Author Archives: Kyle

About Kyle

My name is Kyle, and I'm just your average aspiring journalist who loves film and pop culture. Like, a lot. Seriously, it's unhealthy. This blog is the only thing that can make me well again.

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug review: Finding the heart behind the epic

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In JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit, the author displays a curious knack for brushing over details that he fears would bore the reader. He admits as much multiple times in the book itself. Peter Jackson, the Lord of the Rings director who has turned the book into its own epic trilogy, aims to do just the opposite. His desire to flesh out the characters, expand the story and create more direct connections with the Rings trilogy has created a film series that is in danger of being longer than the book that inspired it.

This fact has wrought both cheers and jeers from longtime fans. The first Hobbit film, An Unexpected Journey, managed the rare feat of being both overlong and uneventful. While some might complain the Rings movies are also bloated, they didn’t feel like three hours because stuff actually happened. Journey, on the other hand, was quite a slog, rarely justifying its formidable length.

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, is, thankfully, a much more impressive and focused work than its predecessor, the main reason being that stuff actually happens. Cool stuff. It’s an adventurous, technically audacious blast. And then, of course, there’s the dragon. But we’ll get to that.

Desolation mercifully takes no time getting going, continuing the quest of the hobbit Bilbo (Martin Freeman), who accompanies a group of dwarves to take back their homeland in the lonely mountain, which has been overtaken by a greedy dragon (Benedict Cumberbatch). Within the first hour, the merry band is nearly eaten by spiders and imprisoned by elves. And to think, in Journey they had barely left the shire by this point.

The main reason this sequel works so well is that Jackson and company’s additions (the script was co-written by Guillermo del Toro, who was originally attached to direct the trilogy) to the relatively simple original story feel much more like genuine improvements rather than attempts to pad the length of three movies. The main addition comes in the form of the Mirkwood elves, who, unlike the elves from the first film, are a bit dangerous and unpredictable. Their leader, Thranduil (Lee Pace) offers to help the dwarves on their journey; with caveats, of course. He is joined, in the movie, by his son Legolas (a returning Orlando Bloom) and Tauriel (Evangeline Lily), a brand-new female elf character. Some fans cried foul over adding a character to the universe, but Tauriel is a fantastic addition to this male-dominant universe. The love triangle that develops between her, Legolas and the dwarf Kili feels like one that actually may have some teeth to it (depending on what they do with it in the next film).

The human character of Bard is also expanded for the better. Although he plays an important role in the book, his character is not given much depth. Here he’s given a family and a more active role in helping the dwarves along on their journey. In fact, the entire town of Esgaroth, the town that has been displaced by Smaug, is more fully realized here; thus we care about what happens to the people here.

One of the more contentious aspects of the first film was its attempt to tie more directly to the Rings trilogy, creating a subplot involving the wizards Gandalf (Ian McKellan) and Radagast (Sylvester McCoy) and their encounters with the dark necromancer (soon to be Sauron). Here, they make more sense; rather than Gandalf leaving for half the story, we actually get to see what he’s up to, which is kind of cool. Still, I feel these scenes detract too much from the main story, and strike me as unnecessary additions. They’re interesting, but not essential.

All complaints go away once Smaug the dragon shows up. He is truly an awe-inspiring creation, and is by far one of the greatest dragons to ever grace a screen. The incredible CGI combined with Cumberbatch’s fantastic voice lend an air of gravity and even regality to the dragon. He is, in every way, a triumph.

The movie is not, however, about a dragon, and Smaug thankfully doesn’t steal the movie from the true star of the show. Martin Freeman’s Bilbo Baggins is about as endearing and lovable as a main character as has ever come from a fantasy universe. Seeing this character grow over the course of these movies is a treat, and Bilbo himself is a more interesting and nuanced character than Frodo, the protagonist form the Rings films. Credit for that goes equally to Tolkien’s original story, Freeman’s soulful performance and Jackson’s additions.

Smaug is still too long; it certainly won’t win over non-fans of the franchise, and I’m not sure the filmmakers have justified making this story into three long movies. But, Jackson and friends seem to have found the true, beating heart of this packed epic; a simple hobbit who, since he can’t go home yet, is doing the best he can. And, if he finds some courage (and a certain ring) along the way, we’re all the better for it.

Out of the Furnace Review: Stellar performances swimming in a thin story

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On paper, Out of the Furnace is a slam dunk of a movie. Combine several of the finest actors of their generation with a hot director, set it in a gritty postwar fever dream and watch the fireworks. The result, however, is a good film that touches true greatness just often enough that it feels that much more disappointing.

Christian Bale gives perhaps his finest performance ever as Russell Baze, a Pennsylvania steel mill worker trying to make ends meet. He and his brother Rodney (Casey Affleck) are taking care of their terminally ill father when Casey is called to serve in Iraq. Around the same time, Russell causes a fatal traffic accident while driving drunk and is forced to spend time in prison. When both men come back from their respective hells, Russell attempts to get his life back on track with his former girlfriend, Lena (a mesmerizing Zoe Saldana) while Rodney makes money fighting and gets involved with a scuzzy promoter (Willem Dafoe). When Rodney’s business causes him to run afoul of Harlan (Woody Harrelson), a vicious backwoods crime lord, he disappears, and, with the trail seemingly gone cold, Russell decides to track down his brother outside the bounds of the law.

What makes the simple story stand out are the fantastic performances. Bale is firing on all cylinders here as a man trying to do the right thing but beset on all sides by disappointment after disappointment. His trademark physicality and emotional expressions are on full display here. In particular, a scene between Russell and Lena after he gets out of prison is a master class in acting. Harrelson is terrifying, if a bit one-note, as the villain, and Affleck does a great job as directionless vet who always seems to be feeling some mix of anger, fear or resentment. His performance recalls the likes of the great Tobey Maguire in Brothers or Robert DeNiro in The Deer Hunter.

In fact, Out of the Furnace often feels like a beguiling mix of those two films. Its gloomy ashen towers, dilapidated houses and bleak Pennsylvania landscapes are obvious visual homages to The Deer Hunter; in dealing with the ramifications of blue collar workers-turned-soldiers returning home, it seems like that film dolled up for a new generation. It’s a bold comparison to one of my all-time favorites, but the film occasionally earns it, particularly in the scenes between the two brothers, both trying to make their way but seemingly failing in different ways.

