Four Crazies and a Funeral: Review of THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU

The problem at the center of Shawn Levy's adaptation of Jonathan Tropper's novel This is Where I Leave You is a problem that seems to constantly happen with these types of dysfunctional family dramedies. You get a large ensemble where nearly every role down to the smallest parts are given to big name, incredibly talented actors and then you give most of them little or nothing to do. In the case of This is Where I Leave You, this is only worsened by the film's attempt to bandy itself  between broad, almost farcical comedy and restrained, meditative drama. It goes back and forth so frequently that it's almost a shock that the actors involved can even hold on. But again, though they're given little to do, even the smallest roles are played by the formidable likes of Connie Britton, Katherine Hahn, Timothy Olyphant and Debra Monk. So, even through all the fighting and yelling, a few tiny morsels of emotional resonance manage their way out.

Riffing on a classic setup, This is Where I Leave You tells the story of the Altman family who would typically prefer ignoring each other from long distances, but who are forced together after their father passes away. After the funeral, the lot of them are informed by their mother  Hilary (played by a surgically enhanced Jane Fonda) that although their father was an atheist, he was a Jewish atheist. As such, his dying wish was to have his family sit 'shiva' in his memory - or in other words, they're all confined to their childhood home for seven days. Judd (played by Jason Bateman) couldn't be more fine with this seeing as he just recently discovered that his wife (Abigail Spencer) has been cheating on him for over a year with his boss, a shock-jock named Wade (Dax Shepard). However, avoiding his soon-to-be ex-wife and former boss also means he has to deal with the various eccentricities and (often) loud crises of his sister Wendy (Tina Fey), younger brother Phillip (Adam Driver), older brother Paul (Corey Stoll), and their assorted spouses, lovers and missed opportunities (including Britton, Hahn, Olyphant and Rose Byrne). 

I think most of the issues I mentioned above are the products of another thing that I also mentioned above: this movie is directed by Shawn Levy. While This is Where I Leave You might have been better suited for some middle of the road director who could have simply stood back and watched the film's amazing cast (maybe the best cast of the year) do what they do best, it was given to a man who is known not for quiet, contemplative dramas, but for loudly obnoxious, joyless meh-fests (including, but not limited to Big Fat Liar, Just Married, both Night at the Museums, The Internship and Date Night). And whether it's cracks about Hilary's new boob-job, Paul and Annie's (Stoll and Hahn) pragmatically vulgar sex talk being broadcast via baby monitor to a group of mourners visiting the home or Wendy's son dropping a deuce in his potty trainer and throwing it on his workaholic father, Shawn Levy once again proves that everything comedy he touches turns to shit. What is surprising, however, is Levy's ability to handle the film's smaller, more resonant moments. It's interesting just how much the film's quality depends on how many people are on screen at the time. Face-to-face, one-on-one scenes between siblings or between parent and child or between lover and lover feel honest and heartfelt while scenes involving large groups of people too often devolve into something that is teeth-grittingly, cringe-inducingly bad.  

Ultimately, there's a lot of interesting things that could have been done in This is Where I Leave You but simply weren't. There's no real reflection here. It's beyond clear that these siblings revert to a childlike state the moment they're back in the home they grew up in - constantly rubbing each other the wrong way and referring to Hilary as "mommy" - but no one ever really stops and genuinely tries to figure out what's wrong with all of them even though there are two psychologists in the house. Seemingly the most fascinating story - the relationship between Wendy and Olyphant's Horry - is limited to a few quick, disconnected scenes that leads to a mildly emotional scene at the end, but that could have led to something that was nuanced and emotionally enthralling. Perhaps the most compelling character is also nearly swept under the rug. In a household where no one has a lick of self-awareness, the most admirable person ends up being Britton's Tracy. Yes, she is dating a far younger, emotionally unstable former patient in Phillip, but she holds no illusions that she's doing anything but that. She realizes what type of person Phillip is and has no false hope that this might be a long-term thing the two are sharing. Sure, she is rich and that makes things a little easier, but her refusal to become consumed by the black morass that is the Altman family's copious problems is not only commendable, it puts a spotlight on just how ridiculous and annoying these people can be. 

This is Where I Leave You ends up sadly being nothing more than a waste. Is the cast great? They're wonderful. But I neither need nor want to see Tina Fey playing someone who is guilt-ridden, constantly on the verge of tears and won't ever shut up. Those aren't her strengths. I also don't need or want to see Jane Fonda playing a character who the writer (which is Jonathan Tropp adapting his own work so there's no excuse) seems to think giving a big personality and a big brain will make her even bigger boobs that much more funny when Judd looks at them in disgust. Maybe it isn't extra seriousness that the film needs like I first suspected. Maybe it just needs to make some more damn sense. Maybe there just needs to be some more stuff that feels believable. Why does no one seem to really care that Judd is getting a divorce? On that note, why does no one really press Phillip on the fact that he brings home an older, psychologist lover to his older, psychologist mother? The things that happen don't hold any real tension or drama past the initial shock of the reveal. And why on Earth when a family is as rich as the Altmans do they not find Judd another place to sleep? Can he not sleep over at Hilary's friend and Horry's mother's house? Why can't he just, you know, sleep on one of the many couches in their gigantic house? These people are genuinely messed up and no one, including the movie itself, seems to really care. 

