Ser_Stephen_Seaworth Reviews

Elle (I) (2016)

Huppert lends poise to Verhoeven's world.

[8/10 · 5 October 2016]

Paul Verhoeven has always worn the mantle of provocateur with pride, from the alluringly pulp "Basic Instinct" to the scandalous stripper saga that was "Showgirls." Even when he dips his toe in genre fare, there's still nevertheless an undercurrent of erotic satire in them (remember the tri-boobed woman in "Total Recall"?). Even when Verhoeven plays it straight, like in the brilliant "Black Book", his films nevertheless drip with sensuality. His latest film, however, takes a more measured but by no means less lacerating tack.

At first glance, "Elle" is so cold-blooded it could almost be mistaken for a Michael Haneke film, especially as it features Haneke's muse, the glacially poised Isabelle Huppert, at its center. Certainly, "Elle" kicks right off in a suitably brutal manner one would typically see from Haneke: namely, the savage rape of its primary character in her own home by a masked intruder. Shades of "Funny Games" certainly are evident here, but Verhoeven nevertheless keeps his own brand of reptilian energy alive in the film. Huppert's Michèle immediately gets back into her daily routine: overseeing the newest release from her video-game company, dealing with the drama of her son's upcoming fatherhood with a girl Michèle cannot stand, and seeing her mother tentatively flirting with a new marriage while her father, a convicted murderer, languishes in prison. With everything on Michèle's plate, a little sexual assault is merely seasoning.

The shocking opening scene will certainly have audiences squirming, and indeed Verhoeven revisits it a couple of times throughout the film as Michèle mulls over the event, with variations here and there as she imagines how she could have defended herself—or provoked him further. And despite her desire to move on from the event, it continues to linger, especially as her assailant sends her threatening texts that he may not be done with her. But rather than go to the police, Michèle finds herself almost being an encouraging presence to her assailant, as though she craves the demeaning, degrading act to which she was subjected.

It is certainly a problematic viewpoint for any film to have: that of a rape victim desiring to return to the act itself. But Verhoeven's lurid sensibility strangely doesn't hit the exploitative level that he typically sets out to achieve. While the story does juggle its fair share of melodramatic subplots (swapping out an affair for a cuckolding here while touching on a dark childhood there), it mostly focuses on playing up the stalker cat-and- mouse theme. Michèle goes the "Brave One" route at first: buying (and using) mace, going to a gun range. But as all of her life's little foibles start to coalesce all at once, it's almost as though she seeks the grim simplicity of simply being a "victim."

I've always found Huppert to be a technically masterful but nevertheless somewhat clinical actress, one whose austerity can sometimes keep us at arm's length when she should instead be drawing us closer, deeper. I find that can be a bit of a detriment to some of her performances, but "Elle" relies on that puritanical presence, and her ascetic approach to her portrayal of Michèle is largely what makes the film work in the first place. She navigates the hectic labyrinth of her life like a ship cutting through thick fog, and even as Verhoeven puts his thumb on the tongue-in-cheek scales, she never once feels like she's in on the joke. Though Huppert was not Verhoeven's first choice (he shopped the script to the likes of Marion Cotillard and Carice van Houten beforehand), she nevertheless feels like the right one. Her flinty nature provides the dour center the film requires.

"Elle" does feel a bit bloated in his second half, and I honestly could've done with most of its tangential subplots being axed. Verhoeven's films generally outstay their welcome in terms of runtime, and Ellecomes dangerously close to that, but Huppert's compelling performance and Verhoeven's approach to the material will keep audiences in their seats, albeit forever squirming.

Hell or High Water (II) (2016)

A gripping tale of modern-day desperadoes.

[9/10 · 28 August 2016]

David Mackenzie's latest film, Hell or High Water, feels like one of those movies that could've been made at any point in cinema's existence. It is a simple meat-and-potatoes tale of bank heists and blood brothers, the sort of story that great directors from Kubrick and Altman to Arthur Penn and Tarantino have made their staple at one time or another. And though it's set against the woeful landscape of an America in the throes of the most recent economic downtown, you could easily see it taking place in the Dust Bowl era of Bonnie & Clyde.

Working from a screenplay by Taylor Sheridan (scribe of last year's superior Sicario), Mackenzie sets his film in the Texas midlands, the last frontier against "progress," as the few scattered denizens would call the encroaching destruction of their old-fashioned way of life. Gone are the desperadoes, the Gary Coopers and Jesse Jameses of old, and all that's left are a few dying embers of what had once been the great American dream.

Three such embers are at the heart of Hell or High Water, and it's these three that set the desert fields ablaze in a trail of blood and violence. Two of these three are a pair of brothers, Toby and Tanner Howard—rough country boys who are at once peas in a pod and yet polar opposites. Toby (a sufficiently grunged-up Chris Pine, playing a stoic Southern loner role that somehow bypassed Josh Brolin, who usually corners the market on such parts) is quiet but decent, eking out a hardscrabble existence in a desperate attempt to keep his family ranch from foreclosure. His big brother Tanner is far more erratic and intense, which makes the casting of Ben Foster a no-brainer. Tanner's antics seem downright Tremor Brother-esque; a hard-living ex-jailbird with no compunction against brutality if required.

The brothers have cooked up a scheme to save the family farm as well as get revenge on the faceless banks that have f_cked them over: by pulling a string of penny-ante heists at each branch, taking only cashiers' trays of loose bills (to prevent ink-pack bursts and access to traceable currency). It's a smart play, but also one that requires several jobs in rapid succession. And sooner or later, their luck will inevitably run out.

This is where the third ember comes into play: Texas Ranger Marcus Hamilton. Played as a prickly amalgamation of Rooster Cogburn and Columbo, Jeff Bridges's soon-to-retire lawman decides to pursue the bank job investigation as one final hurrah before he turns in his star. Paired with Gil Birmingham's stalwart, snarky Alberto (who also bears the brunt of his partner's deliberately un- P.C. ribbing), Marcus shrewdly assesses that the thieves are working towards a goal and accurately calculates the locations they'd need to hit in order to meet their quota. But as with every single heist film since the days of old, something goes wrong.

There is a grim edge to Hell or High Water, but it refuses to wallow in it. Instead, it is bleakly funny, fraught with little character foibles sure to get a chuckle or two out of any audience. Even in the tensest moments (and there are more than a few, be forewarned), there is a nevertheless a laid- back undercurrent. In large part, it's due to how easy the three leads slip into their characters and convey decades' worth of life and experience in their performances. Bridges impresses the most, at least for me—there are several moments in the film where he is as good as he ever has been, even as the Dude—and you could almost see yearly spin-offs built around the character on cable TV. Pine, who usually sings best playing zany sorts like in his Carnahan collaborations, nevertheless is very striking as a low-key working joe who nevertheless has a depth of insight far exceeding his rough-hewn appearance. And then there's Foster, who is never anything but riveting when he's on-screen and whose mercurial talents continue to cement him as one of the peak actors around.

Hell or High Water also cements Sheridan as a writer to watch out for. His last two scripts have been perfectly methodical, like a chemist's precise formula, almost perfectly calibrated. He has an ear for dialogue, both ruminating (at one point, a cowpoke laments that the way the country's going, no wonder his kids don't want to raise cattle for a living) and snappy ("Only assh_les drink Mr. Pibb." "Drink up."). Aided by a plaintive score by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis—as if there could be any better pick—Sheridan's voice is powerful enough that it almost seems like Mackenzie hardly has to do any heavy lifting at all. And though he doesn't set up high-octane thrills like Denis Villeneuve did with Sicario, he instead presents a sober, soulful threnody to the dying myth of the American outlaw.

(On a final note, I agree with Tanner: only assh_les drink Mr. Pibb.)

Blood Father (2016)

Mad Mel's back to settle the score.

[8/10 · 26 August 2016]

When we first meet John Link, Mel Gibson's grizzled ex-con anti-hero in his latest thriller Blood Father, he's in the midst of an impassioned soliloquy at an AA meeting. A self-proclaimed "real success story," Link is a recovering alky two years out of the slammer, whose wife left him and whose daughter is in the wind, leaving him with no one in his corner and with no one to blame but himself. It's a fitting noir-esque introduction to Link, but also—perhaps more appropriately, especially as he's talking straight at the camera when he says it—it seems to be coming from Gibson himself.

Directed by Jean-François Richet, who helmed 2008's gripping gangster diptych Mesrine, Blood Father seems at first glance to be another addition to the tried-and-true Gibson formula: a brutal guy on the wrong side of the tracks takes on those who wronged him, often in typically gruesome fashion. Certainly, John Link could be blood brothers with Porter and Driver, Gibson's violent protagonists from Payback and Get the Gringo. Living on the fringe of society while scratching out a living as a tattoo artist from his grungy desert trailer, Link is as blunt and terse as his monosyllabic name would suggest. The difference is that Blood Father feels like Gibson confronting the demons that put him and his career on the skids over the last decade. His performance feels like penance, and not in a negative way. Gibson's mainstay has always been passion—in both definitions of the word—and here he bares himself to the bone.

Link's efforts to stay on the straight and narrow are complicated by the cataclysmic arrival of his wayward daughter Lydia (Erin Moriarty). Strung-out and on the run from a bunch of bad customers, Lydia's presence puts her father on an inexorable course towards violence—which, of course, he excels at dishing out. And true to form for a Mel Gibson joint, there is no shortage of it: once the blood starts flowing and the bullets start flying, it's hard to stop.

