The Whale is a Big Triumph

 

 

THE WHALE (2022)

Directed by Darren Aronofsky

A24, 117 minutes, R (By idiots for: “sexual content,” language, drugs)

★★★★★

 

 

The Whale is another example of how the Oscars long ago jumped the shark (ahem!). At least Brendan Fraser, the star of the film, was chosen as Best Actor. The Whale polarized audiences. Some thought it was anti-religious–it was, but with reason– others thought it was grotesque–ditto–and the snowflake crowd said it was fat-shaming, which is certainly was not. It also got an R rating to reinforce the twisted reality that it’s fine to kill people on screen, but they can’t swear, smoke pot, or pretend to masturbate (no nudity involved).

 

Darren Aronofsky directed the film version of Samuel Hunter’s play. Play-to-screen often leads to claustrophobic filmmaking and this one never leaves the house. But if it did, you wouldn’t believe it. Fraser donned 300 pounds of fat suit and prosthetics for his role as “the whale,” the morbidly obese Charlie, who is eating himself to death. Charlie is too despondent to go on after the death of his lover, Alan. It’s implied that Alan was anorexic before committing suicide and that Charlie is atoning for Alan’s sin by eating for him. He’s also an online writing/literature instructor, so the film is bathed in white whale Moby Dick references. Charlie’s students have no idea of what he looks like; he tells them that his camera is “broken.” It’s Charlie that’s broken, though his gentle demeanor and I-believe-in-you coaching casts the illusion that Mr. Rogers might be the disembodied voice they hear.

 

Is Charlie as unhinged as we suspect? Let’s do the math. His only friend is Liz (Hong Chau), a nurse resigned to being an enabler. He lives in a downscale apartment in Idaho, not exactly a gay-friendly state. Before he met Alan, he was married to Mary (Samantha Morton in a cameo), with whom he has telephone-only contact. He’s not allowed to see his daughter, Ellie (Sadie Sink). She will see him years after Alan’s death, by which time she’s  a sullen and manipulative 16-year-old. His only other human contact is teen New Life missionary Thomas (Ty Simpkin), who wants to “save” him. Even a young guy like Thomas can tell Charlie is dying. Not much to go on, is there?

 

But here’s the deal. Charlie is hiding inside his body and through his online identity, but everyone else is running from something. Or barely moving at all in Charlie’s case. He needs a frame or an oversized wheelchair to use the lavatory, flop into bed like a proverbial beached whale, or go to the front door to pick up his pizza deliveries after the delivery guy plucks the cash from the porch mailbox. It’s two large ‘zas at a time, which he gobbles in ways reminiscent of Mr. Creosote in the old Monty Python sketch of a glutton who literally explodes. The difference is that Charlie isn’t playing for laughs. When Liz reads his blood pressure and begs him to go to the hospital, Charlie isn’t alarmed. It brings him closer to his goal.

 

The film questions whether anyone can “save” another. Thomas thinks he can redeem Charlie, Ellie might be trying to rescue Thomas, Liz has reasons to tell Thomas to stuff his salvation message, Charlie thinks he can liberate Ellie–who he insists is “amazing”– and Mary tells Charlie she’s actually “evil.” Who’s right? Believe me when I say there are other secrets and complexities I’ve not touched upon.

 

Without strong acting, most of this would be a cruel joke. As in a play, though, Aronofsky directs an actors-forward film. Fraser is startling in appearance and stunning as Charlie. He did his homework to learn how such a person would move and how people with disabilities negotiate everyday life. He also excels as a man whose calm exterior barely contains his inner guilt and rage. Sink keeps us on our toes to the point where we aren’t sure which way she really tilts, Chau makes us understand why a nurse would honor Charlie’s wishes, and Simpkin is equal parts starry-eyed, naïve, and furtive.

 

Can ugliness be beautiful? Can a tragedy be uplifting? Can the revolting be beneficent? Yes, it can. But what does it say about Hollywood that it honors a filmed video game featuring a cosmic bagel over “disturbing” movies such as The Banshees of Inisherin or The Whale?

