Vice (2018)

Score: 4 / 5

From the awesome writer/director of The Big Short (and lots of other things I refuse to watch), here comes a more somber, more understandable, and more ballsy second feature destined to score well in awards season.

Vice tells the story of Dick Cheney, from his troubled youth through his turns in the political spotlight -- or, rather, in the wings. The notoriously enigmatic Cheney is played by the no less enigmatic Christian Bale, an unexpected match made in heaven made believable by Bale's chameleonic performance. He grumbles and glares through the film, whether as an alcoholic Yale dropout or as (arguably) the most powerful vice president in U.S. history. Cheney's personal life is dramatized here -- for better or worse -- but something about it rings hauntingly true. This is not the Machiavellian tragedy of House of Cards, but it's damn close and all the more haunting because it really happened.

And while the story is a more conventional biopic than The Big Short, embracing dramedy in its depiction of real people and real moments in history, it features a few of the performative devices that made that previous film so memorable. This story is narrated by Kurt, an apparently fictional veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, who ends up providing Cheney's replacement heart at the end, in March 2012. It's this kind of dark irony that burns brightest here, not eliciting loud laughs but content with making the audience squirm. Who (or what) is really the object of humor here?

Further, unlike The Big Short, which required our fairly detailed knowledge about the housing crisis and complicated economic vocabulary, Vice works by inviting us into the private life of one of our most mysterious leaders. Whether true or not, we sit engrossed in seeing the man tick. We can view the film as a family tragedy, as Lynne Cheney (a magnificent Amy Adams) struggles to keep her power-mad husband and daughters together, one of whom is lesbian (Alison Pill) and the other who denounces same-sex marriage in her own power bid. We can view the film as an homage to a man who successfully played the system time and again, desperate for power and taking crisis after crisis as opportunities for personal gain. We can view the film as a hilarious portrait of a man doomed to love nothing so much as power and the damaging effect it has on the world that allowed him to take. Think that's too much? Check out the not-quite-explicit ways the film paints Cheney as indirectly responsible for the polarizing of American politics, the corruption of Trump's America, and of course the birth of ISIS.

Maybe I'm just not smart enough, but I had trouble figuring out when to laugh, groan, or shudder. Tonally the film felt fairly specific, but my limited knowledge (and awe at the lead players' performances) wasn't able to fully grasp the plodding pace or weighty themes. I expected a rollicking comedy and got a more intense biopic, which is lovely but of a decidedly different genre. The narrative devices and playfulness here are notably hostile, and I couldn't help but feel that the hostility was partly aimed at the audience. An amazing achievement, but one you really have to be prepared for.

Welcome to Marwen (2018)

Score: 3 / 5

I really think this movie would have worked better had it not given away its entire story and spectacle in marketing.

Robert Zemeckis does his typically brilliant directorial work in visualizing the story of Mark Hogancamp (played by Steve Carell), an artist who was brutally attacked by five men and left with severe PTSD and precious few memories. As he cannot draw anymore, he creates a small town of miniatures and photographs them as his therapeutic practice, calling the town Marwen. Its citizenship of dolls share uncanny likenesses to people in Mark's life, though the town is set in Belgium during WWII. Mark's artistic successes belie a man attempting to cope with debilitating pain and disorientation, but the film depicts his journey to a sort of self-actualization when he can finally stand up for himself and function in society again.

There's a lot going on in this picture that we could spend hours discussing. Mark's identity as a cross-dresser, for example, is curiously specific yet largely unexplored by the film, which never uses terminology beyond his attempt to get close to women's "essence". The men who attack him repeatedly call him "queer", and the women he develops intimate relationships with befriend him with great kindness and sincerity; one, though, perhaps thinks he's gay until he proposes to her. It's a fascinating dynamic that is never fully realized; then again, this might be a fabulously non-judgmental portrayal of transvestism that is almost never seen on screen.

Too, we might analyze the questionably feminist tendencies of the film. The cast of mostly women are wonderfully diverse, in ethnicity and culture as well as personality and performance of womanhood. All are strong, though, and their love for Mark is infectious. His love for them, though, is occasionally questionable, and Zemeckis's focus on their bodies (especially breasts and shoes) arguably serves to fetishize their bodies. It's not incompatible with Mark's fixations -- we see him enjoying pornography, his collection of 280+ women's shoes, and miniature scenes of an often erotic nature -- but create an ambiguous tone that battles between the male gaze and the dialogue and themes, which repeatedly praise empowered women.