As the film moved past these compelling moments to the more mundane machinations of the revenge story, my interest began to wane. We’ve seen stories like this before, done much better. The only real pleasure towards the end of the film (besides the beautiful cinematography) is seeing these actors give it their all even when playing characters that aren’t as fleshed out as we’d like them to be. The thin plot often sets up conflicts without delivering on them; a subplot involving police chief Wesley Barnes (Forest Whitaker), the man committed to finding Rodney who also happens to be Lena’s new lover, is particularly undercooked. Director Scott Cooper’s leisurely pace suits the first half of the film well, but leaves the more traditional revenge plot completely unsatisfying. It feels, at times, like two different movies, both struggling for dominance, neither coming out on top. The ending is a letdown, and negates much of the dramatic tension so palpable in the rest of the film.

Out of the Furnace reminds me a lot of the 2009 film Brothers. Both are potent postwar dramas featuring stellar performances, but they’re also merely good movies with great ones trapped inside, struggling to get out. Out of the Furnace is not as good as the sum of its parts, but man, those are some really good parts. If there are many faults to find in the whole, it is still an electrifying film, featuring some of the finest living actors giving it their all. Even if you leave feeling unfulfilled, you won’t be able to take your eyes off it while it lasts.

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire review: The odds are in this movie’s favor

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The original Hunger Games film revealed both the triumphs and pitfalls of adapting a wildly popular book. While it was ultimately considered a success, its rushed pace, uneven acting and shaky cinematography left many cold. Catching Fire, the hotly anticipated sequel, feels like the movie the original film should have been. Thanks to a new, dedicated director in Francis Lawrence along with better source material, the film is a triumph both as an adaptation and a mass-produced entertainment that should thrill diehard fans and series newbies alike.

The story picks up with Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) and Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) preparing for their victory after “winning” the 74th Hunger Games, a brutal blood sport started by the Capitol of Panem to keep the twelve districts from instigating a revolution against the oppressive regime. The Capitol is thrilled by Katniss’ and Peeta’s victory, as well as their seemingly budding romance, but all is not well. President Snow (Donald Sutherland) sees their dual victory as an act of defiance, and so did many of the districts, who begin staging a series of small uprisings. Snow makes it his mission to stamp out Katniss, the symbol of the revolution, for good by forcing previous victors back into the arena for another round of the Hunger Games.

One of the great pleasures of this film is seeing returning actors embody these characters. While Lawrence’s Katniss came off as somewhat robotic before, here we get to experience her full range of emotions as well as the toll the games have taken on her psyche and relationships. Fresh off her Oscar win for Silver Linings Playbook, Lawrence has grown leaps and bounds as an actress, and it shows. Hutcherson and Liam Hemsworth as Katniss’ competing love interest, Gale, are also given much more to work with here. Elizabeth Banks’ garish, Lady Gaga-esque Effie is a scene-stealer once again.

There are tons of new faces as well. Phillip Seymour Hoffman as the new head game maker Plutarch Heavensbee is a particularly inspired choice of casting, and may well be some fans’ favorite character come series’ end. Sam Claflin is brilliant as previous victor Finnick, and Jenna Malone steals scenes as the vicious Johanna Mason.

Director Lawrence (I am Legend) is a great replacement for Gary Ross, whose first film was a bit sporadic in its execution. The camera stays still and wide much more often here, allowing us to thankfully see the beautiful vistas and intense action much more clearly. Veteran writers Simon Beaufoy (Slumdog Millionaire) and Michael Arndt (Toy Story 3) shove a lot of characters and events into 2 ½ hours, but the film never feels bloated. Scenes are allowed to breathe, and they thankfully avoid the rushed ending of the first film. That Catching Fire ends on a cliffhanger is a natural consequence of the movie being a middle chapter, but at least it’s a good one (brilliantly shot and exactly the same as the book, refreshingly). The fact that so much material fit into one movie without any major omissions is somewhat of a marvel.

Catching Fire is not a perfect movie. There are small plot holes here and there, and, in a film with so many characters, some are bound to be underdeveloped. But, in every important way, it’s the perfect sequel. It amplifies the things that worked in the first film while all but eliminating the many things that didn’t. Lawrence has breathed new life into a franchise that was already in danger of becoming stagnant, crafting an utterly satisfying, visually stunning and insanely thrilling ride from start to finish. It even achieved the rare feat of getting me genuinely excited for the next one. Your move, Hobbit. 

12 Years a Slave Review: Tough, demanding, inspiring, essential

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Twenty years later, we have a Schindler’s List for a new generation, a film that stares unblinkingly into the dark soul of a nation that is far from overcoming the sins of its fathers. 12 Years a Slave is that movie.

It is, in some ways, an odd comparison, because the films, while both based on harrowing true stories, are actually quite different. Steven Spielberg is often seen as an old-fashioned sentimentalist, but the same tendency could in no way be leveled at 12 Years director Steve McQueen. In grueling, draining films such as Hunger and Shame, McQueen has shown himself to be a distinct modernist, his camera recording the actions of his characters with an almost cold indifference.

What makes 12 Years a Slave a great movie, perhaps the definitive American slavery film, is that McQueen doesn’t tell us that slavery was bad, as so many others have. He shows us through the life of Solomon Northup, a black man exposed to a litany of horrors few souls could survive. There is raw power in Northup’s story; McQueen smartly realizes no further message is needed.

Northup (played by Chiwetel Ejiofor) is a free man living in New York in the 1840s. He makes his living as a world-class violin player, taking care of his wife and two children. A band of traveling performers convinces him to come to D.C. where he can make some money playing violin for their two-week show. When he arrives, however, he is sold into slavery and taken to the south.

We are taken on a tour of human depravity as Northup comes across a cruel slave trader (Paul Giamatti), who gives Northup his slave name before selling him to kindly plantation owner Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch). He is eventually passed on to a not-so-kindly one. Edwin Epps (Michael Fassbender) is known as a slave breaker, but even he is unprepared for Northup’s impossible resilience.

