1. The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick): This slice of gorgeous sensory overload is the most deeply affecting movie I have seen since Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind provided me with the realization that I truly loved film. Some will find it maddening, most will find it challenging, but there is no denying that all will find it otherworldly. It’s impressionistic, dreamlike feel comes to fruition in waves of contemplative beauty and retrospection. It transcends the framework of traditional cinema by encompassing all of existence, thus expressing its incomprehensibility through the experience of a few infinitesimal lives. It’s the culminating work of the most striking aesthete currently working in modern American cinema, and is a film that begs to be seen. It has stayed with me since my initial viewing, and I feel strongly that it will affect you in very much the same way.

2. Meek’s Cutoff (Kelly Reichardt): This introspective drama about the pioneers of the American West is a meditative, suspenseful take on the modern Western. Director Kelly Reichardt’s neo-realist tendencies stay true to form in her third feature film, the story of two families lost within the vast and volatile emptiness of the17th century American frontier. The film is deliberately slow—an attribute that may be off-putting to some—but there’s no denying that its gradual, building suspense is engrossing and subtly moving. Michelle Williams, Paul Dano and Bruce Greenwood give very strong performances.

3. Bridesmaids (Paul Feig): This movie—the highest grossing production to date from Bro-mance guru Judd Apatow—is the funniest comedy of the year so far. Co-writer and star Kristen Wigg plays Annie, the down-and-out woman who, after the foreclosure of her business and subsequent loss of her boyfriend, discovers that her best friend, Lillian, will be getting married. Filled with witty, hilarious quip and raunchy-good physical comedy from Wiig, Bridesmaids is the culmination of an entertaining plot and genuine, refreshing, laugh-out-loud comedy. It has mass appeal and, believe it or not, panders most effectively to both male and female sensibilities.

4. Midnight in Paris (Woody Allen): Albeit it far from able to keep pace with his great films of the 1970’s (in particular Manhattan and Annie Hall), Woody Allen’s latest film is his strongest effort in years. Owen Wilson assumes the role of Gil, the quick-witted, neurotic author who has vacationed to Paris with his fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams). Sensing the growing discord between his artistic sensibilities and the relationship with his bride-to-be, Gil begins to indulge in the nostalgic time travel that he mistakenly stumbles upon while resting beside a downtown roadway. As the film progresses, he’s forced to choose between his desires and Inez, leading to an unmistakably Allen-like resolution. Owen Wilson gives the performance of his career.

5. Certified Copy (Abbas Kiarostami): Actress Juliette Binoche gives one of the best performances I’ve seen by a French actress since Isabelle Huppert in Claire Denis’ White Material. This moving film about the detailed interplay between two lovers keeps an acute eye trained on detail. We’re never quite sure if the couple is married, are merely acquaintances or are acting as strangers. It’s a strong examination of attraction the games two people play with one another when something beyond friendship is at stake

Jessica Chastain and Brad Pitt in Terrence Malick’s “The Tree of Life.”

★★★★★

“ And [Job] said, Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. ” – Job 1:21

As the lights dimmed to darken the biggest room at Angelika Dallas, I hadn’t the slightest idea what to expect. I had seen the trailer for The Tree of Life several times over, and was aware of its receiving of the Palme d’Or at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, but the film has maintained an elusive, enigmatic aura amongst critics and movie-goers alike. Parties of people were still filing into the theater as the title card appeared, indicating that a pervasive, feverish buzz was in the air over the much anticipated fifth feature from that lyrical poet of the cinema—the notoriously reclusive and introspective of all American filmmakers—Terrence Malick. What transpired was the most confounding, beautiful and fascinating movie watching experience I have ever been a part of. The Tree of Life transcends the framework of traditional motion pictures, creating something that must be deeply felt and fully experienced. It’s an invitation to—if not an eavesdrop on—the most intimate thoughts and recollections of a filmmaker pondering deeply the universe and our place in it. It redefines cinematic ambition through self-indulgence, and is a work that is as pretentious as it is mesmerizing, frustrating as it is beautiful and disjointed as it is sensible. It’s a film that defies narrative structure, spans the distance and time of our universe, and culminates in the breezy rooms of summer in a 1950’s Waco, Texas family home. It’s a series of memories, intimate recollections and poetic images that ponder life’s biggest questions: “Who are we?” and “Why are we here?”

