148

Today, I Googled my own name, and what website appeared at the very top of the list? This one. I'm moving on up in the world.

147 - Babel review + NI front page

Babel” tells the interlocked stories of people in four countries across three continents who speak four different languages. The divisions seem enormous, but language itself is among the least of man’s problems when trying to communicate effectively. Language is but a small part of a reservoir of complex causes: Culture, love, marriage, sexuality, legality, survival and distance – both emotional and physical.

Directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu and written by Guillermo Arriaga, “Babel” traces the ripple effect of an individual action throughout the globe. A rifle shot fired by the two children of a Moroccan goatherd strikes a tour bus. Susan (Cate Blanchett), an American tourist, wakes up as the potshot smashes through her shoulder. Her husband Richard (Brad Pitt), drenched in his wife’s blood and unable to maintain calm, frantically tries to secure medical attention – nigh impossible in rural Morocco.

Back in California, Richard and Susan’s two children are cared for by Amelia (Adriana Barraza), an illegal immigrant who slips across the border with the kids unwisely in tow so she can attend her son’s wedding. And in Japan, seemingly unrelated to all of this is Chieko (Rinko Kikuchi), a deaf-mute teenager whose father receives strange attention from the police.

“Babel” is among the rarest of films, one that infuses universal messages into the narrative without a lecture and enthralls without a trace of sensationalism, leaving a haunting imprint that multiplies exponentially after the credits roll. The actors are brimming with nuance, raw nerve and intimacy. Pitt abandons his blockbuster image and gives a frantic, throttling performance, his best to date.

But the film’s standout it Kikuchi’s utterly unforgettable Oscar nominated (and worthy) exhibition. The nonlinear plot weaves in and out of a shifting timeline (observant viewers can catch the resolution to one plot during the opening), but thanks to brilliant writing, ambitious directing and seamless editing, there’s no confusion. Each segment progresses fluidly, the pace never once getting tangled in the labyrinthine thematic web.

It examines the circumstances and ways that wedges are driven between people from all walks of life, whatever their background or status, impeding progress and any true understanding of one another. The bitterly empty noise of those around us and the relentless crush of events and information, as in real life, become overwhelming. Most of the characters have good intentions, but they are lost in the wave of agony that sweeps over the protagonists.

Iñárritu and Arriaga utilize the most universal feeling of all to ultimately tie everyone together: pain. The anguish infused into the characters spills off the screen, creating a palpable sensation of desperation and doom. Virtually ignored by most critics yet key to the screenplay’s structure is perhaps the most dreadful of communication deficiencies, sexual frustration. Simmering beneath the surface of every performance, coiled in the characters like a spring, it’s the worst of wounds, one that can be stifled but not healed. It bubbles to the surface in varying degrees; in one story, we have but a brief, stirring glimpse; in others, the results are shocking.

In the film’s most powerful section, Cheiko, unable to communicate effectively even in her own language and starving for human contact, is pushed to her breaking point and resorts to drastic measures to connect with another. An outsider would label her actions salacious, but we know better; they’re the result of a hopelessly sorrowful, disconnected woman. The consequences are heartbreaking, making for the most devastating scene in a film overflowing with them.

But this devastation is what makes “Babel” really shine. It’s a staggering, genius work that electrifies every part of the vast emotional spectrum, making for a distinctly humanistic experience, exactly as great cinema should. When the Oscar voters check their vote for Best Picture, lets hope that they get the message.

5 out of 5

146 - Sherrybaby review

We all know or have known someone like Sherry Swanson: lazy, whorish, brimming with erratic energy, fickle to a fault, so unstable that a gentle breeze could bring it all tumbling down.

She is the subject of “Sherrybaby,” a portrait film that doesn’t really go anywhere but does a lot while not doing anything at all. Maggie Gyllenhaal skillfully plays the heroin-addicted, recently released ex-con, in a career move than can be termed as either bold or questionable, seeing as how her career rests on the cusp of stardom.