Although McQueen coaxes brilliant performances from an all-star supporting cast, it is truly Ejiofor’s Northup that anchors the film. It is not so much the impossibility of this man’s circumstances or the fact that he survived them that inspire, but the fact that his spirit was so unbreakable. Ejiofor’s eyes express the spectrum of human emotion; pain, sacrifice, unendurable suffering and relentless hope are all right there in his face. When he stares into the camera, without saying a word, we feel every inch of what he has felt. It’s the performance of a lifetime.

A breakthrough performance by Lupita Nyong’o as fellow slave Patsy is equally breathtaking, providing not only a kindred spirit but a foil to Northup’s optimism. One of the film’s more powerful scenes comes when Patsy asks Northup to kill her. Repeatedly raped and beaten by Epps and despised by his mistress, she has reached the limits of human endurance. Northup refuses, and tells her to hold on a little longer.

McQueen’s film reminds me of the dichotomy in Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life: the way of nature vs. the way of grace. The way of nature is for Patsy to die a dog’s death, the way she lived. But Northup shows her the way of grace, that the human spirit, unlike the body, can never be truly broken.

We see this dichotomy in the film’s treatment of religion as well. Epps and others use scripture to justify the way they treat their slaves, laying bare one of the grossest misuses of the Bible in human history. But the slaves show the way of grace in their songs. When a group of slaves sing a hymn over another slave who has died, we see them singing to the same God who has been used by other to oppress and demean them. The way of grace stands triumphant over the way of nature. When Northup meets Brad Pitt’s Bass near the end of the film, we realize we have met one of the few decent souls in the entire movie. And we can breathe a sigh of relief that people like him existed, that one decent man can almost redeem the human race. If, as Sartre said, “Hell is other people,” there are occasionally those who break in to remind us that the way of grace still exists to prove us wrong.

12 Years a Slave holds our heads over our nation’s history and forces us to stare. Rarely does a film speak so clearly and directly to our human existence. It is unflinchingly brutal, and certainly not for the faint of heart (I looked away from the screen at least twice). It’s also a powerful testament to the endurance of the human spirit. It’s not an easy sit, but it is, I believe, a necessary one; an important reminder that, while we’ve come a long way, there are miles we have not yet traveled in our shared human experience. If movies like Gravity remind us why we should go to the movies, movies like 12 Years a Slave remind us why we must.

Ender’s Game Review: An admirable attempt

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Author Orson Scott Card has referred to his seminal sci-fi novel Ender’s Game as “unadaptable.” But that hasn’t stopped him, and others, from trying. Nearly 30 years after its initial release, the book has finally seen the light of day on screen, courtesy of writer/director Gavin Hood (X-Men Origins: Wolverine). The result is an admirable attempt that nonetheless may not find much of an audience outside of fans of the source material.

A significant plus is that the film does, in fact, work. The book’s major plot points and even its potent pacifist themes are present and accounted for. In the world of adaptation, that is rarer than it should be. On a futuristic Earth, Ender Wiggin (Asa Butterfield) is a gifted youth recruited by the military to join a program that trains child soldiers in battle simulations to help fend off a repeat attack by alien invaders known as the Formics, who devastated humanity in a previous attack. Ender is recruited by the intimidating Colonel Graff (Harrison Ford), who sees potential in the tension between the boy’s calculating intellect and startling propensity for violence. Perhaps he is the one that can win the war.

The film’s story faces problems similar to this year’s earlier sci-fi film, Elysium. Ender is “the one,” an almost-mythical figure tasked with saving humanity from a young age. It’s a common sci-fi trope, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach. The film does a poor job explaining why Ender is so important, other than the fact that he just is. Card’s book offset this through a complex side-story detailing Ender’s gifted siblings. That difficult material is understandably axed, but nothing replaces it, leaving a hole that is hard to ignore.

One reason the book has always seemed so unfilmable is that it takes place mostly in ship corridors and computer rooms. But Hood and cinematographer Donald McAlpine have created a lovingly crafted and visually exhilarating version of Card’s world. Ships, space suits and the battle arena look fantastic, even better than I envisioned them in the book. Although we see very little of the Formics, their design when we do is intriguing.

What Ender’s Game gains in production design it unfortunately loses in its acting. Ender is a somewhat icy character, and in that regard Butterfield’s performance fits the bill. But that doesn’t make his performance any more engaging. His acting is mostly steely reflection punctuated by occasional outbursts of emotion, similar to his role in Hugo. He’s not a bad actor, but he’ll need to either keep picking these very specific, icy roles or expand his acting chops.

Nearly everyone else in the movie gives equally one-note performances. Harrison Ford doesn’t do much beyond looking angry and yelling, and gifted young actors such as Hailee Steinfeld and Abigail Breslin are given precious little to work with. The standout performance is the magnificent Viola Davis as Major Gwen Anderson. While Graff sees his soldiers as chess pieces, Anderson sees them as children, as they so rightly are.

The performances aren’t helped by dialogue that often reduces conversations to grand specifying. And yet, the film is briskly entertaining, clocking in at 114 minutes while managing to keep much of what made the book so engrossing. In particular, the ending retains its potent antiwar punch, bolstered by a great late-game twist. Unlike the rest of the movie, the conclusion leaves you thinking.

Ender’s Game is perhaps the best we could have hoped for from an adaptation of the wildly influential book. It’s visually impressive and retains enough of the book’s potent antiwar commentary. And yet, ultimately, the film feels slight. Maybe it’s the grandiose dialogue, or the fact that many of the actors often look a bit too lost in space. Or perhaps it’s yet another example of how difficult it is for the medium of film to convey the raw power of the written word.

Captain Phillips Review: A harrowing true story is one of the year’s best

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When true stories like the one behind Captain Phillips happen, you can imagine Hollywood executives licking their lips in anticipation. “Yes,” they say, “this will make a great movie in a few years.” Not all “based on true events” films are created equal, but in the case of Captain Phillips, they’d be right.

