Chilean director Pablo Larraín tackles Chile's Nobel Prize-winning poet Pablo Neruda in Neruda. That simple title belies the multi-layered, impressionistic interpretation of 1948 events when the committed Communist Neruda outfoxed Chilean authorities who had outlawed the Communist Party. What could be a simple, suspenseful hunt for impeached Senator Neruda becomes, in Larraín's artful film, a salute to Neruda's audacious defiance.
Most recently known here for Jackie, Larraín explores both Neruda's political allegiance to the Communist Party and his hedonistic, egotistical eccentricities. At Telluride, where I first saw the film, Larraín called "Neruda" an anti-biopic. Indeed, not an endearing man, especially to his wife Delia, Neruda soon becomes wildly impatient with being forced to hide in various retreats. He flees cross country for Argentina, evading the obsessive police inspector Óscar Peluchonneau. An invented character inserted as Neruda's dark twin, Óscar engages through voiceover narration in imaginary dialogue with Neruda, exposing, Larraín asserts, "the corrupting influence of ideology."
At Telluride Larraín also spoke of one idea dominating each of his films: Tony Manero, Post Mortem, NO, El Club. Here, he said, it is "love and the blood of our language." As Neruda wrote under this, his pen name, "If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life." In fact, he composed most of Canto General during this time, an inspirational work Larraín describes as "a political tome . . . full of fury and flights of fancy, as well as terrible dreams and cosmic descriptions of an angry and desperate Latin America in crisis."
Luis Gnecco presents a complex, self-assured portrayal of Neruda, a brash, bombastic political poet. As the official in pursuit, the chameleon-like Gael García Bernal is Neruda's mirror image: Disciplined versus agitated, focused instead of distracted, implosive as opposed to explosive. And Mercedes Morán makes the artist Delia a significant contributor to Neruda's poetic and political life. "Neruda" the film presents a provocative, creative, energetic portrait.
In Spanish and some French with English subtitles, at Landmark's Plaza Frontenac Theatre.
Folds of red fabric. Red nails. Red kitchen wall. From the first -- but not the last -- sight of all this red, Pedro Almodóvar glides away from his source material. He based the double-story of the title character on a conflation of three short stories, written in 2004 by Canadian Alice Munro.
Munro's stories read more beige than primary colored, but Almadovar's stunning film streams forth in reds and blues and yellows. He takes a mature woman, confronts her with a slap from her past, and he follows her to closure. Julieta lives rather serenely in Madrid with her lover, Lorenzo. They have plans to move to Portugal.
Then Julieta runs into Bea, her estranged daughter's former best friend, who tells her that the daughter Antia lives in Switzerland with three children. Julieta drops Lorenzo and removes to the apartment she had with Antia, hoping for a connection. To while away her time, Julieta starts a journal, its white pages, as white as a sheet on a dead body. They are a great contrast from the red of her nails as she sensually smooths the pages at the inner seam. She writes her memories of meeting Antia's father, of their love, of his love for a sculptor, of Julieta's for her daughter, and of her daughter's for Bea.
To portray the young and old Julieta, Almodóvar cast two actors, Emma Suárez and Adriana Ugarte. Suarez plays the older Julieta; Ugarte, the younger, spiker-haired blonde version. Because Julieta moves in and out of time, each actor also moves in and out of the story and the decades, and Almodóvar handles this trick effortlessly. Also notable is Inma Cuesta as Ava, the sculptor (although the erotic works are actually sculpted by Spaniard Miguel Navarro).
Julieta interprets a woman's complex story, something Almadovar does so well, through a series of still lives: red frosting, a blue sweater -- a fine film.
All terrorist actions leave scars, the cruelty unfathomable. One such event, still immediate in its pain, is the Boston Marathon bombings, April 15, 2013, that stunned and shocked the nation in its targeting a celebratory, illustrious race. Director/co-writer Peter Berg's Patriots Day honors the Boston strong who faced and triumphed over that horrific tragedy.
In the opening scenes, the film effectively axnd appealingly presents snapshots of many impacted by the bombing, including police, government officials, marathon runners, and spectators. Various personalities are established as the individuals go about their daily routines, thereby nicely defining the event and the locale. It's a special day because of the Boston Marathon, known as Patriots Day, but it's nothing extraordinary beyond that, until -- and it is that "until" that creates suspense and tension. With the bombs' blasts, the mood and style changes with rapid, exceptional editing and chilling recreations.
