Kinyarwanda (2011)

Kinyarwanda

Let’s put it out there, up front: “Kinyarwanda” (2011) is one of the best films I’ve seen in a long time. It won best dramatic film at both the Sundance and AFI film festivals, as well as being listed by late film-critic Roger Ebert as one of his top ten films of the year.

“Kinyarwanda” is the native language of Rwanda. It’s a country that lives in the minds of most Americans as a place in constant strife, rife with genocidal violence. “Kinyarwanda” (the film) depicts a land that deserves more than some of that reputation.

The film tells the story of several villagers—some young, some old—set against the backdrop of near-constant ethnically-driven violence.

In the Rwanda portrayed in “Kinyarwanda,” the Tutsi-Hutu conflict pervades every part of life. It is a place where a simple late-night walk can turn into a life-and-death situation in a moment. Radios blare endlessly with hate speech, spreading fear and suspicion, the opposition considered “cockroaches.”

The film follows the lives of a young couple, a priest, a pair of soldiers, as well as former militia fighters, showing how each tries to survive the present and reconcile the past, while precariously navigating such a chaotic world. Safety seems a distant notion.

The film is creatively constructed: it isn’t told in a linear style, but instead made up of several stories interspersed. The story jumps back and forth, flashing forward and back, however it’s not confusing in the least. This triumph of story-telling  technique is a credit to writer/director Alrick Brown.

Kinyarwanda’s strength is that it feels emotionally truthful. It’s touching without being melodramatic. The characters’ rich stories are honest and realistic, rather than the emotionally-manipulative creations of an imaginative writer. Their unique situations are patiently drawn, but the movie isn’t slow.

You may notice this review intentionally omits any description of the film’s story. Its plot is entertaining, but I don’t want to reveal too much. Doing so would rob the film of some of its inherent suspense, and emotional power.

Honestly, I wasn’t all that excited to see this film, at first. I’ve seen “Hotel Rwanda,” the documentary “Long Night’s Journey Into Day” (about post-apartheid South Africa’s “Truth and Reconciliation Councils” trying to come to grips with the horrible crimes of that era), and presumed this would be another well-intentioned, earnest story about good, decent people living under impossible circumstances. “Kinyarwanda” is so much more.

See this film. You will like it more than you expect. Writing the review, remembering all the kindness, violence, joy, sadness, forgiveness and ultimately hope that this film contains, has made me want to, again.

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.