FEAR THY NEIGHBOR

An Ozark town full of bad teeth and worse attitudes creates a menacing framework in Debra Granik’s Winter’s Bone. The film that won Sundance’s Grand Jury Prize blurs the lines of trust and devotion; every could-be-kind mountain town neighbor is a threat, every family member might deliver a punch before an embrace.

Granik’s gritty, piercing drama places her in the über-talented, female director category with Kathryn Bigelow (last year’s Oscar winner for The Hurt Locker). With Bone she delivers a simple, seek-and-find scavenger hunt.

It’s a one week quest for seventeen year-old Ree (Jennifer Lawrence) to find her crack-dealing father, who is out of jail and has lovingly put up the family home (with the family in it) as bond. She sets out to accomplish what the police cannot, or her “nut-job” mother and two younger siblings-turned-kids-of-her-own are homeless.

Young Lawrence embodies Ree with the acumen of a woman twice her age. Her performance does for Bone what (Timothy) Hutton’s did for Ordinary People – except Lawrence carries this film through every scene. The twenty year-old actress lends Ree an unwavering determination and ballsy everything-to-lose attitude that opens some of the most closely guarded and dangerous neighborhood doors.

But the road to discovery is fraught with friction at every turn. Drug dealing uncle “Teardrop” nearly strangles her for asking about his brothers’ whereabouts. A family down the road (with all the charm of the deranged leatherface hoarders from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre) nearly kills Ree before she stops asking about dad.

In a hillbilly town where women are forced to do dirty work way beyond hanging clothes on the line outside to dry, it seems there are few left on the side of the “good girl” spectrum. Dale Dickey is sensational as the female head of the Texas Chainsaw-like tribe. Her most loving gesture towards Ree involves a secluded lake and a power tool.

Bone’s cast is so hostile, parts of the movie straddle the horror genre. Creepy girls with pot-marked faces lead Ree through desolate fields to ominous destinations. An intimidating redneck violently herds her into his truck to take her somewhere “down the road,” with no further explanation. By the time Ree receives any gestures of kindness from her family, one wonders when the hand that helps her will come back to shoot her in the foot.

The axiom here could be plainly “when there’s no one you can trust, learn to trust one’s own courage.” And that is paramount. But the ultimate grandeur of Granik’s movie lies in the beauty of human fallibility. There’s tenderness to be appreciated in the backhanded assistance of monsters. When help arrives in the guise of the feared, there’s merit learned in letting go of one’s instincts.

Unsettling and poignant, Bone takes the audience somewhere unfathomable and brings them back safely. And they’ll root for Ree to come back too.


- Hillary Smotherman

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

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A BORING PLACE

94 minutes is all Slumdog Millionaire director Danny Boyle could squeeze out of James Franco talking to a boulder and a camcorder. Thank God.

The oscar-winning director takes a stab at chronicling mountain climber Aron Ralston’s true story of survival with 127 hours. Just as film audiences knew Titanic would sink and Emile Hirsch’s character in Into the Wild would perish eating toxic berries, only if you had been in a coma for the year 2003 would you not be somewhat familiar with Ralston’s tale.

After a boulder falls and pins Aron (James Franco) deep in a cavern tens of miles away from civilization, he spends over five days hallucinating and rationing a burrito, water (and yes, finally his own urine) to prolong what would usually be certain death. When he decides to do the unthinkable with a cheap, dull made-in-China-multi-tool stocking stuffer from his mom, it’s way too late in the film to be invested in his survival.

The first 45 expository minutes of Cast Away are missing here. The character depth we received in the flashbacks of Into the Wild is gone. The audience’s only escape from Ralston’s rock in over eighty minutes include several fantasies of soda and beer, momentary childhood remembrances and a vision of an unborn son.

It’s worth mentioning that Franco’s performance is gripping – even if he does little more than bodyslam a fallen rock and scream begrudgingly at the sky. He’s just great at it. And Slumdog cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle breathtakingly paints the desert skies like a vividly colored 80’s Kodak commercial. This is an artful film that’s sometimes fun to look at and listen to (thanks A.R. Rahman).

Too bad the boulder couldn’t have had more lines. Then there might have been a story.


- Hillary Smotherman

AMERICAN ASSASSIN

Cold-blooded killer Jack (George Clooney) is hanging up his sniper rifle after one last job in Anton Corbijn’s The American. Stripped of profuse action sequences or superfluous subplots, this quiet drama is what would happen to Bond films if anyone cared enough to explore character and story.

Jack is an enigmatic conundrum of an assassin. He’s a lonely loner – a reluctant killer. As any seasoned hit man would know, it’s best to not befriend the local priest or neighborhood whore while working. But that’s exactly what Jack does on his last mission. Lessons go unlearned after he is forced to shoot an innocent Russian bedmate in the back of her head, but that doesn’t stop Jack from falling in love with a beautiful brothel employee in Italy.

