OSCARS: Category-by-category analysis as we head to 2015

The final wave of precursor season is upon us as we enter the New Year – in the next few weeks, critical nominations will be unveiled by the DGA, the PGA, the WGA and BAFTA.

The race could change profoundly by the time each group has weighed in, and yet remarkably, in surveying the current predictions of five top pundits in the industry – Tom O’Neil of Gold Derby, Steve Pond of The Wrap, Glenn Whipp of the Los Angeles Times, Sasha Stone of Awards Daily and Kristopher Tapley of Hitfix – I found almost no variation.*** In fact, all five have the same twenty actors listed to be nominated, and have all rallied around eight films to contend for Best Picture, with only the slightest difference of opinion suggested in the potential ninth and tenth nominees.

Each have predicted based on who has come out strongest between the Globes, SAG, the Critics’ Choice and some other, minor groups – in other words, if you haven’t been placed yet, you aren’t being predicted. I myself agree with 18 of the 20 acting choices – I’ll get to that in a minute – and, too, have those eight Best Picture nominees shortlisted. But consensus is dangerous, particularly before critical industry groups have had their say. So, category by category, let me offer a few caveats and a general picture before the final stretch begins.

BEST PICTURE

All five pundits agree on Boyhood as out front to win, with Selma close behind and The Imitation Game, Birdman and The Theory of Everything as assured nominees. It’s hard to argue with that. All are Golden Globe and Critics’ Choice nominees for Best Picture, with AFI and SAG Ensemble mentions for all but one (Theory, as a British-made production, was ineligible for AFI; Selma screeners weren’t sent out in time to SAG members). These are your “locks” at this point.

Predicted across the board albeit ranking lower is Unbroken (sixth at highest; tenth at lowest), The Grand Budapest Hotel (sixth at highest; ninth at lowest) and Whiplash (sixth at highest; ninth at lowest). It’s hard to tell with these three. Unbroken was expected to fare a lot better at the Golden Globes, and a bit worse with the Critics’ Choice. It was expected to get better reviews than it did, but its box office performance far surpassed expectations. It’s been up and down a lot. It’s similarly difficult to gauge Whiplash –which hasn’t really performed aside from AFI and Critics’ Choice mentions – because it’s just not a movie that would be embraced by the Globes (too low-profile) or SAG (not an ensemble movie). Still, despite modest commercial returns, it’s played very well to the Academy and has received passionate year-end support from critics. And as for Grand Budapest Hotel, few expected it to be much of a player at all until it rocked the precursor circuit – really, it’s fared as well as those upper-tier titles, with Picture and Directing nods from Critics’ Choice and the Globes, as well as a SAG ensemble citation. Given Wes Anderson’s level of respect in the industry, a DGA nod would go a long way (and WGA recognition is imperative). For Whiplash and Unbroken, PGA nominations are essential, if expected. At this point, it’s hard to affirm their place in the race, but omitting them would be senseless.

Despite its early release, The Grand Budapest Hotel increasingly feels like the Her of this year – a movie not many expected much of in awards terms really being driven by passionate support from corners of the industry. Additionally, I could see Wes Anderson eking out a Screenplay win in the same way that Spike Jonze did over American Hustle last year. It’s surging right now – that’s for sure. But otherwise, four of five pundits have each listed Foxcatcher and Gone Girl, with Tapley omitting Gone Girl for Clint Eastwood’s American Sniper and O’Neil favoring Into the Woods over Foxcatcher. These are all bubble contenders, and at this point it’s a guessing game between the four. I’d also throw into the arena Nightcrawler, with AFI and Critics’ Choice mentions, and Mr. Turner, a sure-fired BAFTA Best Picture nominee. But to the others. Foxcatcher and Gone Girl are both hits with critics that remain, for Oscar, uncommonly cold and dark. Foxcatcher’s pedigree and top-notch cast gives it necessary snob appeal, but what Gone Girl lacks in elitism is made up by its mammoth box office performance. As for American Sniper, reviews are better than expected and audience reaction is through the roof. I’m in favor of Foxcatcher right now, based on Sony Pictures Classics’ intelligently-“American”-themed campaign. But American Sniper is a close tenth, Gone Girl firmly in it as well.

Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but the one title I’m really not sold on is Into the Woods. It should have been a lock for a SAG nomination – star-studded movie musicals were to SAG what Angelina Jolie was to the Golden Globes, until the whole system imploded this year! – and yet was ruled out by February niche Grand Budapest and Oscar-frontrunner-without-much-of-an-ensemble The Theory of Everything. Not only that, but the Critics’ Choice didn’t list it among their top 10; SAG and the Critics’ Choice represent the two substantially-sized (or remotely proportional to the Academy) groups to weigh in so far, and neither gave it much of anything. Of course the Golden Globes would go nuts for it in their Comedy/Musical categories – but I don’t see it getting anything from DGA, WGA or BAFTA. Conversely, one title that will be doing well there is Mr. Turner; though excluded from WGA, Mike Leigh is a considerable threat to upset at the DGA and he, along with the film, is a lock for BAFTA recognition. I’ve made the argument before, but it remains a sleeper bound to pounce at some point, much like Amour or Philomena – nominated in 2012 and 2013, respectively, neither had much of anything at this point. There’s usually one of those titles that manages to sneak in, and I can’t think of a more plausible contender in 2014 than Turner.

Pundits are playing it safe right now – Gone Girl and Foxcatcher have popped up more than the others – but don’t let the consensus fool you. Not even Grand Budapest, Unbroken and Whiplash can be assured just yet. Some need to maintain momentum, and some need to kick it in high gear. Lots of room to play here.

BEST ACTOR

Who are the five pundits unanimously agreed upon? Eddie Redmayne (The Theory of Everything), Michael Keaton (Birdman) and Benedict Cumberbatch (The Imitation Game) most obviously rank – they’ve swept the precursor circuit – and, spotty omissions aside, David Oyelowo (Selma) and Steve Carell (Foxcatcher) fill out every list.

Of course, this feels like the race made for a surprise, seeing as no major group has quite settled on this five. There are several major contenders not being seriously considered here: Timothy Spall (Mr. Turner) will gain momentum with BAFTA, Jake Gyllenhaal (Nightcrawler) has been nominated by everyone so far, and Ralph Fiennes (The Grand Budapest Hotel) has also been faring well, and too (given his roots) could surprise at BAFTA. Oyelowo was omitted by SAG along with the rest of Selma, and that fact should be considered albeit not too seriously (Leonardo DiCaprio and Christian Bale were both ignored by SAG just last year because they were late-breakers, but had no problem making it in with the Academy). On the other hand, Carell hit SAG and the Globes alright, but Fiennes and Gyllenhaal both overtook him at Critics’ Choice (which, again, just wasn’t really into Foxcatcher for whatever reason).

