A Dangerous Method

Though initially as captivating as Keira Knightley's performance, "A Dangerous Method" fails to sustain interest for 99 minutes. Just at about the point Carl Jung and Sabina Spielrein begin their intense affair, the film experiences a sheer drop-off in interest due to a more relaxed, less clinically focused pace and a feeling of fulfillment: now that what was inevitably going to happen happened, what now? The failure of director David Cronenberg and screenwriter Christopher Hampton to answer that question compromises what's actually a very solid 45 or so minutes and turns the remainder of the film into somewhat of a rote, hyper-cerebral chore.

That the movie works at all is thanks to Michael Fassbender, for the most part remarkably subdued here, and Knightley, for the most part remarkably and uncharacteristically out-of-control here. I've never seen Fassbender give a bad performance, but I've had my doubts about Knightley and whether she can really make a film watchable. Here, she veers sharply out of her normal range and tries something intense, with Russian accent and all. I'm not sure if she hits every mark, but as flailing, stuttering, and deeply passionate Sabina, Jung's most valued patient, she certainly leaves a big impression.

The film opens with her kicking and screaming, having to be restrained on the way to the hospital where Jung works, which sets the tone for the film's charged opening half. Jung wants to use his eventual friend and then bitter rival Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen)'s new idea for therapy, psychoanalysis or "the talking cure," and chooses Sabina as his first subject. It works very well, as it unearths unsettling truths about her damaged psyche (like how she likes to be beaten). Jung is pulled in by her indisputable magnetism, away from his rich and frankly pretty boring wife Emma (Sarah Gadon), especially when a psychiatrist he takes on as a patient (Vincent Cassel) emphasizes his distaste with monogamy.

Adapted from a book and then a play, "A Dangerous Method" is extremely dialogue-heavy, which works just fine at the beginning but ends up getting to be a little bit too much towards the ending. The film is also awkwardly edited and sequenced; very few scenes feel as if they follow each other naturally. I also felt as though it got increasingly less characteristic of Cronenberg as it went on. Some say it's not like him at all, but for me the beginning seems like a pretty snug fit in his oeuvre (even though I've only seen "A History of Violence"). Later on, however, as the score gets more and more generic and the plotting more and more disjointed, "A Dangerous Method" hardly feels distinct at all. C+

Telluride 2011, Day 3: Target; Shame; We Need to Talk About Kevin

Telluride '11 was still vibrant today, but the atmosphere could be felt slowly diminishing. I was hoping for the festival to continue to deliver indispensable cinema, and, in one case, it did. But my expectations for two of the three films I saw today weren't met, and I can now reflect that, while it has been quite a strong festival (as everyone has been saying), the programming hasn't been unimpeachable. (It is better than last year's NYFF, though, it must be said.)

I was surprised (but very happy) to see Alexander Zeldovich's "Target" among the official selection of Telluride this year. It seemed like a pretty gutsy move, a welcome push of the usual limits of the lineup, and, as a result, a lot of intrigue was created. I don't think that many people have liked the film that much, however, and it's easy to see why. The film takes a potentially gripping idea into pretty disturbing territory, leading to scenes that are embarrassing, disgusting, and deeply unnerving.

Since the film is about people who go to a radiated place to seek a solution to their problems (more specifically, to stop themselves from physically getting older), I was expecting something near Andrei Tarkovsky's provocative, humanist "Stalker." Zeldovich's movie plays as if Tarkovsky's work were transported into the future and remade by David Cronenberg and Richard Kelly. Instead of a more sensitive examination of this concept, Zeldovich has his characters go overboard with sexuality and violence. I know, as a fellow moviegoer informed me, this is a possible and not often used way of illustrating what could go wrong. My interest got detached somewhere along the way, as affairs take place and the plot devolves into moments of insanity. Though the film has some interesting flourishes in portraying a slightly dystopian future (immigrants are hunted as game and the freeways are full of trailers and nothing else) and a fun character who is talented at talking really fast, I often found what I was watching ridiculous. I know I've misunderstood this movie (a post-film discussion showed me how I went wrong). But to me it was tiresome and troubling in ways I couldn't quite get over. I'm not too keen on having a second viewing, though I doubt I'll ever get one, seeing as though distributors wouldn't have a fun time trying to get people to give it a go. C