 

Rob Weir    

Empire of Light Lives Up to Its Title

 

Empire of Light (2022)

Directed by Sam Mendes

Searchlight Pictures, 113 minutes, R (for ridiculous!)*

★★★★★

 

 

What a beautiful little film! Ignore the cranks who reviewed Empire of Light as underdeveloped or dull. Many were American reviewers for whom anything more subtle than an oil refinery explosion is too subtle. I will concede, though, that the film’s rom-com billing did it no favors.

 

Empire of Light is one part Cinema Paradiso, one part a look at personality disorder, and one part probe of British racism. Call it a pastiche of charming, serious, and sad. Such a difficult mixture takes a director as skillful as Sam Mendes to stitch together. It is filmed in the British seaside resort (an oxymoron?) of Margate, which even during the films’ setting of the 1980s had seen better days. The Empire is a grand old movie house barely hanging on. The top floor has been closed for so long that pigeons rule the roost, but the staff still dress sharp, keep the theater clean, and take pride in their work. Its oddball crew includes geeky Neil (Tom Brooke), punk wannabe Janine (Hannah Onslow), and diminutive projectionist Norman (Toby Jones). Much of the drama, though, centers on theater manager Donald Ellis (Colin Firth), Jill of all trades Hilary Small (Olivia Coleman), and new hire Stephen Murray (Micheal Ward), a black man in a town in which just 0.5% of the population looks like him.

 

We sense that Hilary is a bit “off,” and learn that she is on lithium to control bipolar disorder. She’s an emptied out loner looking for human connection, which isn’t easy in a workplace that’s a collection of oddballs with their own baggage. That also makes her easy prey for Donald’s sexual advances, which are grounded more in power than consent. Though she essentially runs The Empire, Hilary has never even seen a movie. Enter Stephen, a breath of fresh air by virtue of being the most normal person in the room. He wanted to be an architect, but he’s adrift after being rejected for college and his girlfriend. To his surprise, he likes working in the theater and becomes close with its employees. Too close to Hilary, actually, as the two embark on an unusual affair. He finds out the hard way about her fragile mental state.

 

Although The Empire might be on borrowed time, it remains a place where magic happens. It even gets an unexpected boost by scoring the Southeast England premier of Chariots of Fire. Unexpected things swirl around that as well. After all, hope was as fragile as Hilary for people on the bottom looking up in Margaret Thatcher’s England. If you need further confirmation of what happens in a society ruled by privilege-stirred anger, observe the skinhead sequences in Empire of Light. Credit goes to Sam Mendes for finding small redemptions amidst anger and injustice. Although some might find these insufficient or naive, I’ll take hope over relentless gloom. When Norman schools Stephen on how arc projectors work and explains how light at 24 frames per second tricks the eye into not seeing the black between the frames, it feels like a motto for our time. Also make note of what’s on the screen when Hilary finally enters the theater. It too is–dare I say it?–a subtle message quietly sent.

 

The film works in large part due to strong performances. Coleman has established herself as a topflight actress. Much like Cloris Leachman was in her prime and Tilda Swinton is now, Coleman has a clay-like face that she molds as the moment demands. At times she is frumpy, but when her spirit is unleashed, she makes us believe that a young man half her age could find her alluring. Ward’s role could have used more depth, but he deftly showcases his liminality as a black man in a white world, and again by toggling between disaffected, kind, or optimistic. Toby Jones also turns in an affecting turn as a doleful man whose life is in the projection booth–shades of Philippe Noiret in Cinema Paradiso–but no longer recalls exactly how or when he got that way. It’s also a departure to see Frith as a smug villain.

 

Empire of Light isn’t a perfect film. Some of the drama unfolds to improbable contrivances, for instance, and other moments skirt being saccharine. Yet, there’s much to be said for a tale in which we root for everyone to find what they’ve lost.

 

Rob Weir

 

*R because we see Ward’s naked bum, and people make out in the shadows. Gimme a break!    

Triangle of Sadness: The Rich Get Filthy

 

TRIANGLE OF SADNESS (2022)

Directed by Ruben Östlund 

Lionsgate, 147 minutes, R (language, adult situations, vomiting)

★★★★

 

 

 

Triangle of Sadness won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, but flew under the radar screen in the United States for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that it was a foreign-made film with no recognizable lead stars. It was directed by Ruben Östlund, who gave us Force Majeure, which divided film fans into two distinct camps: Those who loved it and those who were bored out of their skulls. (I pitched my tent with those in the second group.)

