Posts Tagged drama
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 Pablo Larraín. Starring Natalie Portman, Peter Sarsgaard, Greta Gerwig, Billy Crudup, and John Hurt.
Jackie is an incredible film in absolutely every possible sense of the word. I don’t deny the accuracy of any of the criticisms leveled against Jackie; it’s bizarrely and haphazardly edited, there are a glut of close-ups and eye-level point-of-view shots, the notable lack of establishing shots makes it impossible to fully appreciate where or when a scene is occurring, the shot reverse-shot editing becomes predictable quickly, which makes long takes stand out like a sore thumb. And yet, in spite of all that, or maybe because of it, Jackie is one of the most powerful explorations and portrayals of grief that I’ve seen all year. (I haven’t seen A Monster Calls yet.)
At the center of the film is Natalie Portman’s powerhouse performance as the grieving widow of JFK. And her elegance, attention to etiquette, and most importantly, her heartbreak come through in every scene. As the film cuts from the funeral, to an interview with the press, to breaking the news to her children, to recreated archival footage, to an exchange with a priest, to the assassination itself, often quite randomly, Portman is an anchoring presence. The nonlinear jumping from event to event heightens the feeling of grief as it underscores the lack of consistency and logic which people in a state of shock and devastation go through.
Surrounding and supporting Jackie are Bobby Kennedy (Peter Sarsgaard) and Nancy Tuckerman (Greta Gerwig), whose performances fade into the background until Jackie needs them most and they emerge and stand forefront with her.
As Jackie deals with the process of grief, one moment she will be clutching her Catholic faith as a way to comfort her children, and a few scenes later she will be bitterly complaining to her priest (John Hurt) that God seems cruel. It’s a natural fluctuation for anyone who undergoes trauma, and Portman captures it effortlessly. The priest’s ultimate impartial response defies any conventional script writing logic, but like all the other unusual choices in the film, it works. He tells her even when it seems as if we would be better off dead, God gives us enough grace to get through each day, and even if it seems like too little, it will be enough.
That grace manifests itself in Jackie’s concern for her children, her attention to the details of her husband’s funeral, her love of history, the comfort from Bobby, and most notably in the musical Camelot which she and her husband famously loved. The film’s choice to focus on the title song from that musical and the glory of “one brief shining moment” adds even more poignancy to the film. Regardless of whether each viewer interprets that “brief shining moment” as the Kennedy legacy or simply the love of a wife and mother for her husband and kids, random details like that which comprise most of the film make Jackie absolutely stunning, especially for the way it overcomes and capitalizes on its sloppy, unconventional choices.
I confess, I have often grown tired of listening to baby boomers wax poetic about the Kennedys, but this raw portrayal of grief makes empathizing with them seem natural as it reveals broken human beings at the center of a tragedy who must maintain appearances for the press and cameras. Jackie’s calm public expressions of sorrow, contrasted with her cries of anguish in private, is a beautiful and sorrowful reminder of how messy grief is for everyone. Jackie wonders several times whether the “brief shining moment” she and her husband had will last, and that question, along with the dignity and grace with which she conducts herself, makes the sense of tragedy sting all the more for the viewer, especially when one contrasts her demeanor with recent events that left many Americans grieving.
As I said at the beginning, by every normal standard, this film is a mess and should be a disaster, but the rawness that permeates the film astonishingly works in its favor to make the exploration of grief all the more powerful, haunting, and devastating.
Personal Recommendation: A-
Content Advisory: A brief but explicit shot of JFK’s assassination and the aftermath, infrequent rough language, and fleeting discussion of infidelities. MPAA rating: R
Suggested audience: Teens and up with discernment
Year of Release: 2016 Directed by Anne Fontaine. Starring Lou de Laâge, Agata Buzek, Agata Kulesza, and Vincent Macaigne.
This review will not spoil the central plot point around which the story of The Innocents revolves. That plot point is revealed about twenty minutes into the film; however, even though it is technically not a spoiler, it is still something I believe should not be known going into this film. Consequently, there may be a few places where I am more vague than I would otherwise like to be.
