Cosmopolis

A valiant failure. It's no coincidence that no novel of Don DeLillo's has ever been adapted for the screen. One of the greatest American novelists and a master of language, DeLillo's books do not lend themselves to film easily. This did not deter David Cronenberg from adapting Cosmopolis, a novel DeLillo wrote in 2003 about Eric Packer, a young master of the universe who spends all day trapped in his limo, going to get a haircut, while the world implodes around him, in no small part thanks to his predatory bets on the markets. It is symbolism in capital letters, a dark fable about the tightening chokehold of unbridled capitalism. On paper, it may look like it can be made into a film. There is enough incident, allright. Meetings, sex, even a prostrate exam happen in the car, but then there is the question of the words. Don DeLillo writes sentences that cut like black diamonds, but he doesn't write in a language that anybody who exists in reality could ever utter. Cronenberg aims to be as faithful as possible to that sharp, terse, ironic DeLillo style, but, to do that, he would need the finest actors mankind has ever offered to say these lines without sounding like pretentious automatons. The only one to emerge triumphant in this verbose ordeal is the great Paul Giamatti, firing the words like a weapon at the very end of the film. Matthieu Amalric fares very well playing a pie throwing activist and Samantha Morton hangs by a thread as some sort of financial oracle, holding the screen with the sheer conviction of her luminosity. I would have loved to see la Swinton play the part.
The rest is a disaster, mainly because Cronenberg picked Robert Pattinson, a terrible actor, to play the leading role. He is in every frame, and he tries his best, but he is flat as a board. The character is supposed to be morally and emotionally vacant, but the actor playing him cannot be vacant himself. I don't think Pattinson knows the full import of some of the lines he utters. Not because he is stupid, but because he doesn't have the depth. Ryan Gosling would have been perfect. Alas.
Even worse is Sarah Gadon, who, to judge from her performance as Packer's wife, is a totally inexperienced and untalented actress. This makes me question Cronenberg's sanity. Do not give a role with De Lillean dialogue to someone who can't act. It will bring the movie down.
As we have said before about Michael Fassbender's wooden performance in Cronenberg's A Dangerous Method, it takes a rare talent to make him act badly. The same happens here but with Juliette Binoche, an even greater actor than Fassbender, sounding wooden and fake as an art dealer. I'm starting to think that Cronenberg is just not a great director of actors. He's beginning to like very wordy literary adaptations, and his last two films seem like the life has been punched out of them by so much unwieldy dialogue. He didn't use to be this way. His movies have always exploded with messy life.
Cosmopolis is stiff but much less corseted than A Dangerous Method. Some moments of Cronenbergian pizzazz wake the audience up. The scene with Amalric is wonderful; surprising, violent and funny. So is a moment where Pattinson uses a gun. The scene with the barber (George Touliatos, excellent) has a certain power, even if most everything in this movie looks like a cheap set. I expected the look to be as polished and metallic as in Cronenberg's Crash (a pervy movie that I love), but the light is harsh, which makes the surroundings look phony (as phony as the New York of Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut, a similar disaster, but made with much more money).
Imagine this movie had David Fincher made it. It would have been better. It sorely needs that Alpha male gloss. On the page, DeLillo's language reads like a trillion bucks: sharp, smooth, velvety, dangerous. But the movie dies trying to bring his style to life. There is not enough sharpness; not enough precision. Yet, as terribly flawed as it is, the endeavor to bring to the screen this dark fable about the collapse of our society is somehow quixotic. You cannot but root for Cronenberg, if you manage to make it to the end.

