shame is sparse might be an understatement. Disquieting scenes are made all that much more upsetting because there isn’t any music to lean upon. However, when instruments are finally introduced it is in the classical style, lending a juxtaposition between the emotionally horrific subject matter and the music we associate with beauty and grace.

Perhaps the film’s most impressive aspect is its treatment of sex. As mentioned above, Brandon is a sex addict. However, there is nothing even remotely “sexy” about the numerous (and I mean numerous) sexual encounters that Brandon achieves. Shame is a masterful character study and is very informative about a subject that we don’t really talk about as a society or that we dismiss readily. People joke that if they had to be stricken with an addiction, sex would be their choice. I would recommend they watch this film before making such haughty claims.

On a very basic level it is a downward-spiral narrative as seen is other addiction-based films. However, unlike a film such as Blow, where drug addiction has its peak then descends into madness and poverty, Shame is one long “all is lost!” moment, degrading from “manageable” to an almost primal need to score (in Brandon’s case, engage in sexual activity). This is where the amazing acting comes into play with Fassbender’s hauntingly hollow and hurt gazes toward the camera, ergo the viewer. It is evident that although Brandon is addicted to the pleasure of intercourse, he doesn’t enjoy it. The addiction has become a crippling factor of his psyche, as he can’t even ride the subway or have access to a computer without actively seeking sex or pornography.

In the first portion of the film’s climax we see Brandon on the subway, looking a little worse-for-wear: flushed and sporting a gash on his cheek. The film takes a risk here, as the otherwise linear narrative breaks apart, allowing us to see just how he made it to this moment. Without giving too much away, allow me to say that when it is revealed how his face got cut, we see the otherwise sympathy-worthy character turn himself over to the addiction and become someone else entirely. Someone sinister and ultimately disgusting. And he doesn’t stop there. By the end of the flashback sessions we find him pull out a last resort and cruise a gay bar/sex den.

I will pause the review in order to address the mild controversy that has arisen from this segment of the film. I will say that although Brandon’s all-time-low is engaging in homosexuality, this isn’t meant to paint a negative picture of homosexuals. Instead, it is only used to illustrate the lengths and personal boundaries that Brandon will sacrifice in order to get his fix. Throughout the film, Brandon is depicted by an exclusively heterosexual man. As a gay man, I rationalized it thusly: for Brandon, having sex with a man is equivalent to a homosexual having heterosexual sex, a.k.a. something uncomfortable and not very enjoyable. If Brandon’s character had been a homosexual, perhaps this rock-bottom moment would be conveyed using a run-of-the-mill night club and some heavy-handed seduction of a lady.

Resuming the review. A mysterious but cringe-worthy aspect of this film is the dynamic between Brandon and Sissie. The quote that I used to open this review is from Sissie on a voicemail to Brandon just before the final gut-punch of the film (which I most certainly will not give away). I think this is a reference to Brandon and Sissie’s shared early life, which may or may not have been sexually abusive. This particular plot point is my only negative critique. Although I don’t oppose including such an element to the character’s back-story (as it would flesh them out and perhaps give another empathetic foot-hold for viewers), instead I am disappointed at how much of a mystery they left it.

Fassbender and Mulligan

There is a particularly nail-biting scene where Brandon and Sissie are sitting on the couch. The camera (of course) is positioned just behind them so their profiles or on either side of the screen, the television just visible beyond them. Within this scene their characters are deepened a considerable amount, as they explore the obligations present in being siblings but overall the responsibilities we have as people. However, the film misses this great opportunity for one of them to mention what about their childhood could turn Brandon into a sex addict and Sissie into a fly-by-night codependent.

All in all, Shame is certainly worthy of any award it is nominated for. The characters are riveting despite the missed chance at depth, the camerawork inspires an almost invasive yet voyeuristic feel and it is one of the very few films that deal with sex addiction in a mature manner.

Clint Waters is a creative writing major, German minor at Western Kentucky University. He is in his final year and hopes to pursue any career that remotely deals with writing in a creative fashion. Visit his blog at redintooth.tumblr.com

Indie Spirit Best First Feature Nominee: Martha Marcy May Marlene

Martha Marcy May Marlene is nominated for three Independent Spirit Awards: Best First Feature, Best Female Lead (Elizabeth Olson), and Best Supporting Male (John Hawkes). It has received numerous other nominations and awards.

