Mockingjay Soars to Unexpected Heights

by Matthew Cabe

Initially, part of what kept me interested in Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games—the first book in a three-part series—was disbelief. Because it’s ostensibly a series for children (young adults, really), I carried strong doubts into the proceedings when it came to the possibility of anything really bad happening to 24 child (some younger than ten) tributes selected at random to fight to the death in a grisly show of allegiance to the powerful and rich Capitol of Panem. I naively expected the uprising to occur right before the Games began.

I was wrong, of course. Not one but two Hunger Games transpire between the first book and the second, Catching Fire. The uprising I expected didn’t begin in earnest until part-way through the final book, Mockingjay. By then, countless citizens (not just tributes) have been murdered. The Capitol’s President Snow proves quicker to commit acts of genocide than he does to blink. Lives and Districts lie in ruin.

The situation is as bleak and frightening as a young adult series can get, and the first cinematic installment of a two part finale, Mockingjay—Part I, captures that bleakness perfectly. The film is directed by Francis Lawrence, who wet his feet in the series by directing the film’s predecessor, The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, but nothing in the second film (or in the first, for that matter) will prepare viewers for what Lawrence accomplishes here.

Mockingjay is a stark, muted visual affair. Even the usually outlandishly-colored Capitol and it’s overtly wealthy citizenry are suppressed to match the dark mood, and a sense of grave urgency is what results. After all, tensions between the Capitol and its 12 Districts have reached their boiling points in the wake of Katniss Everdeen’s unprecedented survival in two straight Games.

Katniss, played with ever-increasing depth and complexity by the talented Jennifer Lawrence, unwittingly, then reluctantly, becomes the symbol of revolution among the Districts after she is rescued from the second Games (also called the Quarter Quell) by operatives from District 13, which was previously thought to be completely destroyed by Capitol bombs.

No longer is Katniss “The Girl on Fire” that viewers of the first Games became enraptured with. In Mockingjay she is more like “The Girl in Conflict”, and Lawrence balances her grief and resiliency remarkably well. Like the film’s visual style, Katniss is also muted. Her hair is a long, stringy mess. Her face is pale and unglamorous. Her attire resembles that of a federal penitentiary inmate.

The drab exterior parallels her emotional state, which is a mixture of exhaustion, fear and confusion. But there is also a spark of hope in her character that slowly reveals itself in subtle moments, one of which involves an intimate discussion between Katniss and her younger sister Prim (Willow Shields), who clues the stubborn heroine into the reaches of her possible power. All the while, Katniss is photographed by Jo Willems (the film’s cinematographer) to resemble Panem’s version of Joan of Arc.

After the conversation with her sister, Katniss finally agrees to be the symbol of revolution, and is placed in harm’s way in order to create convincing propaganda pieces that will hopefully incite her fellow rebels. A running theme in the books is that Katniss is a terrible actress, that she can’t come across as genuine unless left to her own devices in instances of dire reality. The theme is cleverly played up in the film and allows Lawrence chances to show off the range of her acting abilities, which unlike Katniss’s, are boundless.

Lawrence isn’t alone here though. Mockingjay is rounded out by a star-studded supporting cast of actors from Julianne Moore to Woody Harrelson to the late Philip Seymour Hoffman (the film is rightly dedicated to his memory) working at or near the top of their games as well. The standout among them is Elizabeth Banks as Effie Trinket, the fashion-savvy, Capitol-born chaperone who unintentionally becomes part of the rebellion when she agrees to dress Katniss up for the propaganda pieces. Like the film itself, Effie’s lavish brightness is stripped away, and Banks uses the opportunity to effectively humanize her character and provide a slew of witty one-liners that lighten the mood ever so slightly.

For a film being marketed mostly to kids, Mockingjay is surprisingly socially aware. In part, it’s a serious film that asks very difficult questions regarding morality, love, war and death, and is comfortable with leaving the questions unanswered; there is a second film coming in 2015, after all. It’s also an adept action film. The battle sequence in District 8 is as tense and graphic as anything in the current action genre.

What’s even better though is how the film ruminates on the consequences of that “action”. Because there are even more scenes that showcase the haunting aftermath of battle and the casualties of war. A shot of the firebombed District 12 is especially unnerving in that it depicts the victims in a way similar to what you’d see upon visiting the ruins of Pompeii.