It seems there are several news stories every year that capture our collective imagination like nothing else. In 2009, the harrowing story of the large American freight ship, the Maersk Alabama, being captured and taken hostage by Somali pirates off the horn of Africa, had people the world over glued to their television sets and news feeds. At the center of it all was the Alabama’s captain, Rich Phillips, an ordinary man forced into extraordinary circumstances.

The primary attraction to true-life underdog stories is, I believe, the fact that so many things could go wrong, and the miracle of this story is that all of those little things went right, or at least as right as could be expected under the circumstances. One wrong look, one calculated attempt at reconciliation too many, and you face a bullet to the brain.

Rich Phillips is a New England shipping captain who is tasked with captaining a large load of food and other relief supplies around the Horn of Africa. He and his crew know of the dangerous Somali pirates said to patrol these seas. They are eventually boarded by a small band of armed pirates as Captain Phillips is taken for ransom in a small lifeboat. The Navy attempts to resolve the situation peacefully as the world watches on.

The story is grade-A cinematic material, but portraying it compellingly on screen seems like a nigh-impossible task. After all, the story takes place on the ocean, in drab shipping containers and claustrophobic fishing boats. Enter director Paul Greengrass, perhaps the finest working director when it comes to filming true stories documentary style, less as movies than as actual lived experience. His United 93, about the plane hijacked by terrorists on 9/11 that ended up in crashing in a Pennsylvania field, proved so unbearably intense it caused people to walk out of the theater, and The Bourne Ultimatum is one of the more realistic action movies of recent years.

Such style works wonders here. Greengrass shoots everything in tight close-ups, concentrating on the furtive glance and the beads of sweat. Greengrass’ camera is restless, as it bobs, weaves and pans across nearly every shot. Those who were nauseated by Greengrass’ “shaky-cam” style in Ultimatum will not find any relief here, but it seems to me a perfect marriage of style and substance. The constant movement replicates the feeling of being on open waters, where even small conversations contains an added element of intensity. It helps the sometimes-drab surroundings come alive.

At two hours, the film feels substantial, not the least because it takes a good while for the hijacking to actually occur. In 2009, some wondered how a large shipping crew could allow itself to be hijacked by four pirates, but the film shows that they didn’t lie down quietly. The crew pulled out all the stops to prevent a boarding and, when it did occur, resulted to clever diversionary tactics and even a bit of guerilla warfare (barefoot pirate plus broken glass equals not a pretty sight).

At the center of it all is, naturally, Captain Phillips himself, played fearlessly by Tom Hanks. Here, Hanks gives one of the best performances of his career, displaying tremendous grace under overwhelming pressure. Hanks plays Phillips as a peaceful man, one who can’t bear the thought of violence even against his increasingly violent captors. Like Sandra Bullock’s character in Gravity, he is just trying to get home in one piece. The last 20 minutes of the film in particular will almost surely net Hanks a well-deserved Oscar nomination.

Greengrass and company wisely casted native Somali non-actors to play the pirates, and their performances and appearances are dead-on. There’s the small-but-fearless leader, Muse, and his rogue, violent right-hand man; the driver; and the teenage pirate who’s in way over his head. The actors, led by a chilling Barkhad Abdi as Muse, portray the pirates not as evil men but those simply doing what they need to survive. They, with the help of Billy Ray’s screenplay, give the pirates a humanity and even a sympathy that a safer Hollywood blockbuster would have glossed over.

It is in this humanity that Captain Phillips asserts itself as one of the year’s best films. Nobody wants anyone to die, not the pirates, nor the navy, nor Captain Phillips himself. When the Navy arrives, he pleads with the pirates to let him go not so much because he fears for his own life, but because he fears for theirs. The ending, which, as we all know, ends in spectacular violence, does not strike me as a particularly happy one. Everyone may be relieved that the lengthy ordeal is finally over, but Rich Phillips is not smiling as he is escorted out of the lifeboat and toward a reunion with his family. We get the sinking feeling he may not smile again anytime soon.

The dog did it: Living in a spoiler culture

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Spoiler Alert, obviously. 

Several friends of mine were rather disappointed when a story appeared online about a fake obituary in a New Mexico newspaper for Breaking Bad antihero Walter White. Some articles mentioned the disappointment of the paper’s readers over having the character’s fate spoiled for them. But my friends reading the story were equally disappointed, because they hadn’t seen the finale either. I saw the story 4 days after the finale aired, but by then I had already seen it. Nonetheless, I recorded the finale during its Sunday night premiere and intended to watch it in the next few days. I didn’t even make it that long. My Facebook news feed tantalized me with complex analyses of the finale, but I avoided them. Then I saw that Stephen Colbert had interviewed show creator Vince Gilligan the night after the finale. I watched the interview, and when Colbert warned of spoilers, I figured he meant everything but the final episode (I had seen all but the last episode at that point). I was wrong. “Why did you decide to kill off Walter White?” Colbert asked Gilligan. I let out a little groan, knowing full well that the spoiler culture had gotten the better of me once again.

The word “spoiler” is an interesting one. It implies damaged goods, something that is ruined beyond repair. After all, something “spoiled” can’t really be “unspoiled.” But in some cases the term seems a bit strong. I watched the Breaking Bad finale, and knowing the fate of Walter White in advance did nothing to hamper my enjoyment of it or the surprises of some of the other twists and turns the finale took.

And yet, having something spoiled for us can elicit an intense reaction. In the case of Breaking Bad, we feel betrayed. After spending a good 60 hours with these characters and this world, we hear of its conclusion outside of that world, detached from the universe that we’ve become so attached to. It’s ending with a whimper what should have been ended with a bang. But Breaking Bad is far from the most egregious example. After all, Walt was doomed from the start. It’s not so much about what happens to Walter White, but how it happens. Thus, watching the show is not a waste of time even if we know how it ends.

In a show like Lost, which is even longer than Breaking Bad, the betrayal is more abrupt. Because the entire series is predicated on a twist ending, having it spoiled for you can feel like you’ve wasted a good chunk of your life watching the show. Once the mystery is unveiled, it loses a lot of its magic.