The blasts themselves feel horribly real as any, and the chaos that follows is unnerving. Wisely, Berg resists sensationalizing the aftermath, preferring to let honest depiction suffice with details of the way authorities identify the Tsarnaevs making surveillance footage examination compelling, and one unbearably tense scene depicts the car hijacking of Chinese student Dun Meng. By contrast, a particularly powerful scene is one of the quietest, the interrogation of Tsarnaev's wife.
Solid performances bring the participants to life. Central among them is Mark Wahlberg as composite character Tommy Saunders, a complex sergeant working his way off suspension with assigned duty at the marathon finish line, and Michelle Monaghan as his wife Carol. Also superb are John Goodman as Commissioner Ed Davis, Kevin Bacon as Special Agent Richard DesLauriers, Jimmy O. Yang as Dun Meng, and J.K. Simmons as Jeffrey Pugliese in Watertown. The interlocking these Bostonians lives asserts the fact that terrorism impacts a community, a truly important reminder.
Patriots Day ends with comments from survivors and officials, followed by photographs of the four killed. I can't imagine a dry eye in the house in what is an exceptional film about a horrid event. For some, myself included, it offers some emotional catharsis in its honoring the medical staff, the officers, and the entire Boston community. At area cinemas.
In the fully competent hands of director John Lee Hancock, who also directed The Blind Side and Saving Mr. Banks, The Founder tells the story of Ray Kroc, the putative founder of McDonald's. The film is entertaining but not revelatory enough. There's little doubt an even more horrifying story lies beneath.
The film begins with Kroc's spiel. Kroc is a 52-year-old salesman with a history of failure (just ask his wife). Now, Kroc is selling a multi-teated mixer for shakes. He appeals to the potential buyer's ego as much as to his business strategy. He is rejected over and over. Then, his secretary reports an order for six of those mixers, so Kroc drives from St. Louis to San Bernardino to see who placed such a big order -- and why.
He finds the McDonald brothers, Dick and Mac, and he observes their operation. The brothers even show him the Speed-ee system they've devised. Kroc knows a good thing when he sees it. He's especially attracted by the bright yellow arches that Mac designed for the store in Phoenix, and he sees those arches as complements to the flags that fly and the crosses that mark cityscapes across America.
The Founder tightropes across a minefield. By casting Michael Keaton as Ray Kroc, the film replaces a conscience with a good face, making it harder to boo the man for his actions, from hanging up on his partners to actively lying about his dealings, which include referring to himself as the founder of the restaurant. Keaton works his magic as Kroc works his. Well cast as the brothers McDonald are Nick Offerman and John Carroll Lynch, solid and stolid men with common sense. Linda Cardellini and Laura Dern star as Kroc's serial wives. John Schwartzman's cinematography and Robert Frazen's editing add filmic interest to this juicy biopic.
The title's all wrong, far too sweeping, and a little misleading. For one thing, how the three women referred to in the title represent a century's worth of women is ungraspable. For another, the character played by Annette Bening so dominates the story that "20th Century Woman" is a truer title.
Dorothea, a product of the 1940s and 50s, is the single, rather Bohemian mother of a growing boy in 1979. Jamie, at an awkward age, needs guidance into manhood, so ever-helpful and liberated, his mother asks help from two young women. Julie is the growing girl next door, who sneaks into Jamie's bedroom to sleep with him -- no sex, just companionship because, she feels, they are too close as friends.
Abbie, a photographer, is in her twenties and lives in the same house with Jamie and Dorothea. She is immature but has Jamie's ear. Also practically living there is the contractor, fixing up the money pit of a house. Dorothea is attracted to him in her quirky way.
But, truly, none of the characters is that attractive. Of them all, Jamie is the most interesting. He is played well by Lucas Jade Zumann. His mother is played by Annette Bening, but she and her cigarettes never ignite the role that dominates the film. Greta Gerwig, also seen in Jackie, plays Abbie -- not much attraction there, and Elle Fanning plays Julie weakly. Billy Crudup, also seen in Jackie, plays the contractor.
Mike Mills wrote the script with its voiceovers. He gave words to each of these characters, partly molded from his own life as was the story of the late-coming-out dad in Mills' brilliant Beginners. Because of that film, you may want 20th Century Women to be better, warmer, more honest. And it is, but only in small lines here, tiny parts there, not in the aggregate. 20th Century Women doesn't entertain, not as a moment in time or as a study in 20th century women's characters.