Ten minutes into the film, I began to realize that this trip to the theater was going to be unlike any I’ve previously had within the confines of a jam-packed, midday matinee. What was transpiring on the screen was something deeply personal. It’s not a film that desires our admiration or acceptance, nor is it aiming to please anyone that might not yet fully subscribe to the niche following of Terrence Malick’s philosophical, deliberate filmmaking. What it is, at its core, is a reflective piece of art by an artist doing what all artists set out to do: to partake in the process of creation with intent to express. His paintbrush: the camera. His canvas: the screen. From there, we go. In the beginning, we see the “Big Bang” and the establishment of life through a series of colorful, interpretive cosmic images. It’s a fast paced ride through the culmination of the cosmos rife with flowing space debris and planetary substance. Then we arrive at the film’s centerpiece: Mother, Father and their three sons. The eldest, played in later life by Sean Penn, reflects on his time spent in childhood under the disciplinary regimen of his father (Brad Pitt) and the contrasting, docile maternal oversight of his mother (Jessica Chastain). The time that the film spends with the family is parceled out through reflection and recollection by Penn’s character as a young boy playing, longing, discovering, loving and even hating. These sequences are filmed brilliantly through the filter of a mind’s eye, creating the feeling of conjured memories filled with lasting, impressionistic imagery.

Nothing really happens in these sequences, per se. But that’s not necessarily the point. By observing the actions of the child, his brothers and their parents, the viewer is instilled with the nuances of contemplation, self-discovery and introspection—the precise goal of Malick’s intent. In between these memory-induced sequences are the actions of Father. His hard line, disciplinary tendencies conjure up further contemplation by the boy—contemplation that is effectively aided by the quiet whispers of voice-over narration, a leitmotif that is prevalent in all of Malick’s work. The two are constantly at odds with one another, perpetuating an ever-present ethical dilemma for the child. Through and through, the overwhelming sense of “Why?” permeates the films’ deliberately paced occurrences, and this is definitely true of the sequences previously described. Just as the film begins with life, it ends with its conclusion. The movie’s coda carries us to the final interpretive vision of Malick’s imaginative afterlife where reconciliation between father, son, mother, man and his existence are blissfully achieved. Whether it exists or is strictly symbolic is up to the viewer. Some of the films’ most moving imagery comes from these scenes. They’re charged with emotional energy, and stand as a firmly held, representative vision of the reconciliation between our fears and life’s biggest mystery.

This is the film. While we watch these meditative, lyrical and impressionistic occurrences, we’re left with an enormous amount to absorb and ponder. Guided by breathtaking cinematography, a beautiful score and the remarkable abilities of an artist at the height of his game to tie it all together, The Tree of Life is an experience unlike anything ever created through the cinematic medium. With that said, it is far from flawless. At 150 minutes, it’s overly-long and noticeably disjointed. Several sequences could have been tossed during the editing process, eliminating some of the material that caused certain scenes to drag unnecessarily. However, its sheer ambition and uniqueness of vision far outweigh its pervasive flaws. The Tree of Life is at once many things, and attempts to encompass all, and that is extremely admirable. It’s by no means for everyone, but something this rare begs to be experienced. Even if you feel it’s not for you, go and see it. Bring a friend, or three. Then, go to the bar, and over a beer, discuss. You owe it to yourself. But, if you choose not to, at least you can place bets on when Brad Pitt, Sean Penn and dinosaurs might once again find themselves in the same film during the walk from the theater to your car.

Sidenote: Terrence Malick is a native of Waco, Texas, and currently resides in Austin. His first four films, Badlands, Days of Heaven, The Thin Red Line and The New World are all great movies, and are more than worthy of addition to your Netflix queue. He is a noted recluse, is never interviewed and maintains a highly private life. He was absent from the films’ screening at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, but several in attendance sighted him in the back of the theater, quickly disappearing before the credits began rolling. This is only his fifth feature film, all of which have been few and far between, spanning nearly four decades.

2. “The Tree of Life” (Terrence Malick) Winner: Golden Palm, 2011 Cannes Film Festival.

3. “Midnight in Paris” (Woody Allen)

4. “Incendies” (Denis Villeneuve)

5. “Bridesmaids” (Paul Feig)

The bridesmaids of “Bridesmaids”

 ★ ★ ★ ★  1/2

Like few comedies have done before, Bridesmaids reminds us that yes, women tell dirty jokes, cuss and get drunk, too. The new film by producer Judd Apatow is the funniest, freshest comedy to come around since he helmed the raunchy and intelligent Knocked Up. What many have failed to realize is that this movie is not, by any means, strictly pandering to a female audience, nor is it remotely close to being a “chick flick.” What Bridesmaids does, among many things, is appeal very effectively to both sexes while generating laughter in an outlandish, clever and sustainable fashion. But, let’s face it; the film’s overarching subject matter is more relatable to females. Things such as the necessity for and acquisition of perfectly matched dresses are obvious, forlorn concepts to males, but this should not deter you in the least, dudes. These details are not what the movie sets out to tamper with. As I sat in the theater watching the humorous, quirky interplay between Annie (Kristen Wigg) and Lillian (Maya Rudolph), I was reminded, with an audible chuckle below my breath, of my own female friends. Several critics have labeled Bridesmaids as offensive and degrading to women, but why? The women in my life interact with me and others just as Annie and Lillian do with each other. These friends of mine are beautiful, intelligent people, but they’re also refreshingly candid, forthcoming and can tell a damned good dirty joke. That’s exceptionally likeable, thus making the appeal of the women in Bridesmaids just the same.

