Posts Tagged A-rated films
Year of release: 1984 Directed by Sergio Leone. Starring Robert De Niro, James Woods, Elizabeth McGovern, and Joe Pesci.
“I believe in America.” “America was born in the streets.” Wrong movies, admittedly, but that grand and tragic mythos is the focus of Sergio Leone’s beautifully sprawling epic Once Upon a Time in America. The title itself suggests that grandiose myth-making, which the characters write both for themselves and for their country.
The film opens with the shattering of that myth. David “Noodles” Aaronson (Robert De Niro) has witnessed the murder of the three surviving members of his gang, and he is on the run from several hitmen. The world of gangs, deals with cops, and profits from the speakeasies of the Great Depression which he worked so hard to build for himself has turned on him. Not only that, but the funds which the gang had put aside for all of their use were stolen as well. Resigned to his fate, Noodles leaves Manhattan, intending to end the myth which he lived for so long.
Then, with a jump cut, we are no longer in the era of prohibition, opium dens, jazz, and ragtime, but that of Lennon and McCartney, television, and respectable businesses. However, this age is just as quintessential a slice of the American myth as the ’30’s, and Noodles’ memories of “Yesterday” continue to haunt him as he adjusts to the next chapter of America. The nonlinear editing between 1968, 1932, and 1920 connects past, present, and future as inseparable parts of the country America has become – born in the streets when the teenage Noodles and his gang stood up to rivals and blackmailed corrupt cops; growing up to side with unions, threaten corrupt businessmen, rob them, and rape their secretaries if need be; and reaching a maturity where anyone can achieve prosperity with enough hard work and determination, as long as they have some corrupt politicians in the palm of their hand.
It’s an unflattering picture, and it sounds crazy to think it will last (and in the 21st century, coupled with recent events, it seems more inevitable than ever that it will fail), but Noodles and especially his friend and partner Max (James Woods) are determined to get all they can from it as long as they believe in it. The crumbling of that belief occurs at ostensibly different points for both of them, and the subsequent rift between them that results is reflected not only in Max’s desire to pursue more dangerous work with ruthless gangsters like Frankie (Joe Pesci), but in Noodles’ waking up from the American Dream to replace it with an opium dream of a forgetful haze. As Max becomes intoxicated with his American dream, Noodles’ dream turns into a nightmare, at which point he wakes up to find a new dream.
However, is it possible to wake up? In the final confrontation, Noodles and Max recount strikingly different memories of the same incident that brought their belief in the America to a crashing end. Nonetheless, the dream and the myth they had elaborately written for themselves had become so widespread, so entrenched in the American mind that both characters were forced to become new characters in their own myth, which had grown well beyond their control and left them victims of fate, not dissimilar to the random fates they left for a next generation when they needed to scare a police chief.
As Noodles, De Niro is far less sympathetic than the young Sicilian gangster he played ten years prior to this, but his mission to control the streets of his New York neighborhood while turning against anything that offered him a more innocent life is not much different. As Noodles’ first 11 year old love says, she could love him, if he wouldn’t always be a two-bit punk. The culmination of their relationship may be the most tragic, and is certainly most horrifying scene in the movie for the microcosmic way that it shows how Noodles’ belief in his own desires above all else runs roughshod over not only institutions but other people as well.
Whereas The Godfather is primarily interested in the ramifications of corruption on its once moral protagonist, Once Upon a Time in America lacks that upright protagonist and is interested in how his participation in the American mythos makes him more corrupt. Instead of focusing on the moral fall of an individual and the dissolution of a family as Coppola did, Leone focuses on the dissolution of the American dream itself and the consequences for those who imbibe it. It’s debatable which tragedy is greater, but the far reaching consequences of greed, working to get ahead at any cost, and loyalty to ideas over human beings receives a more damning indictment here. And that is no more apparent than in the ironic use of “God Bless America” which frames the film.
Personal Recommendation: A
Suggested Audience: Adults with discernment
Year of release: 1962 Directed by Agnès Varda. Starring Corinne Marchand, Antoine Bourseiller, Dominique Davray, and Dorothée Blanck.
Considering the techniques used in Cléo from 5 to 7, the film opens with two anomalies: a sequence shot in color and use of a God’s point of view shot. After the opening scene in which Cléo (Corinne Marchand) visits a fortune teller and asks to learn her fate via Tarot cards, we never see either technique again. The camera angle enables us to focus solely on the Tarot cards, which both Cléo and the fortune teller stare at intently, and which Cléo believes will determine whether her cancer test comes back positive or negative in two hours.
