Documentary Film Reviews

Film Review: Maria By Callas

The Diva Callous

by Andres Solar

French professional photographer Tom Volf, in his documentary debut, falls for the temptation of “letting the subject tell the story” (hence the title of the film). The task is easier to imagine than it is to accomplish, and by his unwavering devotion to the subject’s perspective, he loses everyone else’s. We are left with a sort of myopia that, contrary to the director’s intention, puts the object of his obvious affection in a harsh, incessant light.

For one, Maria by Callas betrays the soprano’s intermittent loathing of her career as an opera singer. Asked in an early interview about her motivation, she immediately goes to “destiny,” adding that she “would have gladly given it up at any time.” She confesses that she knew little else but singing from the age of 13 to 40. So, for the first two acts, we see Callas, not as an artist visited by muses, but as a singing laborer who was put to work by “destiny”—a euphemism for her mother.

From a tender young age, it was impressed upon Callas (mostly by her mother) that what she had that was special, and that she could offer the world, was her voice. In a fairy tale, that might lead to only good things. In real life, it says, “Never mind your heart. Never mind your mind. Develop your vocal cords.” This is the great tragedy hidden within this film, and it’s a part of the story that Volf seems unaware of, or perhaps prefers to ignore.

Yet, it ties into the most rewarding sequences—the ones later in the documentary and later in Callas’ career—where she exudes an internal light and a glint finally appears in her eyes. Why the change? Though Volf might not like to acknowledge it, her comfort in her own skin comes when she has broken free from singing (and become free of her close friend and sometimes lover, Aristotle Onassis).

We focus on these internal struggles, because of the choices Volf made. His obsession with the diva isn’t the main problem. It’s that, for at least the first hour, he expects—demands—that you share his fascination. This he indicates through clip after clip (vintage footage) of Callas doing nothing but exiting cars and smiling coyly at the camera. It feels like dozens of times, over and over. There can be no other message: “Isn’t she amazing!?”

If the chanteuse seems self-absorbed, part of the fault lies with the filmmaker. Maria by Callas: In Her Own Words is the full title, and Volf is unrelenting about it. The result might be different if his subject were a fantastic storyteller, but he should know that she’s not nearly that. It couldn’t be clearer that his decisions were clouded by his infatuation.

By my estimate, ten minutes of the two-hour runtime is enjoyable and/or enlightening. Callas mentions her fondness for Romantic-period composer Vincenzo Bellini (1801-1835), and a vintage clip of her singing one of his arias shows her really giving herself to the music. Musically, it’s her finest moment in the film.

It happens that I am a fan of opera, and I have never been drawn to Maria Callas’ voice. This documentary did shed some light for me on why that is. As I mentioned earlier, she was thrust into a singing career while missing some of the nurturing of a healthy childhood. Besides the resulting, underlying resentment within her, she sounds overprotective of her heart.

Her voice’s center of gravity seems located above her chest, resulting in a throaty quality. Most often, her emphasis and phrasing sound like they come from her neck upward. It’s a brusque, dry tone that matches her predominant moods and personality traits as depicted here.

But I don’t want to give the impression that Maria by Callas is a documentary steeped in music. Fans of opera or instrumental classical music won’t find much to delight over. If anything the poor-quality featured recordings underscore the jarring qualities of her voice. The bulk of what Volf presents feels like (looks like, sounds like) tabloid fodder. To enjoy this movie, you have to buy into the cult of celebrity, with all the silly beefs, breakups, makeups, rumors, “styles,” “fabulous” comebacks, Kennedys, Onassises, blah, blah, blah.

Making matters worse, when the filmmaker finally gets around to music, he chooses to furnish subtitles with the footage of Callas performing leading roles. The verbiage, verging on banal as it is in most operas, adds nothing but annoying distraction. If, in regular conversation, words communicate only 10 percent of the message, how much information can they possibly provide on top of the action on stage, the sets, the singing, and the full orchestra playing? “The love lasted only one day. The love lasted only one day. Love!” Only the type of person who would whine, “I can’t understand what they’re saying” could be pleased.