A few months ago, several of my friends and fellow film critics started praising The Innocents enthusiastically. Most frequently, I heard comparisons to Of Gods and Men and Ida. While both comparisons are apt, the comparisons that most struck me were to three novels: Song at the Scaffold by Gertrude von le Fort, The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Silence by Shusaku Endo, which has a film adaptation by Scorsese coming out in one month.
As a story about a convent of nuns suffering various forms of persecution as the result of a war, the similarities with Song at the Scaffold struck me immediately, with the main difference being The Innocents is set in Poland in the aftermath of World War II, rather than the reign of terror during the French Revolution. Some of the nuns’ decisions may be baffling to a contemporary viewer, but if one remembers how badly they have been victimized and as a result no longer trust the outside world, the fear which grips this convent should be more tragic than perplexing.
The main similarity with The Scarlet Letter was something I noticed toward the end. In high school, I read that novel like most American students, and for the paper I wrote I chose the topic how God can bring good out of evil, focusing on the ways in which the community and Hester’s life improved after the affair and public branding. (Don’t ask me for details; that was over ten years ago. I just remember the general gist of my essay.) Likewise, after horrific tragedies and suffering on the part of innocent victims, The Innocents suggests a way in which hope can grow from the darkness, making the world a better place.
Finally, Silence is Endo’s famous novel about faith in the midst of feeling abandoned by God’s silence in the face of extreme suffering. As Sister Maria (Agata Buzek) says roughly halfway through the film, “Faith…at first you’re like a child, holding your father’s hand, feeling safe. Then a time comes…when your father lets go. You’re lost alone in the dark. You cry out, but no one answers.” That feeling of isolation permeates The Innocents, and several of the nuns and novices question their vows and their faith as a result of their sufferings.
Into the midst of this convent in turmoil comes Mathilde (Lou de Laâge), a communist and atheist who has little to no respect for the nuns’ beliefs, especially when those beliefs interfere with the work she has come to do. (I said I’m being vague.) However, through Mathilde’s commitment to the promise she made, she does find a way to work with the nuns. The film may be more sympathetic to Mathilde than the nuns; however, Mathilde’s final climactic idea affirms the primary vocation of the nuns and brings a heartfelt joyful conclusion to the sorrowful events that had preceded it.
Laâge convincingly portrays Mathilde’s sympathy for the nuns, even as she clings to her secular worldview. Her confrontations with Sister Maria’s raw yet steadfast faith overshadow the film, and the two actresses complement each other’s screen presence beautifully. As the cold and steely Mother Abbess, Agata Kulesza (from Ida) serves as a reminder of the dangers both of overly zealous piety and of rationalization for a noble goal. Mathilde may have the least amount of sympathy for the Abbess, but the film refuses the easy temptation to vilify her, even as she makes some appalling choices, one of which slightly stretches her character’s credibility.
Director Anne Fontaine beautifully evokes the cold, desolate landscape of post-war Poland with slow moving, long takes and a bleak, blue-gray color palette, only briefly splashed with reddish browns for dance scenes. The winter setting reinforces that Poland is now controlled by the Communists, a hell possibly worse than the Nazis, and Fontaine does not shy away from those details: from the danger the nuns feel, to the outright contempt that other characters have for them, and to the dangerous encounter Mathilde suffers for helping the nuns.
The Innocents opens with the nuns singing Creator of the Stars of Night, an Advent chant in which one verse says: “In sorrow that the ancient curse/Should doom to death a universe,/You came, O Savior, to set free/You’re own in glorious liberty.” Those words may sound bitterly ironic to the nuns at the film’s beginning, but through the course of this story the hope reflected in the following verse of the hymn becomes apparent to the convent: “When this old world drew on toward night,/You came but not in splendor bright,/Not as a monarch but a child/Of Mary blameless mother mild.”
Personal Recommendation: A-
Content Advisory (spoiler-free version): Non-graphic sexual assault (ends quickly), themes of spiritual abuse, horrific off screen deaths, and some gruesome surgical procedures. Not rated
Suggested audience: Teens and up with discernment
Year of Release: 2016 Directed by Kelly Fremon Craig. Starring Hailee Steinfeld, Woody Harrelson, Haley Lu Richardson, Blake Jenner, and Kyra Sedgwick.
