Ted (2012)

Mark Whalberg, Mila Kunis, and the title character

"Ted" is the kind of film you’d be happy to find on cable if you were home sick from work, or snowed in. It’s amiable and good-natured, with a pleasant, good-looking cast. It’s formulaic, mostly predictable, and aimed at the same frat-boy set that’s made director Seth MacFarlane’s TV shows (Family Guy, American Dad, etc…) terribly popular, sure. But it’s also entertaining, well paced, has a clever, satirical edge, and many genuine laughs. It’s happily raunchy, and has its heart in the right place.

Mark Wahlberg plays John Bennett, a middle-class guy from the Boston suburbs, who didn’t have lots of friends as a kid. An eight-year old John receives a stuffed teddy bear from his parents, for Christmas. His eyes light up, and his smile grows wide. It’s the perfect gift. Instantly he bonds with his new toy. “I’m gonna call him Ted,” John says. The two become inseparable.

One night John wishes that the bear were actually alive, so the two could literally be best friends. He’s lonely, and scared of thunder, wanting more than an inanimate object for company. Wouldn’t you know it, a shooting star happens to fly over John’s house at just the right moment. Guess what happens next. 

This isn’t one of those films where only the main character can see the toy’s incredible abilities. The following morning, John proudly displays Ted’s newfound walking and talking skills to his parents. They’re horrified. But soon, everyone comes to accept that, sure, why couldn’t a teddy bear just magically to come to life (if you’ve considered seeing this film in the first place, you probably won’t have too much trouble suspending your disbelief).

Ted becomes an instant media sensation, appearing on magazine covers and television talk shows. He’s stopped on the street for pictures and autographs. However, even with all his fame, Ted is first and foremost the faithful companion to his best-pal John.

But what would happen to John and Ted as the years pass? As adults, we outgrow most of our favorite childhood toys, right?

Like too many child celebrities before him, Ted is emotionally ill equipped to handle his meteoric rise. When his 15 minutes fade, he winds up a foul-mouthed approximation of 80s TV puppet Alf. Voiced by MacFarlane (in an accurate Boston accent), Ted is a constant stream of one-liners, and vulgar observations.

Twenty-seven years pass. Both grown up, John and Ted are now bros, smoking bongs on the couch over breakfast, watching Spongebob, infatuated with the campy 1980 film Flash Gordon, laughing at each other’s inside jokes, and living together in an improbably upscale Back Bay apartment, with John’s improbably attractive girlfriend Lori (Mila Kunis). The passage of time hasn’t changed the fact that they’re still best friends.

John works at a local car rental office. His is a menial job he says he’s OK with, but which we see is probably not going to lead anyplace meaningful. Which is in stark contrast with Lori’s work at a corporate PR firm, where she fends off the constant advances of her lecherous boss (Joel McHale). In the game of life, she’s already well ahead of John, and still accelerating.

Though unimaginably patient and understanding, and able to overlook most of John's (and Ted’s) faults, the current arrangement with Ted isn’t entirely comfortable for her. She realizes three’s becoming a crowd. Lori needs John to mature, and stop living the fun-loving, libertine lifestyle he’s created with Ted. Fiercely loyal to Ted, and grateful for his decades of friendship, John’s conflicted. He can’t simply turn his back on his boyhood pal. What to do?

One of the film’s major themes, a question it returns to repeatedly, is asking what it means to grow up. Can a 35-year old, who spends most of his time clowning with a wise-cracking teddy bear, be a man? Or is he simply an older, taller, still-irresponsible boy?

The movie has other minor characters. Seinfeld’s Patrick Warburton is over-the-top, as John’s sexually-confused co-worker. Giovanni Ribisi stars as a maladjusted townie, obsessed with acquiring the talking bear for his overweight son. There’s a running joke about actor Tom Skerritt. Patrick Stewart provides narration. 

Ultimately, however, this film is about its three main characters. Wahlberg shows surprising vulnerability, in a character which could have been boilerplate. Kunis is patient and sympathetic, as his put-upon girlfriend. Ted is simply inappropriately funny.

How will John reconcile his need to be a responsible, evolving boyfriend to Lori, with his desire to stay out late drinking and chasing skirt with Ted?

“Ted” plays out through a series of events that are improbable, but entertaining, just the same. Though many jokes miss, like the “Airplane” films, there are so many that more than a few are very funny. Often we can see where the movie’s is headed, but are fine watching it get there, because its characters are likeable, and well-intentioned. It parodies more earnest films, which lack its sharp insight and self-awareness. "Ted" recalls lewd-but-basically-harmless films from the 80s, which had salty language and nudity aplenty, but lacked cynicism and malice. Despite off-color humor about hookers, cocaine, and bukkake, the film's message is even kinda old fashioned. It’s certainly not one of the best movies of the year, but there are worse ways to spend a couple hours on your couch.

