tommacy Blog

Review: The Class

tommacy — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 17:30:54 GMT

After watching the trailer for "The Class" you may think you've already seen it. Dedicated teacher writes his name on chalkboard, unruly students chide him for it, dedicated teacher cleverly retorts, unruly students laugh, dedicated teacher gains their respect. Eventually, dedicated teacher will inspire unruly students, despite being minorities and coming from dysfunctional households, to strive for a future beyond gangs and drugs and, just to round things out, dedicated teacher will learn something about himself along the way. Sound familiar?

This formula has been beaten to death, perhaps most memorably by Michelle Pfeiffer in the oh so 90s "Dangerous Minds" (the tagline was: She Broke The Rules... And Changed Their Lives. Yikes.) Also by the desk-standing triumph of Robin "O Captain my Captain" Williams in the sadly very dated "Dead Poets Society." And most recently by Hilary "I either give Oscar winning performances or make terrible movies" Swank in "Freedom Writers" (which, to be fair, I have not seen, and never will). So what could possibly be so great about this one that it deserves the Palme d'Or it won at Cannes last April? Because it's in french? Sorry, you can put lipstick on a VP candidate, but it's still going to be a pig (zing!). Ok, I'll calm down. Obviously I had a lot of, perhaps unfair, reservations going into this film. I didn't necessarily think it would be bad mind you, but I was skeptical it could live up to it's unanimously rapturous acclaim. I expected a solid, well-made, superior version of it's like-minded predecessors that didn't cover any new territory.

How wrong I was.

Writer/director Laurent Cantet and writer/lead actor François Bégaudeau have (hyperbole alert) made the most insightful, thought-provoking film about education I have ever seen. Before discussing, may I just say the marketing team should be ashamed of themselves. If it hadn't won the Palme d'Or I would have totally overlooked it, and that would have been a shame. They are sending the wrong message, this is no story about a superhuman teacher.

François Marin, a geekier, fenchier version of Daniel Craig, played by François Bégaudeau (who wrote the autobiographical novel on which the film is derived and, based on his excellent performance, has no inhibitions playing a character so close to himself) quietly sits with his coffee. He is framed almost from behind and his mood is difficult to read. The quiet pensive moment could one of reflection, frustration, relaxation. It's as if Cantent is saying, look, this guys got a lot going on but we're not going to tell you what. It is the first, last and only scene to take place outside the walls of the school (appropriately, the direct translation of the french title "Entre Les Murs" is "Between the Walls").

It's the first day of classes at this unnamed inner-Parisian Junior High School. At a politely uncomfortable pre-year meeting we are introduced to the faculty, a group that has their own strange a classroom dynamic. Each member states their subject and tenure (François' teaches French and is in his 4th year), the only personal information about them we will learn, before heading to class.

François' has no impact on the cacophony of overlapping conversations as he enters the room and the task of getting the class silent is met with resistance, as are all tasks. From simple requests, "why do we have to write down our names if you already know them?" to the value of the curriculum, "nobody uses the subjunctive when they talk in everyday life," the students turn their teacher into a modern day Sisyphus. To combat this opposition, François' takes an informal approach. Not unlike his cinematic predecessors he attempts to engage the students with a more conversational than didactic style in hopes of gaining their trust and forming a connection. But whereas, say, Michelle Pfeiffer's students eat it right up, François' students often use it against him. Though he may be talked to like a peer he is rarely treated like one. And while the buddy tactic has its merits, the students laugh at as his jokes and genuinely seem to like him, it blurs the authoritative line into a thin gray one.

Any and all discipline is very difficult. In one incident, Rachel (one of the more intriguing, prominently featured students), repeatedly refuses to read aloud in class. When François keeps her after and demands an apology, rejecting any he deems untruthful, Rachel is unthreatened, more concerned with the infringement on her afternoon plans. After he finally accepts her apology as genuine, Rachel quickly rescinds it as she walks out the door. This type of infuriating confrontation is one in an unending chain that equate François' job to pushing full force up against a brick wall. Clearly a dedicated teacher, what motivates his stiff resolve remains a confounding mystery.