One of my favorite things in bad movies is when someone says the title. While no one actually says the line, "This is where I leave you," the closest we get is Britton's Tracy who realizes near the end of the movie that she's better off without Phillip and better off without his crazy family. When she does, it's hard to blame her. It's also hard not to follow right behind her. 

5 out of 10

"The Butter's Spread Too Thick!": Review of Kevin Smith's TUSK

Before anything can happen in Kevin Smith's latest film Tusk, there is laughter. Not from the audience, mind you, but from the screen. You see, Wallace (a mustachioed Justin Long) is a podcaster who travels around the country interviewing weird people in order to come home and describe their tales to his co-host Teddy (Haley Joel Osment. Yes, THAT Haley Joel Osment) who refuses to get on a plane and leave LA. They call their show 'The Not-See Party' because Teddy doesn't see what Wallace does. Do you get it? Wallace tells his story, Teddy laughs his ass off. Teddy makes some witty comment, Wallace takes a turn. Like most comedy podcasts it's 70% laughing, 30% actually talking. And for those first 30-45 minutes it truly felt like Smith might have been making a sharp, self-referential comment on what happens to people who treat everything like a never-ending joke. 

During the opening credits, after the initial laughing, Tusk also lets the audience know that it's based on a true story. That is, a true story in so far as the fact that the film is actually based on one of Smith's own podcast episodes in which he and his friend and co-host Scott Mosier had some fun riffing on an online ad that was soliciting for someone willing to wear a walrus costume for two hours a day in exchange for a free room. In the film, Wallace encounters a similar situation after he flies to Manitoba to interview the subject of a particularly brutal and humiliating viral video. When Wallace discovers his subject has committed suicide, he finds himself desperate for someone, anyone to make his five-hundred dollar plane ticket worthwhile. He finds such a person while taking a piss at a local bar. Posted on a cork board is a handwritten want ad offering free room and board to anyone willing to listen to the author's copious maritime stories. The flyer is signed Howard Howe. Jumping on the opportunity immediately, Wallace drives the two hour drive to meet with Mr. Howe (played by Michael Parks) who, upon Wallace's arrival, serves him tea made with brandy-soaked leaves and spins elaborate yarns about meeting Ernest Hemingway, becoming shipwrecked and eventually finding a savior in an unlikely source - a walrus he affectionately named 'Mr. Tusk.' Before Wallace knows it he is knocked unconscious by the tea only to wake up with one of his legs removed. And while Mr. Howe tells him that it was caused by a brown recluse bite, Wallace quickly realizes what the audience knows immediately - Howard Howe is mutilating Wallace's body in order to fit him into a grotesquely constructed walrus suit - Wallace's removed and sharpened femurs serving as tusks.

Tusk has a lot of stuff going for it. For one, the aforementioned Michael Parks has the magnificent ability to transform Smith's often overly written dialogue into something more akin to a beautiful spoken word performance. And Smith is smart enough to realize it - allowing Parks' lengthy, twisting stories act as the base of the film. There is also the fact that the Mr. Tusk costume is genuinely horrifying (complete with bloody scars, patches of skin with different pigments and faces of Mr. Howe's past victims) and is more than successful in its attempts to make the audience believe Wallace is in a considerable amount of physical and emotional pain and distress while trapped within it. There is a particular scene with Mr. Howe demands that Wallace - like any good walrus - learn to swim that is staged as well as any scene from a horror movie I've seen in quite some time. Wallace's immense panic combined with the discovery he makes after being submerged is legitimately bone-chilling. And there are a few subtle touches of Smith's brand of humor that are especially well done. There is the fact that Wallace continually discovers important details while urinating. And there is the use of the Canadian Big Gulp (the 'Chug-eh-Lug'), which is present in one form or fashion in nearly every scene at Howe's mansion. It's an exceptionally clever visual that highlights just how out of place Wallace is in Mr. Howe's depraved world.