Beasts of the Southern Wild (2012)

 

Quvenzhane Wallis as Hushpuppy

Beasts of the Southern Wild, the much-lauded, first-time feature by Ben Zeitlin, isn’t easy to describe. On the surface, it’s the story of a group of impoverished residents of the Mississippi delta, the struggles of their daily lives, and how they attempt to persevere and recover in the wake of havoc wrought by a ferocious storm recalling hurricane Katrina. But it’s also a fiercely intimate father/daughter-story, about the difficulties of growing up. It’s about a little girl’s search for her beloved, but now lost, mother. Beneath all this, it’s a fable about the connections (seen and unseen) shared by its characters. The entire time, giant, menacing, pre-historic wild boars (who’ve been frozen in arctic ice, but recently thawed) charge towards civilization. With them they bring what? And why?

Along with various other locals who might euphemistically be described as “eccentric” or “colorful,” the father (“Wink,” played impressively by first-timer Dwight Henry) and daughter (“Hushpuppy,” played by 9-year old Oscar-nominee Quvenzhane Wallis) live in “the Bathtub,” an almost impossibly-rural, destitute swamp, located below a series of levees. At the film’s open, the carefree locals are celebrate, despite their poverty. These aren’t the kinds of people who feel sorry for theyselves. Their lives seem to suit them just fine. They drink from the bottle, eat off paper plates, play music too loud and too late on the front porch, shoot off fireworks, race infants on picnic blankets, and talk about the people above the levee in disparaging tones. Though every day is a struggle, they seem, if not entirely happy, not overtly unhappy, either.

Wink and Hushpuppy share a fierce, loyal, intense, but at times combative, bond. Perhaps that’s why they live (curiously) in separate homes? She resides in a dilapidated trailer, oddly standing on stilts, that’s in a forest so remote I wondered how it had gas and electricity. The place is cluttered, claustrophobic, dingy, riddled with holes, and overrun by squalor. Along with its human inhabitant, the house is also host to pigs, chickens, and a few scraggly dogs. Her father lives in even more desperate conditions: a ramshackle hut constructed of little more than a few sheets of corrugated metal, with a tarp for a roof. The two structures are connected by a long clothing line with a bell at one end, which Wink rings to call Hushpuppy for meals. The family pets get the leftovers straight off the plate.

There is no physical sign of a mom, though Hushpuppy talks to her frequently.

The little girl is wide-eyed, wild-haired, observing everything, rarely taken aback by what she sees. Almost angelic in her innocence, she is also independent, stubborn and tough. She shows kindness towards her pets, but also remarks matter-of-factly that, after having gone several days without food, she might have to start eating them.

Wink is far from an ideal dad. He drinks too much, values his privacy more than he should, and probably doesn’t know where his daughter is most of the time. When forced to share a room, he tapes a line down the middle, telling Hushpuppy in no uncertain terms to stay on her side. After going missing for several days, he returns in a daze, without explanation, wearing a hospital gown. 

However, in his peculiar way, Wink does care deeply and desperately about his daughter. During these fleeting moments, he fiercely tries to instill pride, courage and resilience in her, through harsh instruction and life lessons. Instead of having the requisite ball-catch with her, he teaches her to fish with her bare hands. When she throws a tantrum, he responds in kind. “Never cry,” he admonishes.

I’m not sure I could describe the film’s story in a way that would be entirely accurate. It primarily follows the travails of Hushpuppy and Wink, and traces how they regroup each time. The plot kind of seeps from their journey, and from the interactions with those they meet along the way. It doesn’t result from a traditional story arc. None of the characters does anything that feels false, or simply necessary to push the story along. Though I’m loath to describe it this way, the film’s progression feels “organic.” It unfolds in an unhurried way, which evokes its deep-southern setting. The picture lacks dialogue in long stretches, and has an hallucinatory, fantastical, magic-realism quality throughout, (similar to, though not to the same degree as, Terrence Malick’s 2011 “Tree of Life”). I learn from IMDB that the film lacked a formal script. The filmmakers use poetic, almost hypnotic shots of water, fireworks, mud, trees, storm clouds, collapsing glaciers, and close-ups of writhing marine animals, instead.

Where there is dialogue, Hushpuppy often speaks in voice-over, observing facts about life that are more wise and insightful than any elementary-school aged child could ever know. She says things like “The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece... the entire universe will get busted.” Without context, this might seem like a hokey, writer’s contrivance. In this film, however, given these characters’ uncommon existence, it feels believable. In her short life, Hushpuppy’s been through a lot.

Not a traditional narrative by any stretch, “Beasts of the Southern Wild” is meditative, thought-provoking film. It stayed with me after I saw it, and I have thought of it often since. I enjoyed its performances, visual imagery, and message, but would not argue too strongly with those who prefer something more conventional. It possesses a quiet nobility, which I admire. Ultimately, it’s about (I think) summoning the strength and courage to believe in oneself, and pursue happiness, in a world where life can be startlingly arbitrary, unusually cruel and unimaginably difficult. My expectations where high going in, and I’m not sure it entirely lived up to them. That said, I’m glad I saw “Beasts.” It is unusual, creative, and likely unlike anything else you’ll see soon.

