another dysfunctional family

Jonathan Demme is still primarily known for his harrowing The Silence of the Lambs. An unlikely but deserving winner of five Academy Awards, the film remains one of our best and unique thrillers. Demme's direction often studies behavior. He came into his own two years ago with the poignant and ambiguous character study of Rachel Getting Married. It was critically praised but the Dogme 95 style and tragic story (its original advertisements and title seem to promise a romantic comedy) left audiences chilled. The film is one of Demme's best in a rich career of many different flavors and risks including documentaries, the offbeat Something Wild, the breakthrough mainstream AIDS drama Philadelphia, and the adaptation of Toni Morrison's Beloved.

Demme returns to much of the same material of Rachel Getting Married with his new off Broadway production of Beth Henley's (Crimes of the Heart) Family Week. The story centers on a suicidal woman Claire (Rosemarie DeWitt, also of Rachel in which she played the title character so brilliantly) who after the death of her son, admits herself to a recovery center in the desert. The title refers to the visiting of her kin, her mother (Kathleen Chalfant), her young daughter (Sami Gayle) and sister Rickey (Quincy Tyler Bernstine). Through the tumultuous therapeutic sessions, some of which seem bogus, others which seem to have some validity, the clan reveal many painful secrets to one another.

I wonder if Henley's writing, at times acidic and funny, despite the tragedy in the material, often gives too much away. Even though they are in different mediums, I can't help but compare Rachel Getting Married to Family Week and their similar pilings on of domestic traumas. The experience of Rachel Getting Married and its unraveling of family drama worked so well in the cinematic format: the closeups, the claustrophobic and dizzying feel of a busy house in preparations. On a sprawling stage, with some interludes of song (mostly appropriately dusty western tunes from the likes of Emmylou Harris) under moody lighting and complete with a vivid desert background, Family Week sometimes feels a bit repetitious. It was particularly difficult to connect with Claire's character, perhaps because she was so forgone (she holds a teddy throughout most of the production). Because of this, the play lacks a center to hold on to. In Rachel, damaged Kym (Anne Hathaway) bitterly drew us into her world. Whereas the family in Rachel (and too in Ordinary People, another extraordinary portrait of a family coping with tragedy) have been dealing with their wounds for a long time, the tragedy in Family Week is very fresh. Because of this the play works best when in its quirks: we learn that Claire eerily sent Rickey flowers from her dead son; in a closing monologue, Claire stunningly opens up in an odd and brilliant meditation of the body.

Even though the material is sometimes difficult to connect with, it's definitely not the fault of the four actors. The best, and most refreshing of all is Quincy Tyler Bernstine, who injects most of the play's humor and pathos. Her Rickey is very real, spontaneous, and layered (a child prodigy grown up and now broke). One hopes to see more roles for such a talented actress, her speaking voice is just incredible. I felt sympathy for DeWitt who is saddled with many heavy and emotional monologues. She carries it all so deftly without going overboard. Her tearful glares are unforgettable. Her daughter (Sami Gayle) is appropriately whiny, insecure, and precocious. And her WASPish mother is well played by Chalfant who is desperate for "hydrating soap" throughout the play, as if wanting to wash away the past.

Ticket information for Family Week.

from paris with love

Martin Witt has delivered many low-key, social dramas. My favorites are Sounder and Norma Rae which deliver the emotional goods in a quiet, understated way. 1961's Paris Blues is a fascinating glimpse of a bygone era, brilliantly scored by Duke Ellington, where American expatriates in Paris survive by playing jazz. Supposedly the heyday for jazz was over by then but it's a lovely imagining nonetheless--a glamorous romance with extremely appealing stars.

Paul Newman plays Ram Bowen, a talented trombonist who seems dissatisfied with his career. His cohort, Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier), is another musician who moved to Paris to escape the violent racism of America. Their relationship is at times tense but otherwise knowing. They fall in love with two vacationing Americans, Lillian and Connie (Joanne Woodward and Diahann Carroll), who both challenge their life decisions.

