Small Towns: Paris, France?

 

Have I gone off my rocker with the above tagline? How could a place with nearly 2.2 million people be a small town? Note small towns plural.

 

City sprawl from a quiet spot in Montmarte

 

Numerous European cities differ from those in North America by not being entirely geared to automobiles. There are indeed traffic-clogged streets filled with the brash claxon peals of car horns in Paris, but much of the city consists of neighborhoods in which feet and bicycles are ubiquitous. It’s huge in area, but its neighborhoods function as villages within the metropolis, each with a distinct character. 

 

Bikes outside a major train station

 

Paris is divided into 17 districts–it used to be 20–called arrondisements. These go back to times in which most were separate villages and towns. By my count I’ve been to a dozen during my four visits, enough to offer a generalization: Paris is more human-scaled than most US cities. 

 

Off Blvd St-Michel

 

Think of places such as Atlanta, Dallas, Los Angeles, or Phoenix whose sprawl is so vast and generic that there is “no there there,” as Gertrude Stein famously observed about Oakland. Scores of others have spawned cookie-cutter suburbs and distant exurbs. In each case, public life and community identity are truncated or non-existent.  

 

Only a handful of U.S. and Canadian cities come close to offering a comparable intimate vibe to Paris. New York perhaps, though many of its boroughs are services-challenged. Parts of Montreal, Portland, San Francisco and Vancouver also spring to mind, but even they have numerous isolated neighborhoods in which stores and entertainment are distant from where the populace resides. Boston is walkable, but its traffic snarl is infamous for a reason; there’s just not much going on in most of the ‘burbs and several of its inner-city neighborhoods lack amenities.  

 

Good public transportation is rare in North American cities, though it’s not a panacea if it does exist. It takes urbanities from one place to the next–and subways are far faster than surface traffic–but it mostly moves people when they must leave where they live. That’s usually connected to work, whether we define that as where paychecks are doled out, or gathering food and other necessities. In such a setup, going to a café, seeing a movie, meeting friends, or even taking a walk becomes a “task.” That’s why so many people endlessly complain of lacking leisure time.

 

Vaneau cafe after hours

 

In June, we stayed in Vaneau, which straddles Paris’ 6^th and 7^th arrondisements. You’ve probably never heard of this quiet residential neighborhood, but it also had a nice hotel and, as my first evening’s stroll revealed, numerous green grocers, two patisseries,  several cafés, and a smelly store that proved to be a fromagerie. Within two blocks was a Bon Marché department store and a side street with numerous shops. That small street ended at large café, a new district, and the Vaneau pattern repeated. Hop on the Metro you’ll see the same elsewhere, though each neighborhood exudes its own vibe. When we went to the 9^th arrondisement for dinner, it was grittier than Vaneau but also quite vibrant. 

 

 

In the 9th arrondisement

 

 

Paris was drastically rebuilt and modernized by Baron Haussmann in the mid-19^th century. He cleaned out dangerous areas and gave it the Renaissance Revival elegance with which we today associate the city. What did not happen next is just as important: Paris did not throw its neighborhoods under automobile tires. It could have happened. Carl Benz, a German, gets credit for the first automobile in 1886, but French inventors came up with prototypes a century earlier.  

 

Even bike racks look good amidst this

 

 

Many U.S. cities used to be like Paris. In 1908, though, Henry Ford’s  Model-T rolled out of his factory and altered the course of American history. Automobiles were instrumental in creating distinct shopping and entertainment precincts: first downtowns, then further-distanced shopping centers and venues, then suburbia. Trolley lines and railroads went into deep decline and cross-street traffic made walking more difficult. Car culture trifurcates where we live, work, and play. They’re also a time suck. A London study revealed Victorians moved faster in horse-drawn carriages. 

 

Tourist area, but note who rules the streets

 

 

One of my Northampton friends is French, spent his youth in Paris, and tries new neighborhoods when he visits. He doesn’t rent a car, but he is yet to come back saying there was nothing to see, do, or eat where he’s stayed. Surface traffic in Paris can be as brutal as in any American city, but let’s hear it for cities as a collection of towns rather than a network of asphalt.

 

Rob Weir  

The Rainmaker (1956): Dress Rehearsal for Elmer Gantry?

 

THE RAINMAKER (1956)

Directed by Joseph Anthony

Paramount, 121 minutes, Not-rated

★★★

 

 

The Rainmaker was remade twice and the 1997 Francis Ford Coppola film of that name has nothing to do with this one. The 1956 film in question could be considered Burt Lancaster’s dress rehearsal for Elmer Gantry.

