I’ve been working overtime these last few weeks, trying to
see as many films as I can in preparation for my year-end Top 10 list, which you
should expect to see here on the site on or around Friday, December 19th.
There have been and will continue to be many reviews posting between now and
then (and afterwards, even), but as a result of watching so much content, I’m
not going to be able to give every film the full attention it deserves. Instead,
as I did at
the Denver Film Festival this year, I’m going to start posting articles
with thoughts on batches of films, with 2 or 3 movies discussed per post. That
gives me the chance to discuss a wider swath of content, without taking the
time to write an individual review for everything (it’s a more taxing exercise
than it looks).
I’m starting this effort off today with a combined look at
two of the most interesting films of the year, which are also sort of tonal
polar opposites: Bennett Miller’s chilly true-story drama Foxcatcher, and Damien
Chazelle’s exhilarating indie favorite Whiplash.
Read my thoughts on both after the jump…
I’m going to take these two films in opposite order of how I
saw them, in part because I have less to say about Foxcatcher, a film I feel both fascinated in and detached from.
Certainly, this is one of the most controlled cinematic exercises of the year,
cold, delicate, and sparse from start to finish. The dark, still photography is
frequently haunting, and the amount of space Miller leaves on the soundtrack is
a huge part of what makes the film’s frigid atmosphere so immersive and
all-encompassing. Silence is, in fact, the film’s main weapon; music is almost nonexistent,
sound effects are minimal, and dialogue is much less important than
physicality. Each of the three leads – Channing Tatum, Steve Carell, and Mark
Ruffalo – have constructed their characters almost entirely around physical
presence, and the majority of the drama, for me at least, lies in observing how
each person holds themselves, either alone or with others, and how that
physicality evolves and shifts over the course of the narrative.
‘Observational’ is indeed the key mode of the picture, for
in telling the story of eccentric millionaire John du Pont and his relationship
with professional wrestlers Mark and Dave Schultz – which culminated in du Pont
murdering Dave in an unexpected act of violence – Miller is less interested in
overarching character progressions, or even clear themes, as he is in studying
the strange, tortured relationships at the film’s core. Du Pont (Carell), the
last member of a longstanding American dynasty, has an eerie need for control, to
own things and exert power over them, and what he appears to want most, at the
start of the film, is world-famous wrestler Dave Schultz (Ruffalo), and the
prospect for Olympic glory that comes with him. Du Pont cannot get Dave,
though, so he goes through Dave’s younger brother, Mark (Tatum), who, while a
talented wrestler in his own right, has always lived in his sibling’s shadow.
Du Pont gives Mark exactly what he wants – respect and recognition – and Mark,
while unable to bring Dave along to Du Pont’s Foxcatcher estate, gives Du Pont
the submissive object of control the millionaire seems to compulsively desire.
For the first half, Foxcatcher
is essentially a two-hander between Carell and Tatum, and it is absolutely
transfixing to watch the quiet exchange of power between the two characters.
Mark is utterly consumed by the allure of du Pont’s encouragement, and du Pont
feeds on Mark’s vulnerability like an expert predator, twisting the knife
further and further until Mark’s identity has become deeply, dangerously
sublimated. Carell, eerily portraying du Pont’s latent madness under an
unsettling subterfuge of high-minded, manipulative oratory (and an astonishing
layer of makeup and prosthetics), proves what I have been saying about the
actor for years: That he is accomplished a dramatist as he is a comedian. Indeed,
the core of what makes his work so compelling here is the same thing that made
him great as Michael Scott on The Office:
His ability to unflinchingly push towards the awkward and cringe-worthy, with
utter commitment and a total lack of fear. Tatum, meanwhile, is all
physicality, holding himself like a big, hulking ape, with every thought and
emotion worn plainly on his body. It is a stunningly controlled performance, and
when Tatum and Carell share the screen, sparks absolutely fly. There is a
sequence, near the halfway point, where du Pont and Mark share a helicopter on
the way to a formal event, in which du Pont introduces his pupil to the ways of
both cocaine and speechifying (“Ornithologist,
philatelist, philanthropist…”), that is among the most accomplished and
effective individual sequences of 2014.