One major issue with the spoiler culture is the lack of consensus on the shelf life of our entertainment. After all, the Sixth Sense has been out for over 10 years, and people still get upset when I try to talk about the ending (the dog did it, by the way). How long does the rest of the world have to wait for us to catch up? A month? A year? 10 years? When does the world get to stop feeling sorry for me and my ignorance?

The problem is confounded by the seemingly perverse joy people have in ruining things for others. A friend of mine tried to talk to me recently about the absolutely stunning ending to the video game Bioshock Infinite. “I heard that game gets crazy,” he said. Luckily, I had long ago finished it, but I think he wished I hadn’t. Someone else had ruined the game for him, and all would not be right with the world until he ruined it for someone else.

Our digital, always-on lifestyle makes avoiding spoilers even more difficult. The best way to stave off Breaking Bad spoilers would have probably been to stay away from all social media contact for at least a week after the finale. But for someone like me, who gets so much of his information and news from his Facebook feed, I don’t see how that’s possible. The spoiler culture also tends to be elitist. Everyone is talking about this, and if you’re not a part of the club, you’re shunned from the community with those patronizing “spoiler alert” messages that tantalize: “Come on, what we’re talking about here is pretty awesome. Don’t you want to be cool? One peek won’t hurt.” In that article about the New Mexico newspaper obituary, the underlying message is “hey, you know that Breaking Bad finale? Well look what happened here.” Never mind that our answer to that question might be “no.” If we don’t know by now, someone is going to tell us.

Traditional work culture describes a “water cooler moment” as an entertainment or cultural event that everyone will want to talk with their work colleagues during breaks around the water cooler. The advantage to this is that you know when you need to stay away from the cooler to avoid spoilers (and who you need to stay away from). But online, the water cooler is everywhere, and there are no breaks. It’s like dozens of strangers screaming in your ear “hey, how about that series finale? Pretty cool, huh?” You can only tune out so many voices before one slips by.

So, what’s the answer here? Are we doomed to have great stories spoiled for us because we don’t experience them at the same time as others? I think caution and consideration on both sides can minimize the impact of the spoiler. If you’re a person that tends to spoil things for others, realize that there are people out there who care about great stories as much as you do, and that ruining a universe for someone else is kind of a low blow. And, if you’re someone who tends to feel the cold sting of the “spoiler alert,” my best advice to you would be to tread lightly. 

Gravity Review: Transcending the Impossible

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Seven years is a long time to wait for a filmmaker as good as Alfonso Cuaron.  The Mexican director’s visual craftsmanship and panache for potent social and political commentary were last displayed in the 2006 masterpiece “Children of Men.” His new film “Gravity” eschews the potent, dystopian themes that made his previous film so memorable, opting instead for a much simpler lost-in-space tale. The result is an intense, effortlessly entertaining and expertly crafted thriller, and a shining example of how groundbreaking technology can turn a decent space flick into the movie going experience of a lifetime.

The plot, as mentioned previously, is a lost-in-space tale, and it first it doesn’t seem any more complicated than that. Medical engineer Ryan Stone (Sandra Bullock) and veteran spaceman Matt Kowalski (George Clooney) are in space repairing an American satellite when they receive news that a Russian satellite has blown up, and the resulting debris causes them to become tethered from their satellite and left adrift in space. The rest of the film is a relatively straightforward gotta-get-home scenario.

The film’s magic comes from its perfect marriage of 3D technology and special effects, the finest example Hollywood has yet produced. “Avatar” received praise for its special effects-generated worlds, but “Gravity” manages the much more impressive feat of making space feel real. This is not science fiction. From the odd floating pen or photograph to the ice forming on the window of a space pod, every frame of the film is so perfectly crafted and often achingly beautiful that it almost defies the senses. In my opinion, IMAX 3D is not optional here. The film earns every cent of surcharge.

Then there are the action scenes. As the famous tagline from “Alien” goes, “in space, no one can hear you scream.” But we don’t need extraterrestrials to make us do that. Space is the perfect killer in its own right. It can be hot or cold, beautiful or devastating. It’s everywhere, and it can’t die. One of the great strengths of the film is how it presents space as a main character, an unstoppable antagonist, right up there with Hal 9000 or Darth Vader. But no robot or Sith lord was ever this relentless. The action is astonishing in its scope and devastation, and lots of dangerous stuff flying at the screen will keep audiences firmly planted on the edge of their seats. Some might even fall off.

But special effects don’t amount to much without great characters, and Cuaron has given us one of the best in Bullock’s Ryan Stone. The timid amateur turned stone cold survivalist is always a fascinating transformation, but Dr. Stone has a character arc so satisfying it makes that trope somehow feel fresh again. Bullock gives easily her most physical and emotional role to date, and her role as the film’s sympathetic everyman is a shoo-in for an Oscar nod. She keeps the film, for all its flights of fancy, firmly grounded. Sigourney Weaver’s iconic Ripley might have to give up her crown as the Queen of space.

The film is relentlessly paced, and feels perfect at 90 minutes. It goes in, kicks ass and gets out, leaving you breathless and begging for more. It’s rare for a film to satisfy so deeply on every level. For my money, “Gravity” is one of the great modern triumphs of the Hollywood studio system, which is so content to churn out soulless action blockbusters. It’s not exactly original, but it takes familiar concepts and makes them feel fresh again. And the film’s clear message that life, even when it feels like a constant struggle, is ultimately worth living is essential in an age where our media is increasingly concerned with a high body count and our culture is de-emphasizing the value of human life. The final shot brings this message home, and is powerful in its beauty and simplicity; a vast improvement over “Children of Men’s” unsatisfying non-ending.

“Gravity” is that all-too-rare type of movie: it transcends what we previously thought possible. It reminds us why we go to the movies in the first place. Run, don’t walk. Then see it twice, trusting that if it takes Cuaron another seven years to make a movie this good, it will be worth the wait.

Breaking Bad on the moral power of choice

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This post discusses the series as a whole as well as the final episode in-depth. There be spoilers ahead. 

I’ve never considered television an art form. At least, not on the same level as film. Even some of my favorite, expertly-produced shows such as “24” are there primarily for escapism. “Breaking Bad” is the show that made me change my mind.

