Skyfall Review

Skyfall
Directed by Sam Mendes
Released in 2012

The first image we see in Skyfall is an out-of-focus silhouette at the end of a narrow hallway. We know this is James Bond, for obvious reasons — who else could it be? — yet we cannot be sure. The scale of the shot matches the trademark “gun barrel” sequence that has opened almost all other Bond films. Instead of obscuring Bond in shadow, as in the early films, or bathing him in bright light, as in the more recent ones, Skyfall does both. Backlit by the sunny window and masked by the dark hallway, Bond just stands there in a distorted haze. This teasing shot captures Skyfall in micro: an immaculately photographed film that places Bond between past and future, paying tribute to his history while forming a distinctly new identity.

Movies today obsess over being the next big thing so much that they overlook the pleasures of fusing multiple, smaller things. Skyfall is not a “high concept” film, in that it cannot be summed up in a one-sentence pitch. Casino Royale, the first in the so-called franchise reboot with Daniel Craig, aggressively distanced itself from its legacy — “Vodka martini.” “Shaken or stirred?” “Do I look like I give a damn?” — while the last film, Quantum of Solace, posited Bond as an action hero when, as Roger Ebert puts it, “he is an attitude.” That attitude returns, with Bond once again bedding beautiful women (Bérénice Lim Marlohe) and taking time to adjust the sleeve of his suit after jumping onto a collapsing train. But director Sam Mendes and screenwriters John Logan, Neal Purvis and Robert Wade shroud Bond in a layer of doubt and mystery that the recent films have flirted with yet never fully developed.

In action films, there are few ways to trigger an existential crisis both profound and palatable, but killing off the main character 15 minutes in must be one. After a reliably thrilling pursuit through the linen shops and fruit markets of Istanbul, M (Judi Dench), the head of British intelligence agency MI6, orders field agent Eve (Naomie Harris) to “take the bloody shot,” with both Bond and a bad guy in the crosshairs. The bullet hits Bond, who falls off a moving train and plummets into a raging waterfall a good 100 feet below. This scene transitions into Adele’s title song, with visuals dominated less by the usual naked lady outlines and more by Gothic, visceral and M.C. Escher fractal imagery. There is one animation where Bond shoots mirrors surrounding him, suggesting a split in identity or some Freudian metaphor primed for over-analyzing. It all sets the tone for the “resurrection” motif that runs through the film; both Bond and M must confront their age and failings in order to reconcile them with their duties.

Bond — who doesn’t really die, in case you’re worrying — and M face a conflict that is, in more ways than one, the fault of their own actions, particularly M’s. A hard drive containing the files of cover MI6 agents falls into the hands of the baddie (Ola Rapace) Bond fights in the opening sequence. Since he gets away, his boss, Silva (Javier Bardem), now has the power to slander the image of MI6 and enact vengeance on M, who he believes betrayed him in the past. The compelling part is that M did, indeed, fail him, which places her cold-blooded determination to get the job done — “Take the bloody shot!” — on shaky moral ground. Dench has been the series steady since 1995’sGoldeneye and Skyfall affords the Dame her meatiest role yet. Only Bond surpasses M in screen time, and she rivals in lines spoken. M treats Bond like a son, with all the impatience a mother would have for such cheek, and the script has fun with their relationship, inverting romantic staples like “Why didn’t you call?” to mix arch authority with maternal concern.

Even Silva has some strange “mommy” thing with M, though his obsession with killing her belongs more in the house of Atreus than any working relationship. Javier Bardem balances the camp of the Blofelds and Goldfingers before him with the composed anarchy of Heath Ledger’s Joker. Silva takes more than a few cues from The Dark Knight: Always one step ahead, he compares himself to a “rat” (remember The Joker’s dog analogy?) and fascinates us with a mix of humor, sadism and disfigurement (and I’m not referring to the wig). Of course, Bardem owns the part. What starts as a superficial display of strength — pay attention to how he rolls his eyes and forces a laugh — stiffens to homoerotic queasiness before unraveling to full-out animalism. This is the best Bond villain in decades and the best movie antagonist since Hans Landa in Inglourious Basterds.

