Retreat (2011)

A mid-30s-ish, British, yuppie couple go on holiday to a remote island cottage, ostensibly to rekindle their struggling relationship. The locale is so isolated that they are the only ones on the entire island. To get there, they must be ferried from the mainland. The dwelling’s only power comes from a decrepit generator in the basement. The cottage’s walls are feet thick, its roof made of moss. There is nothing, and no one, around.

Kate (Thandie Newton; “Crash,” “RocknRolla,”) is a journalist, in the middle of writing a very personal article on her laptop. Her husband Martin (Cillian Murphy; “Batman Begins,” “Sunshine,” “Perrier’s Bounty,” “Intermission”) is an architect, who suffers with a slight case of asthma. They’re smart, good looking, and seem well intentioned. We like them immediately.

The tension between them is instantly evident, and seemingly growing. He invites her for a walk, and she tersely declines, deciding instead to focus on her writing. He jogs alone on the beach, and chops firewood. Though together, the pair seem as alone isolated as their location.

Gazing out an upstairs window, Kate’s startled to discover that they’re not alone: She’s sees a man staggering along one of the island’s paths, who ultimately collapses. They immediately run out to see what’s happened.

What they discover appears to be a young military officer (played by “Billy Elliot’s” Jamie Bell), bloodied an unconscious. They bring him back to the cottage, and leave him resting on the couch.

When the cranky generator blows, and CB radio stops working, the trio are cut-off from the outside world.

Who is this stranger? How’d he get here? What does he want? Why’s he bloody and out cold? 

So begins “Retreat,” the 2011 film made by first-time director Carl Tibbetts.

“Retreat” left me feeling ambivalent. On one hand, the film contains scenes of genuine suspense, where we’re unsure of characters’ motives, and whom exactly to trust. It covers similar ground to Peckinpah’s “Straw Dogs,” where men are judged as either physical and brutish, or evolved and civilized, yet neutered. Likewise, themes of a small group banding together for survival against a potentially hostile and unforgiving outside world, echo Murphy’s earlier breakthrough film “28 Days Later.”

The visuals of the film are interesting and compelling. The cottage itself is creepy, rather than quaint and charming. Its isolation claustrophobic and disquieting. Also, the blustery island locale is dreary and imposing. This film feels cold and damp. If we could smell it, we’d smell dankness, sea spray and mildew.

The acting, too, is all first-rate, as well. Bell, in particular, conveys alternating moods of menace and sympathy. Murphy always manages to capture an empathic “everyman” quality worth rooting for. Newton’s version of a fragile woman struggling against something unspoken, yet emotionally heavy, feels perhaps a touch too ambitious for a suspense/thriller like this.

On the other hand, there are premises here that preposterously implausible. To reveal them would give away too many of the film’s secrets. Suffice to say that things happen which are highly unlikely. Characters behave in ways that few of us ever would. And the finale comes out of nowhere, raising more questions than it answers.

Despite it’s flaws, I'm not disappointed I saw “Retreat” (though I am that it wasn’t as good as it might’ve been). The initial conceit is original and thoughtful. It’s moody, atmospheric and well-paced throughout its brisk 90 minutes. There were times while watching when I thought “this is going to turn out to be a really terrific movie.” Though it wasn’t that, it wasn’t bad, either. Probably best described as “one of the better just-short-of-three-stars-out-of-five movies I’ve seen in a while.” Though not a ringing endorsement, you could do worse.  

Basquiat (1996)

Jeffrey Wright as Basquait, at work in his studio.

“What is art?”

It’s a question I don’t have an articulate answer for. Perhaps the best I can do is “something that makes one think and might, on rare occasions, even elicit an emotional response?” Maybe that’s a long-winded way of saying “I know it when I see it?”

On the surface, “Basquiat” (directed by artist Julian Schnabal: “Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” “Before Night Falls”) examines a short part of the life of New York City graffiti artist and painter Jean-Michel Basquait. After living in a cardboard box in Thompkins Square Park, he became fabulously successful almost overnight. His success came not only because of his considerable talent, but also his incredibly fortunate timing, and a close association with style icon Andy Warhol. He was in the right place at the right time, surrounded by the right people.