Sherry is first glimpsed on the bus ride home from prison. Her personality type is recognizable after a moment’s observation. She gets to work early, having sex with the poor lout who runs the halfway house and rushing to her brother Bobby’s (Brad William Henke) house to visit her daughter. In the meantime, the child has found a much more capable mother in the form of Bobby’s wife Lynette (Bridget Barkan), who promptly instructs the daughter to address Sherry by first name.

The film’s power rests within the ease in which one can recognize Sherry’s personality in others. She wants things, but resorts to seduction or grotesque temper tantrums when they don’t work out. Her entire wardrobe seems to consist of tank tops and short-shorts, not to mention an aversion toward brassieres. When Sherry bitterly complains that no one trusts or believes in her, it’s a testament to her feeble grip on reality that she has to wonder why. For all the distinctly adult social behavior she exudes, her mindset is fundamentally childlike.

Written and directed by Laurie Collyer, “Sherrybaby” sticks to an astute depiction of one drug-addled tramp’s struggle to gain some semblance of a respectable existence. It’s often uncomfortable, but believable, when Sherry clings to unrealistic ideas about a steady job and a happy home life, only to revert to profanity-laden tirades when these dreams meet the most minor of frustrations. One scene even suggests a genesis to her pathetic behavior, but the explanation feels excessively simplistic.

Sherry may temporarily be off heroin, but drugs are a symptom of her personality, not a cause. Observe how she secures the job of her choice in a scene sure to make some less scrupulous viewers want to work with female cons. Or how she latches onto Dean (Danny Trejo), a 12 step director who treats Sherry with a kindness that’s part gentle, part sleazy.

Her thoroughly dislikable personality makes the film stand out, but also its Achilles’ heel. The study of a woman whose actions suggest an almost animalistic clump of impulses in place of personality never grants the subject the sympathy needed to make her struggles riveting. Come the end, we receive one of those resolutions that suggests the writer grew too fond of the character and didn’t want a more unfortunate scenario to close out the story. I believe we all want the Sherry’s of the world to turn out well and good, but those of us who reside in reality have seen too many of these stories conclude poorly to trust that any of them do.

3.5 out of 5

145

I recently posted my review of Clint Eastwood's "Letters From Iwo Jima" to Blogcritcs, and I received this comment, which I found to be moving and insightful. I wish I received more comments like this. Hopefully, the author approves of me reposting it here:





My wife and I just finished watching the movie, Letters from Iwo Jima. While the tradgedy and hopelessness of the Japanese loss of the island during WWII is depicted sympathetically and probably acurately, I was offended that the perspective was slanted so heavily against the Americans who were unwillingly thrust into this war in response to a Japanese invasion of America.

Not a word was said of the invasion, nor of the incredible losses incurred by the Marines who landed on the island in a hail of bullets and artillery fire. Also, the contrast of the Japanese humanely treating and comforting an American captive, followed by the atrocities commiteed by the Americans against the surrendering Japanese was beyond the boundaries of authenticity for me.

My great uncle fought with the Marine Rangers who first landed on the island. He was awarded the Silver Star and several Purple Hearts for his bravery and life-threatening wounds. Two thirds of his fellow soldiers were lost in that wave. In his words, he was "no hero...life wasn't worth a plug nickel anyway." So he rode an enemy tank behind enemy lines (yes there were actually running tanks on the island - not the pathetic scrap metal as depicted) and took out a pill box. For this action he has several scars and a metal plate in his head.

I'm disappointed that the hypothetical Japanese "Letters from Iwo Jima" weren't shown in parallel by Mr. Eastwood with letters from American soldiers who wrote to their families as well. I'm also disappointed in the misrepresentation of a poorly resourced, ragtag little band of brave Japanese fighting against the overwhelming barrage of the entire American military force of cowardly and inhumane men.

This movie, in spite of Eastwood's acurate portrayal of the tragedies of war, is an inaccurate slant against our American troops who, at tremendous cost, took control of a strategic military stronghold and helped turn the tide of the war.