BEST FILMS OF 2014-- #9: "Whiplash" Invents and Perfects the Genre of Jazz Thriller

This is the third in a series of eleven posts counting down my favorite films of the year. Be sure to read about my #10 pick,  #11 pick, and about the honorable mentions too.

PLAY ME TRUMPET MUSIC ABOUT SPIDERMAN!

Few people influence us more than our teachers. A truly passionate teacher can shape our whole outlook, and can guide our interests. As you read this, you are probably recalling that handful of teachers that have been truly brilliant. This relationship, between student and their inspiring teacher, has been examined multiple times in film. It is a trope that, while often earnestly presented, has become somewhat cliché—but at their worst, they’re usually enjoyable if overly saccharine.

If phrased the right way, the plot of Whiplash would read like one of these films. In Whiplash, directed by Damien Chazelle, a bright and driven student discovers a teacher who inspires him. The teacher is passionate, charismatic, and strives to bring out the best in all of the students under his tutelage. He is unconventional, yes, but the student responds to his methods and they change how he sees the subject he cares about most.

But do not be fooled. It is a terrifying movie. Imagine if, in Dead Poets Society, when the kids stood up and said “O Captain, My Captain,” Robin Williams had thrown a chair at their heads and yelled at them to “shut up, you cocksuckers.” That approaches the level of disturbing that Whiplash brings up. It is the anti-Dead Poets Society. Whiplash examines the flipside of such a relationship—yes, an engaging teacher has the power to inspire, but the relationship is also powerful enough that it can be destructive.

J.K. Simmons conducts his symphony of madness.

The teacher in this case is Terence Fletcher, played by J.K. Simmons who is currently seen as not only being a guaranteed Oscar nominee this year, but is seen as the frontrunner to win the award by a mile. And it’s not difficult to see why. Simmons has been around a long time, and always done great work, but this is clearly a breakout role, where a filmmaker gave him a chance to showcase a range we have not seen from him. Fletcher is terrifying—a true cinematic villain who makes you worry about your own well-being on top of that of the characters on screen. Without such a strong sense of menace, the film would not have worked—it is, after all, a thriller about jazz music, so it severely needs Simmons to provide the actual thrills. He brings a terror to every move. Every line, every motion feels loaded with the intention to intimidate (and probably is). This is that type of villain who knows the evil they possess, and revels in it. It’s thrilling to watch. If you don’t think that the phrase “Not quite my tempo” could strike fear into your heart, then you clearly have not seen Whiplash.

J.K. Simmons as the cavalierly cruel Terence Fletcher.

But, just as a sense of menace alone, this performance would not have garnered all of the attention it has been receiving. What separates Simmons’ portrayal is how he makes Fletcher…almost likable? Not in a way that you ever like him—he’s foul-mouthed and violent and clearly dangerous—but you can understand the respect he commands. He’s affable, he’s funny, and he’s charming. Simmons manages to find humor in his performance. As aggressive and violent as he is, the next moment he can be goofy and laidback the next. And this heightens how fearsome he is in the more explosive moments.

Imagine if J.K. Simmons hovered over you like this every day while you did your job. It would be weird.

But, of course, Fletcher is only half of the relationship. On the student side of things we have Andrew Neiman, played by Miles Teller. I must admit that I’m not a huge fan of Teller’s—I think that his fans probably respond to very naturalistic style, but what some find natural about him, I find rather boring. I just find him an uninteresting actor, and unfortunately, I feel that here too (to be fair, I have not yet seen The Spectacular Now where I’ve heard he’s excellent). Especially considering that he’s sharing the screen with a powerful presence such as J.K. Simmons, we never become as invested in Andrew himself. We certainly worry about him and his safety, but the character typically feels fairly undefined. But, Teller nonetheless gives an incredibly committed performance. It’s full of blood, sweat, and tears. What IS clear about Andrew is that he loves drums—growing up listening to jazz drummers, music was his escape. His mother left when he was a baby, and his father (Paul Reiser, who brings a lot of heart to a small role) is not a musician, so we never learn where Andrew first heard jazz music, or where he learned what he did, but we nonetheless get a sense that drumming is a part of him. Now a student at the Shaffer Academy of Music in New York (it’s a fictional school, but think Juilliard), Andrew’s goal is simple—he doesn’t just want to become a better drummer, and he’s not necessarily looking for a job after graduation, he just wants to be the greatest drummer to have ever lived. Much like Fletcher is a more dangerous example of the charismatic teacher trope, Andrew’s character is also familiar—we have seen numerous films about artists who are seeking perfection. And other films have examined how that quest for greatness can be destructive (Black Swan definitely comes to mind). But I feel that message is especially well executed here. After all, Andrew’s artistry of choice is drumming, an especially emotional form of art. Drumming is beautiful to watch, and the filmmaking highlights the aggression of the act. Drumming is loud, it is angry, it is riveting. In the same way that Birdman’s mostly percussive score increases the tension and intensity of the action, you can imagine how in Whiplash the fact that the drumming itself IS the action makes the whole thing keeps your heart beating much faster than in most films about music.