The film’s second half broadens its focus, becoming much
more of a disturbing ‘love triangle’ between the three central characters, and focusing
on the individual relationships each of them share. Du Pont and Mark have a
falling out; du Pont finally gets his claws on Dave, only to find that he
cannot possess this man the way he can Mark; and Dave swoops in to become a
redemptive figure for Mark, helping to build his brother back up after du Pont
so thoroughly tore him down. The film is no less rich or chilling in
contrasting these different pairings, though it does feel slightly messier the
longer it goes; Mark, so clearly the central protagonist for much of the film’s
run-time, is a marginal presence during the last half-hour, and the last act
lacks a clear unifying perspective.
This may not be a bad thing, though; there is something to
be said for Miller’s commitment to following these relationships as they
develop, even if that means letting a major character gradually disappear from
the picture, and I respect his refusal to offer a clear denouement or
punctuation point on the story. Foxcatcher
is not about ‘resolution,’ nor is it necessarily about any concrete ‘meaning.’
It simply takes a complicated, challenging story, follows it to the climax, and
then ends. Things feel a bit dramatically empty by the time the endgame rolls
around, with the psyche of each character illustrated so clearly (or, in the
case of du Pont, so clearly unknowable) that the finale is practically
obligatory. That may, indeed, be the point. Foxcatcher
is a study of extreme human behavior, and in the case of a man like du
Pont, who wants a kind of control that cannot realistically exist, the only ‘logical’
path is one of forcefully erasing the reality that haunts him. There is no
absolution, no overarching message at the end of the path – only the ambiguity
of human nature, and if that makes Foxcatcher
a difficult film to enjoy or engage with, it also makes it a fairly accomplished
portrait of a challenging subject. At the very least, I cannot imagine anyone
else telling this story in this specific way, and that alone makes Foxcatcher feel vital, even as I have no
desire to revisit the film any time soon.
Where Foxcatcher left
me feeling cold and detached (possibly by design), I am still recovering from
the positively euphoric high of Whiplash, a good five days after
walking out of the screening, dazed and elated. Forgive me if I gush, but my
praise for this movie has been steadily building ever since seeing it.
There have been a surprising number of good blockbusters
this year, action, superhero, and science-fiction films that left me thrilled
and excited, but no movie I have seen in 2014 made me as constantly tense and exhilarated
as this one. That should not be possible, given the film’s theoretically ‘quaint’
subject matter – the relationship between an aspiring Jazz drummer and his
esteemed conductor at a prestigious Conservatory – but beat after beat,
sequence after sequence, Whiplash filled
me with excited anticipation, pushed me towards the edge of my seat, and then
continually upped the ante until I felt I could barely it. Every single
sequence is a masterclass in the building of stakes, the creation of tension,
and the expertly protracted employment of pay-off – and they are all, at the
core, built around the performance of music. Amazing does not even begin to
describe it.
What makes the film work so beautifully is the dramatically
clear (yet thematically complex) nature of the central relationship. Andrew
(Miles Teller) is a talented young drummer, dedicated and hardworking, who
aspires to greatness. Fletcher (J.K. Simmons) is a famous, highly selective
conductor, who aspires to perfection, and pushes his students as far as he
possibly can in pursuit of it, to the point of nonstop verbal (and sometimes
physical) abuse. From the moment Andrew enters Fletcher’s orbit, Fletcher positively
tortures the boy in the name of pushing him further and further, and what makes
the film fascinating is how the power dynamics work between them. Fletcher is a
monster, pure and simple, but Andrew has no obligation to stick with him; the
film’s first few major ‘set-pieces’ (what else can I call them?) are built around
Fletcher pushing another student to their breaking point, and just like those
students, Andrew could walk away after the initial abuse. Once he sees what
Fletcher is, he could leave at any time. But he doesn’t. No matter how much
Fletcher throws at Andrew (literally and figuratively), Andrew just doubles
down, practicing harder and shedding more from his life. Andrew continually
goes as far as Fletcher demands – mutilating his hands, even, to keep tempo on
the most demanding piece – and in the process, becomes a better and better
drummer.
What are we to make of a relationship like this? There are
no easy answers whatsoever to what goes on between Fletcher and Andrew. It
would be easy to call Fletcher the villain, a callous abuser with no heart and
no conscience, but that would be ignoring how complicit Andrew is in his own
suffering. Is becoming a better musician worth the cost Andrew puts himself
through? Do the results of Fletcher’s instruction justify his heinous methods?
