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    Nathan's Films of 2019: On a Theme of Goodness

    1. Dark Waters
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    "I’m seeing documents I don’t understand."

    Synopsis: Corporate defense attorney Rob Bilott takes on an environmental lawsuit against a chemical company that exposes a lengthy history of pollution.

    dir. Todd Haynes. 126m; 2.39:1.

    This is the most important film on the lists. You have to watch it. Just do it. And then get rid of your non-stick pans. 

    ​It’s a true story about an unlikely hero– a high-powered attorney who went from defending megacorporations to attacking them, and sticking with the fight for twenty-odd years because it was what he needed to do. Sometimes we are compelled toward goodness and right action, and the outcome is less important than the effort, and the effect of trying alone is worth it.

    ​There are resonances here with Bombshell and Hidden Life: historical figures who took a stand and didn’t expect to have much of an impact, if at all. And yet: goodness has a way of multiplying. ​
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    I don’t think anyone was expecting the director of Far From Heaven to follow up Carol with this, but Haynes brings his customary thoughtful attention to the proceedings. Note the filmlike patina; Haynes and regular DP Ed Lachman go digital for the first time, likely to be able to more accurately approximate which film stocks would’ve been in use during which years of the 25-year span of the text.
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    In terms of color choices, it’s very muted; says Lachman, "I was looking for a way to help feel the images becoming toxic and contaminated in our character’s lives, in our story as it is revealed.” Somewhat like The Irishman, the aesthetic of the camera– workmanlike, effective, lacking in flair– matches the protagonist’s dogged character, and conveys the determination of this ordinary man under extraordinary pressure. The 2.39 ratio helps sell the size of the narrative.
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    Haynes underplays beats that other filmmakers would emphasize, and such as they are we appreciate their real-world context with more power. One such moment is when Tim Robbins yells at the other attorneys seated around the conference table. I know of no other director who would run that in a wide shot. The discipline makes for a fresh take on moments that might otherwise come off as overfamiliar from lesser legal pictures.

    Personally, I was struck by the fact that Bilott kept going. We know through hindsight that the positive outcome of this information being made public was worthwhile; but he would’ve had no way of knowing that, nor knowing if he was any closer to success for years. A remarkable human interest and triumph narrative and a vital piece of public health information, packaged in an entirely absorbing narrative drama format that sends its message much more potently than any documentary.

    2. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
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    "Sometimes we need to ask for help. And that's okay."

    ​Synopsis: A retelling of the creation of Tom Junot's 1998 Esquire profile on Mr. Rogers. Trailer.
    dir. Marielle Heller. 109m; 1.85:1.

    It’s not the greatest film. It isn’t even great. It’s not Heller’s best moment of creative direction; this is staid compared to the visual rambunctiousness of Diary of a Teenage Girl and the pleasing natural-light shallow-depth lensing of Can You ever Forgive Me. But we forgive that, because of the content.

    Tom Junot’s famous and justly awarded 1998 Esquire article is the subject here, with a fictional standin playing the Junot character as lead; Rogers is a supporting role, and the subject is how Rogers brought the cynic journalist around. It’s about goodness, in other words, and learning to see it.
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    Rogers inspires me because reading about him, watching him, learning about him– all normalizes the behavior of compassion and love. He makes you feel brave enough to slow down, to really listen to others. To care. Hanks is riveting. He doesn’t look like Mr. Rogers, but no one else could’ve played him. Goodness is best when it stems from truth, and Hanks channels his own persona into something deeper here. Fabulous work.

    3. Knives Out
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    "The complexity and the gray lie not in the truth, but what you do with the truth once you have it."

    Synopsis: Agatha Christie for the 21st century, with an unexpected amount of heart. Trailer.
    dir. Rian Johnson. 131m; 1.85:1.

    What a piece of misdirection the marketing campaign is. Knives is so utterly not about what the trailer leads us to think it's about. I almost didn't see the film. I'm so glad I did. To wit:

    Todd Phillips made one compelling dramatic feature before making Joker. 2016’s little-seen and underappreciated War Dogs (trailer) was advertised as a comedy, but wholly functions as a (spectacularly well-photographed) drama, effectively tugging our emotions as it charts the sad dissolution of a friendship between two arms dealers. 

    War Dogs was also the first place I saw Ana de Armas. In it she plays “the girlfriend,” and like all “the girlfriends” in movies her character is compelling for two reasons: being underused and therefore curiously compelling; and playing a key role in the film’s emotional arc. Unlike many “the girlfriend” roles but in keeping with what all great actors do, Ms. de Armas makes the most of an underwritten role. I found myself watching the picture waiting for her to reappear.

    Later, she would play the role that would largely define her in my consciousness until now: the robot in Blade Runner 2049 ​(trailer). She occupied the role with such charisma I forgot I’d ever seen her before. She enlivens that magisterial, stoically paced masterpiece not with pep or quirk or any other element out of keeping with Villeneuve’s slow-moving mythic grandeur, but with something else.

    Why do I respond to her so?