But delve beneath the surface. It’s also an examination of the troubled lives many artists lead. Drug addiction. Searing, all-consuming ambition. Intimate relationships that fade. The inexplicable and nearly-instantaneous change of fortunes, based not on talent and hard work, but because of the fickle nature of ever-changing tastes, perception, conventional wisdom and prevailing opinions.

As Basquiat, a young Jeffrey Wright (recently “Dr. Narcisse” on HBO’s “Boardwalk Empire”) is mesmerizing. He captures completely the idiosyncrasies and eccentricities of the burgeoning artist. He possesses competing feelings of innocence and arrogance, hope, sometimes aimlessness, and self-destructive inner turmoil of an artist who goes swiftly from poverty and anonymity, to buying $3000 tins of caviar on a whim, all because he’s managed to become the darling of local taste makers.

The film isn’t just a biography of a troubled and talented young painter, but also an examination of the creative world in which he lived. What is art? Why are some works indescribably valuable, while others worthless? Where does this value come from, but some collection of opinions? Given the materials involved, why is a Picasso worth any more than a crayon children’s drawing? Similar to sports memorabilia, inanimate objects take on unimaginable value, based on little more than perceived worth.

I know little about the artist, or his work. What I learned from the film “Basquiat” is that in his brief lifetime, he went from struggle and poverty to the pinnacle of the New York contemporary-art world. Wikipedia informs me that his paintings are, or have been, owned by such celebrities as Metallica’s Lars Ulrich, Leonardo DiCaprio, tennis star John McEnroe, Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Jay Z. His works have been auctioned by the famed Christie’s and Sotheby’s houses, and have sold for over $13.5 million. In addition to Warhol, he also worked with David Bowie, early new-wave band Blondie, produced a hip-hop album, and dated Madonna. All in 27 years.

A persistent recreational-drug user, the title character also has an interesting innate sense of self-confidence. Watch how he approaches Warhol uninvited in a restaurant, interrupting the icon’s meal to solicit a sale, right his table. At the same time, try as he might to navigate the cynical, money-drenched erudite art scene, he’s constantly unsure of who his friends are, and who is just using him for fame, notoriety, fortune and celebrity. Agents and art dealers, drenched in ulterior motives and not-so-hidden agendas, swirl around Basquiat, trying to raise their own profiles (and bank balances), by association.

“Basquiat” isn’t so much concerned with what the mercurial artist accomplished during his brief but productive life (apparently his estate wouldn’t allow his actual works to be used in the film, so Schnabal re-created all the pieces himself), but instead about who he was not simply as an artist, but as person struggling to find direction. It examines the relationships he has before he gains fame, and how they are all mercilessly altered by his change in station. It’s also a critique of the art world itself, the blind greed and cut-throat avarice of dealers and gallery owners, and how this all plays out against a world of unimaginable money.

The romanticized stereotype of the desperate artist toiling namelessly, fighting against depression and anxiety, creating works of staggering genius, certainly describes the early life of Jean Michel Basquait. What happens to the artist’s depression and anxiety when fame and wealth replace anonymity and poverty?

Director Schnabel (along with costume designer John A. Dunn and art director C.J. Simpson) do an admirable job of recreating the shallow, greedy, superficial yet dynamic and high-energy New York art world of the early 80s. This art world feels believably real.

Along with Wright, Basquiat boasts an impressive supporting cast: Benecio Del Toro, Christopher Walken, Clare Forlani, Parker Posey, Courtney Love, Dennis Hopper, Gary Oldman, Michael Badalucco, Vincent Gallo, Tatum O'Neill, and David Bowie (as Warhol) all show up in interesting roles.

“Basquiat” has an elegiac tone. Its characters seem largely unhappy lost souls, searching for that something which might redeem their difficult lives. When the movie finished, I felt sad. Which isn’t a bad thing. The brevity of his life is a sad tale. But it’s also a story with several terrific, uplifting, hopeful moments. It is, I believe, art.

Everything Must Go (2010)

A Man amongst his things

         

Nick Halsey is having a rough go.