Unfortunately, the 'Chug-eh-lug' and the 'Eh-2-Zed' convenience store from which it comes are both symbolic of Kevin Smith's own tendencies to really Wallace all over everything and constantly go for the cheap joke. What Smith has promised to be the first in his 'True North Trilogy,' Tusk is packed full of weak, Canada-centric word play (including the fictional restaurant Pouteenie-Weenie). But where Smith goes truly overboard is with the film's most egregious, disgustingly awful performance - Johnny Depp as Guy Lapointe, a nearly special needs French-Canadian homicide detective who has been hunting Howe for decades and who vows to help Teddy and Ally (Wallace's girlfriend, played by Genesis Rodriguez) track him down. Between his thick makeup, ridiculous wig and mustache, laughable accent and constantly moving left eye, Depp as Guy Lapointe feels like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character from the 1950s or '60s who got transplanted into a horror movie just as it's beginning to become truly disturbing. It's unneeded comic relief that just keeps going and going and going and going. The tonal shifts that result are something from which Tusk never recovers. 

It also doesn't help that the film really doesn't have much of a plot - apart from Wallace going to see Mr. Howe and getting all walrus'd up for his troubles - and doesn't feel thought out or focused in the least, even for a low(er)-budget movie. There are weird subplots that go nowhere, random flashbacks for some of Wallace's and Mr. Howe's ramblings but not others, illogical character behaviors, no real character to connect with, the list goes on and on. At points during the first 30-45 minutes it seems like Kevin Smith is honestly trying to tell a story about two very different storytellers - the vulgar, unpalatable Wallace's and the courteous, mannered Howard Howe - who both exploit their audiences for their own sick, perverted aims. It would have been fascinating to see what would have happened had he decided to focus only on the relationship between Wallace and Howe (and Wallace's ultimate transformation). But Smith's inability to allow his own story to breath - needing to script every laugh and compliment himself on how good that last joke was - is what kills it. And while there may be something to admire in the sheer audacity it takes to make a film like Tusk, instead of a pitch black, pointed and ironic commentary, we get what ends up being an unfunny, tonally schizophrenic nothing of a movie that shows its cards far too early and becomes something totally unexpected in the worst possible way. 

I don't really know how to end this, so I'll leave you when an excerpt from a poem written by another storyteller with a similar subject:

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

"To play them such a trick,

After we brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

"The butter's spread too thick!" 

3.5 out of 10

It's Not Just the Hair: Thoughts on Why Ephraim Goodweather is the Worst Thing About THE STRAIN

It's also the name. 

In all seriousness (pretending that his hair and his name aren't actually things that bother me), Ephraim Goodweather is the worst thing about FX's new series based on the trilogy of novels by one of my favorite directors Guillermo del Toro. The Strain was incredibly slow out of the gate - attempting to focus on multiple story lines that all felt like they were taking place in different shows rather than simply in different locations. As it made its way into the middle and now end of the first season, the show has improved. It has managed to remove some access, unimportant story lines and connect all of the major ones in a way that feels natural rather than forced. New pairings have cropped up, the action has steadily been increasing into all out panic (even though in the last few episodes things seem to be stuck in neutral) and it seems to finally be figuring out what kind of show it wants to be. Yet throughout all of those positive changes, one thing has remained constant: EPHRAIM GOODWEATHER IS TERRIBLE. Absolutely terrible.

From the moment Eph Goodweather (again, a name that can only exist in a world where there are parasitic worm-controlled vampires) is first introduced, I knew he was an awful character. Everything about him is a cliché. For starters, he's a genius which, if you've ever watched a TV show, you know means he has absolutely no grip on his personal life. He also, because he's so much smarter than everyone else, has to have at least one quirky trait that sets him apart from all the plebeians. In Eph's case, it's the mystifying reveal that he drinks milk at the scene of a major outbreak because of course he's an alcoholic and it's not like there are things like tea or coffee or soda or water to tide him over. (They just don't give you that sweet, sweet bovine buzz!) Maybe the worst part, however, is how as soon as he gets to work the entire arch of Eph being a control freak unable to accept and stop the dissolution of his marriage goes out the window. While he actually is the boss at the CDC, none of that controlling personality comes out in any of those scenes. All of his scenes with his family add up to a backstory that only matters when it's time to talk about it.

He's also the worst CDC worker in the entire history of the world (I hope). First off, let's talk about his family which "means the world to him." Look, I know the prospect of losing your wife and son is an unbearable feeling. I get that. But to completely forego all of your responsibilities at the CDC because you're too preoccupied with the custody hearing for your son? He himself mentions that this new "outbreak" is unlike anything they've seen before. If that's the case, how hard would it be for him to call and explain that he needs to reschedule the hearing BECAUSE THERE IS AN OUTBREAK THAT COULD WIPE OUT ALL OF NEW YORK! If he were just honest with them and said, "Look, I've never seen anything like this before. People could be in some really serious danger if I don't find out what's going on," I think they'd understand. But of course that doesn't happen and he goes to his custody hearing anyway. And of course his son requests that the judge give his mother full custody because it's what he thinks is the right thing for his dad. Did I mention that Eph's reignited the affair with his coworker Nora, the same coworker that helped break up his marriage in the first place? Because, yeah, he did that too. Even when he does finally do his job, he doesn't go out to the public with his findings or really tell anyone what is happening. Not to mention that when he is confronted by Setrakian (the resident vampire expert), Eph consistently refuses to believe anything he says even though the mysterious gentleman with the sword cane is proven right again and again. He won't even admit to the idea that these creatures are vampires or even call them that until well into the season (and even then he has reservations). Ephraim Goodweather's egotism and disillusionment are astounding. 