 

Like Force Majeure, Triangle of Sadness is languidly paced and doesn't encourage sympathy for those in the lead roles. It also takes its time working out key relationships. Luckily it mutates into a uniquely crafted and twisted pastiche of The Devil Wears Prada, Ship of Fools, and Swept Away (The 1974 Lena Wertmuller version, not the dreadful 2002 Madonna remake.)

 

That triple comparison also indicates that Triangle of Sadness is divided into three distinct parts. “Carl and Yaya” is fashion industry beefcake with a bevy of bare-chested men in low-slung pants traipsing back and forth with intermittent cheesy smiles and scowls. Each seeks to be chosen to be one of those faces you see in ads for ridiculously priced designer jeans. (The auditions also reveal the secret of the film’s title.) We eventually notice the camera lingering on one hunky guy, Carl (Harris Dickinson). We later see him in a posh restaurant with another icon, Yaya (Charlbri Dean Kriek), an “influencer.” Their discussion and bickering over who should pay the bill is insipid and freighted with airheaded manipulation. Who are they to each other?

 

In “The Yacht,” we find out that they are the “Beautiful Couple” du jour. Yaya has wrangled free fare aboard a luxury cruise in exchange for what we assume is a tit-for-tat promise to blog about the glories of the ship, the gourmet food, and the crackerjack staff catering to passenger dreams and whims. One reviewer called it a tale of the “have-nots and the have-yachts,” a terrific line that’s literally on the money. The passengers are filthy rich, insufferable, clueless, and thoroughly insensitive to those who serve them. Even several of the crew, especially head of staff Paula (Vicki Berlin), buy into the charade as if it’s the natural order of things. That’s not the case below decks whose working class and immigrant staff echo the stratification dynamics some might recall from Titanic. Östlund sharpened his critique by casting Woody Harrelson in an extended cameo role as the captain, a drunkard and a soon-to-be uncloseted communist. If that surprises, wait until you find out the vocations of some of travelers when they’re not cavorting like strutting peacocks.  

 

An unexpected event sinks the ship, the prelude to “The Island” with its Biblical “the last shall be first” reversal of fortune. Only a few make it to shore, but what does a pretty boy, a pirate, a fluffheaded influencer, a rah-rah gal, and a handful of toffs know about finding water, catching fish, building a fire, or improvising shelter? Power shifts to Abigail (Dolly de Leon), whose shipboard duty was toilets manager.

 

What exactly is Triangle of Sadness? A black comedy? A polemic? A drama? A satire? All of the above, though you could bet a few more chips on satire. Östlund clearly has little sympathy for the heartless monied classes, but they’re such a soft target that he realized more complexity was needed to underscore their social parasitism. Those touches redeem the meandering part one of the film.

 

Strong performances carry the film. Numerous reviewers singled out Kriek for praise, in part because she tragically died of sepsis at just 32. She was an intriguing figure, lovely in an emaciated way with a slightly askew face that made her stand out in a lineup of perfectly-featured interchangeables. She nailed her role as a simpering, privileged brat. For me, though, Dolly de Leon stole the acting crown. At age 54, she was the anti-Yaya, a fading flower and slightly plump, but also the embodiment of how toughness trumps ephemeral beauty.

 

Triangle of Sadness comes to a surprising and ambiguous ending. It is prefigured by a “why didn’t anyone think of this before?” discovery. We know the answer, but it still packs a thudding wallop. It’s also in keeping with Östlund’s preference for making points, not la-de-da saccharine endings.

 

Rob Weir

Elvis: Great Performance, Same Old Story

Elvis (2022)

Directed by Baz Luhrmann

Warner Brothers pictures, 159 minutes, PG13

★★★

 

 

 

 

American culture circulates the word generation to stamp everyone born during a particular time period as cookies from the same mold. A recent screening of Elvis reminded of the inaccuracy of this. Elvis Presley meant nothing to me. I was an infant when he debuted, in elementary school when he made his first comeback, and was musically weaned on acid rock and protest music. I heard his songs on the radio, but wanted nothing to do with a guy who idolized Richard Nixon, then became a bloated has-been in Vegas, a place I've never desired to visit.