Robot & Frank

A sweet, thoughtful, original and unlikely comedy about a man with incipient Alzheimer's and the robot that is hired to help him out; this is, once more, an opportunity to witness the greatness that is Frank Langella. He has been nailing every performance in every movie he is in, but this one is a gem. Langella plays Frank, a man who lives alone in a little town in the near future, and who is losing his memory. He happens to be an ex-burglar and he is ornery, proud and in denial. His exasperated son (James Marsden) gets him a robot to keep an eye on him and help whip him into shape. Frank is annoyed and humiliated by the robot (voiced by a suave and solicitous Peter Sarsgaard), but as the robot has been programmed to improve his charge's health, Frank, crafty bastard that he is, realizes he can manipulate the robot to help him plan some heists, which are the only thing that keeps his mind alert and bring him joy. It is a truly original premise and director Jake Schreier strikes the perfect tone. The movie is funny, smart and very touching. Somehow, one believes that a relationship is created between Frank and the fantastic Robot, closer to that which he has with his dutiful but distant children. Langella should be nominated for every prize in the book for this extraordinary performance. He doesn't chew the scenery; he doesn't need to. He completely inhabits Frank. One believes he was once a very good burglar. One believes that he doesn't remember who his children are. One knows when he remembers and when he doesn't, when he is faking dementia. He is so good at faking the faking, he is just astonishing. One can see the regret and the sadness of his current life, his tough side, and the sparkle in his eye when he relives his planning feats. He also has impeccable comic timing. Langella has become one of the greatest American screen actors.
I could watch Susan Sarandon pad around in her pajamas and pay the price of admission. I will endure any movie if she happens to be in it. Here she plays a librarian, something of a species on the verge of extinction, who is very nice to Frank, who flirts with her. Her warmth and intelligence fill up the screen. The long lost Liv Tyler plays Frank's daughter, some sort of ditzy hippy liberal who travels the world and James Marsden as the son has great reserves of contempt for a dad who not only was never there, but who shamed the family for being a crook. Yet the delightful chemistry belongs to Frank and the Robot.
A light comedy, Robot & Frank nevertheless touches upon the very painful theme of aging and  memory loss, of losing touch with life. It also skims through the possibilities of a near future when robots will be our daily companions (we're not that far off, given our exaggerated attachments to iThings).
It could have been a gray dystopian bummer look at the future, as sci fi movies usually are, but the twist here is that it is less a sci fi flick than a comedy in which the near future looks almost identical to the present. This makes us focus on human feelings and memories, more than on man made objects. Robot & Frank has a wistful air of nostalgia for objects who don't talk back, like books, for the human connection we are afraid of losing (if we haven't yet) in this age of constant screens. Robot and Frank likes to think that the human is still in charge. It makes us wonder for how long.

Tony Scott

Tony Scott was among the best practitioners of the action genre and he left behind a number of iconic movies, from the small cult movie The Hunger to Top Gun. His death is enormously tragic, yet as many obits confirm, his movies, although immensely popular, were not usually liked by  critics (in contrast to the work of his brother and collaborator Ridley Scott, responsible for movies like Alien, Blade Runner and Gladiator, all popular and critical successes).
Tony Scott's movies were, for the most part, preposterous blockbusters; adored by the masses, derided by reviewers. The success of his big movies like Top Gun, The Last Boy Scout, and Days of Thunder paved the way for increasingly over the top studio extravaganzas, which turned out to be much less watchable, and far more stupid than the worst Tony Scott movie. Compared to the Roland Emmerich or Michael Bay school of cinematic destruction, Scott's films are a marvel of restraint. There is always an interesting character worth following. He always got solid performances out of his actors, which is more than you can say for many action films. And the action sequences are top notch (although sometimes his movies feel like there never was a cut he didn't like). Still, they are no masterpieces. Many times, they verge on the cheesy. Top Gun and Thunder Days are perfect examples of Tony Scott's brand of impeccably executed mindlessness.
In any case, here are my favorite Tony Scott movies:
First one out of the gate, and his first movie, is The Hunger, a mesmerizing vampire clunker that has achieved cult status because of a notorious lesbian scene between Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve. We should be forever grateful to Tony Scott just for orchestrating such an event. The movie is artsy cheese. Lots of fog, fans and venetian blinds. Very 80s, campy fun. With David Bowie, as what else? A vampire.
I actually liked Revenge, starring Kevin Costner, Madeleine Stowe and a scene-stealing Anthony Quinn. It's a little noir set in Mexico, in which Costner has the hots for Stowe, who is married to Quinn, who is sheer evil. Dark and very satisfying.
True Romance, with a script by Quentin Tarantino, happens to be one of my favorite Tarantino films. It is exhilarating fun and has one of the greatest supporting casts ever. A scene between Dennis Hopper and Christopher Walken is worth the price of admission. Brad Pitt is very funny as a clueless pothead. Scott directed with great verve, making Tarantino's chutzpah shine through.
Crimson Tide is a pretty taut submarine thriller that pits the great Denzel Washington against the great Gene Hackman in a battle of wills, which is like sinking your teeth into a most delicious acting sandwich. Apparently, an uncredited Tarantino spiffed up the dialogue, making it more fun than any submarine movie has any right to be.
Scott made several collaborations with Denzel Washington, who has made a career of delivering plausible, unshakable, dignified action heroes. Washington has a smart gravitas that other action stars don't. He always sounds like a human being and not a sound bite. Even in the most ridiculous action films he makes you care and keeps you following him, which is what happens in the mess that is Man on Fire.
I didn't see Scott's remake of The Taking of the Pelham 1-2-3, but I did catch Unstoppable on TV and enjoyed the well manufactured tension of a train hurtling towards destruction without brakes. I also enjoyed watching a lox like Chris Pine come up to bat against Denzel and become a better actor for it.
I hope the Scott family is consoled by the love of millions of people for the films of Tony Scott.