Saturday Night Live’s Kristen Wigg stars in this film, and is noticeably successful at projecting (if not channeling) the same kind of physical comedy that came so naturally to Lucille Ball and Carol Burnett. She’s the lonely, down-and-out woman of middle age who has stumbled upon a temporary rough patch in her life. After the foreclosure of her business and the subsequent disappearance of her boyfriend, she begins taking part in no-strings-attached sex with a local businessman, but is otherwise left unsatisfied by his presence. The opening scene of the film contains a hilarious bout of intercourse between the two, leaving little to the imagination and much to be laughed about. Her childhood friend, Lillian, presents Annie with an unexpected surprise one evening, revealing that she’s just become engaged—an occurrence that, much earlier, seemed unlikely to Lillian, especially after she reveals to Annie that “I don’t know. He calls me dude a lot.” What follows could be over-simplified as a female version of The Hangover. If we’re looking for comparisons, perhaps the two are similar. If it can be seen that way, Bridesmaids most certainly puts its own touch on the formula. Annie quickly establishes a feud with Lillian’s newest companion Helen (Rose Byrne), which creates a giving amount of laughs. Unfortunately for her, she can never quite outdo her newfound nemesis. Annie’s first decision backfires, quickly giving way to the films’ “gross out moment”—a scene that struck me as unfitting, but nonetheless created the shock it was intended to instill. If you’re going to be eating at the theater, take precautions. You’ve been warned.

As the movie progresses, Annie can’t seem to catch a break, especially as she struggles to keep up with the ultimate party planner. The funniest scene of the film occurs when all of the bridesmaids decide to fly to Las Vegas. Fearing the ensuing flight, Annie takes a mystery pill given to her by Helen, downs a class of scotch, then proceeds to suffer the unfortunate, albeit humorous side effects of an ill-advised mixture of prescription medicine and alcohol. But, take heed. I still haven’t introduced the movie’s funniest character, the crass, forthcoming and wheels-off Megan (Melissa McCarthy). Her scenes alone carry a vast majority of comedic weight, and delightfully so. Her introduction into the film stems from a hilarious verbal exchange between herself and Annie. It’s made of the type of stuff you’d hear coming from the crazy cousin at a distant relatives wedding: humorously bizarre and always perplexing. As the film continues, Annie’s world continues to break down, but is resurrected bit by bit by the presence of an Irish Policeman named Nathan (Chris O’Dowd). His role as a sort of revivalist plays out as expected, but that turns out to be just what Annie needs.

Through and through, Bridesmaids remains fresh, clever, raunchy-good comedy. The screenplay was co-written by Wiig, who, with this film, has legitimized herself as a genuinely funny presence in motion picture comedy. What’s refreshing about Bridesmaids is how it creates well-developed characters that feel realistic as opposed to the formulaic caricatures that sometimes find themselves at the center of comedies. The screenplay never feels forced, nor does it pander to the type of humor that begs for our laughter. Sure, there are moments when it does aim for bigger-than-normal laughs, but it always remains reasonable. The path of our protagonist becomes predictable from about midway through the movie, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. In films like this we come to expect the expected. But, the expected is always acceptable in this genre when there’s substance, good humor and catchy dialogue to support it. Another strength of Bridesmaids lies, believe it or not, in its tendency to drift effectively from seriousness to comedy. Outside of its laughs, it maintains a substantive message about the nature of regrouping after loss, and does it effectively. Finally, we have a movie that pays homage to the women I’m familiar with: the smart, funny, beautiful ones that can be just as crass and imperfect as their male counterparts.

Isabelle Huppert as Maria Vial in Claire Denis’ “White Material”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Director Claire Denis’ White Material is the stuff of enigmatic, puzzling and beautiful cinema. Using the kind of story prevalent in today’s global headlines as its narrative framework, the film meanders down a circuitous path of nightmarish nihilism, self-destruction and unchecked madness. Maria Vial—played brilliantly with reserved fierceness and physicality by Isabelle Huppert—is this unnamed African land’s Queen of the Nihilists.  She equally embodies her character and the film, making it the most unique examination of French colonialism to date. Helmed by the most creative director working in contemporary French cinema today, White Material is auteur Claire Denis’ striking, uncompromising visual poem about a woman consumed by the madness of the land that surrounds her. This land, an unnamed country that could represent any number of current war-torn, violence-ridden African territories, is on the brink of revolution. The country is a French satellite, but the looming threat of a violent uprising has forced them to relinquish their stronghold. Maria and her family run a coffee plantation amidst the chaos, and she remains irrationally steadfast in her determination to maintain its productivity. What she fails to see, or, for that matter, acknowledge, is the immediate danger that surrounds her decision. This decision becomes Maria’s plight, but we’re never quite sure if she’s even aware of it. She’s consumed with her work, blinded by ambition, driven by fear, cares for nothing and disregards the emotional and physical dangers associated with her carelessness—the fragile, fierce, immovable nihilistic queen of Café Vial.