The story is a bit flat and the pace is slow. But it's still an interesting watch for the great jazz, its frank discussions of racial identity and as a time capsule of the stylish, cool cat early '60s. The musical performances kick the film to life--including a brilliant cameo from Louis Armstrong.

-Jeffery Berg

another film without hope?

Federico Fellini's semi-autobiographical 8 1/2 is one of the great (if not one of the best) films about filmmaking, memory and fantasy. The title refers to his unfinished project. It also illuminates the difficulty in translating one's own nostalgia into artistic expression ("You've got to make yourself understood. Otherwise, what's the point of it?"). It opens with a dream sequence of a man trapped in an automobile who eventually floats out high above the sea. This is symbolic of the new birth of our main character, Guido (an appropriately understated Marcello Mastroianni), a well-known, 43-year old filmmaker who is struggling to make his next picture. In hopes to be inspired, Guido undergoes treatment by staying at a spa. There, he continues an affair with his flamboyant, ravenous mistress Carla (Sandra Milo). Their relationship is obviously unsatisfying, as Guido attempts to direct her ("make a slutty face") from bed and his distracted, weak attempts to nurse her when she is ill.













Fellini's use of character shows Guido's constant interaction with others but Guido's inherent isolation (he is described as "Mr. Alienated"). Like "cruel bees sucking life out of a flower," advisers, producers, scriptwriters, and reporters constantly prod and probe him about art, political affiliations, religion, love. His actors have demands too and as do his filmgoers who note his inability to make a hopeful film or a love story. Guido fittingly falls asleep in a bed full of headshots. All of this is the natural predicament of a filmmaker struggling to make a film "useful to everybody ... that could help bury forever all those dead things we carry within ourselves." The set of the film itself, is ironically an elaborate rocket launchpad, built on the unsteady foundation of sand.













The Catholic church is a heavy presence over the film; there is a shot of an imposing raised-arm statue of a religious figure over Guido as a schoolboy. The church guides Guido to the Cardinal for the ultimate treatment ("there is no salvation outside the church") and for him to use cultured subjects and logic if he wishes to make a statement on the Catholicism. What's so rich about Fellini's work here is his depictions of religious figures: they are capable of both cruelty and understanding (and wisdom) and are just as human as anyone else.












The difficulty of loving someone, the battle between truth and artificiality and the quest for truth in art are major themes in 8 1/2. When Guido's wife Luisa (Anouk Aimee) enters the picture, she emerges as an unassuming but challenging figure, fed-up with Guido's infidelity and self-absorption. She scolds him at one point, unable to decipher the truths and falsity in his statements. And yet there is a tender neediness to their relationship. When Guido's mistress Carla asks for truth, Guido reverts to another state of dream. He is told he has "changed" and is unable to love. The film asks many questions on the state of the artist: should he, essentially a liar, strip away everything around him in order to pursue the purity of truth? How does one become a better man while remaining an artist critical and passionate about the world around him? All of this culminates in a dreamy, Utopian carnival-like sequence where all of his characters hold hands and dance. Is this scene of unity merely another forced fantasy, a hopeful dream? It ends similarly to the final bows of actors in a play.

8 1/2 is a movie where "everything happens," but not in a frivolous way. It's buoyant, liberating (both in content and cinematic possibilities) yet also made of many careful choices ("you're free, but you must learn to choose"): almost every frame is a thrilling visual surprise (the film breezes by in its near two and half hours). Like the women described in the picture, the movie is "sensual but wicked." Surfaces, headlights and lamp lights gleam around Guido (including his own chic pair of eyeglasses). Nino Rota's jaunty score, and the use of classical music, adds to its the texture. The costumes (which won the Academy Award) reflect the distinct personalities of each of his unusual muses--especially the indelible, heavily-mascaraed women of his life.

