Hidden Gems of Netflix: Raising Arizona

"It's a craaazy world."
"Someone oughta sell tickets."


Overall I find myself harboring mixed feelings about the work of the Coen brothers. They are clearly possessed of excellent craftsmanship, yet while their films are always fascinating and entertaining at the very least, there seems to lurk beneath the surface of most of them a certain cynicism. Some of their harshest critics accuse them of being out-and-out misanthropes, perhaps snickering up their sleeves at the often hapless characters that inhabit their tonally patchy and sometimes abruptly absurd stories. And I can see that this line of reasoning could indeed be applied to some portion of their oeuvre. Still, I will not go nearly so far as to say that such injurious appellations as misanthropy properly reflect each and every one of their films indiscriminately.

And thus I want to champion an early example of a film of the brothers Coen that has genuine heart and optimism. I dare to suggest that "Raising Arizona" (being the second film by said brothers, and being the chief subject of this review), represents their most sincere effort to come alongside their screwed-up screwball characters. In H.I. and Edwina (Nicholas Cage and Holly Hunter), the repeat offender criminal and the policewoman he marries, they proffer protagonists who are at once woefully incompetent and deeply sympathetic. For this oddest of odd couples have a persistent, ingrained, and emotional desire to have a child, but Ed is barren. The farcical plot of the film is launched (after a splendidly paced opening that introduces these characters to the audience and each other), by this most primal, natural, and Biblical of human desires, and by the desperate and criminal plan that the two dream up to fulfill the glaring lack in their newly minted domestic life. Because of H.I.'s criminal past they cannot adopt, so they decide to steal a baby, one of the Arizona quintuplets.

This rash act—which the film readily admits through H.I.'s earnest though somewhat torpid narration is not such a great idea—leads to a multitude of problems, not the least of which is that neither of these two would-be parents really know how to take care of a baby. Their ineptitude fuels much of the comedy, but at the same time we are shown that though they are clearly misguided (can there even be comedies about sane, reasonable people?), they love this kidnapped kid and they love each other. The other main difficulty they encounter stems from the fact that almost everyone in the wacky world of "Raising Arizona" is a would-be parent. Nathan Jr. the missing Arizona boy is in very high demand, and H.I. and Ed are soon surrounded by alternately quirky and over-the-top criminal elements, comically determined and hell-bent on the baby himself and the reward money respectively. Both of these elements link back directly to the hapless and continually flustered H.I.:  two of his prison friends break out and want to hole up in his house, and his nightmares predict and/or produce a ridiculous bounty hunter outlaw, the grenade-loving, small-animal-obliterating Lone Biker of the Apocalypse, whose visual introduction very much lives up to that title. The Coens clever script makes plain that this figure of almost abstract macho evil (the farcical forerunner of Javier Bardem's stone-faced killer in "No Country for Old Men"?) is the embodiment of the bad and criminal tendencies that keep pulling H.I. back in, and the danger in which he thus puts his fragile new family. This tangle of conscience, consequences, and comic catastrophe builds slowly but surely to several great scenes: a fantastic whirling slapstick set-piece that keeps doubling back on itself, a genuinely touching emotional and moral reckoning, and an intense and bizarre showdown involving guns, grenades, and a revelatory tattoo. The films final moments express a graceful and sincere hopefulness that is incredibly refreshing.

And thus, to my pleasant surprise, I can report that the famously sarcastic and weird Coen brothers have smuggled within the undeniable oddness of "Raising Arizona"—a goofy and misshapen crime dramedy farce—a thoughtful reflection on parenthood and responsibility.

"Raising Arizona" (PG-13) **** (Available on Netflix Instant)

Hidden Gems of Netflix: Changing Lanes

"Changing Lanes" came out in April of 2002, smack dab in between the self-important Oscar-bait films of the previous fall and the dumb and noisy action
flicks of the summer, and long enough ago to have slipped past. It received relatively favorable reviews, made a good box office showing, and then promptly disappeared. Its solid reputation could not save it from obscurity, and neither could its stars: Ben Affleck was about to enter a downward spiral as an actor (see "Paycheck" and the widely despised "Gigli") that he would only later pull out of as a director, and the always reliable Samuel L. Jackson performs in so many movies, both good and bad, that another appearance by him is hardly a major cultural event.

