Sorry We Missed You a Reminder of Class Bias

 

Sorry We Missed You (2019)

Directed by Ken Loach

Entertainment One, 100 minutes, Not rated (language)

★★★★

What does it mean to be an undereducated worker in a society with weak labor unions? Can you trust CEOs, line mangers, and investors to look out for your interests? How come Whole Foods employees called a strike? Why has Amazon replaced Walmart as the symbol of a heartless clutchfist corporation? Why is the working class so angry? Watch Sorry We Missed You and you’ll have your answer. Then be thankful we still have 83-year-old Ken Loach to remind us what fools we are to entrust our well-being to unbridled capitalism.

Perhaps you think being your own boss solves capital/labor conflict. That’s what Ricky Turner (Kris Hitchen) thought. He and his wife Abbie (Debbie Honeywood) were thrown into debt when the 2008 housing market crash stole their dreams. They went from homeowners to down-market renters swimming in an ocean of debt, but they are trying to do their best for their kids, Sebastian (Rhys Stone) and Liza Jane (Katie Proctor) through the hard work politicians tout as salvation. (They also claim to care about people like the Turners, but that’s a campaign gambit. Secretly they loathe pumping the flesh with the working class.) The Turners are spinning their wheels. Abbie is a home healthcare worker who gets paid by the job, not by the hour; Ricky works with his hands.

Who could blame Ricky for wanting to vault off the treadmill? Especially when a delivery firm promises he can be an independent driver who calls his own shots. He likes what he hears from distribution center head Maloney (Ross Brewster): “You don’t work for us, you with us. You’re master of your own destiny…. Like everything around here, it’s your choice.” If anyone ever says those words to you, walk out the door. Do not look back. This is forked-tongue bizspeak that sidesteps attached strings like needing to sell the family car for a down payment on a van, 14-hour days, taking responsibility for finding a replacement driver if you can’t do your runs, or having to juggle within-the-hour deliveries that would strain a track star. Nor is there mention that the warehouse supervisor can impose £100 fines, dun you £1000 if your scanner is lost or damaged, and tell you that you can’t use your van on off hours because it has the company logo on it. Plus there’s your £400 monthly payment for said van. Want time off to pick up your son from the police station because he was nicked for shoplifting? Split child care with your exhausted wife? Need time to heal because you’ve been mugged by hoodlums who smashed your scanner and left you bandaged and bloodied? It will cost you. Need to work fewer hours because you family is falling apart? In Maloney’s words, “That’s not my fucking worry, mate.” 

Loach’s film is set in Newcastle, England, but lest you think none of this happens in the United States, let me remind you of those Whole Foods and Amazon workers. Or the 1997 UPS strike. This is not just a movie; let the credits roll and you’ll see that Loach based the film on interviews conducted with actual delivery van drivers–most of whom withheld their names for fear of reprisal. Sorry We Missed You is Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times on wheels. In each case, workers are replaceable cogs in machines fueled by greed, not need. It makes us uncomfortable to consider it, but contract and gig workers are akin to immigrant labor; they do the jobs no one else wants.

The Turner family is emblematic of families across the globe blown to bits trying to practice the hard work ethos preached by monied interests from the comfort of their McMansions on the hill. The only break Loach gives viewers is that he subtitles the film for those unaccustomed to Newcastle accents. On the other hand, he does not romanticize the Turners; they are victims, not heroes. The easy out would be to blame them for their own bad choices. Yeah, and were this a criminal case, they’d get off for entrapment. The term “wage slave” has fallen from fashion in our (overly) PC times. Some assert that the word slavery is reserved for race-based chattel bondage. I respectfully disagree; families like the Turners are bound by economic shackles that make them the de facto property of their debt holders.

Perhaps this review doesn’t make you want to see Sorry I Missed You. Don’t turn away. Ken Loach dares remind us that social class is still a thing. You need to understand this, or don’t be surprised if the losers in the class war don’t give a damn about someone else’s oppression or turn to demagogues who at least agree that they’ve been tossed to the bottom of the social heap.