Stand Up Guys (2013)

Al Pacino. Christopher Walken. Alan Arkin. Starring as aging mobsters. What more do you need? Even if this film didn't have terrific writing (which it does), and patient directing (by Fisher Stevens), seeing these three inimitable pros onscreen together would still almost certainly be entertaining, right?

Stand-Up Guys is a buddy film, set in a world of mostly-retired, small-time gangsters. It opens with a fairly stock scene of Doc (Walken) leaning against his car outside a prison, waiting to pick up Pacino's Valentine ("Val" to his friends), who's just been released. They are literally sights for each other's sore eyes. As Val walks free, they trade friendly ball busting ("...you look like shit;" "you look worse...") and an awkward hug ("was that weird?"). After 28 years in the joint, Val is "ready to party." Doc's not so sure, but is eventually convinced to show his old pal a celebratory night on the town. By morning, each man will learn much about himself, as well as the bonds of friendship. 

Look at what age has wrought in these two men: Doc is tired. He lives alone, in a well-worn apartment that Val says is worse than prison. He paints sunsets and bridges, and watches cable tv. He drives an enormous relic of a car, and needs medication for hypertension, cataracts, and a stomach ulcer. Aside from the gun tucked in his trousers, his probably looks like the retirement of many men his age. 

Val, in contrast, isn't so eager to slow down. Just out of prison, he's back-and-better-than-ever. Away so long he doesn't understand newfangled car keys, modern music, or Viagra, he still shares a taste for fast cars, and the company of beautiful, hopefully easy-women. He convinces Doc to take him to a cozy brothel. With a limited (and impossibly beautiful) staff, and a manager who's slightly off (Lucy Punch), the place is as dated as they are. After an unfortunately abbreviated session, Val's surprised to discover his desire and ability don't always coincide. 

From there they head to a nearby greasy spoon. It's all dark wood, shadows and deep booths. The kind of place that serves steak and a rootbeer float. A cute, cheerful waitress called Alex (newcomer Addison Timlin) knows Doc as a regular. While Val digs into a hearty surf-and-turf, Doc excuses himself to make an urgent phone call to his boss. When he returns, visibly distracted, they talk about prison, their criminal pasts, and what the future might hold. Refueled and ready-to-go, Val suggests they forge on to a bar. For him, the night's just getting started. 

At the bar, Val approaches a group of much, much younger, attractive women, and crudely propositions them all. With disastrous results.  

Watch how Pacino plays this scene. Though eager and shamelessly lustful, Val is more Donnie Brasco than Michael Corleone. Despite initial rejection, he is undaunted. He realizes his mistake, isn't embarrassed, and instead takes a different tack. He returns to the table and, without being obnoxious this time, simply asks one woman to dance. "Just one dance. After it's over, you'll never see, or hear from me, again." Rather than talking at the women, he talks to them. What follows is one of the film's most magical moments, one that made me smile.

As the hours pass, the pair decide to rescue their former third partner-in-crime (Hirsch, played by Arkin, in little more than a cameo) from the mundane confines of his retirement home. They discover him sitting quietly in his dimly-lit room, wearing a robe and slippers, hooked to an oxygen tank. Hirsch was the group's getaway driver. Given the keys (or rather "button") to a stolen, modern, muscle car, Hirsch shows hasn't lost his touch. The trio speed through empty, dark streets like high-school kids out-too-late in daddy's car. They talk about the old days, and are happy to be back together.

Through the it all, Doc seems to be carrying an unseen weight. Though glad to see his old pals, he's also troubled at where their reunion might lead. Val senses this, too, though the obvious discord goes unmentioned. 

Pacino and Walken are terrific. Look closely at these two men. Witness their ragged hair, tired, sunken eyes, stooped backs, and slow gestures. Has either ever appeared so world weary? We can practically hear creaking as they walk. Without employing elaborate Hollywood make-up, or tired "old-people" cliches, both actors appear significantly older than their true age. This is a brave move for two cinematic leading men. Their characters have simply seen too much of life's harsh realities, are worn down from the lives they've led, and regret many of their choices. 

But they are also proud men, who believe in honor-among-thieves. They see egregious wrongs, and try to right them. Admittedly old-school, Val and Doc lament the unnecessary violence of contemporary crooks. Instead, theirs is somehow rationalized as a higher, more-respectable type of crime. Val weighs his sins and virtues in a brilliantly funny, Catholic-confessional scene, late in the film. Like the film's fantastically creative poster, these men are of another time. 

