Michael Clayton

Directed by Tony Gilroy
*½

Evil corporations, shifty lawyers and luck are the three tenants of Michael Clayton, the new film from long-time writer, first-time director Tony Gilroy (man behind the pen of the Bourne films, The Devil’s Advocate, Proof of Life) who offers a fine example unique to the fall season, a (alleged) thriller about the backhanded, under-the-table, spy vs. spy, corporate intrigue that lacks a good amount of style, and any coherent substance. Boil it down to its true merit, and what surfaces is a procedural gone wrong. After big-time lawyer Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson, terrific) goes loony and strips down professing his love for farm girl Anna (Merritt Wever), one of many in a class-action lawsuit against big farm corp. UNorth, the law firm sends in mysterious Mr. Clayton (George Clooney, the usual grandeur) to save face. We find out that what drove Edens mad (er, off his meds) was his discovering that UNorth is up to no good. From then on it’s a race between Clayton to figure out what Edens knew and UNorth to make sure no one figures out what Edens knew. As for luck, well, Clayton would have met his end if it weren’t for getting impatient with Poker, or drawn to a scene of nature from a book Edens obsessed over after Clayton’s son recommended it to him in a conversation they had when Edens answered Clayton’s phone while he was out. Whew. How this conversation flourished I have no idea, clearly the kid doesn’t know not to talk to strangers (or how to appear at all important in this film, among countless subplots, the most useless was one involving Clayton’s brother Timmy, and their bad blood. The culmination of which is an emotional monologue with his son about not having to worry about growing up into a man like Timmy, although to become like Clayton may not be too good a choice either.)

I’m feeling redundant, and I beg anyone to describe the plot to me and not feel the same way. For its few moments of passionate discourse and genuine intrigue, there are tenfold as many dull discussions. As far as the film being a thriller, I never felt much tension. Two hitmen running around for UNorth’s tortured attorney (Tilda Swinton) never seem to bring much of a sense of danger, even as they ambush Edens in a hallway or plant a carbomb. The characters never know they’re in as much danger as Gilroy lets the audience know, a cheap effect in my book trying to tease the audience without getting brave and picking at the characters brains that makes it more akin to a horror film without the hair-raising violins.

Gilroy writes well enough, but his direction was certainly barebones and lacked anything too interesting until the third act (by far the best part of the film, but questionable as to worth sitting through the first two for). As he wraps it up, there’s promise in his style. The most poetic moment comes when Clayton is at his most fed-up, and vulnerable, choosing to abandon his papers and gold watch in a fire before running into the woods (liberation ala Into the Wild). My favorite visual comes at the very end, the last shot, which saves the typical ‘good guys win’ ending and leaves us with a sense of doubt about the people we’ve just watched for two hours. None of them are very good, in fact most are pretty terrible. The first thing that came to mind on the closing long take was the last shot of The Long Good Friday (to which I’d be surprised wasn’t an inspiration if not a source of emulation) where we see George Clooney dust off those old acting chops. Not to say his whole performance isn’t great, but it’s the usual Oscar run, complete with in-your-face-whilst-smirking diatribes on Shiva the God of Death and suave grace under pressure. It’s a less confusing Syriana with a beardless George that delivers on standard devices and eye-roll inducing allegories (in this case a children’s fantasy novel). Despite the lawyer-speak and restricted conversations, I fully understand how this film deceives most of the critical world into thinking it’s ripe for rewards with its pseudo intelligentsia appeal and well-delivered well-written speeches driving at the morality of the players involved (if only a bit more attention was paid to the writing of the plot). Besides Clooney and Wilkinson, the acting was on par with Sam Waterston's Jack McCoy circa 1998, in fact, I kept secretly hoping he would show up in the middle of it, just to relieve me from the tedium.