Taking place over the course of one full school year, we gradually become acquainted with the individual students and the specific challenge each poses. The chosen method to attack these challenges, however, is in dispute. The benefit of punishment and praise is debated throughout the film in faculty meetings where staff members support contradicting tactics. Watching them tackle these delicate issues doesn't instill any envy for them. After pondering my own opinions on the subjects discussed I was forced to reconsidered the better part of my own time spent in a classroom.

In the films last third, where it most resembles a traditional narrative, the challenges facing the administration become more complex. Souleyman, at times a promising but frequently impertinent student, charges out of class, after François physically attempts to stop him, and inadvertently injures another student. To complicate matters, before the incident François, in a moment of frustration, insulted two girls during a heated exchange. The fallout tracks the decision of whether to expel Souleyman. François' involvement throws an additional wrench into the mix as he and his fellow staff members weigh the consequences expulsion will have on the boy's future given his tenuous life at home, against the consequences of allowing him to remain in class. Despite the outcome, ethically, there is no clear solution and that is the conclusion Cantet and Bégaudeau are after. There is no right answer.

This inconclusive subject matter is perfectly married with the film's unique look and feel. Forgoing the conventional use of wideshots to establish a scene within a time and place, there are no inter-titles denoting the season or how much time has passed. Cantet sets the camera up close on the actors faces, rarely any wider than a midshot, and keeps the action in the classroom. This creates an unrelenting pace that flows from day to day leaving little space to breathe in between. With no scenes cluing us in on François' hopes and dreams or the details of Souleyman's violent father, Cantet merely presents the events of the film without putting them in any sort of context. This not only makes the 128 minute running time fly by, but by not commenting it forces the viewer to be objective. Surprisingly by the films end, despite this arms length approach, the attachment that wasn't being forced upon you has been deceptively instilled. For a film seemingly so adverse to sentimentality, it yields some very moving ineractions, particularly in the final encounters.

At the center of this bold style are the, across the board, splendid performances from a group of non-actors playing versions of themselves (all the characters keep their real names). The classroom scenes in particular have a striking feel of vibrant spontaneity (much of the film was improvised) where not a single moment rings false. Credit Cantet for creating an environment that, with three cameras going at once, allowed these kids to perform at such high levels, to produce a multitude of fascinating moments.

But fascinating as it is, this vivid reality they've created doesn't really generate a thesis, and it doesn't intend to. "The Class" is more of an open examination that only asks questions. And while some of the questions may have been asked before. Never, in my experience, have they been so clearly illustrated. I think, particularly, teachers who have lived the reality this film depicts will appreciate that. I was constantly reminded of a friend of mine, while watching this film, who at one time taught 10th grade English at a High School in the Bronx. Furiously passionate about his job he would recount to me his frequent feelings of futility. "I have a "Dangerous Minds" moment at least once a day," he'd explain. "Someone will come up to me after class and say 'Mista, you're the only teacher I've ever had who really believes in me'." "And then the next day" he continued, "they'll come in not having done their homework."

Damn. If only he could've gotten them to stand on their desks.

Review: Of Time and the City

tommacy — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 00:39:26 GMT

The immaculate row of suspended brick apartments stand confidently, symmetrically and beautifully constant amidst the fog and condominiums. They serve as a harrowing visualthroughline in Terence Davies introspective "Of Time and the City" wherein he dissects his beloved home town of Liverpool (and himself). Closer to a documentary than any other genre, the blend of archive footage, poetry, classical music and sardonic baritone narration is more mosaic than film. Mr. Davies chronicles theMerseyside Borough through much of the 20th century heaping on a healthy serving of personal exhibition and social commentary.

While driven by non-linear collages of sight and sound the narrative structure is actually very straightforward, beginning with the Liverpool as Mr. Davies experienced it in his childhood. Exuding a nostalgia both through the musings of the narration and the grains of the celluloid, this Liverpool is lovingly represented as a simpler time by a series of iconic images. Overflowing boats cozy up to the ports and lumbering trains snake about their railways as they pour souls into the city. Hard-working men and women (heavy labor and laundry respectively), and blissfully carefree children make up the model blue collar family (for which Mr. Davies clearly has sympathies for). Gatherings of fellow Liverpudlians, a football stadium packed with frenzied, white towel waving devotees and the stunningly photographed Grand National (an equestrian-like steeplechase) with leaps that both terrify and amaze, portray Liverpool as a scrappy tight-knit community.