Across the board, the acting is strong and believable. Even minor characters are memorable and effecting, especially Timlin's waitress Alex. However, the film's strength derives from the performances of its two leads. Pacino and Walken have rare chemistry. Doc and Val possess an easy familiarity, that suggests deep friendship. Over the course of the night they quarrel about minor differences like a long-married couple, while at the same time sharing an undeniable fondness. Much of this is funny, to them and to us. We believe they've honestly come by their war stories through years of criminal misadventures.   

Several times while watching "Stand-Up Guys," I was reminded of the terrific 2008 film "In Bruges." Both are gangster films, that feature an insightful pair of articulate, lovable villains. Both are very funny, but also contain scenes that are surprisingly heartfelt. Amidst all the grumbling, implied menace, and occasional violence, these touching scenes sneak up on you, maybe because of all the requisite gangster trappings?

Like a play, the film has few settings, and even fewer characters. Pacino's Val is mostly energy, contrasting sharply with Doc's quiet, contemplative regret. All will be reveled by morning. Can each man reconcile what they've done with who they like to believe they are? Though nostalgic and wistful for their younger years, like the actors who portray them, Val and Doc refuse to believe their best days are behind them. 

Zero Dark Thirty (2012)

Jessica Chastain as Maya

Katharine Bigelow's Zero Dark Thirty is mainly a story about one woman's relentless pursuit of Osama Bin Laden. Jessica Chastain plays CIA agent known only as Maya. Maya is singular of task, and unwavering. She is diligent, and supremely confident in her abilities. She displays little life outside her job. Without her, we're lead to believe, the world's most-wanted man might still be at large.

As the movie opens, the screen is dark, with audio-only phone calls from 9/11 providing context. Immediately after, Maya is led into a large, barren, dark building, on a military base, clearly not in America, someplace remote. As her (and our) eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees a man, tied at his wrists, at the mercy of his captors. He's asked questions, which he refuses to answer. Though he tries to resist, he's beaten, and informed by another CIA operative that resistance is futile; simple biology dictates that ultimately and inevitably, he'll break. Suffering further assaults, and worse, it's not long before the prisoner's demeanor converts from firm resolve, to one of utter desperation. Pain and hopelessness have that effect.

An indeterminate amount of time later, after suffering who knows how much at the hands of his captors, the prisoner is seen talking with the lead interrogators under a tent, outside the building. They offer him a cigarette, and begin talking with him in softer tones. He reciprocates, offering the name of someone possibly tied to al Qaida. It is the crucial clue that begins Maya's quest. 

Maya is sent to Afghanistan, to join a small group of CIA members relentlessly tracking Bin Laden. At first, she's seen skeptically by existing members. They dismiss her assertions as naive, and see her as inexperienced. Undaunted, she earns respect by displaying fierce resolve, speaking up forcefully, refusing to back down to their bullying. Impressed, they begin to accept her as one of their own. Using sophisticated electronic surveillance, sources on the ground, keen insight, and sheer determination, the group is dogged in their pursuit of a courier they believe may have ties to Bin Laden. 

As mentioned, the bulk of the film involves Maya's singular pursuit of even the smallest details. There are promising leads, and dead ends. Possible break-throughs, and frustrating failures. Through it all, Maya does not flinch.

After a dizzying connection of clues, Maya's becomes certain she knows the specific location where the terrorist leader is hiding, in Pakistan. Frustrated at the agency's lack of urgency, she brazenly challenges not only her boss, but the head of the entire organization, saying she's 100-...no 95-percent sure Bin Laden's where she says he is (certainty being beyond the comprehension of higher-ups). Unsure she's right, cabinet-level leaders show doubt and ambivalence. Maya can't believe that, after all the effort she and her team have exerted, after all they've been through, the government won't act. Her passion shifts from finding a needle in a haystack, to convincing her superiors that she has, miraculously, located said needle.

I won't spoil anything by disclosing that the final segment of the film involves Seal Team 6's assault on the infamous compound in Abbottabad. These re-creations were shot from a first-person perspective, and are realistic, gripping, and believable. Though I knew the result, it was still tense. Both the look and feel of the attack—from the stealth helicopters, to the storming of the pitch-black building by the soldiers in night-vision goggles—exceeded expectations. For most who see the movie, these will be the images they remember. 

While successful, the film has flaws. In parts, given all the similar-sounding Arabic names being dropped by captors and captives, the film can be confusing and hard to follow. Were it not for the fact that I knew the basic gist going in, I might've spent time wondering who said what, to whom, and how they relate to one another. As it was, I resigned myself to not knowing Ammar from Hassan, from Abu Ahmed to Zied, and trusted that it would all play out in the end. Which it did.  

Again, to its credit (like Cameron's "Titanic" before it) Zero Dark Thirty is able to conjure genuine suspense, despite the fact that we all know the outcome. No easy task, that. As such, Bigelow and  writer Mark Boal, as well as the entire cast and crew (especially photographer Greig Fraser) are to be commended.

Finally, it's impossible to review this movie without acknowledging that it has been criticized roundly for showing graphic scenes of torture, as well as mainly claiming torture led to gathering evidence crucial to finding Bin Laden. 