To his credit, Teller has certainly mastered the "bored deer in the headlights" look better than anyone working today, and takes many opportunities to show off this skill.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about Andrew, to me, was that...he was not all that likable. Knowing the basics of the plot, one thinks that Andrew is going to be the innocent who is corrupted by the overbearing menace. But, Andrew's pretty much a blatant asshole the entire film. He's not a nice person, and is often rude to those he meets. I would have thought this would make us less invested in him, but it actually added another layer of depth to the film. Like I said before, we don't get too invested in him as we would have if he'd been a good person. But just because we don't get invested in Andrew or like him, we still empathize with him and and root for him. By making him less approachable, Andrew feels more real. The film avoids the familiarity of the traditional "good versus evil," battle. Fletcher may be destructive, but Andrew is self-destructive, and you have a feeling that he would do the same exact thing were he in Fletcher's situation. It makes the film not as morally black and white, and adds a layer of complexity by making the film's central theme that of abuse of power. Which brings us to the fully-realized relationship between Andrew and Fletcher that the film so eagerly explores.

Andrew on a date with Nicole (Melissa Benoist), one of the few characters we actually see Andrew interact with. And...he doesn't come out looking like a great person from those interactions.

At one point, Fletcher and Andrew have a discussion about Fletcher’s teaching style. Fletcher defends his violence and his aggression towards students (and in case I’ve not made it clear, he physically assaults them, like…it’s bad) with the same reasoning of most madmen: the ends justify the means. He argues that such extremity is the only way to bring out true geniuses. He is not just there to create great musicians, it is his dream to craft the best musician. “One of the greats,” he says. And this is where the relationship between Fletcher and Andrew is interesting—both have the same mindset—both are not content with mere quality. Both are driven by superhuman ambitions. They are kindred spirits, which is what makes Fletcher’s abuse even more terrible. As much as he hurts Andrew throughout the film, he perhaps hurts him most in this one conversation. Andrew, who has had the passion for drumming quite literally beaten out of him so that he is no longer pursuing it, asks Fletcher the not-so-veiled question of whether Fletcher could have had a great student—the next “Bird” they say—who became discouraged by Fletcher’s negativity? Fletcher’s response is blunt and pointed. The next Bird would not have given up. His point is clear: you’re not good enough. And that’s another way that this film bucks convention. We know that Andrew is hard-working, but for most of the film, we’re not given an indication of whether Andrew is good enough for what he desires. His peers don’t seem to think much of him, and honestly, neither does Fletcher. Although Fletcher gives him a few words of praise, it is far outweighed by the negative, and while I’d have to watch the film again to confirm this, I feel like every ounce of encouragement is later contradicted or undermined. And that adds to the bleakness of the film—not only does Andrew go through hell on his quest for perfection, but we’re not sure that perfection will ever be achieved. 

Fletcher and Andrew. In a tender moment.

Which brings us to the end of the film. In most films about inspiring teachers, and I would venture to say all films about artists achieving perfection, there is typically an inspiring ending—the ending where the artist shows their greatness and the teacher looks on in pride. Whiplash, for all of its darkness, gives us a similar ending, but predictably adds far more disturbing connotations. I try to avoid spoilers, and I don’t think it will ruin the film to know the ending as long as I don’t describe the grueling process of getting to that ending (which I won’t). But if you don’t want to know the exact ending, skip forward to the next paragraph. The film ends with Andrew having an opportunity to play drums on a huge stage—this is a performance that can make or break his career. Fletcher, of course, does not make this easy for him (and, for a time, “deliberately sabotages” his band, an offense he had accused multiple student musicians of doing before). But after some time, Andrew plays the solo of his career. For the first time in the film, we see the great drummer that Andrew always wanted to be. Again, if you haven’t seen the film, this isn’t a spoiler—Andrew’s journey is the true story, and frankly, my words here cannot possibly prepare you for the splendor of this final scene. So, in the end, for as turbulent as the film was, everyone seems to get what they want. Andrew finds the greatness he longs for (and, presumably, recognition and fame), and Fletcher finds the great student he had always hoped for. Both seem happy. Andrew is euphoric while playing—he is transcendent. This is probably the best moment of his life. Fletcher, meanwhile, has a twinkle in his eye which we have not seen before now. Fletcher doesn’t have many words in this last scene, but with just his expression, you can see a excitement (again, great work by Simmons) that implies Fletcher’s own joy at the events unfolding before him. So they get what they want. And, more than that, they get what they want through the methods used. Andrew’s performance at the end, I would argue, was not achievable if not for Fletcher. Specifically, if not for Fletcher pushing him far beyond his breaking point. In other words, Fletcher’s methods work. But, of course, having seen how terrifying these methods are, we have to question whether or not they could possibly be worth it. The film is not just questioning how Fletcher achieves his results, but it’s questioning the very concept of greatness itself. And I can’t think of another film that examined this idea, let alone one that has examined it with such acuity. Whiplash gives us the happy ending that its characters want, but not undermines it with everything that proceeds it. Your perception of what the film is about suddenly shifts, and leaves you with quite a bit to think about—it’s a film that you think about well after the film is over.

