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Category: TIFF17

‘First Reformed’ Review: A masterwork of spiritual/existential crisis and isolation

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 17th, 2017

First Reformed TIFF 2017 FIlm Movie Review Ethan HawkeInspired by the works of Carl Th. Dreyer, Robert Bresson and Yasujirō Ozu, First Reformed, the latest film by legendary screenwriter and regular Scorsese collaborator Paul Schrader (Raging Bull, Last Temptation of Christ, Mishima, Bringing Out The Dead) is a masterwork of emotional/spiritual/existential crisis and isolation. Father Toller (Ethan Hawke, incredible), the lonely minister of a 250 year-old New York tourist church known as “First Reformed”, wracked with guilt over the death of his son (who he convinced to sign up for the Iraq war) and the disintegration of his marriage, spends his days writing, drinking and preaching to small turnouts in the shadow of parent organization Abundant Life, a church operating as a televangelist and community centre with the backing of millionaire donors. Similarly to cleric’s of Diary of a Country Priest and Winter Light, Toller is reckoning with internal issues of faith and health he can’t bring himself to reconcile, and his own inability to bring solace to his patrons being crushed by overwhelming external forces.

Schrader films in a 4:3 ratio and stripped down mise-en-scène that recalls the previously mentioned films and Dreyer’s Ordet, and some of the best use of close-ups since his Passion of Joan of Arc—a conversation early in the film where Toller talks to a distressed environmental activist is shot in a simple wide composition and two reverse close-ups, one of Michael (Philip Ettinger), devastated at the idea of bringing a child into a world with a ticking time clock on its existence, all of his gathered data on the wall overwhelming the frame just behind his head and another of Hawke in a barren frame, highlighting his sorrowful eyes, panicking that there’s nothing he can do to help him.

First Reformed continues in this deeply restrained psychological style until the intrusion of a violent act (that coincides with Toller’s discovery of his own institutions failures and complicity in it) that shakes the film to its core, and it’s here that Schrader melds the influences into his own, taking the existential priests of cinema’s past and having them descend into the violent spiritual madness of Taxi Driver or Rolling Thunder, a pervasive electronic score takes over the previously quiet film while a lovely Ozu-esque digression into warm kindness of Toller’s domestic relationship with Mary (Amanda Seyfried), Michael’s pregnant wife, sheds itself into destructive thoughts, climaxing on one of the most powerful images of the year—I won’t spoil here but it involves the combination of religious garb with a violent device that can be seen in the news every few weeks.

Perhaps it’s a sign of Schrader’s maturation as a filmmaker that, despite highlighting our own violent tendencies and ineptitude at combating institutional powers, he never follows through on the Chekhov’s Gun and instead of going for cynical pulp he leans into two lovely, rapturous sequences (one being the film’s final shot) that remain hopeful about the future through our unwavering capability of emotional generosity.

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TIFF17 Reviews: ‘Brawl in Cell Block 99’ and ‘Mom & Dad’

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 17th, 2017

BRAWL IN CELL BLOCK 99

TIFF 2017 Brawl in Cell Block 99 Movie Film Review
As writer/director S. Craig Zahler had already proven with his debut film Bone Tomahawk—shocking everyone with the way his restrained, novelistic approach to style and writing eventually gave way to grindhouse carnage—he’s definitely a filmmaker to watch out for, and probably a psychopath. Brawl in Cell Block 99 is no different, his still, detached style and rigorous pacing Read more →

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TIFF17 Reviews: ‘The Disaster Artist’ and ‘Zama’

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 14th, 2017

THE DISASTER ARTIST

TIFF 2017 The Disaster Artist Film  Movie Review
The Disaster Artist is a real Hollywood biopic about the infamous writer-director of the so-bad-it’s-good classic The Room, Tommy Wiseau, and simultaneously a feature-length showcase of James Franco’s well-researched impression of him—so that it even remotely works, let alone actually functions as a warm, empathetic portrait of the audacity/resilience of performing and putting yourself out into the world Read more →