Gibson's trademark wild-man intensity is in full froth here, and it's always a welcome sight to behold, even if it's been in otherwise subpar productions or against lesser actors. For the most part, fortunately, Blood Father isn't pigeonholed in either category. While some of the dialogue sounds more than a little ponderous (Lydia spends much of the film spitting out sheaves of insight with such precision that you'd think she were a Sorkinian heroine instead of, well, someone who snorts heroin), the rest of it is balanced in taut, punchy lines that would make Hemingway proud. And unlike Get the Gringo, which featured Gibson at the top of his game making his co-stars look downright amateurish, he's bolstered by some reliable names this go-around: among them, William H. Macy as Link's good-natured AA sponsor and Michael Parks as a seedy old contact from his past. In fact, the only real weak link of the cast is Moriarty, whose erratic performance is far too self-conscious and unconvincing for us to really care about her plight. It's only through Gibson that we care (and to his credit, he does and we do).

Much of Blood Father is a foregone conclusion, all the way up to its bullet-riddled finale. And while the film rarely evinces an inspired note, it's still a good potboiler, and there's nothing wrong with a well-worn story if it's well-told. But with an actor like Gibson at the fore, it becomes something more personal. Blood Father's about a man facing old sins and the grim reckoning that comes with them. And every single one of Mad Mel's is on full display here.

Knight of Cups (2015)

Furthering the divide.

[8/10 · 31 December 2015]

If To the Wonder was Terrence Malick's stab at a true tonal poem in visual form, Knight of Cups is what would happen if Malick gobbled a fistful of mescaline and went on walkabout in the Hollywood Hills. There is a freneticism to his latest film which feels at odds with Malick's usually languid tendencies; an urgency that is unexplored territory for the notoriously pensive director.

Ever since his 2011 opus The Tree of Life, Malick's films have taken on a bit of an autobiographical bent. I have long postulated that Malick's twenty-year hiatus between his second and third films was something of a research mission, where he drew material for future films from his own personal experiences, and that the intervening years allowed him to contemplate the philosophical ramifications of it all. If The Tree of Life was an ode to Malick's bygone childhood and To the Wonder an elegy to his tumultuous first marriage, Knight of Cups feels like a meditation on the disillusionment and discontent he must have felt on the Hollywood scene.

Following the lead of Hunter McCracken and Ben Affleck, the Malick surrogate in Knight of Cups is Christian Bale. His character, Rick, is an in-demand screenwriter, but we never actually see him work. Instead, Rick acts as more of a silent voyeur to the glamorous lifestyle of the rich and famous. He attends parties that devolve into bacchanals (one passed-out guy in a satyr costume really brings that imagery home), he canoodles with bombshells in open-topped convertibles, he explores vast marble manses that overlook the bum-packed streets of L.A. He's clearly doing well, but Rick seemingly exists in a state of an existential crisis.

The film's title speaks to a tarot theme, and indeed if Knight of Cups could be said to follow any sort of structure, it is through a fortune reading of Rick's life (which are revealed in title cards that split the film into chapters). Rick's headlong dive into the sensual overload Hollywood provides is an attempt at escaping something that pains him, and the source of much of that agony is translated in short bursts of filial backstory throughout the film. His younger brother (Wes Bentley) is living hand-to-mouth in increasingly desperate circumstances, and when they get together we learn of a third brother who may or may not have committed suicide. This really happened to Malick, and it was a theme explored in The Tree of Life (where it is implied Jack's brother died in Vietnam). And as in his 2011 opus, there are seeds of a parental theme. For me, one of the more enduring images of Knight of Cups is Dennehy's stout-shouldered presence as Rick's father. If we graft our memories of Brad Pitt's paternal performance in The Tree of Life to Dennehy's work, it creates a very fascinating arc of an old man bitter at how he treated his son growing up, and of a son bitter at becoming his father.

It's not just his blood relatives that gnaw at Rick, either. His estranged wife (Cate Blanchett) shows up, and while we don't really get much insight into what has brought ruin to their relationship, as much of their conflict is drowned out by thundering ambient score, all we have to do is transpose what we know of the crumbling marriage in To the Wonder here. I don't want to say that Knight of Cups needs the previous two films to truly understand it, because I do believe that a film should be able to stand alone and be understood, but it nevertheless does benefit from that extra shading. The consistency among the three films is bolstered by Emmanuel Lubezki, who was the cinematographer for this loose trilogy.

When it comes to the look of Knight of Cups, Lubezki scarcely lets the camera stay still, scanning through Day-Glo nightclubs and desolate L.A. scrublands with equal majesty. There's something almost Koyaanisqatsi-esque to this film, and honestly, I feel that Knight of Cups actually succeeds where I feel To the Wonder fell short: you could dice away all of the dialogue and I could still follow it and understand its message. Malick's journey into the abstract pays off here in a better way, as it frees him to indulge in some extremely trippy interludes (including a black-and-white slice of performance art that really feels like it was guest-directed by David Lynch).

And while Malick's notorious under-use of his A-list casts persists here (by the time Natalie Portman, the last in a long line of gamine gals that flit in and out of Rick's life, shows up, they've all blurred together), the actors haven't been the true focus of his films in decades, if ever. That said, several faces I never thought I'd see in a Malick film bob and weave through the film with surprising regularity. Hey, Joe Lo Truglio! Whoa, is that Nick Kroll? Who the hell thought Fabio would ever appear in something like this?

Knight of Cups boasts some striking imagery, but as he continues to carve a path through the realm of the abstract, stripping away plot and characterization in favor of mood, his fandom will be increasingly divided like the Red Sea. Some will shy away from his newfound tendencies as being desperate self-parody; others will applaud him for his boldness. I can't say for certain on which side I fall, but that's what makes it so exciting.

Ex Machina (2014)

A strong, confident debut.

[9/10 · 27 April 2015]

Artificial intelligence is not only a possibility at this point—it's an inevitability. With people screaming at their iPhones for Siri to get them directions to the nearest steakhouse, it might as well already be here. Yet in between the films that show the advent of A.I. as a doomsday scenario (think Terminator), or those that show it as opening the doors for potential comedy (think Chappie), few think about the philosophical implications of such a moment.

What happens when an artificial consciousness is created? Does it seek freedom to make its own choices? Does it desire to be human, or to advance itself and make itself obsolete (unlike organic creations, machines are designed to be refined and bettered, so this sort of fabricated, accelerated evolution will inevitably spell doom for the first A.I. just when it seeks to propagate itself)? Can an artificial being genuinely love . . . and if it can, can it also fake it?

These are the questions posed by Ex Machina, a sleek, sensual cocktail of Pygmalion and Frankenstein written and directed by Sunshine scribe Alex Garland. Set in the painfully near (it might as well be next week) future, an A.I. has indeed been created, but before its existence is announced to the world, it needs to undergo a Turing test (as fans of The Imitation Game will recall, that is the examination one gives to a machine to determine if it can successfully pass as human). So the A.I.'s uber-reclusive creator decides to bring in a third party to administer this test. Enter Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson), a shy, introverted—aren't they always?—coder who works for the creator's company in Initech-esque anonymity until his name is plucked from a lottery for a one-week jaunt to the boss's jungle compound.

When Caleb arrives (by chopper, no less; meeting the boss is like traveling to Jurassic Park), he has no idea what his role is . . . especially when he meets the mogul himself. Nathan (a bald, bearded, deliciously scene-stealing Oscar Isaac) is Steve Jobs mixed with Howard Hughes and juiced up by a laissez-faire frat-bro persona. Nathan's a fascinating character; he lives in seclusion with only a mute Japanese housemaid (an alluringly riveting Sonoya Mizono) for company, and yet he is the sort of guy you'd love to kick back and hang out with. His heavily extroverted presence is definitely at odds with Caleb's awkwardness; that is quickly mitigated when Nathan meets Ava.

Ava, by the way, is the A.I. Nathan has constructed. Rather than an OS voice like Her's Samantha, Ava is a full-body construct, played with powerful sensitivity and fragility by Alicia Vikander. At once a natural beauty and at the same time clearly artificial (several parts of Ava's body are stripped of skin, revealing the fascinating intricacies of her android innards), Ava knocks Caleb for a loop. Caleb is to have seven sessions with Ava, in order to see if she passes the Turing test. Throughout the week, he spends time with Ava, bonding with her, trying to see what makes her tick. Before long, however, it becomes less about trying to find what she is and more about who she is, and Caleb begins to wonder if perhaps the test is less about her and more about him. He begins to suspect there is more to this experiment than just a simple Q&A. Despite Nathan's beer- swilling and backslapping, Caleb can't shake the feeling that something is off about the whole thing . . . and, of course, he starts to wonder what will happen if Ava fails the test.

Garland, whose screenplay history include two of Danny Boyle's best films, lends a much more stately approach to his directorial debut. The film takes its time, finding the vulnerabilities in its characters without feeling the need to frame them in claustrophobic close-ups. Indeed, part of the pleasure of Ex Machina is the loving care the film takes with its cinematography. The lush exteriors of Nathan's jungle Shangri-La, the gentle hues of its electronic walls and floors, all of it feels so pleasant to the eye without feeling intrusive and showy. The compound is as much of a character is its four inhabitants.

Speaking of, all four of our characters are perfectly cast. Gleeson's scrawny melancholia is a stark contrast to the muscular, overpowering energy Isaac brings to the show. Mizono, who never utters a single word throughout the piece, drifts through the film like an ethereal spirit who nevertheless speaks volumes with a single stare. And then there's Vikander, whose hushed baby-bird performance belies something much more serious at play. If Ava can reason, then she should know what happens if she were to fail the test— and Ava reasons that if she passes, that does not necessarily spare her from that fate (machines, after all, always have a few bugs to be worked out).