As the story elliptically unravels, Maria’s world is given to us. It’s parceled out in small doses during flashbacks on a loaded bus on the road to nowhere—a method of storytelling that Denis adapted after a rigorously short shooting schedule began to create roadblocks in the original script. Not long into the film, we’re introduced to every character. Maria works and lives on the plantation with her ex-husband, her son, a housemaid, and her father-in-law. The family exists together, but never in the same frame, a stylistic choice that conveys familial ties but a degree of love lost. Encased in the protection of the plantation’s acreage, the family has created a buffer zone, albeit temporary, to the impending violence. On her trips into town, Maria fearlessly (and somewhat carelessly) encounters and coalesces to the erratic behavior of rebel soldiers. Having a gun pointed in her face becomes a common occurrence, and her internal, minutely discernable ferocity becomes her lifeline. One has to be mad to deal so effortlessly with chaos. Some of Huppert’s best work comes from these scenes. You’re never quite sure how she does it or where it comes from, but it’s there. She harnesses the resolve of a boxer, revealing it in such a minimal way that you would miss it if you blinked.

Maria’s son Manuel (Nicolas Duvauchelle) remains holed up in his room, under the covers until late in the day. Her lack of maternal presence has in certain ways hampered his upbringing, not to mention the drastic change in lifestyle that appeared when moving from France to a remote African outpost. His unfortunate encounter with curious natives sets a series of events in motion that are the end result of years of pent up anger, frustration and ambivalence towards his mother, as well as various other things.

Claire Denis

Seeking refuge in the plantation is the rebellions’ wounded figurehead, The Boxer. The opening sequence of the film shows government troops identifying his dead body, and we immediately become aware of the fate that looms for Café Vial. What Denis does after establishing this is intelligently, creatively guide us to the grim, nightmarish, but expected conclusion of a tale that could only end one way. Maria’s ex-husband is rarely seen, except for in his dealings with the town mayor. Fearing for his life, he signs the plantation over to the mayor and plans for his escape. As one might guess, this does not stop Maria from selfishly pursuing her work at the expense of her and her son’s safety.

Isabelle Huppert’s performance in the film is fantastic. She’s embodies the very essence of Maria Vial, and channels her through subdued but carefully calibrated physicality. There are numerous extended takes of her merely standing in the frame, allowing Denis’ camera to capture the nuances of movement, body carriage and facial expressions. These non-verbal occurrences can convey just as much as words, and in the case of White Material, they most certainly do. Many reviews of the film have assessed it as being charged with political overtones. In my opinion, this could not be further from the truth. This film is no more of a political statement than Goodfellas is an endorsement of organized crime. What both films do is simply observe their characters and the absurdities of the worlds they inhabit. White Material is simply a nightmarish, evocative study of one woman’s madness. White Material marks Denis’ second return to the subject matter of French colonial Africa, a time and a place that the director is all too familiar with. Her 1988 semi-autobiographical debut feature, Chocolat, recounts her experiences as a child growing up in Cameroon. Chocolat remains far less sinister than White Material, but both deal directly with the subject of French colonialism on the African continent.

The brilliance of White Material lies in Denis’ ability to guide us through the films’ occurrences. She harnesses an uncanny visual creativity that is astounding to watch. Throughout the duration of the movie, Denis allows her images to explain everything by simply speaking for themselves. In all of her films, a unique visual language is at the center of her stories. This is especially true of her 1999 feature Beau Travail. A lyrical and meditative minimalist piece of very little dialogue is taken to a remarkable level by a distinct use of imagery and creativity behind the camera. Although White Material deals with a busier narrative, the film works very much the same way. An effective mixture of close-ups, static shots, and shifting from hand-held cameras to those mounted on a fixed base create a distinct visual energy that defines the excellence of the film. White Material was made in tandem with another great film by Denis, 35 Shots of Rum. This picture exists in stark contrast to White Material, but is equally brilliant in its observance of nuance and implementation of a trademark visual language. Another great attribute this film possesses is its bone-chilling musical score. The Tindersticks, who are used on the majority of Denis’ films, have created one of the most sinister, affecting musical themes that I’ve heard in a movie in quite some time. White Material was released in France in 2009, but did not open in the United States until early 2010. Along with David Michod’s Animal Kingdom, this is one of the two best films of the past year.

Jim Broadbent, Lesley Manville and Ruth Sheen in Mike Leigh’s “Another Year.”

 ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

While watching Mike Leigh’s Another Year, I maintained one overwhelming thought: rarely have I empathized more with characters in a film than I do now. Another Year is yet another installment in the lengthy catalog of one of the most talented of British writer/directors. His films are acutely observed and often times uncompromising portrayals of the human experience. Some are not easy to stomach. Nonetheless, they leave you thinking, conversing and deliberating long after the credits have finished rolling. His 1993 feature, Naked, is very much that way. The film, a bleak and unflinching look at a man entrenched in the London underbelly, certainly doesn’t hold back. Nevertheless, comedy is prevalent in Leigh’s work, as well. Happy-Go-Lucky is filled with it, yet not consumed by it. Its humor is balanced with the tensions of daily experience, creating an outright funny, meaningful movie watching experience. Happy-Go-Lucky is another film, much like Another Year, that easily evokes our empathy. Both films contain characters that struggle with nagging personal demons, yet they seem to be the ones we feel for most. We accept their shortcomings, will them to find happiness and root for the successes we feel they can achieve. Eddie Marsan played such a man in Happy, and Leslie Manville assumes the type for Another Year.

Nothing yet everything happens in this film. Manville plays Mary, the lonely, inadvertently self-centered single woman of later age seeking an elusive form of validation. Her friend Gerri and husband Tom are archetypical opposites. They’ve been happily married for decades. They have obtained the optimal kind marriage that most couples strive to achieve—it’s deeply rooted and molded around years of dedicated companionship. To those who haven’t obtained such a circumstance, Tom and Gerri are facilitators of hope. Their company serves as refuge for lonely souls caught adrift in limbo. Throughout a year’s seasons, old friends pay visits to Tom and Gerri’s flat that are filled with good food, alcohol, late night inebriation and the reminisces of year’s past. Each one, including Mary, has become beaten down with life’s shortchanging. Mary seems to visit most often; her desire to reach out and be needed consumes her more thoroughly than the couple’s other friends. There is another named Ken (Peter Wight). He seems to be experiencing the same burdens of loneliness that plague Mary. Both characters seek refuge under the guise of alcohol—a temporary stop gap for their ever-present struggles. In several scenes, both become embarrassingly drunk, yet we begrudgingly accept their behavior given the circumstance. Essentially, this is the film. That doesn’t sound like much to get excited about, does it? Where the film thrives is in how it handles such subject matter.

Time after time, film after film, Mike Leigh abandons narrative structure for character study. He seems perpetually infatuated with the human experience. There’s

Mike Leigh

something honest, immediate and moving about this approach to storytelling. Another Year is an ode to the Marys and Kens of the world. It’s a reminder that with a little hope and even more willpower, things may begin to look up, making the films’ final scene an obvious validation of such words. Leigh employs a tracking shot that circles around the dinner table, allowing the camera to observe nuance with beautiful intent. Seated are Tom, Gerri, and their son, his newly acquired girlfriend, Tom’s brother and Mary. At the end of the camera’s journey, it stalls on Mary’s face. For about ten seconds we’re left to ponder. So much can be said with the static image of a woman that has been exhausted by her insecurities.

The film is full of pitch perfect performers executing well-crafted dialogue, an admirable trademark of every Mike Leigh picture. Jim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen’s performances are convincingly genuine and subtle. But, the best performance in the film is by Manville. At times she is easy to loathe, but we continually empathize with her desires. She evokes our empathy on a constant basis. From a technical standpoint, Leigh doesn’t partake in anything flashy. He’s not going for style because he doesn’t need to. His characters are full of life and his observations are impressively acute. A man with such insight is exceptionally admirable. Another Year is rich with the nuances of everyday life, and this is precisely the films’ overwhelming strength. It’s nothing more than an exercise in life itself. Every day, month after month, season after season, year after year, we face loneliness, confront our vulnerabilities, reach happiness, find solace in the company of others, and cope the best way we know how. These are exactly the things Leigh’s characters are consumed with in his latest film. They’re the happenings of yet another year.

2) Alamar (Pedro Gonzalez-Rubio)

3) Animal Kingdom (David Michod)

4) Please Give (Nicole Holofcner)

5) Blue Valentine (Derek Cianfrance)

Sullivan Stapleton and Jacki Weaver in David Michod's "Animal Kingdom," which won the World Cinema Jury Prize for Drama at the 2010 Sundance Film Festival.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

It must be rare for a first time director to make a film resembling one created by a skilled veteran, but David Michod has proved such a thing possible with his haunting masterpiece of mood, suspense and atmosphere. Animal Kingdom tells the story of a family so ruthless and subtly brutal that it borders on complete and total incomprehension. Their evil is eerily passive, almost as if they’re molded from the most quietly ferocious form of psychopathy imaginable. What is most haunting is the fact that their evil reveals itself not necessarily through their acts of violence, but in their conversations with others. It’s the way they say things and the chilling look in their eyes as the words leave their mouths. The two characters that exemplify this best are the family’s eldest figureheads: the enigmatic Janine Cody (played brilliantly by Jacki Weaver, whom I believe deserves an Oscar nod) and Andrew “Pope” Cody (Ben Mendelsohn). Pope’s tendencies remind me of those harbored by Javier Bardem’s Anton Chigurh in No Country for Old Men. Pope doesn’t send himself on a ruthless killing spree with a captive bolt pistol, but his merciless mindset is just as manifest. Like Chigurh, you can see Pope’s psychopathic inclinations in his eyes, in the peculiar way he says things and in the way he interacts with others. Janine is his disturbed counterpart, and her inherent evil reveals itself in much of the same way. Pope and Janine’s home is a safe haven for other members of the family, most notably her sons Darren and Craig. They carry out and execute the crimes, and the police have become tipped to their suspicious activities. This all sounds familiar, doesn’t it? What a typical opening act for a film about a crime family. Not so. Enter Joshua, the son of Janine’s estranged daughter. She has just overdosed on heroin (in a scene that opens the film and immediately sets its feel), leaving Joshua with nowhere to go. With no place to turn, he moves in with his grandmother.