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TIFF17 Reviews: Lean on Pete, & Jeanette: The Childhood of Joan of Arc

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 12th, 2017

Lean on Pete Movie Film Review TIFF 2017 Already having proven himself a master of the intimate domestic dramas Andrew Haigh (Weekend, 45 Years), with Lean On Pete he takes a stab at something a little bigger, adapting Willy Vlautin’s thoughtful coming-of-age neo-western Read more →

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TIFF17 Review: ‘Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri’

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 12th, 2017

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri Movie Film TIFF 2017 Review Inspired by the violent, morally absorbing Southern Gothic works of Flannery O’Connor, British playwright Martin McDonagh (In Bruges, Seven Psychopaths) finally delivers on the film he was always meant to make with Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri; layering his usual absurd humor, sharply-pointed wit and sudden bursts of violence into a meditation on monumental losses Read more →

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TIFF17 Reviews: Let the Corpses Tan, Molly’s Game, & Thelma

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 10th, 2017

LET THE CORPSES TAN

TIFF 2017 Let the Corpses Tan Movie Film Review
“Tonight should last forever.”

Giallo meets Poliziotteschi in Let The Corpses Tan, an arthouse, grindhouse nightmare assault by French filmmakers Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani (Amer, The Strange Color Of Your Body’s Tears). Adapted from the Jean Pierre Bastid/Jean-Patrick Manchette novel of the same name, Let The Corpses Tan is a hypnotic 16mm frenzy of leather and gunfire, a bloody sunstroke filmed almost entirely in expressive, close-up inserts and edited like a panic attack. The pulpy premise (3 bandits hiding out with 250kg of stolen gold bars and 2 overzealous cops coalesce in a quiet villa, home to a fateful melodrama about to be shattered by the ensuing gunfight) is experienced more than it is told, the daylong siege cleverly edited into minute(s)-long abstract chunks of a larger timeline, actions and reactions stylistically ephemeral as the state of the character’s psyches and bodies develop.

Colors pop as the camera zooms, whip-pans and hones in on the way skin dries, eyes glance, leather squeaks and guns click—the film somehow managing to relay so much rich detail of the space and its occupants primarily through a collection of textures cut at hyper-speed is technically astounding and viscerally compelling. If only all genre pictures aspired to half the visual ambition and imagination of this. Wished it could last forever. Utterly sublime—Tarantino, look out.

MOLLY’S GAME

Molly's Game TIFF 2017 Film Movie Review Aaron Sorkin Jessica ChastainThe directorial debut of screenwriting auteur Aaron Sorkin (The Social Network, Moneyball), based on the best-selling tell-all of the Poker Princess Molly Bloom, is sort of like a Scorsese gangster picture just with none of the visual wit or interest in character psychology. Molly (Jessica Chastain) is a former Olympic athlete and genius, or whatever, who eventually came to organize the largest illegal poker game in American history, you see, but [freeze frame] you’re probably wondering how she got there. To be fair, it is a fascinating real story about the ease with which money, power and politics bleed into one another, unfortunately that’s not the story Sorkin is interested in—for him Molly is a gateway into white, upperclass feminism, her journey one of simple workplace resilience in the face of the Boys Club that is the rich and powerful.

Sorkin writes Molly not as a person but as a mouthpiece for how women can do manly millionaire things too (“No ‘princess’ could’ve done what I did”), meanwhile the film fully buys into the meritocratic nonsense that suggests otherwise—Sorkin going through great pains to show you how smart and capable the Bloom family is right before stripping Molly of her agency to deliver one of the most embarrassing emotional climaxes of recent memory, explicitly pinning her actions on Daddy Issues. (Feminism, am I right?) Perhaps more offensive than Sorkin’s awful takes on sexism and class (a poor person to him is apparently a university professor) however is his lack of visual imagination. As a writer he is uniquely inclined towards the rhythm of language, the occasional witty wordplay, and the blocking/movement of characters in conversation, as a director he has a single trick: get coverage of dialogue (or literal images of what will eventually underlay voice-over) and cut to the pace of the audio. That’s it, for over two hours. There’s nothing here in the style or form that intimates character or theme because there aren’t any really, there’s simply a camera pointed at talented, charismatic performers being paid to shout the script’s framed, literalized arguments about a much more interesting story you could’ve just read instead.