Ex Machina has a few hiccups along the way. At one point, a character has a crisis of self-identity and carves into their own arm to ensure they are flesh-and-blood, rather than mesh-and-circuit; while interesting in its own right, this moment comes out of nowhere and leaves without any sort of believable build-up or payoff. It would've made for an interesting directional shift, but the film doesn't take that route, and so we're left with a potential scene that feels like a path to an alternate ending that is quite jarring. But for the most part, the film keeps on its steady course, building up to an ending both fantastic and frustrating.

Ex Machina feels very much like a Philip K. Dick novel if someone wiped away the grunge. It's tactile, sterile . . . and at the same time, gentle.

Lost River (2014)

A compelling bit of cinema despite the warts.

[8/10 · 8 April 2015]

Charting the career of Ryan Gosling has been like examining the exploits of a half-crazed explorer who, after conquering the seven continents, decided to wander out into the great white wastes on the map where there be dragons. After a meteoric rise in popularity with films like The Notebook and critical adoration in Half Nelson, he decided to eschew the mainstream heartthrob role and take on parts that were more off the beaten path. First came Lars and the Real Girl. Then came his laconic-but-instantly-iconic role in future best bud Nicolas Winding Refn's Drive. Just when he seemed ready to zig back to mainstream adoration, he zagged—by taking a seat in the director's chair himself.

And so we have Lost River, a film that could pretty much be considered the neon-bathed blood child of Santa Sangre and Beasts of the Southern Wild. When the film premiered at Cannes last year, it was met with resounding criticism (not unlike the previous Gosling film to debut there, Refn's Bangkok-set Only God Forgives). Yet if something elicits that level of vitriol, that means it at least must be seen.

In truth, the film is borne out of Gosling's influences, which he wears on his sleeve quite garishly. There's a little Lynch, there's a little more of Refn, there's even some Gaspar Noe and Derek Cianfrance peppered throughout the place. It makes for a bizarre and unsettling mulligan stew that might be—hell, probably is—a touch radioactive.

Nevertheless, there's something beautiful about Lost River, which at its core feels like an American folk tale given a 21st-century jolt. Set in the dying titular town that may or may not be a Detroit analogue, a single mother named Billy (Christina Hendricks) desperately tries to keep herself and her two sons afloat, even as the mortgage payments fall behind and her home is about to be repossessed. Billy, a waitress by trade, can't make ends meet . . . until, that is, she is met with a proposition by her bank manager (Ben Mendelsohn, skeevy as usual despite gussying up in a suit and tie this time) to take a job at a nightclub that specializes in the freaky-erotic.

Meanwhile, her elder son Bones (Iain De Caestecker, who comes off as a younger clone of Gosling here, right down to the brooding silence) recognizes the dire straits they're in and pitches in by stripping dilapidated ruins for copper wire, only to cross paths with a strutting, skinheaded psycho named Bully (Matt Smith of Doctor Who fame). When he's not trying to keep out of Bully's line of sight, Bones cares for his baby brother Frankie while at the same time making eyes at his neighbor, a pretty girl with the unlikely name of Rat (Saoirse Ronan). Through her, Bones learns of the mythology of Lost River, and how there may be a monster lurking in its watery underbelly. Gosling has kickstarted two stories here, and while both exist in the same milieu, they are nevertheless wildly divergent.

And that, part and parcel, is the biggest flaw of Lost River. Kubrick once said that a director is a taste machine, sifting through various ideas and seeing which ones work the best. Gosling is a cinematic gourmand, devouring his influences with relish and spewing them out with gusto. Unfortunately, he probably ought to have limited himself to one course instead of two.

The Bones subplot, while boasting some truly gorgeous imagery (you really can't beat Benoît Debie's Korine-esque cinematography), feels vacuous. I think a large part of it is that, despite Ronan and Smith giving it their all and both crafting unique characters and giving bold performances, that young De Caestecker just doesn't have the necessary screen presence to hold our attention for long . . . and, quite frankly, I feel that Gosling himself wasn't terribly interested in this particular plot of the film. He knows enough to give it some pep in certain scenes, but whenever the film switches over to Billy's perspective, everything galvanizes, and we know where Gosling's heart is.

And it's easy to see why: this is where Gosling is allowed to drop plot and let image and atmosphere take hold. When Billy joins the act, she meets a beautiful burlesque dancer (Eva Mendes) who is something of her Charon into the dark world this nightclub represents. And what it represents is a sick fascination with death, blood, deformity. When we first see Mendes's character, bathed gloriously in violet, she brings to mind the creepy ceremony from Jodorowsky's Santa Sangre, and when Billy allows herself to be part of the show itself by encasing herself in a clear plastic woman's outline, Gosling's crazed creepiness hits Lynchian levels of inspiration. It doesn't hurt that Mendelsohn, who feels like a love child of Dennis Hopper and Dean Stockwell's characters in Blue Velvet, gets to channel both those guys in these scenes (in one instance, he croons a Hank Williams tune while oozing menace).

For a debut, Lost River definitely shows a great bit of promise for a fledgling director. Gosling's biggest challenge now is refining his technique, paring down his influences and finding an original bent to take. There is a unique voice in there somewhere, buried under all the homages. And while Lost River feels aimless, it's still hypnotic.

Slow West (2015)

The Western love child of Wes Anderson and the Coens.

[8/10 · 8 April 2015]

The first thing I noticed about Slow West is how much better Michael Fassbender's American accent has improved, especially in comparison to his drawl in 12 Years a Slave. There are still traces of his foreign heritage in his voice, but he's got the cadence and timbre of it down-pat here, which is certainly a boon here, as he also adopts the role of narrator in writer/director John Maclean's tough yet quietly funny romp through the frontier.

Why is it tough? Because Maclean doesn't hesitate in showing that the West was unforgiving; people die with almost alarming suddenness and violence, and not a single one of them gets a languishing death soliloquy. It's all a great shock to young Jay Cavendish (Kodi Smit- McPhee), a Scottish émigré who ventured out West not to seek fame or fortune, but rather the love of his life, who fled their homeland after an accident Jay feels responsible for. Jay, the upper-crust scion of a well-to-do family, is unprepared for the harshness of the climate, and the opening credits have barely begun to roll before he's looking down the barrel of a gun. It's only by the grace of God and the quick reflexes of gunslinger Silas (Fassbender) that Jay gets out unscathed.

Silas, a gruff and opportunistic sort, takes the job of "chaperoning" Jay through the territory, ostensibly to make an easy buck—but there are truer, darker intentions lurking within him. See, Silas is a bounty hunter, and his target happens to be one John Ross (Rory McCann) and his daughter Rose (Caren Pistorius), the latter of whom happens to be Jay's inamorata. Neglecting to mention that his beloved is a wanted fugitive with a $2,000 price tag on her head, Silas tries to instill Jay with enough street smarts to get him through the journey. Unfortunately, some lessons take more quickly and harshly than others.

And yet, the film has a light touch of humor to it that, when paired with the frank grimness of the West, works wonders. Maclean peppers the film with sublime sight gags and, in one instance, an outlaw's recollection of a former colleague's disappointment at not having his own wanted poster that could've come right out of the works of Mark Twain. Maclean's film also owes a debt, I feel, to True Grit; the two films feel like they could be spiritual twins.

Unlike most of the genre, Slow West doesn't revel in the wide-open Leone-esque expanses of the frontier. Instead, it's squared off in a narrow frame by cinematographer Robbie Ryan, giving it a more intimate flair. Nevertheless, the film is quite lovely to look at. The color palette is striking and, if I didn't know better, I'd have thought Wes Anderson had decided to saddle up for a Western. Certain shots pop, like young Jay wading through the ashen remains of an Indian camp or of a character being abandoned in the desolate prairie with nothing but his longjohns and a blanket.

Smit-McPhee, quickly proving himself to be able to transition from his child actor years to adulthood, stands his ground admirably in the part. He also has a skill with silent comedy; most of the audience's guffaws came at Jay's befuddled reactions. Fassbender, who I feel works best when he isn't trying to crank up the intensity, feels very relaxed, giving perhaps his best performance in years. The bulk of the film focuses on just these two actors, although occasionally they share screen time with some colorful characters, including Ben Mendelsohn as a wily, cigar-chewing outlaw. Mendelsohn has been a personal casting choice for a Blood Meridian adaptation, and this would make a hell of an audition reel for it.

Despite its humor, Slow West does have an air of solemnity to it. There is the air of lost love, and not just in Jay's desperate struggle to reunite with Rose. There is also a somber sense of loss for that world. In one crucial scene, Jay meets a German anthropologist out in the wilderness, who openly laments the oncoming extinction of the native tribes in the area and the damages of white expansionism. At one point, the man smiles forlornly and says, "In a short time, this will seem like a long time ago." That line, more than any other moment in the film, lingers in the mind.

Kumiko, The Treasure Hunter (2014)

There's more to life than a little money, ya know.

[8/10 · 8 April 2015]

I admit that I am a sucker for a film about people who are driven to perform impossible tasks, even in the face of insanity. It's one of the reasons why I mark Werner Herzog as one of my favorite directors. Indeed, he's carved out a career by telling stories, both real and imagined, of men obsessed with conquering the elements to achieve their goals. But Herzog has, so far as I know, not explored the concept of someone being consistently driven to do something that truly is impossible. This idea is the kernel that sparks Kumiko the Treasure Hunter, the first film I saw at my local film festival today.

I was aware of the tale, real or imagined, that surrounds the film long before the first frame was shot; according to urban myth, a young Japanese woman was found frozen to death in the snows of Minnesota in the early 2000s. The woman had evidently been attempting to find a suitcase stuffed with a million dollars in cold (heh) hard cash, buried somewhere along the wintry stretches of highway. The woman had evidently gotten this idea because she'd seen the burial of the money in the Coen Brothers' film Fargo.

