If you didn't get to see the films that won Best Picture at
the Oscars, don't despair—unlike big-screen cotton candy like La La Land, both Moonlight and The
Salesman will work well on
your television set.
As you probably know, Oscar presenters mistakenly announced
that La La Land had won as Best
Picture. Glad that error was caught, because Moonlight (A24 Pictures,
111 minutes, R) is by far the superior picture. It's a Hollywood rarity as a
prizewinner: an all-black cast with a black director, Barry Jenkins. Is it a
"black" film? Yes and no. It certainly deals with the poverty,
addiction, and diminished life circumstances within inner-city ghettos
populated by people of color, but it's also about role models, father figures,
LGBT issues, and—to paraphrase Langston Hughes—what happens to deferred dreams.
Jenkins centers his film on Chiron and unveils his life in three parts:
"Little," "Chiron," and "Black." Within this
structure we move from idealism to harsh reality to hedonism and (perhaps) a
search for redemption.
We first meet Chiron (Alex Hibbert) as a skinny boy in
Miami's Liberty City. He is picked upon by bigger kids for his bookish ways and
shyness so severe that he is literally tongue-tied when he flees a gang seeking
to beat him up and is found wandering by Juan (Mahershala Ali). Director
Jenkins cleverly twists white morality tales in which a character with a rough
exterior turns out to have a heart of gold. Juan really is a bad dude—a drug dealer who packs heat and commands deference
in the 'hood. But Juan is also the father that "Little" lacks. Chiron lives with single mom Paula (Naomi Harris), who works hard but also does crack
and has a string of boyfriends, each less appropriate than the predecessor.
By contrast, Juan is partnered with Teresa (Janelle Monáe), a true ghetto angel whose
home is one of linen, clean sheets, and home-cooked meals. Through Juan and
Teresa, Little dares to dream; he even cultivates a friendship with Kevin
(Jaden Pinder).
In Part Two, Chiron's dreams soar and are shattered. As a
youth, Chiron (Ashton Sanders) is still skinny and his aspirations have taken psychological
and physical beatings. His is a world of unexpected intimacies, betrayals, and
violence. By the time we meet Chiron (Trevante Rhodes) again in
"Black," he is a ripped physical dynamo living a perverse American
Dream and filled with self-loathing. Can Teresa, his mother, and/or Kevin
(André Holland) help him find redemption?
If you think recent movies are lame, Moonlight will restore your faith. You would have to search long
and hard to find a negative review of this gem. Jenkins should have won Best
Director—no one else had the chutzpah to build a trilogy in less than two
hours, construct distinct narratives, and direct three sets of actors—all for
$1.5 million. Ali won a deserved Best Supporting Actor Oscar, but his was just
one of uniformly brilliant performances. It's just a matter of time before we
start thinking of Ms. Monáe as an actress first and a singer second. All three
Chirons are superb, James Laxton's cinematography is stunning (check out what
he does with cool color and mixed film stock), stereotypes tumble, and
somehow—in the midst of varying levels of despair—we brush elbows with a deeper
humanity.
The Best Foreign Film Oscar went to The Salesman (Memento Films, 124 minutes, PG-13). I still
think Iceland's Rams was better
picture, but it's hard to begrudge anything done by Iranian director Asghar
Farhadi (A Separation, The Past). I
constantly marvel over how he gets work past mullah censors. This film is in
Persian with English subtitles, but you'll recognize parts of this
play-within-a-film as it concerns a husband/wife team rehearsing Death of a Salesman while a real-life
domestic tragedy/drama unfolds outside the theater.
Emad (Shahab Hosseini) is a modern, magnetic, and commanding
teacher and director set to play the role of Willy Loman. Problems emerge when
he and his wife, Rana (Taraneh Alidoosti) must vacate their apartment when a
nearby construction project destabilizes the building. Luck is with them when
fellow cast member Babak (Babak Karimi) offers an apartment whose previous
occupant suddenly left. Strangely, though, Babak is vague about who she was or
why she left her things behind. Matters take an ominous twist when Rana is
accosted while bathing. The assault on Rana reveals Emad to be less progressive
than we first supposed. He becomes obsessed with finding the man who did this— not
because Rana was terrified and bloodied, but because of the stain on his honor.
This is a film about humiliation, obsession, patriarchy,
revenge, assumptions, and masculinity. Farhadi deftly interweaves themes from Death of a Salesman and we begin to see
Emad as akin to Willy in being stuck on the wrong side of social change. Emad's
descent into revenge fantasies soon wearies his theater colleagues, especially
Babak—whom Emad goes off script to insult— and Kati, a single mother whose
sympathies are with Rana. Is Emad a symbol for Iran's theocratic rulers—cruel,
self-righteous, and mired in out-of-date values? One wonders if Farhadi has
pulled the wool over mullah eyes by cleverly immersing such implications within
a mystery and its bathetic resolution. Has Emad become Willy—a man in pursuit
of illusions and living in a bygone world? Does his definition of morality
parallel Willy's antiquated values?
Farhadi likes to personalize clashing worldviews, often
placing them within domestic settings. His is also a masterful microcosmic look
at the pull of tradition versus the push of secularization. Is it also a veiled
critique of Islamic fundamentalism? You don't have to imagine the film in this
light, as it's dramatic in its own right. Part of the puzzle centers on the
identity of the mysterious previous apartment tenant. Pay attention to who is drawing
on the walls early on, as I think it's a clue. But Farhadi's forte—and maybe
the reason he gets to take surprising liberty—is that he only reveals part of
what he's thinking and leaves the rest for viewers to contemplate.
Rob Weir
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