THELMA

Eili Harboe Joachim Trier Thelma TIFF 2017 Movie Film Review
Norwegian filmmaker Joachim Trier (Oslo Aug. 31st, Louder Than Bombs), coming off of a series of intimate dramas, brings that intimacy to the supernatural with Thelma, a quiet riff on Carrie and the dangers of repression. An assured film, no doubt, Trier and regular cinematographer Jakob Ihre render young Thelma’s (Eili Harboe) yearning for connection in gorgeously detailed close-ups you can practically touch and feel—a few lovely digressions into the emotional psychology of Thelma are borderline impressionistic, if a bit symbolically obvious, and linger over the rest of the events. Harboe is excellent as well, her eyes and posture communicating her unease and eventual longing. However it’s in the script by Trier and Eskil Vogt that things get a little tired, as it corners itself into genre tropes and often finds itself retreading information previously telegraphed visually for unnecessary clarity.

It’s story, one of a girl with supernatural powers raised in a strict Christian household finding herself unprepared for the complexities of the outside world (maybe a bit more than just a “riff” on Carrie), is an easy one to follow—and Trier knows how to compellingly depict these particular psychological stresses and emotions—so it’s baffling that so many of the film’s eventual reveals, that already take too long to get to (and suck a lot of the air out of the suspense as a result), are expository. There’s an embarrassing sequence where Thelma, having just had a series psychogenic seizures, and having them explained in detail to her by a doctor, goes home to do research on them and for a few moments the entire frame is just the literal Wikipedia page for them. After awhile it becomes hard to reconcile these scenes with the more impressively vivid ones: like a prologue that beautifully sets the stakes (actually recalls Shyamalan’s Split, from earlier this year) or a scene of Thelma’s emotions in conflict with her body in the middle of an Opera house. No better example of this than the film’s finale, a climax that beautifully unites her powers with her swirling emotions and ends on an image suggesting a new path forward… And then that path is literalized in the multiple scenes after it.

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TIFF17 Reviews: The Third Murder, The Florida Project, & Mrs. Fang

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 9th, 2017

THE THIRD MURDER

Toronto International Film Festival 2017 TIFF Movie Review The Third MurderIt’s hard to fault Hirokazu Koreeda (Still Walking, Like Father Like Son) for not being able to top the opening moments of his new film The Third Murder: a soft piano melody guides us through a brutal murder, first a hammer to the back of the head, followed by some gasoline and a match, the flames absorbing the face of the killer in close-up. What’s so fascinating about this choice is that it demystifies the heart of its own courtroom drama before it even begins—the killer, Misumi (played marvelously by Kôji Yakusho), is unequivocally guilty, we watched it happen. As a result the mystery becomes less about who’s guilty of murder but more about what the actual crime is as defense attorney Shigemori (Masaharu Fukuyama), hired to represent Misumi, wrestles with legal strategy vs. truth and law vs. justice. (At one point the characters discuss how murder justified by a personal grudge is less offensive to the court than if justified by financial need, as it is less selfish.)

