The Place Beyond the Pines

There's a lot of brooding in The Place Beyond the Pines, Derek Cianfrance's follow-up to his acclaimed 2010 film Blue Valentine.  There's much more than brooding however, as the angst-ridden, alpha-male melodrama unwinds and twists and turns.  There's a sense from the very beginning that Cianfrance's scope is large and looming, that there's a stake for the mythic in the somber staging of a film about fathers and sons and cops and robbers.  That sense starts at the opening shot.  It's of a ripped tatted torso belonging to star and Blue Valentine alum Ryan Gosling, himself no stranger to mythic archetypes of damaged anti-heroic men (or of showing off his physique, which at this point must surely be insured for a handsome sum.)  The camera moves out and the establishing shot and nearly bravura opening sequence showcases Gosling nearly already as something of a legend.  Cianfrance employs an artful, if a tad indulgent, opening tracking shot that follows Gosling-- here playing a mythic figure in his own right as a carnival stunt motorcycle driver with the moniker Handsome Luke-- as he enters the whirly motorcycle cage with two other stunt drivers.  And off he goes, spinning in circles, entrapped in a steely prism of danger and dread with the mere glint of exhilaration at its ridge, not unlike the movie that surrounds him. 

The openings speaks volumes for the film itself and also about its filmmaker-- it's hard for to severely judge a film with such ambition, and a certain nobility that comes along with it, but the film as a whole unfortunately can't quite measure up to the sum of its parts and that reckless ambition swerves The Place Beyond the Pines into heady, heavy-handed and downright cold terrain.  Whether sculpted by the cinematic ego of its helmer or not, the film becomes unwieldy as it chugs along its nearly two and a half hour running time.  Perhaps he bought a little much into the praise he received for Blue Valentine, a not completely dissimilar tonal companion piece, one that infolding as the degeneration of a marriage that often felt like, "the degeneration of a marriage."  The difference was that there was a spark and jolt of spontaneous electricity that ignited throughout the flash-forward/flash-back narrative.  It felt as though it was an invitation, a fly on the wall tracking of a pure love gone rotten.  The Place Beyond the Pines (its title derived from what the Iroquois tribe referred to as Schenectady, New York, where the film is set) is at once stubbornly straight-forward, but also hard and cold in its exactness.

But first the good news.  The opening is nearly intoxicating as it converges both Gosling the movie star and grand actor in a singularly absorbing way.  Outfitted with bleach blonde hair and cut-off Metalica shirts, his Luke is a lost boy relic of the sorts James Dean and Marlon Brando played generations ago.  The brooding glint of his stare registers pain, toughness, but also an approachable innocence.  Not unlike what he contributed to Drive a mere two years back, Gosling inhabits a place in the cinematic perception of masculinity, one that's more penetrating the less we know about his circumstance.  A vagabond joy rider who seeks his thrills trapped in his cage of doom, he's nonetheless a believable romantic.  Early on, he reconnects with Romina (Eva Mendes), a past conquest who informs Luke that the last time he came in town produced a baby boy, now a year old.  Conflicted as to what to do, as to whether stick around and try to provide for his son and his mother, or hit the road as per usual, Luke broods.

He finds lodging and a friend of sorts in a slimy mechanic played by Ben Mendelsohn (excellent) and nearly immediately segues into a partnership of robbing banks.  The jagged genre push elevates The Place Beyond the Pines from somber into to something else entirely, but it's hinged on the half-baked idea that Luke, a intriguing man who may not exactly be the brightest, honestly believes his thrust into crime is for the best.  However, there's an absorbing feeling, coupled with Gosling masterly portrayal, that this mere setup will pay off in rich dividends emotionally.  Sadly, that's where the bigger than it needs to be sense of pretension gets the better of Cianfrance, who wrote the screenplay with Ben Coccio and Darius Marder.

Suddenly just over an hour into the enterprise, The Place Beyond the Pines shifts gears to Bradley Cooper, a boy scout cop who is elevated into hero status in one of the biggest circuitous twists in store.  As jarring as the newly instated double header seems at first, the second chapter of the film, while failing to be quite as utterly absorbing or as thrilling as its beginning, still has its rewards, mostly because Cooper, who broods nearly as much as Gosling is in top form, but also because there's a slightly nifty counterpoint to his character's supposed nobility that matched with an ambition and headiness of its own.  He plays Avery Cross, a family man with a one year old son as well...remember that bit, nothing in The Place Beyond the Pines is unintentional.  Cross becomes embroiled in a scandal of sorts with some pretty shifty cops-- Ray Liotta plays the shiftiest, who reads as trouble from his first appearance.  It almost feels like Cianfrance is riffing on Julius Caesar or something as Cross, whose father is a former politico, and his moral compass become tampered by his new found reputation, guile and greed.