Skyfall may be the first “auteur” Bond film, and I’m not referring to the work of director Sam Mendes. The soul of this film is indebted to cinematographer Roger Deakins, Hollywood’s greatest living cameraman, known for his collaborations with Mendes and the Coen Brothers (Barton Fink through True Grit). Deakins enhances the globetrotting adventure typical of a Bond film by imbuing each locale with a distinct color and lens technique. The Chinese port city of Macau glows yellow against inky black skies, balancing fantasy with sharp acutance. Harsh sunlight saturates the ransacked island colony where Bond first meets Silva. The fog of the Scottish Highlands extends into oblivion through careful manipulation of natural light reminiscent of Days of Heaven (a nod to The Third Man in a sewer chase and Apocalypse Now during a helicopter attack). Skyfall’s most stunning set piece is in Shanghai, which apparently radiates blue everywhere — tunnels, road signs, computer screens, escalators, you name it. The metropolis looks like the futuristic nightclubs in the Mass Effect video games. It serves well for a noir-esque action scene in a skyscraper, where shadows cloak Bond as he sneaks through glass doors to take out an assassin. The hand-to-hand brawl is pitch-black, save for a few muzzle flashes from the assassin’s rifle. Even with such theatrical presentation, the sparse use of light and exacting audio pack a punch. Deakins heightens the exoticism intrinsic to the series by transporting Bond not only to different cities but singular worlds.

Skyfall reminds us how old Bond is — surely a meta-commentary during the franchise’s 50-year anniversary. James Bond’s redemption in this film doubles as a resurrection of the character’s vitality for our age. Skyfall takes on new with old (Albert Finney plays a figure from Bond’s childhood), old with new (youthful Ben Whishaw brings the MI6 Quartermaster “Q” to the 21st century) and composite with middle-aged (Ralph Fiennes as the male complement to Dench’s M). But as Q reminds Bond at their first meeting inside the National Gallery, “Age is no guarantee of efficiency.” For those unfamiliar with names like “Bernard Lee” and “Desmond Llewelyn,” Skyfall remains a uniquely modern film, approaching a story that began in the Cold War with relativist sensibility and production values both visionary and state-of-the-art. And for those of us who consider the Bond canon one with our own, let us collectively weep at the sight of 007 driving his Aston Martin DB5 across the Scottish countryside as the soundtrack strums “duh dadada duh da da da duh dadada duh da da da …”

Final Verdict:

4.5 Stars Out of 5

This article was originally written for The Cornell Daily Sun and can be viewed at its original location via this link.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo Review

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Directed by David Fincher
Released in 2011

David Fincher’s films center not around story but a mood. An off, hopeless, gnarly mood that about represents where Travis Bickle’s head would be in the 21st century. There are no clean bathrooms in these movies. Longtime collaborator, cinematographer Jeff Cronenwoth, captures the visual aesthetic of this bleakness with jet-black color saturation and disturbing digital clarity. The two could frame a mid-July, Florida sun and make you doubt its warmth. On the other side lies the audio, where sound editors and mixers - led by Ren Klyce and Mark Weingarten, respectively - sometimes muddle the dialogue yet crank up the ambience to build suspense. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross scored The Social Network and return here for The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo to embarrass all directors who did not approach these two sooner. They channel paranoia and betrayal through this draining din that may as well resonate from the recesses of a aluminum honeycomb, with atonal keyboard strokes over it all. 

I say all this to commend both Fincher and these individual artists who collaborate every time to realize these troubled visions. But I also want to emphasize that all these people are not here to tell a story as much as develop this mood and strip raw its meditators’ humanity, or complete lack thereof. The story they tell here has been told twice before, with Stieg Larsson’s original novel and the 2009 Swedish film adaptation hits already. They all return, Fincher leading it all, for more than an American touchup. 

Larsson’s original story remains mesmerizing and incredibly gripping, no doubt. I had not experienced the story in any complete form yet so the Steven Zaillian-adapted plot provided its own wonder (thus, this review has no prior bias, e.g. my laziness brings objectivity). If Agatha Christie wrote for the heroin chic era and admired the BTK Killer over Professor Moriarty, the resulting potboiler would end up close to this.

Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) has just been hired by a retired mogul, Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer), to investigate the mysterious disappearance of his daughter almost 40 years ago. Blomkvist, an investigative journalist, is good at his job, but not great, shown by his loss in a high-profile libel case against a businessman, Hans-Erik Wennerström. Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara), however, is great and nearly supernatural in her computer hacking abilities (not unlike last year’s Fincher subject, Mark Zuckerberg), if brought back down to earth by some severe social problems (ditto the Zuck). The two join - through some awkward serendipity, of course - to pin down who they believe is a serial killer of women, one of Se7en-level brutality.

Lisbeth directs all of her attention to the case on the premise alone, for sexual violence is tied to her own past. If her bisexuality did not already set her apart, her black leather jackets, grotesque piercings and aversion to words certainly do. Her new legal guardian exchanges sadistic rape for the money she needs, and the revenge she takes is almost so sick we feel bad for the scum. Almost. An early scene where a thug swipes her laptop in a train station, only for her to viciously fight back, throws the weak woman stereotype out of the window. Not the crazy woman one, though, for she unleashes a primal roar in the goon’s face that the sound editors wisely masked with ambient train squeals. This freight train will flatten you.