Especially because this face becomes the face of your nightmares.

That’s the nitty-gritty of what is so wonderful about this film. It is engaging, and fascinating. But, before I end this post, I would be remiss to not mention the other two stars of the film (other than Simmons). Even though Oscar nominations have not yet been announced, Simmons is a lock, but there is one other award, Whiplash is sure to be nominated for, and that’s editing. The editing is simply extraordinary. If you know how difficult editing a film is, then you will get an extra level of pleasure watching Whiplash and appreciating how much work went into it. Specifically in the aforementioned final scene, which took two days to film and was compiled together from an impossibly long amount of footage to come together as a believable and exhilarating cohesive piece. Miles Teller knew how to play drums a little bit before being cast, and studied hard to improve his skills (his drum coach was in turn rewarded a supporting role as another drummer in the film) but no one could have ever been at the level that the role commanded unless they were already a professional drummer (he drums a LOT). Making the drumming believable is perhaps the most impressive technical achievement of the year.

But the other star of the film is the music itself. Jazz gets a bad reputation from those who aren’t aware of it. It’s typically seen as very laidback, sophisticated and boring. The laidback, I get—it’s a very cool and relaxed sound, although the musicians have to work so hard—so much of it is rhythm-based, and with the encouragement of improvisation, musicians really have to stay on their toes. Sophisticated I…don’t really get. After all, jazz started in black communities in America in the late 19th century-- this was hardly the music reserved for high society. It’s a music of the people. But the complaint leveed against jazz that I get the least is that it’s boring. Jazz is dangerous, it is seductive, it is incredibly exciting. The thing is that Whiplash is not about jazz—it is about Andrew’s drive for excellence and the monster who fuels his self-destruction—but jazz still plays a starring role. The music-playing sequences are shot so lovingly and, yes, in a jazzlike way. The camera in these sequences often goes on a tilt. Cinematographer Sharone Meir plays with the camera—it looks slick and composed, but is visually interesting and unexpected. And, yes, it is jazzlike. The film, like the genre of music it uses to frame its story, is all about passion. It’s all about intensity. It is truly thrilling, and is one of the most uncomfortable and fascinating films of the year.

BEST FILMS OF 2014-- #10: "Foxcatcher" Builds to a Fevered Breaking Point

This is the second in a series of eleven posts counting down my favorite films of the year. Be sure to read about my #11 pick, and about the honorable mentions too.

There are two types of people who will watch Foxcatcher: those who know the details of the story it is based on and those who do not. When I saw the film, I was in the latter category, and I imagine those who do know the tragic real-life events which inspired the film had a much different—but nonetheless equally compelling—experience. For those who don’t know the story of Dave and Mark Schultz—two Olympic gold-medalist wrestlers whose lives became entwined with that of the incredibly wealthy John DuPont—I will keep this analysis of the film free of spoilers, so feel free to read ahead. I will only divulge one tidbit of information: it is a true crime story. I mention this because I think it is essential to know going in. I mention it because it was the only thing I knew before going in to see the film myself. And I mention it because, even if you didn’t know this, just a few minutes into the film, you would intrinsically sense that something terrible is going to happen.

That sense of foreboding is exactly what sustains Foxcatcher, which clocks in at over two hours. Director Bennett Miller keeps the film at an incredibly slow pace that, in lesser hands, would have felt pretty agonizing. But there is just a constant sense of worry; an ever-present tension that makes everything feel dangerous. Even when very little is happening on screen, it feels gripping.

Steve Carell helps Channing Tatum work out.

One of the ways Miller keeps this sense of danger is by emphasizing the subject matter. Two of the characters on which the film focuses are wrestlers and the inherent violence in this profession is a suitable backdrop for the film's running sense of dread. And while Steve Carell is getting a lot of attention for his dramatic turn as John DuPont, the main character is actually wrestler Mark Schultz, played by Channing Tatum. Tatum portrays Mark as incredibly reserved. It becomes clear early on that this is not a man comfortable in his own skin. We never learn too much about Mark, but what we do learn suggests an incredibly insecure and vulnerable individual (which, of course, contrasts beautifully with the powerful physical presence Tatum’s figure provides). He was raised by his older brother Dave, and so Mark views him as both an older brother and as a father figure of sorts. He wants so eagerly to please him—as if his only sense of self-worth is linked directly towards Dave’s approval. Dave (a wonderful Mark Ruffalo) gives forth that approval willingly—treating Mark with sensitivity without being condescending. But amongst that sensitivity Tatum gives us cause to worry about what Mark is capable of. As gently as Tatum portrays Mark, there is always a volatility to him. Wrestling is, after all, aggressive by design. And there is a feeling that Mark—and, indeed, anyone we see on screen—could snap at any time. Miller brings Foxcatcher to a boiling point, but it’s a slow boil. The heat is always there, starting out as light frustration and building to a full-blown panic, until the aforementioned criminal act occurs and everything sort of explodes. But while we’ve been waiting for such a climax the entire film, it nonetheless is surprising in the moment. The underlying volatility actually emphasizes the sense of something about to burst. As much as we expect it, we don’t know what to expect, because when the film is on such a slow boil, we know anything could happen. If you don’t know the crime in question like me, your mind will race to try and figure it out. For a long time I was convinced that John DuPont had taken Mark under his wing because he wanted to eventually hunt him for sport.