Is Carell being overestimated? Very possibly. In these conversations, we too often leave out the actual merit of the performance. Carell is excellent in Foxcatcher, but he’s giving what I’d call an inarguably supporting performance, and an understated one at that. Contrast that with Gyllenhaal, Spall and Fiennes, who not only transform but go big. He got in at SAG, but television actors historically do a lot better there – look at James Gandolfini (Enough Said) posthumously sneaking in last year – for the obvious reason that many television-focused actors make up the guild. The Globes cited him, but, they nominated Foxcatcher for Best Picture over titles like Gone Girl, Unbroken and American Sniper – they liked the movie and swept him along (and, he didn’t get in over Gyllenhaal, either; Michael Keaton competed in a separate category so there was room for both). But his track record is decent, and this has performance has been in the conversation for months – given the many actors that have jumped in the race since, it’s impressive he’s sustained his buzz to the degree that he has.

So, eyes on BAFTA: the category will be exceptionally British this year, with Cumberbatch, Redmayne, Spall and most likely (and, for his chances, most essentially) Oyelowo competing. Does Keaton get the last slot? He’s an Oscar lock, obviously, but this is an actor beloved within the U.S., and I’m not sure what kind of global appeal Birdman will have – last year’s eventual Oscar winner, Matthew McConaughey, wasn’t even nominated by BAFTA. I’d be curious to see if Fiennes or even Gyllenhaal could snag the spot. Last year, Bale and DiCaprio both made it into BAFTA, over McConaughey and the rapidly-declining Robert Redford. That was big – while McConaughey was eventually nominated, the Brits proved that DiCaprio and Bale had substantial industry support, and subsequently, Tom Hanks (Captain Phillips) was very surprisingly left off with Redford to make room for the two.

Thus, the story remains: consensus means nothing at this stage. In fact, there isn’t really even a consensus to speak of here, unlike many other categories in which the illusion is backed up by consistent precursors. No, there’s some wiggle-room here, and as for who among Carell, Gyllenhaal, Spall and perhaps Fiennes push on through, we might have to wait until Oscar nominations morning.

BEST ACTRESS

For every group, it’s been the same story: Julianne Moore (Still Alice, near-lock to win the whole thing), Rosamund Pike (Gone Girl), Reese Witherspoon (Wild), Felicity Jones (The Theory of Everything) and Jennifer Aniston (Cake). We all but knew the first four were locks – this category is anemic in terms of “Oscar”-friendly performances – and Aniston smartly saw an opening, vigorously campaigned and is now seeing the work pay off.

Because that is the Oscars – a game, a strategy, a narrow field in terms of what’s actually ripe to contend. Pundits (rightly) never took seriously the towering work of Mia Wasikowska (Tracks), Essie Davis (The Babadook), Jenny Slate (Obvious Child), Gugu Mbatha-Raw (Beyond the Lights and Belle) and Tilda Swinton (Only Lovers Left Alive). I’d even throw in, given what’s on the table, Toni Collette’s deeply-felt work in Lucky Them. But, enough of the lamentations – it’s the Oscars, not the best of the year, right?

Is Aniston assured? I have her ranked fifth, mainly because a diversity of groups seem tightly set on her. But she’s vulnerable – the movie is small and not all that well-reviewed, and Aniston’s mix of TV cred and star-power likely helped her out at SAG and the Golden Globes, respectively. The one major actress I didn’t mention above is Marion Cotillard, mainly because she actually does have a chance. She has a pair of superb performances this year – Two Days, One Night and The Immigrant – and has been launched courtesy of wins from a density of regional critics’ groups (most notably New York). But the Critics’ Choice nodded her (for Two Days, her Oscar movie) as their sixth choice, notable because it proves a larger, more diverse group of voters can settle on her.

The race reminds me of 2012, when Helen Mirren was cited by SAG and the Golden Globes for her work in Hitchcock before being snubbed by Oscar. It was Amour’s Emmanuelle Riva, who rallied with Critics’ Choice and BAFTA nominations, that slotted herself in (she also made it over Cotillard for Rust and Bone, who similarly hit all the precursors) – Riva was, like Cotillard, in a critically-adored but little-seen foreign pic. Cotillard will need to show up at BAFTA as an indicator of some industry support. It’s very possible that she will – I can’t really imagine foreign voters lobbying for Aniston in a film many of them probably haven’t even seen. That does not mean Aniston is the only vulnerable one, however. Rosamund Pike is a Brit finally getting her stateside break, so a BAFTA nod is reasonably assured. But she’s off the campaign trail, a choice which desperately hurt Robert Redford last year. It could be that Cotillard rallies, Aniston withstands a BAFTA snub, and it’s Pike that gets pushed out. Of course, the pundits are unanimous for a reason right now, and Cotillard has some catching up to do. Until then.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

There seems to be no stopping J.K. Simmons (Whiplash) at this point for the win, but a formidable foursome seems to have been established around him: Edward Norton (Birdman), Mark Ruffalo (Foxcatcher), Ethan Hawke (Boyhood) and Robert Duvall (The Judge). Norton and Hawke have been assumed nominees for a while now, but Ruffalo and Duvall hitting every precursor is more notable – Ruffalo even got in at Critics’ Choice where Foxcatcher was otherwise snubbed, and Duvall has withstood tepid reaction to his film. As such, each pundit is predicting the five.

Truth be told, this is a very thin category and it’s hard to imagine anyone else sneaking in. Christoph Waltz, once thought to be a contender for Big Eyes, has earned actively bad reviews. Josh Brolin (Inherent Vice) did get in at Critics’ Choice as the sixth nominee, but it feels like that annual critically-beloved performance not earning any Oscar traction. I wouldn’t bet on this one. The one to look out for is probably Tom Wilkinson (Selma). He’s definitely far back, considering not a single organization has mentioned him thus far. But he’s a respected, multi-nominated actor in a juicy role. If Oscar really digs the film, I could easily see him getting swept as Jonah Hill did last year for The Wolf of Wall Street.

Who does he take out? Either Ruffalo or, more likely, Duvall – but they seem reasonably assured. This is a tough quintet to break. We’ll see if Wilkinson gets in at BAFTA – while who he replaces shouldn’t be taken too seriously (last year, Oscar winner Jared Leto was omitted), his getting some industry recognition will be critical (especially considering he’s British). But there’s no real argument with every pundit in town settling on these five, and realistically speaking, they’ll probably all make it to the finish line.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

Best Supporting Actress feels ripe for an upset. Recognition has been across-the-board for frontrunner Patricia Arquette (Boyhood), Keira Knightley (The Imitation Game), Emma Stone (Birdman) and Meryl Streep (Into the Woods). Jessica Chastain hit the Globes and the Critics’ Choice Awards for A Most Violent Year; Tilda Swinton surprisingly fit into the Critics’ Choice six for Snowpiercer; and, rather shockingly, Naomi Watts was cited by the all-important SAG for her broadly comedic work in St. Vincent. All five pundits have the four apparent-locks and Chastain shortlisted to be nominated.