 

Elvis made scads of money because so many people do worship Elvis and flock to Graceland with religious-like fervor. As biopics generally go, this one traces its subject from boyhood poverty to stardom and tragic demise. At heart, it's about the relationship between Elvis (Austin Butler) and his Svengali-like manager Colonel Tom Parker (Tom Hanks). Elvis was the headliner, but it was Parker who made him more than a white trash rockabilly weirdo who shocked white folks in Memphis by hanging out with black musicians–B.B. King, Rosetta Tharpe, Big Mama Thornton–dressing oddly, and gyrating his hips and pelvis in “lewd” ways.

 

Parker tried to clean up Elvis, first by taking him on tour with Hank Snow (David Wenham) and then trying to package him as family entertainment. As most people know, he wasn't entirely successful in the latter effort, so Parker turned from cajoler to control freak to maximize the monetization of the “King of Rock ‘n Roll.”

 

Other aspects of the Elvis saga are on display–his stint in the army (that, or go to jail), his marriage to Priscilla (Olivia DeJong), the compliance of his father Vernon (Richard Roxburgh) in Parker's plans, and Elvis’s downward drug spiral. All of this is aimed at presenting Elvis as a fallen demigod.

 

Insofar as the historical record goes, it's a whitewash job that makes Elvis into an innocent victim. With some justification, Parker wears the black hat; he was a fraud, a con man, a problem gambler, and a schemer who was always one step ahead of Elvis. That said, I just don't buy the idea that a personality and ego as big as that of Elvis was passive in all of this. It denies Presley’s agency.

 

This is a Baz Luhrmann film, so you know the production values are high, though Elvis is certainly no Moulin Rouge. Luhrmann tries to walk the borders between gauzy and gaudy, but the second is hard to do because Elvis was already over the top. How could one even make a parody of Graceland? At times, it felt as if Luhrmann was just slapping some lipstick and ruffled shirts on Elvis, which is akin to adding a few more sparkles to Liberace’s jacket.

 

The good news is that Butler was spectacular. He did his own singing in one of the best Presley imitations ever, though he doesn't look that much like his subject. He plays the role of the caged artist with great aplomb. Tom Hanks, though, polarized audiences as the halt-of-speech Parker. I don’t how the real Parker spoke, so I leave it to you to determine if Hanks butchered the role, played according to a flawed script, or nailed Parker's patter.

 

The film was overly long, an ongoing problem with biopics that give childhood-to-grave coverage. A bigger problem: Most biopics dealing with musicians who die “young” are exactly the same. They follow the story arc of Joseph Campbell's “hero's journey,” but instead of a metaphorical return “home,” the hero dies. If we replace Elvis, change the songs and costumes, and alter some details (race, gender, nationality) it's the same thing we've seen with Jim Morrison (The Doors), Amy Winehouse (Amy), Freddie Mercury (Bohemian Rhapsody), Charlie Parker (Bird), Sid Vicious (Sid and Nancy), Billie Holiday (Lady Sings the Blues), and … the beat has gone on and on. I'm sure if one of the three stalled Janis Joplin films finally gets greenlighted, it will be the same thing.

 

Am I being callous? I admit Elvis wasn’t my idol. He could sing–though his repertoire didn't evolve much–but I acknowledge his importance in the evolution of rock music. Yet, had Butler not been so good, aside from Luhrmann's carnival-like touches, Elvis would have bored me. I’m among those who think it's time to put biopics out to pasture.

 

Rob Weir

David Maraniss New Biography of Jim Thorpe

PATH LIT BY LIGHTNING: THE LIFE OF JIM THORPE (2023)

By David Maraniss

Simon & Schuster, 568 pages (plus end material)

★★★★

 

 When Jim Thorpe won the pentathlon and the decathlon at the 1912 Stockholm Olympics, King Gustav V dubbed him “the greatest athlete in the world.” Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist David Maraniss focuses on Thorpe in Path Lit by Lightning. He doesn't break new ground, but Maraniss excels at locating Thorpe in history and adds tasty tidbits. (Who knew that poet Marianne Moore once taught at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School?)