 

The film’s action takes place in Kansas during the Great Depression. Forget soup lines and unemployment; if you paid attention to The Wizard of Oz  (or your history instructors!) you know that a crippling drought turned farmland into the Dust Bowl. That’s one of the problems facing the Curry family headed by H.C. (Cameron Prud’Homme), a widower with two sons–Noah (Lloyd Bridges) and Jim (Earl Holliman)– and daughter Lizzie (Katharine Hepburn). Lizzie is the other problem. Although she’s sort of attracted to Howard Thomas (Wallace Ford), the local sheriff, he has the vocal skills of a mime, and other prospects have been even less promising. Middle-aged, reticent, bookish, and independent spell “old maid” in an age in which women were expected to marry. Lizzie thinks she’s plain-looking, another blow to her already low self-esteem.

 

Meanwhile, we see Bill Starbuck (Lancaster) trying to sell lightning rods to gullible farmers from the back of his carny-like wagon, though they  look like a digeridoo crossed with a voodoo staff. It’s a good day when he can hightail it out of town ahead of law enforcement. He makes his way to the Curry farm after a chance encounter with Lizzie. She and her family recognize him as a conman even before Howard and his deputy warn them there’s a huckster in the area. Starbuck doesn’t even try to deny the charge, but times are desperate and H.C. and Lizzie are intrigued by his offer to make it rain. If it does, they pay him; if it doesn’t, he’ll disappear.

 

Moby Dick readers will recognize the name Starbuck. In Melville’s novel Starbuck was a serious Quaker with deep respect for the plans of the Almighty and warns others to pay attention to God’s will. He was also cautious and quiet, something Bill Starbuck is not. Bill’s the sort who’d try to sell paint to cover vinyl siding, but he also quotes Scripture, exudes religious-like passion, and has rogue-like charm. Do you suspect that he and Lizzie will have a fling? Wouldn’t that be Lizzie’s business? H. C. thinks so, but her brothers play good cop/bad cop roles on that question. And don’t be so sure you know what their relationship will be.

 

The Rainmaker is played for laughs in a broad almost sit-com way that occasionally goes over the top. It was made 67 years ago and some of those situations and many of the social values now seem prehistoric. Hepburn was 49 in 1956, but anyone who has seen a picture of her in full bloom would find it hard to imagine that, in the film’s logic, she was always too plain-looking to attract a husband. Of course, we must also remember that woman-as-homemaker was a dominant value of both the 1930s and the 1950s. If it helps, men’s roles were often stereotypical as well. Those who worked with their hands weren’t expected to be Einsteins or worry about feelings–their own or those of anyone else.

 

What makes The Rainmaker interesting to watch in 2023 is the acting. Hepburn plays against what was by then her type: wisecracking, cosmopolitan, and tough, even if the script called for her to be clumsy or fall in love. That’s why her attempts to show deference or act the role of the perfect homemaker are funny in The Rainmaker. Lancaster is at his bombastic best as Starbuck. You can imagine how he must have been totally pumped to be offered the role of Gantry four years later. Today we find his performance histrionic, but it was in keeping with method acting techniques of his day. You don’t need to know a thing about that, though; you could just revel in the unbridled delight of watching him chew scenery like chicken wings and celery sticks.

 

I do wish the secondary characters had been as well developed as those of Lizzie and Starbuck. Several talented actors–Bridges and Ford especially–are reduced to cardboard cutouts and there’s a reason you won’t recognize the names of a few of the background characters. It’s all in good fun though. Wedding bells? Rain? Not sayin’.

 

Rob Weir            

The Hopeful World of Carrie Newcomer

 

 

I’ve known Carrie Newcomer since 1991. She’s one of the most reflective people I know and a person who puts her Quaker principles into action. Carrie will drop a new album A Great Wild Mercy later this fall–a full review will come when it’s available­–but I had a chance to speak with her in late July. That interview has been edited for space. 

 

Carrie Newcomer on empathy and A Great Wild Mercy:

 

I think that the title cut … holds a lot of the threads that that through this album. The opening image is of a woman who has a blue umbrella over her head…. She steps out into the rain, looks up, puts down her umbrella, and lets the rain wash over her.  

 

I … thought we all been longing…. for the presence of something wilder….  There's a line in the song “There's news of the world and news of the heart .” The news of the world will tell us that that we are small that we are without power in light of climate change and economic injustice. But the …  things at the heart are the great mercy.  There is an ever-present goodness still in world and that we are part of it if we choose to be.

 

On remaining optimistic:

 

I’m not the kind of person who thinks that the glass half full or half empty; I just think it's a really big glass!  My friend [author] Parker Palmer has [a] beautiful definition for hope: “Hope is holding in creative tension all that is and could be and each day taking action to narrow the distance between them.” It's not sugar-coated optimism; it's holding what is and the challenges we face.  I don’t belittle that, but … holding onto our finest aspirations … is what I do each day what in my daily action and voice. I read a quote by Rick Rubin: “The things we believe carry a charge,” and I really believe that.  What we do in our daily lives does matter and does shift something in the world….  O]ur current media system is based on  a  steady diet of fear and outrage.  It’s important for the arts to uplift another kind of voice: We are not small and are not without power.