However, this film should not be forgotten. It tells an excellent story of a very unusual sort for Hollywood: one with real moral issues on its mind, issues which it can articulate well. It is also an engaging and effective thriller, boasting Affleck's best performance and possibly Jackson's as well.

The premise is as follows: A successful lawyer and a desperate dad become entangled in each other's lives after a fender-bender in hairy New York traffic. This one small event sparks a horrible day of thoughtless cruelties and reckless reprisals from both of them as the veneer of polite society falls away. Running late for an important case, ambitious lawyer Gavin (Affleck) hands the weary insurance salesman Doyle (Jackson) a blank check. Doyle protests; he wants to handle things the right way. But Gavin drives off, leaving Doyle, whose car is inoperable, stranded and unable to get to a custody hearing—in the same courthouse!—in time to prevent an unimpressed judge from granting custody of the man's two sons to Doyle's ex-wife. It only gets worse from there for these two mismatched enemies. And this all happens on Good Friday.

 See? It doesn't even sound that good. In fact, it sounds dangerously high-concept and ready to teeter over into contrived and schematic what-ifs or tacky literalism. I set about watching it the first time expecting a by-the-numbers revenge thriller that would probably throw in some pseudo-profound babbling about fate and chance and being not-so-different, you and I. But director Roger Michell, working off an excellent script from Michael Tolkin, Chap Taylor, and Anthony Picharillo, has crafted a much more compelling film, a moral thriller centered on two entirely believable characters who are neither heroes nor villains, but men stuck with having to make increasingly harsh moral choices that have likewise escalating impacts on their lives and those of the people around them.

Affleck often stumbles around over-earnestly in roles that don't do him any favors. (He was the weakest link in the ordinary but likeable "Sum of All Fears," even though he was first-billed.) He's not cut out for to be an action hero; he's not magnetic enough to skate by just on charisma as a leading man; and he's too bland to be a character actor. But here he is handed a complex role and fits himself to it ably. Gavin is slick and self-confident, a man with a buried conscience who is all too comfortable in the ethically dubious situations his job puts him in. As the bad Good Friday progresses, however, and he keeps crossing moral lines, Affleck does a masterful job of showing Gavin's growing unease with himself and incredulity at the mess he has gotten into. "Is there any other way?" he asks at one point. "Sure," says the man with his finger poised above a mouse-click that will wreak havoc on Doyle's finances. "Call him up and just be nice to him." But that would mean humbling himself, and by that point both characters are already acting out of spite and anger. Affleck sells both sides—the doubt and the arrogance.

Jackson on the other hand has long been one of my favorite actors. He elevates whatever he is in. He was revelatory in the stylish "Unbreakable" and his perfect delivery single-handedly saved the ending of that film from potentially groan-worthy dialogue. However, he is admittedly an actor who has a basic type he often returns to: the loud, angry, charismatic, menacing troublemaker who swears up a storm but has a core integrity beneath the rage and the bluster. He perfected this role as Jules in "Pulp Fiction." We see some of that fire here. There is a moment where he is telling a story and his eyes lock into a stare and his voice goes flat, and it is chill-inducing. But overall Doyle is almost the opposite of Jackson's typical role: he is a weary and cautious everyman, a man of integrity who strives to be a responsible father but is limited by his history of mistakes and battered by the grinding, mundane details of modern life until the quiet rage and desperation long coiling inside him is finally loosed in a cacophony of raw emotion. And when Jackson does show that rage, it is all the more potent and frightening for having been hidden so long beneath Doyle's meek and patient exterior. It is followed by trembling amazement at how far he has allowed himself to go, and a weary regret. Jackson's Doyle is one of the most memorable, believable characters I've encountered in film; while watching him I feel like I know exactly who he is, in the way usually only possible after having lived with a character for a long time in a novel or television series. Every time he comes up against a hard choice, I desperately want him to make the right decision, but every wrong decision he makes is perfectly motivated and perfectly understood.