Seventeen year old Nadine (Hailee Steinfeld) has a rough life. Her mother (Kyra Sedgwick) blatantly favors her older brother Darian (Blake Jenner), Nick the one cute boy in her high school doesn’t know she exists, the only boy interested in her is a giant nerd, her father died unexpectedly three years ago – a loss she is still coming to terms with, and her best and only friend Krista (Haley Lu Richardson) just started sleeping with and dating her older brother. And to make all of this more unbearable she is going through this awkward, painful phase of her life completely alone. After all, when you’re seventeen, there is, like, literally no one who understands your issues and how the universe is totally conspiring against you.
The Edge of Seventeen opens with a determined Nadine approaching the one adult whom she thinks might kind of understand her. She briskly marches into her history teacher Mr. Bruner’s (Woody Harrelson) classroom during his lunch break, and she promptly informs him she will be committing suicide, in some dramatic fashion that will definitely succeed, because she can’t be paralyzed for life, unsuccessfully trying to signal a nurse to smother her. His response: he’s in the process of drafting his own suicide note, because too much of his lunch hour, the only fleeting minutes of happiness in his day, are eaten up by the same obnoxious student.
Nadine then walks us through via flashback how she came to that crisis, and that flashback comprises most of the film.
By this point, the film’s bitterly strong streak of morbid humor should be apparent, as well as the messed-up life Nadine has both due to circumstance and her own bad decisions. I am aware that there may be some people who think jokes about teen suicide, teen promiscuity, teen drinking, and teen depression are not an appropriate vein of humor. However, the humor underscores the foolishness of Nadine’s choices, and it reinforces the notion that all Nadine’s problems, as gargantuan as they seem in the present, are in the grand scheme of her life quite fleeting.
Mr. Bruner’s “comforting” of Nadine flies in the face of any sort of traditional pep talk, and it is quite refreshing to see an authority figure eschew generic inspirational talk and instead respond with dripping sarcasm, humorously suggesting a point of view outside of Nadine’s own, a concept which plays crucially into the film’s climax with another character. Mr. Bruner is brilliantly written, and while the compassionate heart he has is not an original twist, Harrelson’s sardonic delivery and cavalier attitude, while masking said heart, makes for a fantastic performance.
Just as fantastic is Hailee Steinfeld as the seventeen year old protagonist. Not since True Grit has she had a role that allows her acting chops to shine this much. As the resilient, yet stubborn and often selfish Nadine, Steinfeld flawlessly shifts between the tempest of emotions that Nadine experiences, and she creates a frightened and awkward high school student with whom it is easy to sympathize even as she makes increasingly stupid choices. That’s a feat many adult actors cannot pull off, and Steinfeld does it brilliantly here. For instance, as Nadine makes some of the dumbest choices she does in the movie, she attempts to appear more mature, and the comic pathos of those attempts will resonate with anyone with enough hindsight to remember their own disastrous attempts to act beyond their age or to fix a situation by making it worse.
At one point Nadine’s mother gives her a spectacularly bad piece of advice for dealing with feelings of isolation. She says to remember that everyone is as miserable as you are; they just hide it better. Nadine naturally responds with the classic teenage sigh and eye roll, which that cynical advice, to some extent, deserves. While there probably are few who deal with awkwardness and loneliness to the same extent that Nadine does, it is no secret that feelings of isolation plague many people, especially teens.
Twice in the film, at the zenith of her depression, Nadine looks upward and exclaims, “Are you even up there?” How one views the answer to that prayer will probably depend on the perspective of each viewer, but given the moments of grace and compassion shown to Nadine, some of it quite unexpected, it is not difficult to see some providence guiding her life, especially in a final reconciliation between Nadine and another character which is one of the most heartwarming moments I’ve seen all year. Moments like that in the midst of the morbid humor make The Edge of Seventeen a poignant and rare coming of age story, as full of mixed emotions as its flawed and loveable protagonist.
Personal Recommendation: A
Content Advisory: Non-graphic sexual activity between teens, including a scenario which almost turns into an assault, underage drinking, recurring foul language, and some crude gestures. MPAA rating: R
Suggested audience: Adults with discernment
Year of Release: 1998 Directed by Whit Stillman. Starring Kate Beckinsale, Chloë Sevigny, Chris Eigeman, Mackenzie Astin, Matt Keeslar, Tara Subkoff, and Robert Sean Leonard.