Nor does Volf deal particularly well with the issue of enlarging images from original Super 8 film. I understand going for a gritty or unfinished look, but do we really need to see the word “Kodak” zip across the screen 50 times and sprocket holes all over the place? It’s not even a novel style, really.

Finally, another unintended consequence of the “in her own words” approach when the subject died in 1977: If you’re going to make a documentary, now you’ve locked yourself into archival footage only. Volf adds in a (mostly unconvincing) narrator to read from Callas’ letters, diaries, and the like. This style isn’t inherently bad. Here, though, it feels like you’re stuck in a superfan’s musty attic, and you know that he’s not letting you out until he shows you every last photograph and yellowed press clipping related to his obsession. It’s stuffy and claustrophobic. There’s concern about mold spores and air quality. Is it getting really warm in here? I’m sweating. And the nostalgia’s making my head spin.

2 of 5 stars

News Uncategorized

Reynolds Agreed To Make a “PG-13” Deadpool on Two Conditions

1. That he be permitted to kidnap Fred Savage; 2. That $1 per ticket-sold goes to a charity called Fuck Cancer.

“Once Upon A Deadpool” opens December 12th.

Movie Reviews

V.O.D. Review: Slapped! The Movie

Swingin’ &  Swappin’

Baudy, buddy raunch-com from talented L.A. troupe

By Andres Solar

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: The young Angelino director-writer-producer Alex Magaña is one of the freshest, most intriguing indie voices in Hollywood today. I lauded the potential I saw in his previous V.O.D. piece 29 to Life (2018) right here on these pages.

The good news is that his latest on Amazon Prime, Slapped! The Movie, shows just as much potential, and in totally different aspects of filmmaking. Basically, the list of Magaña’s apparent talents has just doubled in length.

Okay, so I’m going to get the bad news about this most recent V.O.D. release out of the way, because the focus ought to be on what’s coming down the pike (or the Pacific Coast Highway, if you prefer) from the bunch at the helmer’s ACM Films imprint.

I’ll even take it a rare step further and tell you a bit about myself, as a disclaimer of sorts, so highly do I regard this burgeoning filmmaker Magaña. Firstly, Slapped! indicates over and over—as a raunchy buddy comedy with plenty of gross-out humor—that it’s aimed at a late-teens to early-20s audience. Your critic is 51 years old, and I’m certain I would have liked this picture a whole lot more if those digits were reversed. Secondly, for the most part, I review art films. In my own defense, I should say that I watch all kinds of movies, including vulgar comedies, and I happen to love more than a couple of them. But more on that later.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with traveling well-worn trails in movie-making. “It’s very difficult to be original,” the fabulous director and sexploitation queen Doris Wishman (Nude on the Moon, 1961) once told me. Makes sense. So, one hopes that a filmmaker who’s heavily influenced by another (director, film, genre…) will make it their own, thereby rendering the influence of the source material neutral when assessing the overall work.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the case with Slapped!, which the director himself describes as Freaky Friday (1976) meets American Pie (1999). Despite fine acting by the co-leads (Magaña as “Alex” and co-writer Matt Lowe as “Matt”), the “bodily switcheroo” nearly always feels like the old gimmick that it is. More than once while watching, I wished that they had written the film without the Freaky-Friday-for-bros device. The buddy chemistry between Alex and Matt always feels real and deep, so one would like to see them work together again sans the gimmicks.

Next, we look at the comedic aspects themselves, the heart of the debaucherous teen comedy (with the above disclaimer in mind). The attempts at gross-out humor are all misses here. The mere presence of semen and vomit on screen is not enough for laughs. It takes more work than that. For a fairly recent example, look at the successful potty humor of Bridesmaids (2011), and the “dress fitting” scene, in particular. The hilarity there derives from the gross-outs being only one element of the scene. The means, not the end.

There’s also at least one problematic instance of misfiring in the insult comedy department, involving a play on the word “Groupon.” On the other hand, in another scene, the fictional star of a YouTube cooking show says at one point that Sriracha can be substituted for ketchup as “a weird Mexican thing.” Though the latter isn’t hilarious either, here’s the difference: Insult humor only works when a character is doing it. When the movie itself is the source of the insult, the requisite comedic harmlessness vanishes.