Jackson's performance makes Doyle the more sympathetic of the two characters, but he is also a recovering alcoholic on the edge both of falling off the wagon and also, more importantly perhaps, of failing as a father. One of the film's strongest moments is when his AA sponsor (William Hurt) calls Doyle out on his flimsy excuses. Hurt is the first among equals in a uniformly excellent (and perfectly cast) cadre of supporting actors, including Amanda Peet, Kim Staunton, Toni Collette, Richard Jenkins, and a splendidly creepy yet ordinary Dylan Baker. Special mention should also be made of the fantastic Sydney Pollack, who as Gavin's boss plays a powerful, intelligent, and self-righteous man who justifies himself with the notion that, "At the end of the day, I think I do more good than harm." This is the central line of the screenplay for me, an exposure of a very commonplace type of moral code as in fact a compromise. It's this "I'm a good person" logic that the literate and tightly-constructed script deviously interrogates and undermines. At "the end of the day" (or life), is "more good than harm" good enough?

If I had to name a fault with "Changing Lanes," I could perhaps point out that it is occasionally too obvious with its parallels between the situations and actions of Doyle and Gavin (both have confrontations with their respective wives, who are wise to their patterns of behavior). Or I could complain that the ending seems a touch too upbeat, and risks undermining the moral horror story that came before. But these are nitpicks that I won't dwell on, because so much in this film—from the writing to the directing to the acting—is head-and-shoulders above 99 percent of what crops up in this genre, and in Hollywood in general.

"Changing Lanes" is a thoughtful and intelligent picture, full of fleshed-out characters and bravura speeches that cut to the quick, a criminally underrated work that deserves to become a modern classic.

"Changing Lanes" (R) ***** (Available on Netflix Instant)

Hidden Gems of Netflix: Shotgun Stories

 

"You started all of this."

"This started a long time ago."

"Somebody's gonna finish it."

I was introduced to the work of indie director Jeff Nichols with his 2011 film "Take Shelter," which I consider to be a tremendous film, one of the best of a great year; I hope to review it here at some point, but I want to watch it again first. Going back in time to 2007, however, I discovered that his first feature film, "Shotgun Stories," both shows the promising talent that would go on to make "Take Shelter," and lacks the focus and haunted intensity of that masterful follow-up.

Nichols' impressive debut opens showing the towering Michael Shannon sitting on the edge of a bed, shirtless, reading a note, his arms resting wearily on his knees. He is half turned from us, and we can see the faint shape of deep marks on his back. He gets up and checks two dresser drawers, finding them both empty. Then for a moment he turns his back completely, and we are faced with those marks full on: pocked-looking scars cover his back in a scattered pattern, ugly little craters from a shotgun blast. Title card: "Shotgun Stories."

Shannon plays a character named simply "Son" who lives with his brothers, "Boy" and "Kid" in  southeast Arkansas. They are left with these dubiously blunt monikers because their father abandoned the family to restart with a new wife and a new life. Son lives in an empty house because his wife (or girlfriend?) Annie has taken their son and left due to his refusal to give up card-counting, which he insists is not gambling but a "system." Boy (Douglas Ligon) lives in an old van with a broken stereo and a window air conditioner, and coaches kids' basketball. Kid (Barlow Jacobs) lives in a tent in Son's yard, but expects a raise soon at the catfish farm where he and Son work, at which point he intends to ask his quietly cheerful waitress girlfriend Cheryl to marry him. Their lives progress at a leisurely pace, and Nichols' fleshes out the beautiful but decaying rural atmosphere with a Malick-like attention to cotton fields and sunsets and a gentle acoustic guitar score. Then the brothers' mother, who Son refers to as a "hateful woman," drops by to inform them that their father is dead. She is not going to the funeral. When is it? They can look in the paper.

At the funeral, the minister calls the father "a man of faith" and "a productive member of the community." Son calls him "the same man who ran out on us," and proceeds to spit on the casket. This provokes the other band of brothers attending, the ones wearing buttoned-down shirts and ties, the second set of sons, the Hayes boys, who received from their father real names like Mark, Steve, and John. Son's rash action brings the two clans almost to blows, but that is just the beginning. The conflict between Son, Boy, and Kid and the Hayes brothers slowly but steadily escalates throughout the film, aided by a friend of Kid's with the doubtful name of Shampoo, who seems to be quietly spoiling for a fight, and deals in information and rumors that only make things worse, as well as showing the ropes of gun use at a crucial juncture.

