2010: the year in movies

The classified ad version might go something like this:

DAUGHTER SEEKS BIRTHPARENT; SECRETLY UNEMPLOYED DAD SEEKS JOB; WELL-DRESSED SEXUALLY REPRESSED MOM SEEKS LOVER BUT DOESN’T KNOW IT; OVERPROTECTIVE PATRIARCH SEEKS SEX PARTNERS FOR SEQUESTERED ADULT CHILDREN; BOXER SEEKS GIRLFRIEND TO ASSIST WITH MEDDLING PARENT-MANAGER, CRACKHEAD BROTHER-TRAINER; PSYCHOPATHIC IMPERSONATOR SEEKS BACK-UP DANCERS; AILING FATHER SEEKS MONKEY GHOST OF CHILD, REGULAR GHOST OF WIFE.

Does the fact that the majority of my favourite films of 2010 concern families parting, reuniting, expanding or contracting reflect some renewed tribal impulse brewing deep in our collective cinematic unconscious, or am I just getting sentimental with age?


Truth is I have my reservations about a few of these, particularly with regards to those tricky final acts, you'll spot them when you get to them. But in every case there was something at the heart of the film sufficiently charged with real vivacity, audacity or fascination to merit their inclusion.


Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives
The latest from what’s arguably the most playful and provocative new voice to emerge within the last decade opens with fecund visions of errant livestock and fleeting sightings of mysterious jungle-dwelling beasts before crafting a gentle, funny, funky portrait of Thai country life, interrupted one evening by apparitions of loved ones who have either died or been transformed into exactly what you’d get if you crossed a wookiee with a jawa. Using the simplest of screen tricks, this sequence is the most magical thing I saw at the movies last year, though it was nearly matched by some even more oneiric episodes that follow, which include nocturnal spelunking, a slide show about an oppressive future-world without movies, and a catfish hip to cunnilingus. The author’s name is Apichatpong Weerasethakul, but he says we can just call him Joe.


The Social Network
You tired yet of discussions about whether or not David Fincher’s bio-pic about Facebook creator Mark Zuckerberg “says something about the times we live in”? Me too! I’m still itching for a second viewing to confirm how well it all works once the initial rush has washed off, but in the meantime I’m confident declaring The Social Network an awfully smart, at times exhilarating piece of entertainment, with rich characters, pithy exchanges, and a central performance so shot through with boyish smugness and wildly articulate spite it makes your nerves ache. To call it the 21st century’s Citizen Kane isn’t to equate Fincher with Orson Welles but rather to acknowledge that this film knows something about enterprise, opportunity, ambition, and buckets of money, all wrapped up in an elegant achronological structure.


Dogtooth
Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos’ very memorable, very strange, and finally very resonant sophomore feature concerns a father and mother who have sequestered their children within the family compound and controlled their education right down to their most basic uses of language—new meanings are invented for common words—their notion of how they’re related to icons of popular culture—the kids believe Frank Sinatra’s their grandpa—and their understanding of perspective and depth—they see planes flying overhead and wish one would fall so they could catch it in their hands. So it’s a comedy, kind of. There’s a stunning interpretive dance sequence improvised to Irene Cara’s ‘Flashdance… What a Feeling.’


Tony Manero
Speaking of dancing... It’s Santiago, Chile, 1978, and there’s blood on the dance floor. Literally. The terrors of life under Pinochet prompt some toward resignation and despair, others toward resistance, and a select few toward the recognition that destiny has granted them tacit permission to act out fantasies both heinous and tawdry-glamorous. Pablo Larraín’s deadpan character study, about a middle-aged guy who lives in a commune yet is chillingly antisocial, who just wants to transform himself into the hero of Saturday Night Fever on local television—at any costs—is also a study in vast, consuming darkness, in how evil proliferates, and in the secret perils of Hollywood disco fantasy.


A Prophet
Jacques Audiard’s The Beat My Heart Skipped remade, of all things, James Toback’s seethingly creepy cult classic Fingers, so you know we’re dealing with an artist ready to follow the most morally fraught criminal figures to the very end of the line. The rough but basically innocent Arab youth imprisoned at the start of A Prophet kills another, seemingly benevolent Arab convict more or less by force. He thereafter spends the rest of this bracingly violent, quietly polemical, often surprising, not un-Scorsese-like crime drama figuring out what that makes him now. The power of Audiard’s vision derives in part from its leaving viewers with the same question, and no simple answer in sight.


Shutter Island
Still more ambiguous is the nature of Leonardo DiCaprio’s troubled visit to the Aschecliff Hospital for the Criminally Insane, located on an island in Boston Harbour almost perpetually cloaked in many kinds of fog. He’s ostensibly there to investigate a disappearance, yet he’s increasingly disinclined to trust any of his designated aids. The fabric of reality in Martin Scorsese’s heavily stylized adaptation of Dennis Lehane’s novel seems as potentially unstable as those DiCaprio encountered just a few months later in Inception, but I have a feeling that time will prove Shutter Island to possess the more enduring mysteries. It already seems more genuinely dreamlike.