Blomkvist occupies the other side of the coin. It is precisely his slaving to manners that nearly kills him, as he comes face to face with the bad guy yet will not decline a drink in his isolated, dark house. “It's funny that people have a greater fear of offending others than the fear of pain,” the villain sneers, a critique of the genre’s tropes that lead to the audience screaming at the screen, “Don’t go in there!!” 

Daniel Craig as Blomkvist signals a shift in character, one not in control of the situation though more eager than ever to be so. For once, Craig appears weaker than both his enemy and accomplice, and he handles the demotion in stride. The dark palette to the shots even makes that chest that once drove Internet message boards wild only above average. 

Though that role does not scream Oscar in any way, Mara’s Lisbeth Salander does through silence. But we all saw her in the opening sequence of The Social Network as Zuckerberg’s offended girlfriend, and she was so flustered and innocent there. What happened between then and now? The contrast makes her transformation that much more impressive. For such a pretty, delicate-looking girl, her nude scenes bare a rugged, beaten and very sexed though not necessarily sexy canvas. The strange relationship she develops with Blomkvist uncovers real feelings, with hard stares of affection rather than contempt. In a day where stars only grace magazine covers with an army of Photoshop airbrushers, it takes dare and real talent to own a role so punk and unglamorous and find a wounded heart beneath it all. 

Christopher Plummer deserves recognition this year, for he won accolades in Beginners and proves again to show talent, or dash, have no boundary. First of all, look at the man (to your right), and tell me you would want to look any other way at 82 years young. Bravo, sir. But nonetheless, he continues to expose his underrated talents that should soon not go Oscar-less. Actors cry all the time in the movies, but only the best can make you believe it. His character breaks down in one, quick shot with such a rush of feeling that it reminded me acting can not only shock but swoon, even amongst such venomous company. 

That Plummer’s reaction was cut so abruptly contributed to the shot’s punch, letting the emotion exit the screen and finish in the viewer’s imagination. Film editing, the “invisible art” as it is justly called, can go through the motions or turn a decent film exceptional. Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall achieve the latter, cutting a movie that runs a troublesome 158 minutes into a breeze without filler. They throw in those graphic match cuts - i.e. someone closes a window; cut to someone closing a door - but the mastery barrels forward in any of the montages. Investigative work flies by as both Lisbeth and Mikael shuffle through old newspapers and find clues in zoomed photos while Trent and Atticus’ score builds and falls. They work apart from each other as per Lisbeth’s isolated demeanor yet, in two sequences, one of them falls into mortal peril while the other puts together the pieces to save them. Their dependency on each other never finds words but the cross-cutting of images, even when they are a train ride apart, ties that bond. 

I now recall an earlier 2011 film, The Green Hornet, directed by Michel Gondry. The film was mediocre at best, but featured this cool sequence where the camera followed an assassin only for the screen to split in two and follow two new assassins simultaneously, and then four, eight and so on. The montage provided fleeting fun, but aside unmemorable scenes on either side it stood out as rather outstanding in this otherwise forgettable movie. Gondry and Fincher share a similar lineage, as two of the three famous 90s music video directors who later hit it big in Hollywood (the third being Spike Jonze). 

Fincher does not use these “showstoppers.” Instead, he creates a seamless stream of image, sound and music where every piece, at every frame, holds purpose, but conviction only when viewed alongside its appendages. A scene of Mikael nestling with a cat feels as critical to his character as when someone strangles him with a plastic bag over his head. Take a second and picture that latter image. It is as disturbing as you cannot dare to imagine. For while Fincher cannot ultimately escape the pulp that is Larsson’s text, the often ludicrous story keeps us afloat among such unremitting brutality. Otherwise, we might just sink into that starless, unsmiling mood.

Final Verdict:

4.5 Stars Out of 5

Cowboys & Aliens Review

Cowboys & Aliens

Directed by Jon Favreau

Released in 2011

A movie's title should communicate not only the concept of the film but some of the tone as well. We should determine whether or not it is a comedy, drama, action film, etc just from the name. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a crazy title; fitting then, huh? Snakes on a Plane, on the other hand, sounds so self aware that it must be drenched in irony and camp. Cowboys & Aliens carries so little conviction that it should follow the same path. However, the filmmakers attempt to fuse two genres, western and alien invasion, and fail to fulfill either's potential or even basic principles. 