He’s an upper-level business executive, experiencing just about the worst possible week imaginable. After being called into his snarky, cocky, younger supervisor’s office, he’s read the litany of disciplinary strikes on his 16-year record (most alcohol related), given a token parting gift, and told unceremoniously he’s been fired. Going from bad to worse, he arrives home to find the locks changed, his wife gone, and literally all his belongings strewn across the front lawn of his suburban Arizona home. As if that weren’t enough, his wife has frozen all he assets from their joint bank accounts and credit cards, so he’s got little more than the clothes on his back. Where would any of us turn next?

Surrounded by all his stuff, with nowhere to go and little support network (beyond Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys), Halsey (Will Ferrell) simply begins living in a recliner on his yard.

This is the premise for a film that took me totally off guard.

As Halsey, this is the quietest, least-comedic performance I’ve ever seen Ferrell deliver. Possibly the greatest comedic actor of his generation, we’re used to seeing him do inappropriate things, at inappropriate times, to hysterical effect. But who knew he also had this amount of range, depth, and ability to be so affecting? It's revelatory to see him reign it in like this. Think Adam Sandler in “Punch Drunk Love.” Or Bill Murray circa "Broken Flowers" and "Lost in Translation." He expresses so much pain and sadness through subtle facial expressions, and long stares. Struggling, and barely keeping it together, we feel Halsey is one very small straw from breaking down entirely. Farrell’s work here is Oscar worthy. I’m not kidding. I’m not speaking in hyperbole either. It's so incredibly different from how we've grown used to seeing him. This performance (and the film itself) was terribly overlooked.

Needing someone to watch his stuff so he can go for more beer, Nick befriends a curious teenage boy named Kenny (Christopher Jordan Wallace). Kenny seems similarly lonely. His mom cares for one of Nick’s neighbors, while Kenny rides his bike endlessly up and down the street. Nick offers Kenny five bucks if he’ll watch his stuff. Kenny says he wants some beef jerky, too. From there, the pair embark on the first tentative steps towards an unlikely and uncertain, but mutually beneficial, friendship.

After neighbors complain, a policeman friend (Michael Pena), who also happens to be Nick’s AA sponsor, tells him he can’t legally continue to live this way. However, municipal ordinances allow for yard sales to last up to five days. Why not try that? Nick has no intention of selling his old exercise equipment, work shirts, tacky lamps, wooden dressers, a canoe and assorted tchotchkes, and is resistant to even the idea, at first. Reluctantly, however, he realizes he has little choice than to at least pretend that’s what he’s doing, in order to buy himself some time to come up with a better plan.

When most of life’s stability and routine is gone, and the accumulation of that life is laid out plain in the front yard, how to go about determining which stuff is actually important and valuable enough to keep, vs what’s just useless clutter? Nick’s existential crisis is tangible and in the open, between his street and his front door.

He acquiesces by at first selling a half-used bottle of mouthwash, and some floss, for fifty cents. A light bulb goes off. Maybe none of these things are meaningful anymore?

There’s also a pretty, young, pregnant neighbor, who’s just moved in across the street, Samantha (Rebecca Hall). Like Nick, Samantha’s from New York, where she lived with her husband, and taught photography courses. She’s unpacking the house, while her husband is still back east. Eager for friendship (and possibly more?), Nick takes every opportunity to chat her up. Seeing this crazy neighbor living on his front lawn, Samantha is personable, but understandably cautious.

The film was directed by Dan Rush, whose IMDB biography lists nothing beyond this single movie, and an appearance on the Charlie Rose show. To his credit, Rush doesn’t allow Farrell’s character to become clichéd, nor the film to swerve into sentimentality. Halsey’s not a Jekyll-and-Hyde drunk, responsible and mature one minute, a slobbering, stumbling mess the next. Rather, he just perpetually drinks, leaving him unable to act appropriately in several crucial situations.

How many of us know someone who’s had one too many, makes a grievous mistake, and finds their life forever changed? Given his lack of attention to his wife, and reckless drinking, it makes sense that, Nick would’ve sabotaged both his marriage and career so thoroughly.

Throughout “Everything Must Go,” there’s a sense of sadness and wanting. Nick misses his wife, and can’t even bring himself to admit that they’re having problems. He’s hopeful for reconciliation, even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. Which is interesting. Too many movie characters fall into hopelessness, and are then somehow miraculously “saved” by some outside person or event. A lesser film might’ve gone that route. Nick simply tries to make it through each day.

