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BigJeffLebowski Blog

  • "Poetry don't work on whores."

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    There was a time when stately, elegaic, artfully shot and leisurely paced films not unlike Andrew Dominik's The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford were made by major studios, given major awards, and praised by critics and audiences alike.  Granted, this time was before I was born, so I'm taking the word of respected elders, the so-called Movie Brats, and the good folks over at the Criterion Collection.  Maybe it's true that populist entertainment has always been populist entertainment, and thoughtful works have always had a marginalized audience, but it certainly seems like poetic character studies of this ilk have become fewer, farther between, and certainly less publicized.

    Casey Affleck stars as Robert Ford, a nineteen year old enamored of the legendary exploits of Jesse James (Brad Pitt), already a mythical anti-hero by thirty-four.  As Affleck plays him, Ford is shy, socially awkward, and caught up in the mythology of the James Gang far more than the realities of it.  He keeps a box of clippings and souveneirs of James in a shoebox under his bed, both proud of and embarrassed by his collection, as an adolescent might be of his stack of Playboys.  He fetishizes the life of an outlaw into a profession far more noble than it actually is; ultimately, he is little more than an opportunist.  The James brothers see through him; Frank (Sam Shepherd) wisely stays away.

    As the film progresses, the silences that punctuate the increasingly strained conversations grow.  So too do the unspoken thoughts and emotions of all parties involved.  These are thieves who were not thick to begin with, and their trust in one another is tenuous at best.  Ford grows to despise James.  As James tells Ford, the stories he's read in the papers and the sensationalist paperbacks he's collected since childhood are all lies.  The reality of life outside the law is far less romantic than Ford had imagined, and, understandably so, James is not as welcoming to his skittish admirer.  Feeling rebuffed by his idol, Ford begins to feel that the only way to step out of the shadow into which he has placed himself is to turn against James.

    Even though it features one of the greatest train robberies put to film, this is no action film.  Instead, Dominik opts for a meditative study of inferiority, idolatry, revenge, and guilt.  Affleck, who seems to age throughout the film, is excellent in the role.  To watch his eccentricites and his forced smile shift from awkward and shy to malicious and deceitful is to witness a performance of unexpected subtlety and nuance.  Pitt, too, is superb, playing James as a secret celebrity, just past his prime, whose measured generosity, omniscience, violence, and heartlessness coalesce into a singular being at once frightening and alluring.  His jocularity is more unnerving than his cold blooded vengeance ever could be, for it is unexpected, unreliable, and often takes its delight in the least appropriate events and circumstances.

    The rest of the cast is strong, even though many of the ancillary characters are utilized for little more than plot.  (Composer Nick Cave is given an amusing scene as a troubador, but a cameo by James Carville as the governor is somewhat jarring and robs the film of some of its verisimilitude.)  And with so many of them appearing sporadically and for such short periods of time, the film has some trouble maintaining the brilliance and tension of its first half hour throughout its second and third acts.  The narration, too, is overused at times, occasionally overstating what can already be gathered from what is on screen.  Though this is not a terrible oversight, it is strangely at odds with the subtlety of the rest of the screenplay.  Still, what the film lacks in immediacy it makes up for in the way that it burrows under your skin, its themes refusing easy resolution even after the film has ended.

    In another time, a film like this may have won a larger audience.  It's measured restraint and its insistence on speaking more with silence is certainly not for all tastes.   But for the patient and the thoughtful, there is much to be taken from the film, a great deal of which is morally ambiguous and left open to the viewer's interpretation.  Not to mention, it's got one of the best titles of the year.


  • Recovery Chic

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    Under discussion:

    Clean  (2004)

    It would seem that society is increasingly embracing the present and the past.  For all of the market testing, advance polling, and research analysis which has reduced so many of our figureheads to puppets caught in the winds of popular opinion, there is a growing lack of restraint and forethought in the actions of many of our celebrities.  Chalk it up to the information age if you'd like, to the ubiquitous surveilance we are under from the totalitarian slanted government, the predatory press, and every schmuck with a camera phone; perhaps we have no choice but to wash and dry our dirty laundry in the public eye.  Still, the sea change in how information is delivered seems to have resulted in decisions made for the short term becoming far more prevelant than they ever were before.  We needn't look any farther than Lindsay Lohan's latest attempt at respectability after several stints in rehab: posing as Marilyn Monroe in New York magazine.  It's mind-bogglingly embarrassing.  Let's let the analytic take a break and eschew the subtext.  Let's not mention that the photos of Marilyn were taken while she was drunk and several weeks before she died of an overdose; let's also not mention that splaying your nude body before the camera does little to increase your respectability as an actress or as a woman.  Let's ignore all of that.  Let's just look at the fact that she looks terrible.  At twenty-one, she looks twice as old as Marilyn did at thirty-six.  And those freckles?  Firecrotch indeed, Mr. Davis.  There is simply a lack of what strikes me as common sense.  Now, I have never been one to project too far into the future (probably why I continuously languish as a novice chess player) but I can't help but look at society today and wonder how much of what goes on is going to be deeply, deeply regretted by those involved when it shows up on a tasteless VH1 special designed to manufacture nostalgia for a time that was insufferable the first time, let alone revisited in endless syndication.

    The reason I bring this up is because Clean is a rare film in that it shows someone whose life has fallen apart publicly and who, not always with ease or pleasure, realizes that it is more advantageous to look to the future than to the present.  Maggie Cheung plays Emily Wang, a former television personality whose common-law marriage to aging rockstar Lee Hauser (James Johnston) ends with his death from a drug overdose.  Arrested for possession, but cleared of any charges related to Lee's death, Emily emerges six months later jobless and in debt -- check the boxes of both money and karma -- and with a young son, Jay (James Dennis), now fatherless.  Lee's father Albrecht (Nick Nolte), who has been taking care of his grandson in the absence of both a mother and a father, is granted legal custody and kindly asks that Emily keep her distance for several years.  Motivated to do right by her son, she embarks on a journey of self reflection and improvement that will take her through several jobs in several countries, sustaining herself by the generosity of the few remaining friends who don't blame her for Lee's death.

    Much has been said of Cheung's performance, and deservedly so.  She has a combination of poise, determination, fragility, and uncertainty that effectively communicates all of the details that the film only briskly and implicitly states.  Nonetheless, the most surprising performance of the film is that of Nick Nolte.  Nolte is an actor whose reputation and whose name precede his performances; in his later roles, he seems to have perfected a gruff, woozy, willfully aloof character whose charm just makes up for his lack of refinement, tact, and prudence.  In Clean, he conducts a thrilling sneak attack.  What begins looking like another one of Nolte's wonderful messes ends up being a surprisingly thoughtful, resolute, avuncular gentleman with more heart than luck.  If he looks haggard and worn down, it is only because he is emotionally and physically spent from caring for his ailing wife, his troubled daughter-in-law, and his fatherless grandson, not to mention mourning his deceased son.  His is the kind of selfless, pragmatic forward thinking that Emily recognizes she must emulate, even if she does not say so explicitly.

    Still, the film is not without its flaws.  I would have sacrificed some of the drawn out third act for a little more of the first, which deftly navigated the world of mid-level rock and roll (with cameos from Metric and Tricky for added credibility).  The performance of James Dennis as Jay is also tonally at odds with the rest of the cast, but I've come to accept that not every child actor is going to be a revelation along the lines of an Abigail Breslin. Regardless, I praise Olivier Assayas for delivering a film that is surprinsgly -- and thankfully -- short on cheap sentimentality and which rewards practicality and pragmatism over impudence and audacity.


 

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