This is interspersed with personal recollections some fond, others painful. The long carefree days at the beach with "sand in the egg salad" give way to Davies tenuous relationship with Catholicism. Clearly suspicious of religion from the outset it wasn't until homosexuality surfaced during adolescence that faith posed a direct contradiction. This discovery is outlined in a deeply personal segment featuring underground wrestling matches like the ones he secretly attended with guilty fascination.

But it's not all reminiscence and reflection, nor is it without humor. As the city matures so too does our host, and with adulthood comes cynicism. Withholding no disdain for Liverpool's best known export he openly mocks the Beatles professing his preference for classical music. He also skewers the royal family in entertaining fashion. Over footage (color now) of the Queens gaudy coronation Davies quips "The troublewith being poor is that is takes up all of your time. The trouble with being rich is that it take up everyone elses." As the condominiums begin to sprout, the city, like the increasingly pixelated footage, becomes less personal for both Davies and the viewer. And as we venture into the unemployment crisis of the 70s and 80s what was once a tribute feels more like a cautionary tale.

But Davies does not intend to brand his film with any sort of thesis or message. Both a love letter and a condemnation it never delves into the indulgent moralizing that can befall passion projects such as these. "Of Time and The City" is more of an examination of a relationship, that all of us an recognize, with place and time. And, as it is for everyone, when places change and time passes the connection is more with a memory, concurrently distorting and enriching, than with any tangible object. Most will categorize this film is as a lyrical poem, and I would have to agree. Though as times teetering on the edge of self-seriousness, finally, Mr. Davies film is one of deliberate whimsy. As he recites T.S. Elliot with intense conviction during the opening. You think, "Is this guy for real?" The answer, suitably, is yes and no.

Review: Silent Light

tommacy — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 18:09:06 GMT

I saw my first new release of 2009 today. Originally released at Cannes in 2007, I have been hearing about “Silent Light” for almost two years before getting a chance to see it (and I live in New York.) It’s always daunting going in to a film with so much acclaim. I don’t mean “Slumdog Millionaire” acclaim, I can prepare myself for that. I’m talking serious cinephile cred. “Silent Light” was on both Manohla Dargis and A. O. Scott’s top 10 for 2008 (I don’t know how they fit it in that year if it came out in ‘07). It also appeared on the top 10 of the renowned J. Hoberman from the Village Voice. That is a must-see if I ever heard one.

The past 2 Januarys have yielded the previous year’s Palme dO’r winner. After the slew of quality films cramed at the end of the calender year to quality for the Oscars it serves as a nice palate cleanser before the doldrums of January (Film Forum repertory time!). Both films, “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” in ‘08 and “The Wind That Shakes the Barely” in ‘07 had the similar acclaim and anticipation (”4 Months” was on A. O.’s top 10 of ‘07) and both delivered in spades. Check them out if you haven’t.

So here was “Silent Light”, not a winner of the Palme (that honor went to “The Class” which will be released at the end of the month) but it was named as the “Jury Prize” winner (I don’t know what that specifically means but it’s Cannes so I’m sure it’s some form of illustrious.) Having never seen a trailer or read a plot synopsis for “Silent Light” I was going in cold. All I knew was what I recalled from a NY times podcast why back from Cannes in 2007 when Manohla and A.O. described the first shot of the film, a sunrise, as a breath of fresh air that gladly slowed the pace of the bustling festival. So there’s a sunrise, that’s all I had.

Well, it was some sunrise. Holy crap. The opening of this film is a genuine “wow” moment that will be hard to top this year on the basis of asthetic alone. It’s good few minutes long, beginning with a black startlit sky and panning down on a faint horizon that appears at first to be a slight discoloration amongst the blackness. That morphs to a discernable dark blue which then continues through an entire box of crayola crayon colors as the sky, trees, grass and enitre world are illuminated. Nothing short of breathtaking.