This movie has much to say about materialism, marriage, alcoholism, and the faces we keep behind closed doors vs the ones we show the world. How do we define our lives? Through our jobs, three-car garages, cars and salaries? Or though the company we keep? I’m not sure Nick, or the film, have any concrete answers. He may not have it figured out, but we hope that he does. He’s not a bad guy, merely one struggling to keep it together during the most difficult of times. Too many of us find ourselves in similar predicaments, too often. Maybe it’s time to clean the attic?

Stories We Tell (2012)

What an extraordinary film.

When I sat down to watch the documentary “Stories We Tell” (directed by Sarah Polley), it was late on a Sunday night. I’d just spent endless hours watching football, and was preoccupied by the mediocre performance of my fantasy team.

However, after I hit play on “Stories” what I found was that almost immediately I became lost in one of the most detailed, fascinating, engrossing, entertaining, emotionally honest, and at once tragic and hopeful stories I can remember seeing in a very long time.

The film starts by showing several people preparing to give what appear to be fairly straight-forward interviews. Cameras and lighting are being set up in different rooms of houses and apartments. Subjects fix their shirts, check their teeth, and engage in small talk with the unseen off-camera interviewer.

We’re then introduced to several characters, identified only by their first names. Once the conversations begin (which we quickly learn are with several family members, and a few close friends), Polley asks her subjects to simply reminisce about their memories of her mother, a vivacious, pretty, blonde, Canadian actress who, by all accounts, was convivial and charismatic.

By relating their memories, Polley is able to get her subjects to speak openly about her mom, as well as the most intimate details of their own lives, and how the two connect. Her pointed questions nudge them along, allowing each speaker to provide a little bit more clarity to the picture. The degree to which her subjects open up is remarkable. As is the story that follows.

Along with the interviews, Polley uses dramatic recreations, and real-life home movies effectively, to further the story. We see what life was like for her and her family, growing up in middle-class Toronto. Some of it is set in the late 60s, other parts (judging by the cars parked on the streets) as recently as the 90s.

The subjects reveal contradictions about this woman, and the family’s shared history. One recalls her being an open book, while another describes a woman with secrets and subtle nuance. Which is true? Both? What emerges is the complex portrait of a woman much admired by all those around her, whose life (like all of ours) was far from perfect, or simple.

The trusting atmosphere the director must’ve created is evident in the levels to which the characters are willing to share. Reaching back sometimes decades into their memories, each family member gives their take on who this woman was, and what she meant to them personally. Reading pages of recollections in an empty recording studio, Polley’s father is particularly eloquent and touching.

What Polley uncovers (discovers?), and what the film is truly about is how, unwittingly but inevitably, we all create our own distinct narrative. Ultimately, based on our limited experiences (ones shared with the many, many other people around us), we make the best sense we can of the world. In the process we unknowingly alter and bend that story, to suit our own needs. How accurate is it? Depends upon who you ask. As well as upon their flawed take on events. Ask ten eyewitnesses to an argument what really happened, and you’ll likely get ten versions of “the truth.“ To complicate matters, often we project that subjective understanding onto those nearest us, and accept that as reality. But when it comes down to it, how much do we honestly know about the inner thoughts, feelings and motivations of even our closest friends and family?

Several times while watching “Stories We Tell,” I considered how I might go about writing an accurate review. Once I realized how much I liked the film, and how much I wanted to recommend it, I wanted to describe it in a way that would do the film justice, without revealing too much. Maybe I always do this? But I mention it in this instance because, along the way, the movie uncovers several details about the elder Mrs. Polley’s life, the veracity of which some of its subjects aren’t entirely clear about. They are surprising, perhaps even to the director. I won’t divulge them here. To do so would be cheating you.

But how, then, to make “Stories We Tell” sound interesting enough that you’ll want to invest your time? I mean, from what I’ve said so far, it might come across as some self-indulgent vanity work, where the director does little more than ask people about her mom. Trust me when I say this isn’t really what the film’s about. Or better put, it’s not ALL that the film’s about. And it doesn’t even begin to capture the scope of this movie. It works on so many other levels. Its aspirations are so much greater.