Fletcher’s argument – that the all-time great musicians would never have pushed
past basic human limits if they were patted on the back and reassured (“there
are no two words in the English language more harmful than ‘good job’”) – has a
disturbing air of truth to it, which makes us ask: Is perfection worth the
cost? Whiplash is a study into
obsession, a film about the pursuit of greatness and the toll it takes on the
human spirit, and it would be downright haunting – if it weren’t so damn exhilarating
to watch.
This is where Whiplash
soars. The film is constructed as a series of confrontations between
Fletcher and Andrew, a high-stakes challenge met by a no-holds barred attempt
to clear expectations, and every time Andrew sits down at his drum kit, it
feels like Rocky entering the ring. Over and over, writer/director Damien Chazelle
establishes an impossible, harrowing situation, in which the weight and
difficult of what Andrew must achieve is immense, and then immerses us in the
execution of Andrew’s trial. The film is wonderfully shot and powerfully
edited; rather than having us spectate musical performances from the
traditional proscenium view, Chazelle puts us right in the thick of things,
with a variety of angles amidst the band, and even more on and around Andrew’s
drum kit. Each shot is expertly chosen and each cut perfectly timed to create
maximum impact, and I have no way to describe each major sequence except with
the language of an action film. These are thrilling, stomach-churning set pieces,
each one more complex and rewarding than the last, and watching Andrew attempt
to rise to Fletcher’s demands, time and time again, is easily the most ‘excited’
I have felt in a theatre all year.
Even when the film appears to slow down, with a third act
that feels disappointingly conventional for a decent chunk of time, Chazelle
defies expectations and brings things back to dynamic, unpredictable territory,
with a dazzling finale that is impossibly invigorating and impactful. No
conclusion to any film this year packs more of a punch than Whiplash, as the final confrontation
between Andrew and Fletcher plays out wordlessly, entirely through music, and
ends on the exact right note to leave the viewer exiting the theatre in a dizzy,
exuberant trance. For all the time I spend complaining about films that should
have ended a few minutes earlier, films that nearly had a perfect ending before
taking a step too far, Whiplash is my
new go-to role model. This is how you end a film – with a powerful,
uncompromising wallop, one that says all it needs to say through action, and
which leaves the viewer to pick up the pieces and feel the buzz. Pure kinetic
energy – that is what Whiplash achieves,
and it is wonderful for it.
And the performances. My God, the performances. J.K. Simmons
has been a big part of my film-going life for as long as I have been reviewing
movies – Spider-Man 2 was the first
film I reviewed, 10 years ago – and I cannot explain how good it felt to
finally see a filmmaker fully unleash this man’s genius in a story tailor-made
for it. Simmons has always been a wonderful character actor, with a terrific
wit and sharp bite, and Fletcher is, by design, the best role he could ever
have. Chazelle gives him these long, positively poetic strings of insults and
profanity to recite, and Simmons digs into them like they are Shakespeare;
words are Fletcher’s most deadly weapons, and he hurls them at people like
daggers. Nobody does this kind of thing better than Simmons (which is why he
was so perfect for J. Jonah Jameson), but Whiplash
also reinforces what a great physical presence he is, how much he can
suggest through body language and facial movements. This is just a tremendous
performance, the driving force of the film, really, and it would be ridiculous
for anyone else to win the Best Supporting Actor Oscar.
Simmons is so attention-grabbing that it would be easy to
overlook the work Miles Teller is doing here, but that would be a mistake.
Teller first and foremost imbues the character with a sense of authenticity,
not only nailing the physicality of a drummer, but also coming across like a
genuine college kid, awkward and unsure of himself. Teller establishes that relatable
human baseline early on, so that when things get crazy, and Andrew becomes
nearly unrecognizable in his pursuit of perfection, it’s all grounded in
identifiable emotions and character traits. He inhabits this character
beautifully, and there is also something to be said for holding one’s own
against an actor as forceful and magnetic as Simmons. This is a real, masterful
two-hander, from start to finish, and the exchange that goes on between these
two actors is nothing short of magical.
My Top 10 list is still very much in flux – as is my Top 30,
actually – and with at least 10 more films on my list to see before the end of
the year, I have no real sense of what will and will not be on those lists when
they finally publish. But I think Foxcatcher
has a real shot of breaking the Top 30, and if Whiplash doesn’t find a place on my Top 10, I would be rather stunned.
Few films have left me so elated this year, and fewer still have stuck with me
in the way Whiplash has. I recommend both,
though if you have to pick one, Whiplash is
absolutely essential viewing.
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