M-M-M-MESMERIZING

Everyone has an Achilles heel. That one, inescapable handicap that prevents us from achieving “to be or not to be” status. In 1925, King George VI employed a man who promised to remedy the liability that threatened him most - his stutter.

Tom Hooper directs The King’s Speech like a finely orchestrated symphony. Characters lean on each other like bows on a fiddle; they complement like horn and trumpet. And no instruments in this film sound better together than Colin Firth’s Albert (the King), and speech therapist Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush).

After countless doctors try every humiliating exercise imaginable to cure his stammer (including filling his mouth with marbles), Albert’s had enough with therapy. But Logue’s approach is psychological – he treats “Bertie” like a friend. What begins for Bertie as a cautious and guarded, “if we were equals, I wouldn’t be here” affiliation with Lionel, unfolds as a partnership masterful and symbiotic.

To see Albert achieve a syllable sans superfluous hesitation is like watching a one-legged climber reach the peak of Everest. It is thrilling to witness Firth’s emotional breakdowns and breakthroughs. Scenes with Albert’s wife, played with resolute brilliance by Helena Bonham Carter, are poignant and raw. What a treat to see her back in British film mode, and out of the odd grasp that is (husband) Tim Burton’s work.

Fantastic supporting turns by Guy Pierce (the King’s brother) and Michael Gambon (King George V) create strong illustrations as to why Bertie would be swimming in self-doubt. Lionel unveils the science of Albert’s stutter, which proves to be a fear-based peripheral reaction to an inward lack of conviction.

But behind Lionel’s closed doors, the King is safe. And as breathtaking as it is to watch Firth’s character triumph and fail with each word he utters, it is Rush’s performance as a wannabe actor-turned speech guru that emerges as the glue to Hooper’s so eloquent mold.

Left alone in a room to conquer a microphone and broadcast a profoundly important nine-minute speech, Firth and Rush deliver one of the most simply riveting scenes in recent film memory. With Logue (quite literally) conducting the King’s every breath, the world fixedly gathers around their radio, straining to hear every might-be-annunciated word. And so do we.


- Hillary Smotherman

SELF-MADE ENEMY

Before he created Facebook, Harvard student Mark Zuckerberg was just a condescending, self-righteous, my way or your sub-par-online-highway jerk. Or at least that’s what (The Social Network) director David Fincher wants us to think.

Mark (played with steely cold sophistication by Jesse Eisenberg) is so hubristic, it’s like watching a Greek tragedy. While his professional career escalates at a meteoric rate, he bulldozes through every personal relationship with complete nonchalance.

He offends perfect marriage material by insulting her inferior Boston University education. He steals ideas from fellow students. He hacks into campus websites, pirating photos and information in order to create something unique on his own, and once he does – he cheats his best friend out of billions of dollars.

No one will feel too sorry when Mark’s life (however undeniably successful) is whittled down to sitting in front of his own Facebook page, constantly refreshing to get “friend request” validation. But that’s how Fincher’s Zuckerberg ends up.

Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin (who admits to threading some of his own yarn with his script) has created a relentlessly intelligent, near perfect bon bon of colorfully sarcastic scenes. The film triumphs with every carefully written “I’m CEO Bitch” line of dialogue (Mark’s well earned title and business card headline).

This is 2010’s Citizen Kane, where it’s just so lonely at the top of one’s self-made, friendless empire. Perhaps it’s karma that the person who created a website famous for connecting people is hopelessly socially inept and incapable of sustaining any real connection of his own.

Whether or not audiences relate to Zuckerberg on a professional level is futile. At a molecular level, as one lawyer says, Mark’s “not an a—hole.” He’s “just trying so hard to be.” And it’s impossible not to be mesmerized by watching him try.


- Hillary Smotherman