Into the Wild

Directed by Sean Penn
***1/2

See here: the story of super student Christopher McCandless (Emile Hirsch) and his journey through America for two years, abandoning his identity in pursuit of capturing a dusty old handful of Manifest Destiny, willed by unmovable passion to reach Alaska and live off the land. Krakauer’s 1997 Into the Wild delivers an apt, journalistic approach to McCandless’ story. Sean Penn’s Into the Wild suffers from a bad case of telephone: by the time the story got told to him, and by the time he reprocessed it and was getting ready to regurgitate it cinematically, out came a lot of his idealistic self alongside the unique college grad-turned-hitchhiker. It’s an amazing true story, and the decision to fictionalize seems appropriate, a documentary would be a filmic reading of Into the Wild (What Rescue Dawn is to Little Dieter Needs to Fly comes to mind), complete with talking heads (read: bore). But before getting to the meat of what I found wrong with this ultimately beautiful film, a few miscues from Penn as director. First, an abundance of slow-mo makes initially breathtaking moments of an America forgotten and Chris’ wonder and rediscovery become less poignant to the brink of being dull and cliché, two words that completely capture my idea of the 360 shot. The enormity and awesomeness of the landscape certainly deserves a good looking over (which we get thanks to terrific cinematography) but the recurrence of this all-encompassing technique brought back nightmares of the dizzying camera work of Dreamgirls. Beyond these two visual nuisances, Penn shows a lot of patience behind the camera, as any proper actor turned director displays out of empathy for whoever happens to be in front of it.

Thematically, I’m still trying to parse the McCandless and the Penn. I’m not often inspired by movies (but to amateurishly attempt my own time to time), but walking out of Into the Wild I had an urge to conquer a fucking mountain, and quick. After cooling down, I decided I could put that adventure aside until at least the weekend, but I did pick up the book to help me decipher Penn’s retelling. Throughout the film, I had the distinct feeling that Penn was turning McCandless into something bigger than he was, cleverly omitting some of his weaker characteristics, opting to instead made a Christ like figure, full of wisdom, love, and (presumed, if not only from the extreme awkwardness with which his filmic depiction encounters sexuality) chastity. One of the more particularly interesting liberties taken with Krakauer’s book is his relationship with trailer town vixen Tracy, (Kristen Stewart) a heavy piece of the second act stretched out from a mere two paragraphs including a rousing, albeit exclusively cinematic, musical collaboration in place of offering herself to the young buck. We’re offered some rather blatant religious imagery too, including a ‘Jesus is Love’ monument atop an American Sinai and characters inquiring as to if he might happen to be Jesus. In fact the most subtle instance I noticed was a quick flash of his naked body floating down a river, arms spread in the usual Crucifixion mold, a necessary rebirth and cleansing after the killing of a Moose whose meat he fails to preserve properly, the felled game perished in futility. The way religion as a whole was addressed was a welcome turn, a unique glimpse into the idea of God without ever once mulling over the institution of religion, how very Martin Luther of Mr. Penn.

It’s easy to see why Penn was so captivated by McCandless’ story. Same goes for Krakauer. In fact, it would be surprising to not find a socially discontented male fed up with consumerist America who would fall in love with the superficial escapism of Into the Wild. What’s missing from the film is any commentary on what lies beyond that superficiality, the nihilism of his isolation and abandonment of society. We’re told he hates how people mistreat each other, but the solution offered is to abandon people, not treat people better. Penn comes across insecure as a screenwriter (although I wouldn’t be surprised if an offering for best adapted came his way). The only voice proclaiming McCandless’ head far too filled with Jack London and Tolstoy comes from Wayne Westerberg, (the quick-witted Vince Vaughn, hardly a figure to milk prudence from) the closest friend he made on his nomadic escapades. Ultimately, our writer-director decides to glorify the escapist aspect so as to indulge his political dissatisfaction of late, instead of thoroughly analyzing the motives and approach clairvoyant judgment upon McCandless as, perhaps, a merely misguided youth who finally works up the courage to run away from home after being away at college for four years. I don’t mean to suggest that’s who he was, even if I myself am trying to ride the youthful male tide of finding beauty in America and isolation, but Penn, however talented, is no Malick, and therefore can’t get away with merely a lyrical depiction of youth set to Eddie Vedder tunes.

The acting, from magnificent lead all the way to minor supporters (is that Zach Galifianakis as big game tipster Kevin? Yes, yes it is!) turn in lovely performances: the genius, stone-faced father (William Hurt), crushed mother (Marcia Gay Harden), knowledgeable, narrating sister (Jena Malone) aged hippy Rainey (Brian Dierker), his groovy lady/matriarch figure Jan Burres (Catherine Keener) and especially old-timer polar opposite fellow (Hal Holbrook) from which lessons are learned from and taught to in an amazingly non-cliché way, especially considering how that sentence came out.

I almost feel ashamed to say it, but this is, beyond extremely beautiful and well told, an inspirational movie. It won’t be one I forget any time soon, having stricken me on such a personal level, but no worries about my going feral, it just wouldn’t be hip to engage in such emulation.