Son's scars get referred to repeatedly throughout the film, a reoccurring commentary I found annoying and too obvious at first. But there are conflicting reports of how he got the scars, and eventually they handily and indirectly inform how we think of him and his brothers. Shannon contributes to the sense that this is an almost legendary character by keeping Son stonily aloof throughout, burying his bitterness, while the themes of legacy and inheritance that the scar stories (the title's shotgun stories?) plant are developed further later in the script. "Is that your boy?" one of the Hayes brothers asks Son. "Wonder how he's gonna take it when I give a speech at your funeral." Nichols follows the insinuating aggression of that line with a perfect, heartbreaking cut away shot of Son's son watching another fight beginning, making clear the generational stakes of the conflict. Son wants to be a good father, taking his son fishing, but the anger of the feud threatens to override his more protective impulses.

A slow, thoughtful film about poverty, revenge, and inheritance, "Shotgun Stories" is very quietly disturbing, with under-the-surface tension that builds to quick, non-cathartic violence. Nichols shows restraint, poise, and a deep empathy for his messed-up and lifelike characters.

"Shotgun Stories" (PG-13) **** (Available on Netflix Instant)

Hidden Gems of Netflix: Safety Not Guaranteed

"My calibrations are flippin' pinpoint, okay?"

Colin Trevorrow's time-travel indie "Safety Not Guaranteed" is undoubtedly a minor work, a purposefully low-key film with its dramatic stakes built around muted and slowly-revealed emotions rather than any sort of physical danger. It fits right in with the current overly quirky indie film trend, for better and for worse. However, this does not prevent it from telling an effectively touching and even surprising story, centered on notable and promising performances.

"Safety" opens with a black screen and a flat voice-over: "How far back do you want me to go?" The voice is that of Aubrey Plaza (familiar to me as the sarcastic and deadpan April on "Parks and Recreation"), and the characteristic blankness of her tone here suggests a certain numbed apathy. The question of how far back, in a movie that expressly concerns the idea of time-travel as a cornerstone of its premise, is a slyly deceptive one with which to begin, because Plaza's character, Darius, is actually in a job interview; she gives too little pretense of taking it seriously to impress the potential employer. This seemingly off-topic opening sets the tone of the film, emphasizing its concern with mostly everyday problems and heartbreaks, but also cleverly pointing out, due to our potential for initial misunderstanding, that these things have a connection with the concept of time-travel. The opening also primes us to accept the stealth structure of the film—a series of one-on-one "interviews," varying in level of casualness and in purpose, that make up the backbone of the story.

Darius is a bored and jaded college graduate, self described as "not a quality hire," and living at home with her widower father, who is of course Facebook friends with her college roommate and somewhat unbelievably accuses Darius of being a virgin. "How do I eject?" she deadpans, with an impressive mix of incredulity and passivity. Her internship at a Seattle magazine is the kind where she takes names and fetches toilet paper. Her mother died when she was young, and she is painfully nostalgic for childhood, a time when she just naturally expected to be happy. Now, she says, "Everything cool is gone."

With this background, it makes sense that Darius jumps at the opportunity to tag along with Jeff, one of the magazine's writers (Jake Johnson, of "New Girl"), as he sets out to investigate, with growing disbelief and curiosity, the "weird" writer of an advertisement seeking a time-traveling partner:

Wanted: Somebody to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. P.O. Box 91 Ocean View, WA 99393. You'll get paid after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. Safety not guaranteed. I have only done this once before.