The film has a few well-developed twists and turns to keep up the suspense, it’s especially nice to see that the use of withholding information come a from place of genuine character work, but it’s when the film takes a hard look at parental failure and the systemic faults of the Japanese courts—inherently looking to simplify complex human emotions and actions to expedite the judicial process, and sleep better—that The Third Murder becomes special. There’s a brilliant sequence near the end of the film where the conflicting information (motives, emotions, testimony) and institutional failures become physically manifested in a dreamy flashback of the opening murder scene, where our previous certainty of what we had seen comes into question, and the courts pursuit of “truth” becomes impossible. Unfortunate, however, that the film doesn’t end there and instead goes on for an additional 30 more minutes, retreading a lot of the same territory to an ultimately perfunctory finale.

THE FLORIDA PROJECT

Toronto International Film Festival 2017 TIFF Movie Review The Florida Project“Do you know why this is my favorite tree? Because it’s tipped over and still growing.”

A candy-colored, sun-soaked delight from beginning to end, The Florida Project is a euphoric ode to childhood innocence/imagination and the resilience of the American underclass. Director Sean Baker (Tangerine), gracefully and empathetically observing the ecosystem of the impoverished community on the margins of the Magic Kingdom (simultaneously a symbol of American wealth and wonder), tracks a ragtag group of energetic 6-year-olds, their well-meaning, week-to-week living guardians, and their motel manager played with seemingly infinite kindness and elegance by Willem Dafoe.

The vibrant cinematography by Alexis Zabe echoes the children’s sense of curiosity, discovering pockets of beauty in just about anything—dumpsters, rundown knock-off concessions, abandoned housing projects all radiate adventure and imagination. It’s a lovely visual sentiment that coincides with the film’s more moving later developments of tacit community contracts (see: Dafoe’s sense of protection for his marginalized tenants) and the resourcefulness needed to stay afloat in systems of class-oppression. It’s also worth noting that there will be very few things this year as beautiful and heart-breaking as this film’s coda: a sudden, last-minute burst of unhinged energy the camera struggles to contain as two best friends with nothing to lose bullet their way towards Cinderella Castle. Tipped over and still growing.

MRS. FANG

Toronto International Film Festival 2017 TIFF Movie Review Mrs. FangChronicling the last 10 days in the life of the titular Mrs. Fang, a 68-year-old woman slowly being taken by Alzheimer’s in a small fishing village in China, the latest documentary from master filmmaker Wang Bing is a tough but ultimately rewarding experience. A brief prologue introduces Fang Xiuying to us looking relatively healthy—framed in two compositions, one inside and another outside her home, observing the space and the presence of the camera it’s clear that she knows this is where she’s going to die. The rest of the film operates in three opposing modes: in devastating, claustrophobic close-ups of Fang (her skin pulled tight, mouth agape, and eyes glimmering), in carefully composed wide shots of her family in and around the house (having casual conversations, sharing stories and doing their best to ensure she’s comfortable) and then in a few digressions into the every day life of the village community; including fishing, gambling and walking dogs. Perhaps most moving however is Wang’s calm, ephemeral editing, that takes on richness in how it mimics Fang’s own observational eyes.

Wang eventually illustrating that no matter how undignified and horrifying death can truly be (and a few of those extended close-ups are nothing short of horrifying, as you see the person Fang is in her eyes being actively betrayed by her own body), the people and rituals we surround it with can give it meaning. The harrowing climax contrasts the wide shots of the usually talkative Fang family with medium-closes of the back of their heads, silence pervading as they all begin to see the end for Xiuying. The implication is that there’s real power in bearing witness—and by filming this particular event and these people Wang has brought us in on it, immortalizing the lovely Mrs. Fang.

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TIFF17 Reviews: Call Me By Your Name, Suburbicon, Happy End, & The Square

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By Josh Lewis on Sep 8th, 2017

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME

call me by your name TIFF 17 movie review film Love is ultimately an act of discovery in Call Me By Your Name, the latest film from Italian filmmaker Luca Guadagnino (I Am Love, A Bigger Splash), emotions finding themselves externally manifested in a confusing, sensorial swirl of desires and textures. Based on the André Aciman novel of the same name, the film centers on Elio (newcomer Timothée Chalamet), a young, Jewish Italian-American spending the summer of 1983 in a Northern Italy villa near the archeological site where his father is unearthing ancient Roman sculptures—his are days largely spent swimming, reading poetry, and transcribing music until his ennui is interrupted by the sudden appearance of “usurper” Oliver (Armie Hammer), a tall, blonde, near-perfect physical specimen and twenty-something American grad student boarding with the family while he does work-study with Elio’s father.