Okay, so I’ve already hinted at some of the great stuff in Slapped!, and now I’ll elaborate on it. Magaña, we now know, is a heck of a good actor. So is Lowe, and we also know they work well as a team. Visually, the movie is a step up from 29 to Life. It’s also a bigger film, and it’s promising to see the filmmakers flexing that versatility.

Two scenes, one complex and the other relatively simple, are big standouts. The first and less surprisingly satisfying is a mushroom-trip sequence with fun makeup art, neon set design, and impressive practical & special effects. The second is my favorite, featuring the aforementioned YouTube star “E-Zee” (boldly played by Diana Marie—if ACM folks are reading this: cast her again!) The special effects, combined with Marie’s spicy character make for the best-feeling, funnest scene in the movie.

So, we yet await a film with start-to-finish excellence from Magaña & company. Happily, the talent and skills are all there.

2 of 5 stars


Documentary Film Reviews

Film Review: Monrovia, Indiana

Children of the Corn

Documentarian Frederick Wiseman delves into the heart of the “heartland”
by Andres Solar

“In thee, O Lord, do we put our trust in days long past,” says a member of Monrovia’s Masonic lodge, reading an invocation at an induction ceremony in director Frederick Wiseman’s new documentary. The prayer goes right to the foundation of this small Corn Belt community. Almost nothing is brand new or challenging, and history (the proverbial “days long past”) is king.

The Boston-native Wiseman’s wise, sprawling portrait of rural America even includes footage of a high school class on the school’s own… history of athletics (?), I suppose would be the name of it. Here, the director contrasts a middle-aged, male teacher’s extended excitement about a teen basketball player from 30 years ago with a shot of an unapologetic yawn from a female student.

So, as we take this trip to south-central Indiana, we are rewarded with humorous fragments like that, and always with something upon which to meditate. Like the still photographer who captures images that pique their curiosity—though they might not know exactly why—Wiseman shoots first and asks questions later. That there is something to the footage is enough, and there always is.

Things that you just don’t hear in the city, like “This is a place that could benefit from some population.” Declared by a growth-and-development leader at a town council meeting. We attend a handful of these gatherings of uptight locals, and the absurdity of some of the proceedings is ponderous. Wherein they deal with questions like, “Who’s responsible for building the missing piece of road into and out of the new development?” and “When is a fire hydrant not really a fire hydrant?”

In producing and directing over 40 feature films to-date, Wiseman (Ex Libris: The New York Public Library [2017]) has become a specialist in demonstrating that no place on Earth is boring. His holistic, patient, expositionally quiet approach allows any conflicts, curiosities, quirks to emerge organically.

We witness the values of a White town of less than 2,000 people: fear of God, fear of encroachment, football, football history, the local high school, tribalism, White males over 40. Also, apparently, since the invention of the internal combustion engine, Monrovia has never been the same—or different. The murmur of a gasoline motor or the clatterracket of a diesel is never more than a minute away.

Partly because the community is so grounded in the past, and partly because the director chose not to shoot inside any homes, Monrovian citizens sometimes seem on auto-pilot. There’s a “going through the motions” demeanor with some, and with others a mild confusion, like “I don’t know what to make of this… situation, sermon, carnival, etc.” It adds up to a lack of soul, not in the filmmaking, but in what Wiseman depicts. We do see some joy, on the faces of a couple of gossiping teens, and we admire the spirit of the tractor auctioneer: “C’mon, let’s sell some combines!” he shouts, thus earning the “Most Boisterous Character” award.

At another council meeting, about the road to the new development of “151 homes,” it’s fascinating how some of the members talk about their fear of Black people moving in, using code words exclusively. “Negative police runs” really means “rising crime.” “Population density attracts…” really means “Black people will move in.” “Had an effect on our schools” really means “desegregation.” This is pro-level dog-whistling, folks!

One thing that can definitely be said about Monrovia, Indiana is that they don’t talk openly about race in public when a camera’s rolling. Now, the question is: Why are these “ordinary citizens” seasoned experts on how to sound perfectly innocent while they discuss keeping Black people out of their town? Generation after generation of training in the skill?

A transporting film, sporting an easy sense of humor, Wiseman’s existential exploration of rural America is as thought-provoking as it is insightful. It’s an observational, unusual documentary that rewards the discerning viewer especially.