As a Catholic, frequenting the sacrament of confession has been a fairly regular aspect of my life. And for the most part, I have spent a good portion of my life confessing the same sins over and over again, despite my best intentions not to continue committing them. I think of that when Charlotte (Kate Beckinsale), who spends a good portion of this film blissfully unaware that she tries to control others’ lives while cattily judging them, reflects on the beauty of Amazing Grace. As she proceeds to sing the first two verses, we see some of the costly consequences of her and her friend Alice’s (Chloë Sevigny) mistakes as well as opportunities for second chances. And after this moment of moral insight, in the next scene, she returns to being a bitch toward her friends.
That mixture of trying and promptly forgetting to try to do what’s right is what gives The Last Days of Disco an endearing balance of comedy, pathos, and insight. As Eve Tushnet wrote:
“There are ways of doing tragedy or satire where it’s about people willfully being awful, but I think my favorite tragedies and satires are about how many important things we botch when we’re trying very hard not to.”
From the very first scene, we watch all the characters stress and meticulously calculate the most probable way they will gain admittance to the prestigious disco club in Manhattan. After walking to the club, Charlotte and Alice decide it will look more prestigious if they arrive in a cab, so they hail one to drive them less than a block. Jimmy (Mackenzie Astin), whose advertising firm has given him the odd ultimatum to get clients into the disco club or be fired, frets over the best way to make a good impression on the bouncer, and he goes so far as to give one of his clients his coat to mask the gaudy plaid jacket the man is wearing. Tom (Robert Sean Leonard) is going along with Jimmy, and he ends up getting into the club by the luck of escaping the bouncer’s notice. For all the worry of these characters about proving the value of their social lives by entering the disco club, whether they succeed, to a large extent, comes down to luck.
The aura of prestige surrounding disco serves as a reminder that there are things worth striving for and that even a genre as reviled as disco may have more value than its detractors give it credit for. The titular words, “the last days” suggests a time that is passing and worth remembering, but it also suggests that the characters should think about a future outside of disco.
One permanent fixture at the club is Des, (an endearingly complacent Chris Eigeman) whose job is some sort of back entrance bouncer and other miscellaneous tasks. Eigeman perfectly captures the film’s heart of trying and failing by trying for all the wrong things. He puts his energy into making sure his ex-girlfriends still like him by telling them he’s gay, or might be gay, rather than putting energy into the relationships. He spends more time rationalizing why he’s the best for his job instead of doing his job. Ultimately, he does have a brilliant and amusing moment of insight when he turns an oft-misquoted Shakespeare line on its head:
“You know that Shakespearean admonition, “To thine own self be true?” It’s premised on the idea that “thine own self” is something pretty good, being true to which is commendable. But what if “thine own self” is not so good? What if it’s pretty bad? Would it be better, in that case, not to be true to thine own self? See, that’s my situation.”
As Charlotte and Alice, Beckinsale and Sevigny make a compelling screen duo, anchoring the ensemble and portraying a friendship and rivalry of two young women both working in publishing in New York. They both want to support one another, and the scene where they put down a patronizing male co-worker makes for great comedy, but neither wants to disadvantage her career or social standing by helping the other too much.
Alice is a more reserved person who clearly has less partying experience, and her hesitance in ordering drinks and only naming one or two cocktails with which she’s familiar is funny to anyone who’s been in a bar for the first time and only knows a couple of drinks, if any. Alice’s desire for a dating life leads to regrettable consequences as she tries her hardest to go about it the culturally “right” way. Charlotte’s insists that she and Alice will be good friends, even as she pushes Alice into awkward scenarios for the sake of boosting her ego. Nearly all of their behavior contributes to that central character flaw of trying the wrong way and repeatedly making the same mistakes.
Finally, the film is loaded with subtle moments of humor, which I must confess, I totally missed on my first viewing several years ago. The comic awkwardness of trying to do what is expected while being totally unsure what that is comes across beautifully, and it makes all these characters loveable as they try, despite their propensity for messing up. Because after all, we have a God who loves us despite our messing-up the same way over and over again.
Content Advisory: Brief full frontal nudity, a fleeting shot of an interrupted sexual encounter, casual discussion of sex acts, and some drug use. MPAA rating: R
Suggested audience: Adults
Personal Recommendation: A+