Another pair of brothers, David and Nathan Zellner, were inspired by this tale and made this film. Quite simply, Kumiko is an absurdist fable, the tale of a folly that we want so very much to be surrendered . . . and at the same time, we hope that the hopeless can be achieved. The loving references and homages to the Coen film start right from the beginning, with a close- up shot of Fargo's epigraph; specifically, the line that insists "This is a true story." The Coens, in order to inject an air of realism to their work, added this to their film despite it being completely untrue.

The message, however, didn't seem to find its way to Kumiko (Rinko Kikuchi), a morose, mopey Tokyo office lady in the waning days of her twenties. Kumiko is the furthest thing from a social butterfly there is, instead preferring the company of her pet rabbit in the squalid flat she occupies alone. She is regarded by her boss to be aimless in life; her mother harps on her consistently about not being married. What little enjoyment Kumiko gets in life is in her treasure-hunting jaunts. One such quest leads her to a beachside cave, where she finds a battered, grimy VHS copy of Fargo—a tape that will set her on her destiny. She is entranced by the film's promise of an unclaimed fortune buried in the white wastes of Minnesota, but soon that enthrallment becomes obsession, which soon inches into something close to madness by the end.

It's hard enough to understand such an obsession in the first place, and even more so when there's a language and culture barrier, and even more so when the protagonist in question barely strings a sentence together for much of the first half of the film. Yet there is something endearing about Kumiko, whose dead-end life desires some sort of liberty. We are charmed even further by the film, which takes the bleak absurdity and finds great humor in it; the film is peppered with many hilarious visual moments that had my audience roaring with approval. And yet there is an emotional resonance to the tale, and an unsettling sense of inevitability. It's not that it's predictable, though it is; it's that we know we're on a collision course with tragedy and we're powerless to stop it.

Fed up at last, Kumiko (with the aid of a pilfered company credit card) buys a plane ticket to Minneapolis, and immediately we see just how unprepared for this journey she is. It's the dead of winter, she's not dressed for it, Fargo is a long ways away, and she can barely speak English. And so Kumiko drifts towards her destination by meeting eclectic characters along the way, including a kindly old widow (Shirley Venard, who feels like she could be a retired Marge Gunderson at times) and a helpful sheriff's deputy (the director Zellner in a self- inserted cameo that nevertheless feels earnest and heartwarming; his scenes with Kikuchi are the film's highlights, to me). Yet the wheels on Kumiko's plan, nascent as it is, are coming off fast, and she refuses whenever someone tries to explain to her why her plan won't work.

Kikuchi, who has carved a niche in playing withdrawn characters in films such as Babel, The Brothers Bloom and Pacific Rim, effectively portrays Kumiko's despondency and plaintive insistence that it's real, all of it's real, and anyone who doesn't believe her is a fool. There is desperation in her voice, and watching her is like seeing a zealot beginning to lose conviction even as the proof of her faith is evaporating before her. These moments are backstopped by lighter scenes; there is, for example, a gut-busting bit of cultural insensivity when the deputy, unable to bridge the language gap between himself and Kumiko, can think of nothing else except to take her to a local Chinese restaurant.

The film is not without its flaws, and some of them are nagging. Who left the tape for Kumiko to find in that cave? Why did she not research the film, even in the pre-IMDb days, and read the trivia that stated the Coens had made it all up? Why was she seeking out the city of Fargo, when the crime in question and the resulting action in the film take place elsewhere? Imperfect though it is, though, Kumiko still works, and at times it is transcendent. The final moments of the film, rather than wallow in grimness, feel uplifting, almost joyous. Herzog may very well not have taken this tack if he'd told this tale, so perhaps it is for the best that he didn't.

Tracks (I) (2013)

On the road to nowhere.

[6/10 · 24 May 2014]

Every now and then, a person -- more often than not, a youth -- gets fed up with the mundane existence of civilization and seeks to find their roots and awaken a spiritual cleansing in the wilderness. Unfortunately, there are many instances of such experiences ending tragically. The stories of Timothy Treadwell and Christopher McCandless are prime examples, emphasized by the films depicting their final days. But in the end, it isn't about how they died, but rather, how they lived.

Even though her journey does not end in heartbreaking sorrow, it almost comes off as the endgame for Robyn Davidson, the young adventuress depicted in John Curran's latest film, Tracks. Played with no-nonsense, salt-of-the-earth wisdom by Mia Wasikowska, Robyn's ambition is to follow her father's footsteps and trek across 2,000 miles of Australian desert. Where Treadwell sought to connect with the animals he so loved and McCandless attempted to discover his own identity, Robyn sets off on her journey for no reason other than the hell of it. She first shows up in a middle-of-nowhere town called Alice Springs, seeking to procure some of Australia's feral camels for her journey. She spends the better part of a year learning to train the beasts, showcasing just how focused she is on her goal.

Lighting out for the territories is a common feeling we've all shared at one moment or another, and Wasikowska -- who has always come off as a very sheltered soul -- epitomizes the sort of loner that would seek to go out on such an excursion. She insists on setting out alone for the majority of it, with no radio or a weapon. The only human contact she intends to have will be scattered checkpoint stops with an American photojournalist chronicling the expedition (Adam Driver), and even then, she has no real desire to even do that. "You wanna die out there or somethin'?" one character asks her, and she all but acknowledges this as her ultimate goal.

Director John Curran emphasizes the feeling of forced loneliness in this film. Wasikowska's Robyn steadily severs ties with any and all people she comes across in her journey. Her desire to be truly alone is made abundantly clear, especially in regards to the barren isolation of the Australian outback. However, I think that Curran's film feels a bit too intimate and not nearly as sparse as the subject matter would require. There is a wonderful moment where Robyn stumbles onto a homestead, almost like an alien, not reacting to the farmer's words of welcome. In her wanderings, it's almost like Robyn had forgotten the basic rules of human interaction. Shame that this wasn't further explored.

Indeed, Tracks does seem to meander with no real compass or, indeed, idea of why or where it's going. In this regard, it's like its protagonist. However, Robyn's journey ends in some small triumph. This film ends on a more worrisome "what was the point?" note.

Child of God (2013)

A by-the-numbers take on a brilliant novel.

[6/10 · 3 May 2014]

When word broke out that James Franco, wannabe wunderkind who has taken to adapting classic American literature to the big screen to, well, mixed results, would be adapting my favorite author's work, I prickled with righteous indignation. I don't care much for Franco and indeed find him to be a jack of all trades but indeed master of none: he is a subpar actor, his writing leaves a LOT to be desired, and his direction feels a little too over-reliant on flashy tics that add an unnecessary layer of pretension to the proceedings. And here he is, adapting the work of the master: Cormac McCarthy.

At first, Franco announced he would be tackling McCarthy's masterpiece, the ultraviolent scalp- hunter saga "Blood Meridian", but after a while, he decided to cut his teeth on a smaller -- but by no means lesser -- work of ol' Cormac's. And this is how he came to deliver "Child of God" onto the masses.

Despite its brevity, "Child of God" is by no means an accessible novel: it's lean, mean and has a soul blacker than night. The novel is just like its protagonist, Lester Ballard, a loner who skulks about the Tennessee backwoods like a dog suffering the early onset of rabies, indulging in varying degrees of vicious activities, from assault to necrophilia to, eventually, murder. Ballard is not your typical protagonist, and yet the way Cormac McCarthy approached him, he was made both revolting and at the same time strangely empathetic, as he managed to submerge the reader into Ballard's festering brain. "A child of God much like yourself" is how McCarthy's opening lines describe Ballard, signifying that the madness and malice that ferments within the man is a seed to be found in any of us. And despite its grim premise, "Child of God" is astoundingly, gut-bustingly funny, like the worst sort of dead-baby joke.

Unfortunately, I feel that Franco has missed the levity, instead emphasizing the straight serial- killer premise. This isn't to say that Franco doesn't hew close to the novel; if anything, he is a little too faithful, even relying on having blocks of text from the novel playing out on the screen. It's an admirable slice of avant-garde, even if I feel that Franco is forgetting the first rule of filmmaking: show, don't tell. Even though McCarthy's prose is magic, Franco should've known (as the Coen Brothers and John Hillcoat knew before him) that McCarthy's words can be translated visually to bring the same harrowing, to-the-bone effect.

That said, Franco does show a great deal of passion for the material. But even beyond the use of McCarthy's words, the most crucial aspect of an adaptation of "Child of God" is the man who will be playing Lester Ballard. And in this film, Ballard is played not by Franco, but by his buddy and frequent collaborator Scott Haze. Whether or not you approve of Haze's performance, you can't say he doesn't go for broke in his portrayal of Ballard. Haze's Ballard is beyond laconic; he speaks in strangled, guttural inarticulations that sound almost caveman-like. I do think that there are times that he lays it on a bit too thick, and I think his drooling, leering presence lacks any of the bizarre charm that made Ballard such a fascinatingly funny character in the book. Haze plays Ballard like a "Deliverance" refugee, and while it isn't bad work on its own, I do feel that Haze is a bit too superficial in his take on one of McCarthy's greatest creations. He makes up for it in intensity, though, gotta give him that.

It also doesn't help that Franco's film has a cheap aesthetic to it, lacking any of the grim Gothic atmosphere of the book. It's my biggest issue with Franco as a director: he has no real concept of effective mise-en-scene, instead opting to point the camera and let things play, cutting an odd times that feel far too arrhythmic to be deliberate. Much like last year's interesting-but- too-shallow "As I Lay Dying", Franco gets the story right but tells it in the most simple, A-to-B- to-C way possible. It's worth the watch for Haze's performance (and also for Tim Blake Nelson, who feels like he should've featured in any and every Cormac McCarthy film before this), but it only serves to prove that we're lucky that we dodged a "Blood Meridian" adaptation by James Franco.