Spoiler: My hunch was not correct.

Miller ‘s most recent success was the statistical sports movie Moneyball, but the film of his that Foxcatcher most vividly brings to mind is Capote, and in many ways the films can be seen as companion pieces. Both deal with true-life crimes, both feature, at their center, enigmatic and manipulative figures portrayed by actors in career-defining roles (it would be pretty easy to argue that Philip Seymour Hoffman’s Oscar-winning performance was the best of his all too short career, and Steve Carell as DuPont similarly rises to unexpected heights…but more on that later), and both have that previously mentioned sense of foreboding. But there’s one key difference: the crime in Capote happens before the film even begins, but the crime in Foxcatcher happens only at the very end. The aftermath of this crime is only touched upon in the epilogue. In other words, while Capote is concerned with the remorse of a criminal after they have been caught, and an examination of a crime that has already occurred, But, in both Capote and Foxcatcher, Miller refuses to give us an easy answer. A major part of Capote is Truman Capote trying to figure out why Perry Smith—a seemingly sensitive young man—would kill a family “in cold blood.” 

Hey, that's the name of the book!

And Truman never gets his answer. At one point, he loses his patience with Perry and flat out asks him “Why do you think I keep coming here?” As Truman writes his book, he finds himself completely lost as to his main character’s motivations. The same is true here—the confrontation between Mark Schultz and John DuPont is tough to figure out because both characters act in such odd ways.  Mark’s anger and tendency to revert into himself only intensifies as the film goes on, and he reaches an unstable and irrational point. DuPont himself is even more of an enigma. Presenting himself as a respectable and well-versed member of high society (the DuPonts, for the uninitiated, are one of the most wealthy families in the country—I recently heard rumors that they, and this is not a joke, basically control the entirety of Delaware). But as the film goes on, the façade of John DuPont begins to crack and we see the character’s innermost delusions and lunacy. He becomes erratic, he becomes unpredictable and, yes, he becomes scary. Miller can only guess at what was going on in the real John DuPont’s mind throughout the events of the film, and because those thoughts aren’t known, the film cannot provide the answers that, say, a fictional story might have. But, although the ending is ambiguous in its central question of “why did this happen” it is not unsatisfying. Which is no small feat.

Michael Scott's life took a dark turn after leaving Scranton.

One of the central reasons this seemingly impossible task is accomplished is because of the performances of Carell, Ruffalo, and Tatum, who craft such defined performances that we’re willing to trust that they’re in control of their characters even as those characters make ill-advised choices. Of the trio, the one getting the bulk of the attention is Carell, and it’s not difficult to see why. Whenever a comedic actor takes a dramatic turn and does so well it makes waves. And Carell certainly rises to the occasion. His John DuPont is always unnerving, always a little bit off. Just as Mark constantly seeks the approval of his older brother, John craves the acknowledgment of his dying mother (Vanessa Redgrave) who views his actions as foolish. Carell’s performance is remarkable in its consistency. The film asks the audience to alter its perception of John as Mark does—at first Mark views him as a mentor, then as a menace. But Carell never changes his performance—he simply crafts one which can fit both roles. He is charismatic in his awkwardness—allowing the allure of his vast wealth to compensate for his own failings; he’s naturally soft-spoken, and his intentionally apparent crooked nose—a prosthetic that is earning the film awards recognition for makeup--would not make him the life of the party that he is were it not for his last name. Carell’s lines are all delivered in a measured way—a sort of New England drawl if you can imagine such a thing, which allows the character to appear thoughtful even when he is not. This allows the character to maintain elusive to the audience—we never are really sure where he stands. Is he aware of what’s going on around him and a credible authority? Or is he an unstable child who, unironically insists that all of is his friends call him Golden Eagle? When we find out the character regularly uses cocaine, it is simultaneously surprising but also makes perfect sense. Carell plays him as a complete and utter contradiction, and it’s a fascinating one.

But, seriously though, that nose.

And, it should be noted that Carell finds some much needed humor in DuPont’s sheer weirdness (oh the lives of the rich and famous). But while the idea of Steve Carell being funny is hardly a novelty, I have to say that the comedic bits were probably the most surprising and impressive part of Carell’s performance for me. Yes, Steve Carell is often funny, but typically in a much sillier way than here—his humor growing from his sheer commitment and boundless energy. But here, the humor at DuPont’s expense is much dryer, much more surreal and askew than what we typically see. So, Carell showed versatility not only by showing his dramatic side, but by showing a variation in his comedic side.