The Kids Are All Right
Mark Ruffalo, Annette Bening, Julianne Moore, Mia Wasikowska and Josh Hutcherson each gave one of my favourite performances of 2010, and the fact that all these performances occur within the same movie must say something about its director and co-writer, Lisa Cholodenko. Yet this warm, witty, sexy story of a family trying to sort out whose roles are whose and when it’s time to let go is so supple and complicated as it sets up expectations and demolishes presumptions—about parenting, about desire, about gender, about lifestyle choices—that you can’t help but feel like the film falls a little short of it’s goals with what’s finally an oddly conservative, overly tidy finale.


I Am Love
I don’t know that you’d deem the finale of Italian director Luca Guadagnino’s I Am Love tidy exactly, unless you call sweeping an unholy mountain of dirty dishes off the table to fall crashing ever so operatically onto the floor a method of tidying. A dual-homage to the films of Luchino Visconti and Douglas Sirk, with a little Lady Chatterley thrown in for extra spice, this is nonetheless an exemplary high style melodrama about fleeing wealth and duty for haute cuisine and hot love amongst the birds and bees. Playing the universally admired but under-loved matriarch, Tilda Swinton’s iconic visage seems designed for such total transformation, and John Adams’ thundering music gloriously ushers us through the protracted climax, even after a fairly dopey crisis point.

Carlos

“Weapons,” our titular terrorist seductively tells us, “are an extension of my body.” Revolution turns this guy on—or is it simply the promise of spectacular violence undertaken with whatever sort of justification? Oliver Assayas’ wildly ambitious, action-oriented, 333-minute bio-pic, made for French television, starring the tireless and valiant Venezuelan-born actor Édgar Ramírez, was 2010's marathon matinee, and a fascinating double-study of the abstraction of criminal celebrity and the palpability of a human body trying to merge with a mythical idea of itself.


The Fighter
David O. Russell’s latest may be his most conventional picture, but it’s a knock-out, featuring an unforgettable coven of big-haired sisters, a shrewd understanding of boxing technique, Amy Adams in short-shorts, and yet another sublimely entertaining, ultra-committed performance from Mark Wahlberg, who, in his way, may just be America’s most underappreciated movie star. Yes, Christian Bale’s also very good as the crazy, drug-addled brother to Wahlberg’s aspiring fighter, but I’m a little more drawn to the less technically polished fiery spunk of Wahlberg, Adams, and of course Melissa Leo as the mother you wouldn’t want to face in the ring.


Exit Through the Gift Shop
Legendary mysterious street artist Banksy made a movie about a goofy French guy trying to make a movie about him, and it is the fucking funniest thing I’ve seen in ages. This documentary presumably takes a few liberties with facts on its way to a breezy but sly analysis of how art is commodified and everything gets domesticated sooner or later. But you could do worse than simply watching it for the unfathomably enthusiastic, sublimely inarticulate Thierry Guetta, aka Mr. Brainwash, whose particular artistic limitations will refresh your notion of what “so bad it’s good” means.


Tokyo Sonata
Has cinema ever experienced an about-face quite as successful as Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s? He’s helmed some of Japan’s finest horror films of the last 15 years—Séance is especially creepy—but they started to get a little stale, so he tried on a poignant comedy about the strains of contemporary middleclass family life, and it might just be the best thing he’s done. Dad gets downsized, Mom’s taken hostage, one kid joins the US military and the other has to save his lunch money to fund secret piano lessons. As with Kurosawa’s Cure, there’s a contagious disease driving the narrative, but in this case it causes those afflicted to want to start their lives over. Wonderful.

Good cop, bad cop, batshit cop: The Other Guys

Two adrenaline junky celebrity cops dive 20 stories to their senseless deaths for no apparent reason other than the crazed bliss of suicidal recklessness. A punch-up breaks out at a funeral and everyone whispers while beating each other so as not to disturb the grieving guests. A guy gets loaded and eats a priest’s arm. A chopper’s taken out by an onslaught of golf balls. An NYPD captain moonlights at a bed and bath store to put his bisexual son through DJ school. Steve Coogan bribes investigators with tickets to Jersey Boys. These are some of the movie’s highlights, though they could just as easily be enjoyed as stand-alone slapstick shorts. Their being part of a feature film constitutes nothing beyond a convenient framing device.

It must be some kind of genuine praise when I confess that I dunno what to make of cop buddy gutbuster The Other Guys. When we talk about the necessity of approaching movies on their own terms rather than as variations on familiar templates, we typically do so with regards to relatively obscure or “difficult” movies in danger of vanishing into the art house fog, but this same re-negotiating of expectations can be applied to comedies. The Other Guys is a miserable failure at lots of things we typically consider essential. The narrative, for one, which seems to want to be some sort of satire at times, isn’t merely stupid, it’s also inconsistent, incoherent, and flamboyantly lumpy. But throughout film history we can find numerous comedies that work, sometimes beautifully, as nothing more than tautological accumulations of gag-assaults, knowingly absurd situations that are funniest when we realize they’re going absolutely nowhere—the Marx Brothers were at their best when using this tack. Mark Wahlberg and Will Ferrell get into a childish yet tense verbal sparring match based entirely around how animal versions of themselves could consume each other in a nonsensical food chain. The conversation is so silly, but they just keep at it until it seems utterly exhausted, and keep at it further still, until it’s not just funny all over again but actually funnier than it was to begin with. Like Van Morrison repeating a single lyric into blissful abstraction, these guys beat funny ideas to death so as to raise them from the dead.

