MUD sneaks up on you: A compilation of smart, real moments that turn into impressive scenes, with characters that expand and grow into full-bodied people who delight, alarm and surprise you. Somewhere along the way, you'll also realize that there has not been a false moment on view and that, yes, this movie may be something quite special. Mud does not disappoint.
What surprised TrustMovies most -- after seeing Nichols' other films: Shotgun Stories and Take Shelter, which were interesting but appeared too deliberately diffuse and, in the case of the latter, with-holding -- is how straight-ahead and on-track Nichols (shown at left) keeps his tale, without ever making it simple-minded. The filmmaker's command of his material has taken a huge leap, while the material itself has grown in scope and importance. The year is young, but I will not be at all surprised to find this movie on a number of "Best" lists, come late December. So accessible and moving is Mud that great word-of-mouth could easily take this independent film into mainstream territory.
Nichols' setting is again the south, but his ensemble has increased noticeably, beginning with the two mid-teenage boys who ground the movie and their introduction to the title character, played -- in yet another smashingly good performance -- by Matthew McConaughey (above). Last year this actor kept surprising us over and over -- Bernie, Killer Joe, Magic Mike, The Paperboy -- and this year looks to be no different. McConaughey appears to have found his muse, his pace, his place; his performance here is rich, moving, sometimes funny and always real.
The movie combines the coming-of-age theme with a great love story. But not just a love story. No: Mud lets us view love in so many forms in all kinds of ways: man/woman, boy/girl, father/son, mother/son, mentor/student -- and especially of the unrequited variety. Because Nichols and his cast have found a way to make all these loves meaningful and important -- even the chief villain (a nice turn by the seldom-seen Joe Don Baker) and his love for his sons is allowed a bit of our sympathy and understanding -- the movie never stops resonating.
As the love object that sets the plot in motion, Reese Witherspoon is initially almost unrecognizable. She's excellent, as usual, in a role that's unusual for this actress. (In fact, her character seems not far out of line with Witherspoon's recent altercation vis-a-vis the Atlanta police department.)
The filmmaker has always been adept at getting his cast to deliver fine performances, and his work with the two boys to whom the film most belongs is sterling. As Ellis, the boy we learn most about, Tye Sheridan (above, left, and below) is as memorable here as he was not so in the diddling Tree of Life. Ditto Jacob Lofland (above, right), in his debut as Neckbone, a boy we learn less about but for whom the actor does wonderful, moment-to-moment work. These are the best performances by kids that I have seen in a long while.
In the supporting cast are a number of fine actors, beginning with Nichols' regular Michael Shannon, who plays Neckbone's deep-river diving uncle, a character who, the first time we see him after a sexual contretemps, appears to be rather a schmuck. Again, Nichols and his actor gives us enough layers of behavior and caring that we're soon on this guy's side.
Ellis' parents, struggling and angry, are played by Sarah Paulson (above) and Ray McKinnon (below), both of whom are splendid, adding yet another difficult and important love story to the mix.
In the role of Mud's mentor, Sam Shepard (below) brings his usual gravity and low-keyed wit to the proceedings. Love, betrayal, revenge, understanding -- they're all here and mixed to precisely the right degree to approximate life in its complexity. Mud, my movie-loving friends, is a must-see.
The film, from both Lionsgate and Roadside Attractions and running 130 minutes (it seems shorter), opens this Friday, April 26, in New York City (at AMC's Lincoln Square 13 and Village VII, and at Clearview's 1st & 62nd) -- and elsewhere, I'm sure, though I can find no listing of playdates currently.
Showing posts with label the American Southwest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the American Southwest. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
Terrence Malick's TO THE WONDER opens; the "spiritual" among us may ooh and aah
In the spirit of our late and much lamented comrade Roger Ebert (whom yours truly only learned to appreciate later in Ebert's career, once that TV show had been laid to rest), I am going to approach TO THE WONDER, the new movie from Terrence Malick, in the manner in which I believe Ebert often did: by trying first to determine what the movie-maker was attempting to achieve with the film. I tend to do that automatically; it's always been part of my approach to viewing a film. I don't read the press material before seeing a movie because I find that this obfuscates as often as it makes clear, and sometimes it greatly effects what one imagines that one is seeing. When you are told what something means in advance, it's doubly difficult to un-understand it. So the tabula rasa is by far a better option.
This sort of smooch fest continues for maybe ten or twelve minutes, at which point, I suspect many viewers are going to say, OK: We get it. We then leave, along with the two lovebirds and her just pre-teen daughter for the plains of the Southwest -- which I suspect Mr. Malick thinks compares in beauty to the wonders of France. To each his own, but this looked looked more like a wasteland to me. (Coincidentally, Affleck's character appears to have some sort of job involving toxic waste and talking to citizens about their experiences with it. But we never learn more than this.)
On these southwestern plains, we get a lot more of Kurylenko gamboling, prancing, dancing and flitting -- and verbalizing her innermost thoughts. Here's one: "What is this love that loves us, that comes from nowhere, from all around?" Or maybe that popped out the innermost thoughts of a priest who's lost his faith -- an enormous waste of that fine actor Javier Bardem, below. (Wouldn't you say that any filmmaker who can render Bardem utterly non-specific and boring is in the wrong business?)
It doesn't really matter who says what in this film because all the verbiage is so dreadful. I won't use the word cliché because the narration never rises to even that level. Instead it more often sounds like the twaddle being recited by a three-year-old who has come to language skills only haltingly. At one point we're inundated with the word "love" spoken over and over until we're ready to talk back to the screen.
And who are these people? They have all this interior life, replete with imbecilic voice-over nonsense that they share with us while gamboling (Kurylenko) or getting down and solemn (Bardem), but they have zero exterior lives. No friends, no co-workers, no relatives, no nuttin'! Malick seems to have completely lost track of how to tell a story or create a character (ever heard of dialog, Mister?). And there aren't even --for Tree of Life lovers -- any dinosaurs. There are bison (two photos up), which is a helpful distraction, though I fear it leads to more dancing and prancing. (And not by the bison, which, in the manner of the musical Hair and its horses, would have been fun.)
Aside from smiling maybe once, Mr Affleck manages a single dour expression throughout almost the entire film: as though he is kind of miffed about something, perhaps that he signed on to this movie. Kurylenko grows nuttier until she's certifiable. If you are generous, you might call the film a meditation on existence, life, god and love. But there is so little to be learned or gained from its paltry array of "ideas" on verbal parade and even less from its "pretty" visuals, which, these days are a dime a dozen. And, yes, the movie ends with yet more prancing.
Who is the audience for this film, aside from absolute die-hard Malick fans? I would guess, given its take-down of organized religion, together with its attempt at creating god out of twaddle and prance, it will appeal most to those people who fancy themselves spiritual -- as in "I'm a very 'spiritual' person." To which I usually reply, "Honey: That's for someone else to say -- not for you to say about yourself." (In my experience, people who imagine themselves very spiritual are often just raging narcissists.)
So, if Tree of Life did not cure you of Terrence Malick, To the Wonder surely will. It is perhaps the most offensive film I have ever had to sit through. No, it's not "dirty" or full of foul language or overt sexuality or any of the usual suspects. But it is full of itself -- and irredeemably stupid. Even for those of us who liked or loved Malick's earlier work, it is time to stop pretending and call a spade a spade. To do any less is to become, in a word, an enabler.
The movie, from Magnolia Pictures and running a seems-like-twice-as-long-as 112 minutes, opens this Friday, April 12, in 16 cities and then expands to another 24 next Friday, and from there outward until most of the USA is covered. You can find all currently scheduled playdates by clicking here.
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