Over the past few weeks, I have binge-watched the show with everyone else, reveling in its expert acting, pacing and artistic flights of fancy (lordy, those camera angles). As the internet has confirmed, I’m not the only one singing its praises. But what has truly captivated us about AMC’s layered drama about a high school chemistry teacher who turns to cooking meth after finding out he has incurable lung cancer is the challenging choices it forces its characters and, by extension us, to face.

Walter White’s universe is cold, cruel and, some might argue, bleak. But, it’s also a profoundly moral one. After the stunning series finale, it’s remarkable to see creator Vince Gilligan’s clarity of vision across five seasons. He has created a world where actions have profound consequences. And consequence, in TV and in life, is something we need more of.

We live in a culture of finger pointing. Everything is someone else’s fault, because that means we never have to own up to our mistakes. We sue each other at the drop of a hat. Our politicians are self-serving, cops have it out for us, our co-workers are all horrible people who can never fully understand our situation, and so on. The most refreshing thing about “Breaking Bad” in my mind is that it puts choice front and center, and no one gets off easy. Everyone makes choices, and they must deal with the consequences of those choices, even if they try to run from them. Gilligan and company have reminded us that our lives are little more than the choices we make every day. Good or bad, big or small, choice is really all we have.

Walter White knows this from the beginning. He knows the choice to start cooking meth will have tremendous consequences. Even as he lies to others, he owns up to his actions in his own mind. Near the end of season 4, he tells his wife, Skyler, “I’ve done these things and I alone am responsible for what happens. Not you.”

This is a true admission, but in another aspect Walt’s decisions are off base. He does what he does, including lying and plenty of murder, because he wants to provide for his family. But, in the world of “Breaking Bad,” that doesn’t fly, and we as an audience know that. If Walt’s is truly a world where it is only our actions that have consequences, then intentions mean very little. Skyler and Walt’s son, Walt Jr., prove this by refusing to accept Walt’s money. The man who has spent a year building a drug empire in order to leave money for his family when his cancer takes him can’t even provide that. His family didn’t care about the purity of his motives, only his actions which, despite intentions, threw their lives into chaos and disarray.

Jesse Pinkman, Walt’s cook partner and philosophical foil, reflects the power of choice even more strongly. Unlike Walt, Jesse has a deep and true conscience. He is racked with guilt when he is forced to shoot a man and when a child is needlessly killed during a job. Jesse’s world remains unclouded from a false pretense of motivation. He has done terrible things, and he has to find some way to live with them. He says this in a powerful scene during a drug rehab session. The counselor is telling him he has to move on from the mistakes he’s made, and Jesse calls this “bullshit.” It’s true. Jesse refuses to be a part of the blame culture by truly owning up to his actions and letting them sink in.

What I thought was so brilliant about the show’s series finale is that it pretty much subverted everything I just said. Some would call this a philosophical cop-out, but I would say it stayed true not only to the show’s universe but to the way the world often works. The most powerful moment in the entire episode (if not the entire show) is when Walt quietly admits to Skyler that he did not build a meth empire for his wife and kids. He did so because he liked it and because he was “good at it.” Does that change how we view Walt’s actions throughout the show? Motivation notwithstanding, Walt did some horrible things, and the universe of “Breaking Bad” seems to demand that he answer for them. But doesn’t this selfish motivation make us wonder whether he would have gone to such incredible lengths to protect himself and his money? Didn’t he see that his actions were hurting his family more than his money would ever help them?

Then comes the real kicker: Walt didn’t have to answer for anything he did. He died, yes, but he died free of the consequences of his actions. Who’s left to deal with those consequences? His family, who he seemingly tricked into taking his money by coercing his old business partner to gift it as part of a trust. His lawyer, Saul Goodman, who is set to live a cold, lonely life in Nebraska under a new name. All those Nazi guys he killed (they had it coming, sure, but still). And, most of all, Jesse. When Jesse drives away from the compound where he was held prisoner and forced to cook meth for a year, he begins to laugh. But, thanks to the always excellent acting of Aaron Paul, we wonder if maybe that laugh is turning into a deep, guttural sob. After all, Jesse still has the burden of living with all the horrible things he has done. Everyone he loves is dead. He has nothing In comparison, Walt got off easy.

Walt’s actions will continue to have tremendous consequences to those around him, even if he no longer has to deal with them. I’ve been rambling about the importance of choice, but the giant hole here is that the very reason Walt’s ever-captivating story was set in motion had nothing to do with choice at all. He didn’t choose to have cancer. His disease seemed a machination of blind, cruel fate. Viewed from this lens, Walt spent the next five seasons building an elaborate dream. He dreamt that he was powerful, that he was in control. But he never was. Cancer could have taken him at any moment. The one choice he could never make was the decision to not have cancer.

That’s what sticks with me about “Breaking Bad.” It doesn’t deal in clear answers or black-and-whites. The decisions we make have consequences, and actions truly do speak louder than words. That’s an important message, for sure. But there are times in our lives where we will have no control over what happens to us. We are not invincible. We need help. Do we cry out for assistance when everything starts to crumble? Or, do we continue to live in a fantasy world where we are in control? The fact that a TV show is forcing us to ask these kinds of questions is what will make “Breaking Bad” linger in the consciousness much longer than its admittedly stellar cinematic craftsmanship.

Looking Up: The Films of Terrence Malick

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If God does speak to us, what does he say? More importantly, how do we listen and respond? These are not easy questions, but it’s something that has been on the mind of filmmaker Terrence Malick for a long time.

Malick was already wrestling with themes such as the nature of existence, loneliness and finding God in silence with his early films “Badlands” and “Days of Heaven.” Then, he dropped off the directorial map for 20 years (Michael Nordine wrote a tremendous article about those missing years that should be required reading for film buffs).

When Malick re-emerged from obscurity with the peerless war film “The Thin Red Line” in 1998, movie fans and critics learned a few things. With the rise of the contemporary blockbuster and the leave-your-brain-at-the-door thrills of the likes of “Godzilla,” “Armageddon” and Deep Impact,” a voice like Malick’s—honest, sincere, challenging – was sorely missed in American Cinema. Also, filmgoers realized that Malick had not been content to rest on his laurels during his absence. If anything, those years away had only sharpened his theological and philosophical convictions, as well as his impeccable filmmaking craft.