It’s odd, because Chastain is a type-A Globe favorite – she’s a hot young actress with one win already on her mantle – in the kind of smaller film the Critics’ Choice tend to recognize. There’s not much evidence that she’s got industry support for this one; she’s also competing against herself with Interstellar, a fact which may have impacted SAG. And I do wonder about “locks” Knightley and Stone, mainly for personal reasons. I liked both in their respective films, but also found their work especially unremarkable – I’ve seen both do better stuff in this year alone. The only reason I scratch my head is this: the Oscars’ voting system is preferential, and I don’t really see a lot of #1s being thrown their way. Of course, I’m probably wrong – as far as Oscar is concerned, you get swept up with your film and that’s that. Birdman and Imitation are red-hot right now, and little stands in their way.

But there’s some flexibility, and these are two performances that could, in some scenario, be left off (along with Chastain). The most formidable contender is probably an actress that has been snubbed across the board so far: Laura Dern. After an Emmy-nominated and Golden Globe-winning run on Enlightened, she had a prolific year in film this year and is contending for Wild, for which she’s picked up a few critics’ awards. More importantly, her peers have demonstrated profound respect for her, and she’s working the circuit hard. Truthfully, I’m quite surprised it hasn’t paid off more, but I haven’t lost hope just yet. Oscar is a different, larger breed than SAG, and that Naomi Watts nomination is plain strange. It indicates that the field is wide open. I don’t see Swinton making it in here, if she couldn’t for We Need to Talk About Kevin in 2011. I really don’t see Watts carrying through, either. Both could – they’ve proven they can with substantial groups – but Dern seems like a choice that the larger, more conservative Academy would go for.

And there are some other possibilities. Rene Russo is dynamic and attention-grabbing in Nightcrawler – while I think a Critics’ Choice nod would have helped her immensely, she’s still got a shot if she can rouse enough passion. And if a Selma tidal wave is looming – it might be, might not be – watch out for Carmen Ejogo, who does impactful and soulful work. Again, when Oscar likes a movie, they tend to reward it in bunches – seriously, American Hustle, Dallas Buyers Club, Nebraska, August: Osage County, Blue Jasmine, The Wolf of Wall Street and 12 Years a Slave all earned multiple nominations, adding up to an astounding 17/20. Ejogo could figure into BAFTA, as could Swinton or even Dern – and, more to the point, I kind of doubt Chastain does. If you’re looking for an upset in 2014, this is the place most likely to house one.

So, as 2014 comes to an end, that’s the picture. We’ll check back in with what these pundits are thinking in a few weeks, just before Oscar nominations morning – I’ll also post final predictions at that point. And, of course, I’m always fiddling with the predictions master-list – you can access that here. 

**See www.goldderby.com for updated predictions of O'Neil, Whipp, Pond and Stone. Go to www.hitfix.com/contenders to see Tapley's updated list.

Film review: BIG EYES

(The Weinstein Company)

Big Eyes is consistent entertainment, even at its most absurd. And, I mean absurd. You can't help but mock a coked-up Christoph Waltz channeling Jack Nicholson: that smile, that insanely creepy glare, that off-kilter edge! Taking it seriously, you'd be within reason to think that Big Eyes was a strange, Cheshire Cat-centric riff on Alice in Wonderland. 

The irony of this film is that it really becomes about Waltz's Walter Keane, and (more specifically) the actor's chewy performance. Amy Adams, top-billed star here as wife Margaret, is provided only a few acting moments to really sink her teeth into, with everything contingent on Mrs. Keane's relationship to Mr. Keane's monster. Waltz is a clown, exclusively interested in his own one-person show. While it might be the point, the depiction of a relationship themed by submission and domination should never feel as thin as it does in Big Eyes.

Director Tim Burton – an astute art collector of Keane’s works – brings an aesthetically-pleasing flourish to 1960s San Francisco. Margaret escapes an abusive relationship in the suburbs before heading out West, to make it on her own in California. She meets the Parisian-wannabe Walter, who convinces Margaret to marry him out of fear (very possibly, her daughter would be taken away if she didn’t). It’s all too sudden (as Margaret's friend DeeAnn, played by an underwhelming Krysten Ritter, reminds us), but she takes it in stride. Walter rents a wall at a shady jazz club and, through Burton's swift method, he's become Walter “Big Eyes” Keane, claiming credit and skyrocketing in popularity for melancholic paintings of children with enlarged pupils – works which were actually painted by Margaret.

The rest of the film's content lingers in the mind; it almost seems senseless to recount. The main thread of Big Eyes, though, is Walter's inherent and surfacing insanity. Again, think Nicholson in The Shining: watching Walter toss lit matches into a room where Margaret and her daughter hide, I was expecting Waltz to axe down the door and exclaim, “Here’s Johnny!” Walter also stabs a critic with a fork at a gala when his failed “masterpiece” – a collage of ethnic children symbolizing nationhood, or something – gets bad reviews. Aside from making no sense – I assume he understood critics didn’t like "his" stuff – this kind of Walter-going-nutty scene undermines the dramatic quality of the film. It comes off as satirical, even though that’s not what it’s trying to be. In all seriousness, the principal tension of the movie is Margaret's coming to the conclusion that she married a mentally-ill, homicidal con artist. This is all fine and fun, but it never unearths what actually makes this story captivating: her decision to marry such a man, to succumb to his domination, to forfeit her artistic integrity. How a man might wield that power over this woman seems like the obvious point-of-view Burton (and Waltz) should have been telling this story from.

The frustration here is Burton’s clear ability to actually entertain – there are moments in this movie that work well. He directs Adams in a way where she expresses a lot with her eyes – all the characters do, in fact – and it allows the actress to make interesting visual and emotional choices. When Walter finds Margaret painting in another style, asserting herself in the only way she knows how, her fearful, beady blue eyes communicate deep timidity and hurt. Those moments when she’s scared, apprehensive, or worried are penetratingly dramatic. Maybe it’s a sadistic consideration, but I was hoping they would put her through the wringer just a little bit more than they did; or maybe, not merely in the Walter-is-going-to-physically-torture-you way. Adams can't go especially deep in this piece, unfortunately – when you’re working alongside a self-satisfied attention-hog, it’s difficult to create a believable relationship.

Margaret moves to Hawaii because, well, “it’s paradise,” and with large sums in the bank she realizes that she can. Here, on the radio, she announces that she is the real painter. The climatic courtroom scene that follows is as broadly comic and shamelessly fun as Burton intends (and, apparently, toned down from what actually happened). The judge is humorously annoyed as Walter – was Jim Carrey Waltz's acting coach for this last scene? – plays both defendant and attorney, running back and forth between the witness stand and the attorney's table before he calls himself forth. Burton wants us to enjoy watching this insane man get what he deserves, but it's ultimately a misjudgment. For the feminist zing he imbues the work with, Burton intends a work of comedy as well. How else do you explain this pouncing mad-man routine?