    [Spoilers]

    This is the question I found myself asking after Knives Out, and only with Knives Out can we find the answer, because we are lucky enough in that she plays the lead role. But before I could answer I had to think about what I was really searching for. The question is much broader, and I’ll ask your forgiveness in bringing up: what do we find attractive? 

    The easy answer is that I respond to Ana de Armas because she’s pretty– and she certainly is. But in the world of cinema, everyone’s pretty. Everyone has a trim figure and clean skin and symmetrical features. So what is it about her?

    I like Ana de Armas because she reminds me of certain kind people who have had the huge impacts on my life. She reminds me of those people because she is good. 

    Tom Hanks recently explained to NYT why he doesn’t play villains: “I recognized in myself a long time ago that I don’t instill fear in anybody. Now, that’s different than being nice, you know? I think I have a cache of mystery. But it’s not one of malevolence. It’s because I never get them, because bad guys, by and large, require some degree of malevolence that I don’t think I can fake.” 

    I would argue Ana de Armas possesses a similar quality. In the way Rachel Weisz and Cate Blanchett prove the notion that it’s very hard to hide the fact that you’re intellectually smart if you are (although the extremely well-read Ben Affleck completely disproves this hypothesis!), de Armas and Hanks suggest in their performances that there are elements of goodness which are so genuine they can neither be faked nor hidden. She prevails not by being clever, although she is and that’s part of it, but through her most essential quality, as spelled out by Daniel Craig at the close. He recognizes this goodness because he possesses some of it himself.

    To have the film end as it does gives me an existential shuddering release of joy, the relief that things in this dream world turn out right after all. The images reinforce what can be possible. They carry the joy that concludes Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood, except without the pugilistic aftertaste of extreme violence. I don’t mean to say it’s a better film than that one (it isn’t), but I would easily say it’s far more than an effective genre exercise. It invites a consideration not of who did what, but of who did what why, and more crucially who had good intentions and who didn’t. Intent being the thing– a less common focus than you'd imagine. 

    Chris Evans will be arrested, among other things, for attempting to kill ADA, because in this country, attempting a crime is legally identical to committing a crime. Because it’s about where we’re coming from, even more than the hard facts of who did what. I took enormous comfort in this movie having such a big heart to reach out and understand her, give her safe haven among a cast(e) of people inclined otherwise. I was beyond thrilled to gradually realize she was the centre of the film. I could hardly be happier with the dream the film offers us, the dream I want to believe, that I try to make happen every day I continue as the fragile and joyful person I hope to be. 

    ​4. Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood
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    "Naturally, we never succeed, but it's the pursuit that's meaningful."

    Synopsis: Sharon Tate, a fading TV actor, and his stunt double coexist in Hollywood in the summer of 1969. Trailer.
    dir. Quentin Tarantino; 165m; 2.39:1.

    Everything I’ve ever wanted to say or will say about this film and Tarantino's oeuvre can be read on this site's biggest post, here.

    5. Bombshell
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    "Someone has to speak up."

    Synopsis: A group of women take on Fox News head Roger Ailes and the toxic atmosphere he presided over at the network. Trailer.
    dir. Jay Roach. 109m; 2.39:1.

    It’s safe to assume, at this point, that the negative reception and turgid box-office performance of the 2015 Will Smith vehicle Concussion, about the trauma that concussions have on football players, was a result of successful sabotage by the almighty NFL and its affiliates. If the information in that film had been widely seen, the financial damage to the NFL could have been significant. And we all know how much the NFL doesn't want that.

    I wonder after a similar theory regarding Bombshell, another film that exposes the unambiguous wrongs of a massively popular corporation. How on earth does this film have such mediocre reviews from so many major establishments when it is so obviously excellent? Should I be surprised that the Wall Street Journal and the New York Post both gave the film bad reviews, when those institutions are housed in the same building as Fox News?

    No. I am not surprised. I am happy, though, that the film exists, and that it offers a highly compelling portrait of women standing up for themselves and coming forward despite enormous pressure and personal cost, to right systematic evils and reconfigure what’s acceptable in the workplace.
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    The three leads (plus Kate McKinnon) are terrific, dimensional figures played with zest and magnetism. John Lithgow makes the despicable Ailes character dimensional as well, and his work plus Charles Randolph’s script offer a glimpse into how this train wreck of a personality may have gotten started. The aim isn’t studying Ailes though, which I see as an exercise with useful but limited returns, but rather articulating what was going on for the ladies, what happened next, and what that felt like.

    Roach gets significant mileage out of Robbie’s ability to convey a lot with silence (which she does to ample effect in her excellent perf in Once… Hollywood), helping any audience member understand exactly how much mere words can still be a violation. The picture snaps and crackles with energy, and part of me wishes it was longer; what fascinating people these are, and how curious and comforting to reflect that even people who believe working at, watching, or even thinking about Fox News is a good idea… still share quite a bit in common with the rest of us when it comes to what constitutes human decency.

    Now who would’ve thought that possible?

    ---

    Nathan's Films of 2019 Index here.
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    Nathan’s Films of 2019: On a Theme of Survival

    1. 1917
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    "I hoped today would be a good day."