My only qualm with Mockingjay is that the film lacks patience. There are numerous inspired shots throughout it’s 123 minutes, and they’re gone before you get a chance to fully savor the mastery required to stage them. It’s a film too intent on focusing on it’s main character, but with an actress like Jennifer Lawrence portraying her, you can’t really blame the filmmaking team for keeping her at the center of everything.

Nightcrawler: A Local Business Success Story?

by Matthew Cabe

On the morning of 11 September 2001, the 17-year-old me was sitting on his bed, leaning forward in an attempt to enter the television screen in his bedroom not unlike James Woods in David Cronenberg’s Videodrome. He was supposed to be getting ready for school. The local news was supposed to be background noise like it was every other morning. But the teenage me was glued to a broadcast of one of the World Trade Center towers as smoke billowed from an open wound left by a commercial airplane. Then, on live TV, another airplane exploded into the second tower.

Imagine, for a moment though, that the 9/11 attacks occurred this year instead of in 2001. Where would Americans be? Chances are the vast majority wouldn’t watch the events unfold on their local news networks. They’d be hunched over their phones, scrolling Twitter for hashtagged updates of cell phone footage taken by normal people who just happened to be unfortunately in the wrong place at the right time. They’d be retweeting images, sharing their disbelief on Facebook, frantically texting loved ones. They’d be smoking to deal with the panic, thankful that they’d charged their vaporizers the night before.

But now imagine an internet-savvy 30-something who’s adaptable, fiercely competitive, DIY-minded, and can’t find a job (this shouldn’t be a stretch). That’s Lou Bloom (Jake Gyllenhaal) in first-time director Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler. Well, that’s partly Lou Bloom because he’s also creepy, amoral, desperate, calculating, and sociopathic. He’s also weirdly readable, which makes sympathy for his victims nearly impossible because, well, they knew better. 

Unemployable Lou falls into nightcrawling—a paparazzi-type job except the subjects are car accidents, suburban home invasions, and gang-related violence caught on tape and sold to local news outlets—after watching seasoned nightcrawler, Joe Loder (Bill Paxton), film two police officers rescue a badly injured woman from a wrecked vehicle on the side of a Los Angeles freeway. The next day, Lou steals an expensive bicycle from the Venice Beach Boardwalk, pawns it to get the equipment he needs (a cheap video camera and police scanner), and hires homeless Rick (Riz Ahmed) as his unpaid intern.

Lou’s rise in the nigthcrawling profession plays out like a rags-to-Fortune 500 success story as he goes beyond the limits of other nightcrawlers (and the limits of what’s ethical and legal) to attain the captivating footage he needs for a hard sell. He encourages (and threatens) Rick with emotionless, cliched business jargon, and develops a professional relationship with Nina (Rene Russo), the director of the lowest-rated news channel in the city.

Not long after Lou and Nina launch their business partnership, Lou begins to outperform his competition, including a pissed-off Joe. Lou has a knack for film grammar, as Nina points out, and a flair for the dramatic that could easily make him an adept documentary filmmaker. So why waste his talent in the, to put it lightly, fledgling local news market?

For starters, Nina and her news channel are as desperate as Lou to make money. He hones in on them like a lion would an injured gazelle; they’re the weakest link and he’s got the goods that could save all their jobs, so he attacks their (mostly Nina’s) vulnerability. And he stands to make very good money from his manipulative prowess, as evidenced by his pristine Dodge Challenger that pops up without warning midway through the film.

But Nigthcrawler isn’t The Wolf of Wall Street. Gilroy isn’t interested in filming the excesses of American swindlers so much as he’s interested in the motivation and psychosis that makes them wildly successful, if not enviable. And Lou isn’t interested in those excesses either. His focus is on being the best at what he does, no matter who gets maimed along the way.                  

At first glance, Nightcrawler feels outdated. Indicting the media for the “If it bleeds, it leads” mantra seems pointless and laughable. Network, among a slew of other films, already brought forth those accusations back in 1976 (and did so more adeptly, by the way). But a closer look reveals a timeliness to Nightcrawler that has little to do with the media or the sins of corporate America.

Because what the film addresses is the culture’s desensitization to, not just violence, but everything (Ebola was so last month!), and the possibly useless attempts of older generations to search for any sense of relevance in a world dominated by Millennials—the most powerful, reflexive and dismissive generation the world has yet to produce.