Staring or gazing, not only at others but ourselves as well, or even at mundane objects such as hats. It’s what everyone does, either intentionally or not, and the characters in Cléo from 5 to 7 are no exception. Beginning with the staring at the Tarot cards, director Angès Varda allows the viewer to gaze along with the characters. As soon as Cléo leaves, she stops by parallel mirrors and stares at infinite repetitions of herself, convinced that she has cancer, and taking solace that she still has her beauty, placing herself under the same ruthless examination that the world does.
The next 84 minutes play out in real time as Cléo prepares to hear the results of her biopsy, seeking sympathy from friends, lovers, and coworkers but receiving none. As her assistant Angèle (Dominique Davray) tells her, “Men will think she’s faking her illness for attention.” Angèle sees nothing wrong with this, accepting the notion that men gaze at women for their beauty as something women should relish. As a famous pop singer, Cléo has long relished this sort of attention, but faced with her impending morality, interactions with her boyfriend, songwriters, and even her assistant become trying.
Then she visits her friend Dorothée (Dorothée Blanck) who poses nude for a sculpting class. It’s the ultimate example of someone subjecting themselves to another’s gaze, and yet these artists clearly see her as an entire person and are not gazing for their own satisfaction. As might be expected, Cléo says she is way too self-conscious to be comfortable with nude modeling, but Dorothée says it is a joyful, liberating experience in which she can accept her body as it is, feeling neither proud nor ashamed of it, throwing off the gaze of society.
It’s the most clarifying moment in the film, in which we’re reminded why we gaze at any work of art: to see an entire picture inviting us beyond ourselves into a greater understanding of the whole. We see Cleo’s fear of death, the gaze she has subjected herself to, and her superstitious rituals for luck. It’s telling that she starts breaking those superstitions once she meets Dorothée. As Dorothée says, she doesn’t find nude modeling immodest; the transparency reveals truth.
And Varda herself does not let the viewer forget that he is gazing as well, challenging him to reconsider the way he looks at anything, not just the film itself. Several well placed cuts break the 30-degree rule, notably reminding us that we are gazing through the eye of the camera. For the hour and a half in which Cléo learns a new way to see herself and the world, Varda invites the viewer to do so as well.
Personal Recommendation: A-
Suggested Audience: Adults
Year of release: 2016 Directed by Michael Dudok de Wit.
Every year there are films that get away, films that would have easily made your yearend “best of” list had you seen them in time, but due to late release dates or the crazy influx of new releases during the last months of the year get overlooked until a few months later. For me, The Red Turtle is such a film. I had been hoping to see it in time for it to be included in my 2016 yearend list, and while I do not believe in going back to re-edit top ten lists months after they were published, consider this review my note in favor of its inclusion.
The latest film from Studio Ghibli (My Neighbor Totoro, Grave of the Fireflies) is also the first one not to be produced in Japan. Dutch director and writer Michael Dudok de Wit takes the reins in crafting this gorgeous tale of loss, survival, and celebration of life. The narrative is propelled purely by the animation and the immersive soundscape, as de Wit wisely made the choice to have the film be dialogue-free.
From the first sound of the crashing waves and the imposing image of the blue-gray ocean peaks, the viewer is drawn into a remote world of beauty and danger. The nameless protagonist struggles against a sea storm to be crushed under the waves and thrown to shore. When he wakes up, he finds himself stranded on an island of bamboo trees, fresh fruit, springs of water, rocky summits overlooking the sea, and crabs, lots of crabs.
After surveilling the island, the man devises a plan to escape his Robinson Crusoe-esque fate. However, the island or the sea has other ideas. He quickly builds a bamboo raft and sails off, but the raft is almost immediately destroyed by a massive thud from a seemingly invisible creature. The second and third attempts are met with the same result.
When the man discovers the reason that he cannot leave the island, his anger is understandable, and the choice he makes as a result of that anger is likewise easy to understand. However, the immediate tragedy and loss of that choice is painfully acute, and the consequences of that loss overshadow the remainder of the film, for both good and ill. In the beautiful world of the film, the healing power of nature results in substantially more good than ill, which could be interpreted either as the power of the environment, or as the divinely ordered nature of creation healing any wrongs.
As the film gently unfolds its breathtaking cycle of life, death, destruction, and growth, I spent much of the time thinking about Pope Francis’ encyclical Laudato Si. The connections between the ocean, the island, the man, the eponymous red turtle, and the crabs highlight the beauty in all of God’s creation and the way that they are dependent upon one another. Something that harms one harms all of them, and all of their lives are best when none attempt to thrive at the expense of the others.