Jeff tries to join up with would-be timelord Kenneth (Mark Duplass, of "The League" and "Jeff, Who Lives at Home"), but is rejected because his cool guy schtick cannot hide the fact that he is a poser, and he has no specific reason ready to hand for why he would even want to time travel. Then Darius—who the other young intern, a stereotypically nerdy looking Indian college student named Arnau (Karan Soni), unsubtly notes is much prettier than Jeff—for once in her life intrigued, gives it a shot herself, and with the help of some hilarious lurking behind sunglasses stands, ends up befriending Kenneth by pretending to take his plans absolutely seriously and imitating his lapses into important-sounding technical/military vocabulary. The scene where Darius and Kenneth meet for the first time in the grocery store where he works is full to brimming with sharp banter-y dialogue that makes it feel instantly classic and memorable. It is one of the best written scenes in a generally strong script, and both Plaza and Duplass handle the back and forth rhythm and the self-seriousness expertly. As their relationship progresses—he totally enveloped in his plans, she (and we) wondering just how delusional he really is—Plaza especially does a fine job of showing both Darius' doubt and her desire to give in to her rediscovery of wonder as she begins to admire and respect, and maybe love, this guy who professes to be building a time machine. The problem with the middle section of the movie, however, is that the chemistry between these two is always iffy at best, and is complicated by the fact that Kenneth wants to travel in time to save his wife from being killed. (More than that I won't spoil, but the script by Derek Connolly has several twists that, while neither game-changing nor impossible to see coming, do nicely shed different light on the characters and premise.) And Duplass, although admirably committed to the role, never really makes it clear that Kenneth more than simply comes to trust Darius.

"Safety" also falls into several independent movie industry cliches, the most annoying to me being the incessant jangly indie songs that play beneath dialogue scenes that would do just fine or better without them, especially in the first half. Presumably they are supposed to imbue the scenes with a light-hearted or comedic undertone, but they mostly just distract from the characters and erode the pseudo-realism of movies like this. That said, there are a couple of transitions and montages that are well scored. The film also risks being too sugary in its earnestness. The themes of nostalgia and regret are present, and not heavy-handed, but the emphasis on romance and a vague "believing," which again the music oversells, at times threatens to take the story in a sticky-sweet direction. The ending is also somewhat . . . unclear, despite dramatic appearances, and left me with an inconclusive feeling.

Trevorrow has a secret weapon, however, in Jake Johnson, who makes his too-cool-for-school magazine writer into a tragic case of a deeply nostalgic man who feels past his prime and longs for his glory days. His real motive is to reconnect with a past girlfriend, who he is startled to find has actually aged and is no longer the hot blonde he remembers. As their renewed relationship bumbles through ups and downs (in a nice parallel to the main plot), Johnson gets to do everything from comparing his old flame to a fairy tale character representing lost purity to drowning his sorrows and trying to live large vicariously through Arnau (who otherwise has next to nothing to do) by helping him hook up with some random girl—a shockingly wrong-headed idea that the script sadly lets pass with no comment. But Johnson does all these things convincingly. There is one brilliant, sad, hilarious shot of him whirling around in a go-kart teary-eyed, with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other, that perfectly encapsulates both the childishness and the sadness hidden beneath the sunglasses of the successful and confident guy who defines himself by his job, his Escalade, and his condo.

Plaza, too, is a standout, here combining her trademark cynicism and deadpan comic delivery with a greater vulnerability and sensitivity. It is not so different from April's general arc on "Parks and Rec" really, but she carries it off so convincingly and effortlessly that I didn't mind. Hopefully this is just the start of bigger things for both these actors.

Despite its flaws, this is a simple and effective film about emotions and choices, a gentle comedy rooted in tragedy that takes both regret and hope very seriously.

"Safety Not Guaranteed" (R) ***1/2 (Available on Netflix Instant)

Hidden Gems of Netflix: Five Minutes of Heaven

 

Liam Neeson has morphed somewhat of late, from an actor who specialized in serious, Oscar-winning films like Steven Spielberg’s “Schindler’s List” (and was also Spielberg’s first pick at some point for the title role now occupied by Daniel Day-Lewis in the somber, reverent “Lincoln”) to an actor who is most likely to be seen in movies like “Taken” and “The A-Team”—both movies that work well in their own way, but are of a completely different caliber and intent than much of his previous work. In this most recent portion of his career, he has successfully reinvented himself as a genuine take-no-prisoners action star; and, I might add, a much more entertaining and convincing one than the present-day versions of eighties’ icons Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone. But despite this transformation, Neeson still gamely lent his star-power, talent, and box-office-draw name to a small European release like “Five Minutes of Heaven”(Pathé, BBC Fims), a film that, although it received some attention at Sundance in 2009, made a comparatively tiny amount of money in the US and slipped by virtually undetected.