When Lou films the carnage he finds (or creates), he looks as intensely desperate as those generations yearning to reach the forefront of anywhere that has already passed them by, and as unaffected by the violence and death as the Millennials whose greatest skill lies in clicking, liking and swiping away every story without need for context. 

In a post-9/11 world, it’s fair to argue the possibility that had 9/11 occurred just two months ago, it would receive as much attention as the latest celebrity scandal, medical scare, or world crisis. Which isn’t much. Shelf-life no longer exists because the shelf collapsed under the weight of endless availability. People just aren’t willing to give anything the amount of time needed for processing, which is a result of the technology available to construct that unwillingness. Even this review is irrelevant; Nightcrawler was released into American theaters nearly a month ago. Who even cares anymore? I mean, shit, the new Hunger Games came out today.

Jean-Luc Godard and America’s Oxymoronic Need for Profitable Art

by Matthew Cabe

If you desire to see—or are even remotely curious about—Jean-Luc Godard’s new film, Goodbye to Language, you better live in New York City. Theaters in other major cities (namely Los Angeles since that “market” is, for me, within driving distance) have yet to book the film, and it’s unclear if they ever will.

An article written by Tom Brueggemann detailed the two main reasons why even a limited release of Goodbye to Language would be tricky at best. The second reason is interesting enough: The film can only be seen in 3D, and most of the smaller, independent, or artsy theaters out there—those theaters most willing to show a smaller, independent, artsy movie—aren’t equipped for 3D. This means that a larger-than-New-York release of Goodbye to Language relies almost solely on the mercy of larger, corporate-owned cinemas, and, well, good luck.

The sole purpose of the larger, corporate-owned cinemas is the same purpose of any good, old-fashioned American corporation, which is to turn a profit. And that’s fine. There’s nothing new or shocking or even wrong there. And to be clear, the goal of the smaller cinemas is the same; like any business, the smaller theaters can’t remain open if they’re not financially viable (unless they happen to be the New Beverly in Los Angeles, a theater that has stayed open entirely because Quentin Tarantino shelled out large sums of money, and eventually took over ownership, to keep the theater afloat).

I have no faith in American capitalism insofar as its relation to art is concerned, which is distant at best (and should be), so it’s easy to surmise that in all likelihood Goodbye to Language’s release future is bleak. But that raises questions concerning the uncomfortable relationship between film as an art form and film as a product meant for easy consumption.

Because the first reason Mr. Brueggemann offers in his article as to why Goodbye to Language will struggle to see a limited release is, simply, “It’s a Godard film.” He adds, “Exhibitors are shying away from Jean-Luc Godard and the challenging nature of the film, despite its Cannes pedigree and critical acclaim. It’s just not a conventional film, it’s different from what is normally booked.”

That the film might be challenging is nothing new. Since Breathless in 1960, Godard has made films that challenge not just audiences, but the standards and grammar of film as well in attempts to test the sturdiness of the medium’s foundation. That the challenging nature of the film is probably not viable is nothing new either because what it really comes down to is the nature of the challenge being presented.

David Fincher’s latest film, Gone Girl, has it’s challenging moments and attempts to subvert audience’s seeming desire for happy endings by offering what in any other movie would be considered a happy ending. It’s a difficult film; I still don’t even know if I like it. Yet in the U.S. alone Gone Girl has grossed nearly $153,000,000.

So what’s the difference between the challenges of Gone Girl and Goodbye to Language? I have no idea; I clearly haven’t seen Goodbye to Language. But, as a fan of Godard’s work and someone who found it difficult at first to engage with his films, I’m willing to bet that the challenges his new film might pose are more niche than those posed in Gone Girl, which are more universal and, thus, more easily digestible.

And therein lies the problem between film as an art form and film as a product. When art becomes product that product must be profitable, and art by it’s very nature is usually not very profitable, which inevitably results in less art being consumed, and that is a problem since art provides important opportunities for thinking and feeling that are central to the real value of human existence.

Keep in mind, too, that I’m not arguing Goodbye to Language is inherently good simply because it might be artful. I’m arguing that audiences should not be robbed of the opportunity to form an opinion of its possible merit simply because those in charge are afraid of losing money by giving it space in their theaters.