I should mention that this film is directed by Mexico’s Carlos Reygadas, only his 4th feature. The slowing of time, forcing the viewer to focus on some of life’s everyday happenings is applied throughout. The story centers around a farmer, Johan (Cornelio Wall), a devoted husband father to his wife and large family yet deeply in love with another woman whom, he says, even compared to his wife when they first met, would have been the better choice. Ouch.

It takes about half and hour for even this much information to reach the viewer. I could recount most of the plot for this 136 minute film in about 10 sentences. But do not let that deter you. The magic of Silent Light is it’s ability to make you lean in an appreciate not just the beauty of a landscape but also the beauty of a father shampooing his daughter’s hair. Reygadas gives equal attention to all aspects of his world whether it is a father and son heart-to-heart or milking cows. Every shot of this film could have 5 seconds chopped off it, every one! You would not lose any information regarding the narrative. But that extra hour, or whatever all those extra 5 seconds add up to, is where the meat is. The environment, and more importantly, the atmosphere is the driving force of this film.

Played apparently by non-actors, the performances carry a stiffness that feels appropriate for characters who are not adept at expressing themselves. I will admit though, their restrained communications coupled with the pacing was at times frustrating. I’m not used to working this hard while watching a film. I am used to being told what’s happening, not shown. And on that coin I will say, this film will not be for everyone. The previous “prize winner’s” I mentioned earlier are film’s of action. The goals are clear, as are the motivations of the characters. “Silent Light” is not a film of action, well, not a lot of action, it is a film of stoicism.

That said, if you stick with it you will not be disappointed, as I was most certainly not. An investment in “Silent Light” will be paid off in the end, and it ends, as spectacularly as it begins.

Review: The Reader

tommacy — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 18:06:52 GMT

The flaws in the reader are glaring. A trial examines a character’s involment in the holocaust setting up themes of morality and shame that drive the second half of the film. How do you come to terms with caring for someone who committed such atrocities? How does a nation cope with the guilt? Apparently by exchanging platitudes in a law school classroom debate (led by a competely wasted and bored Bruno Ganz) where the lead character decides to remain silent. It’s regretable that these flaws serve as the downfall for this film rather than an extension of it’s mediocrity. They would be much easier to swallow that way. Since the first half of The Reader centers around the most effective human romance story of the year (WallE was a robot).

In 1958 Germany, fifteen-year-old Michael Berg (a strong David Kross) meets Hana Schmitz (the impeccable Kate Winslet) a kind, stern woman of about 40. A random act of kindness prompts Michael to nervously return to Hanna’s apartment where she catches him a sneaking a peek at her nylons (ah to be young) and it sends him running. With no real intentions, or at least no concept how to act on them he returns a second time. This strange courtship continues until she suddenly makes a pass so forward on paper it would read like a bad porn. Preposterous, but executed with just the right balance of awkward, erotic and bizarre to make it believable, the lovers embody all the giggling and gasping excitement of a forbidden romance. Some of the scenes are so explicitly intimate they induce guilty feelings of voyeurism.

Other than the joys of the flesh the activity the two enjoy is literature. Michael reads his prep school assignments (hence the title) to Hanna in a familiar but very effective montage featuring the luminous face of Winslet absorbing Micheal’s tales. This serves as a their romantic throughline and is ultimately redeeming in the latter parts of the film.

When summer ends and the relationship fizzles Michael finds himself in Law School. The “progressive” environment of the 60s takes precedence over what is eating Micheal’s insides. Sadly, that preference is never returned until we are barely interested anymore.

While sitting in on a Nazi trial for class, Hanna reenters Micheal’s life. It seems she was a guard at a Nazi camp and she and a number of her compatriots are finally getting justice. This is where the aforementioned derailment takes place as Micheal is reduced to a slumping prop. In the presence of a tour-de-force testimony (Winslet resists the usual territory for these types of scenes) without Micheal’s perspective the film turns it’s attentions to the holocaust and it’s affect on the characters and the country. All this was already on the periphery, I don’t see what was gained by drowning out Michael’s voice. The scenes border on didactic and are far too on the nose.