Margaret’s arc in this elongated final scene – in which she finally learns to stand up for herself – is as touching as corny courtroom speeches get. She finds Jehovah and teaches herself that she has value. Regardless of the film's value, I left with a new appreciation for Ms. Keane – the works that litter this underwhelming if decent movie impressed me, and Burton's high opinion of her is well-translated. The staleness of Big Eyes can be attributed to Waltz, who prevents the movie from taking a step further, and somewhat to Burton, who lazily stays out of his way. But while there are some plain-ridiculous moments – when the eccentric cast discovers the secret behind the Keane family, I nearly gagged – Burton and Adams work well together to give Margaret Keane a serviceable cinematic nod.

Burton overreaches sometimes – Margaret seeing her "eyes" in people around her is purely ineffective, and to call Danny Huston's voice-over unnecessary would be generous. But he gives the film its color. It’s pretty mild and familiar, but there's a charm amidst its various faults. Could this have been a deeper examination? Positively. Burton went for something more playful. It falls within the realm of such entertaining stylistic pieces as Gone Girl or Birdman which – if examined and broken down – aren't quite the sum of their parts. They nonetheless make for pleasant viewing. If Big Eyes indicates anything: Tim Burton may have fallen from grace, but he can still string together a fair and entertaining movie.

Grade: B-  

Film review: ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE

/Indiewire

Jim Jarmusch’s rhythms in Only Lovers Left Alive feel at once more and less conventional than usual. In a sense, there’s something much easier to grab onto here – bored vampires rekindling a bohemian romance – and the dynamics presented are more familiar. Throughout Jarmusch’s breezy and loose new film, there are elements of familial comedy, existential crises and, dare I read too much into it, social commentary. It’s an unexpected combination that’s smarter and richer than his previous feature Broken Flowers, but it remains less potent than his best work.

Jarmusch, rock-and-roll lens in-tact, is gently amused by his two subjects. Adam (Tom Hiddleston) and Eve (Tilda Swinton) are centuries-old vampires that remain, as Jarmusch characters tend to, typically mellow and ethereal. They’re married, but Eve lives in Tangier, Morocco, and Adam in Detroit – I’d imagine centuries of marriage warrant these kinds of breaks every so often. Jarmusch opens paralleling their experiences, fusing guitar instrumentals with a swirling camera. We observe each, steeped in their ways, each trying to get a blood-high from their respective sources (Jeffrey Wright’s blood bank employee for Adam; John Hurt’s older and wiser friend for Eve). It’s an elongated sequence, with Jarmusch not really expecting much of you but to lounge, take in the music and find the characters’ internal life. Jarmusch is operating very mildly here in the early-going – he indicates that his intrigue in the very idea of living through centuries suffices.

By the time the two finally reconnect in Detroit, the whole affair is a tad muted – I’m not sure if I can call that a criticism, since Jarmusch’s response to that claim would be an affirming nod – and uninvolving. The director is projecting a weariness, with Adam ready to finally call it quits and Eve’s comfort with her books, friends and adventurous new setting thus quelled by her marital responsibilities. Things are changing – Adam doesn’t care to even go out anymore as his city fades, new music fails to move him, degrading environmental quality forces him to test any acquired blood for contaminant. The great, steadfast quality of Only Lovers Left Alive is its lived-in suggestion; as with Jarmusch's best, this is a hangout movie in the best way. But his work in sustaining a mood is less comprehensive than what’s expected of him. At times, his work treads episodic territory, hitting beats flatly as he transitions from one scene to the next.

Seeing as this is not Jarmusch’s most erudite or immersive work, its reserved stylings can project needless, quiet monotony. But the film takes a sharp turn rightward as Adam and Eve reunite. They get high. They listen to music. They recall the past, romantically and intimately. Swinton and Hiddleston play cool and matured with naturalism and understated chemistry, and manage to illuminate Jarmusch’s shadowy vision. Jarmusch surveys the two as they drive around Detroit, the boarded-up houses and empty streets within it. “Everyone left,” Adam faintly acknowledges. He talks of the falling industry, the building crime – he witnessed the city’s fall. Hiddleston handles the lamentations delicately, and Swinton’s optimism perfectly matches them: “It’ll come back … this city’s got water, and when the South is burning up, it’ll come back.” Jarmusch’s wise, suggestive historical commentary, filtered through his “Adam and Eve,” strikes with great, lasting impact. It’s the vampire story no one wanted to tell: people that have lived and lived, through monarchies and epidemics and innovations, interpreting and contending with the mundaneness of the present. Of course, as seen through an artist like Jarmusch, such people find solace and continuity in the sound of the guitar, the words of a great writer – as indicated by the title, soulful expressions live on.

The movie is enjoyable and thoughtful as Adam and Eve share time together, but, as if Jarmusch was anticipating the “high” beginning to fade, in comes Mia Wasikowska to really burst the thing wide open. As Eve’s sister Ava, the Tracks star exudes an irrepressible childishness with startling wit and humor, with Jarmusch’s even-keeled comedic approach necessarily delving into thicker territory. Ava is a troublemaker, a centuries-old child, with Adam playing unamused father and Eve peacemaking mother. Only Lovers Left Alive is suddenly mining familial comedy as if it were the film’s principal genre – the three eventually go to a music club, to Adam’s chagrin, as Ava aggressively flirts with an acquaintance of his (played by Anton Yelchin). Her destructive imposition gives the film the jolt of energy it desperately needed – Wasikowska’s reading of a line as simple as “I’m thirsty” is milked for as big a laugh as possible – and also allows the film to wander into more stimulating terrain. Ava is playing the “little sister” role – but she’s hardly young. She’s hundreds of years old. Jarmusch’s exploration of cyclicality begins to pay off here, from the talk of the American city morphing to the visual demonstration of eternal familial identity.

Wasikowska enters and exits relatively quickly – her arc ends with a hilarious “What did you do now?” as only a Jarmusch movie about levelheaded vampires could imagine – and subsequently, Jarmusch slowly guides Adam and Eve to a stopping point. The film’s initial feel creeps back in, and again, it’s a mix of easy enjoyment, mild provocation and inescapable airlessness. But the purpose feels stronger. Again, in exploring identity assumption, Jarmusch isolates the moment in which Eve watches her father-figure (Hurt) finally pass on – she’s losing a loved one, a mentor, a family member. He holds on this image. The ghostly mood isn’t sustained quite all the way through, but he captures these exotically spooky visuals, and in the process superbly contrasts the timeless with the timely, the momentous with the out-of-place.

The vision in Only Lovers Left Alive is, at times, marred by its creator – but simultaneously, its effectiveness is rooted in his alternatively musical, atypically humanist sensibilities. His characters speak with striking familiarity, and are leveled, collected and down-to-earth exactly as centuries-long residents of the planet would be. There’s a great attention to detail – Eve bringing Infinite Jest along on her trip to Detroit being a prime example of subtle character texturing – and a fleshed-out worldview. The movie is relatively thin, aside from isolated moments of engaging familial communications; it works best as an ode to what lasts through time and through change, namely music and words, spouses and siblings.