The relationship of the red turtle to the man is, in my opinion, best left unspoiled. It’s not hard to deduce, but the precise nature of the relationship has an aura of mystery worth discovering as it is gradually revealed. It is essential to mention that the red turtle is the central catalyst which emphasizes the interconnectivity of all the different characters and creatures.
The simple 2D animations throughout the film give it a richness and poetry that is haunting and gorgeous. The vibrancy of the hues shifts from scene to scene, with grayer tints for scenes of disaster and brighter colors for scenes of hope. Finally, the dark red shell and fins of the turtle stand out magnificently from the blue, brown, and gray background which forms so much of the film.
It is wonderful to see Studio Ghibli expanding their distribution to include non-Japanese films; hopefully, there will be more thoughtful celebrations of life and beauty like The Red Turtle from other cultures as well.
Personal recommendation: A
Content Advisory: Mild peril, potentially upsetting scenes of loss.
Suggested Audience: Kids and up, provided they have long attention spans. MPAA rating: PG
Year of release: 2016 Directed by Martin Scorsese. Starring Andrew Garfield, Adam Driver, Issei Ogata, Yôsuke Kubozuka, Shin’ya Tsukamoto, Tadanobu Asano, Ciarán Hinds, and Liam Neeson.
I tried to avoid spoilers, but it’s really hard to discuss Silence without referencing the climactic act. However, I remained as vague as possible, but consider this a mild spoiler warning.
Ever since I read Shusaku Endo’s literary masterpiece Silence last January, one question that has haunted me is: what would I have done had I been in Rodrigues’ place at the story’s climax? It’s a question I still don’t know the answer to, and one which any attentive reader of the novel will be forced to grapple with for some time. One of the highest compliments I can pay to Scorsese’s film adaptation is that it treats that question with the same amount of gravitas as the book does, and it forces the viewer to wrestle with his or her answer to it in the same way.
After releasing The Last Temptation of Christ in 1988, an Episcopalian bishop introduced Scorsese to the novel Silence, and shortly thereafter Scorsese fell in love with it, and he has wanted to adapt it into a film since then. The wait was worth it. Scorsese’s love and admiration of the source material shines through in every frame. There is hardly a sentence from the book which is not translated onto the screen. If there were an award for most painstakingly, laboriously faithful adaptation of a novel, I’d be hard pressed to think of a better candidate than Scorsese’s Silence, a few small changes aside.
When Jesuit missionaries Fr. Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield) and Fr. Garupe (Adam Driver) learn of a rumor that their beloved mentor Fr. Ferreira (Liam Neeson) apostatized in Nagasaki after three days of torture, they refuse to believe it. They implore their superior (Ciarán Hinds) to go to Japan and learn the truth themselves. Shortly thereafter, they embark on their mission to the land of the rising sun, where in their search for Ferreira they will minister to the covert Christian communities, evade the local authorities hunting for priests, and ultimately have their faith tested in way they cannot imagine.
That test of faith is primarily shown through Rodrigues’ perspective, and the letters he sends back to his superior ask one of the questions at the heart of Endo’s novel: where is God in the midst of terrible suffering and isolation? As Garfield narrates the letters via voiceover, it begins to appear he is not only addressing them to his superior, but also to God. Notably, as Peter T. Chattaway said at Arts & Faith, when Rodrigues finally hears the voice of Christ, it sounds very much like that voice is provided by Ciarán Hinds.
As I suppose should be expected, there have been Christian viewers balking at the outcome of Rodrigues’ test of faith in Silence. However, even though the film is slightly less ambiguous than the book regarding that outcome, it is anything but a celebration of Rodrigues’ act. While the test itself may seem trivial to a non-Christian – stepping on a fumie (an image of Christ to be trampled to prove one does not hold the image as sacred, and is therefore not Christian), the following consequences for a priest who did so would be that he was then be paraded as an example to make other Christians lose their faith.
Naturally, why any priest would denounce his faith, or anyone with strong core beliefs would renounce them, is a question that should challenge viewers of any religious background, forcing them to ask when and why they would abandon their principle, identifying beliefs, if ever. In the case of Silence, it must be noted that the Japanese inquisitors were exceptionally cruel in their method of torture. As Steven D. Greydanus observed in his review:
“‘Smite the shepherd,’ wrote the prophet Zechariah, ‘and the sheep will be scattered.’ Not only have the Japanese inquisitors learned this lesson, they’ve also learned an insidious inverse principle: To break the shepherd, smite the sheep.”