“The Thin Red Line,” loosely based upon the novel by James Jones, was nominated for seven Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director. It won none. The film was sadly overshadowed in popularity and prestige by “Saving Private Ryan,” Steven Spielberg’s excellent-yet-inferior WWII Oscar winner. That film went on to win Spielberg his second Best Director statue. Both war films lost the Best Picture race to John Madden’s “Shakespeare in Love” in one of the biggest upsets in Oscar history. How two of the greatest war pictures of all time could lose to an admittedly great yet ultimately inconsequential film like “Shakespeare” remains an enigma, but one gets the feeling that Academy voters and critics respected “The Thin Red Line” more than enjoyed it. It seemed as though the world wasn’t quite ready for Terrence Malick’s return. In some ways, they never would be.

In some circles, the director’s films have become parodies of themselves, reaching peak levels of art-house pretentiousness, bloated length and, some might argue, preachy themes. While watching “The Thin Red Line” today, it may be easy to recognize some of these tropes, but it’s tough to argue against the idea that the film is one of the finest, most deeply impactful depictions of war ever committed to celluloid.

The film follows multiple soldiers and top brass as they attempt to push back Japanese forces during the Battle of Mount Austen, part of the Guadalcanal Campaign during WWII. It seems as though a who’s who of venerable actors were chomping at the bit to be included in a Malick film, including John Travolta, Adrien Brody, John Cusack, Woody Harrelson and Nick Nolte. But the primary focus is on Private Witt (Jim Caviezel), whose narration occurs in quite voice-over, a signature Malick technique. Witt converses with God about the meaning of war, faith, nature, and the motivation to carry on. His philosophical foil is Sean Penn’s 1st Sargent Welsh, who steadfastly denies the existence of God at every turn.

These two characters represent the philosophical dualism that Malick’s films exude. There are often two, conflicted ways to go living through this world, whether its war vs. peace, human nature vs. God’s providence or doubt vs. certainty.

“What is this war within nature?” Witt asks in the opening lines of the film. This war is not only the physical one fought by the soldiers, but the one that is fought within the souls of men. Darkness and light are constantly at war with one another. The darkness is readily apparent in the film’s bloody and realistic battle sequences. The soldiers handle the darkness in different ways. Witt handles it with hope; he always looks up, and he prays “in you I place my trust” to God during a striking candlelit scene. Welsh stays away from such pretensions, proclaiming that “there ain’t no world but this one.”

One would not expect to find God on a battlefield, and Witt struggles with finding the light amidst the darkness. “This great evil—where did it come from?” he asks. “How did it steal into the world? What’s keeping us from reaching out, touching the glory?” But, where there is evil there is also love. Witt finds it in his experiences living AWOL with native islanders in the South Pacific that open and close the film. In these scenes, the chaos of war is but a distant nightmare. “Where does it come from?” Witt asks. “Who lit this flame in us?” Even during warfare, Malick’s lens focuses on the beauty amidst the destruction. The trees and grass sway gently, the river runs, and everything from frogs to crocodiles to insects live out their peaceful existence unaware of the manmade chaos swirling around them. Some might find Malick’s frequent nature shots over-indulgent or random, but they are anything but. Rather, they further reflect Malick’s idea that nature, both human and divine, are in a constant state of struggle.

Near the end of the film, Witt asks, “Darkness and light, are they the working of one mind?” It’s a question he has been wrestling with the entire film. His response is not so much an answer as a decision to give himself over to the light when he is killed in action. Another soldier speaks for his departed spirit in the closing scene, where the ocean waters as the soldiers leave the island represent a sort of baptism, a washing away of the blood and dirt as well as other, less visible stains. “Oh my soul, let me be in you now.”

The New World

Malick’s focus on the baptismal waters and the purifying powers of nature in general received a more intense focus in his next film, “The New World.” The historical drama follows the familiar (and unfortunately Disney-fied) story of the founding of the Jamestown settlement and the complicated romance between Captain John Smith (Colin Farrell) and the young Native American Pocahontas (Q’orianka Kilcher).

The film is almost prohibitively beautiful, as the camera sweeps across the vast American landscape, showing both the possibility and the danger of a land of great promise. Emmanual Lubezki’s sensuous cinematography captures the beauty of nature through long shots, letting the natural sound of the environment speak for itself. Like in “Thin Red Line,” God is everywhere here: in trees, grass, water and earth, there is a spirit that guides the actions of the characters. “Mother,” Pocahontas asks, “where do you live—in the sky, the clouds, the sea? Show me your face.”  The film’s presentation of spirituality derives not only from English Christianity but also traditional Native American spiritual practices.

Despite appearances, Malick can’t be accused of pantheism here. God and nature are not one in the same. Rather, all of nature is infused with the spirit. Theologian N.T. Wright calls this an “overlapping” view: heaven and earth are not completely distinct, nor are they one and the same. Rather, they occasionally overlap in distinct but often quiet ways. In “The New World,” God’s voice is often a quiet, gentle guide. “Who are you whom I so faintly hear?” John Smith asks near the beginning of the film. “What voice is this that speak within me, guides me toward the best?”

The film is a series of births and re-births. There’s the initial attempt at colonization, Smith’s initiation into Pocahontas’ tribe, Smith’s (fake) drowning and Pocahontas’ Christian baptism as “Rebecca,” among others. The film opens and closes to the sounds and images of a rushing river, and we see that the waters of baptism renew the spirit as well as the body. We see this in Captain Newport’s (Christopher Plummer) speech on colonizing the New World. “God has given us a promised land, a great inheritance, a new kingdom of the spirit. We shall make a new start. A new beginning.”

But God is found much more in Pocahontas’ encounters with Mother Nature than in the New Englanders’ Christianity. Malick doesn’t shy away from the role religion played in the settlers’ sometimes-barbaric treatment of the natives. When “Rebecca” is taken as the Americas’ ambassador to London to meet the Queen, we see little of her God in the bustling city streets and ornate constructed cathedrals. She agrees to stay in England and marry the handsome John Rolfe (Christian Bale), but we see her heart truly lies back in America, with the God of her people. She is only truly free again at the end of the film; after she has died, she frolics through the trees and lifts her hands up to the sky. “What is from you, and what is not?” she asks. In this case, the answer is easy.