    Synopsis: Two soldiers are assigned the task of hand-delivering a message to prevent a deadly attack. Trailer.
    dir. Sam Mendes. 119m; 2.39:1.


    Here’s the thing about unbroken takes. They’re incredibly difficult to create. The only thing harder to do in cinema, requiring more planning and careful execution than an unbroken take is… a longer unbroken take. Mendes’ 1917, like Birdman ​(teaser), is composed of a few unbroken takes, stitched together at key moments (usually a frame of pure black, a la going in and out of the tunnels) to appear like a seamless move. Mostly, however, scenes run for dozens of minutes at a time where there is absolutely no opportunity to break.
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    The fact that the film is comprised of a few unbroken takes rather than a single massive one does not detract from the enormity of its accomplishment. Because you still don’t want to screw up a 30-minute take. Even a 3-minute shot is a massive accomplishment, and something to be proud of; look at the legendary opener to Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil. Who can forget that camera gliding over the tops of the buildings and coming all the way back down?

    Mendes and superstar DP Roger Deakins have etched into the medium’s legacy something that will stand as a pinnacle for a long, long time. A move like this is simply too difficult, too complex, and in need of too much skill for people to try and replicate. Popular films start trends; this one won't. It’s just too hard to do.

    Look at the scale of this thing.

    An airplane crash, a fire, crowds, explosions, stunts, with every moment blocked and rehearsed, every aperture change and focus pull, the camera switching mounts as it glides over rivers and out windows, into basements and over rubble. Birdman had the advantage of a controlled indoor environment. This is something else entirely.
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    The unbroken take forces us to confront the reality of what we see, to realize we’re experiencing time exactly as the actors are. We really are going to walk across to that horizon with these two actors, and we’re going to do so them in real time. Mark Strong and the troops really are waiting on the other side of the hill for this whole section, because we come upon them in the same shot.

    It’s the breathtaking magic of truth. The immersiveness, the jaw-dropping you-are-thereness, of being able to truly believe what you are seeing on so many more levels than normal… this is one of a kind, and though it isn’t the best picture of the year, it is entirely and absolutely worthy of winning Best Picture of the year this Sunday, as it probably will.
     A milestone. 

    Further thoughts on Birdman and unbroken takes here
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    ​2. Parasite
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    "Min-hyuk, this is so metaphorical."

    Synopsis: An unemployed family infiltrates a wealthy one, and things get complicated. Trailer.
    dir. Bong Joon-ho. 132m; 2.39:1. 
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    So much ink has been capably spilled in the exploration of this film's many themes and able execution. I'll be brief. Lee Chang-dong's 2018 masterpiece Burning may have tackled similar issues and more with greater nuance, restraint and mystery (look for an essay by me soon), but we can’t fault Bong for that. There’s room for more than one film on class differences in Korea, and this one is thoroughly deserving of its legendary accolades. 

    Parasite is more commercially digestible, and if it gets viewers on board with arthouse and international films, all the better. His direction is precise, with razor sharp editing, deftly executed delineation and reveals of information, and highly controlled camerwork with distinctive movement choices for each class level. Like so many of the pictures I'm reviewing this year, it's a touch violent for me, but spectacularly well made.


    3. A vida invisível de Eurídice Gusmão (The Invisible Life of Eurídice Gusmão)
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    “My sister didn’t run off.”

    Synopsis: Two sisters live their lives after being separated by the men in their lives, each unaware the other is nearby, and struggling. Trailer.
    dir. Karim Aïnouz. 139m, 2.39:1.

    In her landmark 1971 essay, “Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?,” art historian Linda Nochlin reminds us that saying 'you can tell this was made by a woman’ is a fool’s exercise. She writes that

    “in general, women's experience and situation in society, and hence as artists, is different from men's, and certainly an art produced by a group of consciously united and purposely articulate women… might indeed be stylistically identifiable as feminist, if not feminine, art. This remains within the realm of possibility; so far, it has not occurred” (emphasis mine).

    ​She continues: "No subtle essence of femininity would seem to link the work of Artemisia Gentileschi, Mme. Vigee-Lebrun, Angelica Kauffmann, Rosa Bonheur, Berthe Morisot, Suzanne 
    Valadon, Kaethe Kollwitz, Barbara Hepworth, Georgia O'Keeffe…” The list goes on, including Sand, Woolf, Plath, Eliot, Sontag, Dickinson and more, before concluding that