Adam’s been there before – this isn’t the first time he’s considered “ending it.” That’s a key detail, because Jarmusch works best when observing humanity’s circularity. Cities rise and fall. Loved ones drift apart and come back together. Grating family members stick around, no matter how many times you kick them out. And music lives. The written word lives. Only Lovers Left Alive comes off like a rough cut, too undisciplined and indulgent to fully work and resonate. But this is distinctive cinema with fresh ideas, and stands out in a crowded year as a result.

Grade: B+

YEAR IN REVIEW: 5 great scenes in 2014

As I did with television and five episodes: before I post and write a little about my top ~15 movies of the year, I'd like to use this space to discuss five films that didn't quite rank, even if I found a lot to like in them. My opinion of these five varies, seeing as some came a lot closer to ranking than others, but each have a lot of value and, in some cases, occupied a sizable space in the conversation this year.

Each film listed below is discussed primarily in the context of a single, representative (and great) scene. Next week, I'll be posting on my favorite film performances and honorable mentions before listing my Top 10 Movies of 2014 in the new year, along with some words on those I didn't get a chance to discuss in any other space.

Below, five great scenes in 2014...

Gone Girl – Amy is sick of being the “cool girl.”

I’m glad a movie like Gone Girl exists: as Mark Harris’ depressing analysis of contemporary Hollywood makes clear, it’s the kind of movie that studios are quickly getting out of the business of. Consequentially, David Fincher’s marital satire presented an opportunity for critics to meet the mass public in the middle, flawed as the film itself may be. I like Gone Girl, especially when it unapologetically revels in its thriller sensibilities, or when Fincher’s biting wit isn’t marred by an attempt to get at anything especially deep or thoughtful (instances which, more often than not, were not to his benefit). “Amazing” Amy’s infamous “cool girl” rant puts the central mystery and unsettling nature of the material into immediate, explosive perspective: it’s really the one moment when writer Gillian Flynn’s gender-conscious arguments and Fincher’s coldly cinematic vision mesh perfectly. The movie simply glides as Amy’s motivations are pieced together through this voice-over, delivered with perfect levels of honesty, intensity and insanity by Rosamund Pike. While moments at Neil Patrick Harris’ estate or with Tyler Perry’s attorney dragged on the whole – and while, eventually, the marriage at its center was branded by excessively-indulgent commentary – here was Gone Girl at its most wondrously pulpy and quietly probing.  

The Lunchbox – Tragedy forces Ila to confront her reality.

You don’t come across something like The Lunchbox very often. It’s a sad, muted character study centered on people normally without a voice or perspective considered worthy – its vitality, even at its most flawed, is always clear in this respect. Set in Mumbai, Batra’s camera expertly and specifically acknowledges the paralleled experiences of loneliness, whether traveling home on a train among thousands or sitting in your kitchen in silence, alone. His contemplation as a storyteller is to simply listen to, and take very seriously, the hopes, the fears, the dreams, and the weariness of a soon-to-be-retired widow (Irrfan Khan) and a housewife in an arranged marriage devoid of affection (Nimrat Kaur). The movie treads rom-com conventions mostly effectively, but it is strongest in moments of clear focus. When Kaur’s Ila learns a woman leading a similar life had recently committed suicide, Batra ascertains the movie’s harrowing core. His camera is more intimate here, fixed on Ila as she internalizes and grapples with a tragedy she’s unnervingly close to. And when she asks Khan’s widow by letter, “What do we live for?”, the inquiry – or rather, the clear despair underlying the inquiry – hangs over the film, a storm cloud that never really fades away.

The Skeleton Twins – Wiig and Hader lip-sync a rocking duet.

The Skeleton Twins is a small-scale indie whose strength is drawn from the chemistry of its two leads. This lightly funny and unexpectedly moving observation of two suicidal siblings features Kristen Wiig and Bill Hader in the screen pairing of the year: their shared history as performers and artists on Saturday Night Live simply radiates. It’s astounding to watch two actors bare themselves in front of one another, allowing themselves to be so vulnerable and to dig so deep with such confidence and grace. The movie is merely decent when the two don’t share the screen, and yet, that very reality renders their coming together that much more potent. The film’s most memorable scene is also its best, indicative of the frequent magic writer-director Craig Johnson is able to conjure up courtesy of his cast. In it, Hader enthusiastically begins lip-syncing Starship’s “Nothing’s Going to Stop Us Now,” taunting a reluctant Wiig to join in the fun. There’s a childishness and a warmth in Hader’s performance here, his overt comedic stylings perfectly masking the character’s struggle and desire to connect to his sister. Once Wiig finally relents and “belts” it out, the scene turns simultaneously joyous, hilarious and melancholic. So goes The Skeleton Twins at its deeply-felt best.

Snowpiercer – In the classroom, things gets gloriously weird.

Bong Joon-Ho’s dystopian allegory Snowpiercer is an inventive, if not quite transcendent, exploration of class, power and unchecked state authority. It wanders into more intriguing territory when it demonstrates its capacity for inspired oddity. Tilda Swinton’s androgynous Margaret Thatcher-like figure pops up every so often, and her expression of such infectiously vile energy infiltrates the entire film with unexpected levity; generally, the weirder Snowpiercer gets, the more substantial it becomes. When Chris Evans’ team of lower-class survivors push on to the “education” cart of the Snowpiercer Train, Joon-Ho gets as peculiar and fascinating as just about anything this year. In this scene, the great Alison Pill nearly steals the whole movie as a possessed elementary teacher, indoctrinating children with a combination of Orwellian mantras and Blue Jasmine levels of manic. Snowpiercer’s gritty and violent nature is abruptly suspended here, as the classroom’s bright colors and Pill’s startling enthusiasm provoke more fear and feel more involving than anything that came before it. Ultimately, this is an idea-heavy movie that occasionally sticks a little too closely to an exposition-heavy approach; yet in moments like these, the movie is distinctive, mesmerizing and analytical all at once.

Under the Skin – So, an alien goes into a nightclub…

Jonathan Glazer’s highly acclaimed Under the Skin is taut and captivating, far less interested in what you think about it than how it makes you feel. It’s easy to understand why the film has struck some critics so passionately – it’s brazenly confident, gorgeously impressionistic and classically art-house – even as I didn’t have quite as strong a reaction. Glazer’s indulgence, his overwrought artistry, is his very appeal, and specifically in this effort I found it occasionally, excessively, aimless. Even so, it’s a film that succeeds in its disorienting and penetrating nature, and sporadically, it just amazes. Late in the film’s first act, his protagonist – an alien transplanted in contemporary Scotland, played with appropriate mystery and seductiveness by Scarlett Johansson – enters a nightclub. The driving sensation in Under the Skin is foreignness, its characteristic unease and trepidation, and this scene evokes that with bracing depth. Watching Ms. Johansson curiously and apprehensively navigate the thudding music, the assaultive strobe lights and the sweaty male bodies all paying her a glance or two is masterfully experiential. Glazer’s film may not rank among my personal favorites of the year, but I can’t think of any scene that so vigorously shook me and near-literally absorbed me as this one did. 