Speaking of distributors, I saw representatives from various companies at the day's next film, which, judging from the packed house, seemed to be the most anticipated film of many people (it was mine). It'll be an easier sell than "Target," for sure. But there may still be some logistical issues getting it into a theater without passing on an MPAA rating. This was Steve McQueen's emotionally frank, graphically sexual "Shame." Though I don't think it quite tops his previous movie "Hunger," and though towards the beginning it's a little oblique, it's good enough to establish McQueen as one of the best directors of his generation.

This is especially because he is able to get such good work out of two actors that don't get used to their full potential in other hands. Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan are unquestionably better here than they've ever been before. It's also because he always finds art in the places in which he sets his films (using his extraordinary DP Sean Bobbit). Whereas "Hunger" was all filthy prison cells and urine-stained halls, "Shame" is full of the sleek windows and mirrors of offices and apartments. Brandon (Fassbender) sees himself divided as if by panes from the rest of humanity. He copulates and masturbates often, but always connects only on a physical level, unable to have a serious relationship and doomed forever to a shady private existence.

One day, coming home, he finds his sister Sissy (Mulligan, who alternates effectively between piercing and irritating) unexpectedly bathing in his apartment, although she insists she's called many times. Though she's a captivating singer (as one scene rather uncomfortably shows us), she has nowhere to stay. He reluctantly allows her to crash, though conflict is always around the corner. She comes to discover his erotic tendencies, and it only piles on the shame that Brandon has already been feeling. Also overwhelming him is his attempt at a serious relationship with a woman from work named Marianne (Nicole Beharie), the only time that we can see that he's ever been nervous around a sexual partner. The chemistry between Fassbender and Beharie is remarkable, especially considering the fact that McQueen often chooses to not cut away from their interactions and thus forces them to carry on their bantering with feeling for minutes at a time. The brilliant screenplay by McQueen and Abi Morgan fuels these conversations as well as the confrontations between Brandon and Sissy, giving the actors excellent material, making Brandon not the only character struggling with morality (take a look at his boss), and bringing the film to a perfectly chosen close.

I wish the film, McQueen, and Fassbender (best performance of the year, possibly) the best of luck at Venice when it comes to awards. "Shame" marshals great insight and discomfort, portraying a man who is unable to satisfy himself in any way, continuing to try certain methods, though, even as he pushes farther away from society and digs himself deeper and deeper into a hole, not seeing that guilt won't solve everything. A-

I caught a tribute to Tilda Swinton today, as well, my second of the fest (after the George Clooney one yesterday). Affixed to the end of it was Lynne Ramsay's "We Need to Talk About Kevin." Honestly, I don't understand exactly why this film was made. Adapted by Ramsay and Rory Kinnear from a book by Lionel Shriver, it shows a despicable character doing and saying horrible things, and provides really no explanation for this. It left me feeling very, very sad, especially since it has tapioca pacing and since it never for more than about 30 seconds alleviates its grueling tone. It eventually becomes just a string of bad events, so exasperatingly predictable you have to wonder why Ramsay didn't take a different path.