And while these elements are worthy of discussion, they are also largely matters of lenses and preference. The film as a whole is a mess of such lenses, and we're lurched between what could (and probably should) be an ensemble drama and what is, in fact, an intensely personal character study. Mark battles drug addiction and antisocial tendencies, incarnated by one of his dolls named Deja, a witch whose turquoise color she shares with Mark's pills and whose jealousy of other women keeps Mark perpetually alone. The climax of the film comes when he vanquishes her, letting her disappear in a time machine he built (that is basically the DeLorean time machine, thank you Zemeckis) and washing his pills down the drain. He attends the sentencing of his attackers and proclaims that he'll "be okay," aiming for a future of reality more than fantasy.

Speaking of which, the real joys of the film come from the astounding visual magic when his dolls come to life. Their little adventures weave seamlessly into and out of Mark's life (though the film itself is not seamless, their integration is a thing of wonder), making our experience of him something between reality and fantasy, much as Mark experiences life. As they kick Nazi ass -- another element worthy of hearty discussion, elsewhere -- they help him make decisions and make sense of his own tragedy.

There's a lot to admire here, if you can stay on track with a meandering screenplay and a strong split between narrative focal points.

IMDb: Welcome to Marwen

Beautiful Boy (2018)

Score: 4.5 / 5

When Nic, missing for two days, returns with obvious signs of drug use, his father David takes immediate action. He takes his son to a rehab facility and supports his progress and eventual move into a halfway house. He's a great father, we clearly see from the get-go, and though his lovely life is threatened by such insidious behavior, he masterfully controls the situation. Or at least that's how it appears at first.

Beautiful Boy is the true story of David Sheff, the bestselling author of his memoir detailing his tumultuous relationship with his drug-addicted son. While I haven't read the book, this film is a stunning interpretation of lives lived in exquisite conflicts of love. At times the film lurches between David's perspective and Nic's, and though some may find that imbalanced, I found it to be a perfect sort of balance for this story. Drug addiction is one of the most complex issues of our age, and to have it so fluidly and beautifully depicted in a drama that demonizes no one is both rare and powerful (I'm also thinking of the musical Rent and the show American Crime as similar transcendent products).

And powerful it is. By the second scene, as David takes his son to rehab, I was in tears. They did not cease until long after the credits rolled. The film takes us through a mess of scenes, episodic and often temporally unspecified, to demonstrate the unpredictability and distinct contradictions that can shape lives in thrall to drugs. Each high is followed by a corresponding low, and scenes are often shaped to depict this bipolar nature: for each father-son, brother-brother, lover-victim bonding sequence we see, we are also subjected to the violent destruction of these same relationships.

In fact, the film is almost too much like real life, a distinction few films can boast, and one that -- as here -- serves more effectively to disturb than endear. It's not a pleasant viewing experience, though it profoundly moves and can, I think, work magic on your heart. This is due, yes, to the highly impressionistic approach brought by the writer and cinematographer, but also by the leading players. Steve Carell delivers still more of his stellar work, underplaying the part and allowing the horrors his son faces to soak into his pained eyes. Timothee Chalamet, on the other hand, delivers the great performance people pretended he exhibited in Call Me By Your Name. While I still don't get his appeal in that film (sure, he was good, but Oscar-worthy?), his craft is out in full force here, turning his boyish Dorian Gray-esque charm into its opposite, sickly and sweaty and pale and endlessly pitiful.

Though the film -- and its true story -- ends on a happy note, and ultimately, I think, fulfills an inspirational need in our pre-awards-season lineup, it is by no means a feel-good holiday experience. Prepare yourself for it, because it'll hit you hard and in totally unexpected ways. But that's a good thing. I promise.

IMDb: Beautiful Boy

Battle of the Sexes (2017)

Score: 4.5 / 5

I approached this film knowing next to nothing about its real-life origins. It was obvious, still, to me that the film took great pains in reconstructing its '70s period to make it accurate; it occasionally felt like a dramatized documentary, especially with its use of (apparent) stock footage, news highlights, and some expert cinematography by Linus Sandgren (La La Land, American Hustle, Joy). Yet for all its hard stylistic work, Battle of the Sexes can't help but be arresting in its timeliness.