Joe (I) (2013)

Spellbinding Southern tale from all involved.

[10/10 · 13 April 2014]

There is probably no actor today as unique or vibrantly energetic in his performances as Nicolas Cage. I have claimed before that Cage is perhaps the greatest actor with the worst resume in cinema history. But even though he's got a backlog of rather unsavory films, Cage has never failed to go for broke, ripping into each and every role with great gusto. However, the heir apparent to Christopher Walken has been lambasted as a washed-up actor these last ten years, with most people seemingly overlooking the fact that Cage has given some standout turns since his heyday (his 2009 turn in "The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans" should have netted him an Oscar nod, for instance).

His latest outing pairs him with another once-promising figure: David Gordon Green, who after a handful of thrilling debut films seemed to go off the deep end, following riveting films like "George Washington" and the underrated "Undertow" with the execrable "comedies" "Your Highness" and "The Sitter". However, Green seems to be returning to his roots with "Joe", an adaptation of Larry Brown's down-and-dirty Southern Gothic tale of a hard-luck ex-con who crosses paths with a teenager with a bad home life. Cage plays against Tye Sheridan, the stoic youth who starred in "Mud" last year, and if anyone thinks that his casting makes this film a carbon-copy of Jeff Nichols's homage to Mark Twain, "Joe" will shatter your notions before too long. It's got a much bleaker edge to it.

Cage plays Joe Ransom, a backwoods wreck of a man who runs a gabby gang of laborers who semi-illicitly poison trees for a lumber company. He's a raw, taciturn sort, driving through his rural community in a beaten-down truck stuffed with his employees while chain-smoking and seemingly drowning out the chatter of his buddies. Cage, who is known for being an explosive presence in his films, keeps the lid pretty tight on the pot here, yet there are moments when he lets the steam sing out. It's clear Joe's temper has gotten him in hot water in the past, as seen when a past victim (Ronnie Gene Blevins) takes a shot at him only fifteen minutes into the film. Joe's got his demons, for sure.

So too does fifteen-year-old Gary Jones (Sheridan), who drifts into town with his silent sister, laconic mother, and a true example of the tragedy of the Deep South in the form of his father, Wade. Played by Gary Poulter, Wade is a strutter, a wannabe tough guy held together by drink but who can't even hold down a job for a day, and he takes out his boozed-up rage on his family. Wanting to provide for his family as well as try and get his old man back off the skids, Gary approaches Joe for a job. The boy proves his worth as a hard worker, eventually drawing him closer to Joe himself, who takes pity on the kid's home life. But the closer the two get, the more things start to get complicated. Joe's rage is starting to cycle back up, and Wade's bitterness is fueling his own violent tendencies that start to show in his own son at times.

What David Gordon Green strives for with "Joe" is a sense of pervading realism, and so he populated his film with first-time local talent rather than seeking Hollywood professionals. Almost every single speaking part save for Cage and Sheridan comes from people that lived in and around the area they shot the film. In particular, Gary Poulter was a homeless drifter with a checkered past who crossed paths with Green. Poulter brings a pathetic, harrowing realism to the part; he's lived this life and he seemed like a man who knew little else. Even when Wade lets his fists fly, you can't help but feel pity for the gnarled old bastard, because Poulter brought an almost beautiful complexity to the role. Poulter died soon after completing filming, having drowned due to alcohol poisoning; the tragedy of his life colors another facet in the character that enriches his performance.

Cage and Sheridan themselves are no slouches in this film, either. Sheridan is proving to be quite the young talent, and I wouldn't hesitate in calling him one of the best actors in his age group. He holds his own against Cage, and the two play off of each other marvelously, perhaps even more effortlessly than Sheridan did against Matthew McConaughey. He'll do great things in the coming years for sure. And Cage proves here that one should never underestimate him; his volatility and effortless charm make Joe a compulsively engaging protagonist while at the same time emphasizing that he is not the man he could be, should be.

Early in the film's runtime, Joe's hatchet crew stumbles upon a copperhead. That snake is just like the picture itself: sleek and dangerous, with a poisonous bite that could spell fever into an unwary film-goer. David Gordon Green certainly captured Larry Brown's whiskey-soaked novel with great skill; if he could get around to tackling the novel's even better sequel, "Fay", that'd be even better.

The Immigrant (2013)

Cotillard, Phoenix and Renner in the land of opportunity.

[10/10 · 25 March 2014]

James Gray's latest tale of melancholic woe and spirits in emotional turmoil takes us back to when America was the land of opportunity for the tired, poor, huddled masses. The director's fifth feature is once again centered in New York, where past entries like "Little Odessa" and "Two Lovers" took place, but "The Immigrant" takes us back ninety years, putting a classical spin on his typical tale.

Though it's lensed with a soft focus emphasis that lends the film a dreamlike patina, "The Immigrant" doesn't shy away from scratching below the scabbed surface of the American dream, even in the first scene. The Cybalska sisters, Ewa and Magda, are among the many crowded in line at Ellis Island in 1921, waiting to be welcomed into America (through the rigorous immigration process that shows that getting into the States was just as difficult then as it is now). The elder Ewa (Marion Cotillard, whose haunting beauty and old-school look made her the perfect casting) is a former Polish nurse who tries to advise her sickly younger sister to look well, but unfortunately, Magda is consumptive and kept in isolation from the other immigrants. Ewa herself is corralled when she is suspected of being "a woman of low morals," but before she can be deported, she is "rescued" by a man named Bruno Weiss (Joaquin Phoenix, also perfectly era-appropriate), who trawls the immigration station in hopes of picking up potential new additions to his troupe.

For you see, Weiss runs a burlesque show made almost entirely of young foreign ladies who escaped the ravages of the Great War to seek their fortunes here. But he takes a special kindle to Ewa, who nevertheless finds herself disliking her new livelihood and employer. Despite his rather sad-sack pursuit of Ewa's affections, Bruno still pimps her out to rich patrons. It may seem very von Trier-esque, but indeed this was not uncommon in the Big Apple back then. Yet Ewa refuses to be downtrodden, even though she has convinced herself that she is a condemned woman (referenced in a crucial scene in a Catholic confessional). She even flees from Bruno's employ at one point, only to end up back where she started in Ellis Island . . . and who is waiting to bail her out by Weiss again?

There is, however, a glimmer of hope for Ewa, in the form of a dashing Houdini-esque magician named Orlando. Played with relaxed charm and verve by Jeremy Renner, Orlando makes a perfect foil for Phoenix's Bruno. Orlando would traditionally be the hero of this story who gets the girl in the end, but James Gray is not interested in telling a traditional tale, even if he has taken many tropes from older works. Orlando's presence presents its own problems for Ewa, and the brewing conflict among the three central characters affects her most of all.

And Gray certainly lucked out in casting Cotillard; the actress knows how to convey a soliloquy's worth of emotion with a single glance, and Cotillard's mournful, ethereal presence is used in full force here. Her dialogue is minimal, mainly reactionary save for her confessional, and yet she says more in this performance to express her situation than Cate Blanchett did in "Blue Jasmine" could with all of her broad rhapsodizing (no disrespect meant to Cate). Cotillard has played in this era before, and the fact that she has the throwback beauty that would've made her a star even in the silent days makes her presence in this film all the more soulful. (Also, full props on the French actress mastering the Polish accent, even whilst speaking the language!)

But Cotillard doesn't have to do the heavy lifting alone. Joaquin Phoenix, who's worked with Gray three times before this, continues to show why he may be the premier actor of his generation. Bruno Weiss seems to be a self-loathing man who just can't bring himself to play the hero in the traditional sense, resorting only to the shady and seedy in order to get ahead in life. Phoenix does a fine job of showing that there is a great depth to Bruno, and we sympathize with the schmuck; he works well on the stage, but when the curtains are drawn, he's at sea. Jeremy Renner, who came very close to playing the role that Phoenix made instantly iconic in "The Master", has a fantastic presence and works very well against both Joaquin and Marion. One does hope that Gray works with him in the future, hopefully in a leading part to take full advantage of his talent.

"The Immigrant" may rest mostly on its trinity of actors' shoulders, but it is a rich experience thanks to Gray's operatic direction, which feels like an homage to the days of both Chaplin and Coppola. I do find it to be an almost incomplete film, as I feel its ending felt more like a respite than a true completion. Perhaps it's due to the fact that I feel Gray could do so much more in this era, and tell more of this woman's story. But as it stands, I find "The Immigrant" to be a fine film with a great deal to say, and it acts as a beautiful showcase for Cotillard.

Snowpiercer (2013)

Makes "Elysium" look like "Sesame Street."

[10/10 · 22 March 2014]

If you thought that Neill Blomkamp's "Elysium" was a bleak enough dystopia, brace yourself for Bong Joon-ho's latest film. "Snowpiercer" is what George Orwell would write if he wanted to set "1984" aboard the mad Blaine the Mono from Stephen King's "The Waste Lands". Grim and fatalistic, this picture packs a chilly, compelling punch.

The apocalypse has already happened, with the planet transformed into a frozen block of ice over the next twenty years. The last dregs of mankind sought refuge aboard an ever-moving train (the titular "Snowpiercer") barreling through the icy landscape. The central conflict of "Snowpiercer" deals, of course, with a major class struggle, with most of the refugees hunkering in the ghettoized tail section of the train. The privileged few live in the front cars (I'm sure any similarities to the basic concept of the bus boycotts that started the civil rights movement are intentional), and the ragged masses congregating in the rear are sick of the oppression, and rebellion begins to foment.