Take you medicine and watch this film. It’s gritty, sad, raw, and real. Like all Ken Loach films, it bleeds. And if you whine the next time a package is late, shame on you.

Rob Weir

Note: This film is still in theaters, which are closed because of the COVID-19 virus. Google to see who one in your area is offering it on pay-for-view. Amherst Cinema is one and you need not be a member to watch it.

Nels Andrews Artist of the Month April 2020

Sometimes I wonder if there is any subtlety left in the world. I’ve read a few reviews of Pigeon and the Crow, the fourth recording from Nels Andrews, that bemoan its minimalist approach. One even complained that it is a “dirge.” My response to that is that if you don’t like or understand folk music, you should be honest enough to admit it.

Pigeon and the Crow is indeed quiet and moody–you know, unlike all those other chirpy upbeat folk songs. Both of them. Folk songs are mostly about stories and melodies, not clichés or dance-your-ass-off rhythms. So, let’s start off with the title track. It is Andrews’ reimagining of a true story, that of Gabi Mann, a young girl from Seattle who began to feed her backyard crows when she was four. In turn, the crows left her presents. Before long, Gabi had quite a collection of things the crows left her–everything from shiny stones to rusty screws. You don’t need to tell her that corvids are intelligent. Andrews’ take is wrapped in a gorgeous melody that sounds vaguely Celtic. He’s actually American-bred and now lives in Santa Cruz, but he’s traveled a lot and has admirers in the UK. The Celtic flavor of this track has much to do with the fact that the album was produced by Ireland’s Nuala Kennedy and that’s her flute you hear wafting through the mix. Andrews’s lyrics and enigmatic and mysterious, an appropriate touch for human/wildlife encounters in which much is communicated but much more remains cloaked. Pete Harvey’s cello burnishes the deeper mysteries.

“Memory Compass” also has a Celtic flair to it. It’s doleful and introspective–my memory compass is always headed south/Bay leaf and cinnamon in the back of my mouth–and evocative of the kind of songs Richard Shindell writes. “Table in the Kitchen” has more drive to it, but is also self-reflective. It’s about looking inside while looking at others in a restaurant: Watching the people watching each other/Thinking I want what he has got. “Welterweight” is a live track that shows you don’t need much if you have a soothing voice, a lovely tune, and something to say. In this case Andrews muses on fading lives within a scrambled counting song: It’s ten, eight, nine/You should have seen me in prime…. “Embassy to the Airport” is also live and sends off some of the same vibes, while “Scrimshaw” explores how to stay constant in a long-term relationship. That’s Anais Mitchell singing with him.

One of the many things I admire about this recording is that it’s a mix of sparse and textured songs. You will fiddle, electric guitar, squeeze boxes, mandolin, steel drums, and more in the instrumental mix. Supporting vocalists include not just Mitchell and Kennedy, but also A. J. Roach and Anthony Da Costa. Fiona Apple is a Nels Andrews fan and has sung on other albums. I’ve heard rumors that she’s on this one as well, though she’s not listed in the credits.

Ignore the cynics; Nels Andrews fits snugly amongst the finest in the folk tradition.

Rob Weir

Small Towns: Niagara-on-the-Lake Ontario

Is it too much to assume that by summer we can travel again? Maybe it’s not a good year to hop on a plane, but if you’re up for a drive, why not head for Niagara Falls? Much like the Grand Canyon, there’s not much one can say about the falls except, “awesome!”

Far too many people, though, make the mistake of staying within sight when they visit Niagara Falls. There’s no nice way of saying this, so I’ll let it rip: Niagara Falls, New York is the pits–a mini Detroit with a water feature. It used to be that all one needed to upgrade a trip to the Niagara Gorge was cross the Rainbow Bridge into Canada and stay there. It’s still nicer than the U.S. side, but Niagara Falls, Ontario, has also grown tacky and crowded. Your best bet is to keep driving for 25 minutes and stay in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, a tidy town of 17,500 that’s such a delight that it’s far more than a place to sleep. 