As the grand inquisitor Inoue (an outstanding Issei Ogata) casually mentions to Rodrigues, initially the Japanese officials made the mistake of torturing priests, but that only strengthened their resolve, since many of them envisioned a glorious martyr’s death. However, forcing the priests to watch helplessly as other Christians were tortured produced the desired results.
The desire to be a martyr is universal, and it affects people of all religious backgrounds, or even none at all, as a way to validate the righteousness of their cause. At one point a Japanese translator (Tadanobu Asano) assigned to assist Rodrigues remarks in Japanese that Rodrigues is as arrogant as all the other Jesuits, and he will fall like all of them did. That translator later states an even greater tragic irony regarding the priests who apostatize: they came to Japan for the fame and glory of missionary work, and they receive that fame as apostate priests.
Arrogance is certainly a flaw of Rodrigues’, but how much it plays into his final decision is debatable. What is not debatable is that regardless of the rightness or wrongness of Rodrigues’ climactic act, God is right there suffering alongside him.
As Rodrigues, Garfield conveys the moral certainty of the self-righteous when things are easy, and his shift to a tormented and confused soul in the midst of suffering is flawless as each confrontation with the inquisitors breaks his spirit a little more. As the Chief Inquisitor Inoue, Issei Ogata is perfect as he fluctuates between geniality and menace with a comic air of disliking the whole unnecessary but harmless procedure. Adam Driver captures the firm resolve and strictness of Garupe; and as Ferreira, Neeson’s portrayal of a tortured, conflicted soul is effortlessly conveyed through his facial expressions and halting line delivery.
Scorsese himself is at the top of his game. For the first half of the film, he creates an immersive Japanese landscape while demonstrating his affinity for the novel. Rodrigo Prieto’s cinematography is gorgeous and inviting, but at the same time slightly formidable and intimidating, much like the Japanese culture itself. The use of God point-of-view shots happens at crucial moments along Rodrigues’ journey, so the audience never forgets that God is not silent, even if He appears to be.
During the second half of the film, Scorsese’s prowess as a filmmaker is at the forefront. Each confrontation between Rodrigues and the Japanese is staged with increased tension, interjected with moments of dry humor and unexpected violence, which is as tragic and shocking as it should be. Scorsese may continue his habit of extending films beyond their natural ending point, but the final shot he crafts is so powerful, I’m easily inclined to forgive him for ten extra minutes of runtime.
In addition to the question of God’s presence in the midst of suffering, there is another question which has haunted me ever since I first viewed Silence. That is: which character are we supposed to identify with? I believe the answer to that is not the protagonist.
At one point, Rodrigues is chided that he likes to compare his suffering to Jesus’ in the Garden of Gethsemane, but there are countless others who are suffering even more, and they don’t have the arrogance to compare themselves to Christ. It’s a damning line, and one that’s hard to forget, because as I said above, many Christians like to envision themselves as martyrs and see their own sufferings as making them Christ-like. While it’s unquestionably true that we can and should offer our sufferings to God, it’s also true that we make the same mistakes and trample on His mercy again and again. With that in mind, the character from Silence all of us probably have the most in common with is the dirty, cowardly everyman Kichijiro.
Played by Yôsuke Kubozuka, Kichijiro is a thorn in Fr. Rodrigues’ side, a Judas to his Christ. Throughout the film Rodrigues reflects on Christ’s words to Judas: “What you will do, do quickly.” However, as in the novel, Rodrigues begins to question whether that line was spoken in anger or in love. The answer in the film is hinted at earlier than in the novel, but the final affirmation of it occurs at the same powerful moment.
After wrestling with this film for three weeks, what I ultimately take away from it is that it’s a movie about love. In A Man For All Seasons, Thomas More says to his daughter shortly before his execution, “Finally, it’s not a matter of reason…finally, it’s a matter of love.” Regardless of whether one interprets Rodrigues’ final action as an act of love or an act of betrayal or both, what the film makes unmistakably clear is God’s love for us, that He was born into this world to demonstrate that love, and it never abandons us, even when we abandon Him as many times as Kichijiro apostatizes, which may to our limited understanding appear unreasonable.
To quote my friend Joshua Wilson:
“To identify with Kichijiro means to admit that we commit the same failings again and again. But Rodrigues scorned him and looked down on his weakness. Ultimately that was where he failed to identify with Christ, who comes to us in our weakness and only when he himself had been broken of that pride could he find where Jesus’ voice was in the silence.”
Pride certainly led to Rodrigues’ downfall, but that downfall was also his moment of salvation when he truly learned how to love a wretched, broken, ugly human being which so many of us inherently despise – as Rodrigues himself did for much of the film, when he begrudgingly heard Kichijiro’s repeated confessions.