    “In every instance, women artists and writers would seem to be closer to other artists and writers of their own period and outlook than they are to each other. It may be asserted that women artists are more inward-looking, more delicate and nuanced in their treatment of their medium. But which of the women artists cited above is more inward-turning than Redon, more subtle and nuanced in the handling of pigment than Corot at his best? Is Fragonard more or less feminine than Mme. Vigee- Lebrun? Is it not more a question of the whole rococo style of eighteenth-century France being "feminine," if judged in terms of a two-valued scale of "masculinity" versus "femininity"? …In any case, the mere choice of a certain realm of subject matter, or the restriction to certain subjects, is not to be equated with a style, much less with some sort of quintessentially feminine style.”
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    Nochlin invites us toward the unpopular notion of judging people not by their gender but more fundamentally by their humanity, and if they be artists, than their art by their artistry. Experience and perception transcend gender norms, and I think of Nochlin’s words whenever I think of this film, and versa vice.
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    The Invisible Life of Eurídice Gusmão is the year’s best argument that men might have something relevant to say about the evils of patriarchy. No innocent viewer would ever assume its director was male, given not just its sympathies but its potent, delicate, and expansive understanding of its principal topic: female oppression by men, what it feels like, and how it alters and limits the course of  lives.
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    The passion and anger quite simply bleed off the screen. Marketing materials bill it as “a tropical melodrama,” and it earns the term not so much from its story content as its tone: strong. It’s heavy stuff, and unlike many melodramas it carries the unmistakable whiff of truth.
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    As a viewer and member of modern society I found it essential, and as a filmmaker who couldn’t be less interested in writing male main characters, I found it instructive and inspiring. More importantly, the two protagonists move me tremendously in doing what one does under hopelessly unjust circumstances: you do what you can, and make the most of things.
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    ​Aïnouz’s wide frame captures image after image of earthy, sensual beauty; the (digital) picture was lit and color-timed to match 16mm daylight stock. The replication of 60’s and 70's era color film is uncanny, down to the underexposed interiors and hints of saturated color bleed outdoors. A beautiful and heartrending picture.
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    Nathan's Films of 2019 Index here.
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    Nathan's Films of 2019: On a Theme of Life

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    First of all. What’s a theme of life? What does that even mean? What I mean is, life untethered from plot. Most films only care to spend time with their characters as long as they’re involved in a conflict; the minute things are resolved, the curtain drops. I have a fondness for pictures that go beyond, and many of the films in these writeups do just that. But these three seem especially apt as portraits in the European (and especially French) cinematic tradition, where the sheer ordinaryness of existence is itself interesting enough to commit to celluloid. (Curiously, each of these three films is exactly the same number of minutes long. Go figure.)

    1. Little Women
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    "I'm so sick of it! But—I am so lonely."

    Synopsis: The March sisters live and grow in mid-19th century America. Trailer.
    ​dir. Greta Gerwig. 135m; 1.85:1.
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    Roger Ebert called them “hangout movies.” You know the kind; where the plot took a backseat to simply, well, ‘hanging out’ with the characters. Spending time with them. Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood is a hangout movie. So is Greta Gerwig’s Little Women. I can’t recall a hangout movie made at this craft level that had female main characters, let alone within a period piece, and the effect is hugely refreshing. Yes, there’s a story, but that’s not why we’re here. We’re here because life is happening, and watching these characters negotiate their paths through it is just plain absorbing.
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    In a masterstroke, Gerwig both includes the second half of the book (where the characters are adults) and imposes a non-linear interleaving of the two time periods. She neatly contrasts growths of character, and elsewhere juxtpoases moments of joy and sorrow happening in the same space but years apart.

    It's a vital update to Gillian Armstrong’s admirable "best-so-far" and still worthwhile 1994 effort, which was itself a challenge to make: according to scriptwriter Robin Swicord, that picture was “plagued by a low budget, productions days cut half-way through filming and a one-person art department,” as well as an all-male team of execs who underestimated the film’s appeal at every turn. Sigh. Gerwig, by contrast, was given final cut, and the license to do as she wished is a treat for us all. This is how great art gets made, and its considerable financial and critical success spells hope for more of the same.

    But for now there’s this, a magical and significant piece that’s both light on its feet and supremely affecting,  as well as being tighter in pace than the expected historical heritage drama, with breathless exchanges and swirling music and inspired Altmanesque dialogue overlaps.

    ​Says Gerwig to Sight and Sound“that’s my preferred pace. Some of the lines in the book are so famous– so embroidered on pillows– that I knew I wanted the actors to rush through them at the speed of light. I wanted it to be loud and falling all over each other. Sometimes there’s as many as eight characters taling at once. But it’s all very specifically written, so that they overlap each other at precise moments. I didn’t want it to be messy. I wanted it to be a cocophony, but a controlled cacophany. Everyone was terrified the movie was going to be five hours because the script was so long. I said, ‘Just wait. Just wait until you hear how fast they talk. it’s going to be fine.’”
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    A cinematic assault overload of material for the viewer to process, to struggle to keep up with, necessitating repeat viewings? Sign me up! I couldn't ask for more. Thank you, Greta.


    2. 
    Marriage Story
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    "Criminal lawyers see bad people at their best, divorce lawyers see good people at their worst."

    Synopsis: The story of a divorce and the impact on all around the couple– children, parents, attorneys, and friends. Trailer.
    dir. Noah Baumbach. 137m; 1.66:1.
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    Briefly, because I've only seen this once and though it has straightforwardly observable qualities I get the sense there's more there–

    Andrea Arnold’s regular DP Robbie Ryan’s participation here takes Baumbach to new places visually. His frame has never been so rich in color. As for content, he’s grown over the years but here leaps forward exponentially, with a warmth of humanism, mix of humor and scalding pathos, and adroit handling of shifting sympathies.