 

As its name suggests, it’s on the mouth of the Niagara River, where it empties into Lake Ontario. On clear days you can peer across the lake and see Toronto in the distance. It’s just 27 kilometers as the crow flies, but it takes a few hours to drive there because one must drive around a lake that’s not called one of the Great Lakes for nothing. You might, however, find enough to do in Niagara-on-the-Lake that you won’t be tempted to go big.

The first striking thing about the town is that it’s just not necessary for people to live like pigs. It is sparkling clean, has lots of gardens and parks, ree-lined streets, and attractive Victorian era homes, inns, and shops. Sure, money helps, but even modest homes are well-maintained. The town’s most active area is along Queen Street, but if you want a break from tourists and shopping, all you have to do is stroll a block or two in any direction and you’ll have plenty of solitude. But before you duck out, be sure to sample British pastries downtown that you won’t find in the States, like Eccles cakes and Lamingtons. Also stop at the Niagara Apothecary for a sometimes-disconcerting look at how folks treated ailments in the days before drugs were tested and regulated. (I can only imagine what would have been done to coronavirus sufferers.)

As for things to do besides shop, in the summer Niagara is home to the George Bernard Shaw Festival which, as of this writing, is still slated to happen. There are several other playhouses that have changing productions, prompting some to compare its theater offerings to those of the Berkshires (which probably won’t happen this year). There are also historic homes and churches throughout the town. For many runaway slaves, Niagara was the first taste of freedom on the Underground Railroad; as a British colony, Canada officially abolished slavery in 1834, 31 years before the United States. Ontario, then called Upper Canada, informally abolished slavery decades earlier still. You will find markers and other reminders in Niagara.

Niagara was a strategic place during the War of 1812, hence another local tourist spot is Fort George on the very spot where the river dumps into the lake. It’s a classic earthen redoubt that added stone works as it grew. This doesn’t make U.S. history textbooks very often, but Americans captured Fort George during the War of 1812 and when they were ousted, they burned great sections of the town before leaving. This occurred in 1813, before British troops returned the favor and burned Washington, DC. If you want to brush up on the War of 1812, on your way to the falls you can visit the homestead of Laura Secord, who is a Paul Revere type in Canada who warned that the Yanks were coming! There is also the farming town of Queenston nearby, where there are monuments to Canadian heroes and martyrs during the War of 1812. Don’t be surprised if locals joke that the War of 1812 is “the only war Canada ever won.”

Aside from going to the falls, you can enjoy lots of scenic splendor in and around Niagara-on-the-Lake. The drive along the Niagara River is amazing and the town is in the very heart of a booming wine industry. Niagara wines used to be swill, but they have had a decided upgrade. Even Wayne Gretzky has a vineyard there and it has several areas related to his hockey memorabilia. Our favorite, though, was Stratus–not the cheapest you can drink, but maybe the best. The vineyard certainly does things right; the operation is practically a showcase in green viticulture.

If there’s anything better than the wine, it’s Niagara cherries and peaches. Stop at Greaves downtown and buy some cherry preserves; they are my favorite ever. The reason the region is so (ahem!) fruitful is because it is on Lake Ontario, not Lake Erie like Buffalo, your likely border crossing. Lake Ontario has quite different weather systems. You could even visit in the winter, as the yearly snow total is roughly what Buffalo gets in one bad storm. Check it out Niagara-on-the-Lake whenever you go to Niagara Falls. Did I mention that the falls are awesome?   

Rob Weir

Crisis of Masculinity in Art

  

Man Up! Visualizing Masculinity in 19^th-Century America

Addison Gallery of American Art

Phillips Academy, Andover, MA

{Click on image for larger viewing size}

All art galleries are closed right now. Rather than trying to entice you to get to an exhibit, I thought I’d post something that you can contemplate intellectually.