Disheartened bad boys aren’t a novelty the action genre, but director Corbijn takes careful time to establish his cast in an intimate way; every character here has a secret worth keeping hidden.

Clara (Violante Placido) is Jack’s sexy Italian hooker du jour. What begins as a love affair of convenience takes a different shape as the two get to know each other over picnicking and dinner dates. Sound like true love? It doesn’t really matter. Jack and Clara’s loneliness as individuals is palpable and heartbreaking; their connection is based on an attempt to fill an empty void within themselves – and that’s okay.

Most of Jack’s time alone is spent in his hotel room, where he does push up’s and peruses books that satisfy his obsession with butterflies (imperative shots of butterfly neck tattoos included). The coolest part of Jack’s home away from home? He uses it as a workplace to assemble rifles for terrorist clients – homemade weapons partly made from (because if Clooney can’t, no one can…) used car parts.

Some of the best scenes are between Jack and neighborhood priest Father Benedetto (Paolo Bonacelli). Like a teenager can spot a Twilight actor in a crowd, the priest pinpoints Jack as a man in need of confession. Interestingly enough, Jack isn’t drawn to anyone who doesn’t have some secrets of their own, and Benedetto’s no saint.

As broken and twisted as these characters are, they are all worth rooting for. The American is a departure from today’s run of the mill suave-killer’s-gonna-shoot-‘em action film. Make no mistake, Corbijn’s movie will keep audiences guessing and wanting more – more intimate scenes between Jack and gorgeous terrorist client Mathilde, more homemade rifle assembly, more dinner drinks with Jack and Benedetto.

You’ll be curious where these characters end up. The American chronicles the sentiments that live in moments, and these moments are well worth the wait.


- Hillary Smotherman

MASQUERADING AS ROBIN HOOD

Russell Crowe teams up with director Ridley Scott for the fifth time with Robin Hood. It’s difficult to forget the massive entertainment these two forces brought audiences with 2000’s Gladiator, and with similar promises of Crowe sporting armor and archery, bloody civil war battle scenes and a love story complete with Cate Blanchett, Robin Hood vows to be a timeless epic adventure.

Right…? Wrong.

The classic tale of Robin Hood brings to mind certain unalienable concepts. 13th century battles won with fiery bows and arrows. Robbing the rich to feed the poor. The dynamic between Marion and Hood. Ridley Scott’s version of the story dangles the Crowe-in-armor carrot in front of unassuming audiences this weekend, only for moviegoers to discover Crowe isn’t even playing Robin Hood.

Here Crowe is actually Robin Longstride, an archer in King Richard’s army who takes fate into his own hands after finding the king and some of his best men dead on the battlefield. Assuming the identity of fallen knight Robert Loxely, Robin and his friends deliver the king’s crown to Queen Eleanor (Eileen Atkins).

The film is more of a poorly guided history lesson than the justice-seeking, triumphant Hood tale audiences are used to. Newly appointed King John (Oscar Isaac) can barely contain his excitement over his brother’s death; now he can publicly blame mom for paying France a hefty ransom to get Richard out of jail that left England in debt. He can also pinky swear to his trusting subjects, led now by Robin “of the hood,” that he’ll sign a charter guaranteeing them certain rights if they all fight for England.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think audiences thought they were paying $10 to learn about the horrors of King John and the Magna Carta when they signed up for the director of Gladiator’s version of Robin Hood.

The film feels similar to Gladiator. Crowe’s scenes with Sir Walter Loxely (Max Von Sydow) are reminiscent of the father-son-like moments between Crowe and Richard Harris in the 2000 film. The following of armor-clad citizens being led by Crowe to possible death is oddly familiar, but ever so much more dull and forcibly didactic with Hood.

Between sub-plots involving English traitors close to the king, Robin uncovering the meaning of his father’s death when he was a child, and a pretend-turned-(surprise!)-real relationship with Marion, it’s possible to actually miss the few Robin Hood-esque moments in Robin Hood.

Doze off for a second (and you might) in the first hour and you’ll miss one of the film’s two master archer follow-Robin’s-arrow-to-the-target moments. And there’s something to be said of the fist-pumping speeches given by this Robin. There are none, really. Only a short lecture the length of a Rhianna ring tone (and probably just as inspiring) describing a country’s need for equality of income to preserve honor. Honor schm-onor.

Whether it’s King John lying to England or Robin impersonating someone he is not, there are few honorable moments or storylines to follow here. Perhaps it’s fitting for modern audiences to watch someone masquerade publicly as a hero, promising citizens things they won’t get. Some might agree that Americans are fairly used to disappointment by now – they just didn’t expect it from Crowe and Scott.

- Hillary Smotherman