In the end, it’s hard not to feel like you’ve been to this town. It feels like a weekend visit to Monrovia, but exactly how the editor-director fits it into just under two and a half hours is remarkable for its subtlety. One sees so much in so little time, that it seems like some clever sleight of hand, but the artist’s special sense of time feels real.

When Wiseman takes you somewhere—a diner, a wedding, a street fair—he always takes a look back at the place when you’re leaving. That is part of what makes the experiences feel complete, thereby giving the impression that you entered, saw and heard what was to be seen and heard, and then left. Repeated dozens of times, the sense is that you really have visited a lot of places and seen a lot of people. The insights you gain as you go are of the rarest kind.

4 of 5 stars

Documentary Film Reviews

Film Review: Hale County This Morning, This Evening

 by Andres Solar

After being run through the Internet’s grotesque, churning, stainless-steel pigeonholing machine (see “framing” below), this highly sensitive documentary gets described as “a movie about how black people live in Hale County, Alabama.” Or, cringingly worse, simply a “black film.” It’s difficult to think of anything more frustrating and disappointing than efforts to segregate the arts. The truth is that this is a work about Black folks and it’s for everyone. It is the latter, or I don’t know what is.

Except in moments when he allows a child in a shot to play with the lens, or during a casual interview in a car, Hale County This Morning, This Evening cinematographer-editor-director RaMell Ross and his camera seem wholly invisible to the subjects, even in the closest closeups. Sometimes eerily so. As a member of the community in which he filmed—and as a basketball coach at nearby Selma University—Ross’s wide access is understandable. The height and depth of his access, as well as his uncanny photographer’s timing, though, speak to his considerable talents.

Those also include a remarkable, uncommon sense of space, a lyrical style of editing and, of course, an eye for images which he captures like a master painter. Though it could be called a photographer’s film or, more accurately, visual poetry & sound art, the kinetic energy and power of Hale County… ought not to be underestimated. It’s cinematic through and through.

Gently guiding you into a position of meditating observer, Ross eschews nearly all conventions of a documentary. He does employ a couple of established techniques of general film language, like the match cut and the L-cut for sound (when the sound from one scene carries over into the next one). Other than that, it’s a new way to see the world through cinema, and it could not be more effective. From this vantage point, we get to know the stoicism of the people, their moments of sheer joy and sorrow (explained and unexplained), and our own.

Early on, Ross poses a question via title card: “How do we not frame someone?” This, one might think, is counterintuitive for a cinematographer-director whose job it is, ordinarily, to think about how to frame everyone in his photocompositions. But Ross seems to have kept his question top of mind throughout shooting and editing. The idea being that, as an artist, when you “frame” someone, you might also frame them in the other sense of the word: set them up for something they didn’t do or, more often, make them out to be someone they’re not. In other documentaries about poor or middle-class people, the edges of the frames might show a ten-foot-high chainlink fence or some lousy housing. Here, notice exactly how the filmmaker goes about not framing, and how he finds deeper truths that way.

As with all great art, there’s a spirituality to Hale County This Morning, This Evening. It offers the finest, most immediate insights on a people and on being human. What’s more, it offers healing for the soul and for humanity. I’d like to think that a double feature of Hale County… and Moonlight (2016), screened for all 350 million people in America, could wipe out racism for good. If only, somehow, we could all rise up and experience that.

4 of 5 stars

Film Reviews

Film Review: I Am Not A Witch


The eminently sharp and fully fascinating Zambian-Welsh filmmaker Rungano Nyoni works cinematic wonders in her first feature I Am Not A Witch, which is the realization of her curiosity, humor, and vivid visions. However, it is anything but ostentatious. It impresses through an easy-flowing, matter-of-fact montage of intelligent and splendid visuals, through its central allegory, and through characters and dialogue of bracing hilarity.

In real life, some contemporary cultural clusters in Africa believe in witches and witchcraft, and these have been subjects of Nyoni’s studies, particularly in the Gambia. Her film’s conflict emerges with a minor accident during a woman’s daily chores. She sees a child standing alone nearby on the dirt road, and the woman immediately makes up her mind: the little girl must be the cause of the trouble, and she must be a witch!