A recent Addison Gallery show was a bit misleading in its title, as many of the works were from the 20^th century. Nonetheless, its major point was well made and well taken. It’s no secret that American men have major issues. Men are far more likely to carry out acts of aggression/violence, lie, abuse alcohol and drugs, commit crimes, violate norms, transgress rules of civility, harm family members, objectify perceived social inferiors, underachieve academically, and act without empathy. This isn’t my opinion; it’s a problem that has been discussed since Antiquity and is standard discourse in contemporary sociology. You have but to Google “crisis of masculinity” to see what I mean.  

Is that crisis resultant from nature or nurture? Put another way, is it hardwired in the male Y chromosome, or is it a matter of how boys and men are socialized? No art show can resolve that fiery debate, but the Addison Gallery collection intrigues in that it suggests maybe we should pay a lot more attention to men’s roles in society. It is hard to become what cannot be imagined and, at least from the 19^th century on, men haven’t had a lot of choices to help them visualize a broader range of gender roles. More pernicious still, men have been raised to define themselves by what they do rather than who they are. That’s not mere semantics. Even positive virtues such as honesty and character are rooted in an individual ethos rather than social/community soil. That’s among the reason men’s psyches too often fracture when they lose their jobs. (Or have to spend too much time at home during a quarantine.)

Eakins

What’s striking about the Addison collection is how limited male options have been historically. Men can become soldiers and/or political leaders–like Samuel Waldo’s portrait of a determined-looking Andrew Jackson or nearby statues of figures such as Henry Clay–or intrepid sailors and fishermen risking life and limb, as Winslow Homer often documented. Power can also be expressed in the business or academic realm, as we see in Thomas Eakins’ portrait of physicist Henry Augustus Rowland. Notice the commanding presence of Rowland seated in a chair as others toil in the background. 

Muybridge

Bellows

Kuhn

Mainly men beat the crap out of each other and display their muscles. George Bellows boxing graphics and paintings are savage and raw; Eadweard Muybridge–a pioneer in photographing motion–showed that Bellows wasn’t exaggerating. Muybridge’s photo also suggests homoeroticism, but the very mention of that probably would have led to fisticuffs in the early 20th century. Rudolph Valentino, who was likely gay or bisexual, probably died from internal injuries suffered in such a fight. Paul Cadmus was irrefutably gay, but even his eroticized male bodies, such as those in “Horseplay,” emphasize powerful muscles. Ditto Walter Kuhn's "Acrobat."  

Hopper

Gropper

The Addison also challenges us to consider the double crisis experienced by men without defined roles. It’s hard to conjure a female parallel to Edward Hopper’s lonely paintings that ooze alienation.
William Gropper’s “Unemployed” is another poignant example. We observe men queuing for benefits before the gates of a closed factory in the distance, but the foreground consists of military recruitment posters, soapboxers, hucksters, beaten protestors, and a hooded Klansman with a rope awaiting a convenient scapegoat.

Empty Sleeve

 Perhaps the most striking of all is Winslow Homer’s print “Empty Sleeve.” A young man–certainly a Civil war veteran–sits beside a young woman who has the reins of the horse carriage. The man sits in the seat a woman would usually occupy, but her companion’s empty left sleeve makes him unable to command a horse team. That arm was no doubt removed by a battlefield surgeon and is a symbolic emasculation. To further that effect, note that the woman’s veil flies by his head, suggesting that the ex-solider has been both castrated and feminized.   

It is tempting to imagine these images as mere relics of an earlier age. Would that it were so, but there is a considerable body of sociological data that suggests there is much left undone. If recent history is any guide, we shall see elevated levels of the crisis of masculinity when we emerge from COVID-19 isolation.