These scenes are harrowing, without question. I felt uncomfortable watching them. That one person could treat another as such is unimaginable and, even in the name of protecting one's country, I believe inhumane. We can't at once claim moral high ground (spouting the cliched "they'll murder innocent American because they hate us for our freedom"), while at the same time lowering ourselves to such unspeakable acts. I've felt similarly when seeing images from Abu Graib prison, heard former interrogators interviewed on 60 Minutes, or seen comparable stories recalled in documentaries such as Taxi to the Dark Side. When Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld infamously asserted the US had to work in the "dark side" to reach its goals, insinuating that that the US government might resort to less-than-legal methods, their words conjured similar notions. The scenes in Zero Dark Thirty reflect this unconscionable sensibility. In light of all this, the scenes didn't feel artificial, or trumped up for dramatic purposes. Perhaps I'm cynical, but the scenes felt in-line with what US leaders of the time were all but admitting was likely occurring. Back before Abu Graib, Black Sites, rendition, and Wiki Leaks were all common knowledge. 

That the film's protagonist goes from an initial feeling of reluctance at witnessing torture, to managing similar interrogations herself is, I believe, as much a realistic statement about that very human desire for revenge, and Maya's single-minded approach to achieving that goal, as it is one about the film makers' reveling in blood-thirsty sadism, their lack of empathy, exploiting torture for entertainment, or  advocating of torture as a means-to-an-end. 

Having said that, hearing such disparate sources as John McCain, Diane Feinstein, and Carl Levin claim scenes of torture did not, in fact, lead to critical information in finding Bin Laden, I'm inclined to believe them, more than Hollywood. They regularly attend classified-level briefings, and are in a better position to know. I suppose I went in with the notion that "the torture scenes will be bullshit." If the filmmakers invented this entire sequence simply to forward the plot, while at the same time claiming their work is an accurate portrayal of what actually happened, this is not only dishonest, but also unnecessary. Omission of the torture scenes would not greatly affect the overall message, or entertainment value, of the film.  Does the film glorify torture, using suffering as entertainment? Perhaps. However, as Martin Sheen recently stated (I'm paraphrasing), showing such brutality makes it impossible to defend similar treatment of prisoners in the future. The cat's now wholly out of the bag. Thus, while maybe at once using torture as entertainment, the film might simultaneously be seen as laying bare the indefensible indiscretions of so-called "enhanced interrogation." As such, Bigelow has her torture, and eats it, too.

Ultimately, Katharine Bigelow's "Zero Dark Thirty" achieves what it set out to do: deliver a powerful, dramatic version of the hunt for, and ultimate killing of, Osama Bin Laden. Do any of us have any idea how accurate it is? Or whether it selectively included (or left out) parts of that story? That is a question of personal belief. It is doubtless more narrative than documentary. What I am sure of is that, upon leaving the theatre, I felt Zero Dark Thirty was credible. And for the entire 2+ hours, I was never bored. I'm not sure I learned anything (intricate details aside) about the over-arching story of the hunt for Bin Laden, that I didn't already know going in. Except for the fact that one woman was almost entirely responsible for leading the charge. 

A Little Help (2010)

A despairing Jenna Fischer, in "A Little Help"

Laura Pehlke isn't happy. She isn't miserable, either. Just not nearly as content as she'd prefer. Her life is littered with too much of the stuff that causes stress, and not enough kindness, compassion, recognition and joy. Most of us have, at one time or another, probably felt the same. 

Set just after the 9/11 disaster, "A Little Help" (written and directed by Michael J Weithorn) is an honest, intimate film, about how people handle the small, and not-so-small, difficulties of life. 

Laura's life hasn't become what she hoped. An early-30-something, NY-area dental assistant, Laura (played by the adorable Jenna Fischer, from the American-TV version of "The Office") is both likable, and flawed. Her cheerful-yet-perfunctory small talk with patients doesn't hide that she's largely unsatisfied with her job. An office parrot (?), who's presence is intended to be "soothing," instead ironically uses its vocal abilities to essentially heckle her daily (this isn't as wacky as it might sound). 

In addition, Laura's marriage has lost its lustre. Unappreciated by her husband Bob (Chris O'Donnell), who regularly makes suspicious excuses to work late, she enjoys canned Budweiser too much. The couple hasn't has sex since they-can't-remember when. Irritated and impatient with her, Bob reacts with condescension, constantly searching for reasons to criticize. Her rebellious, sullen, early-teenage son Dennis (Daniel Yelsky) only makes matters worse. He won't sing in the car with her, like he used to. Her attempts to be his pal fall on deaf ears, and are met with scorn. Like most parents of teenagers, Laura can't seem to do much right, where he's concerned.  