With the introduction of Joshua, the film shifts its focus to something more insightful than the daily lives of the criminals it portrays. After his entrance into the home, Joshua is helplessly thrown into a world of uncontrollable and life altering forces. Merciless acts of violence transpire, as they typically do in crime movies, but these acts harbor deeper implications: they’re leaving an unmistakable mark on the psyche of an impressionable young mind. A series of ceaseless killing is set into motion after the police murder Pope’s closest confidant, Barry Brown. At this point it becomes clear that the cops are killing without sufficient evidence or justification. The rest of the film centers on this act and what happens as a result of its occurrence. More specifically, though, it focuses itself on how these acts consume the entirety of Joshua’s existence. In an effort to avenge Barry’s death, Pope decides to stage a car theft intended to lure the police into a trap. Joshua is chosen to steal the car, and is given no other choice. He’s now part of the family, and Pope will refuse to hesitate when using him for “practical purposes.” Once the police arrive on the scene, Barry and Darren will shoot them. Tit for tat.

After the shooting, all three (including Joshua) are arrested and questioned. Joshua, void of such an experience, acquiesces much too willingly for the likes of the family—a decision that inadvertently makes him a roadblock. If he’s going to continue to talk, they’ll have to get rid of him. It’s just the nature of the business, and business is business. Detective Leckie (Guy Pearce) has been assigned to the case and senses Joshua’s naïve qualities. He knows that he’s just being used as an expendable liaison, and he slowly and methodically attempts to convince him that it is so. Soon thereafter, son Craig falls victim to another act of police vigilantism, and things begin to spiral rapidly out of control. Pope becomes increasingly weary and volatile. One night, Joshua’s girlfriend visits the house to make amends after a fight, but he isn’t home. Pope is, though, and he’s about to take a hot shot: an injection of pure heroin into the bloodstream. The girl, completely naïve to what is occurring, is tricked into taking a shot. Pope then suffocates her to death in a pointless act of brutality. At this point, Pope has gone completely mad. His world has spun out of control, and he feels he must eliminate any considerable threat to the remainder of the family. Is this reasonable? Not in the least. Unfortunately, madness knows no boundaries. Joshua now finds himself in immense danger… from his own family. He continues to meet with Leckie, eventually seeking refuge in the witness protection program. His life is rapidly unraveling. He has finally become aware of his expendable nature by realizing what dangers lay ahead. At this point, it’s his existence alone that is jeopardizing his wellbeing. How crippling and all-consuming such a situation must be. How could one even come close to empathizing? The last twenty minutes of Animal Kingdom is its finest, so I won’t reveal its conclusion here. However, consider the last lines spoken in the film: “It’s a crazy fucking world”: Such an excellent conclusion to the reality that Animal Kingdom portrays.

In my opinion, the film is flawless. Others may not think so, but entitlement to one’s opinion is the best part of assessing art, especially the movies. Its quiet power is engrossing. It builds a deliberate and gradual suspense, keeping the viewer enveloped in its perpetual motion. Michôd always knows exactly where to go next and how to get there. He maintains a distinct pace throughout the film and never relinquishes it to other devices. He is in complete control, proving that he is supremely confident in his ability. Animal Kingdom is a film of pure mood and atmosphere. Never before have I seen a movie completely centered on the utilization of such qualities alone. This is not to say that the film isn’t well written and acted, though, because it most certainly is. The performances are so convincing that you forget you’re watching actors. Weaver and Mendelsohn are nothing short of tremendous. Their nuanced psychopathy is perfectly calibrated. There are flashes of auteurs like Scorsese in Michod’s work, too. Several times he uses a topical soundtrack set behind a slow motion shot, much like Charlie’s saunter across the bar in one of the opening sequences of Mean Streets:  Vintage Scorsese. Animal Kingdom is a force in Australian filmmaking. It’s confident and complete. If this is Michod’s debut, I can’t wait to see what he will bring in the future. 10/10 stars.

Colin Firth and Helena Bonham Carter in "The King's Speech."