Rob Weir

Three Unusual Films

Are you an adventurous movie viewer? Do you enjoy offbeat films? Here are three to try, all of which are available for download or online. I wouldn’t declare any of them masterpieces, but each is cut from a hard-to-sell bolt of fabric, which means they’re not what we see all the time.

A Girl Cut in Two (2007)

Directed by Claude Chabrol

Pan Europeene, 114 minutes, Not-rated (adult situations)

In French with subtitles

Claude Chabrol (1930-2010) was one of the last of the French New Wave directors. I doubt he’ll be remembered for La fille coupée en deux/A Girl Cut in Two, as structurally it’s one of the more conventional he ever made, but you will see echoes of the iconoclastic style of the New Wave. In particular, the New Wave wasn’t particularly interested in realism per se; more emphasis was placed on inner conflict and existential crises. This is important to remember, otherwise you might think Chabrol another Harvey Weinstein in his views of the distaff side.

Ludivine Sagnier stars as Gabrielle, the lovely young weather girl for a Lyons TV station. She is equal parts ambitious and naïve, the latter her Achilles heel. She becomes the simultaneous object of desire of Paul (Benoît Magimel), an overbearing son of privilege living off his private income, and Charles Saint-Denis (François Beléand), a famous writer. Paul has toys and money to burn in his pursuit of Gabrielle, he’s actually a shallow little shit. Though he’s much older, the sophisticated Charles is Gabrielle’s preferred sexual, intellectual, and psychological match. Three problems: He is married, has a kinky side, and also a track record of collecting then discarding young lovers–with the full knowledge and cooperation of his wife, Dona (Valeria Cavalli). Gabrielle is like a moth caught in a web with spiders converging on two sides.

This film takes a sanguinary turn evocative of Ragtime and contemporary “affluenza” cases. Some may bristle at Sagnier’s role as a girl trapped in a woman’s body–not to mention that her willingness to be demeaned for the right deal isn’t exactly feminism’s definition of women’s opportunity. Frankly, one wonders if any director would touch a script like this today. But think like a New Wave director. The film isn’t really a battle-of-the-sexes tale. It’s about hubris, with Gabrielle playing the part of Icarus in drag.

The Last Black Man in San Francisco (2019)

Directed by Joe Talbot

A24, 120 minutes, R (language, drugs, brief nudity)

This film was the darling of the 2019 Sundance festival and is the semi-autobiographical tale of director Joe Talbot’s friend, actor Jimmie Fails–emphasis on the term “semi.” It’s like a cross between Blindspotting and Downton Abbey and if that doesn’t pique your curiosity, nothing will!

It opens weird and stays there. We meet Jimmie and Montgomery (Jonathan Majors) waiting for a bus in the Hunters Point section of San Francisco that never comes, while a soapbox preacher raves about a conspiracy against black people. Jimmie and “Mont” are both well-spoken young men who mostly ignore the street corner trash talkers, though both are living with Mont’s blind grandfather (Danny Glover) and hope for a break. Jimmie’s dream keeps them both going. Whenever there’s no bus–Hunter’s Point is the area near where Candlestick Park used to be–they tandem ride Jimmie’s skateboard into the Fillmore section of the city where they maintain the exterior of a handsome Victorian home, despite the owners’ desire for them to go away. Jimmie can’t; he claims that his grandfather built it in 1947, but slipped out of black hands and into those of white gentrifiers. His dream is to one day reoccupy the family homestead.

As it happens, he and Mont will get such a chance. Imagine two young black men sitting in smoking jackets amidst Downton-like furnishings and befuddled white neighbors. Let me emphasize, though, that Fails and director Joe Talbot have not made a cheesy black kids-scare-the-white-bourgeois film. Nor are they simply messing with stereotypes by reversing customary black/white roles. The film is more serious and less obvious than that.