    The pain of transforming the personal to the political, as divorce necessitates, is lacerating, and Baumbach includes that without stripping away the unavoidable color and humor of life, even in its most trying moments. Here he articulates reasons behind many decisions– choice of angle, aspect ratio, and even specific cuts. His inspired cutting ‘from the judge to the judge’ at the eend of the video comes from his watching Scorsese’s Silence, where Marty does a similar thing at Ciaran Hinds’ character. Baumbach stands this domestic drama out by going with the underused 1.66:1 ratio, which he prefers for its portrait-like quality; shooting on 35mm and letting color play a role; and oh, the writing.

    It's a story told from wounds, not scars, and feels too empathetic of all its characters to be sourced from only his experience. Like Gerwig, Baumbach writes the interruptions of his lines into his scripts, and there's some real intricate and specific work by the actors here. The living room argument borders on unwatchable in its pain, making use as it does of so many earlier moments the characters now use to hurt each other. A generous, moving, at times hard-to-watch picture that plays all the registers of life. 
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    ​3. Uncut Gems
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    "Everything I do, it’s not going right. And I don’t know what to do!"

    Synopsis: A New York City jeweler makes a series of high-stakes bets that cause his life to unravel. Trailer.
    dir. Safdie Brothers. 135m; 2.39:1.

    Wow. Why did I appreciate this movie so? How did I appreciate it so, what with its record-setting profanity, intensely ugly milieu, continuously hollered dialogue, endlessly rising stakes, and the fact that it’s reasonable to describe it as the two-hour equivalent of a panic attack?

    Because it knows its subject so well, with such authenticity, and the go-for-broke audacity of its protagonist is matched by the unparalleled energy of its aesthetic. The specificity of form here is incontrovertibly auteur status. You don’t need to see more than five seconds of that long-lens chaos to know this could only be by the directors of Good Time.

    If Howard Hawks' famous definition of good direction holds (“when you can tell who the devil made it”), than this latest Safdie Brothers efffort more than qualifies (for an idea, watch this trailer for Good Time). It’s also their most cohesive and artistically successful effort by a significant margin. The efficacy of its sophistication creates that oh-so-pleasing conflation of intensely highbrow treatment of inarguably lowbrow material, a clash I find inclusive and eye-opening.
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    Only by shooting on film and creating such a stylized and specific visual vernacular could such an utterly unsightly environment as 47th Street’s Diamond District be remotely palatable onscreen. Sandler’s craft as an actor hasn’t been displayed at this level before, and basketball player Kevin Garnett holds his own alongside such talent, giving a magnetic performance.

    I took pleasure in hearing the rhythms of urban American speech I know so well portrayed on film with a truthfulness I rarely find in movies– too often in the pictures you can actually understand what people are saying, and the phrase choices are all wrong, forced, only one word spoken where three would be in life. The speech here has the ring of authenticity.

    [spoilers]

    I find the ending jubilant. What is the most optimistic logical conclusion of Howard Ratner’s way of living? Exactly what happens to him: to die in a high-stakes moment of complete and absurd triumph. His life is complete.

    Julia gets away clean because she’s a good person (a la Knives Out), she cares, she can read people, and she knows just what to say. Her strength of character is that her joy isn’t defined by winning like Ratner’s is– she’s happy at the end, sure, but because that’s who she is, not because of those duffel bags. And she’s doubtless bound for better relationships.

    The goons finally get to rob the jewelry store and collect their debts; LaKeith Stanfield’s character is excited for his friend Kevin, who is himself elated at having the stone and winning the game; Ratner’s wife is freed from the mess of divorce. It’s a win for every last adult character, though those children of his are in for some hard processing. 

    A portrait of life lived as mania, as authentically as I’ve ever seen. What does it mean? I have no idea. Maybe I can relate to the juggled chaos of my own schedule on some oblique level, recognize the danger of it. There’s something there, in all that madness onscreen, something that reveals itself in the comittment to an accurate representation of how things go sometimes. I thirst to learn the mechanics of this life, and in watching this I heard an echo that was truthful.
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    Nathan's Films of 2019 Index here.
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    Nathan's Top Two Films of 2019: #2

    2. The Irishman (I Heard You Paint Houses)
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    "Oh, boy. You don't know how fast time goes by until you get there."

    With Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, Joe Pesci et al.
    Synopsis: Recollections of Frank Sheeran, who claimed to have killed his friend Jimmy Hoffa per mob orders in 1975. Trailer. 
    dir. Martin Scorsese. 209 mins, 1.85:1.

    Viewers nowadays are so used to being told what to think that they struggle when they’re given the option do so on their own. Not all films have their protagonists helpfully verbalize the themes of the films they’re in, or tell us how to think about their actions. Such things don’t happen in life; people don’t have the self-awareness for it. Can’t a film just say something? Does it have to also say what it’s saying to you?