Rarely (perhaps never?) have I seen documentary where subjects so willingly share so much about their most intimate thoughts and feelings. The level of honesty the interviewees display is incredible. The story that ultimately unfolds, and what the director discovers about her own life, is truly amazing. It is simultaneously so beautiful and expressive that I wondered briefly “was this whole thing scripted? Was the story a product of an unusually creative imagination? Is this just the result of a terrifically gifted film maker?” Though I know it’s not fiction, the story and how it’s revealed, as well as its characters, are all almost perfectly poetic.

It is ultimately tremendously satisfying and rewarding. It’s not often that a movie makes me reflect on my own family history. This one certainly did.

What “Stories We Tell” illustrates so poignantly is that each of us does, indeed, have our own unique, wonderful, and significant story to tell. That Polley bares hers so openly and sincerely in “Stories We Tell,” is a genuine gift.

Romance & Cigarettes (2005)

Breaking into song

John Turturro is one of my favorite actors. He can disappear into his roles, or go way over the top. Either way, you never see him acting. He’s always natural.

Remember some of the terrific films in which he’s starred: “Do the Right Thing,” “O Brother, Where Art Thou,” “Quiz Show,” “13 Conversations About One Thing,” “Rounders,” “Miller’s Crossing,” “Barton Fink.” Witness the variety and high quality of both his roles, and the films he’s appeared in (“Transformers” and Adam Sandler movies notwithstanding; he’s had the good fortune of falling in with Spike Lee and the Coen Brothers, which doesn’t hurt). Coincidence? IMDB lists him as acting in 77 films, not including his appearances in television and film shorts.

As a director, his resume is less prolific, but no less creative. I remember seeing his debut “Mac” (1992) back in college. Honest and funny, it was one of the best films of that year (don’t take my work for it; Martin Scorsese thought so, too!).

2005’s “Romance and Cigarettes” was his 3^rd film as a director (along with Illuminata in 1998; 2010’s Passione would follow). It’s a fantastical, exaggerated, quasi-musical romance, with one of the best casts in recent film history. Starring many actors who either were, or would go on to be Hollywood (or HBO) heavyweights (Susan Sarandon, Christopher Walken, the late James Gandolfini, Kate Winslet, Boardwalk Empire’s Steve Buscemi and Bobby Canavale), this film isn’t easy to describe, but is fascinating to watch.

It's set in a blue-collar New York neighborhood. The brilliant Gandolfini plays ominously-named Nick Murder. He lives in a humble home with his wife Kitty (Sarandon), and three very different daughters Rosebud (Turturro’s cousin Aida Turturro, known primarily as Janice, on “The Sopranos”), the erratically-coiffed Constance (“Weeds’” Mary-Louise Parker) and Baby (Mandy Moore).

Nick’s wife knows he’s cheating but tolerates it, mainly by tormenting him tirelessly when he’s home. After a confrontation in the kitchen, Gandolfini stumbles blindly outside. Wracked with guilt and confict, without warning he starts to…sing? It’s at once hysterical and touching to see Tony Soprano singing (also a credit to Turturro’s vision and courage; he also wrote the script).

The other woman is Kate Winslet’s Tula, a foul-mouthed, Irish, lingerie saleslady. She likes Nick because he’s a real man, who makes her feel alive in her otherwise dreary life. He’s smitten with her because…well…she’s Kate Winslet, talking dirty.

If those last six sentences sound absurd, know that this is the such a confident film (and Gandolfini and Winslet such confident actors) that, ridiculous as that all might sound, Turturro pulls off even something so farfetched as all that. It’s magnificent, comically silly, and surprisingly touching, all at once.

I could describe the logistics of where the plot goes, how all the characters fit together, what the film looks like, and so forth. But I think saying “Tony Soprano sings” and “Kate Winslet plays an obscene trollop” captures “Romance and Cigarettes’” tone perfectly. This movie shoots for its target with reckless abandon, and hits. Produced by the Coen brothers, this movie’s loaded with their particular brand of off-beat-hilarious writing and acting. With Buscemi and Walken, perhaps that’s to be expected. The outlandish thoughts we all indulge in our own heads during times of crisis, this film puts up on the screen. And sets to music!

