DO NOT WATCH THIS FILM

DIRECTED BY LARS VON TRIER

STARRING: KIRSTEN DUNST, CHARLOTTE GAINSBOURG, ALEXANDER SKARSGARD, KIEFER SUTHERLAND with STELLAN SKARSGARD and JOHN HURT

Lars Von Trier has successively won his lead actress an award at Cannes. In 2009, Charlotte Gainsbourg bagged the honour for her portrayal of a mother who retaliates with sexual aggression against the pain of having lost her infant child in ‘Antichrist’. This summer, Kirsten Dunst walked away with the same for ‘Melancholia’, where she plays a woman who’s crippled by her fear about the end of the world. Crippled, as in mentally/emotionally. The film is said to be based on Trier’s therapy sessions during a depressive episode in his life, and it features Gainsbourg who’s already proven her worth in grieving with grace. Here, she’s comparatively cheerful. Dunst herself has had a popular bout of depression for two years, breaking the ice with her 2010 release ‘All Good Things’. This film is part of her comeback, and could very well be her definitive, breakthrough act.

That’s as much trivia as is required to understand where this film comes from and what nurtures it to an organic and rotting whole. Its achievement, I felt, was in the semblance of home as well as the equally-incisive portrayal, both of which had firm roots in the people involved. In other words, it’s a depressing film from a depressed person about a depressed character played by an actor who has faced the worst herself. That, I think, would sum up what the viewer can/will expect even before the film opens.

There’s very little to speak about the film, which actually doesn’t come as a surprise. It’s in two parts, one named after Justine (Kirsten Dunst) the bride-to-be who destroys her own wedding in a sort of defeatist endeavor like in a move to make the end of the world more sufferable. The other is named ‘Claire’ after her sister (Charlotte Gainsbourg) whose consumption by fear is procedural and intensifies with time and event. Justine plays the aggressor, Claire is submissive in the broadest sense of the word. This is not the first time I’ve watched Trier situate the entire emotional crux of the film with his women, their men accessorized. But here, he polarizes it. Justine and Claire are on the opposite ends of the spectrum. They, in all essence, complete the picture that he breaks in the end.

Does this imply that Trier is the feminist of this generation? Perhaps. It’s complicated, actually. He relates his depression to the suffering of a woman; somehow, I felt that he feels something very feminine about it. His men are plastic. He associates them with science, with logic, with power; with humour that he derives little pleasure from. His women, on the other hand, are pinnacles of expression, chasms of depth. We see shades of the woman in ‘Antichrist’ in Justine. She corks her sadness with sexual aggression, and suffers more at the relapse she helps trigger with it. I imagined for a second how it would be if he were to centre his story upon a male equivalent – that is, if ever Trier decided to write himself in a story. I think the concept of a woman has such an inherent sense of pity it’s bound to incite, which a male character, in his sexual dominance, would only lead away from himself. Somehow, the idea of a woman predating and suffering from the same seems far more acceptable. Even artistic. Or else it’s a consequence of Trier’s craft that renders us to believe so. I can’t tell.

Accepting that it’s backed by exemplary craft and deft use of ideas in Trier’s impeccable quirk, I take the liberty to call the film pathetic. It’s unendurable. It’s not even a film that can be enjoyed by a depressed individual; it’s no key to suicide either. I felt that it was a film that be enjoyed only by those in it; those snared by commitment and self-propelled interest to carve a way out of their heads in form of this film. Trier HAD to make this film, Dunst HAD to act in it – it’s in convenience to help resurrect her fallen career as well. She fits like a glove and he wears her performance like a crown. Dunst is both actor and character for the film that Trier knew exactly how to make. It comes easy for him, he extracts performances effortlessly. He’s backed by a talented bunch of actors who are well-cast and devoted as well. It’s tailor-made.

But what about the viewer? There’s this one film that Willem Dafoe as Carson Clay writes, directs and stars in at the Cannes Film Festival in ‘Mr. Bean’s Holiday’. The man is ruthless. He eats screen-space and deletes other characters to facilitate his own. I was reminded of that film when I watched ‘Melancholia’. There are films which disrespect the viewer. This one disregards us. It doesn’t care. It prides in its depression and destroys the world to beat its gloom. I’ve always had this theory that one would miss life lesser in its absence if one lived lesser. The film destroyed that theory of mine simply by reveling in it. I felt tainted. It does not eat into your optimism. It leeches on it and comes out strong. 