The next time Micheal commits any actions of consequence he’s aged into Ralph Fiennes and Hanna is in prison. With some gestures that could induce gags or sniffles depending on your mood (sniffles for me) the last act is simultaneously compelling and maddening as it turns into a piece about reflection and regret. It is ironic that the first half of the film shot with shimmering nostalgia and swelling music seemed the most immediate.

Finally, this is a frustrating film that will be categorized with some of the other handsome productions that fell short of their lofty expectations, including Ms. Winselt’s other endeavor “Revolutionary Road,” “Doubt,” and “Frost/Nixon.”

I enjoyed all of these films and would happily revisit them all. But I generally agree with the consensus that they where just a little too careful to have any lingering impact. I give more credit to “The Reader” though. It reaches at some more delicate, ambiguous areas, or I should say approaches them more delicately. The rush of Michael and Hanna’s first encounter is one I’ll not soon forget. Or maybe I’m just giving it a pass because I’m in love with Kate Winslet.

Review: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

tommacy — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 04:50:03 GMT

With a great trailer and the reuniting of Brad Pitt and David Fincher, whose last effort was the now classic “Fight Club,” anticipation was high for “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.” Not being a huge Brad Pitt fan and wary of over-hyped Oscar vehicles, I was wary and kept my expectations in check.

Very loosely based on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story chronicling the life of a man who ages backwards, the film is told mostly in flashback by an elderly Cate Blanchett. On her death bed (inexplicably as Hurricane Katrina approaches), she recounts via dairy a previously untold portion of her life to her daughter (Julia Ormond, still smarting from “First Knight”). The tale begins in lively 1918 New Orleans with the birth of baby Benjamin at age 75. Following his mother’s death, his widowing father abandons him on the front steps of retirement home (irony!). Resembling a raisin with extremities, Benjamin is discovered by the gentle Queenie (a fantastic Taraji P. Henson) a kind black woman who works at the establishment, which is full of doddering white folk. With almost no apprehension to his “curious” appearance she takes to raising Benjamin as her own.

By the time Benjamin reaches about three odd digital renderings of Brad Pitt’s familiar features start to creep in. A composite of body doubles, Brad Pitt’s face and CGI stand in until Mr. Pitt himself is able to take over. The look is strange and, perhaps appropriately, off putting. Highlights of his adventurous youth include getting drunk and laid, as well as receiving advice much earlier than appropriate for his actual age. But the most significant encounter during this period is with the crimson-haired Daisy, who will one day grow up to be Cate Blanchett and his primary romantic interest.

At eighteen, looking fifty, he sets sea and the film enters full sweep mode. Benjamin’s adventures sprawl 70 years and include a wide array of people and places. The art department is more than up to the task recreating them all in wide shots and large crowds. Overall, the production design in terms of scope and detail is ravishing. Enhanced, not overwhelmed, by digital effects, the various sets and costumes are impressively realized with the amber tinge as of an aging photograph.

While the stories outcome is never in doubt, (Benjamin’s gray hair will turn gold, his wrinkles will beget a flawless complextion and he will morph into Brad Pitt) the how proves to be intriguing enough to keep one engaged as they wait for the inevitable. Particularly in witnessing the stunning incarnations of Benjamin, and Daisy, as they age inversely are staggering, especially in their youth. In the age of “Transformers” special effects struggle more and more to impress when CGI has unmasked all remaining mystery of movie magic. The rendering of Cate Blanchett as a professional caliber dancer at 23 is so believable it’s frightening. The camera is too close to be a body double but not far away enough to be faking the dancing. It truly begs the question “how did they do that?”

Mr. Fincher has always been adept at enhancing his visual storytelling by utilizing these tools, he did so in last years “Zodiac” as well as the immortal “Fight Club.” But aside from it’s visual grandeur and specificity this ponderous story is a departure from Fincher’s earlier efforts. It is much easier to recognize the hand of screenwriter Eric Roth who also penned “Forrest Gump,” comparisons to which are inevitable. Both title characters are not concerned with leaving their but mark on the world, just finding their place in it. Thus their quests are not pursuits of success but of acceptance. These consistencies are not detriments mind you, (though they will be for some). Tonally, the films are quite different, “Forrest Gump” is told with more whimsy while “Benjamin Button” is more of a mediation.