Actually, it’s often too layered for its own good. Talbot can’t quite decide if he’s making an idiosyncratic comedy, giving us a look at tragic black street life, engaging in a Spike Lee-like veiled rant, or appropriating white drama motifs. One can do all of these, of course, but it is a delicate balance and Talbot often totters. What this film does best is keep us continually off-guard and guessing about relationships, motivations, and expectations. Even the final scene is ambiguous–an ending, or a new beginning? This unorthodox film is akin to a grab bag filled with things both silly and sublime.   

The Man Without a Past  (2002)

Directed by Aki Kaurismäki

Bavaria Film Productions, 97 minutes, PG-13 (some violence)

In Finnish with English subtitles

I’ve saved the most peculiar film for last. There are a handful of directors–the Coen brothers, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, John Waters, Wes Anderson, Taika Waititi–whose movies are so singularly unconventional that even when they misfire, they intrigue. Add Finland’s Aki Kaurismäki to the list. It speaks volumes that The Man Without a Past is a favorite of Jim Jarmusch, the most outré director of our times. Think of it as a Finnish version of Mystery Train (in spirit, not content).

It’s often unclear in Man Without a Past whether it’s meant to be poignant or totally absurd. Spoiler alert: It’s both. A man arrives at the Helsinki train station at 4 am, makes his way to a park, falls asleep on a bench, and is violently robbed and beaten. He revives, but collapses in a rest room, is taken to a hospital, and is pronounced dead when his monitors flatline. Not quite! He again awakens and staggers away, only to collapse along the harbor in a section of the city so poor that folks are living in castoff cargo containers. He has no idea where he is, who he is, or why he’s in Helsinki.

This film is about outcasts, survivalists, indifferent bureaucrats, those who prey on the poor, and those who pray with them. Speaking of prayer, how about a romance between a hapless amnesiac and Irma (Kati Outinen) a female soldier in the Salvation Army? If that’s too plausible for you, how about Salvies’ musicians remade as a skiffle band? Our unknown principal (Markuu Peltola) adapts well to cargo container life and awkwardly pursues Irma, but he also endures one misadventure after another, each odder than the one before. Because he has no name or recoverable past, he stoically endures whatever comes his way.

Kaurismäki is absolutely Jarmusch-like in his approach. Reactions, conversation, and emotions are as sparse as the tundra and the pacing is deliberate. Stick with it. At first as it seems the film is going nowhere, bit it gets more absurd as it goes on. The humor is droll and dry. Its tone touching and sweet, but not of the sentimental fireworks-in-the-sky variety. By the time it ends, it’s a toss-up whether you’ve been in the presence of masked brilliance or advanced weirdness. But you’ll never again feel the same way about the Salvies.

Rob Weir

The Goldfinch: Great Book, So-So Movie

The Goldfinch (2019)

Directed by John Crowley

Warner Brothers, 149 minutes, R (drug use, language)

★★★

Movies often borrow from books, but literature is a problematic source. Even a short novel has more room to develop plots, back stories, and detail. A 300-page novel will take an average reader more than eight hours to finish; most script writers and film directors get 90 minutes to two hours to bring the same story to the screen. So what does one do with Donna Taart’s 2014 Pulitzer Prize-winning The Goldfinch, which checks in at nearly 800 pages? It doesn’t help that the book was polarizing; there were those—including me—who thought it riveting and others who and bailed before finishing.

If you see the phrase “Inspired by” at the beginning of a film, it usually means that liberties have been taken and that the book provides a seed from which the film blossomed; if it says “Adapted from,” most directors seek to be as faithful as they can to the printed word and excise as little as possible. Director John Crowley and script writer Peter Straughan opted for an adaptation of The Goldfinch. In retrospect, a reimagining might have been wiser. The Goldfinch was a major box office bomb last year. It’s not the turkey some critics considered it to be, but it is uneven. It’s worth a watch if: (a) you have actually read (and liked) the novel and (b) if you don’t expect a masterpiece.