Roger Ebert called Tinto Brass’ ‘Caligula’ (1979) a heinous excuse for sex in film. ‘Melancholia’, to me, is a depression equivalent. It's ejaculate. It's a 'burn after reading' that it warrants. Not a world-premiere. Or any premiere, for that matter.

BENEFITS? COME ON, SERIOUSLY?

DIRECTED BY WILL GLUCK

STARRING: JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, MILA KUNIS, NOLAN GOULD, WOODY HARRELSON, PATRICIA CLARKSON, RICHARD JENKINS, ANDY SAMBERG with JASON SEGEL, RASHIDA JONES and EMMA STONE

The most engrossing aspect of Will Gluck’s ‘Friends with Benefits’, a boring self-advertisement of an overwrought product, I felt, were the sex scenes. Let me tell you why. Mila Kunis as Jamie, before she engages in intercourse (and a whole lot of other things) with Dylan (Justin Timberlake), tells him she has sensitive nipples. He, in turn, warns her of a similar situation on his chin. In the scenes that follow, we get to see his weak spot, but never hers. I was eagle-eyed about it. Not a trace. I felt cheated. It felt like such an ‘entertainer’ thing to do, you know? You hype a feature on a product that’s barely saleable otherwise (relating ‘Mila Kunis’ and ‘acting’), you make people wait for it even if only to counter-check or call for a contract-void, but then you never give it to them. The mystery is strenuous. For all you know, they might have used a body-double. I think they actually did. The girl in the long-range topless shot is not Kunis, but her voice distracts. Filmmakers these days are so full of tricks up places least expected. Like the one that Dylan seems particularly fond of.

What I said above is not an effort at undermining a well-packaged film that’s actually doing pretty well with critics and other audiences alike. It’s genuinely the only thing that I got to appreciate in the movie. And I actually called it a ‘movie’. That’s strange. I usually stick to ‘films’ – ‘Cinema’ for the rarer kind. This is one that chased cars in a guise of self-importance. I just sat down and counted them as they passed. One. Two. Three. Clichés. Pointy references for the heck of them. Supposed intelligence that’s but an abuse of ‘stupid’. Manipulation. Pretentiousness; it never stood for the stuff it preached. I mean the premise and the movie as the end product that plays in theatres and cineplexes and drive-ins and what not, didn’t go together. It’s like a bad lie that’s better untold.

I’m not going to discuss the plot outline of something that even a ten year old would get these days. It’s like what Roger Ebert once said about self-help books in his review of ‘He’s just not that into you’, as well as what Sam Elliott said about ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ in this film called ‘Did you hear about the Morgans?’ It’s that you don’t have to read the book to know what it’s about. Which means everything comes down to the other things – the surprise elements. Like in a sports film, where it’s about what happens off of the field than on it. The X-factors, so called.

So yeah, I thought this ‘movie’ had none whatsoever. I’ve never looked up to the abilities of either Mila Kunis or Justin Timberlake. They’ve been good in smaller roles, previously. Timberlake was alright in ‘Alpha Dog’ and as Sean Parker in ‘the Social Network’. Mila Kunis as Rachel Jansen in ‘Forgetting Sarah Marshall’ is a role I’d ascribe sensibility to. What didn’t make sense was the move to give them both a wider berth where there’s ten times the chance to blow their covers. Emma Stone (whose role in this film is sheer suicide) made this transition to game-changer from ‘good new find’ (‘Superbad’ to ‘Easy A’). One can give that credit to Seth Rogen (‘the 40-year-old Virgin’ to ‘Knocked Up’) or even Jonah Hill (‘Knocked Up’ to ‘Superbad’). Never to Kunis. Never to Timberlake.

What’s even more of a bother is to see how many good actors have been wasted at the wasteful expense of no-brainer eye-candy. Patricia Clarkson. Richard Jenkins (who plays someone with movie-Alzheimer's). Woody Harrelson. I might add Emma Stone to this list, but the girl is on a downtrend. Still, it’s demeaning to be assigned to play a gawky John Mayer fan. Sucks to say you like ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ as opposed to something like ‘Gravity’ or the ‘Bold as Love’ cover. It’s like discussing Cohen and saying you like ‘Hallelujah’ the most. And that too because Jeff Buckley’s covered it.

I just plain-hated the movie, if that’s not evident by now. Maybe because it’s a John Mayer put-down by Timberlake who can’t spell music even on ‘Hollywood’ letters. Or maybe it’s because I think this film should never have been made. Not because ‘No Strings Attached’ got there first. It’s not even about that. And that’s what I figured from whatever little I paid attention to.

FEEL THE GREEK!