    Martin Scorsese’s pictures have always assumed the audience watching them is smart, perceptive, reflective, able to come to their own conclusions very different from what the film’s protagonists may think. His characters are unique in that they usually don’t learn anything. They, like real people, tend to stay the same. They are who they are.

    We learn a lot, by watching them, but they don’t. Frank Sheeran gets through life a day at a time, up close, using survival skills that got him through the War, but which have crushingly limited value back home in the real world. He became good at following orders, not questioning them… not questioning his own actions. Do you know where that road leads you?

    As a mob hitman, his tragedy isn’t that he dies prematurely, as most in his profession do; it’s that he survives long enough to live with his decisions. Only after it’s too late do his choices catch up to him, bulldozing his soul over with a regret so vast, so debilitating, he can’t even acknowledge its existence. What they don’t tell you about moral compromise as a survival tool is that it works, in the worst way possible: you survive, and thus have to live with yourself, look at yourself in the mirror, be partner to your past on every sleepless night. The torture of sitting alone in a room, lost to time, aware of the friends and family one could’ve known, could’ve loved, but chose not to. No other mob picture devotes its final thirty minutes to these truths.
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    Scorsese and cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto (they collaborated on Wolf of Wall Street and Silence) shoot on film where they can (why shoot on film?), but any shot requiring digital de-aging had to be photographed digitally, using a complex 3-camera capture system, which has been much discussed elsewhere. The de-aging effect isn’t meaningfully more or less distracting than the other methods of cinematic shorthand for conveying aging that we've all tolerated for years: makeup, or using different actors.

    Makeup is ideal because it's actual rather than computer-generated, but it's more useful in aging actors up than down. And using different actors destroys continuity in ways that require much more suspension of disbelief than what Scorsese offers here, and that was his principal motive for doing so: these actors know what life was like in the time periods they’re portrayed as living in. Younger generations don’t. They bring that authenticity, as well as an emotional linearity heretofore unarrived at in cinema: the same actors living all the scenes over a half-century lends credibility to their experience, and particularly makes the later scenes all the more potent, rather than just hiring an older actor to pretend the regret of someone else’s earlier performance. It may be imperfect, but for these reasons it beats any existing alternative. 
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    Regarding the visuals: this film feels often like a summation and a response to Scorsese's earlier works taking place in related environments. Just as only a younger person could’ve made Goodfellas, only an older mind could’ve created The Irishman.

    Consider the opening tracking shot, which mirrors the famous Copacabana tracking shot in 
    Goodfellas. That shot emblazoned the high-key vivacious glamour of everything Henry Hill loved about his life, and is appropriately scored to the present-tense joy of The Crystals' "Then He Kissed Me." The Irishman's opener rather shows us the End of the Road, not just of working-class mob life, but of something larger: Life caked over with regret, reflection, and the winsome recognition that the present has gone by, and these are the days of After.

    The 5 Satins’ “In the Still of the Night,” which accompanies the shot, is redolent with melancholy and memory, which is exactly what The Irishman is all about. I find it a devastating way to begin a film. Consider how DeNiro’s character is musing to us silently, with narration, before he continues speaking, this time out loud. Is he talking to himself, or to a reporter? Or is he silently musing the entire film’s events in his own mind? I like how it isn’t clarified, since it isn’t important: what matters is that he’s thinking it. 
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    Note the workmanlike  nature of Prieto’s camera: no flashy angles here. We are always either perpendicular or parallel to the action. Says Prieto: “For Frank, he would get an order and then go and do it. So the camera behaves very simply– no spectacular angles or movements when a killing is happening. So the camera pans with him approaching a person, maybe he kills, maybe it pans back. Or sometimes the camera just sat there, static. It even extends to the cars. All the cars, we show them in perfect profile. Filming in a dry, simple, methodical way. There are other moments, which aren’t related to Frank Sheeran, maybe the deposition of Jimmy Hoffa, where the camera moves around, swoops down toward Robert Kennedy.”

    He and Scorsese chose the appropriately unglamorous 1.85:1 ratio, which Scorsese has used only once since discovering ‘scope in 1991, because, as Prieto told IndiewireWe chose spherical lenses and a 1.85:1 aspect ratio because the main character approaches his task of “painting houses” (meaning killing people) in a methodical, practical way. It seemed to us that old glass, but without heavy distortion or fancy flares, would be appropriate to represent Sheeran’s perspective.”

    Prieto also references Garry Winogrand’s wide-angle color work as an inspiration, and has told multiple outlets about the progress of color through the film: a Kodachrome approximation for the 50s and earlier, Ektachrome for the 60s, and a method of increasing contrast while desaturating the image called ENR (like bleach bypass, but variable in terms of how much silver is left in the print; developed by Vittoro Storaro). The level of desaturation increases as the narrative continues, leaning toward monochrome for the bitter end.
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    The Irishman’s power is in what it doesn’t say. It observes, like a silent God, as actions permeate into consequences. It withholds judgment and sees the goodness in ‘bad’ people. It speaks in silences and offhand turns of phrase across a half-century, and it feels, similar to Delillo’s Underworld, like a history of the post-war twentieth century, an expansive plumbing of its ethos and texture and manner of life, neither celebratory nor condemnative but observational. 

