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REVIEWS FROM THE 43RD NEW YORK FILM FESTIVAL Though you might not believe it, our movie tastes at Drink at Work don't stop at Smokey and the Bandit or Howard the Duck. We enjoy arty, thoughty films, too. That's why we've been attending the New York Film Festival for the last four years and are pleased to have been thrown out only once, thus ending the NYFF's free booze night. Below are a few reviews from films we saw at the festival. Good Night, and Good Luck. | Regular Lovers | Methadonia | Capote Good
Night, and Good Luck
As someone who used to refer to George Clooney as “that annoying headshaking guy on ER,” I now find myself in awe of him. He is one of the few contemporary actors who easily fits into that canon of the Hollywood debonair man’s man that includes the likes of Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart. He’s handsome, masculine, charming, and completely at home in front of the camera. And when he works with other actors of his caliber on screen there’s a palpable energy, the unspoken dignity of men who are the kind of men they always wanted to be, leading the sort of lives that would make their fathers proud.
David Strathairn’s performance in this film cannot be oversold. He doesn’t just become Edward R. Murrow, he illuminates him, revealing not only Murrow’s sense of purpose and dignity, but also his mistrust of any power, be it a government’s, a network’s, a man’s, even his own. With Good Night, and Good Luck George Clooney takes another step towards establishing himself as a gifted director. The film is beautifully shot and the themes are bold yet sincerely stated. I am skeptical as to how well the film will do in wide release. Quiet, black-and-white dialogue-driven films about media responsibility and government aren’t exactly standard multiplex fare. But, hey, Clooney’s damn fine looking and he smolders even more in grayscale than he does in color. But for my part, I will continue to be thunderstruck not just by the filmmaker’s good looks, but also by his ambitious choices and devotion to those ever more elusive pursuits of honor, humor and humanity.
It occurs to me that I know very little about France: I don't speak the language, I don't have an in-depth knowledge of the history, I'm not well-versed in French New Wave cinema, I've never even eaten at a French restaurant. In short, my breadth of knowledge of French culture can be summed up in one word: Croissan'wich®. Given all that, you might expect my reaction to Philipe Garrel's pensive examination of young bohemian revolutionaries in iconic May 1968 France to be, “"I don't get it."” However, I like this film quite a lot despite my disconnection to the source material. What I am struck most by is how coolly the director paints the characters and era. Garrel himself came of age during this tumultuous and creatively formative period, but in re-envisioning it for Regular Lovers, he seems to find that the "movement" could not have been more stagnant. Aside from their initial petulant riots against the police, the young upstarts in Garrel's film are little more than stoned, sexed and complacent. The central character, a young poet named François (delicately played by the director's son Louis), is sensitive and searching, but lacking in any kind of motivating passion either for his art or his cause or his love, letting each one silently fall by the wayside. He is at once a youth and an elegy to youth; the ghost of his potential. In Garrel's vision of May 1968, we see a revolution that wasn't terribly revolutionary, a story about sexually liberated twenty-somethings with absolutely no sex or nudity, and a love that is bereft of passion. I'm not certain if all this makes for a specific commentary on the time, on its diminishing influence or on more contemporary uprisings such as those sparked by the Iraq war. But it does make for a luxuriously lonely film about the fragility of idealism in the face of complacency and arbitrary barometers of success. And in that sense, Regular Lovers has a striking relevance to our time. Methadonia
Unfortunately, Michel Negropante’s narration is heavy-handed, self-important and distracting while his directorial flourishes are something out of your sister’s first iMovie. Still, by the end of the film this proves little more than an inconvenience and one learns to ignore the pandering, earnest voice over and concentrate on the lives of consequence upon which the film actually focuses. These are stories of tragedy, hope and everyday redemption and they go a long way to reframe the politics of addiction and recovery, replacing the rhetoric with experience and humanity. I have some misgivings about the neat way one of the stories wraps up, and I wonder just how much the director got involved and how truthful the happy resolution really is. But for now I’ll choose to believe it because one thing this film proves is that believing addiction can be overcome is the first step. Let me be clear, this is not a great film. But it’s inclusion in the New York Film Festival is an insightful recognition of the deeper reasons we create and look to art.
Early on in Bennett Miller’s Capote, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, completely transformed into the body and soul of the audacious yet fragile author, regales various partygoers and hangers-on with a story about integrity in writing and, more importantly, integrity in knowing who you are as a writer. At once biting and genial, Capote’s unique appeal is instantly understandable. The shot frames his awkward figure in a way that the small group of glitterati seems to swirl and swoon around him. It’s a great scene, one that becomes ever more important throughout the film as Hoffman’s Capote wades deeper and deeper into the murky territory of deception in the name of truth…or more to the point, in the name of a good story. In 1958, a wealthy Kansas farmer and his entire family were murdered in their home. Over the course of 5 years following this event, Truman Capote investigated the story and developed it into a book that, according to him, created a new literary genre, the non-fiction novel. What Capote lost in this effort — a piece of his humanity, his ability to self-reflect, even his ability to write (he never finished another novel) — is arguably a tragedy in itself, one that Bennett Miller explores with an austere, unsentimental eye. Yet somehow the film is extraordinarily emotional, crafting its characters with a warmth and respect. When the lead detective on the case — an honest public servant played with dignity and restraint by Chris Cooper — asks Capote if the title of his book refers to the crime or the fact that Capote is still talking to the killers, Hoffman smartly allows it to fly right by him. As though ethical questions from a small town cop were more adorable than poignant. Cooper seems to simultaneously loath, pity and admire the writer’s blithe disconnection to the horror of the crimes. I can think of nothing about this film that is a misstep. Every artistic choice maintains the same cool humanity that is personified by Chris Cooper’s detective and Catherine Keener’s Harper Lee, the moral weights that ground Capote’s unreflective desire and grief. It is difficult to make a film about a flawed yet larger-than-life character without resorting to broad, sensational strokes. Miller and Hoffman have together created a meticulously detailed portrait that is touching, sincere and, most surprisingly of all, very familiar. |
Earlier Reviews:
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2003-2006 Drink at Work Ventures, All rights reserved. |
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Much
will be said about the politics of George Clooney’s elegant new
film Good Night, and Good Luck. Some will praise its tough
commentary on a government out of control and the necessity of journalists
of integrity to reveal unpopular truths. Others will criticize it as
self-important and misguided, the product of a Hollywood zealot waging
a one-sided argument and ingratiating himself to the media greats of
the past. While Clooney’s film will certainly encourage debate,
I hope that will not overshadow any appreciation of the pure artistry
of the film and the quiet intensity of the performances.
In
that light, Good Night, and Good Luck is a perfect story for
Clooney to tell. Whatever your thoughts on his politics are, the heart
of this film lies in the relationships between the characters. The trust
between Fred Friendly and Edward R. Murrow and their mutual ideals of
truth and integrity is the basis of the story, the launching point for
their historic broadcasts. Clooney and David Strathairn not only embody
these two men, the reach of their performances traverses the space between
them, silently scripting through looks, breaths and gestures all of
the words that don’t have to be said. My favorite moments in this
film are those few seconds before and after their broadcasts, where
just Friendly and Murrow sit in the dark pondering either what is about
to be said or what just has been.
Regular
Lovers
Methadonia
is a compelling story, no thanks to the film’s director Michel
Negropante. The film follows the lives of several former heroin addicts
on Methadone treatment and illustrates the pain, challenge and occasional
triumphs inherent in the process. The people we meet over the course
of the film are honest and vulnerable, and their stories can transform
the way one views addiction. For the inherent truth and singularity
of these stories, I highly recommend the film.
Capote