Just as his story appears to be unwinding, The Place Beyond the Pines decides its not quite over yet as the screen fades out and a title card reads, "15 YEARS LATER."  There was audible shrieks and jostling in seats at this moment, and it appears that the full circle triptych of Cianfrance's labor was to conclude, most jarringly, with the now teenage children of Luke and Avery.  Played by Dale DeHaan (Lawless,Chronicle) and Emory Cohen (notable for his "colorfully critiqued" character as Debra Messing's son on the TV show Smash) play Jason and AJ, who are bonded more so by the forces of nature than by mere coincidental high school experiences.  It's shame and more than a bit of over-the-top bombastic one at that the Cianfrance chooses to conclude his meticulous "mythic" tale in such a decidedly thump like fashion.  It's not quite the fault of the actors (if nothing else, Cianfrance proves his gift of bringing out the best and most natural in his performers), but the heavy-handed direction of a tale that not quite as big and mighty as the filmmakers may assume it to be.  C

Gangster Squad

In Gangster Squad, director Ruben Fleischer's noir wannabe send up of the gangster genre that was once the bread and butter of distributor Warner Bros., Sean Penn plays Mickey Cohen, a nefarious mob leader.  Played with a twitchy menace, with an over-the-top bombast that all but begs to be called into comparison with Al Pacino's manic screeching in Scarface, Penn utilizes all his actorly grace notes into a gleeful cartoonish creation.  As a sadistic overload with all intent of taking over 1940s Los Angeles, his Cohen is something straight out of Dick Tracy, with an all knowing wrinkle and tongue in cheek nod so unreserved and mannered he may as well be twirling a mustache and patting a black cat as he cuts into his dialogue.  He's clearly having a ball, acting without a net nor the slightest bit of directorial cues, which may have been fine if the film surrounding this display of showmanship, had settled on a tone or a cue of it's own.  The film, written by former cop Will Beall, instead wants to have it both ways-- at once a cartoon full of the cacophony of machine gun blitzes along with a L.A. Confidential-lite morality tale of corruption all set in the glamor of high-end showbiz window dressings.  Without a net of its own, Gangster Squad turns silly and sour, and as a true disservice to any cartoon entertainment, becomes, seemingly against all odds, dull.

The film was originally set for release last September but was pulled out of respect to the horrific tragedy in Aurora, Colorado due to its excessive violence and a first cut sequence of a melee taking place inside a movie theater.  Reshot and retooled for our convenience, it likely wouldn't have mattered much of a lick since Gangster Squad leaves only the slightest bit of a taste, edging into near irrelevance as quickly as its unraveling.  Fleischer, director of horror comedy Zombieland, certainly has a flair, but not the resolve to coalesce Gangster Squad into a film that matters.

Our hero, Sgt. John O'Mara (played by Josh Brolin, with an indignant seriousness) is portrayed as one of the few honest cops of the LAPD, circa 1949.  Under corruption in a town ruled by Cohen's nefarious efforts, O'Mara is obsessed with bringing him down, going so far as seeking guerrilla-like missions.  The smidgeon of a backstory is provided in that he's a WWII vet, perhaps still looming to bring down the big bad even as the war as past, as his pregnant wife and quaint lifestyle isn't enough to settle his adrenaline.  Another war vet is viewed at first as amusing counterpoint in the freewheeling Sgt. Jerry Wooters (played by Ryan Gosling in a twee accent and introduced as comedic jig), whose withdrawn nonchalance to the excessive violence is only sparked after he hooks up with Cohen's gal Grace (Emma Stone-- a tad too nice and girl next door-ish for a gangster's moll) and finds himself as well as she in apparent danger.

In a riff on nearly every B-action movie of the 80s, a team is secretly assembled-- headed by O'Mara in an effort to take on Cohen and his gang and make Los Angeles safe again.   This golden era A-Team includes a tech expert (Giovanni Ribisi), a gun-slinging novelty (Robert Patrick), his immigrant protege (Michael Pena) and the always welcome Anthony Mackie, for, well the movie doesn't quite explain.  The squad goes to great (and needlessly violent) measures, encompassing the films silliest problem as the good guy team starts to question their efforts and ponder if their actions are any better than the real villains.  That matters little as both detectives and gangsters are saddled with such a pedestrian script that makes all parties seem relatively dim, each discovering clues as screenplay dictates in what shrewd investigators or bad guys should realize long before.  Without insight or scope or dimension, the actors are all seemingly left to their own devices, and it's true that the alpha cast all appears to be a different films, left directionless by Fleischer to delight in their own disparate actorly delights.