For a film which is itself an act of love for Endo’s literary masterpiece on Scorsese’s part, not only did Silence shed new light for me on a powerful text, it also provided a stunning realization of Christ’s love for all of us, even when we abandon Him, a love we often only encounter in the silence.
Personal recommendation: A
Content Advisory: Spiritually ambiguous themes, non-graphic but intense scenes of torture and violence. MPAA Rating: R
Suggested Audience: Mature teens and up.
Year of release: 2016. Directed by J. A. Bayona. Starring Lewis MacDougall, Felicity Jones, Sigourney Weaver, and Liam Neeson.
As someone who deeply admired Patrick Ness’ 2011 young adult novel A Monster Calls, let me start by getting one (pretty much my only) complaint out of the way. The character of Lily was cut from the film. She’s listed in the credits, which makes me think her scenes were filmed and then cut for time. If you have read the book, it’s easy to guess who she is, but in the film she’s just another student in the background. While the scenes with her aren’t crucial to the plot, in the book there is one moment between her and Connor right before the story’s climax that I found to be the story’s most heartbreakingly beautiful act of compassion toward someone suffering from grief. Needless to say, I was really disappointed it was not included in the film.
That out of the way, A Monster Calls is still really good. Lewis MacDougall impressively does the difficult job of capturing all the conflicting emotions of 12-year-old Connor who is deeply worried about his Mum’s cancer, resents the special treatment he gets because of “what he’s going through,” and doesn’t know how to face his fear and anger. As his Mum, Felicity Jones portrays the concern of a mother who wants to believe she will recover while trying to spare the details of her sickness from her son. Finally, Sigourney Weaver embodies Connor’s stern, no-nonsense Grandmother whose manner of grieving is incomprehensible to a 12-year-old boy.
And then, of course, there is the Monster voiced by Liam Neeson. A yew tree on the far edge of Connor and his Mum’s property, he awakes and comes walking for the seemingly simple task of telling Connor three stories and hearing a fourth from him. Needless to say, Connor thinks he has no time for “stupid stories” and especially despises the fairy-tale trappings of the Monster’s stories. However, as the Monster tells Connor, “Stories are not safe.” They don’t always tell us what we want to hear, and they can often reveal truths about ourselves and others that we don’t want to face. After that speech, it made me think Neeson was cast because he has voiced a lion who is also “not safe.” Either way, it was a great choice on the part of the filmmakers.
The fourth tale that Connor tells the Monster will be the nightmare that has terrorized him ever since his Mum took ill. In the book, we don’t learn what that nightmare is until Connor tells it at the end. The film, however, opens with that nightmare, and the tragic image of Connor letting his mother fall of a cliff as he’s unable to save her hangs over the film, setting up the deepest fear which plagues Connor. For the visual medium of film, it was a good choice to realize Connor’s turbulent emotions which the Monster has come to help him face.
However, Monsters, like stories, are also not safe. We quickly learn that the Monster’s stories are not just fantasies, but they have ramifications in the world as well. The beautiful watercolors which animate the Monster’s stories are brought into Connor’s life in a way which the book hints at, but the film makes explicit, another small change I appreciated. Neeson’s vocalizations range from concerned compassion to threatening rage, and they can change quickly and unpredictably as Monsters are wont to do. In some ways, the Monster reflects Connor’s own emotions which change from anger to sorrow in an instant. The two most devastating actions of Connor are met with unexpected reactions, and Weaver’s response to her grandson’s shocking behavior is one of deep hurt but also understanding.
Understanding from others can be one of the most difficult things to accept when we are grieving, whether it’s from teachers, parents, friends, or even school bullies. (That’s why the scene with Lily I mentioned in the first paragraph should have been included; it’s the first compassionate moment of understanding which Connor accepts, and it comes as a striking contrast right after the bully’s worst treatment of Connor.) Even without that scene, the most perfect example of understanding and empathy is Felicity Jones’ 100 years speech to her son when she acknowledges the pain and anger he feels, and that scene is every bit as eye-watering here as it was in the book.
Fantasy and stories have always been ways of learning, and in A Monster Calls Connor learns they often do not tell us what we want to hear, and they often do not have the happily-ever-after that we desire, but the messily-ever-after they prepare us for makes them dangerous and beautiful, like this film.
Personal recommendation: A-
Content Advisory: Painful themes of parental loss, some rather nasty school bullying, scenes of fantasy violence and peril, and a mildly risqué animation. MPAA rating: PG-13
Suggested Audience: Teens and up.