Carell also portrays him as frail. For all of DuPont’s posturing and projections of greatness, he is a very weak individual, and one worries he could snap both physically and emotionally. This is only underscored by the fact that he’s acting against Tatum, who is roughly the size of a baby truck, and whose gruffness only further contrasts Carell’s almost dainty dialect. With a crowded Best Actor field this year (what else is new) Carell has emerged as the favorite to gain a nomination, and Tatum has fallen off the radar, and while I'm sad about this, I can see the reasoning why. Carell certainly has the more outwardly present character. But I think it’s a shame Tatum is mostly out of the conversation. Tatum redefined my perceptions of him as an actor even more than Carell. It’s a subtle performance, and, more than Carell’s, is vital to the film’s success. Carell’s performance would not work without the antithesis of Tatum. Tatum has Mark’s physicality down pat—a sort of uncertain shuffle. It is clear that wrestling is Mark’s life—he is incapable of anything outside of the sport. His body does not seem to know how to move when it’s not in the ring. The character may or may not be intelligent, but he clearly does not see himself as being so. He’s immature in many ways, and Tatum carries himself like a child who is wearing his dad’s suit and worries someone will notice. As other characters encourage him and remind him of his well-deserved accomplishments (winning gold at the Olympics is, after all, no small feat) you can tell his own doubts. It’s a beautiful, layered performance. When John DuPont—who acted as Mark’s very clear father figure for a significant time—eventually turns on him, Tatum’s anger is palpable. But amongst the anger there is a lot more—confusion, sadness, fear, and above all, a tragic sense of hurting and betrayal. He doesn’t understand what is happening or what to do, and he’s scared to admit that to himself. I left the theater thinking about Carell’s commanding performance, but as time went on, it was Tatum’s that stuck with me.

One of many tenderer moments between the Schultz brothers.

Which brings us to the third prominent entity in this story—Mark’s older brother, Dave. Mark Ruffalo is one of those actors who can instantly improve any project with which he’s involved. He elevates the work of those around him—molding his performance to compliment whoever he is sharing the screen with and making both of them better. It’s a rare skill, and is on full display here. With the aforementioned sense of unrest pervading the film, it could easily be a little too much to take. It’s bleak enough as it stands, but it needs something to cut up that sense of dread. And while Steve Carell does provide some humor, this is where Ruffalo comes in strongest. While Ruffalo matches Tatum’s physicality as a wrestler, and also moves with a distinct walk and mobility, Ruffalo’s Dave finds a certain ease with his movement and speech. He is not burdened by the worries and doubts of his brother. And, most importantly, he can separate himself from the wrestling. He loves the sport, but unlike both John and Mark, he does not become overly invested in it to the point of self destruction. He has a family, and he has a life. And, also unlike John and Mark, we see him smile regularly. You fall in love with this character almost immediately. He has a sweetness, a lightheartedness, and a geniality. He’s endearing, and demonstrates the effortless charisma and leadership that John DuPont so wishes he could emulate. Dave is not as prominently featured as Mark or John, but is absolutely crucial to the film—you are relieved to see him on film if only because his presence indicates the possibility of hope. It is mentioned several times that he’s known on the wrestling circuit not just as Dave Schultz, but as “The Great Dave Schultz,” and hearing this sort of sets him up as a superhero of sorts, and he fits the role to a tee.

But while this description might make Dave sound frustratingly perfect, Ruffalo prevents him from being so. Dave is free of arrogance—his compassion and clear tenderness with his younger and significantly troubled brother humanizes him. And, later on in the film, we get to see Dave out of his comfort zone, which you imagine is rare for him. One of the most memorable scenes is when John DuPont finances a documentary to be made about him and about what a great coach he is. The documentarian interviews the ever-polite Dave, and tries to coax Dave into referring to John as a “mentor,” which he certainly never was. Dave is unsure how to respond, and we see the two very different ways that these two brothers have reacted to the overbearing presence of John DuPont. It becomes apparent in this scene that while Mark is more outwardly troubled by how John controls him, Dave clearly is too—he just does not wear his emotions as clearly on his sleeve. It’s a fantastic scene where nothing is spelled out too clearly for the audience, and yet you pick up on Dave’s thought process immediately.

Dave calms down his brother.

Now that I have sung the praises of these three performers, it’s time to return to the director, Bennett Miller, who deserves a hefty amount of credit not only for these performances on their own, but how they work together so cohesively. The three men at the center of Foxcatcher fit together like a puzzle. John offers the passion for wrestling—he loves the sport and, more importantly, the glory that comes with it. For him, the personal triumph of winning in such a physical arena is where the appeal lies, and knows he cannot attain such a high level of greatness on his (one of his assistants has to pay his wrestling opponent to take a dive and let John win a wrestling tournament that he himself sponsors) which is why he approaches Mark to coach him in the first place. He does not achieve greatness, he merely buys it and puts his name on the accomplishments of others. This is seen most clearly when he claims the world championship trophy which Mark won and puts it on his own mantle.

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some thrust themselves upon greatness.