The story unfolds when 13-year-old Theo Decker (Oakes Fegley) has dawdled and his flaky-but-chilly mother, Audrey, must walk him to his private school. They detour to the Metropolitan Museum of Art so that she can show Theo a painting. Theo is more interested in a girl he spies and decides to hang out near the gift shop while Audrey goes off to view another painting. Suddenly a terrorist bomb explodes and scores are killed, including Audrey and a man named Welty, who expires just as he places his partner’s business card into Theo’s palm. Amidst the rubble, dust, cacophony, and mayhem, Theo impulsively absconds with the picture Audrey wanted him to see: The Goldfinch, a 1654 painting from Carel Fabritus (1622-54), a Rembrandt student who was killed when a gunpowder magazine blew up in the Dutch city of Delft. (Taart did not invent Fabritus, the painting, or the explosion in Delft.)

This is merely the start of Theo’s journey. He is temporarily placed with the Barbour family: Chance, his moody socialite wife Samantha (Nicole Kidman), and their three children: Kitsey, Platt, and the geeky Andy, to whom Theo is kind though Andy is really annoying. Just when it looks as if Theo is about to be orphaned, his father Larry (Luke Wilson) appears to take him to Phoenix. Larry is every bit the small con man/big-time loser Theo’s mom said he was, and neither he nor his waitress girlfriend Xandra (Sarah Paulson) has an ounce of couth or a clue on how to raise a kid. Theo is cast adrift in a desert wasteland—a housing development that went bankrupt before completion. He is out of place in a public school and friendless, until he meets Boris (Finn Wolfhard), who might be either Russian, Ukrainian, or Hungarian—his tale changes. The two do what you might expect feral children to do: smoke, drink, do drugs, and commit petty larceny. Larry is a compulsive gambler so desperate for money that he tries to bilk Theo out of his trust fund and it’s implied that Boris’ father is a mobster. Theo and Boris plan to runaway to New York, but Boris gets cold feet and Theo sets off on his own.

Here is where Crowley makes a big decision and perhaps not a wise one. He has already pared to the bone Theo’s relationship with Welty’s business sidekick Hobie (Jeffrey Wright) and Pippa, the girl from the museum over whom Hobie has guardianship and Theo’s unattainable flame. Likewise, Theo’s friendship with Andy is glossed. Instead of continuing to telescope, Crowley chops. We next meet Theo as a young adult helping Hobie with his antiques and restoration shop in the Village. Somehow­—the novel explains it—Theo has been to college and looks and acts the part of a young entrepreneur. He still pines for Pippa, but is engaged to Kitsey Barbour and adored by her entire family. There’s nothing like a Boris sighting to stir the pot. What about the painting, you wonder? Yeah, there’s that and much more to resolve. By then, The Goldfinch is already working overtime.

It doesn’t help that the young actors portraying Theo and Boris are way more compelling than the adults who assume those roles (Ansel Elgort and Aneurin Barnard). There is also a jarring tonal shift: from character development to caper film. What the movie does best is raise questions about how much ugliness a life can endure before it corrupts the soul, but is a truncated adaptation needed to accomplish this?  One of the better reviews of The Goldfinch summed up the film nicely. If you’ve read the book, the movie will be eye candy; if you’ve not, you’ll probably be lost. Its best gift is to remind you why Donna Taart won the Pulitzer.

Rob Weir    

Nicholson, Dinklage, and Mulligan

Nicholson, Dinklage, and Mulligan. Sounds like a law firm. Actually, it’s the surnames of principals in three older films who render amazing performances. Download (or get DVDs of) the three films below.

Jack Nicholson has been playing the celebrity role for so long that he’s become a parody of himself and triggers gag reflexes. Once upon a time, though, he was a real actor hungering for a breakthrough. He made his first film in 1958, but his career was going nowhere until he was cast as drifter George Hanson in the 1969 film Easy Rider. That one is a time warp picture and should be viewed as such, but it landed Nicholson the first of 12 Oscar nominations. Three more nominations quickly followed–and he probably should have won for Chinatown– but Jack hoisted his first statue for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975).