The rest of her family provides little relief. After subtle yet unmistakably reminders that she's a disappointment, Laura has become understandably defensive and combative with her mother (Lesley Ann Warren) and sister Kathy (Brooke Smith). She's unable to resist petty family squabbles. Like Kathy, her mother is prone to offering Laura frequent, unsolicited, well-meaning-but-misguided "problem-with-you" speeches. Fond of his daughter but intentionally distracted, Laura's dad (Ron Leibman) endlessly rehashes stories of his many brushes with famous athletes, from back when he was a sports writer. He is affectionate, but often rambling, and ultimately distant. He seems afraid of what might follow, should the emotional can-of-worms ever open. 

Though smart, resourceful and attractive, (the latter explained away by the less-pretty-but-successful, "very organized" Kathy as nothing more than "just luck"), Laura's unsatisfied by most of her life. 

Between these minefields, Laura often wonders "where did it all go wrong?", and "what might've been..." 

When she suffers unexpected tragedy, each family member has their own idea of how Laura should best proceed. All without so much as talking with her even briefly about the ordeal. Eager to please, she usually tries to play along. However, this neither the most helpful, nor healthiest, support system she can imagine. 

The only one who seems to truly recognize the depth of Laura's unhappiness is her brother-in-law Paul. Now married to Kathy, and with teenage twins, Paul went to high school with Laura, years ago. The two share a bond we sense has grown over time. He clearly admires Laura more than her own husband does. We see both Paul and Laura navigating marriage and parenthood as best that can, knowing they haven't made the best choices along the way, each realizing with hindsight that neither endeavor is going as well as they'd like. In one touching scene, the pair escape a family cook out, and share a joint in the backyard gazebo. High, with normal guards down, they confess embarrassing regrets with a trusting, familiar tone of mutual fondness. Maybe too trusting? He cheers her up by lamenting failures in his own life, with a self-deprecating charm. Paul is sympathetic about her unhappiness and, unlike the rest of the family, genuinely seeks to help her, on her terms. Theirs is a connection the rest of the family members lack. 

Later in the film, against her better judgment, Laura acquiesces to pursuing a lawsuit she'd rather not. Upon this backdrop, her stress begins to grow. She endures the frequent petty barbs from her mother and sister, continued rejection by her son, a constantly-barking neighbor dog, financial strain, and mounting loneliness. Her rising anxiety is palpable, inching towards the breaking point over the film's 109 minutes.  

"A Little Help" is a gentle movie, filled with winning performances. It largely steers clear of the tempting cliches, and easy answers, that fill too many lesser films. Its success is largely due to Fischer's empathic portrayal of Laura. Though saddled with a family that works against her, and a son who continuously pushes her away, angrily calls her "a loser" via email, and invents a lie she's pressed in to perpetuating, she refuses to give up. This put-upon mom conscientiously, and courageously, struggles on.

The Pehlkes aren't vindictive, contemptible people, merely (like most of us) too easily self-absorbed, and distracted by life's responsibilities. Despite all their differences, judgments, and dysfunction, they honestly care about one another. However, for whatever reason, they simply don't possess the emotional equipment to clearly express that caring. Which cultivates resentment. Their predicament recalls a passage from the terrific 1992 Robert Redford film "A River Run's Through It": 

"Each one of us here today will, at one time in our lives, look upon a loved one who is in need, and ask the same question: We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it those we live with and should know, who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely, without complete understanding."

The Impossible (2012)

How could anyone survive?

Most of us live in a world of modern conveniences: ipads, mobile phones, wifi, etc…We have the internet in our hands where ever we go. Electricity and running water are ubiquitous. Food is relatively plentiful, and easy to get, for many of us. 24-hour television news and Internet feeds keep us apprised of not only school shootings and political infighting, but also the comings and goings of celebrities, their romantic difficulties, and various wardrobe malfunctions.

Imagine, however, being in a far less-developed foreign country—an island nation lacking almost all of these 21^st- century luxuries. A place where you are essentially lost away from your hotel, have lost your bearings entirely, all the roads have been washed away, and you haven’t even shoes on your feet. In addition to a nearly non-existent infrastructure, add local emergency services (which were marginal at best by western standards, even when operating at their peak) now suffocated by arguably the largest, most devastating natural disaster in recent recorded history to the equation. As if overwhelmed medical services, no transportation, and zero communication capacity weren’t enough, toss in the added difficulty of an almost impenetrable language barrier between you and nearly all the locals. Finally, given all this, you’re trying desperately to locate love ones who’ve gone missing, and might be dead.

This is the backdrop for one of the year’s most intense films, Juan Antonio Bayona’s “The Impossible.”