This review, by Carrie Nelson, first appeared at Bitch Flicks on November 17, 2011.

Martha Marcy May Marlene (2011)

Martha Marcy May Marlene is a story told in fragments. Interspersed in the narrative are flashbacks, dreams and hallucinations, so it isn’t always clear what events are happening when, and which ones are actually happening at all. But that’s part of the power of the film – the fragments set an uneasy tone, allowing the viewer to easily slip into the mindset of the heroine as her sense of self and reality slowly unravel.

When we meet Martha (Elizabeth Olsen), she is escaping from a cult in the Catskills. Once she contacts and reunites with her sister Lucy (Sarah Paulson), we learn that she has been out of touch with her family (and ostensibly living with the cult) for two years. The film chronicles Martha’s adjustment to life in a wealthy Connecticut suburb with Lucy and her husband Ted (Hugh Dancy), all while Martha privately reflects on the traumatic experiences she’s left behind.

Through flashbacks, we learn that charismatic leader Patrick (John Hawkes) gave Martha the name Marcy May when she first visits his wilderness compound. At first, Patrick’s home seems like a harmless hippie commune, with rotating chore lists, sustainable gardening and guitar sing-alongs. Soon, though, the façade disappears, and Marcy May is stuck in an ongoing cycle of abuse. At the risk of giving too much away, I will say that one of the more disturbing elements of the film is watching Marcy May transform from the abused to the enabler of abuse. She buys into Patrick’s manipulations so easily that by the time she realizes what’s happened, too much damage has already been done.

Click here to read the full piece.

Indie Spirit Best Feature Nominee: ’50/50′

When I look at the sloppy homemade label on my screener of 50/50, it looks like it says, “so-so.” Despite solid reviews and the year-end awards nominations, that pretty much sums up how I feel about the movie.

“‘Oppression’ Is in the Bathroom”: 50/50’s Condemnation of Women as Mothers, Artists, and Professionals

“Liberation”

This is a guest review by Josh Ralske.

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When I look at the sloppy homemade label on my screener of 50/50, it looks like it says, “so-so.” Despite solid reviews and the year-end awards nominations, that pretty much sums up how I feel about the movie.

I’m not one of those people who thinks Judd Apatow is some kind of woman-hating comedy anti-Christ. I mean, the guy is partly responsible for the existence of Lindsay Weir (Linda Cardellini on Freaks and Geeks), one of the richest, most beautifully written and played female characters I’ve ever seen on television. So the presence of massive-erection-concealer Seth Rogen, or the fact that the film was billed as a kind of amalgam of an Apatow-style dude comedy with a serious, realistic drama about facing cancer didn’t put me off the film.

And yet, something did. Even before I saw 50/50, I had this irritated feeling about it. There was something self-congratulatory in the way the film was being promoted, as though the idea of mixing comedy—sometimes bawdy comedy!—with a drama about cancer was something completely new and original, and anyone who doesn’t realize that having cancer can be funny is kind of a square, right? I mean, almost every movie about every disease, except maybe Love Story, has some humor in it. This is a very traditional human coping mechanism. I guess what separates 50/50 is simply a matter of degree.

Well, that, and the fact that screenwriter Will Reiser was writing from personal experience, and that co-star Seth Rogen plays what I hope is a very fictionalized version of himself in the movie. The film is presented as an honest and realistic depiction of how a serious, likeable young man deals with a potentially terminal illness. Disappointingly, despite its efforts at hip, low-key credibility, 50/50 lapses too frequently into cliché and worse.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt stars as Adam, who works for Seattle public radio, and finds out he has a rare form of spinal cancer that he has a 50% chance of surviving. Adam is the type of guy who takes care of himself and is almost pathologically averse to risk. This is illustrated by his refusal to cross a deserted street against the light, and by his lack of a driver’s license, which he attributes to a high risk of accidental death. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think etc. The film depicts Adam’s efforts to cope with his illness, and the effects of treatment, as his personal life also undergoes an upheaval.