I can see some not being able to get on board with its heightened theatrics and eccentric style, and so dismissing it as a peculiar oddity. Me? I thought it was one terrific piece of entertainment.

This Must Be the Place (2011)

Cheyenne far, far from his element.

In his 3+ decades acting, Sean Penn has worked with a who’s who list of Hollywood directors: Woody Allen, Terrence Malick, David Fincher, Barry Levinson, Sydney Pollack, Alejandro Gonzalez Inirritu, Clint Eastwood, Kathryn Bigelow, and Oliver Stone. How many actors not named Cruise, Pitt, or DiCaprio claim such an impressive resume? He’s created memorable characters such as California surfer/stoner from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” a rogue cop in “Colors,” the ruthless murderer searching for redemption in “Dead Man Walking,” virtuoso guitar player Emmet Ray in “Sweet and Low Down,” a heart-transplant victim searching for answers in “21 Grams,” an Irish gangster in “Mystic River,” and the eponymous politician and gay civil-rights icon Harvey Milk. Among many, many other things. Few actors, regardless of profile, can match his range.

His latest memorable character is Cheyenne. Vaguely effeminate, outwardly timid yet strangely confident, a wealthy-but-fading rock-star, with Robert Smith’s fashion sense and Larry David’s sense of tact, Penn is fantastic in Paolo Sorrentino’s 2011 “This Must Be the Place.”

Cheyenne lives with his wife Jane (Frances McDormand), in an enormous Dublin mansion. She’s a volunteer fire fighter, who’s as open a book as Cheyenne is a puzzle. They’re an odd pair, with Cheyenne’s eccentricities offset by Jane’s apparent normalcy.

Estranged from his family for decades, Cheyenne receives a call from the States, saying his father is gravely ill. Upon his return, he learns something about his dad that sends him on a cross-country journey. Along the way, he learns not only unexpected facts about his family, but also himself. This sounds trite and melodramatic. It isn’t. Director Sorrentino plays much of the fish-out-of-water juxtaposition of weird-rock-star-in-mundane-middle-America for awkward laughs. But not cheap laughs. Cheyenne is wise and insightful, thoughtful and sensitive. His gaze is keen.

Penn is the reason to see the film. His Cheyenne is an amazing, fascinating creation. How is this possibly the same guy who was Spiccoli or Matthew Poncelet? Unlike other intentionally odd movie characters (Johnny Depp’s Willy Wonka, for example), he doesn’t feel like a gimmicky caricature. They might share peculiar affects, odd speech intonation, and awkward ways of relating to strangers. However, Cheyenne is much more relatable, sympathetic, and kind. Most importantly, he feels real. He’s a fully formed, 3D character. His wife and few close friends all accept his quirks, idiosyncrasies and overt peculiarity. They love him not despite those traits, nor because of them. They merely accept him.

What’s most compelling is seeing Cheyenne interact with the outside world. Though he appears at first fragile, insecure and largely taciturn, he speaks his mind freely, often choosing to intentionally place himself in uncomfortable situations. Because we never know what to expect from him, the film resists becoming predictable, even when it is sentimental.

In the time since I saw “This Must Be the Place,” my admiration for Penn’s Cheyenne (and the film itself) has grown stronger. This is a phenomenal performance, one which elevates the picture above most of today’s cinematic offerings.

What Maisie Knew (2012)

Susannah, Maisie and Lincoln

Kids take effort. So some people shouldn’t be parents. They don’t have the attention span, patience, compassion, understanding or disposition. Some simply lack the energy and desire to do the job properly. This is certainly the case with nearly all the adults in the 2012 film “What Maisie Knew.”

A contemporary update of the 1897 Henry James novel, the film centers on an 8-ish-year old girl, (wide-eyed Onata Aprile) living in Manhattan with her less-than-ideal, quarrelling parents.

From the start, we see Maisie’s life is no picnic. The family resides in an opulent multi-level apartment in the city. Her parents (Steve Coogan and Julianne Moore) argue bitterly in front of her. Having grown used to their fights, Maisie reacts with obliviousness: While parents battle in the living room, she cheerfully tromps downstairs to give tip money to the pizza delivery guy.