What ensues is a rich, intoxicating back-and-forth between Chalamet and Hammer, at first in conflict with one another over Oliver’s charmingly disruptive confidence, and then gradually getting a feel for the space, their positions in it, and then eventually each other. It’s the cliché First Love story so honestly and vividly realized it’s impossible not to be swept up in its passion. Guadagnino directs with his usual romantic eye for beautiful places and people, here however it takes on new meaning as the lovingly filmed architecture and clothing occasionally finds itself outdone by the simplicity of the human form—skin, sweat and hair take on an almost mythic quality as legs find themselves entwined, bodies posing like sculptures, arms in motion to the groove of music.

Chalamet is excellent as Elio, it’s a vulnerable & confident performance that nails the most important part: making his awakenings both sexual and otherwise feel entirely organic (a moment early on where he puts Oliver shorts over his head and his body naturally extends into the act is wonderful) but it’s Hammer who walks away with the film, possessing every space and person that comes within his orbit it’s that rare kind of magnetic performance the camera has a difficult time looking away from. Together they radiate tenderness and sensuality, the emotional weight of this story tacitly coded into the form—communication primarily through fleeting touches and glances, a shot of a foot in water later mirrored in feet embracing, and then again later in a waterfall, the sequence where Elio’s watch keeps catching the camera’s attention because a casually planned meet-up can’t leave his mind, these momentary flourishes complicating and layering onto each other is the film at it’s most powerful. “Remember everything.”

SUBURBICON

Based on an old Coen brother’s script, George Clooney’s latest directorial effort Suburbicon is an odd misfire. Clooney, a regular Coen collaborator (O Brother Where Art Thou, Burn After Reading), has a knack for the kind of performance an old-school farce like this needs—consider the uniformly excellent performances from the film’s central supporting players like Glenn Fleshler’s angry mob goon, Jack Conley’s relaxed detective, and especially Oscar Isaac’s fast-talking claims investigator. Each of these characters and performances feel like they’ve stepped out of a Billy Wilder (did someone say insurance claim?) or Alfred Hitchcock film (see: Julianne Moore’s wonderfully unhinged evil twin sister) and into one of the Coen’s paranoia comedies from the 90s. The film comes alive with these performances and cinematographer Robert Elswit’s sumptuous rendering of 1950s colors and sheen—Oscar Isaac in particular brings so much energy Elswit seems forced to mimic it, there’s an amazing high-angle pull out while Oscar Isaac screams that is probably the films highlight. It’s like a Coens take on Double Indemnity.

However Clooney and screenwriting partner Grant Heslov aren’t satisfied with just being an energetic farce, and feel obliged to include an Important, Timely subplot about an African-American family’s abuse by the local white suburban community. The movie comes undone every time it clumsily transitions from absurd thriller to social conscious picture (which is a lot) and even its climax, a cross-cutting implication that white violence and safety go hand-in-hand, is theoretically sound but totally misguided in execution. Clooney’s need to will this into a Serious Issues movie is mostly embarrassing, and mutes a lot of the fun to be had elsewhere, especially when things get violent. Damon in particular, and his son played by Noah Jupe, get caught in the middle of these two opposing tones and are forced to play things straight in order to belong in both and end up mostly lost at sea. The film’s final two scenes exemplify this, as one of the film’s more chilling moments is hilariously undercut by some expertly placed dramatic irony, and then in the immediate aftermath tries to transition the brutal comedy into some weird Come Together moralizing. If there’s a point to be found here about whiteness it’s lost on everyone involved.