The film’s honesty doesn’t extend to the knotty issue of the American health care system. Adam doesn’t seem to be especially wealthy, but he lives in a rich person’s fantasy world where no one worries about how they are going to pay for cancer treatments, let alone where the treatment one chooses might be circumscribed by an insurance company’s bureaucracy. I guess I can accept the argument that the film is supposed to be about Adam’s emotional journey, but I assume that the thought of how Adam’s treatment is being paid for will cross other peoples’ minds, as it did mine.

Adam doesn’t seem to have much of a social life. His only good friend is the loutish, abrasive Kyle (Rogen), his mother is a stereotypical overbearing worrywart (Anjelica Huston), and his girlfriend is played by Bryce Dallas Howard, which means we already know she is essentially a monster.

50/50’s treatment of its women characters is more problematic. His mother is apparently well-meaning, but she narcissistically draws Adam’s attention back to herself. While he deals with his potentially terminal disease and the severely debilitating chemotherapy, she makes him feel guilty for not letting her “help” enough. There’s also a key scene where she insults a hospital worker because the waiting room temperature is too cold. She puts her own needs first, instead of focusing on Adam. It’s understandable that he does not want to involve her any more than he has to. This characterization isn’t especially hateful or unrealistic; it’s just a bit hackneyed, and in the context of the film, considered among its other depictions of women, it fits in with a disturbing pattern.

Anjelica Huston as Diane in 50/50

Shortly after Adam is diagnosed, he visits with the hospital therapist, Katherine, played by Anna Kendrick. I have been a fan since I saw her in Camp. Kendrick is a terrific actor, with a great, naturalistic sense of comic timing, and her scenes with Gordon-Levitt have an energy and charm that elevate the film. Boyish, wounded Adam and sincere, fumbling Katherine are an adorable couple, but the issue is that if Katherine was any good at all at her job, they wouldn’t ever be a couple. Years of education and, presumably, some professional training have left the amiable Katherine, the world’s worst therapist.

I suppose it’s understandable that she’s a bit unsure of herself, and Kendrick plays that uncertainty realistically and appealingly. But again, in the context of the film, the message that comes across is that she is a terrible therapist in part because she is a young woman. One of the stereotypes about young women perpetuated by mass media from its beginnings is that they are excessively emotional. Katherine cannot put her emotions aside in her dealings with Adam. She doesn’t appear to understand basic concepts of transference. If she were a competent therapist, perhaps she would not be put in the position of having to serve as Adam’s only reliable emotional support when he finally does break down. Katherine is a likeable character, largely due to Kendrick’s charm, but we can’t respect her.

Anna Kendrick as Katherine in 50/50

The movie’s biggest prolonged sour note is its conception of the character of Rachael, Adam’s girlfriend. Woody Allen has taken a lot of flack for the characterization of women in his films, and as The Opinioness points out here, the horrifically two-dimensional, shrewish Inez (Rachel McAdams) from Midnight in Paris is no exception. The makers of 50/50 seem to have pretty much gotten a pass from critics, however, for the misogynistic creation of Rachael.

This is such a problematic character that I barely know where to begin. She’s a straw man. There’s no compelling reason that we see for Adam to be with her, other than her physical beauty, but Adam is not presented as a shallow man who comes to appreciate a woman’s inner beauty through this traumatic experience. He’s essentially presented as a perfect boyfriend, making all the right moves toward a committed domestic relationship.

But then, Rachael is an abstract painter, and while Adam pretends to be interested in and supportive of her work, it’s pretty clear that he doesn’t actually give a crap. He shows the painting in their living room to his mother, mistakenly calling it “Oppression.” Rachael points out that the actual title is “Liberation,” and Adam remembers that “Oppression” is the painting in their bathroom. Rachael’s high-minded artistic aspirations are essentially treated as a joke, even before we understand what an awful person she is. She’s just a pretty, solipsistic, talentless airhead. Again, this brings up the question (as with Owen Wilson’s Gil in Midnight in Paris) as to what the poor, sensitive protagonist sees in her.

Bryce Dallas Howard as Rachael in 50/50

Naturally, after gamely taking on the responsibility of being Adam’s caretaker, Rachael fails him in every way, at one point leaving him waiting for hours before picking him up after a chemo session, and betraying him with another man. She’s a hateful character. Adam even says to her at one point after they split, as Rachael, now vulnerable due to career troubles, is trying to apologize and reconcile with him, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to your opening. It’s just ’cause I hate you so much.” This, and a subsequent scene in which Kyle and Adam destroy Rachael’s painting, “Liberation,” are clearly meant to be cathartic moments for the audience. We’re not meant to have any sympathy for Rachael.