Moore plays mother Susanna, the lead singer in a touring rock band (in concert footage we see her covering one of my favorite bands, the Kills). She drinks, smokes and swears around her daughter. Wearing shabby-chic clothes and a devil-may-care affect, she condemns more traditional parents as “Nazis.” Given the trappings of her apartment, she’s clearly very successful. However there’s also an air of instability surrounding her day job. Rationalizing why she can’t look after Maisie one night, she matter-of-factly mentions that if she misses another gig, there’ll be a lawsuit.

Coogan’s Beale is a similarly successful art dealer, much more conservative and older than Susannah. He’s wears crisp suits, and is forever on the phone. We don’t see him as much because he’s too often flying off to Europe “to pursue business opportunities.”

Before long, the parental stress becomes too much bear. Susanna changes the locks. After a late-night shouting match through the front door, Beale moves out, taking Margot with him.

After a brief but bitter legal battle, it’s decided Maisie will split time between parents, ten days with each at a time.

This is the worst possible decision, where the little girl’s concerned.

Rather than taking the time and effort to parent their daughter, Beale and Susannah instead usually try to pawn her off on each other before the scheduled swap date arrives. Or worse, forget when it’s time to pick her up altogether. When she is exchanged, they leave her with doormen, teachers, or complete strangers, hoping for the best. She’s pointed in a direction and flung out of cabs, left to find her own way. Several times I wondered “wouldn’t these parents have enough good sense to at least walk Maisie into a building, just to ensure she got there safely?”

Both parents seemingly adore Maisie in brief bursts between concerts and phone calls. Though they repeatedly profess love for Maisie, when it comes time to do the heavy lifting of parenting, to actually give time and energy to caring for their daughter, they’re both too distracted by their careers to be bothered. Between their careers, Beale and Susannah continually put their own needs before their daughter’s. Staggeringly so. To them Maisie isn’t so much a living, breathing little girl, who needs love, caring, guidance and attention, as she is an inconvenience to be quickly escaped. More often than not, though, she’s left with her young, pretty, Scottish nanny Margo (Joanna Vanderham).

Soon, Margot’s becomes more than a nanny to Beale. Likewise, Susannah unexpectedly marries a handsome young bartender named Lincoln (Alexander Skarsgard of Trueblood, Generation Kill), who quickly grows fond of Maisie. They bond over coloring books and cooking dinner, something that inspires jealousy and mistrust in the largely absent Susannah.

And what of Maisie? Aprile is adorable as the young girl at the center of a world full of irresponsible adults. But would a small child in the big city seem this capable of adjusting so quickly on-the-fly to her parents’ almost total abandonment? Sure, children can be resilient, but to this degree? Most kids cry immediately when they get lost. Lost is almost Maisie’s default setting. She negotiates the streets, restaurants and bars of Manhattan better than some fully-functioning adults. After nearly everyone in her life leaves her, would a little girl react so?

The film is well acted. Petty, combative and quick to anger, Moore’s Susannah is a close relative of the unstable and brittle Amber Waves she played so effectively in Boogie Nights. Coogan alternates between charmingly funny and caring, to maddeningly aloof. Vanderham’s Margot transforms dramatically, as she goes from benevolent nanny to put-upon stepmom. Always smiling, Skarsgard’s Lincoln projects both a loveable dopiness and sincere tenderness. He’s the only one who seems to consistently care about Maisie’s whereabouts and wellbeing.

A postcard from New York, the movie is sumptuously filmed, showing a Manhattan that’s at once bustling, while also cozy and warm and inviting. Several shots are filmed from Maisie’s low-level perspective, looking up at the big world around her. She stares in wonder (but not intimidation) at the tall buildings, and crowded rooms full of strangers.

As much as I enjoyed most of “What Maisie Knew,” the film left me wanting. To its credit, it’s decidedly not formulaic, but still believable. The uncomfortable situations between adults—all with Maisie present—will ring true to most children of divorce. It is patient and (though only 199 minutes) at times meandering. After showing so much dysfunction, it’s third act felt a little too convenient and rosy. Sure, we want the best for little Maisie. But when saddled with a group of care-givers so neglectful and self absorbed, it might be too much to ask for her ending to turn out a happy one.