Mark, meanwhile, represents the dedication to the craft, which manifests itself in his physical prowess. Mark’s skill as a wrestler predominantly comes from his work ethic. He is constantly training, keeping himself in his prime by any means possible. This is his whole life. In the opening scene, he speaks to a group of children about what having a gold medal means. And he says it’s about work ethic and dedication. His approach to a problem is to go after it headfirst. The wrestler and his mentality are both all muscle.

And then there’s Dave, who represents a more mental side of things. He represents the art of the craft. While Dave Schultz is undoubtedly in good shape, consider that one is played by Channing Tatum and the other is played by a slightly balding Mark Ruffalo—Dave is never meant to be the physically stronger of the two. When Mark and Dave talk about wrestling, Dave is always the one who brings up strategy. His focus is more on technique than physicality. And this is why Dave always seems like the odd one out of the three, because he is a rational mind dealing with two people who practice irrational ways of thinking. He achieves greatness through thought and logic, through a keen intellect and tactics as opposed to strength on its own.

All three are necessary, and all three build the film into what it is. I can understand why the Gotham Awards, rather than nominate any of these actors individually, simply decided to give an award to the joint performance of all three. Their performances are one and the same. Different cogs in one well-oiled machine. And that machine runs well thanks to Miller. While Foxcatcher is doing well on the awards circuit, Miller is not. He’s being beaten out by the stylized work of David Fincher, the assured hand of Ava DuVernay, and the sheer patience and ambition of Richard Linklater. All of these directors are deserving of accolades, and I don’t mean to say that Miller deserves a nomination more than they do, but I wish he were more of a presence on the awards circuit this year. His work with his cast is arguably the best of the year, and while many directors were able to bring out exemplary performances this year, Miller’s work with these actors is nothing short of amazing.

As an example, the first time we see Dave, it’s when Mark meets with him at a gym to train. They say hello, and wordlessly begin to spar. It’s a quiet moment, and the actors and director bring out the beauty and grace that comes with such a physical activity. They are not fighting, they are building upon an emotional connection. For the emotionally distant Mark, who only has his brother in his life, this is his interpretation of intimacy. They spar, and when one is pinned, they seem to telepathically understand when to start again. And then they fight again, two brothers forever linked by their chosen sport, whose fighting is contradictorily sweet and kind. Watching the brothers wrestle tells a story. We instinctively know how much they mean to each other. Just as how Miller can make us feel immediately ill at ease just by a subtle change in lighting or sound. It’s a film that stays with you, it’s a film that surprises you, and it’s a film that extracts beauty and meaning from a bleak and tragic setting.

The real life Dave and Mark Schultz, after winning their gold medals.

BEST FILMS OF 2014-- #11: "Selma" Lives Up To Its Large Shadow

This is the first in a series of eleven posts counting down my favorite films of the year. To read about the honorable mentions, feel free to read this post here.

It seems incredible to me that, until Selma, there has not been a film about Martin Luther King Jr. There have, of course been documentaries, and there was a made-for-TV movie that I have not seen but has an incredible cast. There was also this movie made for children that HAS to not be as racist as it looks. Because it looks really, really racist. But, when it comes to major films with a theatrical release, we have not before seen one that really focuses on him. I can't be the only person who was surprised to realize this. Martin Luther King Jr. is such a prominent and important figure, you would think that he would have been the subject of multiple films by now.

But, watching Selma, I realized why this lack of films is the case. There are certain people throughout history who are not just important figures, but who are important presences. Their presence has managed to surpass the figure themselves, and trying to capture such a presence on screen is such a daunting task, that you can't blame people for not trying. It's the same reason we didn't get a film about Abraham Lincoln until 2012's Lincoln which surely would not have even been attempted if not for the people behind it: Steven Spielberg as the director, Tony Kushner as the writer, Daniel Day-Lewis as Lincoln himself-- if anyone could truly hope to make a film about Lincoln then it would be this pedigreed lot. But, despite the film's acclaim, I don't think that even that film managed to fully succeed. As much as I liked the film, Lincoln remains a cipher, and the film is at its best when dealing with the politics of the Congress as opposed to Lincoln himself. Despite Day-Lewis' Oscar-winning performance, and despite Day-Lewis probably coming closer to embodying Lincoln than any other actor ever will, Abraham Lincoln just comes across as utterly unportrayable. His mark on history is just too large.

Here, he looms over a young union soldier named Martin Luther King Jr.  #history

Which of course, brings us back to Selma and Martin Luther King Jr. and, unfortunately, I can't say that it doesn't suffer from the same problem. David Oyelowo (who, as you can see in the picture above, actually has a small role in Lincoln where he plays one of the only black characters...awkward) is a wonderful actor who seems to be popping up in everything recently. This year, aside from starring in Selma, he also had a small role in Interstellar and a more prominent one in A Most Violent Year. He's a very careful actor-- one who is adept at conveying his character's intellect and thought process-- you can see what the character is thinking. He's a wonderful listener. You get the sense in every performance that no decision Oyelowo makes is accidental. And he, unsurprisingly, does very good work in Selma. He captures King's cadence and tone and accent. At one point at the end, the film played a recording of what I think was the real King's voice, but I'm actually not sure. It could have been Oyelowo. That's how good his performance is. He has moments of great power, and at times is truly remarkable. But he undeniably suffers from trying play an unplayable role. He can never accurately play Martin Luther King Jr. because the role itself casts too large of a shadow. He is not just a historical figure-- he has transcended that role as a mere individual, and one cannot hope to ever match or encapsulate that. It doesn't make Oyelowo's a bad performance. It's a good performance-- a great performance even-- but we never believe that he is Martin Luther King Jr.