But perhaps the most egregious thing that happens on Eph's watch at the CDC is the time where HE KILLS A FREAKING VAMPIRE AND THEN JUST RUNS AWAY because everyone thinks it's a much bigger deal that he got caught moving the body on tape rather than, you know, THE FACT THAT THERE'S A FREAKING VAMPIRE CREATURE TRYING TO KILL EVERYBODY! And he can't take his cell phone with him, no way. They have the power to track that thing. Without it he'll be much harder to find when he goes straight to his wife's house to warn them to get out of town. Good thing he remembered to leave that baby behind. Otherwise he might have been caught somehow faster by the FBI than the milliseconds it took when he went off the grid. 

Eph's also one of the biggest dicks ever. I've already covered how he's constantly going on about his family and his son and how much he loves them while spending innumerable hours away from them and restarting his affair with Nora - having sex in his wife's bed while he's supposedly looking for his missing family and getting caught by his wife's best friend. But even more maddening is the fact that while Eph constantly talks about how he would do anything for his family and how they mean the world to him, when Jim or Fet do things because of their compassion and love for their own families or people they care about, Eph takes a huge dump all over them. He threatens to kill Fet multiple times either by his own hand or by banishing him into the vampire infested night and he punches Jim in the face and proclaims that Jim is dead to him after Jim does something morally reprehensible to save his wife's life. In the latest episode, this righteous indignation finds a target in the newest member to the crew - the British super hacker Dutch.  Simply because she helped Palmer (one of the main villains who is mostly responsible for the outbreak) shut down the city's mainframe after Palmer offered her an unbelievable sum of money, Eph finds the right response to be telling her to get the hell out even though she's now just trying to survive like the others and doing everything she can to help the group. "Who put you in charge?" asks Fet. "THE CDC!!!" Eph replies. Eph's messiah complex is through the roof. He believes he is better than everyone, that he is perfect and we are all the imperfect ones. He believes he is the chosen one. Our Neo. The only one who can stop what is happening. Even Setrakian, who is the one that actually DOES know everything about these vampires and is right about EVERYTHING when it comes to them, is treated with wary skepticism by Eph. Eph is incredibly self-centered, clueless and completely delusional. 

"Why does this make you so angry?" I hear you question through your computer. Well, friends, it doesn't make me angry so much as frustrated. And the reason Ephraim Goodweather is so frustrating to me is because he's the main character in The Strain and he makes it a worse show. He's doesn't feel like a real character. Let me clarify that. No character in The Strain feels like a real person. But Ephraim Goodweather doesn't feel like a real character in the universe of The Strain. He doesn't behave in the logical ways a real life person would behave, but he also doesn't behave in ways that are logical to characters in the show. Why is he repeatedly lashing out at these people who are only trying to survive and help him survive? Why is he still in a constant state of skepticism and mistrustfulness when he's experienced everything he's experienced? In addition to this, his character's relationships and interactions as the worst of any character's in the show. Unlike actually interesting relationships like the surrogate father/son bond between Setrakian and Fet and the budding friendship between Fet and Dutch, there is no growth or progression in Eph's relationships. No matter what happens with Eph, it's always a mix of "I love my son," "I have to find my wife," "Hold me close, Nora, I can't be alone tonight" or "I hate you, I'm going to kill you if you don't get out of here." He doesn't evolve, he doesn't change or do anything out of character. He's as clichéd and one-dimensional as a character can be. 

In a show where you're the main character and you are both the most unbelievable (that's including a Holocaust surviving, pawn shop owning, cane sword wielding geezer and a misunderstood, extremely intelligent Russian rat-catcher) and the most hated (that's including an ancient worm-like Dracula, a sadistic vampire Nazi and hordes of the mutated undead), there is a real problem.

That problem's name is (appropriately) Ephraim Goodweather. And he's the worst thing about The Strain. 