If you’ve never seen Cuckoo’s Nest, do so; if you have, see it again as it holds up well. It’s an adaptation of Ken Kesey’s eponymous novel, and one of the rare cases in which both book and film are masterful. Nicholson plays Randle Patrick McMurphy, a small-time punk with a long rap sheet who manages to stay out of prison by getting sent instead to a mental institution. Jack in a madhouse? They were made for each other. McMurphy isn’t nuts, just out of control, and he quickly surmises this is true for several fellow lunatics. Jack runs amok, but he misjudges Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) who keeps the lid on through a combination of cajolery and passive-aggressive blackmail. Cuckoo was nominated for 9 Oscars and won 5, including Best Picture, Best Actress (Fletcher), and Best Director (Milos Forman). Watch it also for wonderful performances from Will Sampson (“Chief”), Christopher Lloyd (Max), Brad Dourif (Billy), and Danny DeVito (Martini). This classic American film raises the question of who rules the asylum.

Hands up if you can’t imagine Game of Thrones without Peter Dinklage in the role of Tyrion Lannister. Dinklage is a Bennington College grad–something not many people know–and made his first film in 1995, but the one to watch is The Station Agent (2003). Not many people have seen it and that’s a crying shame. It’s the quintessential “small” film and that’s not a pun on Dinklage’s 4’5” frame. Some movies are slice-of-life efforts that don’t aspire to be splashy Hollywood productions. Dinklage is Finbar McBride, a quiet man who works in a model train shop owned by his friend Henry (Paul Benjamin). That is, until Henry drops dead at work and Fin is suddenly unemployed. He has no idea what to do next, until he finds that Henry has left him some property in a remote section of New Jersey. Fin arrives there to find that Henry has left him an abandoned railroad station house, his new home sweet home! Fin is a recluse who knows about trains but lacks social skills. He will eventually find himself drawn into the orbits of Joe, a verbose Cuban American food truck operator (Bobby Cannavale); Olivia (Patricia Clarkson), a klutzy divorcée artist; Emily (Michelle Williams), the town librarian; and Cleo (Raven Goodwin), an African American school girl who is curious about everything. Director Tom McCarthy, sometimes stumbles over whether the film is a comedy or a drama, but Dinklage alone turns this into a bittersweet offering that leaves us wanting more. Plus, it co-stars the vastly underrated Patricia Clarkson. Call this one small is beautiful and take that any way you wish.  

It’s no secret that Britain’s Carey Mulligan is the real deal, but take a look at An Education, a 2009 film directed by Lone Scherflig with a screenplay from Nick Hornby. You might know Hornby’s name from his coming-of-age novels. Lynn Barber actually wrote the autobiographical essay upon which An Education is based, but Hornby’s fingerprints are all over the film. Mulligan plays 16-year-old Jenny Mellor, a brilliant lass who is the apple of her English teacher Miss Stubbs’ (Olivia William) eye and is driven by her conventional (and clueless) lout of a father, Jack (Alfred Molina). Jenny is pegged by everyone as a golden girl, including awkward young Graham, who would dearly love to be her boyfriend. Then she meets David Goldman (Peter Sarsgaard), who is considerably older than she. Yes, we’re talking Lolita territory here. David introduces her to his glamorous friends Danny (Dominic Cooper) and Helen (Rosamund Pike) and takes her inside a world she could only imagine. David even charms Jack and his wife. You can probably surmise that Jack is not all that he appears to be. Mulligan was 24 when she made the film, but is utterly convincing as 16-year-old full of dreams and naiveté. She also radiant, a foreshadowing of the superb career she has subsequently built. Look for Emma Thompson and Sally Hawkins in cameo roles.

Rob Weir