Seth Rogen as Kyle and Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Adam in 50/50

Kyle also fails Adam, manipulatively and opportunistically taking advantage of Adam’s condition to aid his own pursuit of impossibly credulous young women. Kyle is essentially an asshole. He treats women condescendingly (and this is always presented as humorous and without negative consequences for him), and he’s often insensitive to Adam’s needs. But as with Rogen’s character in Knocked Up, Ben Stone, the presence of a few appropriate self-help books in Kyle’s apartment serve to indicate that, well, at least he’s trying. Like Rachael, Kyle tries and fails to be what Adam needs him to be, but, in the filmmakers’ view, Kyle is redeemable, and Rachael is not.

50/50 has its low-key charms, and moments of grace, many provided by Kendrick, but the question that continues to nag at me is: Why is it necessary for a purportedly realistic film about a young man dealing with cancer to have a cartoonishly evil villain?

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Josh Ralske is a freelance film critic based in New York. He has written for All Movie Guide and Critical Mob.

Oscar and Indie Spirit Best Actress Nominee: Michelle Williams in My Week With Marilyn

This is a guest review by Danielle Winston.

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“My Week With Marilyn” is set in 1957 London; the film is told through the eyes of Colin Clark, a twenty-three-year-old Londoner who lands a gopher job as a third assistant to the director, Lawrence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) working on a film that would later become “The Prince and the Show Girl.” There he meets Marilyn Monroe, newly married to Arthur Miller, and has a relationship with her that lasts a week.

In the film, Michelle Williams resists the urge to make Monroe into a familiar cartoon, even though the script is rich in both the icon’s clichés and complexities, with expected poses, lines and mannerisms we’ve come to know as Marilyn-isms.

Williams–who has a naturally earthy presence–digs beneath Monroe’s facade and chips away at the woman underneath. In a subtly drawn performance, she lets us a glimpse into the personal world of not just the movie star–but also the massively powerful woman. This Monroe, with her soft whispery voice, does not lull us into thinking her a victim. Instead she portrays a woman so uncomfortable with her own strength, she’s continually battling opposing forces inside her own psyche and projects the demeanor of a frightened child, wrapped in an overtly sensual woman’s body. We have the sense that she is always silently asking permission for something–but we’re not sure what or why. With her pale blue eyes and sweet girlie smile, Williams’ Monroe is eternally blameless for her actions, no matter how she inconveniences those working with her: forgetting lines, showing up hours late or not at all…it seems as though she could set the film set on fire and we would find a way to excuse her.

Michelle Williams as Marilyn Monroe

So raw, sensitive and utterly vulnerable, Monroe has us and the characters in the film, wound around her finger so airtight, it leaves us wondering if it’s all just a clever act, and if there isn’t really a manipulative diva in there someplace, acting her pants off just to get what she wants. But then…she twists us yet again, and we decide, no woman could really be that good. Or could she?

Not quite everyone is so accepting of Marilyn’s careless ways. Olivier is at his wits end trying to direct her and repeatedly tries to wrangle Marilyn into his version of what he expected he was getting when he ordered up this particular blonde bombshell to star in his film. He doesn’t realize how terrified she is of him: in awe of his talent, Monroe’s hoping to learn all she can from such a great master. Unfortunately, when she bumbles lines in rehearsal, on the verge of tears, Olivier interprets it as a personal affront and never truly understands how much respect she has for him.

When Marilyn is running late for the first table read, young Clark, smitten with Marilyn on sight, goes to her dressing room and finds her acting coach Paula Strasberg, standing guard at the door. Strasberg attempts to shoo him away like a mosquito, but Marilyn, seated by her mirror, studying her lines, barefaced, smiles at him kindly and says, “Excuse the horrible face.” It’s as though she revealing a secret: she’s unacceptable in her own skin, and asks to be forgiven the discretion of being human.