Just One of Those Movies: Review of Jim Jarmusch's ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE

Indie legend Jim Jarmusch's latest film, Only Lovers Left Alive, is just one of those movies, man. Some people will tell you that it's a vampire movie, but those people are the type of zombie that the vampires in this movie would scoff at. To be honest, though, I'm not really sure what to call it. The best I can come up with is calling the film an extremely cool (both in body temp. and attitude) hang out flick. Only Lovers Left Alive is a film that is brilliant more for what it doesn't do than for what it does. In a time where the film market is overrun with vampire movies preoccupied with gory violence, sometimes even gorier sex, and immortal love acting as the ultimate metaphor for teenage infatuation (and sparkles, don't forget sparkles),  Jim Jarmusch emphatically questions, "Who cares?" 

Though Only Lovers Left Alive exhibits a deep undercurrent of emotion in subtle, often unexpected ways, the sentiment and violence aren't extravagant or in your face and the atmosphere is one thick with ennui rather than terror or dread.  What Jarmusch concerns himself with isn't supernatural horror. Rather, Jarmusch is interested in the simple fact that these creatures have been around for ages. And over these countless centuries, they have acquired a level of knowledge and perspective on such things as literature, philosophy, history and culture that humans, by definition, can never achieve. But along with this knowledge and understanding comes a cynicism and languor developed over the same timeless existence. These are beings with cognition and talent unmatched in the natural world, but who have developed, over the innumerable years of their lifetimes, habits and obsessions that by nature force them into lonely ways of life. 

The ironically named and "spookily entwined" Adam and Eve (Tom Hiddleston and real life vampire Tilda Swinton) are Jarmusch's sunglasses and gloves sporting outlet through which he channels the exhaustion of adults who have seen and done it all but who are tragically out of touch with the modern world.  The pair are literal creatures of habit. Adam - a reclusive musical genius - collects vintage guitars (which he acquires via his square, eager to be cool, long-haired lackey Ian (Anton Yelchin)) and layers experimental tracks in a dilapidated but gorgeous Detroit mansion cluttered with an opulent plethora of antique shop treasures. When he isn't making funeral music, he's tinkering with Tesla-inspired gadgets (including a setup that allows him to FaceTime on an ancient black and white CRT TV). Eve, on the other hand, spends her time in Tangiers feeding her insatiable appetite for literature and hanging out with vampire Christopher Marlowe (John Hurt) who, it turns out, actually did write all of that zombie Shakespeare's plays (no word on the sonnets). After a distressing phone call where Adam expounds upon his disdain for the world and the disgusting humans that populate it, Eve decides to make the trip to Detroit (only night flights please) in an attempt to bring him back from the brink. 

When Eve's reckless sister Ava (Mia Wasikowska) shows up halfway through the film bringing chaos and an almost primitive savagery with her, a bit of plot arrives along with her pressing the film into action. After a lot of pleading, Ava finally manages to convince Adam and Eve to spend a night out on the town (or at least, one that isn't filled with moody driving). As a buffer, Adam decides to bring along the still disturbingly uncool Ian to act as a buffer between himself and Ian's fellow zombies. It's a decision that ends in some very unfortunate happenings. 

But while Ava's appearance threatens to sneak some plot into the film, Only Lovers Left Alive is at its best when it's simply acting as a slice of life look into the night-to-night comings and goings of these age-old vampiric beings. It's a film that functions exquisitely well as a catalog of Jarmusch's cultural and philosophical tastes and as both an insightful observation on the madness that his human existence and more specifically as a comment about committed artists who operate and suffer at the fringes of society. The details on how Adam and Eve (and Marlowe) secure their supplies of blood - opting to bribe hospital workers for "the pure stuff" rather than taking it forcefully from the fetid garbage that are living hosts - are presented as candidly as how an addict would score his or her next hit. The euphoria they experience after sipping the blood from their elegant liqueur glasses is shot in full-on, slow motion junkie style as their incisors temporarily sharpen into (not-so-subtle) excited fangs. 

Really, when it comes down to it, it's not the actors who are the MVPs here (though the cast in uniformly terrific - especially Swinton who is absolutely perfect, throwing away lines that other actors would chomp hamily into). The real star of the film is its tone. It's the original music by Jozef van Wissem. It's all the inspirations that get both subtlety and frankly presented, figuratively and sometimes literally unpacked on screen. Shakespeare, Kafka, Joyce, David Foster Wallace, even Neil Young and Jack White show up from time to time. Jarmusch draws out every ounce of atmosphere from the wasteland-like streets of Detroit and the stunning cafes and winding streets of Tangiers. Rather than direction and progression, he seems much more interested in simply showing his audience how these two very unique individuals live.