    These plebian crannies of existence get their full due here, in lives that aren’t normally considered interesting enough for the silver screen. When did you last see a studio picture about union delegates, delivery drivers, blue-collar backrooms and the drama of unknown working-class midwestern life? Any life seen in enough detail is worth examining. There are multitudes here.
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    Nathan's Films of 2019 Index here.
  • Published on

    Book Selling Locations: Update

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    I swear this is more for my enthusiasm for these lovely booksellers than any desire of my own to actually sell this thing! But a massive thanks too all who continue to keep it a bestseller.

    It's taught as a textbook at Seattle University now, and a highlight at Tacoma's PLU, where I'll be the visiting writer and lecturer next month (details here), and one of the attending writers on the conference faculty at the upcoming Chuckanut Writers Conference this June, as well as a pick for Redmond Library's reading group in September (stay tuned for related events!).

    To all of which I say: EEP EEP! You're making me blush!!

    You can buy my book online here, through these direct links:
    And in person here, where all these friendly booksellers are just waiting to say hello: 
    And, newly added in West Seattle:


    Are you having trouble getting hold of the book? Email my publisher, Chin Music Press at chinmusicpress@gmail.com.

    Thanks for all your support!
  • Published on

    Nathan's Top Two Films of 2019: #1

    1. A Hidden Life
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    "Better to suffer injustice than to do it."

    Synopsis: The real-life story of Franz Jägerstätter, who refused to fight under Nazi Germany, and his wife Fani. Trailer.
    dir. Terrence Malick. 173m; 2.39:1.
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    [spoilers]

    It's an impossible choice he faces. Or is it? Upon second viewing and further reflection I'm not sure Franz Jägerstätter, a conscientious objector before the term entered common parlance, feels much indecision at all. Malick's latest recounts the true story of an Austrian farmer who refused to support Hitler's genocide, and who was executed as a result. The film's masterstroke is to withhold Franz's explicit reasons for taking such a stand. Because isn't that one of those decisions that's beyond reason?

    You either recoil from the thought, repulsed on a gut level and unable to bring yourself to violate your soul to that degree... Or you don't, you're okay with the moral compromise. We can't pretend to know what we would do, because it'd be a supposition based on idle speculation, and nothing more.
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    Complicating his situation is the love he has for his wife and their idyllic life. Fani, also a real-life figure, was instrumental in guiding Franz toward the very character which would ultimately keep them apart– by all accounts she awakened in him an inclination toward goodness, peace and thoughtful intention. She loved Franz because of who he was, who he had become; exactly what he'd be turning his back on if he signed Hitler's oath on the hope of being returned to her (not that a Fascist government during wartime should be particularly trusted to keep such promises).

    ​Franz can't go back to Fani because of who he is, and the fact that it's you, yourself, who has to live with your decisions. And she can't encourage him to abandon what she loves most about him– though in a moment of weakness she does, before relenting in anguish– because that's not how love sustains. 


    A moment I missed on first viewing is when Fani grabs Franz with intense frustration, saying, "You're going to do it, aren't you." She's enraged by the thought. Only on a second round would I realize she's referring to him capitulating. Fani doesn't want him to join Hitler's crusade, especially not on the level that matters most– even though this means they will be kept apart, likely forever. His refusal to follow Hitler, in light of her wish, becomes an act of love.

    Her frustration is not with him but with a world and a God that don't make sense, who are silent in the face of obvious tragedy. 
    ​Wisely, Malick doesn't answer the questions he raises, though he does include what feels like a first in his oeuvre: a scathing appraisal of Christian hypocrisy by an icon painter that rings as true now as it did in Nazi Germany. 
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    Malick lets his images speak for themselves. As in The New World, certain characters promote arguments of hate or apathy using words, using reason– you can reason yourself into any outlook– but there are no grandstanding counter-speeches here. Images cut deeper, and intuition runs more potently than intellectual arguments. Franz's decision is positioned as an instinctual one: with historical hindsight we know the full breadth of Hitler's evil and the notion of refusing to embrace it is more straightforward.

    But as an Austrian mountain farmer in 1939, Franz would only have an inkling of the inhumanity being done. As we now know so well, his suspicions were more correct than he ever could have guessed. The shock of Franz's fortitude is that he didn't need mountains of traumatic evidence to sustain it. It was as simple as knowing himself enough to know that there was no way, on this Earth, he'd be able to bring himself to kill people. His is less a decision to abandon life as to retain his soul. 
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    These two individuals believed they needed to be good, and that staying consistent with the character of their best selves was of greater value than the hatred du jour their contemporaries acquiesed to. They imagined their actions would be unknown and insignificant in the tide of history, and this did not concern them. They cared for other human beings, in a society that had no use for such an outlook, and which actively sought to destroy it.