Oyelowo gives an impassioned speech.

But, while I didn't feel Oyelowo managed to overcome King's shadow, the film itself did, which is an incredibly impressive task. Unlike Lincoln which draws attention to its central character, Selma--through its narrative, and even through its title--manages to circumvent this problem. The film may have King as its main character, but it's not about King. It's about the events that took place in Selma, Alabama in 1965. In depicting these events, the film undeniably succeeds, and that is why it is one of the best films of the year. Director and writer Ava DuVernay, along with cinematographer Bradford Young create a remarkably unique aesthetic. Some scenes are intensely stylized; the lighting, the camera angles, the costumes all come together to create an artistic portrait of the time and the people. It's a very aware filmmaking-- the beauty of it and the careful arrangement are put at the forefront and we are conscious of the composition of the shot. But then (and here's the beautiful part) in the very next scene, the style will suddenly become more realistic. All of a sudden, the underscoring is gone. The camera is shaky. The editing is less polished, the colors are less sharply contrasting. Our awareness of the filmmaking disappears and all at once we feel like we are there in the moment-- much more so than we would have without this distinction in filmmaking, and it's used masterfully here.

Determined protestors in Selma

It is in these moments where the filmmaking shifts that the film succeeds most. Even though the film is not all that violent, the moments of violence that it does have stand out because of the contrast. When we see, for example, a shot of a line of cops standing on a bridge, we feel like we are there with the marchers standing them down. This is what makes the film so powerful. It transports us to these moments.

Another way the film stays out of King's shadow is because...and here's the secret...it's not really about King himself! He may be the main character, but the central thesis of Selma seems to be that while King was obviously a crucial figure in the civil rights movement, he could not have accomplished everything alone. As much as he has become the face of the movement, the film keeps the focus elsewhere. When King meets with Lyndon B. Johnson, Johnson often asks him why he does not stop protesting. As Johnson says, King could call off the protests in Selma and stop violence. King, of course, counters and says that if Johnson makes an executive order to give black people the unrestricted vote then that will also stop the protests. It's an important distinction-- King prompted change, but did not directly enact it, as he didn't have the power to. King doesn't actually change over the course of the film and, under Aristotelian rules of drama (sorry, is my liberal arts drama major showing?), that means that he's not the central character of the film-- Johnson is. And Johnson, as played by Tom Wilkinson, is not really a defined presence in the film. When it was announced that the usually-wonderful Wilkinson was playing LBJ-- a fascinating historical figure, there was significant Oscar buzz. Ever since the film was viewed, though, this buzz died down considerably, and I'm not surprised. For such a charismatic figure who plays such a pivotal role in the film, the usually wonderful Wilkinson doesn't really do much of anything in the film. It's never clear if he's meant to be a sympathetic presence, or an antagonistic one (more on that later).

MLK and LBJ meet in Selma

Luckily, the other supporting characters are more clearly defined as, once again, Selma excels when focusing on the protests and the protestors. Selma surrounds Oyelowo with an enormous ensemble, and they are key to this film's success. There are numerous characters whose names are mentioned only once, or never at all. Those whose names are mentioned are usually not given a full backstory (I was shocked at how little was actually said about James Bevel (played by Common) one of the main organizers of the Selma Voting Rights Movement. He welcomes King to Selma, and then he is mostly in the background. But this strategy actually proved remarkably effective in getting us interested in these characters, all of whom are based on real people. DuVernay constantly focuses on the crowd, and when you see the same faces focused on over and over, you become invested in them simply for their presence. What DuVernay is saying by focusing on the characters this way is that, as individuals, they were less important than the movement they helped to bring about. For example, Lorraine Toussaint played Amelia Boynton Robinson, and she has one of the most prominent roles in the film. She is always there. It felt like in every crowd shot, she was there. At one point she gives some sage advice to Coretta Scott King, and delivers one of the only speeches that is not delivered by MLK himself. So, she's definitely a presence in the film. But, and I could be wrong here, I don't think her name is ever mentioned in the movie. If it is, then I missed it and it couldn't have been said more than once or twice. The message is clear: even if Amelia Boynton Robinson is not as famous as Martin Luther King Jr., it doesn't mean she's not important (and, seeing her name in the credits made me read up on Robinson after seeing the film). While most of these small ensemble roles are played by character actors who, while possibly familiar, are not anything close to household names (such as Toussaint, Colman Domingo, and Wendell Pierce to name a few standouts), one ensemble role is played by a famous person. A very famous person. A really super famous person. The most famous person.