Williams’ Monroe is a riddled with contradictions. Without any attempt to hide her insecurities, she’s a woman on a path to self-discovery. Even while being subdued by her handlers with pills and alcohol, she still yearns to be more than a male-centric view of femininity. And yet interesting enough, it’s that very fabricated celluloid image, which she switches off and on like a neon stop sign, skillfully working to her advantage.

After only being married three weeks to Arthur Miller, the couple have a nasty argument: Monroe feels betrayed and believes Miller’s stolen bits of her for his writing. Frustrated with his new wife and her unruly personality, Miller leaves the set, and Marilyn, to her own devices.

We’ve all seen those blasé versions of Monroe where she can’t exist without a man to fill the void and they make us wonder how much was true…here’s where the film takes on a different tone: no longer the plaything to be conquered by an older man, this time Monroe decides to call the sexual shots. After discovering Colin is only twenty-three, she tells him, “I’m 30. I guess that makes me an old lady to you.” In ‘57 being thirty was a milestone in a female’s life. No longer thought of as a blushing girl, Monroe was now a mature woman who had already been married three times.

Monroe was older, yes, although nearly as ancient as Olivier’s wife, Vivien Leigh, who at 43 was considered too over the hill to reprise the role which she originated on stage in, “The Prince and the Showgirl.” When Monroe tells Olivier she thought Leigh was wonderful in the role, he quips that she’s far too old for the film. At that moment, we see sadness wash over Monroe’s carefree expression, and we’re not sure whether it’s compassion for her fellow actress she feels or the impending sting of her own expiration date looming on the horizon.

As we watch Monroe ensnare the naive Clark within her charming web, we know he doesn’t stand a chance against this force of womanliness; all we can do is hope she’ll be kind when she’s finished with him. The seduction begins when Clark innocently walks in on her naked in her dressing room. Instead of covering up, she very slowly wraps her towel back on, making sure he’s had an eyeful first, and then asks, “Are you afraid of me?” And even though he answers “no” we wonder if he should be.

When Clark is ordered not to see her or he’ll be fired, Monroe takes the upper hand once again, showing us she’s not one to be pushed around. In a ballsy move, she hides in the backseat of a car and has Clark picked up and whisked away to a nearby lake where she takes him skinny-dipping. Whimsical and irresistible are her methods, but after Clark is warned to stay away from her or risk getting his heart shattered, it’s clear that while Monroe may’ve looked soft and delicate, this blonde sure wasn’t stupid, and she was much more resilient than she appeared.

In 1957, women didn’t have meetings or marches to unite them; instead they were separated, competitive and envious of the physical attributes of each other, left to suffer in isolation at the hands of men who shaped their images, dictating what was “desirable.” Monroe took that glittering image, ran with it and used it to become a sensation.

Monroe’s sexual onscreen presence, combined with her blonde hair and baby-voice had studios and audiences typecasting her as dumb. In her own quiet way, she had been studying method acting with Lee Strasberg at the actor’s studio for quite some time, hoping to elevate her stature as a serious dramatic actress. Even though she was already a movie star, at the height of her career, she saw the chance to work with Olivier, one of the greats, as her chance.

Monroe and her teacher, Paula, Lee Strasberg’s second wife, had a strong mother-daughter dynamic in the film. Strasberg, an earnest, and intelligent woman, greatly admired Monroe’s raw talent. However when she’d express herself, telling Monroe she was truly a brilliant actress, Monroe would simply listen politely but took her words as no more than generous flattery.

Monroe’s dedication to method acting is a constant annoyance with Olivier. Not at all what he envisioned the kittenish actress would be; he was baffled by her contrary behavior. Stuck in old-school actor mode, he tells her, “Just be sexy. Isn’t that what you do?” Perhaps that’s one of the things she was apologizing for: not always being sexy.

While acting, with great focus, she searches for the truth in every line. To such an extent, if the realness isn’t there, she can’t even utter the words. Often what’s perceived as, “difficult behavior” is actually Monroe’s sincere desire to understand her role and deliver the best performance possible.

Marilyn Monroe

Ultimately her involvement with Clark is a very safe choice. It borders on passionless, and seems to be more a spiritual connection than a physical one. In the end Clark is able to give the world’s biggest star a rare gift: solace in his innocence. And for a brief point in time the chance to recapture her own adolescence.