If your ignorance matches mine, the titular battle refers to a 1973 tennis match, played by Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs, which was broadcast and billed as a definitive moment in feminist history. Either a woman would succeed in a sport dominated by men, or a self-proclaimed chauvinist pig would prove the male body's mastery. While presumably many people were aware of how this match turned out, I found the buildup and execution of the game riveting, and cheered along with the on-screen crowd as King reigned victorious. Stories like this are not only wildly entertaining, as so many people are emotionally invested in sports dramas of its ilk, but also fiercely important. When stories of high-profile women being paid less for equal work, dozens of women being molested in the workplace by male superiors, and millions of women hashtagging "#MeToo" become regular news, those who proclaim feminism is evil or stupid or wrong or unnecessary are forced to eat their words.

But Battle of the Sexes isn't simply a platform for these issues. It's also a vulnerable, sometimes quiet film that focuses on King's life, a story I found as absorbing as the primary plot of tennis. Her marriage to a loving supportive man is put to the test during her lengthy travels and time away, and as she begins to explore her taboo sexuality. Emma Stone delivers what may be her best performance yet as King, and bravely shows the emotional and physical tolls placed on her. She navigates the waters of misogynist professionals with wit and charm, relying on her strength of body and character to make her point. She shows vulnerability and burgeoning affection, especially when Andrea Riseborough enters the picture as her hairdresser and lover Marilyn Barnett. Riseborough masterfully makes a very difficult part that could easily be labeled negatively into a sympathetic, profoundly human character.

Steve Carell, who I hadn't thought well of until Hope Springs in 2012 but now turns out one great performance a year, serves up another amazing turn as Bobby Riggs, though he is overshadowed at every turn by Stone's brilliance. That's mostly the script's doing, though; this is the woman's movie, and there's not much place for an outspoken misogynistic chauvinist in it. Carell transforms much as he did in Foxcatcher, disappearing into the role, though, to his credit, here his flamboyance is more infuriating than in any of his comedies. Much like Carell's performance, though, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris don't let the film buy into the extravagance or hype of the spectacle created by Riggs and the game's producers. Their film, seemingly indifferent as to the nature of tennis as a sport, focuses on the historic people and their contemporary social issues, making this film infinitely more resounding than most sports feel-good flicks out there.

IMDb: Battle of the Sexes

The Big Short (2015)

Score: 4 / 5

It's a strange thing to enjoy a film but have no idea what's happening. The Big Short is all about the housing market, Wall Street, and the financial crisis of 2007 and 2008. Basically, a lot of things I don't expect to ever really understand. But the film works precisely because it caters to those of us who share that bewilderment. Of course, it also caters to people who do understand the crisis and vilify the villains behind it.

Hell, I even got angry with them. I didn't always know exactly why I felt that way, but director Adam McKay (in what might be the first film of his I've ever seen) shares his outrage so bountifully that even his kinetic directorial style here serves to heighten the anxieties and tensions at work. We flit from brokers and bankers to salesmen and victims with such fervor that we feel vexed not only by the duplicitous and voracious money-mongers, but by the filmmakers and their fierce understanding -- and criticism -- of the crisis.

If that makes sense to you, you're already a step ahead of me. But the primary way McKay caters to us know-nothings is by breaking the fourth wall in periodic, stylized exposition monologues. We have Ryan Gosling delivering voiceovers, trying to help us understand the forces at work. When even he needs help, he presents us with celebrities in various comical situations who then explain in hilarious and somewhat less-than-totally-enlightening terms a particular concept or construct. The logic, I suppose, is that Margot Robbie in a bubble bath can explain something as dull as subprime mortgages (??) in an entertaining and pleasant way, while maintaining a sort of aloof, satirical manner. Similarly, Selena Gomez stacking chips in Vegas can explain synthetic CDOs (??) about as well as Anthony Bourdain can make fish chowder out of three-day-old fish while explaining something else. It's a sly move.

It's also one that laughs at us as much as we laugh at it. I mean, isn't part of the problem with these complex business concepts that the majority of Americans really have no idea what's happening? I think it's one of the characters early in the film who decries Wall Street for coming up with big words and complex procedures simply so that its grip on international finance remains firm. So whereas McKay and his team seem to know what's going on, and while he seems willing and able to share it, he does so by condescending to a populace that only really cares about "reality" television, breaking down the fourth wall on celebrity life, and sipping champagne in a bubble bath.