The Other Guys was co-scripted and directed by Adam McKay, who helmed the earlier Will Ferrell loser comedies Anchorman, Talladega Nights and Step Brothers. The approach here is similar if perhaps more insane. This is busy, spastic, anxiogenic comedy, so the narrative isn’t really supposed to hold together. Wahlberg, as a humiliated high-strung peacock champing at the bit for some super-cop glory, and Ferrell, as the partner content to stay at his desk and quietly build cases against developers for neglecting to apply for scaffolding permits, do brilliantly funny things with the uneven material by making it all so deadly serious. Though its less recognized than Ferrell’s, Wahlberg has always had a very special gift for comedy—just go back to certain bits of Boogie Nights, the singing especially, or even the way he simply parks a bike in I Heart Huckabees—because he heroically hurls himself headlong into playing stakes rather than jokes. I was in tears at times. But for every well-drawn character there's one that just gets more half-assed with every new appearance—such as Eva Mendes as Ferrell's sketch of a spouse. For every inspired scene there’s another that falls drearily flat. Holding it all together is little more than our patient waiting for the next, hopefully better scene. Still, I’ll take this over a tediously over-manicured, story-edited-into-a-coma comedy any day of the week.

It just ain't Happening: don't look, but the killer's right behind you (and yes, that's sort of a spoiler)

Having made his name—and perhaps exhausted his potential—with The Sixth Sense, writer/director M. Night Shyamalan became the guy known for the big twist, that twist being the inevitable third act reveal that would invariably blow what was arguably an otherwise absorbing, often marvelously creepy movie. As evidenced in Unbreakable and Signs, the follow-ups to his initial breakthrough hit, Shyamalan’s greatest strength by far has been his control of atmosphere and pacing, a remarkable ability to generate disquiet, to develop an almost hushed air brimming with elements of utter normalcy that made the gradual intrusion of deliciously ambiguous threat that much more effective—and the resolution that much more of a let down. Not one of his movies has an ending worth the name.

The big twist in The Happening however happens right at the beginning, when we quickly realize that Shyamalan’s not even going to bother with building up mood at all—not to mention character development—but rather dive right into the terrible conceit driving the picture. (And yes, I mean terrible in every sense of the word.) It’s as if rather than continue to take his cues from Hitchcock, Spielberg or Val Lewton, Shyamalan decided he actually wants to be Larry Cohen, the marvelous maker of outlandish low-budget hystericals like God Told Me To and Q: The Winged Serpent. Or better yet George Romero, whose legendary apocalyptic zombie movies more or less carve out the turf for The Happening’s scrambling trajectory. Problem is, unlike Cohen or Romero, Shyamalan takes himself so goddamned seriously, even when his ideas are so impossibly lame.

It all starts with crowds of New Yorkers suddenly going catatonic in Central Park before suddenly finding the handiest way to off themselves. The suicidal impulse spreads quickly, soon erupting in other cities dotting the Northeast—though, curiously, the phenomenon never crosses over into Canada—and pundits start guessing it must be the work of terrorists with some new biological weapon that reverses our survival instinct. Along with everybody else, high school science teacher Elliot Moore (Mark Wahlberg), a veritable cheerleader for the scientific method, grabs his wife Alma (Zooey Deschanel) and tries to escape to Philly, but when their train grinds to a halt in Filbert, the Moores are suddenly put in charge of a friend’s little girl (Ashlyn Sanchez) and must make their way through rural Pennsylvania while trying to figure out just what it is that’s, well, Happening!

Replete with James Newton Howard’s typically overbearing boilerplate score, The Happening is one mercilessly silly movie, which you’d hope would mean it’s also a fun movie, but what fun there is to be had is often had at the expense of the movie’s ostensible integrity. There’s a subplot about commitment anxiety that feels lazily tacked on, with Wahlberg and Deschanel, normally quite charming actors both, making what must be one of the most unconvincing young movie couples in recent memory, though it does arguably allude to Shyamalan’s own inability to commit to making something cohesive. There’s also a big-ass message to be rammed down our throats about environmental decay, yet even on the level of pure propaganda it’d handled clumsily and is devoid of any resonance in the story’s details. Wearing his influences so brazenly on his sleeve anyway, Shyamalan’s a filmmaker who might be best advised to just decide what kind of movie he wants to make—and given his way with exposition, it should probably be a B-movie—and work diligently toward it instead of fighting against it. There are far worse things in this world than a solid genre stylist—and in fact these days there are far too few of them—and if Shyamalan would just apply his talents toward something leaner, meaner and less pretentious he might just have a career yet.