 

If you don't know much about sports or have only seen the problematic film Jim Thorpe–All- American, Thorpe was a magnificent athlete, but a flawed human being. He was born in Oklahoma, was of Sac and Fox blood, and his Native name meant “Bright Path,” hence the book’s title. His year of birth is a matter of dispute but in 1907, he left Oklahoma and was sent to the Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania, where he gained attention by cleared a 5’9” high jump in his street clothing as he chanced upon a practice conducted by Glenn “Pop” Warner. Thorpe was a lousy-to-indifferent student, but excelled at track, baseball, basketball, and the disreputable sport of his day: football.

 

Many Native youngsters were given opportunities, but 186 died in Carlisle. It bore more resemblance to a military academy than a private school. Deprivation and racism were rampant; its philosophy was summed by Superintendent Richard Henry Pratt: “Kill the Indian, save the man.” Warner was a legendary coach, but he too was a confirmed believer in Anglo-Saxon superiority and threw Thorpe under the metaphorical bus when his gold medals were revoked because he was (barely) paid for playing minor league baseball as a summer job. Thorpe spent the rest of his life seeking restoration of his gold medals, often locking horns with I. O. C. head Avery Brundage, whose character was deeply assailable. Not coincidentally, Brundage was pulverized in a football match against Thorpe in which Carlisle defeated Illinois. Carlisle routinely defeated colleges such as Harvard, Michigan, and Notre Dame. Maraniss spotlights other stellar athletes at Carlisle, including Lewis Tewanimo and Pete Calac.

 

Thorpe ran afoul of Olympic “rules,” but it’s accurate to note that many sports had loose standards. He played football for Carlisle in 1907-08 and again in 1911-12, but how old was he? Today’s fans would not have recognized football. Touchdowns were worth five points, most extra points and field goals were drop kicks, equipment was primitive, forward passes were rare, now-banned formations were routine, participants played both offense and defense, and so many players died that President Theodore Roosevelt nearly banned the sport. Thorpe was said to punt the less-aerodynamic football over 80 yards, which seems unlikely, though Maraniss repeats the legend.

 

The 6’1” 202-pound Thorpe tried pro baseball between 1913-1919, mostly with the New York Giants. Manager John McGraw wasn't impressed, Thorpe’s career numbers were modest, and though Thorpe was fast and powerful, he had  trouble hitting a curveball. He did better at pro football. In 1915, he signed with the Canton Bulldogs in a league that became the NFL in 1920. Between 1921-23, he suited up for the Oorang Indians. Not many know that there was an NFL franchise in LaRue, Ohio made-up of Native Americans. In all, Thorpe appeared in 58 NFL games. After 1928, he coached, played whatever sport he could, and made his last on-field football appearance when he was at least 46 years old.

 

Alas, it was hard to make a living at pro sports during his day. Thorpe was often broke and performed manual labor during the 1930s depression. Numerous patrons secured work for him, but Thorpe was not a reliable employee, moved often, and perceived numerous jobs as beneath him. He even appeared in 70 Hollywood films, but almost always as a day-wage extra.

 

Thorpe struggled with alcohol, fathered eight children to whom he was mostly a stranger, and exhausted the patience of two younger wives who divorced him. (His daughter Grace became a Native American activist.) His third wife, Patsy Askew, organized Thorpe, though some saw her as a gold-digger. When Thorpe died in 1953, instead of interring him in Oklahoma, Carlisle, or Southern California, she struck a deal with Mauch Creek, Pennsylvania, a place where Thorpe's cleats never trod. The town changed its name to Jim Thorpe and that’s where he lies.

 

Moraniss highlights the racism and sports rawness of Thorpe’s days. His Thorpe is a hero, but a nuanced victim who was both wronged and suffered from self-inflicted wounds.

 

Rob Weir

Playtime a Jacques Tati Masterpiece

PLAYTIME (1967)

Directed by Jacques Tati

Janus Films, 124 minutes, Not-rated

In English and French (with subtitles)

★★★★★

 

 

Though he made only six full-length films in his lifetime, many film aficionados consider Jacques Tati (1907-82 ) one of Europe's greatest directors. That might be objectively true, but you need to appreciate droll humor, languid pacing, and surrealism for full impact.