The Darjeeling Limited

Directed by Wes Anderson
****

Gone are the tableaux of telling stories through the club photos of a prep school yearbook, parody documentaries of Jacques Cousteau's adventures, or the out and out novel of the story your viewing…for now. Only time will tell if Wes Anderson has found a new system, no that’s too cold a word, a new culture to make movies in, or if this departure (in as much that Wes can be considered to make such a thing) was a one time deal, and he'll be back to lavish set pieces and Mark Mothersbaugh scores in the next go around.

Three brothers, Francis, Jack and Peter, who have set off on a spiritual journey through India after having not seen each other in a year, last together at their father’s funeral, aren’t drawn carefully per se, but rather tactfully. Throughout, I’m never quite sympathetic towards Jason Schwartzman’s Jack, but I don’t need to be. Schwartzman captures sibling interaction/rivalry/jealousy perfectly among brothers, provides his fair share of comedic relief, and seems most capable of speaking seriously without sounding forced, all in all enough to enjoy his presence throughout the film. Owen Wilson’s Francis I wasn’t much a fan of, but his suicide attempt seems to keep me from flat out despising him for a bit of a white-lie we happen upon near the climax. He’s the instigator of the trip, desperately trying to reconnect with his brothers. It’s Adrian Brody as middle child Peter who I loved the most as a soon-to-be father still grief stricken by the passing of dear old dad. I get the sense that the writing trio of Wes, Schwartzman, and 2^nd director virtuoso Roman Coppola knew this, and when the movie hits an abrupt tragedy, Peter’s the one who bears the largest burden.

Trading in teams of set designers for a small group of close-knit cadres with cameras on location in ever-cinematic India is a breath of fresh air (almost literally, this film, like the economically forced on-location debut Bottle Rocket, breathes, with empty fields and layers of mountains and natural scenery that’s as ever beautiful as Life Aquatic's Belafonte or the throwback New York townhouse from Tennenbaums). I almost want to call Rushmore, Royal Tennenbaums, and The Life Aquatic a trilogy of father-son issues that feature the aforementioned similarities along with (prominent) Bill Murray roles, but there’s not been enough time to establish proper perspective for such a thesis. (And don't you dare say Raleigh St. Claire wasn't prominent, if not only to say: not prominent enough!) Fathers & sons rings a bit here too, but dad's dead from the get-go. The biggest difference Darjeeling offers is the restriction of narrative. Where before, the smallest of references would be explained through quick flashback or throwaway to an insert of a photo or diegetic film clips, here the minor mentioning of peripheral players or major resolutions are left hanging; the ideas, themes and characters frayed, a big change for Anderson who usually likes to wrap up everything quite neatly, and in slow motion, another signature left out of Darjeeling. The ending does sport what may be my favorite last line ever; call me a nihilist if you will.

The only disruption in Darjeeling’s restricted narrative progression is one flashback, although appropriately evoked, to the day of their father’s funeral. Upon first viewing I passively loved it. The second time, I found it flawed, but was sympathetic to it, understanding that it’s given the task of bringing the emotional low of the film back up to Anderson’s dry wit and storybook kinetics. When serious reflection and screwball comedy are fleshed out on their own, we get beautifully memorable scenes. The two that immediately come to mind, are Peter’s holding a small Indian child, complete fear for the future and sadness converge to put absolute loss upon his face, conversely, for laughs, the three brothers attempting a spiritual ceremony, waving about and acting rather foolish atop a mountain. Neither moment tries to scale the gamut of emotions, but rather flourishes in its singular, lovely tone.

Lovers of Wes Anderson will still love it, albeit either shaken by the “new” direction or keen to it. Haters of Wes Anderson, well, they’ll keep doing what they do best - it’s by no means that different, especially to detractors of the young auteur. I chalk a big X in the ‘like the new style’ column personally, if for nothing more than the change of pace and peace of mind that one of the most visually recognizable filmmakers is capable of spreading his wings a bit.

getting to it

Welcome to Far From Listless, a (soon to be) collection of film reviews, essays, and trivial lists. This is David Clager, and also with me is James Pogue. Together, well, we're merely two college students completely in love with film and often discontent with mainstream criticism, so why not add our own iffy witticisms and pithy insights?

A lot will probably change in the beginning here as we try to figure out what we want the look and style of the page to be. All we hope is that someone might read something of ours and think that maybe we hit on something your usual write-up glazes over (namely, the truth, but I could settle for less).

Thanks for dropping by,
David.

p.s. The reviews are out of 4 stars, if anyone was wondering.