HAPPY END

Happy End Movie Film Review TIFF 17 If you couldn’t already tell by the fact that this is a Michael Haneke film, the title is indeed ironic. Happy End isn’t a happy film, nor does it really have an ending, instead opting for a series enigmatic vignettes about bourgeois arrogance and misery. (Surprise.) What’s fascinating is that in typical fashion for the filmmaker this appears to be a film aggressively averse to being enjoyed—this is a film that opens with animal cruelty captured on a 13-year-olds snapchat, the implication at first the age-old “social media is rotting society’s moral compass” bullshit, but how the thread eventually develops is something more comedic and surreal than it suggests.

Maybe the most genuinely funny film Haneke’s ever attempted, it plays as an absurd epilogue to Amour, Jean-Louis Trintignant and Isabelle Huppert returning as the heads of the Laurent family, former industry titans who now spend most of their days putting out fires their privileged family members set out of stupidity, ignorance and (as in the case of its youngest member) maliciousness. The central threads here involve a serial cheating father, a disruptive, alcoholic son, a sociopathic granddaughter and a suicidal grandfather—the climax, and most interesting of which is how the last two eventually coalesce. The brilliance of the film’s opening moments is that they convince you to be on guard for sudden bursts of violence at any moment, Haneke looking for the audience to anticipate, even crave it, meanwhile it ultimately feeds a silly melodrama about disintegrating relationships, which is why even though most of its attempts at commentary on technology and politics fall hilariously flat (or simply don’t develop at all, like a subplot involving a workplace accident and labour strike), its eventual conclusion is still oddly moving in a way only Haneke could deliver. Hard film to recommend, but if you can get on its wavelength it’s not without value.

THE SQUARE

TIFF 17 The Square Movie Film Review Ruben Östlund over the course of a number of shorts and now 4 features has carved out a unique space for himself, part absurdist filmmaker, part sociologist/behaviourist (like Stanley Milgrim observed through the lens of Roy Andersson), however it wasn’t until the magical Force Majeure that all his ambitions coalesced into a truly sublime work. Force Majeure is a film that uses a broad marriage/family vacation set-up to reckon with how societal expectations conflict with our primal nature when a father abandons his family in a disaster situation—easily one of the most cutting comedies of recent memory and probably one of the finest films of the decade, I recall it now because of just how utterly baffling his latest film The Square is.

It’s got all the trappings of another Östlund masterpiece: the condescension and arrogance of the elite class, trying to solve class-based issues with modern art, meanwhile when even minorly inconvenienced they revert to the savagery they deny they’ve built their wealth and power on. The issue is that this is material for a an essay or a short stretched to a cartoonish 140 minutes, so for every well-conceived, hilariously-framed sequence (and there are quite a few: like a hysterical post-sex argument or the climactic artpiece involving an actor gone literally primal) there’s five more weirdly-timed, troublingly simplistic and reactionary ones that find Östlund operating in a realm he’s previously avoided: straining for larger thematic importance. Fredrik Wenzel’s compositions are beautiful and there’s some great performances (Elisabeth Moss is delightful, and gets to show off real comedic timing chops) but both are underserved by the shortcomings of Östlund’s script.

The Square is genuinely fun when it’s operating in the realm of physical, behaviour comedy but the second it starts using characters as satirical mouthpieces things get dire very quickly—a wonderfully bizarre subplot involving a viral marketing ploy, for example, is quite good until a press conference sequence that plays out like Ińárritu’s embarrassing art critic scene in Birdman. In those moments The Square feels like a film that thinks its pushing boundaries on touchy topics, but is much closer in resemblance to the worst tendencies of South Park, its proclivity toward the lowest-hanging fruit and “both sides, though” philosophy; there’s even an extended Tourette’s gag, if you think I’m joking.

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