 

Playtime is often viewed as his very best picture and many rank it among the top 50 greatest comedies ever made. If you are patient, you will find a sharp critique of pretense, consumerism, and manufactured desire. Tati was a mime in his youth, but don't hold that against him. His character, Monsieur Hulot, is a nattier version of Charlie Chaplin's Tramp in that he is the sort of guy who stumbles into weird circumstances but manages to land on his feet. He's also like Chaplin in that Hulot doesn't say much, so don't worry that this is a French film. There's more silence and English than French.

 

Playtime was made in 1967, a cultural moment in which post-World War II France had shaken off the blues of combat devastation, post-colonialism, and economic dislocation. Things are shiny and new in Paris, and some of its trendoids are anxious to show off its modern face and gadgets. Hulot arrives in Paris along with hordes of tourists, including some stereotypical “ugly Americans,” as showy, opinionated, and culturally ignorant US travelers used to be called. (It wasn't yet a multicultural world, but 1967 was on the cusp of many changes.)

 

Hulot is supposed to see Monsieur Giffard (Georges Montant), but we are never quite sure why. (Nor do we know why the film opens in what might be a medical clinic populated by people we will never see again.) Just getting through the front door involves mad scientist button-pushing that only places Hulot inside a glass cube with perplexing furniture. He eventually enters a Dilbert-cube maze, spots Giffard,  but never finds him. (Those who have seen Tati’s Mon Oncle know that Tati often took pot shots at International style architecture.)

 

Hulot ends up at a trade exposition where all manner of “innovations” are for sale, such as brooms with headlights, soundproof doors, and things Rube Goldberg might have cooked up. Visitors are thrilled by all of this, though one American, Barbara (Barbara Dennek), wants to see more than the Eiffel Tower reflected in a glass door!

 

Tati and cinematographers Jean Badal and André took chances in that most of the film is shot at street level. You don't need any fancy academic theories to see that Tati is lampooning the sterility of modern life. The shots of people living in street-facing glass apartments echoes the homogeneity of the offices and hotels seen earlier. Why would anyone wish to live in such places? Conformity, my dears! Note also what Tati does with cars and men in suits. Hulot gets waylaid in various ways, but eventually ends up at the Royal Garden.Up to this point, Playtime is so deliberate you might think it boring.

 

Things enliven at the Royal Garden in ways analogous to the future humor of Jean-Pierre Junot (Delicatessen, Amelie.) The spot is the hottest new nightclub in Paris, even though it hasn't even opened­­­­­–mostly because it's not actually finished. Management rush matters given the number of people in town with lots of money in their pockets. It’s not hard to see what Tati is driving at here. The scenes inside the club are hysterical. Barbara is there, as is a loudmouth cigar-chomping Yank (Billy Kearns) with designs on claiming the best table and procuring a big steak. No one wants the turbot, the featured dish from a kitchen that’s a construction zone. Early 1960s decorum, fancy threads, high heels, and big hair dominate, but what does it tell you that few are having fun until  things literally fall apart? Call it spontaneity versus sterility, capped the next morning with breakfast for the survivors at the drug store across the street, and a Chaplinesque moment between Hulot and Barbara. Even then the carnival isn't quite over.

 

One reviewer called the nightclub scene akin to a Bruegel painting and he wasn't wrong, though Tati’s canvas comes with naff music scored by James Campbell. Note allusions to change on the horizon and before you consider the entire film a snapshot from yesteryear, try switching out a few designs, desires, trends, and gadgets. Tell me where you land.

 

Rob Weir

A Louvre Sampler

Here are a few shots from the Louvre. I’ve labeled some of them. Best viewed in full size. 

 

Jacques-Louis David (1740-1825)

Henri Bellechose (1414-c.1445)

Jean Auguste Ingres (1780-18670 

Joachim Patinnir (1483-1524)

Francois Edoard Picot (1786-1868)

 

Mona Lisa Side View

 

 

Winged Victory of Samotrace

Some of the Crown Jewels

Baroque Ceiling

David: Coronation of Napoleon

David: Death of Marat

                                                            Bellechose: Martyrdom of St Denis

Ingres: Grand Odalisque

Picot: Cupid and Psyche

Patinir: St Jerome in the Desert