What’s more is I’m not here to admonish money or the making of it, though that goal does seem to be more of an obsession in America than it is in other countries. But if the fact that Goodbye to Language is doing well in the few NYC theaters in which it’s being shown (and it is), shouldn’t that persuade other markets (like Los Angeles and Chicago) to engage in another distinctly American obsession, which is the art of taking a risk? 

Dumb and Dumber Than Ever

by Matthew Cabe

One of the many ingredients that made Dumb and Dumber great was the film’s soundtrack. From Apache Indian’s “Boom Shak-A-Lack” playing throughout the unforgettable opening credit sequence to Deee-Lite’s cover of “You Sexy Thing” ushering in Lloyd (Jim Carrey) and Harry’s (Jeff Daniels) borrowed wealth, each song blended nicely into the background and set the perfect mood for whatever antics occurred on-screen.

But about a quarter of the way through Dumb and Dumber To one song from that soundtrack kept coming to mind. It’s performed by a band called The Sons and it starts (in the original) as Harry’s Shaggin’ Wagon races across a Pennsylvania highway after their first unpleasant encounter with the now-infamous Sea Bass (who does show up again if you’re willing to wait). The song is “Too Much of a Good Thing” and it serves as an apt metaphor for how I felt while watching Peter and Bobby Farrelly’s long-awaited sequel to their 1994 classic.

The Farrelly brothers best films (Dumb and Dumber, Kingpin, and There’s Something About Mary) defined comedy in the 90s. They were to that decade what Todd Phillips (Old School and The Hangover trilogy) or Judd Apatow (The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up) were to the 2000s. And it shows. Dumb and Dumber To feels anachronistic and forced. That’s no new development though; everything following 2000’s Me, Myself, and Irene has an increasingly outdated undercurrent that brings up uncomfortable questions concerning the validity of their former brilliance.

The problem is the Farrelly’s persistent regression toward a reliance on gross-out humor. The scatology is present in Dumb and Dumber, of course, but that comedy’s foundation is the titanic stupidity of the main characters. How many bottles Lloyd can pee into before a cop (Harland Williams) inevitably mistakes the urine for beer or how sufficiently Harry can destroy Mary Swanson’s (Lauren Holly) toilet garner big laughs for sure, but Lloyd screaming, “We landed on the moon!” as he exits a hotel bar or Harry insisting, “The French are assholes.” when Lloyd propositions a road trip to Aspen are just as funny and showcase the real reason why the movie is so damn funny, which is that these two buddies are the absolute dumbest human beings on Earth.

What’s paradoxical is that they are even shamelessly dumber in Dumb and Dumber To. Frighteningly dumber. Yet the laughs are not nearly as consistent because their deepened stupidity is displayed more in moments of disgusting physical pain rather than in moments of blissful ignorance.

A good example involves Harry trying to yank out Lloyd’s catheter after Lloyd reveals he’s been faking a mental breakdown for nearly 20 years. This occurs in the first five minutes of the film and it’s not funny (mainly because it was already effectively done four years ago in Hot Tub Time Machine).

I don’t want to mislead, however; there are instances in Dumb and Dumber To that induce uproarious laughter. A scene in which Lloyd and Harry briefly reclaim Harry’s Shaggin’ Wagon is on par with most anything in the original film. But they are few and far between. Every gag that works is preceded and followed by a slew that fall completely, uncomfortably flat.

What’s worse is that this new installment relies far too heavily on the humor of its predecessor. Fabled one-liners (e.g. “I like it a lot.”) are simply repeated and you find yourself laughing at a memory as opposed to what was just presented. The plot is similar, too. There’s a package to be delivered, a road trip, incompetent bad guys who want to kill the heroes, a love triangle that calls their friendship into question, undercover FBI agents, etc. etc. The only difference really is a strong sense that Lloyd and Harry somehow became aware of how incredibly dumb they are and decided to just embrace it fully.

The result is a melancholy understanding that more often than not lightning doesn’t strike twice. Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels try their damnedest to recreate their former glory, which might be part of the problem, while everyone else (audience included) is forced to merely look on in bewilderment. Rob Riggle, who is funny in his own right, is one glaring waste. Kathleen Turner as Freta Felcher is another. The weight this time around rests solely on the shoulders of Carrey and Daniels, and the resulting collapse is painfully obvious. 