Film review: UNBROKEN

(Universal)

Angelina Jolie’s Unbroken depicts torture, starvation, sadism and brutality with appropriate grit and relentlessness. Its intentions are wholly noble, telling a story of triumph, will and perseverance without a shred of irony or cynicism. It’s also beautifully-done; the great Roger Deakins finds a way to evoke the penetrating boundlessness of the open sea and the dirty claustrophobia of a POW camp with equal levels of success, and a hefty studio budget allows Jolie to stage some impressively-mounted set pieces.

Jolie is competent and reasonably assured. But her Unbroken seems to have confused important with serious, and glory with sap. In fashioning Laura Hillenbrand’s biography of Louis Zamperini, an Olympic runner who underwent unthinkably traumatic experiences in World War II, for the screen, the actress-turned-director carries out an exceedingly-narrow vision. Her goal to merely honor Zamperini’s legacy is quelled by easily-accessible material (including Hillenbrand’s book) that digs into the extraordinary man with more depth. Her harsh albeit surface-level depiction of wartime torture and severity is handily outdone by recent Spielberg-ian efforts including Saving Private Ryan and The Pacific, and in canonical works such as David Lean’s Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) – Spielberg and Lean, among many others, match Jolie in grit and intensity, but possess the vital moral inquiry that she lacks.

Unbroken is monotonous as a two-note film – misery, triumph, misery, triumph, misery, triumph – blatantly uninterested in anything especially complex or provocative. Films can get by without digging deep – much of its first half, taking place on a raft as Louis (Jack O’Connell) and two fellow soldiers battle the elements, recalls a film that did just that in Life of Pi – but this one is tone-deaf. Jolie gets off to a strong start, a tense and ambitious aerial sequence in which Louis is fending off enemy fire, but she abruptly cuts away to the past. Her handling of these flashbacks is embarrassingly trite and clichéd, and sucks out every degree of impact mined from her opener. Louis is introduced as a troublemaking kid – his cry of “I’m nothing!” is, apparently, sufficient explanation as to why – moved by a Priest’s sermon that amounts to “love thy enemy” and turned around by the sport of track. His brother encourages him with a painful (and repeated) motivator: “If you can take it, you can make it!” Cue composer Alexandre Desplat’s amping up the inspirational score. Jolie’s love for this man runs deep – seriously, when she flashes back to his Olympic run, with the roaring crowd and unrelenting sense of victory, you’ll have to look and listen closely to realize he didn’t actually come close to winning.

There is no argument against the belief in Zamperini as an extraordinary figure. But Jolie goes to such pains to express this that the point is diluted. He’s offered escape from the POW camp if he denounces America publicly: he refuses. Starved and overworked, he’s tasked with holding a thick plank of wood over his head for hours: he does it. This is the entirety of Unbroken: the film is willing you to exclaim, “Look at what he went through!” and applaud him for taking it in stride. And yet, as a cheap title card reminds, Zamperini was diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress and contended with depression and alcoholism after he returned home. O’Connell is good here, playing Zamperini with wit and believability. But he’s handed a cipher, not a character: the toll of war, of what he went through, is glossed over. Jolie wants you to see him persevere, not legitimately acknowledge and deal with his inner-life. This is a serious problem, because you never get a sense of the man being treated like a deity in front of you. In fact, you don’t really get much of anything except a redundant contrasting of suffering and willpower.

On the raft, Jolie acquits herself better. The camaraderie between Louis and the other survivors is essential, allowing the hardship and worsening conditions to be felt rather than simply described. Again, even if Jolie’s not doing anything especially probing or original here, Deakins’ camera keeps things interesting and the actors – including Domhnall Gleeson of Frank – keep it authentic. It’s the last hour of the film where I threw my hands in the air. Unbroken keeps Louis within the confines of POW camps throughout its second half. He is beaten, starved and humiliated, and the focus is constant and merciless. But: what’s the point? We get this for over an hour, for the seemingly sole purpose of identifying just how bad it was for Louis. The content in these scenes is shocking, purely brutal, and yet entirely empty. Last year, Steve McQueen went even further in his depictions of torture in 12 Years a Slave, but there was an overriding intent, a visceral confrontation with history that shook you. In Unbroken, it’s only, “how horrible,” and Jolie doesn’t earn this: the experience of sitting through the abuse for an hour, with nothing to mull over or really feel besides senseless horror, ranged on insufferable.

The script is credited principally to Joel and Ethan Coen, and their voices are so distant from the final product that I have to think the rewrites by Richard Lagravense and William Nicholson took the movie in a more digestible direction. But, even so: these are four accomplished and distinguished writers, and yet the film’s script emerges as hollow, with dialogue excessively-wooden and structure somewhat shapeless. There seems to be intrigue and an attempt at commentary in the relationship between Louis and “The Bird,” the sadistic POW camp commanding officer played well by Japanese musician Miyavi. There’s a wonderfully understated – a genuine rarity here – moment in which The Bird tells Louis, a man he’d beaten to numbing effect, with deep and unexpected sadness that he is leaving, and must bid farewell to his “friends.” The captor/captive narrative is approached here, as the script hints at its mutually-corrupting nature. But the approach stops. In looking upon its subject in awe, this film is solely dedicated to paying tribute. Consequentially, there’s no room for a grey area. There’s no perspective here, no real purpose – and it’s not an enjoyable viewing experience, either. If you didn’t know how horrible the war was, I guess there’s something in here for you. Unbroken is sometimes a classically generic and well-mounted “great man” biopic, but Jolie egregiously mistakes the mere presence of suffering for artistic value and importance. Simultaneously, then, her film is dull and excruciating, honoring a man without ever digging even an inch below the surface.

Grade: D+

OSCARS: Is MR. TURNER in it for a nomination, and what's out front to win?

(Sony Pictures Classics)

Can Mr. Turner crack the Best Picture race?

I’ll admit, the question rings louder having just seen Mike Leigh’s extraordinary biopic. But it remains a valid one. Dating back to 1999, with the exception of his more-divisive All or Nothing, Leigh has received at least one individual Oscar nomination for his last four films. None match the critical acclaim meeting Mr. Turner – his best-reviewed film to date – and the movie’s sizable scope feels more like something Oscar would want to honor.

It’s also showing up on most every crucial top ten list. Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times ranked it first; it’s also placed among the favorites of Peter Bradshaw at The Guardian, all three major film critics (A.O. Scott, Stephen Holden, Manhola Dargis) at the New York Times; David Denby at The New Yorker; Justin Chang at Variety; David Edelstein at New York Magazine; and many others. Films generating that kind of broad enthusiasm tend to fare very well with the Academy, but Mr. Turner has been utterly absent in awards conversations so far.