Neeson stars here as the Irish-Protestant Alistair Little, who, at the age of 17, killed a Catholic boy named Jim Griffin in his Ulster home. Little eventually served time in jail and is now rehabilitated and released. The movie opens with Neeson narrating in an even, dignified, and straightforward way the specific situation of the 1975 murder and the general atmosphere of the Troubles. “For me to talk about the man I have become,” he says, “you need to know about the man I was.” His narration, and the slightly grainy, washed out footage that accompanies it, examines some of the group-think causes of terrorism. The man he was is played by Mark Ryder, who looks remarkably like a younger Neeson, from the tall, purposeful frame to the long, narrow nose. His eyes, however, are bright and clear, while the present day Alistair played by Neeson has a face weighed down by years of regret and melancholy resignation. Alistair now makes a living speaking about reconciliation, and he is scheduled to meet Joe Griffin, the younger brother of the man he killed. Neeson expertly conveys a blend of conflicting emotions: Alistair does want the meeting to take place, perhaps for his own closure, but is also visibly nervous, and understands and generously insists that the confrontation, which a TV crew will be filming live, must be completely on Joe’s terms. His crime weighs on him, and he wants more than anything to atone, but he also has made a career out of that attitude, a complication deftly shown when he repeats his opening narration lines to the TV cameras; the words begin to sound like something that has become routine for him. Our awareness of this possibility feeds into our comprehension of and sympathy with Joe's bitterness.

Playing Joe Griffin is another great Irish actor, James Nesbitt. His name is not nearly as well known as Neeson’s internationally (although you can currently see him as the comic and roguish dwarf Bofur in Peter Jackson’s “The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey”), but his performance is just as important to the success of “Five Minutes in Heaven,” if not more so. Joe is a bitter, angry man. He saw Alistair kill his brother over thirty years ago, and could do nothing, and his mother has blamed him ever since. He stews under a cloud of resentment and simmering ire, barely concealing his own deep sense of guilt underneath. The film first introduces him sitting in the back of a long black luxury car as he is driven to the meeting; it is a long tense scene as Joe keeps flashing back to the fatal event and his mother’s treatment of him afterward, and wavers on whether he will actually go through with the confrontation or not. He is completely agitated and distracted, and the scene is almost painful in its raw emotionality. And this introduction is not even Joe’s most emotional moment; rather the script pushes him further and further into the dark corners of his wounded mind, where his desperate lashing out seems equally divided between Alistair and himself. Joe runs the gamut of emotions in this film, and every one of them is finely stamped on Nesbitt’s haggard and vulnerable face. He also gives Joe an irrepressible nervous energy that shows itself in multitudinous small, quick, intense movements. His mental unease communicates itself bodily and creates a vivid portrait of a torn and broken man. The script by Guy Hibbert also gives Nesbitt several powerful monologues to work with, which he devours with energy, while always making the words sound like they are coming straight from the mess of Joe Griffin’s inner struggles.

I’ve largely dedicated this review to the two main actors because the film does the same thing. It hands over its simple plot to these two actors and characters and reveals itself as a great two-handed acting showcase. Neeson and Nesbit complement each other’s styles as well: where Neeson is all dignified containment, Nesbit is practically boiling over. But director Oliver Hirschbiegel (famous for his German film on Hitler’s last days, “Downfall”) also deserves much credit for his restrained but purposeful, and at times starkly beautiful direction. There are three splendid shots in particular that stand out:  The first comes about halfway through the film, when Joe is finally descending the stairs at the country retreat to confront Alistair, caught on the documentary team’s TV cameras. Hirschbiegel keeps his own camera directly in front of Joe, putting the character’s discomfort at the unnaturally staged quality of the event front and center, as Hirschbiegel's cinematographer (Ruairi O'Brien) takes the place of the fictional film crew. The second two come right near the end of the movie (mild SPOILERS ahead), when Joe and Alistair meet once again: first Alistair enters the ground floor of an abandon building, and the camera pulls back to show Joe waiting on a balcony above him, looking down unseen with an intense and frightening expression; then Alistair climbs the stairs and enters a room on the second floor, and the camera again reveals Joe, again where Alistair cannot see him, this time behind the open door. These shots suggest the moral and power imbalance between these two men. What is between them will forever keep them on different levels, at the same time enslaving both of them to the past, unless in their increasingly desperate hunt for closure and meaning they can somehow get past each other and the mental and emotional space they take up in each other’s lives.