The Queen Of Versailles

You walk in to this surprisingly affecting documentary by Lauren Greenfield with the preconception that you are going to hate David and Jackie Siegel, the protagonists of this sad, ridiculous American saga. Greenfield gained access to the billionaire couple as they were building the biggest house in America, an enormous mega McMansion "inspired" by the palace of Versailles, without the taste.
The house, set in the swamp that is Orlando, Florida, was to be ninety thousand square feet and had 10 kitchens, a bowling alley and a grand ballroom, among other necessities. It was built in such a scale, as Mr. Siegel put it, simply because he could do it. That is the can-do American spirit right there, to spend, borrow and buy apocalyptically and with great gusto.
Mr Siegel became a billionaire by developing the largest timeshare corporation in the world. As his son explains, with a timeshare you are selling an apartment 52 times over. People pay a mortgage to use the place one week a year. One apartment - 52 mortgages = genius. A timeshare is, like many of the perks of living in the land of overconsumption, something nobody really needs, but Siegel, who seems to be a very shrewd businessman, made billions with it. Heartbreaking are the scenes where suckers are led to the slaughter by smooth talking salespeople showing off tackily appointed timeshare penthouses. Timeshares are the real estate equivalent of Vegas slot machines: for aspiring losers only. Siegel and his son not only know this, but they actually say it. However, they spin it as giving regular people the opportunity to "feel rich", to partake of the delusional fantasy that the American dream has become. Nowhere in the film do the Siegels ever acknowledge that they may have been the victims of their own predatory practices. Nor do they seem aware of the connection between their Republican ideology and the karma they ended up paying. What makes the film interesting, beyond a sarcastic voyage into the lifestyles of the obscenely rich is that the economic crisis suddenly put David Siegel in the same spot as many of his customers; unable to pay off debts, and for the exact same reasons: irrationally cheap loans.
What starts as an exploration of almost pathological conspicuous consumption, ends being a poignant fable about our financial crisis and the rampant criminality of the banking system, which doesn't show mercy even for well connected billionaires like the Siegels. For as Mr. Siegel borrowed cheaply and spent like a maniac, the economy collapsed and so did his business, which was predicated on people making their monthly mortgage payments.
Greenfield, who followed the Siegel family for two years, was handed a once in a lifetime dramatic turn on a platter and she wisely took it. We all have heard about regular people who got foreclosed and fired and ended up sleeping in their cars and eating at soup kitchens, but the irony, and the implications of watching unrepentant billionaires lose their shirts is what makes this film more than just a sideshow into the eccentricities of the American rich. It is an indictment of a capitalist system gone completely off the rails. It still provides good, superior fun, laughing at the foibles of a rich man and his younger trophy wife (this phrase is actually used by the couple's eldest daughter in connection to her own mom). We can laugh at their garish oil portraits and their terrible taste (they all look like they dress at Kmart). The Astors, these people are not. The only thing they have in common with Versailles is the French in nouveau riche. But what makes the film winning and even touching is that the Siegels are very, as they say, "relatable". They are not snotty, evil, claustrophobic snobs. They are plain and down to earth and surprisingly candid and open as subjects. Why on earth did they think it a good idea to let cameras into their private life is anybody's guess. Obviously, they liked to show off their wealth. Maybe Siegel thought a peek into the construction of his own personal Valhalla would be good business P.R. Greenfield may have set out to shoot a satyrical document about the distorsion of the American dream, but she was taken by their openness, and eventually, their vulnerability. She rolled with the punches, and the result is a satisfyingly complex portrait of a family, and of a new class of ridiculously wealthy Americans, whose obscene fortunes ended up being flattened by the financial crisis.