Oprah. It's Oprah. The famous person is Oprah. As in Oprah.

Oprah Winfrey plays Annie Cooper and you would be forgiven for thinking she must play a huge part. At the very beginning, she has a scene all to herself, and does have a somewhat pivotal role that occurs early in the film, she is mostly relegated to the background. She's in the crowd with the protestors, she has maybe two lines after the first ten minutes of the film (and that's a generous estimate). But...it's Oprah. So she's clearly important. By making her just another member of the crowd, DuVernay is once again emphasizing the importance of the film's ensemble. This is also highlighted in the film's epilogue-- one of the most powerful movie epilogues I've ever seen. While Martin Luther King Jr. gives a speech, the fates and accomplishments of various members of that speech's audience are revealed. Some of these are prominent characters who we've focused on throughout the film. But some are incredibly minor characters. One of the most striking examples of this, and how effective this approach was involved Viola Liuzzo. Viola is a character who we had seen exactly once before. She had one line, and then disappeared, not to be seen again until the epilogue. But, her epilogue line was that she was murdered just a few minutes after the speech we were hearing was given. Despite her being such a non-entity in this movie, the audience gasped. DuVernay takes every opportunity to remind us of the importance of everyone who history does not remember in the way that they remember the Martin Luther Kings and Lyndon B. Johnsons.

The only reason Selma is not higher on my list is that I wished the most prominent supporting characters were treated as well as the background characters. I've already mentioned that the portrayal of Johnson felt undefined, but I also felt that Coretta Scott King, played by Carmen Ejogo, was not well served. I actually liked Ejogo's work, but the relationship between Martin and Coretta felt very tacked on and irrelevant. With so much that the film was doing well, it severely dragged with focusing on their lives. It's a pretty well-known fact that Martin cheated on Coretta, and I think it's important to bring this up and don't object to it being included in the film, but the way that information is treated felt very tacked on. It felt irrelevant. After all, the film didn't seem to be about King, so details on his personal life felt distracting more than anything. And Oyelowo and Ejogo didn't have much chemistry. At one point, Coretta and Martin were reunited after not seeing each other in a long time and...neither seems all that emotional about this. It was a relationship that simply didn't need to be there.

Martin and Coretta

I also wish there had been more of an antagonistic presence in the film. Which...seems weird considering that racists tend to make really good antagonists, but hear me out. One possible antagonist was LBJ, but he never seemed to really be in opposition to King and, perhaps because we know he will eventually side with King and give blacks the vote, he never comes across as a clear bad guy. That would have been a really interesting choice, though-- to actually paint him as a villain at first, and then show how he turns into a good guy when he changes his mind. As I mentioned earlier, Johnson is the one who changes the most over the course of the film, so this would have made sense. But, without Johnson as a major antagonistic force, that role fell to the police force in Selma, led by Sheriff Jim Clark (Stan Houston). Clark is a bigot and a bully who is portrayed in a manner not unlike an angry boar. He's certainly an antagonist, and a dangerous and despicable one, but he never feels like a threat. He's simply not smart enough. Which leaves us with one character who I wish had been given a more prominent role in the film, and that's George Wallace. Wallace is portrayed by Tim Roth, and Roth is simply incredible. Roth's Wallace brings a level of menace and competence that is terrifying, and which Clark simply doesn't have. He's slimy. He's smart. He's cruel. He fully acknowledges his own bigotry, and it's chilling. Unfortunately, Roth only had a few scenes, but he steals every scene he's in. And it's in Roth's moments on screen that you realize what these protestors were up against. As dangerous and physically violent as the police were (and seriously, the scenes of police brutality are fittingly brutal), people like Wallace were arguably the most dangerous. King himself says at the beginning of the film that no progress could be made until black people had the vote and could get rid of people like Wallace. Roth's performance as Wallace helps us see why. Had he been given more screentime, the film would have had a more gripping antagonist, and Roth would be a contender for an Oscar nomination.

But, despite these faults, Selma is remarkable because it is simply so powerful. Usually, "best of the year" lists have ten entries. In this case, I made it eleven to be able to include this wonderful and all-too-timely film. Unlike the other biopics this year, Selma makes a distinct case for why it's important to hear this story now. It's a rare historical film that immediately asserts its own relevancy in any age, and I imagine it will be as poignant a few years from now as it does today. At the end of the film, we get a fantastic credits sequence which combines historical photos of the real Selma protestors with stills from the movie itself. The whole thing is set to the original song "Glory," which will surely be getting an Oscar-nomination, and has already been nominated for multiple awards. The song's lyrics bring up everything from Selma to Ferguson, and the entire sequence weaves together the events of the past and the events of the present, and made me reassess everything I had just seen on the screen. Selma is not just a biopic. It is not just a presentation of what happened in Selma, Alabama in 1965. It is a film about what is happening right now. And I imagine it will continue to be relevant for the rest of my lifetime.