When Monroe asks if he’s in love with her, Clark replies, “You’re like some Greek Goddess to me.” In many ways Colin isn’t so different from all the other men Monroe has known; he still sees her as larger than life.

She tells him, “I don’t want to be a goddess. I just want to be loved like an ordinary girl.”

Marilyn may believe she longs for normalcy but what she demonstrates is the opposite; when Clark tries to rescue her by saying she can quit working and he’ll take care of her–without hesitation she refuses–not even sure what he’s saving her from or why. Clark tells her, maybe then she’d be happy. But Marilyn is confused. She already believed she was happy and doesn’t want to stop acting. Right then, Monroe is not a child but a strong woman who knows exactly what she wants.

Ultimately Williams’ portrayal of Monroe is so understated it appears effortless. It’s a performance that could only emerge by finding the character’s inner truth within each word, a thought-provoking performance that Monroe herself, who struggled to understand the realness in her acting, and her own life, would likely appreciate and perhaps even envy.

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Danielle Winston is a Manhattan based screenwriter and playwright. Her articles are regularly published in regional and National Magazines. She’s also a yoga teacher and creator of Writer’s Flow Yoga.

Indie Spirit Best First Feature Nominee: Margin Call

This is a guest review by Jessica Pieklo.

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It’s hardly a surprise that a movie chronicling life inside a major financial firm during the 24 hours before the Wall Street collapse of 2008 would be dominated by men. Margin Call boasts a stunning ensemble cast featuring Kevin Spacey, Stanley Tucci, Jeremy Irons, Paul Bettany, Zachary Quinto, Penn Badgley, Simon Baker, and Demi Moore as a group of investment bankers, analysts and traders at fictitious financial firm, loosely based on Lehman Brothers, as the bottom falls out of the mortgage-backed securities market.

Moore plays Sarah Robertson, the steely head of risk management and only woman on the management team. We don’t actually see Moore or meet Sarah until close to midway in the film and she’s given sparse dialogue. As the film unfolds we start to see why.

Demi Moore and Simon Baker in Margin Call

Instead, the film opens in September 2008 as this unnamed investment firm is in the process of terminating 80 percent of its risk-management team. The terminations are executed with the cold precision that only corporate HR professionals can muster and magnified by the self-importance that fuels Wall Street corporate culture. It’s an assembly-line of assets in and liabilities out and even from the beginning we see the a shedding of “waste” that frames the rest of the drama.

Senior risk analyst Eric Dale is one of those fired. Dale, played brilliantly by Stanley Tucci, gets the news just as he’s about to discover that the company is recklessly over-exposed in bad mortgages. Dale’s termination, and his behavior in handing over a flash drive full of damaging information to Peter Sullivan (Zachary Quinto) telling him to “be careful,” initially sets the story up to suggest Dale was fired just before becoming a whistleblower but instead suggests the fate that awaits anyone else who might question the culture of risk at the firm.

It’s not until the junior analysts have put together the pieces laid out by Dale and alerted their bosses that the real faces of the financial crisis emerge and among them, Sarah Robertson. We first meet Robertson in an emergency middle-of-the-night meeting with upper management to discuss the firm’s exposure and create a strategy to handle it. The strategy, the firm decides, is to dump the bad debts and offer up an executive sacrifice as the face and blame of the disaster.

Of course they choose Robertson.

Kevin Spacey in Margin Call

The writing is on the wall and it’s clear in Moore’s performance that it’s an outcome Robertson must have been bracing for her entire career. During the meeting Robertson points out, firmly but not too aggressively that she had warned the firm of problems with the mortgage-backed securities and nothing was done. The men in the room just look at her. It’s clear. She’s going down for the whole thing.

Almost the rest of Moore’s performance consists of Robertson sitting in her office, looking out across Manhattan both a part of Wall Street and isolated from it’s upper reaches–the logical and final destination for female executives in this world.

Writer/director J.C. Chandor’s father spent almost his entire career working for Merrill Lynch and its obvious he understands Wall Street culture. Bright ambitious talent gets wooed away from careers that better serve society like engineering and the sciences, to make buckets of cash moving around buckets of cash. There’s a sense of conspicuous waste in nearly every scene. Boxes line empty trading cubes as nameless traders cycle in and out. Nothing’s permanent and nothing’s real except for the stories of all that cash.