9/10 stars

The King’s Speech is a film filled with history, but does not center itself on the cataclysmic events that transpired on the world stage in Europe during the late 1930’s. At its core, the film is a full blown period piece, but it only uses such a structure to set the appropriate backdrop for an intriguing examination of a man perpetually altered by an all-consuming impediment. Such an impediment would be intrusive to anyone, but one can only imagine how demoralizing it would be to someone whose career hinges upon the necessity of unobstructed, evocative speech. Such is the case in The King’s Speech, a film skillfully directed by Tom Hooper and superbly realized by his performers. Colin Firth is King George VI, the tall, solemn son of King George V whose shortcomings and frustrations manifest themselves in periodic outbursts of rage. A great majority of this rage stems from a stammer so crippling that his family, friends and peers wince inwardly at the thought of him speaking publicly. This first comes to light in the opening scene of the film when George VI (then The Prince Albert, Duke of York) is approaching the microphone to give the opening remarks at the 1925 Empire Exhibition at Wimbley Stadium. Upon his entrance he becomes paralyzed with fear, stumbling and stammering over every word. This traumatizing event sets into motion The Prince’s personal desire to find a remedy for his ailment, most obviously due to the fact that his line of work requires the talents of a confident and poised orator.

The Duke and his wife, the eventual Queen Elizabeth (played with tact and quiet confidence by Helena Bonham Carter), set out to find a man with the magical cure-all. After several unsuccessful (and comical) sessions with various therapists, Elizabeth finds a doctor who is said to offer a guaranteed fix. Enter Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush), a doctor unorthodox in both approach and demeanor—at least to those immersed in the deep seeded tradition of the Monarchy. For instance, Lionel requests a first name basis during sessions. The Duke is at first taken aback by such a request—Lionel is a commoner and not a man of royalty. To be placed on an even keel with such a man is out of the question… at first. Eventually, The Duke acquiesces, thus establishing a friendship with Lionel that will become his key for far reaching successes beyond the righting of a speech impediment. The Duke (now Berty, as per request of a first name basis), has become the subject of Lionel’s therapy. He begins working on his client with various exercises, all of which offer humorous and revealing scenes that are perfectly paced, especially the one in which Berty finds solace in the uncharacteristically boisterous repetition of obscenities to ground himself. While progress is being made during his sessions, the landscape of Berty’s family life is changing rapidly.

Berty’s father, King George V, is dying. The heir to the throne is his younger, suave but less competent brother (played by Guy Pearce). Much to the disapproval of the family, he is hopelessly infatuated with the American socialite Wallis Simpson (Eve Best). After the untimely death of George V, Berty’s brother takes the throne at an immensely crucial period in British history. Hitler’s rise to power to the east has become solidified and absolute, and his territorial aggressions have turned to acquisitions. It is now certain that war looms on the doorstep of the British Empire. Once on the throne, Edward VIII prioritizes his infatuation over his duties. Realizing this, he resigns and replaces himself with brother Berty, the newly crowned King George VI. While momentous change is taking place in The Royal Palace, Berty’s relationship with Lionel becomes increasingly personal, if not crucial to the newly acquired status he now possesses. In several instances, he becomes falsely, unnecessarily egotistical. He cannot seem to comfortably embrace his relationship with a common man. In turn, Lionel continues his attempts at breaking down Berty’s personal barriers. He senses that his impediment, as well as most of his other shortcomings, stem from something deeply personal and exceptionally buried. And so it is.

The film culminates in an event inherent in its title, and it plays out beautifully. Now that war with Germany has become imminent, George VI must address the empire in an attempt to instill confidence and reassurance. In order to salvage his confidence, Lionel has created a makeshift safe place for Berty to speak from, far away from the thousands of anxious onlookers. Has Berty conquered his demons? One can only guess the outcome at this point, and that guess is most likely correct. How else could the film end? More importantly, though, The King’s Speech is an examination of friendship and how the power of its presence can alter lives forever. It’s not a film that concerns itself with history. Instead, it uses historical context to tell a personal, evocative and effective story. It is the establishment of friendship that guides Bertie to confidence, understanding and success. Lionel not only betters an ailment, he transforms the outlook of a man in an impactful, life altering manner.

The film is brilliantly cast and perfectly performed by Firth, Carter and Rush. Firth’s stammer is entirely convincing. He precisely stays within the bounds of Berty’s characteristics, effectively executing his highs and lows with an assuring amount of success. Carter is a great Queen Elizabeth. Her tact, wit and confidence shine beautifully in her performance. She’s a deeply devoted and enduring counterpart to her king. Geoffrey Rush is outstanding as Lionel. He views the world objectively; he sees through formality and other things that symbolically constitute greatness. He is a man who believes all men are just men, and nothing more. He is kind, caring and constantly seeks to aid others. This is the kind of man that Berty needed to help him reach his full potential. Director Tom Hooper is skillful at the helm. His use of dark tones and muted colors is very evocative of mood. During Berty’s counseling sessions, he uses negative space when regarding his face in close up, as if to portray his uneasiness. In one of the final shots of the film, during the final climactic sequence, Berty’s face is shot in perfect symmetry, conveying a culminating act of confidence and final resolution. The King’s Speech is a humorous, touching and a very well made film. 9/10 stars.