The first shot consists of a sprawling desert landscape, panning right until our hero Jake Lonergan (Daniel Craig) bolts upright into the shot, gasping and searching around for his bearings. He has no memory of who he is or why he is so vulnerable. A promising start. From there the driving Morricone-esque score by Harry Gregson-Williams kicks off as Jake strolls into the local town. The town looks like that Western town we have all seen before; it is believable but without distinction. Same can be said for the costumes:  good work, yes, but nothing we have not seen countless times before. It all works, but lacks consequence. 


Jake arrives just in time, for as the local gang leader's mess of a son (Paul Dano, further establishing himself as the subservient coward character actor of his generation) accidentally shoots the deputy sheriff out of carelessness and pulls Jake into the whole mess too. Just as they board the carriage to take them to the federal marshal, Jake's mysterious wristband begins to buzz and flash as lights in the sky do the same. In the dead of the night a flight of extraterrestrial spacecraft launch a guerrilla attack on the town, plucking several men and women from the ground, conveniently providing reasons for a crew to then set off to find those aliens and, of course, their loved ones. Paul Dano, unsurprisingly, is abducted, so Harrison Ford, his grizzled father Dolarhyde, sets forth beside his former rival,  who now sports that curiously powerful wristband. There is no explanation, ever, as to why the aliens abduct those hapless humans. It is just an evil thing for them to do, providing conflict and fulfilling the stock alien invasion type. Equally unfulfilling is their reason for invading Earth; it is painfully unoriginal. 


Such issues can be whittled down to one reason: there are too many writers. The credits place nine different screenwriters/story developers/comic book writers as the creative force behind the script.  No natural character development or restrained story arc will survive after encountering so many hands. The first half follows the Western progression of new tough man in town,  unwillingly messing the place up, and then vowing to fix it and embarking across the desert with those he affected. In fact, such a worn plot was breathed new life in the excellent Rango earlier this year. 


Not only does this film lack such inspiration, it does not complete the journey our protagonist should complete. The aliens reveal their true form far too early  (Spielberg is attached to this, you'd think he would oversee the cinematic lesson that is literally taught in film school today), and the film begins to switch its gears to alien takedown flick in the vain of Independence Day. A multi-cultural band of enemies unite in order to take down the greater threat; this group includes Jake and Co., Jake's former deadly gang he now disowns, and a surprisingly inoffensive troop of Native Americans. The latter thankfully have some depth in their image, not overly barbaric or unremittingly tied to the spirits around them but somewhere comfortably in between. With the help of those who traveled with him, Jake unites these factions and they all collectively overthrow the intruders. Not enough attention is placed upon Jake, however, as we feel that he only solves the issues from a "shoot the baddies" perspective while the moral choices and reconciliations are left to the love interest, Ella Swenson (Olivia Wilde). By the end, Jake has changed, but it is not his choices that got him there.


The casting contains curiosities, both good and bad. As great as it is to see Harrison Ford in 2011, the man immortalized through the space gunslinger Han Solo has since lost that drive. His performance has some highlights, particularly as he confesses to his right-hand man (Adam Beach) how he wished his son had half his goodwill and courage, and as he finally reunites with his son in the end we feel for him. But we never care for him before these moments, and while that may be by conscious choice, it is not a smart decision for us to barely think of the character when he is off-screen. It takes far too long for us to feel effect, and far too late. After playing the futuristic model of a woman in Tron: Legacy, it feels grossly anachronistic for Olivia Wilde to strap on cowboy boots in the 19th century. She lacks abilities as an actress, specializing in that glazed, seductive stare she exercises so often. Hollywood has been forcing Wilde onto screens lately and I am not sure why, besides the obvious (and I believe overstated) reason. 


The actors who stand out hint at what could have been if the acting ensemble was tighter and script much more focused. Sam Rockwell, unsurprisingly, excels even with his limited material and admittedly bland character. But he has mastered quirky comic delivery as well as an effective state of emotional distress when his character calls for it. His physical struggle to shoot a gun pays off when he finally saves his comrades and takes control of his manhood.  And the best character is the short-lived preacher played by Clancy Brown, the prison guard from The Shawshank Redemption. His down-to-earth spirituality lends weight to the film's thematic potential, suggesting that faith will heal the wounds left by those who harm. But his death (yes I spoil, it is not a big deal) arrives so soon, and this theme, fleetingly touched upon again in the Native American camp, never truly finds its footing. 


I respect that Jon Favreau and the whole outfit of screenwriters approached this film as more than a campy panache. But they take themselves too seriously, and are reluctant to inject any comedy into a product that demands it. The plot wanders, rife with holes and stumbling aimlessly for theme. Much like Jake in the beginning frames. With added levity and, let's say, a Western story arc with alien elements added more naturally and less intrusively, this action film from the director of Iron Man could have been a witty, engaging summer flick. And for godsakes the title is not helping. 


Final Verdict:
2 Stars out of 5