The picture opens with a family flying to a tropical vacation in Thailand. From the very first shot, a plane traveling over the open ocean, the filmmakers establish the ominous spectre of impending disaster. We know the ocean will soon rise up to inflict unimaginable disaster upon these poor victims. Unfortunately, they don't

Upon arrival at their resort, it would seem that the father (Henry, played by Ewan McGregor), mother (Maria, Naomi Watts) and three young children (Tom Holland, Samual Joslin and Oaklee Pendergast) have discovered paradise. The sun shines brightly from a sapphire sky. The local flora is green and lush. Lizards and butterflies scurry and dance nearby. Brightly colored fruity drinks arrive poolside, while children splash about in the shallow end. The ocean, calm and inviting, provides a peaceful soundtrack. Snorkeling with myriad fish along a coral reef is literally miles away from the troubles of daily life.

When shown to their cottage, the family discovers it has a sumptuous ocean-view, reminding the audience again of what’s inevitably to come. This palpable sense of dread is heightened further when the father gives the boys a red kick-ball. After, they all head down to the water’s edge to play. The carefree family, enjoying their relaxing vacation directly in the path of oncoming catastrophe, has no idea for what they’re in store.

When the tsunami finally arrives, it does so with a power and destruction that are staggering. It begins with slight tremors that cause looks of puzzlement. Then buildings explode. Trees are uprooted. Seaside cottages are obliterated. The entire resort is erased in an instant. Vacationers simply vanish. It seems unlikely anyone will survive.

The visual effects are both convincing, and horrifying. The tsunami isn’t so much an advancing wall of water as it is ocean moved miles inland. It feels the water has decided violently to redraw its borders, engulfing everything in its path. It is everywhere. Where the town once stood, now is a raging river, without banks.

Most of the film, however, isn’t about the actual event, but its result.

Amidst the chaos, Maria and the oldest son Lucas are swept away by the water, like leaves in a strong autumn wind. Separated from the group, and temporarily each other, the pair gasp for air and struggle mightily to stay above water. Maria nearly drowns, and is badly hurt by strewn debris. Despite her injuries, her maternal instinct remains strong, and she manages to locate to her son. The two desperately grasp for whatever stationary objects they can clutch. They gradually make their way to shallower, slower waters, where they discover a young boy, alone, buried beneath the rubble. Barely able to take care of themselves, they now have a young charge. Now what?

It is only after they climb a tall tree that the immeasurable reality of the disaster becomes clear. There is no longer any dry land, merely marshy, reed-filled, ankle-deep swamp, as far as they can see. Maria’s injures are serious, and she’s barely able to keep moving. They’ve no idea what has become of the rest of their family, whether they’re alive or dead, or how to even begin the process of trying to find them. How to being to extricate oneself from such?

It is this bleak realization that gives mood to most of the film.

I won’t spoil the story of what becomes of the family. However, there are several moments of true heroism in the film. Not showy, action-hero displays of courage. Rather, simple people selflessly choosing to help complete strangers, during scenes of thorough devastation and uncertainty.

The film isn’t perfect. After the heart-pounding crescendo of the tsunami’s savage attack, certain moments that follow feel somewhat slow by comparison. That said, I was never bored. Several scenes moved me to tears.

Additionally, I wouldn’t argue with those who claim the film is formulaic. It is.

However, like Rocky and Hoosiers and countless other films, the formula is powerful, and it works. There is genuine suspense, wondering what will happen to the family members. We care about, and root for, them. Watts, in particular, gives a believable and touching performance, in what appear to be torturous working conditions. Her Maria is strong, brave, and sympathetic. 

Does the title describe the power of the water? The loss of life? The odds that anyone might survive? The totality of destruction? A family's struggle to find each other amidst it all? The courage and heroism of individuals in the wake of the disaster? "Impossible" accurately describes all these things.

An aside: the film has received criticism for focusing on one western family, while neglecting to tell the stories of tens of thousands of indigenous Thai people who died in the event. While I understand this rationale, I believe it is wrong. This is the incredible (Impossible!) story of what happened to one family, in one unfathomable event, and how its members coped. It is not an all-encompassing documentation of the tsunami, and the effect of its fallout. That would be a different film, perhaps one more compelling. The Impossible, however is its own, unique, story. Telling this harrowing narrative in no way detracts from, or diminishes, other stories yet to be told.

We Need to Talk About Kevin (2011)

Tilda Swinton tries her hand at parenting

We Need to Talk About Kevin is exactly what an independent film should be: interesting, smart, compelling, original, unpredictable, creative, memorable, effective and unlike any other film in recent memory. The film sets lofty goals in examining a complicated relationship between an unsure mother, and her difficult son. It is punctuated by several instances of ironic, anachronistic, incongruous music. Remarkably, it doesn’t look or feel like a low-budget film. Its storytelling, insight and acting all hit the mark. 

Written and directed by Lynne Ramsay (Morvern Callar), “Kevin” stars Tilda Swinton as Eva, an ambivalent mother struggling to keep her marriage afloat, while enduring the torments of an insolent, abusive young son, Kevin.