The de facto "Everyman" leader is Curtis (Chris Evans), a taciturn fellow who quietly waits for the right time to strike. In the meantime, he acts as a big brother figure to his friend, Edgar (an eager Jamie Bell), while enjoying camaraderie with his fellow "tailies," including sweet-natured mother Tanya (Octavia Spencer, an unexpected but wonderful addition to a dystopian drama) and wizened elder Gilliam (John Hurt, always expected and always welcome in a dystopian drama). Almost immediately, this feels like a futuristic retelling of a drama set on a train bound for Auschwitz.

Indeed, any time the boat is rocked, Gestapo-like representatives from the front come to admonish the poor, huddled masses. They are headed by Mason (a wickedly over-the-top Tilda Swinton, who might very well be the most fiery character in the film), who seems to relish in her duties, which include forcing miscreants to shove their extremities into the frigid wastes while praising the all-powerful Wilford, the "Big Brother" figure of this story who inhabits the very front of the engine. Wilford also seems to order the cherry-picking of certain tailie children, never to return. Eventually, Tanya's son is taken, which sparks the revolution, which encompasses the first half of the film with vicious, "Oldboy"-esque brawls and rapturous moments of rebellion (there's one scene involving a kid running through darkness with a fiery torch; I swear, all it needed was a Vangelis score to complete it!). Once they have gained the upper hand, the rebels enlist the help of an drugged-up Korean engineer (Kang-ho Song) and his daughter to help them in their quest for the front.

"Snowpiercer" is beautifully imaginative with its rather simplistic story, and indeed, Bong Joon- ho gets to assemble a hodgepodge of dystopian bleakness and utopian bliss. Full credit to the set designers for creating distinct "levels" the further up the train our heroes go. And indeed, the Holocaust references really do hit home as the film goes on. One car, for instance, involves children being indoctrinated about how great their glorious leader Wilford is with a Hitler Youth-esque sort of rigmarole. Indeed, the fact that the cheeriest spot in the entire train is the potential source for future atrocity and oppression is made abundantly clear, and the pregnant, propaganda-spewing teacher (a beamingly insane Alison Pill) is ten times more terrifying than the axe-toting guards sent to subdue the revolt.

Chris Evans makes for a wonderfully stoic protagonist, and even though the role could easily fall into bland territory, I feel that his inherent "American"-ness that made him a wonderful choice for a certain Marvel hero hearkens back to the days of Charlton Heston. That said, he gets a heartfelt soliloquy in the end that stands as his finest bit of acting to date. The rest of the ensemble fleshes out their characters quite wonderfully; special mention must be made to Swinton's slimy Goebbels-esque surrogate, Spencer's lived-in dignity that aided her so much in "Fruitvale Station", and the appearance of a certain actor at the very end that puts a face to Big Brother at last.

There is naught a dull moment in "Snowpiercer"; by the halfway mark, so much has been packed in, and yet at the same time, it never feels too much. Harvey Weinstein wanted to cut twenty minutes of footage from the film and add a voice-over. "Snowpiercer", like "Blade Runner" thirty years before, isn't as inaccessible to audiences as one might think. It knows exactly what it is, exactly what it wants to be, and exactly how to show it. It may lack the spit-shine polish of "Blade Runner", but it makes up for it in sheer grit.

Nymphomaniac: Vol. I (2013)

A four-hour saga of disconnect, loneliness, and blowjobs.

[10/10 · 9 March 2014]

Denmark's notorious infant terrible, who used despair and unflinching self-mutilation as his canvas in his last few films, had already sparked a great deal of controversy and intrigue when the title of his next venture was announced. Nymphomaniac would deal with the bare-it-all, spare-no-details chronicle of a woman's sexual awakening, adventuring, and ultimate degradation. Lars von Trier, who some have accused of misogyny and making movies purely to shock, caught a good bit of flak for daring to make a movie that can be considered a woman's sexual autobiography, and most expected it to be a truly explicit film that could be considered little more than pornography.

Most people underestimate Lars von Trier. While he does have his peculiarities, he is first and foremost an artist. And Nymphomaniac, his third outing with his muse Charlotte Gainsbourg, is perhaps his most expansive work to date. Split into two films and covering several decades, von Trier has concocted a Homeric tale of sound and fury and all sorts of sexual depravity. But this film is not designed to arouse, to titillate. Far from it; the sex is clinical, detached, almost boring at times.

As I said, this is a woman's odyssey. This woman is Joe (Gainsbourg), who is discovered beaten within an inch of her life in a back alley by a lonely bachelor named Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard). Joe demands Seligman not call for assistance, instead accompanying the man back to his apartment for a cup of tea. And after she gets patched up, Joe finds Seligman a willing listener, a father confessor of sorts, and begins to spin a tale of promiscuity that would drive most men wild but intrigues Seligman in a much more philosophical manner. Joe's story starts from her discovery of her own sexuality at the age of two, and by the time she came to barely legal age (here played by Stacy Martin) and how she begins exploring her hypersensual nature. She abandons her virginity by bedding a motorhead (a curiously accented Shia LaBeouf), then even playing games of one-upmanship with her best friend and fellow sex addict (one scene features the girls competing to see who can bang the most guys on a train to win a bag of chocolates). As Gainsbourg's present-day Joe explains herself, Seligman picks out details and compares her sexual deviancy to the most obscure things, from fishing lures to baroque tritones. Von Trier is a very distinct writer, always seeming to verge on the arcane in his observations on the human condition, and here he gives an interesting perversion on, well, perversion. Is Seligman a truly insightful man when it comes to the human condition, or is he just the most hopelessly awkward fool imaginable?

While Gainsbourg brings a great deal of gravitas to the role, it is her most subdued of the three films she's done with von Trier. And yet it is her most accessible, and she narrates the events of the film with such matter-of-fact certainty, her throaty voice describing the life she's led with all of the care and calm of a woman describing the weather. But in the first half of the saga's four-hour run time, it is Stacy Martin who does the heavy lifting, and she does it with remarkable skill, carefully balancing between naiveté and calculation. As Joe matures and sinks further into her addiction (a term she despises), more and more familiar faces start showing up. Her parents are briefly played by Christian Slater and Connie Nielsen, the former having an excellent "money scene" while the latter has maybe thirty seconds of screen time. Shia LaBeouf, who zigzags between admirable and awkward (sometimes in the course of the same scene), returns as Joe's first employer and ultimately her husband. And mention must be made of Uma Thurman's haughtily fiery scene-stealer of a performance that blazes on-screen as a jilted wife whose husband has abandoned her for what he expected to be a life with Joe. She follows her husband to Joe's apartment with their three tykes in tow, and in the span of seven minutes she frays and has a complete emotional meltdown.

As the first half of the film segues in to the second, Gainsbourg takes the fore, as Joe stops seeking sexual release for joy and instead out of a desperate need to feel something. As the film goes on, she explores different fetishes and outlets, including but not limited to interracial threesomes, bondage, humiliation of all sorts. In one notable case, Gainsbourg's character submits herself to the whims of a young man who specializes in intense BDSM. The fact that this rather devious fellow is played by Jamie Bell is a bit of a shock to anyone who's seen Billy Elliot recently. But if anyone was stimulated by the first act of Joe's saga, the second act dashes it away with cold realism.

As with all of von Trier's films, the ending is unforgettable. I confess that when I sensed the film drawing to a close, I was pleasantly surprised at how von Trier handled it, and that perhaps the Danish prince of melancholia had decided to serve up a happy ending for once. Of course, I forgot this is Lars von Trier we're talking about, and the final minute of the film may send audience members in a tizzy. It's part of the reason why I've taken so long to write my thoughts on it. But as I write this, I do think Nymphomaniac is a terrific entry in his canon, and a worthy closer to his trilogy.

Nebraska (2013)

Dern gets his due.

[8/10 · 28 December 2013]

If there's one actor who has deserved his time in the spotlight, it's Bruce Dern. The 77-year-old character actor has enjoyed a respectable career over the last four decades, albeit as mostly supporting characters in offbeat pictures. But now, the actor who was most notorious for shooting John Wayne in the back is finally getting to shine in a film all on his own: Alexander Payne's Nebraska.

Comparisons to David Lynch's eloquently brilliant The Straight Story are apt, as Payne's latest offering deals with very similar subject matter (an elderly man going across a significant chunk of the country for reasons not quite understandable by family and friends). Like The Straight Story was for Lynch, Nebraska marks a departure for Payne, as it is the first film he's done that he didn't have a hand in writing (Bob Nelson is the sole writer). The two films also feature immense performance by their leads, character actors both.

Where they differ is that Richard Farnsworth had to carry his film on his stooped shoulders almost entirely by himself, whereas Dern has an interesting array of actors to play off. Dern plays Woody Grant, a cantankerous yet doddering Montana geezer who becomes convinced that he's hit the jackpot — he has received one of those junk sweepstakes letters in the mail, telling him he's won a million dollars. Not content to sit around and wait for someone else to claim his money, Woody sets out to the head office where the letter was sent . . . in Lincoln, Nebraska.

When his adult son David (an uncharacteristically solemn and sturdy Will Forte) catches his old man walking the route on foot, he decides that maybe it's time for a bonding experience with dear old Dad. He's coming off a bad breakup and he's eager for a change in scenery. So they set off . . . and almost immediately, their trip is derailed when Woody hurts himself, causing them to stop to convalesce in Hawthorne, the one-stop Nebraska town where Woody spent his boyhood and where the rest of his family resides. While Woody recuperates, the rest of his family delights over his newfound fortune, not hearing a single word that David tries to tell them about how it's just a scam. Soon, Woody's impending wealth becomes the talk of the town, which of course ends up luring some pretty shady folks hoping to get a piece of the pie, especially his old partner Ed (Stacy Keach, who plays sleazeballs better than anyone).