With classically-gorgeous cinematography, agreeable period stylings and art as its subject matter, Mr. Turner also seems to be a more Oscar-friendly contender than many other “frontrunners.” Foxcatcher and Gone Girl are cold and bleak; Unbroken and Into the Woods aren’t well-liked by a fair amount; and The Grand Budapest Hotel comes from Wes Anderson, who inexplicably is, in 2014, without a single nomination for Best Picture or Director. Yet Mike Leigh is beloved, with a film far more Oscar-y than his slice-of-life Another Year or the strange concoction that was Happy-Go-Lucky, both of which were embraced to some degree.

And I do wonder about precursors. This was not going to a prominent challenger at SAG, and was ineligible for the Indie Spirits and the AFI Awards. Some Globe recognition would have gone a long way, but again, it’s a small organization with no crossover membership. Given the disparate state of things, predicting Leigh to receive a DGA nod is absolutely not out of the question. The film could easily show up on the PGA’s Top 10. And it’s guaranteed to be a BAFTA smash – recognition there vaulted Philomena in prominence, and also bolstered the individual chances of eventual Oscar nominees Sally Hawkins, Leonardo DiCaprio and Amy Adams. All of this means to say: there’s really no indication that Mr. Turner is out of this thing.

There’s also been speculation (as there is every year) that the list of Best Picture nominees might be down from nine, precisely because of that aforementioned reason – there just isn’t that much to choose from. Can you imagine Foxcatcher, despite the critical acclaim and strong specialty box office performance, really rousing enough Academy members? What about Gone Girl, a box office hit already ignored by both AFI and SAG? Is this finally the year a Wes Anderson film gets through? This isn’t 2013, a year so full of easily-imagined Best Picture nominees that a Coen Brothers critical darling and a Disney-Emma Thompson collaboration couldn’t even crack the top nine. This is a strange, thin (again, not in quality, but in Oscar terms) year that’s bound to throw some surprises. I’ve read arguments for Wild, but no one seems invested in it beyond star Reese Witherspoon (even expected supporting contender Laura Dern has been snubbed to date). People are still holding out hope for Interstellar, even though it’s type-A sci-fi and the critics aren’t pulling for it the way people expected. Unbroken is quite literally willing itself to get through, and at this point, it probably will. Gone Girl and Foxcatcher are holding on, kind of. Grand Budapest was written off solely because of who directed it, but, would you look at that, it’s barreling through a slate of underwhelming bubble contenders. So is Nightcrawler, even if its chances are likely inflated by critics swept up in its scathing journalistic critique. Mr. Turner hasn’t had that opportunity yet, but I’m curious and eager to see how the race changes when, in a couple of weeks, it will have its turn to make its case.

With the dust settling after the first wave of precursors, we’ve still got Birdman, Boyhood, The Imitation Game, Selma and The Theory of Everything way out front. We’re still assuming Whiplash is safe. We’ve grudgingly accepted that Unbroken’s relentless campaign is probably enough. We’ve reluctantly realized that Grand Budapest might be too good, in a year too easy, to be the latest Anderson film ignored. That’s eight – is that it? Foxcatcher, Into the Woods, Gone Girl, Nightcrawler and Clint Eastwood’s underperforming American Sniper are all trying to find a way in. You may not notice it, but so is Mr. Turner.

(IFC)

Picking Boyhood for Best Picture seems to be the smart thing to do at this point – but can it really win? As I see it, Richard Linklater’s 12-years-in-the-making indie would amass six nominations at most – Picture, Director, Original Screenplay, Supporting Actor, Supporting Actress, and Film Editing – which would be the lowest total in recent memory (or ever?) for a Best Picture winner. Argo, despite missing out on directing and cinematography, still earned seven; otherwise, the low-end of the scale seems to be nine, characterizing recent winners The Hurt Locker and 12 Years a Slave. And, you could easily dismiss the idea that nomination counts matter at all – really, Boyhood doesn’t stand a chance in sound or cinematography categories simply because it isn’t that type of movie. But, it does matter. The Academy is a diverse group, with sound mixers and editors voting right alongside actors and producers. A strong showing in the nomination totals indicates broad support.

This does not mean to say Boyhood would be disliked by a sound editor simply because it’s not doing anything substantial in that area. But the correlation between high nomination totals and who wins is undeniable, and indicates broadly that people vote what they know. And unlike Argo, which grossed hundreds of millions of dollars domestically, Boyhood is an extremely small film with a campaigner in IFC that is very new at this “awards” game. So I wonder: can Boyhood sustain its frontrunner status?

This Best Picture race is incredibly complex. Let’s consider the chances of The Imitation Game, which will in all likelihood reach a substantially larger nomination total (I’d say, at minimum, seven). Let’s get this out of the way: Morten Tyldum is not winning Best Director. Not over Richard Linklater, whose gargantuan achievement is too heavily-discussed and admired. Not over Ava DuVernay, charming the pants off everyone in town and presenting an opportunity to bring a little history to the Oscars (she’d be the first black person, let alone black woman, to win Best Director). And that’s a huge problem – never in Oscar history have Picture and Director failed to match-up three years in a row. And this just isn’t 2013, when Alfonso Cuaron was an utter lock to win for Gravity regardless of how the film fared, or 2012, when the stiff Academy Directors’ Branch decided Ben Affleck wasn’t quite in-enough to get nominated (and I’d wager that if he were nominated, he would have won). And that’s not the end of The Imitation Game’s problems. It’d be the worst-reviewed movie to win Best Picture since Crash, which triumphed in a most-anomalous year. It’s a prestige pic without the robust box office of similarly-appealing films like The King’s Speech.

It also hasn’t generated much chatter in a year in which, for several films, talk has been deafening. One of those movies is Selma, whose position in this race is exceedingly unpredictable. It’s a critical hit. It was a smash at the Globes and the Critics’ Choice Awards. And it is timely. But is it banging the relevancy drum a little too hard? Pete Hammond, pundit for Deadline (and fan of the film), reported today that its very overt campaign (tying the film’s message to erupting racial tensions in the country) might be generating some backlash. Attendance at its formal Los Angeles Academy screening was underwhelming – the Into the Woods screening immediately after drew double the crowd – and yesterday’s murder of two New York City cops indicates that the situation is getting uglier, one that Selma has stuck itself in firmly for better or worse.

I also wonder if the movie peaked too early. Controversy notwithstanding, 2012’s Zero Dark Thirty came out of nowhere to pick up a slew of critics’ prizes and stood as a legitimate threat to eventual winner Argo before it rapidly faded. Selma’s AFI Festival premiere was a massive hit, and each subsequent screening has gone about as well as a screening can go. But the Oscars are a marathon, not a sprint. Selma will still need to play well to audiences and do solid business. The guilds will need to show it some love – unlike Boyhood and The Imitation Game, not to mention Birdman and the Theory of Everything, Selma was snubbed from SAG (mainly because it hadn’t been seen by enough people) – seeing as we have no indication as to what the industry thinks of it. Once DuVernay gets in at DGA, and the film gets cited by PGA – BAFTA recognition would be especially indicative – then its staying power and winning potential will be evident. Right now, it’s isolated talk without enough to back it up.