The Tree of Life

Malick’s next film is considered by many to be his most personal film, as well as his masterpiece. Others, however, consider it a load of pseudo-spiritual hogwash: overlong, deliberately obtuse and unnecessarily ponderous. When the film was released, theaters had to put up signs telling paying moviegoers that they could not have their money back.

Certainly, “The Tree of Life” is a perfect distillation of everything people love and hate about Terrence Malick. The film is, once again, impossibly beautiful (Lubezki again), but it can be difficult to connect images of canyons, dinosaurs and the creation and destruction of the universe with the primary story being told (which is, of course, the point). The “story,” as much as it can be called one, concerns Jack O’Brien (played as an adult by Sean Penn) growing up in Waco, Texas in the 1950s (Malick himself grew up there). His family’s life is thrown into turmoil when his oldest brother dies. He is forced to come to terms with Malick’s clearest example of dualism, the way of nature vs. the way of grace. Mrs. O’Brien (Jessica Chastain) represents the way of grace, while Mr. O’Brien (Brad Pitt) represents the way of nature. “There are two ways through life: the way of nature and the way of grace,” Mrs. O’Brien narrates at the beginning of the film. “You have to choose which one you’ll follow.”

The concept of choice is always a major theme with Malick. Specifically, the ability to choose hope over despair. Mrs. O’Brien represents hope in the midst of tragedy, while Mr. O’Brien represents the more “natural” response. But hope, in Malick’s eyes, is a dichotomy: it is an impossible and yet natural response. His characters always look to the sky, reaching toward something. They choose hope, and at the same time can’t help but look up. Hope is a physical as well as an emotional response. But some, such as Mr. O’Brien, continue in the ways of “nature:” they often find themselves in those age-old pitfalls: legalism and certainty (mostly in God’s non-existence). Malick’s heroes are never certain God is there (that’s why they ask so many questions), but their natural response is to look up nonetheless. The trick in “The Tree of Life” is that grace is actually the natural response: it is “nature” itself that has been corrupted.

To The Wonder

In case the title is no indication, Malick’s latest film, “To the Wonder,” is in many ways his most overtly theological. It’s also his most sensual, exploring the “holy mystery” of marriage between Neil (Ben Affleck) and Marina, a woman he meets in France (Olga Kurylenko). The film portrays the emotional ups-and-downs as well as the challenge of staying faithful (neither of them do). This “holy mystery” we call love and marriage is, once again, both spiritual and physical. “I feel so close I could almost touch you,” Marina narrates in French. “There is always this invisible something that I feel so strongly which ties us so tightly together. I love this feeling, even if it makes me cry sometimes.”

In the midst of this story is also one of a priest, Father Quintana, (“serial killer” Javier Bardem, in a particularly odd but inspired casting choice), who struggles with his own doubt and narrates a good portion of the film in Spanish. Here, Malick uses multiple languages to show that love is a universal and visual language. He celebrates multiculturalism while not dwelling on it.

The film is predictably gorgeous, but Malick turns his eye from expansive vistas (thought there are some) to the dilapidated crack houses and storm drains of Oklahoma. God is no less present here than he is in Pocahontas’ native lands. But he can be harder to hear. This is particularly true amidst the mundane images and bombast of American culture: the carnival, the rodeo, Sonic drive-thru and the supermarket. Marina finds herself alone as a housewife struggling with domesticity and ennui. Like Pocahontas, she seems to long for somewhere else. When she returns to France for a time, she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. She seems to be waiting for something intangible.

Malick’s films are often about waiting in quiet expectation—for love, redemption or change. Often, we don’t get what we long for, but Malick sees value in the waiting. And yet, refusal to act is the greatest sin in Malick’s universe. “Jesus insists on choice,” Father Quintana says in a sermon. “The one thing he condemns utterly is avoiding the choice. Forgiveness he never denies us. The man who makes a mistake can repent. But the man who hesitates, who does nothing, who buries his talent in the earth; with him, he can do nothing.” This goes back to the greatest of all choices: the choice to either believe in or reject Christ as savior. Sometimes we must wait, but the ultimate choice is one we must all act upon, whether we want to or not.

Our conflicting human nature can be seen even in our romantic relationships. Marina speaks of “two women. One full of love for you. The other pulls me down towards the earth.” She is pulled to commit adultery, but her higher nature admits her indiscretion to Neil (the result is not pleasant). The way of “nature” is one that pulls us down, and we bring others down with us. Another word for it might be “sin.” It is something that must be actively fought against, for our nature does us more harm than good. But again, grace can also be natural, and, in the context of a marriage, a necessity.

Finding Grace in the Questions

Throughout his filmmaking career, Terrence Malick has always asked the big questions while refusing to provide easy answers. Faith in God is never easy because life is never easy. Like anything that matters in life, you have to work at it. And work his characters do. The only stagnant characters are the ones who are certain God doesn’t exist. In Malick’s eyes, faith in God may provide more questions than answers. But those questions are always, eminently, worth asking. They keep us strong and active. They pull us up toward heaven and away from the way of “nature.” They keep us looking up.

I want to end with Father Quintana’s prayer at the end of “To the Wonder,” one of the most magnificent prayers ever committed to film. “Christ be with me. Christ before me. Christ behind me. Christ in me. Christ beneath me. Christ above me. Christ on my right. Christ on my left. Christ in my heart. Thirsting, we thirst. Flood our souls with your spirit and life so completely that our lives may only be a reflection of yours. Shine through us. Show us how to seek you. We were made to see you.”

Yes, this is the prayer of a doubter and a seeker. No bitterness toward God, no anger. Simply a desire to be closer to the light. If ever there was a way for the medium of film itself to help us see that light a bit more clearly, Terrence Malick has found it. Growing closer to God is a matter of inches at a time, not miles. Life is often unbearably hard. But we have to keep looking up.