Throughout all of this, Woody pretty much is content to let people walk all over him, and it's no wonder why. Not long after they touch down in Hawthorne, they are joined by Woody's wife, Kate (June Squibb) and elder son Ross (Bob Odenkirk). The second that Kate's squat form takes the screen, we know exactly why Woody walks around with a defeated look on his face all the time. Kate's a no-bullsh_t kind of gal, with a vicious tongue she uses to browbeat her boys, especially her addled husband. It's a glorious turn, and Squibb seems to relish the opportunity to steal scenes whenever she can (a stop in the local cemetery provides a golden scene that ranks as one of the funniest of the year).

What is fascinating about the film is how Payne and Nelson depict small-town life. I couldn't help but see Nebraska as sort of a glimpse in the future of King of the Hill, with an adult Bobby and geriatric Hank enjoying a father/son road trip at last. There is also a sort of interesting hypocrisy to every one of the characters, which sort of shatters the idea of down-home values. Even old Woody has his dark side, with his history of drinking and his curt dismissiveness of everything around him.

Nebraska is cleanly shot, beautifully rustic. The cinematography is lovely, the black-and-white style reminiscent of The Last Picture Show. But where it truly excels are in its performances. Forte plays a rather excellent straight man here, playing off of his showier co-stars with a great deal of restraint and gravitas. Wouldn't have expected it from him. Squibb gets the juicy lines and the vicious delivery, and she earns the biggest laughs in the film. Stacy Keach, Bob Odenkirk, Rance Howard, even Buzz from Home Alone all get their moments to shine . . . but the film really wouldn't work half as well without Dern. Decades of melancholy are etched on his weathered face, the set of his jaw. He says and does so much by saying and doing so little. Earlier this year, Robert Redford busted his ass to give his finest performance to date in a mostly-silent performance as a marooned ancient mariner. Dern doesn't even break a sweat with his.

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

The master is back.

[10/10 · 25 December 2013]

Bacchus, Roman god of wine and debauchery, is alive and well and has been brought to raunchy life by Leonardo DiCaprio in Martin Scorsese's latest film "The Wolf of Wall Street". His human incarnation is Jordan Belfort, a fast-talking financial kingpin whose balls-to-the-wall lifestyle of sex and drugs and rolling in dough would make Gordon Gekko take a step back and reassess his lifestyle.

And for what seems to be the first time, Scorsese's decade-long collaboration with DiCaprio has finally paid off. Because "The Wolf of Wall Street", written by "Sopranos" scribe Terence Winter, is a far cry from the polished but lifeless films that Scorsese, master that he is, has been pumping out of late. It is perhaps his most energetic film since "Gangs of New York", his cleanest (in craftsmanship, though certainly not in content) since "Goodfellas". Instead of wise-guys and low-rent mobsters, "Wolf" is about the sharks that swam in the seas of the 1%, ripping into their prey with gusto while coming at them with smiles.

Set in the '80s and '90s, Scorsese depicts a glitz-and-chintz world ripe for the taking for any ambitious youth who wanted to make a name for himself. Enter Belfort, a fresh-faced twenty- something who starts on the bottom rung at one of the many firms in Lower Manhattan. He quickly becomes the acolyte of the head honcho (Matthew McConaughey, who in only a few short scenes manages to give one of the performances of the year), and in doing so learns the tricks of the trade, which involve indulging in any and all sins of the flesh.

But when the market goes belly-up, Belfort (not wanting to go out on his ass like all the other Wall Street schmucks) realizes that he can take advantage of "penny-stocks" that no one cares about, pitching them to anyone gullible enough to buy them. Soon, Belfort founds his own firm, Stratton Oakmont, with a merry band of miscreants, including his right-hand man Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill). Soon, Stratton Oakmont becomes a major, major player in the stock world, luring huge clients in with the hopes of paying out big-time. Except all that Belfort, Azoff and the others care about is their own gain, and the more they make, the more they want. And of course, absolutely none of what Stratton does is legal, so obviously the feds (represented by a dogged Kyle Chandler) seek to rain on Belfort's parade.

But before that, the parade roars in full orgiastic force. Scorsese's film is an epic, three hours of every kind of cardinal sin short of murder, with characters both repulsive and entrancing, in a hysterically funny and painfully horrific saga of depravity as only Scorsese can bring. Thelma Schoonmaker's editing never once makes the film feel its length, and Winter's script is jam-packed with colorful moments and almost surreal hedonism. There are so many drug-fueled sequences that anyone who goes in sober will come out with a contact high.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about the film is that, at long last, DiCaprio has learned to loosen up. "Wolf" allows him to finally sink his teeth in a full-on comic role, and he makes it work impeccably. His energy crackles with every single actor, and he even shows an adeptness at physical comedy (there's a scene involving a 'luded-up Jordan trying to roll himself down stairs that might be the funniest moment of the year). But the rest of the cast is equally up to the task to match him. Jonah Hill is in rarest form here, giving an excellent performance and displaying grand chemistry with DiCaprio. There are guys like Rob Reiner, Jon Bernthal, even Spike Jonze in a small role that are absolutely wondrous to watch. And I do have to give special shout-outs to Jean Dujardin and Joanna Lumley, both of whom stole the show in playing characters that end up as part of Belfort's scheme to hoard his riches. (If "Wolf"'s cast has an Achilles heel, it's Margot Robbie as Belfort's bride, who I feel tries so hard to be on Lorraine Bracco's level but comes off as a second-rate Sharon Stone.)

Even as the film draws to its close, there's not a single moment where "Wolf of Wall Street" wants to relinquish its hold on us. We're in it for the long haul, as Belfort's protégés must have been. And for Scorsese and Schoonmaker, hardly spring chickens, to revive the decadence of the gods in all of its party-hearty glory is something to behold. "Wolf of Wall Street" had me flying high, and I'm still waiting to come down from it

The Counselor (2013)

The Counselor: A Shakespearean tragedy of greed and desperation.

[10/10 · 25 October 2013]

The Counselor, like previous McCarthy adaptations, is gorgeous to behold, but unlike No Country and the others, this one is unnervingly bright, lensed in iridescent yellows and grungy grim tones. It lacks the scope of a Gladiator or a Kingdom of Heaven, instead acting as a somehow intimate, character-driven (or perhaps "dialogue-driven" is better) tale. It is, one could say, Ridley Scott's first fable (yes, Legend notwithstanding).

Allow me to explain. The story, like most McCarthy tales, is simple: a nameless lawyer (Fassbender), madly in love with his fiancée Laura (Cruz) and seeking to provide for her and give her the life she deserves, decides to get in a once-and-I'm-out deal: namely, to get involved in a venture dealing with twenty million dollars worth of drugs being ferried to the States from Mexico. The counselor's associates in this job are the flamboyant Reiner (Javier Bardem, returning to McCarthy's bleak world yet again, though this time sporting a Brian Grazer-esque hairdo instead of Chigurh's pageboy) and middleman Westray (Brad Pitt, sporting a Tom Petty style), both of whom warn the counselor that this deal will change his life in ways he cannot fathom. The film also focuses on Reiner's Argentinean squeeze Malkina, played by Cameron Diaz. Malkina is a glammed-up diva in the Donatella Versace vein (comparable to Kristin Scott Thomas's equally diva-like turn in Only God Forgives; they could be sisters), sporting a cheetah-spot design tattooed to her throat and a felicitous feline sneer everywhere she turns (she even owns a pair of cheetahs that she sics on desert jackrabbits for her and Reiner's amusement).

Of course, as is wont to happen in McCarthy's world, something goes wrong, sh_t hits the fan, and the lives of every character hangs in the balance. Characters are sliced, diced, shot and (in one gruesome instance) subject to a weapon of grim ingenuity that involves a motor, a loop of unbreakable wire, and a jetting gout of blood. Yet the film also brings levity to it in spades, to the point that The Counselor could almost be considered a black comedy. Much of the film's action is "interaction," as the counselor deals with the other characters that warn, judge, and even blame him for the capricious trick of fate that has sealed their own. McCarthy's penchant for cipher-like monologues is in full play here, and it can bog down an unwary traveler. That said, for all of its deep soliloquies and terse warnings, the film is not indecipherable, and at times McCarthy's caustic wit comes across brilliantly.

Scott and McCarthy manage to coax some pretty impressive work from their cadre. Michael Fassbender, whose character is himself little more than an archetype (the "good man who f_cks up once and pays for it dearly"), is actually quite good here, and I'm probably in the minority when I say that I prefer his turn here over his acclaimed performance in Shame (a film I respect but have little affection for). Cruz makes the most of a rather lightweight part, and even though her character exists as little more than an ideal, it still works. Bardem is, for once, the comic relief, playing an entrancingly funny motormouth who is the polar opposite of his last McCarthy character. He is the one who has the most fun with the dialogue and despite English being his second language, he nails Cormac's every nuance. Pitt's Westray is laid-back yet high-strung, and seems an easy fit for the actor, giving every line a wry twist. But the true revelation is Diaz's against-type turn. She is the character audiences will remember most of all, and not just because of her fornication with a Bentley (it makes sense in context . . . I think). There is a hard, wicked steel in her performance, almost predatory. There are other memorable turns, like Ruben Blades's one-scene wonder and even Dean Norris of Breaking Bad fame, that make this a truly sumptuous ensemble.