Swinton supplies a good acting job that goes sadly underutilized as Eva, the mother of the titular character (Ezra Miller), who takes a bow and arrow to school and attacks many students. We don't find this out until towards the end, as the film is scrambled (an approach taken in a similar way by its predecessor, Gus Van Sant's "Elephant"; Ramsay uses a visceral variation that ends up as one of the film's minor high points, even if she stumbles with it later on), dipping back from Eva's depressed present to moments that ended up defining her life. Kevin's motives are supposedly examined, though it just seems that he's pissed off that he exists and takes every opportunity to get back at his mother for bringing him into the world. I say this because he cried profusely as a baby and seemed to have been already resistant to Eva's child-rearing techniques. He does take a liking to his father, Franklin (John C. Reilly), but ultimately it appears to have been only to find another way to emotionally abuse his mother. It's painful to sit through this film, even if it has a couple of merits. I think Ramsay needed to have a talk herself about whether this movie was necessary to make. D+

Jane Eyre (2011)

I had a suspicion that the simply astounding poster for "Jane Eyre" would trump the film itself, even though the ticket taker at my theater spoke enthusiastically of its exciting properties, but I wasn't sure by exactly how much. Having endured the film's tedious 2 hour length, I now know the difference in quality between the two works is quite large indeed. This is a plodding film, made by a director who I admire for taking a chance but also see as terribly misguided all the same. One could not imagine that the person who made "Sin Nombre," a very abrasive film, could possibly assemble a movie this dull. Filmmakers such as Jane Campion and Sofia Coppola have done disarming things with similar material, so the fact that Cary Joji Fukunaga brings little to the table is disappointing. And what he does have, he squanders with incompetent, at times risible, direction.

I admit, I say this with limited familiarity with the original novel by Charlotte Brontë. I know from a friend that the story is told in a more sequential manner there than here, and from scanning the opening page of the book that it is told in first person. The film adaptation changes both of these elements slightly, neither for the better. Screenwriter Moira Buffini jumbles the chronology, which produced for me a sort of disconnect to the story. On this same note, I didn't relate too much with the title character, who's sealed off from the audience. I'm guessing that the Brontë version worked better by not separating you from her, and maybe by having people identify with her more this movie could have been improved a bit.

The film is definitely helped, though not completely remedied, by the performances from Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender in the lead roles. Wasikowska, though looking uncomfortable at times (Fukunaga's fault perhaps?), plays the title character well as a quick-witted converser, traumatized by her past (involving Craig Roberts and Sally Hawkins playing against type) but wanting to move on and get some work. We learn, after seeing her taken in by missionary St. John Rivers (Jamie Bell), that her first job came as the governess of the estate of Edward Fairfax Rochester. Fassbender, though terrific and scene-stealing as always, seems to be getting accustomed to the role of the middle-aged guy who preys on the young girl and pulls back to a pre-made facade after this and "Fish Tank." I think it's a good thing that he'll be working again with Steve McQueen, who did the exceptional "Hunger," on "Shame."

How I'd much rather be viewing and talking about that film than this one. No matter. The house that she goes to live in includes an unrelated Mrs. Fairfax (Judi Dench) (whom, according to my friend, is toned down from the book and is seen her as an ally to Jane), as well as a young French girl named Adele (Romy Settbon Moore) whom Jane is teaching and a figure (to be revealed) who is producing noises and fires during the night. This is the backdrop for scenes where Rochester makes his affection for Jane clear and where he finds that even a man as high in stature as himself has to work sometimes for love. Their drawn-out courtship is frustrating as drama, disturbing when it becomes more prescient, and, at a later juncture, simply hilarious. This strikes me as a detrimental misconception on the part of the makers of the film, but who knows? Holy shit, maybe this is all some sort of crazy-ass stylization way ahead of our time!

There is beautiful nature shown in this film (from which a couple of nice compositions by "Sin Nombre" cinematographer Adriano Goldman are drawn), but it's underutilized, and viewers don't get to linger on it as they do in Campion's "Bright Star." A couple of man-made images linger: Eyre as a child lying on the floor cross-dissolved into a saucer of tea, as well as Eyre and Rochester lit by the fire. If Fukunaga had pushed more deeply on this front, and done without the old-fashioned score by "Atonement" composer Dario Marianelli, then possibly there would be more of the "reinvention" that the ads all professed this film to have. I mean, even though I was a little unsettled by these things, being inflicted with disquiet is far superior to being inflicted with boredom. C