DIRECTED BY NICHOLAS STOLLER

STARRING: RUSSELL BRAND, JONAH HILL, ELISABETH MOSS, ROSE BYRNE, COLM MEANEY with T.J. MILLER, AZIZ ANSARI and SEAN COMBS

I think the most singular thing about Nicholas Stoller’s ‘Get him to the Greek’ is that in spite of the crassness of humour that the film did NOT sidestep, it turned out to be quite a likeable affair. How, I ask myself. Here is yet another film that rationalizes the eccentricities of a rock-n-roll musician, brands on him the ‘loneliness’ label that rockstars recline to as a convenient stereotype, that their lives are in actuality a sort of pitiable tragicomedy. Here is yet another film dealing with the disillusionment of the quintessential believer, and a reinvention in newfound belief. Cameron Crowe’s ‘Almost Famous’ is ‘almost’ the perfect cocktail recipe for this passive-aggressive music trip that every subsequent attempt has to be William Miller, but with differences. It’s inevitable.

And yet, I have to admit that ‘Get him to the Greek’ kept its charm. The weird thing is, I don’t know how. Not concretely. I think in Russell Brand (as the infamous Aldous Snow), we find a more convincing rock-n-roll star than Billy Crudup could ever be. Crudup had an image change, his Russell Hammond – a method acting venture. Brand, I felt, was playing himself or a very close version. He’s British, he’s fairly effeminate. He’s reminiscent of Keith Richards minus the guitar work. I mean, Johnny Depp had to act like him (Jack Sparrow, as we hear, is a Richards impression with improv) but Brand doesn’t find the need to. Russell Brand, the comedian, serves as a convincing template for Aldous Snow, the rockstar. For all we know, you could scratch the actual sexcapades (considering he’s married and it’s working) and you have him on your canvas, alive and breathing. Jackie Q (Rose Byrne) could be Katy Perry, although she’s more Madonna with the Karmic routine, but you get what I mean, right? They work.

Oh, do I have to tell you about the plot? I didn’t know what ‘the Greek’ was before I watched the film, so I don’t know if it’d be a ‘spoiler’ if I let you know. Or you may already know and it would be of no difference. Anyway, it’s about a man from a record label (an associate? I don’t know the jargon, so let me stick to that) who’s sanctioned to bring Aldous Snow down from Britain for a concert at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles. That’s ‘the Greek’ in the title. I’m sorry, I’m bad at America.

Anyway, this man Aaron Green (Jonah Hill) has problems. Probably the most serious of them. Him and his girlfriend Daphne (Elisabeth Moss) work opposite shifts in a live-in relationship. They brunch together. They watch ‘Gossip Girl’ together. It looks like it can’t get worse, but you don’t buy that. Not when there’s Aldous Snow in the picture. He’s just out of a 7 year relationship with a son to show, and is back to living with his Mother who feeds him biscuits than love. Or, considering mothers, they both go together and he doesn’t see it other than for a moment of truth. But anyway, Aaron is on a time-bomb routine. The clock ticks 72 hours and then Snow performs, whole or broken. That’s the deal.

Like I said, Jonah Hill is no William Miller. What’s good is that he doesn’t try. He looks overgrown to recommence on his ‘Superbad’ cuteness (for lack of a better word!), but beyond the unshaven look, the extra pounds and the tons of puke, there’s still a fair shade of the likeable kid left in him. To quote a friend again, he still rules in the ‘capital letters’ zone. The rest of them are stereotypes pretty much like in every chemistry-anti-chemistry flick, there’s no Jason Lee to step out and impress. But even for that, Colm Meaney looked overcooked. It’s not the first instance that he’s been badly used, but considering it’s Apatow, you’d expect better. Sean Combs has his moments as Sergio, head of ‘Pinnacle Records’ where Aaron works. He says the funniest thing in the whole film, which actually happens to be factually inconsistent, I felt. It’s neither the Zeppelins nor the Stones that live longest, Serge. Last time I checked, Chuck Berry was African-American. Be proud, bro.

Nicholas Stoller might lack the deftness of a music-ingrained Todd Haynes or a Cameron Crowe, but he’s good value. His film ate its own words, I felt, and then puked them back out. I’m sorry there’s too much puke in my review – in my defence, there was even more in the film. But then, there was Russell Brand as well. It’s amazing how electrifying he is on stage, how organic the concert(s) look. For a parody character, he gives us quite the experience. His music sucks, but you feel the Greek. Kind of puts Stoller in perspective – you think he’d make a great record producer, he just turned shit to gold. As Filmmaker, I’d say he gets a Bronze medal, tops. Or as a critic equivalent, the half-smile.