Only Lovers Left Alive really is just one of those movies, man. Much like his 1996 classic, Dead Man, Jarmusch again shows his uncanny ability to reinvent and transcend genres. But, it's also a film where you can tell he's getting older - a man and director who, like his characters, is finding himself in the position of knowing a lot about the world but feeling cut off by its incomprehensibility. Yet underneath it all, there is a undeniable romanticism to the film. It's a romanticism that has to fight the overwhelming darkness that surrounds it, but that finally does so on the back of a central relationship that feels so worn in and familiar that little needs to be explained. Only Lovers Left Alive is a dream-like, foggy film that just kind of drifts along. It's not a film that speeds up or slows down to please its audience. It has its own pace - one that it's perfected over centuries - and if your down with it, feel free to come along for the ride. Just don't forget your sunglasses. 

9 out of 10

"A History of Violence": Thoughts on Jeremy Saulnier's BLUE RUIN

Hey, you remember that time where we all got excited for that new Superman movie and then it sucked? Yeah, me too. One of the (many) problems I had with that movie is a problem I have with a lot of movies. Blood and violence (and bloody violence) too often have no consequences. Superman battles General Zod throughout Metropolis killing and injuring thousands while causing millions, if not billions of dollars in damages and nothing happens. The city is quickly rebuilt and Clark Kent goes back to work at the Daily Planet like it's just another Monday. And this happens all the time. Protagonists shoot up streets, crash through storefront windows and generally stir up all kinds of shit and we never see any of the fallout other than the occasional, "...Hey!" from one of the unfortunate store owners. 

That's why it's so refreshing when a film actually deals with the less glamorous side of violence. In one of the best scenes in the Coen Brothers' debut feature Blood Simple - to which Blue Ruin has received a lot of comparisons - John Getz's character is trying to mop some blood that has pooled on the floor and is only succeeding in moving it around in a circle. Obviously it's a metaphor about violence and crime and how a person's sins cannot so easily be scrubbed away. But it's also a clear, visual representation of a simple idea: murder is not a business for amateurs. In Jeremy Saulnier's (Murder Party) brilliant entry into the revenge thriller genre, the director takes this basic principle and builds an entire movie around it - a man who is utterly unsuited to exact revenge exacts revenge to extreme repercussions.  It's a story than has been told many times before, but where Saulnier changes the formula is what makes Blue Ruin so special. This isn't a farce. This isn't a film focused solely on the revenger's ineptitude. Occasionally he is resourceful, other times he is incompetent, but the focus is always on how he is out of his depth. No matter what he does or how he does it, what's important is just how unequivocally ordinary he is.

When we're first introduced to Dwight (Macon Blair), he is a haggard mess, soaking his frayed beard in a bath. As soon as he hears the front door opening, he quickly grabs his clothes and slips out of a window. Soon, we find out Dwight is a vagrant "living" out of the backseat of his bullethole-ridden Pontiac in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. When he isn't sneaking dips in the locals' tubs, he can be found picking thrown away grilled cheese sandwiches and tickets to Funland out of dumpsters on the pier. One morning, he's woken up by a kind police officer who brings him to the station in order to "give him a safe place to process the news." William Cleland, the man who was convicted of murdering both of Dwight's parents in rural Virginia, is being scheduled for release after striking a plea bargain. To himself, Dwight resolves to seek retribution himself by murdering Cleland, but he lacks the necessary tools, know-how and experience to get the job done. He also doesn't have an end game. Dwight fails to realize that while killing Will Cleland may be an eye-for-an-eye situation to him, the other Clelands may not see it that way. He can't see that once he begins this cycle of violence, it won't be nearly as easy to stop.

Dwight may lack forethought and any sense of real planning, but the key to Blue Ruin is that he isn't stupid, just a weak and desperate man attempting to work within the narrow set of options he's been given. Ideally, he would use a gun to complete the deed. But even the pawn shops want too much for their firearms and while he manages to steal one by smashing the driver's side window of a pickup truck he finds in a bar's parking lot, his attempts to remove the gun's lock go hilariously awry. Eventually, Dwight has to settle on a everyday, run-of-the-mill steak knife. It's a decision that changes the nature of the crime tremendously. Now he has to get in close. The kill has to be personal. Intimate. Just as closely, Blue Ruin follows every decision Dwight makes and revolves around the consequences of his actions. And while the logic behind all of his short-term decisions is both understandable and clear-cut (pun mildly intended), the tragedy lies in the long-term fallout that trails just out of sight. 

It's clear that with Blue Ruin, Jeremy Saulnier is endeavoring to imbue a seemingly familiar genre flick with a decidedly art house aesthetic. It's a venture that is a magnificent success both in part because of his fantastically ominous compositions and because of his strong sense of editing which enables him to transform a number of misleadingly simple scenes into displays of taut, white-knuckle suspense. The film also benefits from Saulnier's adept skill at beautiful character moments like a diner scene between Dwight and his sister Sam (Amy Hargreaves). It's an incredibly quiet moment, but all of the years the two have spent apart and the duress and disappointment that hovers invisible above their heads is palpable. It's an important element that keeps Blue Ruin from being sucked too deeply in the conventions and pulp of its genre. The action is never allowed to become cartoonish to the point that it removes the audience from the flawed characters that are ultimately the cause of it. 