Mary (Diane Keaton) and Isaac (Woody Allen) in Allen’s 1979 film “Manhattan.”

8.5/10 stars

The whimsical neurosis of Woody Allen has always been curiously intriguing. I was first introduced to it in Annie Hall, a film that would come to pass as my first venture into the world viewed through Allen’s eyes—a deliberate and obtusely comedic world sprinkled with intelligent quip and impeccable comedic timing. Manhattan is a film made with much of the same vision, but achieves different results. In Allen’s world, characters are fascinated, perplexed and driven by intellect, art, love and mystery. Such a fascination is the plight of almost every character we encounter in Manhattan, and delightfully so. Encased in the glow of big city lights and the ceaseless pulse of New York City, four characters—two men and two women—live out their existences of curiosity, companionship and misunderstanding in a tale about nothing more than the strange and unexplainable realities of life itself. More specifically, Manhattan is commentary on an area of life in which we expend an immense amount of our emotional energy: relationships. The elusive nature of the ever-present song-and-dance in the world of companion seeking is frustratingly unpredictable. With this film, Allen explores such things with wit, comedic depth, emotion and fantastic insight.  

Woody Allen plays Isaac, a down-and-out writer who possesses most of the same eccentricities that Allen himself harbors in real life. His character is infused with what Allen knows best—his canny and unique observations—both of which are reflections of his own distinctiveness. In the opening sequence of dialogue, Isaac sits at a café table with two friends and a seventeen year old love interest. He nonchalantly pulls a cigarette from his pocket and places it in his mouth, lights it, but doesn’t inhale. Inhaling gives you cancer, but leaving it dangling between your lips makes you seem unquestionably desirable. Such actions are a shining example of Allen’s comedic neurosis, and the film proceeds with much of the same. Shortly thereafter, Isaac is introduced to Mary (Diane Keaton), the mistress in an extramarital affair between herself and his friend, Yale (Michael Murphy). At first, Isaac seems irrevocably repulsed by her “pseudo-intellectualism.” But as time progresses, his interest in her deepens and a new attraction begins to consume his desires. A dilemma begins to take shape in Isaac’s world once his new found attraction to Mary takes form.

On one hand, he has Tracy. She is young, attractive, and peaks his intellectual curiosity… to a certain extent. What a great combination for a man approaching mid-life who’s seeking sexual validation in his later years. She is young and easily influenced, and Isaac finds this appealing. On the other hand, Mary possesses the experiences and maturity of adulthood. She’s an intellectual, too, but is much more relatable. After Tracy informs Isaac that she’s moving to London to pursue acting classes, he uses this as an excuse to go after Mary. The two of them develop a bond, one that becomes particularly close after Yale breaks off his connections with her in order to re-establish solidarity in his marriage. The film then begins to follow the interplay between the two—their conversations, desires, opinions and secrets are revealed through the transpiring of witty dialect and insightful observation. One day, Isaac returns to his apartment to find a distraught Mary. She informs him that she’s still in love with Yale, sending him into a state of shock that far overshadows any form of anger or frustration.

This scene depicts a situation that will strike a chord with anyone who, at one time or another, has experienced the final act in the disintegration of a relationship. Sometimes, despite our love and admiration for others, motives, reasons and justifications for change emerge. Sometimes, certain factors, either internal or external, cause us to flee. After it has ended, you find yourself seeking explanation for actions. But the fact is our reasons, desires and actions remain unexplainable. Mary had no idea why she was still in love with Yale. She possesses a substantive connection with Isaac, but felt she had to leave. On the other hand, Isaac desires Tracy for several reasons he can easily pinpoint, but the stimuli remain elusive. These are the existential questions that Allen’s film explores. In Manhattan, such is life, and so it goes. Isaac’s words to Tracy at the point of their breakup sums up such things perfectly:

“You’re a kid, you don’t know what love means, I don’t even know what it means. Nobody out there knows what the hell is going on.” –Isaac to Tracy

If I have one complaint about the film, it would be the excess of wit and cleverness in the dialogue. In the Woody Allen world, every third line is a punch line. As I was watching the film, I was reminded of a recent movie that made me feel similarly. Diablo Cody’s screenplay for Juno (2008) was very much the same way. Allen has many more skins on the wall, but Cody’s screenplay serves as a good recent comparison.  I can’t help but wonder if people really are this clever during everyday discourse. After all, these are movies. Perhaps that makes it moot. Nevertheless, Allen’s screenplay is tremendously clever. It’s a joy to watch Keaton, Streep and himself execute it with such effortless authenticity. Manhattan is a good movie because it works on two distinct levels. One, it’s an observant and moving comedy. On the other hand, it’s a well-crafted commentary on the things in life that remain frustratingly mysterious. 8.5/10 stars.