Jackie Siegel happens to be very personable, albeit completely distorted by wealth. In an almost unbelievable scene, she goes to Hertz and expects a driver to be included in the rental. But she doesn't seem petty. She is an ebullient, compulsive consumer, refreshingly un-self aware. As in, I paraphrase: "I wanted to have just one child, but when I saw that I could have nannies, I had eight! They are such a bundle of joy!" (the nannies, I presume). In fact, her gargantuan shopping habits before the debacle (and even during) could singlehandedly save the American economy, or at least the ravaged economy of Orlando. A former Miss America, a bright kid from Binghamton, N.Y. she studied engineering so she could get a job at IBM, then the local source of jobs in town. She quickly saw the misery of a Dilbert-like existence and bolted for a modeling career. Eventually, as Miss America, she met David Siegel, thirty years her senior. Jackie is a great deflater of our preconceptions. She doesn't act like the gold-digger one expects. Just because she was Miss America, doesn't mean she's stupid. But she does like to play dumb. She seems totally devoted to her husband, much more than he is to her. Still, she spends money like other people gorge on food; to satisfy an inexhaustible emotional hunger. Nothing is ever enough, but she shops so guilelessly that you almost feel sorry for her. To me, having that amount of money and choosing to live in Orlando, Florida is incomprehensible. But the Siegels don't have pretensions. They don't care to sit on the board of the Met. They just care to spend and to have and to show it off. Their hunger for things hints to emotional deprivation in both of them. People who feel safe and loved probably don't need to surround themselves with so much crap. The Siegels are world-class luxury hoarders.
For good contrast, Greenfield spends some time with their small platoon of Filipino nannies, who can't see their own struggling kids and are actually the ones who wear the pants around the house, because Jackie is incapable of any kind of discipline.  She has a good eye for irony and hubris, and the film is rich with scenes of great paradox, like a mansion covered in dog poop because nobody there cares to walk the dogs. A scene of Christmas shopping by Jackie, just as her husband is struggling to save his business, is jawdropping. She arrives home with 4 giant Walmart carts of gifts as the maids try to bring them into the house where already in the garage there are mountains of forgotten unused toys.
The movie is an entertaining, disturbing portrait of our rapacious capitalism. It's a scary vision of upended fortunes. Check out Jackie's chauffeur's story. It will give you goose bumps. It's "there but for the grace of God go I". But it is also an intimate portrait of a lopsided marriage, the threesome between a husband, his wife, and lots of money.
Right before the movie came out, Siegel was very displeased with the results and sued Greenfield for defamation. It's ironic that he can't realize that what makes him angriest about the finished film --  according to him, it makes him looks like a loser and tarnishes his business reputation -- is actually what ennobles him.
There have been several documentaries and movies about the grotesque surrealism and unfairness of our recent financial crisis, but this one makes it feel personal. By a happy accident; the financial crisis, it became about much more than a glimpse into bizarre fortune, it's about the collapse of American fortunes of poor and rich alike at the hands of the biggest, most brazen, unrepentant criminals this country has ever known: the financial industry.

Artsy Fartsy

Here are our thoughts on why biopics about artists suck.