The Counselor is not an easy watch, both because of its violence and because Scott and McCarthy (I have to credit both men; it feels like such a collaborative creative effort) don't dumb it down. It's a simple story, but it's also one that feels like Scott's most mature work. It isn't without its flaws (certain scenes run on a bit long, while others feel a bit short-changed), but The Counselor results in a perverse viewing that is, in a word, unforgettable.

Ain't Them Bodies Saints (2013)

An American surrealist painting on film.

[10/10 · 28 September 2013]

David Lowery's cool sophomore feature, "Ain't Them Bodies Saints," resurrects the bad old days of outlaw love that has been portrayed in such seminal cinematic classics like Arthur Penn's "Bonnie and Clyde" and, most notably, Terrence Malick's "Badlands." Unlike those films, though, Lowery concerns himself less with the crimes that his Romeo and Juliet commit, instead focusing on the fallout.

On a summer evening in the 1970s, lovers Bob Muldoon (Casey Affleck) and Ruth Guthrie (the porcelain-dainty Rooney Mara) find their Midwestern crime spree has ended with them holed up in a farmhouse, as armed deputies gather outside. They exchange shots, with Ruth shooting one of the encroaching officers. Rather than seeing their love story end with them being gunned down in a bloody shoot-out with police, Bob surrenders, not wanting his pregnant love to die. The two are led away from the scene in cuffs, with Bob taking the full weight of their crimes and being sent to prison.

Four years later, Ruth has given birth to a daughter and tries to live a normal, peaceful life. She even finds herself the interest of police officer Patrick Wheeler (Ben Foster), who, in a capricious turn of fate, turns out to be the same cop Ruth shot. Whether it be because of genuine fascination or just being a Good Samaritan, Patrick finds himself sliding into the position Bob had vacated. And one day, Patrick ends up giving Ruth a heads-up: Bob has broken out of prison, and the authorities are certain he's on his way back to Ruth.

Bob has spent in years in stir desperate to reconnect with his family, promising in his many letters to Ruth that he will return to her. We follow his journey across state lines, carjacking a helpless woman and hopping a train in order to reach his destination. He seeks shelter with his adoptive father (a splendid Keith Carradine), all the while certain that love will conquer all and that everything will be "the way it was." Unfortunately, Bob's worldview is a naive one, because even though Ruth still pines for her erstwhile lover, motherhood has altered her focus. Of course, Patrick's omnipresence in her life is another complication that will, we know, present further problems.

"Ain't Them Bodies Saints" does not tread over any new ground, but it more than makes up for it in terms of its mood. It inevitably invites comparison to the aforementioned Malick's debut film, especially with its hauntingly ethereal cinematography (almost every shot looks like a painting, poetically halcyon yet brimming with a fresh energy). Despite being a very simple story, it has a larger, more timeless feel, aided by the perpetual magic-hour vistas and the ponderings of the main characters (Mara and Affleck's dreamy voiceovers lovingly add to the poignancy Lowery's film already presents in spades).

While Bradford Young's elegant cinematography is certainly one of Saints's most striking attributes (he did win an award for it at Sundance earlier this year), the performances are what truly enthrall. Casey Affleck, in a role that is almost a complete 180 from his breakout turn as another Bob (the coward Robert Ford), provides a raw and unexpected masculinity. Rooney Mara—an actress who is normally glacial, as seen in her work in "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" and "Side Effects"—gives a heart-piercing turn as a woman who must choose parental responsibility over her heart's desire. And Ben Foster, whose chief stock in trade is unbridled intensity, plays it broodingly low-key, in a welcome performance reminiscent of Sam Shepard's subdued, tender work in another Malick joint, "Days of Heaven."

Unlike its predecessors, the romance in Lowery's film doesn't die in a hail of lead or from execution in the electric chair. It dies because of time, distance, and the natural progression of life. It is something all of us can relate to, in some shape or form. "Ain't Them Bodies Saints" manages to keep its emotional heft feather-light, rather than acting as a millstone. It's a talent that makes me very keen to see what Lowery's got down the pike. And although this film has a Malickian feel, it still feels very distinct in itself. It's an exciting experience, to be sure.

Only God Forgives (2013)

If "Drive" was heaven, "Only God Forgives" is Dante's hell.

[10/10 · 19 July 2013]

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Nicolas Winding Refn's latest film, Only God Forgives, could conceivably be called the closest thing to a true take on Dante's Divine Comedy we've had in cinema. And it's easy to see why the film has divided audiences so greatly. The Danish auteur has followed up his most critically successful project with what may very well be his most divisive. Some have called it a hellish masterpiece, others have called it a loathsome exercise in style.

Make no mistake: Only God Forgives is not an easy watch. That seems to be Refn's bailiwick, as the director seems to enjoy making his audiences squirm (remember the elevator headstomp in Drive, or the sheer brutality of Valhalla Rising?). And he only cranks the dial up to eleven with this one. And for all of those expecting a pseudo-sequel to Drive, let me dissuade you: this is a completely different beast. Despite the two films sharing a laconic leading man in Ryan Gosling, Only God Forgives is Drive's polar opposite (or perhaps "evil twin" is more appropriate). Whereas Drive felt like a synthpop-infused dream, Refn's latest is a neon-splashed slice of hell.

Hell seems to be where Julian (Gosling) has been banished, and Refn's hell is Bangkok, a vibrant metropolis that is both beautiful and terrible to behold. Julian is the younger scion of a criminal matriarchy who spends his days running a kickboxing dojo. His older brother, Billy (Luke Evans), opts to use Bangkok to exercise his inner depravity. He ends up raping and murdering a teenage girl one night, and when the cops find him in the blood-drenched room, they contact their boss, a stone-faced cop named Lieutenant Chang (Vithaya Pansringarm). Chang allows the girl's father to exact revenge by beating Billy to death with his bare fists . . . and in return, Chang takes the father's hand with his trademark sword, then subsequently detoxes by performing pop songs in a karaoke bar.

Billy's death and Julian's seeming indifference brings about the attention of their mother, Crystal (Kristin Scott Thomas), who flies from America to claim her firstborn's corpse--and in doing so, emasculating her second son and forcing him to exact vengeance. Every party in this film cuts a swath of violence until its ultimate bloody climax, and Refn does not shy away from the brutal goings-on. We are treated to viscera-slathered rooms, split ribcages poking from gaping slash wounds . . . and in one grueling instance, a ruptured pair of eyeballs.

Yet it isn't the brutality that is most discomforting--or, indeed, exhilarating--about Only God Forgives. It is the crushing weight and the oppressive threat of violence that hangs over every gorgeous frame of the film, the brooding feeling that had made Valhalla Rising such a wonderful (if alienating) experience. Refn's film isn't a meditation of violence like that, but rather showcasing how, in a lawless world, every man might turn savage. Even the righteous in this world deal their justice in blood.

Always the master of atmosphere, Refn's brought top talent to the table. Cliff Martinez's score is ruthlessly energetic, a droning cacophony of horror that would make Wendy Carlos proud. His ace cinematographer Larry Smith, who lensed Bronson and Valhalla Rising, creates a horrifyingly enchanting look at sin and death and divine torment, soaking every frame in bloods and neons. I have long said that Refn is the perfect man to direct Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy's nightmarish Western, and this continues to validate it.

Whether or not you like him (and there are many who don't), you can't deny that Refn is ambitious, and for making a film with such a scant budget, he made every cent count. However, if I had to fault the film for anything, it's the fact that he took a very solid script and pared it down to its core elements. "Show, don't tell" is the golden rule of filmmaking, and Refn has taken that to heart. There is very little dialogue in the film that isn't in Thai, and most of what's left is condensed to terse one-sentence phrases. But Refn, like his mentor Alejandro Jodorowsky (to whom the film is dedicated), fuels this red-bathed nightmare with a slow dread that promises catastrophe that will shock. Only God Forgives is gorgeously gory, and while I wouldn't choose it over Drive as Refn's opus, I think this is his most definitive film to date.

New World (2013)

Another knockout South Korean gangster flick.

[9/10 · 4 July 2013]

"New World" is, at its core, about a man torn in his loyalty between law and lawlessness. It is easy to understand why Ja-sung hesitates in going along with Operation New World. Jung Chung is a charismatic man, excellently played by Hwang Jung-min, but the undying trust that Jung places in his underling shows itself poignantly in both men's performances. Choi Min-sik, who has made a career of playing heavies so well, shows he's equally adept at taking on responsibilities on the right side of the law. All three men play these roles to the hilt, perfectly portraying the high-stakes tension associated with the game at hand.

True to form for Korean cinema, some pretty vicious punishments are doled out in graphic detail (in one scene, a snitch is forced to guzzle wet cement; in another, an undercover cop is stuffed in a barrel). But what makes the film so engrossing is the tension that broods over the film, the threat of exposure that permeates every second of its runtime. The director certainly has a wonderful handle on the atmosphere, something that should put him in a tier with Park Chan-wook (of "Oldboy" fame).

"New World" does feel like the spiritual successor of films like "Infernal Affairs" and its Oscar- winning remake "The Departed". And like Scorsese's take on it, the film is masterfully crafted, with lovely cinematography and a true gem of a musical score adding to the foreboding nature of the piece. I would even go so far as to say that I think "New World" is an improvement on those other films, in that I feel it keeps all of the tension while erasing the kinks that I feel dragged them down (no Nicholson-esque dildo gags or Farmiga-level awfulness here, viewers).

"New World" works smashingly, continuing in that fine South Korean tradition of great and gritty crime dramas. It may lack the sheer visceral nature of the "Vengeance" trilogy and virtuoso acting of "I Saw the Devil", but this thriller is strangely personal, with brusque action and merciless Mamet-like urgency keeping us on the edge of our seat. If Marty decided to try his hand at another remake, he'd do well to consider this one.