There’s a few lines in “Too Much of a Good Thing”—that song I mentioned earlier—that go, “Baby, I got feelings old and strong. I did not think they’d last this long. Tell me why your light keeps turning on.” Comparatively, our feelings for the old certainly are strong; they’re why this sequel exists in the first place, and they’ve endured a two decade wait for replenishment. But Dumb and Dumber To offers very little that will satisfy an apparent need for more dumb or strengthen a waning belief that the Farrelly brothers can still be relevant. If nothing else, however, it turns the original’s light back on and unwittingly makes it shine all the brighter. 

The Sins of St. Vincent

by Matthew Cabe

How delighted I would’ve been had St. Vincent ended in any way other than what the title suggests. How conflicted I’d feel had the plot not pulled me along so obviously to the big coming together in which every character learns lessons about themselves and each other. I might still be thinking about the film right now, and there might be much-deserved buzz echoing through the packed halls of the internet over Bill Murray’s performance. But, alas, St. Vincent—written and directed by Theodore Melfi—plays out all too predictably.

The story concerns a recently divorced mother played by a tragically absent Melissa McCarthy who, with her angelic son Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher) in tow, moves next door to a bitter old man (that’s Murray). Due to circumstances that aren’t out of her control, McCarthy’s hospital-employee Maggie can think of no other option than to, on a whim, recruit the cantankerous stranger as her son’s babysitter even though he’s clearly an alcoholic with anger issues. Oliver, who is one of those too-smart-for-his-own-good boys of immense feeling, would be better off babysitting himself, but Maggie is too busy with work and mounting money problems and a custody battle and fighting with Murray’s Vincent to notice.

And so then Vincent takes the boy under his wing, teaches him how break the nose of the Catholic-school bully (Oliver and the bully become post-fight chums), shows him how to play the horses, introduces him to his Russian whore (Naomi Watts), and treats him to dinner at the local dive bar. Oliver, in the shock of the year, blossoms as a result of this street-savvy education. He also teaches Vincent a thing or two about compassion and friendship, and probably some other stuff only a kid in an indie movie could teach an adult who’s already defied great odds by staying alive long enough to be taught despite destructive lifestyle choices.

Two intriguing ingredients will draw audiences to this film: A toned-down Melissa McCarthy and Bill Murray. As for the former, McCarthy’s performance implies that her acting abilities consist of two speeds; she’s either got the pedal to the metal or she’s standing outside a locked car looking through the window at her keys. That’s not to say McCarthy, an alumna of The Groundlings comedy troupe, isn’t talented because she clearly is, and I was excited to see her in a role that doesn’t rely on her signature over-the-top zaniness. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and remain excited for her next dramatic role since the fault of her nonexistence on-screen belongs more to director Melfi’s script than it does to the actress. Along with McCarthy, Terrance Howard is wasted as Murray’s bookie who literally runs out of the story before he’s given a chance to add anything important or memorable.

Bill Murray, on the other hand, keeps the movie afloat—for a short while, anyway. The problem with his character is that Melfi tries to humanize someone who’s already very human. That Vincent is a lonely old man with a reluctance to people apparently wasn’t enough. There was probably a fear that his mean-spirited tirades would turn off audiences. So, included in his back story are military service and weekly visits to his dying wife in a nursing home. These additions are meant to create sympathy (or pity) for Vincent, but the sympathy already exists when he begins to open up to young Oliver. Hamming up the reasons behind his bitterness makes him less complex, less believable. Still, Murray’s performance is admirable, especially in the second half of the movie as things really take a turn for the worse for Vincent.

It’s no spoiler that the movie culminates with an assembly at Oliver’s Catholic school for presentations on saintly people. Melfi bee lines to this climax from the start, and it is sort of heartwarming. But it’s also cheap. In the last thirty minutes, Oliver and Vincent are no longer on speaking terms, but Oliver does extensive research on Vincent’s past in order to paint a saintly picture of him at the assembly. For my money, the film would have achieved a small miracle had it concluded with shots of Vincent sitting alone in his dingy home intercut with Oliver’s speech. There’s something difficult and real and messy in such a calling into question of all the change Vincent experiences up to that point. Instead, Vincent shows up at the school and sees how much he means to Oliver and their little community of misfits. All flaws are tidied up quite neatly and forgiven. A Hollywood ending if there ever was one.