Much of this has to do with the film's star, Macon Blair. Once Dwight shaves his shaggy beard and trades in his fluid soaked v-neck (I'll leave you to guess what fluids have soaked it) for an oversized dress shirt and slacks, he morphs from street-savvy vagrant to a near-cherub - apple-cheeked and brutally out of his element, too depressed and resentful to stop himself from doing things that a person with a stronger will and stronger convictions would avoid. 

Though it arguably gets too pulpy for its own good near the end and though there are a few plot threads that can be nitpicked if you're so inclined to pick some nits, Blue Ruin is an impeccably shot, beautifully sharp and tightly structured thriller that both satisfies and transcends its genre status. In one of David Cronenberg's later films, the director argues that violence has a history. Blue Ruin argues that it also has a graphic and vigorous present. Like Blood Simple, it's a film that deals focusing on crimes of passion committed by people who are deeply flawed but disturbingly relatable in their mundanity. Blood Simple is about trying to clean up the blood left behind. Blue Ruin is about trying to restrict the blood that's still coming out. 

8.5 out of 10

"Like a Punch in the Gut": Why Voice-Over Killed HOUDINI

I'm going to start off by stating the obvious: biopics are hard to do. Typically, when someone or group of someones try to do one, what happens is that they find themselves being crunched for time. Logically, then, they resort to one of two options. Either they attempt to cram their subject's entire life into a series of hasty vignettes that wind up having the cumulative effect of a shitty episode of This is Your Life or they commit to focusing on a single, defining period in the subject's life and risk leaving out countless other important and formative moments. How lucky was it then that History Channel and director Uli Edel's latest project, Houdini, seemed to be in that mythical sweet spot with all the tools to strike that perfect balance between the two extremes. For one, they weren't crunched for time. While most movies and television biopics can maybe get two hours of running time if they're lucky, Houdini was given over three hours to tell the late magician's story. Equally were the blessings of a screenwriter (Nicholas Meyer, nominated for an Academy Award for his work on the Sherlock Holmes film The Seven-Per-Cent Solution) who seemed perfect for the job as well as an A-list, Academy Award winning actor (an accolade History Channel has never missed an opportunity to boast) in Adrien Brody. Yes, combine that with beautiful set and costume design, a wonderfully evocative John Debney score that beautifully blends old and new and strong performances across the board and History Channel seemed to have themselves a real winner! And then in comes Adrien Brody's voice-over and hits you in the gut worse than any punch.

That's not me being trying to be funny people. That's an actual line that Adrien Brody says in the miniseries. Houdini, the man who dies of a sucker punch-related burst appendix actually says the line "Some things can hit you in the gut worse than any punch." Really, Houdini? ANY punch? Any punch whatsoever?There's literally no punch that you could experience that would be worse than this heartbreak you're feeling right now? And just in case you didn't catch on to that subtle wink at things to come, they make sure to hammer the point home (yes, like a punch in the gut) by showing a Guy Ritchie-esque CGI closeup of the inside of Houdini's abdomen as the metaphorical blow is struck. Don't get me wrong, I'll admit that I found it pretty hilarious the first time they did it. But by the 5th or 6th reintroduction to the inside of Houdini's torso my laughs were replaced by a baffled "Wow, they're really doing this."

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have expected subtlety from the guy that directed The Little Vampire. And, for what it's worth, you can tell that Edel is clearly excited about telling this story. When it comes down to it, I guess there really isn't anything wrong with the miniseries' directness. I understand that any biopic about Harry Houdini, given the type of man he was, can't really be done without a lot of enthusiasm and a good sense of humor. Plus, even though things often get a little too dramatic and ostentatious, it is after all a story about one of the most famous showmen of all time. Really, despite all of those CGI gut-punches and cliche moments when women Houdini comes into contact with turn into his mother before his eyes, Edel does some interesting things. I love when a movie or television series shows how the sausage gets made, so to speak. Here, it creates an interesting dynamic any time Houdini steps on stage. There's a palpable tension, but its not because we're worried about whether or not he'll make it out alive, it's because we've seen him practice these stunts and know how they work. We know what he's in for when he gets submerged upside-down in that tank of water. It's a subtle twist on our typical experience with magic and it works really well. But that damn voice-over. That damn, omnipresent, ever intruding voice-over.