Given Chandor’s intimacy with Wall Street life it’s hard not to see some deliberate choices behind Moore’s character. Shortly after the 2008 collapse some of us started asking if the financial crisis would have been mitigated, or perhaps avoided all together, had more women served in executive functions and on boards of directors. It was hard not to broadly generalize but the major Wall Street Firms–Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, JP Morgan Chase, Citigroup, Bank of America–the list continues–all firms where women were virtually absent in leadership and culture building. In their place was a testosterone-fueled culture of rampant greed and avarice, a world where 25-year-old traders were promised million dollar bonuses over t-bones and strippers and nobody blinks. It’s hard to imagine that culture existing so robustly with a lot more women involved.

Jeremy Irons in Margin Call

And that hypothesis seems to infect Moore’s character and her performance. She’s at once tough, ambitious and intensely insecure. You get the sense she’s used to having her work more heavily scrutinized, less-readily trusted. At first during the emergency meeting Moore comes off as emotionless and cold, almost robotic in the face of catastrophe as if aware that showing any emotion as the only woman in the room would automatically kick her out of the club. Later when she’s waiting out the night in her office Moore offers us a woman tragically isolated and coming to terms with the fact that her brief foray into the forbidden world of male privilege has officially ended with not much more to show for it except a severance package that will ultimately cost her reputation and sense of dignity.

The fact that Moore’s character had warned of the crisis approaching and was alternatively ignored or blamed for not warning emphatically enough also perfectly captures the bind so many women in corporate culture face. As head of risk management Moore’s character was in charge of managing exposure and was the voice responsible for setting the culture and appetite for risk. It was the woman who first saw problems, tried to draw attention to them but was ultimately not taken seriously and was dismissed. Rather than push the issue Robertson knew what she had to do–push ahead like the men around her.

By the end of the film there’s not much left to Moore’s character. She’s practically an afterthought as daylight breaks and the trading panic ensues and we close with a sense that nothing much will change even after the house of cards comes crashing down.

Links of interest:

“Could Women Have Avoided the Financial Crisis?” by Jessica Pieklo for Hegemommy

“Gender, Testosterone, and Financial Risk” by Paola Sapienza for Kellogg School of Management

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Jessica Pieklo is a lawyer and writer blogging at Care2.com and Hegemommy.com. Her work focuses on women’s rights, ethics and the law.

Oscar Best Actress Nominee: Rooney Mara in ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is up for four Academy Awards in addition to Rooney Mara’s nomination for her portrayal of Lisbeth Salander: Cinematography, Film Editing, Sound Mixing, and Sound Editing. It has received numerous other awards and nominations.

This piece, by Megan Kearns, first appeared at Bitch Flicks on January 10, 2012.

Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara) in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Lisbeth Salander consumes my thoughts. I’ve spent the last year and a half reading, writing, analyzing, debating and discussing the punk hacker. As a huge fan of the books and the original Swedish films, I was NOT excited to see The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Hollywood remake.

Plagued by sexist marketing that seemed to focus solely on Mikael and depict Lisbeth as a sexpot damsel in distress, I feared Hollywood would wreck one of the most unique female protagonists in pop culture. With trepidation, I watched David Fincher’s take on Stieg Larsson’s epic. While some gender problems arose, I’ve got to admit I was pleasantly surprised. And it all hinges on Rooney Mara’s performance.

For those who don’t know, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, the first part in the global phenomenon of The Millennium Trilogy, features disgraced crusading journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) and brilliant researcher Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara) who unite to solve the mystery of a woman who disappeared 40 years ago. The gritty, tense plot fuses with social commentary on violence against women, sexuality and gender roles.

Do we really need an American remake? Fincher, a notoriously obsessive and detailed filmmaker, creates a gorgeous film evoking a macabre ambiance. Trent Reznor’s eerie and haunting score punctuates each slickly stylized scene perfectly. Phenomenal actors fill the screen: Craig, Robin Wright (who I will watch in absolutely anything), Christopher Plummer, Stellan Skarsgaard, Vanessa Redgrave. While everyone does their best, the remake isn’t quite as compelling as the original. I never really felt invested in any of the characters. Except for Lisbeth. The sole reason to see the film is Mara’s stellar portrayal.

Click here to read the full piece.