The film has several time strands, and is told largely in flashback. Without explanation, we see Eva alternately in an opulent (yet strangely barren) new house with her husband (John C. Reilly) and Kevin, then suddenly a run-down, depressing cupboard-bare starter home. She awakens dead-eyed and alone on the couch in the latter, to discover both the entire front of the house, and her car windshield, splashed in red paint. She drives a canary-yellow Mercedes-Benz station wagon, but is shown taking a menial job at a depressing, bland, lifeless strip-mall travel agency. In these scenes she seems to be alone, without husband or son. Where are they? What happened to them? She has run-ins with people on the street, who seem to know her, but who are inexplicably hostile for no apparent reason. Eva is obviously struggling in the aftermath of something tragic and life-changing, but what?

Later we’re shown Eva and Franklin in their happy, heady days, newly married, enjoying carefree nights on rainy city streets. They are a successful couple, living in a comfortable flat in New York City. She’s a travel writer. While it’s not clear what he does, later in the film one of his children asks if he “took any good pictures today,” (so perhaps a photographer?), though it’s not important to the story.

What is important is Eva’s conflicting emotions about her son. In a locker room filled with other pregnant women, she doesn’t seem to share the joy and excitement witnessed by the other bulging, soon-to-be moms. Shortly after giving birth, we see her in the grips of depression, sitting expressionless on her hospital bed, while Franklin lovingly bounces newborn Kevin on his lap. She tries to do what she imagines are motherly things with Kevin—helping with homework, reading books, playing catch, taking him on walks, mini golf, out to dinner—but they don’t seem to take. Later we see her, miserable, surrounded by a flock of young, pink-tutu-wearing little girls. Whatever bond is supposed to be shared between parent and child, Eva doesn’t have it.

Back to Kevin. What’s with this odd, angry, reclusive, glaring, devious little boy? As an infant, he tests his mother’s patience by crying nearly nonstop—in his stroller, as she bounces him around the house, in his bed, everywhere. After his constant shrieks, Eva finds the jarring sounds of a jackhammer, noisily chewing up a concrete sidewalk, a relief. She takes comfort in the moments when Kevin’s finally asleep, as if they’re a reprieve.

Once a toddler, he’s noticeably slow to both talk, and potty train. He interacts only in belligerent shouted commands and demands, all while staring out menacingly from beneath heavy eyebrows. How can a child this young feel so cold, hateful and intimidating? He bullies his parents, and exhibits compulsive behavior, such as balling up his food, and lining up countless chewed fingernails. Though he’s far too old to, he still wears a diaper around the house. When his mom tries to play ball with him on the floor, he’s not only disinterested, but also outwardly mocking of her efforts. He’s punishing her, for what we don’t know.

Interspersed throughout the film are scenes of Eva staring blankly at herself in mirrors, driving her car through what appears to be a frantic accident scene, exiting a courthouse through a throng of people with an attorney, and visiting Kevin during almost entirely silent visits inside a detention center. The people in Eva’s community clearly regard her with scorn and contempt, mostly keeping their distance, but occasionally lashing out with unexplained anger. Director Ramsay plays cards close to the vest as to why.

As Kevin ages and becomes ever more cruel towards Eva, the boy curiously feigns benevolence and fondness towards his father. Kevin at once tortures Eva with knowing glances, while playing innocent for his dad. This causes Franklin to explain away his son’s periodic episodes as Kevin “just being a little boy, doing little-boy things.” Frankin’s in willful denial, ignoring the dysfunction he’s living through every day. Eva’s sanity is tested by not only her truculent, insolent son, but also her seemingly unawares husband.

Pushed to her absolute limit by Kevin’s insubordinate behavior, Eva eventually lashes out physically once, breaking Kevin’s his arm. Rather than feeling emotionally wounded and physically hurt (as any normal kid would do), Kevin sees his ability to manipulate his mom to such extreme behavior as a victory. Returning from the hospital, Kevin protects his mom by lying to his dad about the cause of his injury. Suddenly he begins using the toilet, rather than his diaper. Has he turned a corner? We soon find out, when he uses the resulting scar to repeatedly blackmail his mom.

Kevin’s brutality, vulgarity and ruthlessness increase with age. By the time he’s a teenager, he’s graduated from simply glaring at and making fun of his mother, to angrily challenging her at every moment. He is confident, cruelly clever, and wise beyond his age. Their family house feels like a war zone, where Eva’s every move is scrutinized, motive judged, and weakness exploited. Kevin’s influence on his family is conspicuous and terrifying. He is truly a parent’s nightmare scenario.

We Need to Talk About Kevin has a momentum similar to Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas: The characters understand more than they are willing to share with each other, and are all hurtling ever faster towards something ominous, inescapable and ugly.

Ultimately, most is revealed, and we finally understand the incomprehensible ordeal Eva has endured. By film’s end Kevin is nearly 18. His head shaved, looking gaunt and older, he has a brief but important scene where he displays, for the first time, a glimpse of humanity. Does he feel empathy, and possibly even fear and self-doubt? What made him the way he is? Perhaps there is no rational, concrete explanation for why we, or our kids, are the way we are?