Unlike Mr. Gump though, here the title character is really more of a prop than anything else, albeit a spectacular one. There’s an emptiness to Pitt’s that keeps his Benjamin at arm’s length keeping him from becoming more than a story-telling device. This is not to say he does bad work, his charisma alone is enough to carry such a film. It’s just that such a vast narrative may have warranted delving a little deeper. Contrary to Pitt’s enigmatic reserve, Balncett’s Daisy injects the film with a much needed vibrancy and serves as the life blood of the story. A confirmed superhuman performer, Blanchett is completely believable as someone waiting a lifetime for. In one enchanting sequence Daisy attempts to seduce Benjamin, dancing in moonlit silhouette. It’s a perfect marriage of performance and filmmaking. Fincher brings the sumptuous imagery but, like the mist hovering above the lake behind her, Blancett makes it emanate off the screen.

In perhaps the most memorable section of his travels, Benjamin encounters Elizabeth Abbott (Tilda Swinton), a lonley diplomat’s wife, and has a affair. This is one of the most beautifully crafted sequences of the film largely due to Swinton’s lovely melancholic presence that intrigues Pitt’s quiet Benjamin. Developed over a succession of sleepless nights drinking tea this relationship is built on loneliness stemming from Benjamin’s hopelessly unrelatable condition and Elizabeth’s life of personal regrets. Thinking him a contemporary she confesses her disappointments to the impressionable Benjamin, (making one ponder the wisdom that could potentially be imparted if similar connections could be made in everyday life). This candid encounter proves vital to Benjamin’s unique understanding of mortality.

Death surrounds Benjamin, particularly in his formative years at the retirement home. Potentially giving him unparaelled insights into the human psyche. Unfortunately in the end there is little evidence that his life was any more fulfilling as a reult. Thus, his odd circumstance is an intriguing, handsomely told yarn rather than the life affirming epiphany it hopes to be. This lack of substantial revelation may seal it’s fate, for some, as a disappointment. But you would be wrong to dismiss it on such counts. Yes, it’s elaborate scheme poses no answers to any of life’s great mysteries, but it’s pleasures are rich and plentiful. The world of Benjamin Button was one in which I was happy to spend time and one I am eager to revisit, regardless of whether it had a point.

Rio Gone Wild

tommacy — Tue, 26 Jun 2007 03:20:00 GMT

Jose Padilha's documentary "Bus 174" recounts the terrifying events of Sandro, a "street kid," who takes a public bus hostage in the middle of downtown Rio. Bothced by the police, the media and spectators consume the scene resulting in chaos witnessed live by 35 million people. "Bus 174" belongs among the most effective breed of documentaries. Padilha skillfully weilds the tools available to him to paint a thourough portrait of the conflict and it's participants. He covers all angles and points no fingers. The film intercuts the frightently vivid images on the bus with achrives from Sandro's troubled past. You would think a boy homeless from age six would not yield a well documented history. However, we learn about him from fellow street kids, distant relatives and well documented prison stints. This reveals a life relentlessly brushed aside by society. He, along with his companions, live a hopeless existence. With no system, or publice desire for one, that might help them reenter the "civilized" world. We come to realize that there never was any hope for Sandro. Both narratives gain momentum as the futility of both situations, past and present, becomes evident. When we arrive at the devastating climax we have a complete understanding of what got us here. Bus 174 gives a maddening portrait of Rio. A system where, in this film, everyone loses. Often when venturing into social commentary documentaries often resort to hand-holding when the going gets significant. Padilha shows considerable restraint. He never comments he merely presents. "Bus 174" is an intense and incendiary look at a society where the bureaucracy seems to have lost touch with it's people. While this would most likely be handled more effectively in the US. The kind of media frenzy it caused evokes OJ in the Bronco or Paris going to jail. So I guess we shouldn't talk.