Though at times slow and too dependent on long, play-like talky scenes, this film is a thoughtful drama about terrorism, revenge, and the possibility of forgiveness, elevated by riveting performances from Nesbitt and Neeson.

"Five Minutes of Heaven" (R) **** (Available on Netflix Instant)

Hidden Gems of Netflix: The Fall

"But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends."
-Anton Ego, Ratatouille

This is one of my favorite quotes about film criticism (from a film!), because it gets at so succinctly what I love most about it: the discovery of something new. That is my main joy in reading about film, and I want to bring some of that to how I write about film. I can give my thoughts on major current releases, and I probably will at times, but you are already aware of those. What I want to try to do is to champion excellent films that are less well known, that you might not hear about otherwise.

All this to introduce my new idea, "Hidden Gems of Netflix"—in which I'll highlight what I consider to be great, underrated films that are available to stream via Netflix Instant—as well as my review of "The Fall" as follows.






"The Fall"

In glorious, high-definition black and white, a man's head bursts from the water. We see fleeting images of a daring film stunt gone wrong: A train engine on a high bridge, surrounded by slow-billowing puffs of steam. A fake leg floating disconnected in the river. A horse in the water. Men throwing a rope. All these set to the graceful, commanding strains of Beethoven's7th symphony's second movement. Then, a title card: "Los Angeles, Once upon a time."

This gorgeous and highly detailed prologue would be worth studying carefully, because it puts into play many of the important elements of director Tarsem Singh's "The Fall." It is the early 1900s, lovingly rendered in period detail, and Roy (Lee Pace of "Pushing Daisies"), the stuntman injured in the ill-advised stunt, convalesces gloomily in a hauntingly lit hospital, where he meets Alexandria, a young European immigrant girl who broke her arm in a fall while picking oranges. The plot is simple: over a few days, as they become friends, he spins a fantastic tale for her—in exchange for her getting him a lot of morphine. The story he tells her involves bandits (including an Indian, an ex-slave, an explosives expert, a bizarre native mystic, an eccentric Darwin, and a stand-in for himself) and their joint quest for revenge against the aptly named Governor Odious. The tale, however, keeps shifting and growing. Alexandria does not speak or understand English very well, and her misunderstandings alter the course of the story, while her wild imagination paints it in vivid colors. But Roy's increasingly prevalent depression also influences it, pushing the fantastic fable into darker and darker territory. Her creativity and innocent hope fight back against his bitterness and despair, and the battlefield is the story. "It's my story!" Roy protests. "Mine too," says Alexandria. As they go deeper into the story and their own traumas, they become a "strange pair"—a surrogate father and daughter who pull the narrative in opposite directions, but also jointly blur the lines between fantasy and reality. The film thus serves as an ode to collaboration. In one of many small breathtaking touches, "The Fall" also celebrates its own existence as a film when Alexandria sees an inverted image "projected" through a keyhole. This is echoed and reinforced later with a beautiful and fitting homage to silent film that serves as a perfect summary of the movie, a tone poem of both joy and melancholy.

Tarsem shot "The Fall" in exotic locations around the world and reportedly largely paid for the production himself. There were also reportedly no computer effects used in the making of the movie, which is truly remarkable given how many splendid and unexpected sights it treats us to. Catinca Untaru, the young Romanian girl who plays Alexandria, was only six years old when the film was made, and is flawlessly naturalistic. The strange and wonderful costumes were designed by Academy Award winner Eiko Ishioka.

This film is like no other I have seen. It is an inebriating marriage of lush and glorious cinematography with a highly emotional story. It is deceptively simple and strikingly beautiful. I have watched it four times now, and each time I find something new. And each time I am again taken aback by how dark it gets as it pushes towards its catharsis. Let there be no confusion, though this is a fairy tale, it is not one for children. It is dark, occasionally bloody, and often bizarre (such as when the mystic eats a poisoned map and then directions appear on his body in a drum-and-dance filled ceremony). Yet, it is at the same time hopeful, joyful, and vibrant. It is some kind of mad masterpiece. It is a "new" worthy of discovery.

"The Fall" (R) ****1/2   (Available on Netflix Instant)