-Jeffery Berg

heart of gold

Debut director Scott Cooper helms a beautiful directorial debut with Crazy Heart. The plot is familiar as blues--an alcoholic, washed-up aging singer falls in love and ultimately finds redemption. It's similar to 1983's Tender Mercies and echoes both the bleak grit of Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler and the tuneful slickness of the Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line. Yet Crazy Heart's screenplay (adapted by Scott from a 1987 Thomas Cobb novel) is fairly funny and buoyant throughout, a charming throwback to old country and naturalistic classics of the early 70s such as Five Easy Pieces.

The crowning glory of the film is Jeff Bridges. Sometimes too overbearing, Bridges has finally been given a big ol' role that suits his robustness, his charms and gifts. He physically transforms into the greasy, bloated Bad Blake: recklessly driving a '78 Suburban, chain smoking, swigging whiskey, limping on a crutch, fiddling with his guitar. His voice, so haggard and worn, is perfect too, and he gives the film's outstanding country numbers an emotional pull. It's one of the great performances and a joy to watch. Maggie Gyllenhaal, as a small paper reporter and Blake's romantic interest, is so expressive and likable that I forgot that she seemed miscast, too metropolitan and too young for the role (she's in her 40s in the novel). A surprising revelation is Colin Farrell (always good at playing a slime ball) who nails his part as Bad Blake's Nashville-glitzed one-time protégé. Tender Mercies's Robert Duvall shows up as Blake's salty bartender friend and offers up a little song (stay for its reprise in the closing credits).

Besides the stirring performances, the technical elements are strong as well. Cinematographer Barry Markowitz (All the Pretty Horses, The Apostle, Sling Blade) provides many stunning shots and really should do more movies! The music enhances the film immeasurably. T-Bone Burnett who co-wrote the score and song production has modernized old folk and country on soundtracks such as Walk the Line, Cold Mountain, and O Brother, Where Art Thou? which won the 2001 Grammy for Album of the Year. On Crazy Heart's gorgeous soundtrack there are remnants of these rootsy, infectious sounds. The film's ultimate anthem is "The Weary Kind," written by Burnett, Ryan Bingham and the late Stephen Bruton (whom the film is dedicated to). It's a tender ode for the downtrodden. Another tune, "Fallin' & Flyin'," is gorgeously melodic and soars at one point when our story's two clashing stars sing it as a harmonious duet. It certainly sounds like a song that Blake could have recorded--a comforting, long-forgotten hit in the dustbin of American country music.

-Jeffery Berg

spellbound

Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound is dated but still a fascinating picture. Made in 1945, in the midst of WWII, the film is one of the first to explicitly deal with the psychological effects of trauma. Gregory Peck, not yet a big star at the time, enters an institute under the guise of a famous therapist, Dr. Anthony Edwardes. Dr. Constance Petersen (another remarkable performance from Ingrid Bergman) takes Edwardes under her wing and unlocks the mysteries of his past and the seed of his psychological torment. What ensues is a theme classic to Hitchcock: the chase.

Unlike the electric pairing of Grant and Bergman in Notorious, the sexual and romantic chemistry between Bergman and Peck intentionally lacks fire. This is a rare instance in a film from the 40s, where our two romantic leads don't quite seem in love with one another at all. Peck is weak and withered, passing out on numerous occasions, while Bergman dominates. I kept wondering, does Bergman's character really love Peck's? Or is Peck's character just another case, another project. It's this ambiguity that adds to Spellbound's strangeness.

This is the second of three pictures Hitchcock and revolutionary producer David O. Selznick would collaborate on. Their two most memorable works together, Rebecca and Spellbound, remain curious oddities to me in Hitchcock's cannon. Unlike other Hitch films from the 40s, such as the stark and understated Lifeboat and Rope, they are lush, noticeably overproduced, and as experimental as Hollywood (under the code) could allow them to be.