It's a damning judgment of a couple institutions, to be sure. And all this has been to say nothing of the biting dialogue, razor-sharp and with more wit than it can sometimes handle. We see young men calculating their way into the field from their garage, and we see those same men later lounging in their commercial offices while the financial world collapses. Their performances -- particularly those of Christian Bale and Steve Carrell -- are stunning, even (and perhaps especially) when they prove to be less than heroic. Of course, this is movie almost exclusively concerns white men, but then I suppose that's a bit of a statement in itself, even with the likes of Melissa Leo in supporting roles. And by the end, they all work together, through perfect timing and flawless dark comedy, to infuriate the audience.

This movie isn't a drama thriller that carries a warning, like Margin Call. This is a white-hot, scathing indictment against all kinds of things I just don't understand. And it's one of the funniest movies I've seen this year. And that's exactly the point.

IMDb: The Big Short

Foxcatcher (2014)

Score: 5 / 5

Foxcatcher was, for me, the most emotionally brutal film of this year. Director Bennett Miller turns his uniquely intense gaze to the already horrific story of the Schultz brothers' interaction with John du Pont. Besides the actual events of their relationship -- culminating in the brutal murder in 1996 -- Miller's film concerns the dynamics of modern American athletes and coaches, sports and their patrons, men and their rivals, men and their friends, determination and pride, perseverance and mental instability, history and fate, and even wealth and status. For a film with a presumably straightforward premise, Miller complicates his presentation with fifty shades of everything. Typical, if you all remember Capote (2005).

Our three leads soar in this, and though their Oscar recognition might come in second to the more accessible, more emotionally rote films this year, their performances rocked my world. Channing Tatum -- whose acting has always worked for me, so I don't know why lots of high-brow-ers refuse to give him much credit -- delivers a knockout work that must be the dramatic peak of his career so far. Deeply introverted, surly and childlike, his movement work for Mark Schultz is so transformative that I forgot I was watching "Magic Mike" and not a real, cauliflower-eared wrestler. Likewise, Steve Carell disappears into his haunting portrayal of John du Pont (only partly due to his incredible makeup) and proves yet again that comedians can indeed excel in weighty drama. Mark Ruffalo, forever the perfect supporting actor in his chameleonlike ability to embody his character and counter the emotional strength of his scene partners, is a wonderful big brother to Tatum and a suitable unwitting antagonist of sorts between Tatum and Carell.

The du Pont estate, palatial and extravagant, provides ample atmosphere for excess and moral decadence as lines become blurred between pride and power. Du Pont seeks glory from his star Mark Schultz (Tatum), and desires his brother Dave (Ruffalo) to join them. Mark is precariously placed between great favor and great disappointment as he pushes himself to excel on his own terms, until his brother caves to du Pont's pressure and joins the team. As much as Mark needs money and craves success, his financially comfortable brother Dave tries to be a family man. But both end up biting du Pont's greenbacked lure and moving in to the vast Foxcatcher estate, where life turns into a continuous training regimen. The lines between coach and father, brother and rival, professional and personal quickly get erased.

We are presented with a uniquely homosocial environment, and Miller does not shy away from a moment of its implications. Wrestling, an especially intimate sport with no shortage of erotic suggestion, is shown in all its complexity without beating us over the head with its technical intricacies (in other words, this isn't your typical sports film that wastes so much time telling you how the sport works in real life). Instead, wrestling in the film becomes more about what it looks and feels like: an uncomfortable, erotic, and violent power play between two men. Outside the gym walls, the relationships between Mark, Dave, and du Pont is almost no different, as du Pont actively points out when he says multiple times that he wants to be more than a coach to his boys. Du Pont, for all his villainous psychopathy, is due some sympathy as we see him wrestle (ha) with a perceived inconsistency between wealth and success and between family heritage and independent pride. Vanessa Redgrave graces a few scenes as the primary vehicle for du Pont's problems, his disappointed mother, who expresses her disdain for the "low sport" and her fierce pride in family heritage over her own son.

I could wax effusive for hours, but don't just take my word for it. Go see it, and don't spend your strength right away -- you'll need it for round three.

IMDb: Foxcatcher