    Who looks the fool now? Franz and Fani's actions ended up impacting nearly everyone around them after all, and inspiring generations afterwards, but even if that had never been the case, I don't imagine they would've much cared. Neither lived to see their actions recognized in appreciation; their three daughters would be ostracized by the community for decades afterwards. Those externalities weren't part of their concerns, which had more to do with the interior question of what they'd be able to live with. Conscience is who you are when no one but hindsight is looking. Conscience is what reason cowers before, what reason lacks the tools to truly master. Look at the faces of the other conscientious objectors Franz is imprisoned with. Or at the way Bruno Ganz looks at his hands. At the reflected sun beaming down onto the prison hallway floor, the camera always searching for the light. 

    In the struggle between intuition and reason, intuition never needs to justify itself. 

    [end spoilers]
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    Like its protagonists, A Hidden Life faded from view quickly. It came and went without Oscar nominations, though it did draw sold-out crowds(!) here in Seattle. Fox Searchlight may have enthusiastically bought it last Cannes for $12 million, but it didn’t get booked into as many theatres as Searchlight may have liked because Disney, which owns Fox, overcharged theatres at the same premium tentpole rate it was charging them for their latest Star Wars, an absurd business move for an arthouse feature; of course the chains balked, and everyone lost out. 

    Though it’s a three-hour period piece made with heavy improvisation (Ms. Pachner says below they stopped using the script after about a week), sources say it was made for “high single digits,” which implies the Cannes buy more than recoups investors, though Fox won’t see a return after Disney’s mishandling. The picture itself was funded primarily by four private equity investors who don’t have their names listed in the credits, and who were aware this was unlikely to be financially lucrative, but who rather supported the director as private citizens and fans.

    Jörg Widmer takes over lensing duties from the trilogy's Emmanuel “Chivo” Lubezki with no meaningful difference in aesthetic, which shouldn’t be a major surprise given that Widmer was Chivo’s lead steadi operator on all their Malick collaborations. The difference here is this is Malick’s first entirely digital production. We’ve finally gotten to the point where digital can generate film-competitive results if treated properly in post; it used to be easy to tell the difference between a digital movie and celluloid, especially when looking at skies and skin tones.

    That remains the case, except when filmmakers take care to impose tone curves, color spaces, and grain overlays from specific film stocks, as has clearly been done here. It’s a rich, filmlike image with deep blacks and exceptionally competent light-dark latitude. With the attention Malick pays to his visuals, I’m not surprised; and I suspect going digital worked wonders for his process, which involves searching for extemporaneous moments and shooting enormous amounts of footage doing so. Tree of Life and Thin Red Line both resulted from a million feet of film shot– enough for 91 two-hour films each! Much has been made in press materials of the average length of a take during shooting Hidden Life: 28 minutes, impossible with film. 

    Explore the links below for stories of the actors doing farm labor for 40-minute takes. If it looks they know what they’re doing on screen, it’s because that is what they’re doing. The actors also got texts every morning from Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, psalms from the bible, and more; but they weren’t discussed. As Malick told Sight & Sound in 1975, you can't film philosophy. In keeping with the above advocacy for intuition, they were offered less for intellectual analysis than reflection, a search for a “grounded feeling” with the landscape. 
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    Chivo and Malick’s camera rules from The New World carry over mostly intact: all natural light, handheld or steadi only, deep focus, subjective view, and leaning into happy accidents. The 12mm lens, used for the entire film except for a few “long-lens shots” using a still laughably wide 16mm, take “wide angle” to a new level. No other film looks like this one, simply because no other films have been shot with only a 12mm lens, let alone solely natural light. The focus range is massive, and the lens distortion emphasizes depth in the frame; we are there, as we never have been. Lines and composition get emphasized as well, and the camera can read closer to a surface than normal. Note how vast the distance between Franz and the priest seems; or the uncanny uniqueness of the standing soldiers and children, with the unusually close camera; and the diagonal lines in the courtroom.
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    ​It's the silences in Malick that speak the loudest, the room he allows us to divine meaning from image and soliloquy. The ever-fluid camera tells us all we need to know. He achieved an apex of this abstraction of form with his excellent last three films, with the final third of this so-called 'Modern Life' trilogy* (Song to Song) fine-tuning the possibilities of his brand of pure cinema to their fullest potential. No other contemporary filmmaker has gotten closer to communicating directly with the viewer, freed from the bounds of narrative, plot, structure and even language. 

    This is purity of expression not as a headless avant-garde, but as primal emotional discourse with the viewer. Malick reaches us not with heady intellect but with the vernacular of the soul, and is thus available for engagement with any sensitive viewer, whether or not they are educated or otherwise elite. Malick transcends and even appears to actively resist such statuses, choosing not worldly or learned protagonists but thoughtful ones, reflective people who speak in a voice we reach for, who put to words the ephemera we don't know defines us.
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    ​*My thoughts on each of the films: 
    2013's To The Wonder (scroll down); 2016's Knight of Cups (scroll down), and 2017's Song to Song.

    Behind the scenes

    Essays
    These two longform reviews offer far more than anything I could come up with on my own:

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    Nathan's Films of 2019 Index here.