It’s also worth noting that Selma’s nomination total is going to hover around only 6-8. Reasonably assured are Picture, Director, Editing and Song, and from there are a lot of unknowns. David Oyelowo has a very good shot at Best Actor, even in a year this competitive. Bradford Young’s cinematography has generated attention, but competition this year is stiff. Tom Wilkinson is a legitimate late-break contender for Best Supporting Actor; BAFTA recognition will be imperative. Paul Webb’s script is in the thick of a credit controversy, which when competing against Boyhood and Whiplash and Birdman and The Grand Budapest Hotel and Mike Leigh (a mainstay in the category) isn’t the greatest thing in the world. And that’s about it. Selma may appeal to more groups than Boyhood, but it’s still hampered by the fact that it isn’t big, in the obvious sense of the word.

I’ve talked about why the road to an Imitation Game victory is an awful long one. And beyond it, the only film that’s been performing well that will earn substantial nominations is Birdman. It’s a technical achievement with a deep cast – Michael Keaton, Edward Norton and Emma Stone all appear good for a nomination – and an inventive screenplay. But it’s also weird and atypical. No Oscar pundit is betting on Birdman for exactly what it is – a tone- and genre-defying mash-up rooted in satire. That doesn’t scream “Oscar!” but, then again, in this year’s climate not much does. Maybe Boyhood gets the win it deserves, defying conventional wisdom. Maybe Selma’s prescience and aggressive campaign carries it through. Or maybe Birdman flies. As the end of the year approaches, this puzzle remains gloriously unsolved.

Film review: THE BABADOOK

(Umbrella Entertainment)

It’s no secret: horror films consistently rank among the weakest genre-films being made today. Repetitive formulas, cheap thrills and over-worked folklore make the medium hit-or-miss, with misses far more common than hits (and even then...). Famed directors, from Kubrick and Hitchcock to Polanski and DePalma, have given us the gold standards of the horror genre, works of art as well as works of horror, and they've been long gone. Horror moviemaking also happens to be a grossly male-dominated world, as is typical in Hollywood – but, in one of the best surprises of the year, Jennifer Kent outdoes her male counterparts with her horror debut feature, The Babadook. Unlike contemporary hits Insidious or The Conjuring, this film dares to embrace the banal conventions of the genre to create something unique and truly meaningful, an homage to the history of horror as well as a (finally!) truly feminist and humanistic interpretation of the genre.

Amelia (Essie Davis, exceptional, exceptional, exceptional) works at a nursing home and takes care of her ill-behaved son Sam (Noah Wiseman, intelligently played) alone, her husband having died in a car accident the day Sam was born. She’s called in to a parent-teacher conference, where the administrators inform Amelia that her son will have to be separated from the other kids and assigned a monitor. Amelia, the dedicated mother that she is, refuses to make her son feel more isolated than he already does. Davis plays Amelia with maternal intensity and an anxiety suggesting something beneath her maternal surface. Her frazzled hair, her shaky gait and her soft eyes provide this character with great levity, compassion for a son who is looked on by others with genuine revulsion.

Sam might be troubled, but he’s incredibly intelligent and compassionate. He’s a magician with an exuberant imagination, his hyper-activity stemming from his over-active mind rather than bad intentions. He cares deeply about his mother, which makes what commences all the more tragic. Sam picks up a vintage-looking storybook entitled, "Mister Babadook." It's a ragged, poorly put-together pop-up story about a monster that lives in the closet, and ends with a death-threat that sends Sam into hysterics. He walks around the house with a bow-and-arrow and homemade catapult backpack, and booby-traps the house Home Alone-style, seriously paranoid about the Babadook. Amelia tears up the book, but it comes back, pasted together and with new text, reading Dr. Seuss-style, “I’ll wager with you, I’ll make you a bet. The more you deny, the stronger I get.” She burns the book, any remaining evidence she might have had to show the police.

With glass in her porridge and strange sounds all around the house, Sam’s insistence that the Babadook exists – which climaxes with an emotional outburst ending with his cousin’s nose breaking – is eventually understood as truth by Amelia. Despite being aware that her son is not to blame, she begins to harbor resentment. She’s prescribed sedatives by her doctor in a desperate attempt to manage some sleep. Radek Ladczuk’s cinematography beautifully renders each image to show how Amelia is trapped in this nightmare, further descending down a rabbit hole of despair. We always follow Amelia under those covers, and light always sets in way too soon, in the blink of an eye. And the reality sets in that Sam is always there, and he’s not going away. The horror of the film – the apparition of the Babadook, as he sneaks up in corners, inhabits the basement, knocks on doors, sneaks in the black clouds – parallels another journey, one of mental illness, of uncontrollable resentment towards one’s child. 

But the ambiguity of the story is its insistence on the horror, on Kent’s ingenious control in making this picture less psychological and more deliciously pulpy. The Babadook not only synchronizes many genres of horror within this tight space – exorcisms, serial-killers, monsters, macabre fairy tales – but expresses an admiration for those movies of days past. The Babadook is the Freddy Kreuger of the Georges Méliès era. The film is riddled with such references – Amelia’s deteriorating state worsens in front of the television, where iconic horror movie moments such as the Phantom of the Opera being unmasked and Nosferatu’s shadow creeping up the stairs unravel before her eyes. A shaking bed cannot help but remind one of The Exorcist, while a dog-strangling scene greatly resembles the one in Halloween. In a way, this is a much-improved version of the original The Amityville Horror, more substantial and better-directed without resorting to shock tactics. A newsreel of a mother resorting to killing her own child reminds us of infamous maternal villains such as Andrea Yates and Susan Smith. This is what Amelia becomes and must fight to gain back control.

The unsettling suspense of the film builds to the last thirty minutes, in which Amelia’s confrontation with the Babadook rips your heart out. Because, while entertaining us, Kent effortlessly draws out this touching narrative about a mother fighting for control of her own mind. Davis gives one of the years best performances, going from a deeply loving parent, to a possessed monster, to a person desperate to gain back control. Sam can only helplessly watch as his mother is devoured by the Babadook’s unrelenting grasp, as his mother confronts the menacing and overwhelming monster.

Seamlessly-edited, tightly-framed and eerily-scored, Kent succeeds in bringing a genuinely unique aesthetic to the horror genre (you can tell she really loves horror movies). As freaky as a twisted Dr. Seuss tale and as brutally honest a take on motherhood as I've seen recently, The Babadook charts new territory. It shamelessly entertains, reminding us of what the horror genre can do in the process.

Remember: always feed the monster.  

Grade: A-