At least the films looks good in its ridiculousness, as cinematographer Dion Beebe (no stranger to theatrical eye candy, as evident by his Oscar-winning lensing of Memoirs of a Geisha or to astute LA-driven crime dramas, as in Collateral) lustfully and colorfully brings bits of zest and texture to the surface only film.  Same is said to the artful production designers and costumers who stage old school elegance and fun set pieces with an aplomb that's missing from the page.  Sadly, even as mere window dressing, Gangster Squad can't quite quell its own insipidness, as it nears parody towards its predictably bloody and uninvolving conclusion.  D

The Ides of March

The inside political story The Ides of March pulses with ideas and terse tension, and neatly comes packaged as the fourth feature to be directed by uber-Hollywood prince George Clooney.  Based on the play Farragut North, penned by Beau Willimon, who co-wrote the screenplay with Clooney and Grant Heslov, the film is set and attuned to the behind the scenes machinations of an impending Ohio primary and it's two prolific Democratic hopefuls.  With its starry cast and overly ripe, 24-hour news-primped setting, the stakes are high, and the promise and potential are met with a swift intelligence and sparkling dialogue, and the stage is set for a serious-minded indictment of modern politicizing and all the backstabbing and compromise that comes, one that taint even the purest values, as asserts the film, and well, reality.  That aching cynicism of modern campaigning is ripe for scrutiny, and respectably mounted, but it becomes apparent fairly quickly in The Ides of March that all its good intentions are mere window dressing; what's missing is the potent meatiness in a story of good men caught up in bad politics.  What's left is a group of well trained, groomed and versed collection of actors truly acting the hell out of their respective parts, pointed speeches and all.

The film starts, rather amusingly and tellingly false, as a young man takes to the pulpit.  He's one of the top aides to presidential hopeful and current governor Mike Morris (George Clooney), a smart, idealistic young pup with a gift for spin, and gone adrift after long ago drinking the governor's Kool-Aid-- his name is Stephen Myers (Ryan Gosling.)  What Ides gets right very early on is the unflinching, almost disarming connection between campaigners and the press, and the spinning of values and facts are mere side notes-- winning is only the option, everything else is crap, and it matters little the scruples needed to get there.  There's an early sequence that's almost chilling in its nonchalance between Stephen, Morris' head aide Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman), and the Maureen Dowd-like columnist, played with feverish and intimating liberal flirtiness by Marisa Tomei; over drinks the three dance to clever words that are never quite on nor off the record, that strike personal, professional, and utterly savage.  The trick is, that no one has the higher ground at that stage, as both parties-- the Morris men and the journalist are too dependent on one another-- that is until someone is thrown under the bus.  This is after all, a film that gathers its title from Julius Caesar.

It turns out to be two temptations that may or may not send Stephen left to dust.  The first comes with an ominous invitation to join the rival Democratic campaign, led by the oppositions behind the scenes guy Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti.)  The second comes from the flirty advances of a young intern named Molly (Evan Rachel Wood), who's innocence is squashed nearly completely in her first scene...surely Stephen's seen Mildred Pierce.  Whatever the case or easy outs to explore the devil and angel shoulder dynamics The Ides of March wants to tell, it's basically a fairly simple story of one man's thorny experiences of playing with fire, and corrupting power of politics, no matter how strong ones ideals might be at the beginning.  And so it becomes a sort of mixed blessing that the Stephen is played by Gosling, a triumphant actor, whose radiance and charm are so clear, even in the slimiest or least expressive manners, but the troubling factor is that he shades such a knowing intelligence and such a graceful knack for spin in Stephen, that it's hard to quite buy him as an aw-shucks dupe.  And at the same time, his arc from idealist to shark reads too incidental to be genuine.  Yet it's that same intelligence and charm that keeps the movie going as far as it does, as with his generous rapport with the rest of the ensemble; the dance of morality with Hoffman (who's the closest the film has to a moral center), or his tryst with Wood (the closest the film has to an emotional center.)

It's the predictable nature of The Ides of March that ultimately makes the film run out of gas, for a such a well-packaged potboiler, it takes the easy way out, and denounces hard realism for tired and torn-from-the-headlines cliches.  For what's missing is a thought-provoking discussion of the good and bad compass that sadly makes up our modern political process, or an intellectual indictment of made in the media political superstars.  Instead, the film somewhat costs of post-Obama age of disillusionment of the liberal promise and showcases seemingly noble men acting a fool; the likeability of any it's characters comes fairly exclusively from the likeability and charisma of its attractive stars, not the jaded temperament of their behavior.

The film closes with a singular and noteworthy shot, not dissimilar to the one that opened the film; it feels potent because Gosling invests so much into it.  And while it's doesn't quite feel like the perfect fit it should, there's a small dash of gravitas and and (perhaps unearned) potency in the slimy revenge morality paying off.  Perhaps nothing really ever changed in Stephen, and perhaps that's the point of the tale, whatever the case, the actorly range is nearly enough to save the self-serious Ides, but not quite.  B-

Drive

Winner of the Best Directors prize at this years Cannes Film Festival, Drive stars Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Bryan Cranston and Albert Brooks, and looks like pure genre heaven.

Blue Valentine

Trailer day continues with a beaut-- Blue Valentine, the new film starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams-- which comes with a great deal of hype from rapturous phrase from Sundance, Cannes and Toronto.  Knowing not terribly much about the film itself, I can say that this is perhaps my favorite trailer in quite sometime, for the simple fact that I'm intrigued and teased just enough to quench my thirst, yet I continue to know not that much about the movie: why must every trailer give the whole thing away anyway?  Yet enough is sensed that the actors deliver what one expects from actors this good.