Adding to the Selznick atmosphere is the spooky, romantic score (with its moody use of theremin) by Hungarian composer Mikolos Rozsa, which provided the film its sole Academy Award. Hitchcock complained Rozsa's score was too intrusive on his direction. Nevertheless, the music remains a beauty.

Having had successful experience in therapy, Selznick was attracted to the material in Spellbound. The script by the brilliant Ben Hecht has unfortunately lost a lot of luster through the years. The psychoanalysis mumbo jumbo--similar the coda in Psycho--is sprinkled throughout. I couldn't help but notice the similarity in storyline to another but very different psyche drama: Robert Redford's Ordinary People. Both are about freeing the mind from guilt and psychological torment and the irrational malaise society once held (here in the 40s and in Redford's picture, early 80s suburbia) against therapy.

What lures me back to the film, despite the heavy, outmoded dialogue, are the many arresting visuals and rich compositions. There is a fascinating (and fun!) dream sequence, specifically designed by Salvador Dali. A quick, unforgettable image of memory and accidental death (see image above). And a memorable conclusion that involves a gun being pointed directly at the audience--one of my favorite moments in all of Hitchcock's work.

-Jeffery Berg

This billboard in Times Square and these promotional materials seems to speak of Selznick's gifts as a producer and a revolutionary producer at the time.

cagey george in his glass cage

In adapting a classic novel for a film, it seems to me a filmmaker has the responsibility of at least capturing the spirit of the source, even if the adaptation makes many changes. Tom Ford's A Single Man is certainly a noble attempt for a new filmmaker and it shows a lot of confidence. Yet, by making Isherwood's George suicidal, the film version becomes plodding and morose.

Indeed Ford was probably trying to add some dramatic tension. He has recently shared that an unnamed family member committed suicide in a way similar to what George's character plans: "It was exactly that suicide. Everything planned, everything laid out, suit, cuff links, zipped himself in a sleeping bag so he wouldn't make a mess." By drawing on his personal life, Ford does indeed make the work interesting. Yet the book, so slim and fleeting, with pages of rich dialogue, is a celebratory and somber rush of a single day in the life of a middle-aged gay man in the early 1960s. Isherwood's George, particularly observant of his rapidly gentrifying Los Angeles suburb, offers many crackling insights. Ford infuses the movie with an overwrought, changeable warm and cool tone, exaggerated tick tock clocks, and slow-mo student film-ish shots of people's eyes and lips, to show George's isolation and fragmented world view. It has a healthy love for Bergman, Almodovar, and Kar Wai Wong's In the Mood for Love. And it is certainly a stylish affair (George's get-up is, as you may have guessed, Tom Ford, while Julianne Moore seems to be having fun with her part as a boozy, hopelessly in love fag hag with bouffant hair). But because Ford's George is so morbidly depressed, it's difficult to discern the meaning of whatever substance of Isherwood's is left intact. The entire movie becomes a will he or will he not kill himself kind of game. And that kind of dance can really only be viewed once. Isherwood's novel still feels fresh. Ford's film feels dated.


However there are things to be admired here. And perhaps it's wrong for me to do so much comparing and contrasting; a film is meant to be reviewed on its own merit. The re imagining of George as the sleek professor works largely due to Colin Firth and the brilliant set design. His modern, glass house, open for the world to see, is an ironic womb for such an isolated character stuck in the past. It's also a glimpse of the promise of what George's life used to hold. Colin Firth is a reason to see the picture. He has always been a quiet, very real presence in his best roles as difficult-to-read, aloof Mr. Darcy's. George is another one of those roles and he tackles it with gusto. The other supporting players are electric including the very handsome Matthew Goode as George's old lover and the very handsome Nicholas Hoult as a radiant, curious young student. The scenes involving these two really jolt George (and the film) to life. They connect with insular George in surprising ways. Despite the film's flaws, Ford should be commended for bringing such a strong cast to the screen and for taking on such an ambitious project.

-Jeffery Berg