 

On “Singing in the Dark,” co-written with John McCutcheon

 

… We are living in a vulnerable moment culturally and as a planet. We need to keep singing in the moment and in the darkness. “Singing in the Dark” happened I had gone to Gethsemane where Thomas Merton worked. The monks do something called “singing the hours.” Seven times during the day they all gather [to sing]…. One of those times is 3 AM and I [spoke] with one of the monks … and asked him how he felt about getting up every day at that time. He said [that]… he worked on a crisis hotline before [he] became a monk and … that 3 a.m. was when people hit bottom. It’s also the darkest time in the monastery, but… “the idea of faithfully putting what we do into practice and supporting others sustained me.”

 

On the collaboration process with McCutcheon:

 

…John is a writer’s writer.  [He’s] in Georgia now, so we Zoom.  John is a lyrics-first kind of guy and so we break down lyrics and shake them together. Sometimes … a quote, an idea or a poem… become[s] the basis for lyrics…. Then we take it to music, and we’ll work on the music separately.  One song that I really love that we created together is “Field of Stars, “ which came out walking to Compostela. We created the lyrics and then John wrote the music and played it for me. Sometimes I'll have the music … and we shift or change … the bridge…. but the lyrics really come together very organically in the moment.  

 

On the whimsical song “Potluck:”

 

In Joy, Robert Gay talks about a potluck where everybody brought their joys and their sorrows as a way to prayerfully be kinder to one another. I love writing with Siri Undlin [of Humbird]. We both … thought the Midwestern potluck was a great metaphor…. It’s part of Midwestern culture. You have to trust what people will bring to the table. If everyone brings chocolate cake, that’s what we have! You put it on the table next to the beer….  There's a … kind of graciousness but also the blessing of community and the care that we give one another, a “glad you're here” moment. We're coming out of a pandemic …. and we're coming back to community, [but] …. we’re a little rusty. At the same time we're celebrating connection.

 

 

On integrating poetry, music, and meter:

 

My process for songwriting is to do a lot of writing… essays, journal[ing] … a Substack page, poetry…. A lot of writing isn't a song, but … from all that writing I'll start to pull out things that become lyrics. That's pretty much the classic Carrie Newcomer process.  I definitely write prose poetry, though.

 

… I always come back to songwriting because it makes me happy. There’s something about a few verses and choruses in a compressed format…. Language is powerful, but a song also has music that must be completely entwined to be effective. In poetry there's the setup, but in a song….  you're … laying out of the story, but it can't just be documentation.

 

On the new album’s varied genres:

 

 

I've always crossed genres that way. There’s something really beautiful about a great pop song. The Beatles' [songs] are still around for a reason. The funky bass on “Start with a Stone” grew out the cushion that drummer Jim Brock [laid down] and Paul Kowert is one of the finest bass players I've ever encountered. But, I’ve never had any problem calling myself a folk artist because I don't censor my subject matter…. I write about all kinds of relationships [not just love songs]… romantic relationships… but also family relationships, spiritual relationships, and political relationships. The lack of a censor  very much puts me in the folk music [category]. The last few records were a bit more intimate, but I coproduced this one with David Weber… There are songs that are very quiet, but three of the musicians are members of Hawktail and project a bluegrass- meets-classical [feel]. My longtime creative pianist also plays Hammond organ, so it was … an interesting collaboration.  

 

On the mental shifts between genres:

 

 That's production, I guess. The songs are generally what I'm writing, so… one [might] end  up with a combination of pop longing with a kind of Americana rhythm.  But I started writing “Path Through the Evening Woods” when I was walking and there’s … Irish ethnicity entwined in the song, the arrangement, and melody.

 

On being a veteran performer in a younger profession:

 

I embrace it. In the song “Book of Questions,” every line could be a writing prompt and tell my story from it. Everything has brought me here–the seriously stupid stuff and the  transcendent. I had something important to say at every point of my career, but I couldn’t have written the last album one day before it was done or 10 years ago. I’m … grateful for who I’ve become as a writer and for the songs I write today. I … often [don’t know] know exactly what an album is about–this is like my 20^th–and when I'm recording one. I [also] don’t write songs because I have answers; I write songs because I have questions. Who was I becoming? What do I still have to offer?

 

I love … collaboration … with those in their 20’s and 30’s  but Jim Brock is 70 and we had fabulous conversations … about what art is and what is it that [we] still have to offer…. [There’s] a certain kind of soup that we're all kind of swimming in right now and I love that I get to swim with folks from different generations and think about all kinds of ways we create together. Bob Dylan said that  if you’re not growing, you die.

 

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