I have no problem with voice-over in theory and often have no problem with it in practice. I completely understand how it's oftentimes necessary in order to present information and insight that would either seem clumsy and/or out of place if explained in the physical world of the film or TV series or would simply take up too much time if the characters were to explain it themselves. I get that. It makes sense. What I don't understand is when it is used the way it is in Houdini. Adrien Brody's voice-over is such a constant and is so frequently over-the-top that it feels almost like something that might be done on Drunk History or SNL. It's like if Werner Herzog did a documentary on narration. Houdini and Houdini leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Whether you like it not, they're going to make sure you know damn well what's happening in front of you. Even the psychological isn't immune. Houdini makes sure you know exactly where his state of mind is at all times lest you forget "The one thing I can't seem to escape from... is me!" And it accomplishes nothing! There's no added dramatic weight. What's told to you isn't something that couldn't have been deduced through, I don't know, WATCHING WHAT WAS HAPPENING ON THE SCREEN. Not only does it make you feel stupid by insinuating that you can't decipher even the basest of symbolic elements, it makes it so that any modicum of emotional resonance or nuance has to bite and scratch and claw to get out. Anytime the series builds up any type of energy or momentum it's immediately snuffed out by an intruding voice saying, "Man, did you see that?! This is what I meant by that. Here's also what I'm feeling at this moment. Jeez, what a punch in the gut this all is." How are you supposed to connect to anything you're seeing on screen when something like that is happening every 30 seconds? Simply put, you can't.

What makes this such a shame is that apart from the maddening voice-over, Houdini is actually a pretty good biopic! Apart from the interesting work Uli Edel does, Nicholas Meyer's script is also pretty solid. Yes, there are the occasional and obligatory childhood flashbacks and the final half of the series feels rather hurried to make it to that all important set of sucker punches, but Meyer is able to neatly separate the two main eras of the late magician's life - his career as an illusionist and escape artist and his crusade against the world of spiritualism - and the revelation that Harry Houdini was actually James Bond without all the killing. Meyer's script also tackles (sometimes more successfully than others) Houdini's relationships with the two women that shaped his existence. While these elements are sometimes sidelined in favor of  showing the magician escaping a jail cell or making an elephant disappear, Houdini's complex and ever-changing interactions with his wife as well as his near-Oedipal fascination with his mother after repeatedly failing to win his father's affections are two of the most intriguing things that the miniseries has to offer. I've rarely heard anyone talk about Houdini's personal life and it's fascinating to see how his motivations to reconnect with his mother's spirit were so strong that they ended up destroying nearly all the immense joy he had for his profession and for his life.

Likewise, it's hard to pull off such an extensive range of emotions without incredibly strong leads. Adrien Brody for one is an absolutely brilliant choice.What I love about him is that he's not the classically good-looking Hollywood actor. He isn't big or loud and doesn't have this booming presence, but what he has is perfect for the role. His presence greatly comes from what's just underneath the surface. There is this magnetism in his soft-spoken demeanor that for whatever reason convinces you of Houdini's electric showmanship. He has this weird mixture of a relaxed nature and tremendous determination that makes him as commanding in the largest theaters as he is in the smallest parlors. The way Brody is able to portray how Houdini's endless enthusiasm eventually turned against him in his quest to make contact with his mother's spirit - how his victories only led to more and more grieving, systematically dimming the magician's once bright life force - is utterly fantastic. Kristen Connolly does an equally fine job as Houdini's wife Bess. She displays this balance of warmth and a strong, sarcastic wit that makes for the perfect foil for Brody's Houdini. And while she eventually gets unfortunately relegated to concerned and disgruntled spouse, the pair's early scenes on stage and behind the scenes have this wonderful, easy-going chemistry that makes it easy to understand how the duo found love and made it to the top as quickly as they did. There's this one amazing scene early on where they both get confronted after an act doesn't go the way they had hoped or planned. After the confrontation they share this brief moment of silence contemplating the life of performance they have chosen to share. It's one of the most powerful moments in the entire miniseries. And the main reason why it's so powerful? SILENCE.

It's during moments like that one that it feels like Houdini is trying to pull some bad trick on the audience. Nearly every single time the series appears like it may be ready to engage in some genuine reflection or nuance in comes some Brody noir-like voice-over to remind us all of how Houdini was an escape artist who could never really escape his inner demons. And, as a result, any and all instances of potential resonance are destroyed. Houdini had everything it needed to be a captivating deconstruction of a man whose life was an interesting, contradictory mix of self-aggrandizing myth and merciless devotion to practicality and what was "real." It's just so unfortunate that with all the talk of not being able to escape, Houdini is ultimately trapped by its devotion to an overwhelming and unnecessary voice-over that prevents its audience from ever truly connecting to it. There's this poignant and quiet scene at the end of the series where Bess is conducting a seance in an attempt to contact Houdini from beyond the grave. As the camera pulls out, the screen darkens into a title card that reads "Harry and Bess never made contact again."

I feel you, Bess. I feel you.