Through the small town’s avid superstitiousness, the child’s (the main character’s) reputation as a witch grows. The great sociological observations in the film center on how she copes with  private business interests and public government entities trying to capitalize on her new persona.

This artwork feels timely, in that it’s an empathetic experience. The young girl’s trials provide a baseline of innocence which contrasts with crazy (almost literally) and corrupt adult society. The result is an unusual emotional depth. Her curiosity, rebelliousness, sadness, and wonder draw you into her world.

The satire here doesn’t dwell in the realm of dream-like magick surrealism, as in Alejandro Jodorowsky’s The Dance Of Reality (superb, 2013), but rather in an absurdist realism that’s just as effective. Nyoni’s symbology is big and bold, consistent but intermittent. Her depictions of society’s foibles, perfectly and purposefully exaggerated, are nevertheless grounded in the droughted dust or green grasses of the agricultural villages. The writer-director possesses a refreshing vigor, and she lampoons with satisfying gusto.

Yet, guided by a most sensitive, humanistic heart, Rungano Nyoni gently stirs a bold brew that includes ancient ingredients of fine storytelling—a serious moral, supernaturalism, and absurdist comedy—and serves intoxicating chalices of brand new, searing, scalding satire. Her Zambian-universal, feminist fairy tale is stunningly magnificent and it’s one for the ages.

Thinking about how thoroughly unpredictable this movie is, I remember (oddly enough) the words of the fabulously talented, late writer-director Doris Wishman (Hideout In The Sun, 1960). I can almost hear her raspy voice and thick New York accent: “It’s very difficult to be original.” She knew of what she spoke, and she would have delighted in Nyoni’s wildly original work.

I Am Not A Witch is such a rich, rewarding film for the viewer, and there’s so much to explore, that a one-line summary really doesn’t do justice. Just know that it’s a heck of a lot of fun, even as it calls for inspection of, and introspection on, deep-seeded, vexing (not hexing) societal afflictions.

5 of 5  stars

In English & Nyanja with English subtitles

Now playing at the Miami Beach Cinematheque.

Film Reviews Restorations

New Restoration Review: Wanda (1970)

by Andres Solar

Barbara Loden (1934-1980), the North Carolina-born stage and film actress perhaps best known for her role in the award-winning Splendor in the Grass (1961), wrote and directed one feature in her life. Wanda, in which she also plays the title role, has been beautifully restored by the UCLA Film & Television Archive and distributed by Janus Films for theatrical exhibition.

Though Loden appeared in two Hollywood movies and several television series, when she took her turn at the helm she eschewed the prevailing Tinseltown techniques. “I really hate slick pictures” she once told the New York Times. And it shows in the alternately (sometimes simultaneously) tentative and jarringly rapid zooms, mostly in. Though the sequences move along nicely, the editing is jagged. It’s all part of the character and charm of Wanda, and Loden’s point-and-shoot sensibility is a perfect fit for the plot and themes.

Set in the old coal region of northeastern Pennsylvania—known locally as “the Coal Region”—the film begins on the anthracite mounds of towns like Ashland, Scranton, Lansford, and Centralia. Scranton is the hometown of Vice President Joe Biden who famously described it as “hard-scrabble.” Even when coal was booming—its decline started in the 1950s—life was no breeze.

Shot on 16mm, produced on a budget of $115,000, and featuring loose, improvisational dialogue—Wanda is a work of tremendous grit and integrity. Yet there’s a dreamlike lightness to it. Loden herself seems to be floating through it; a leaf blowing in the wind.

Her Wanda Goronski drifts into and out of the lives of various and sundry characters after a divorce in which she consents to giving custody of her two small children to their father. Untethered, now, to her home and family, and despite her lack of resources, she’s unconcerned about who will pay for her next beer. One of the writer-director’s flashes of brilliance was making Wanda almost utterly unconcerned with anything. In only a day, she becomes both enviably free and dangerously vulnerable.

But she’s a serious person, not a giggling, happy-go-lucky drunk. Wanda is smart and self-confident. Loden created and positioned the character such that we can observe and examine her twists and turns without the distraction of digression. So that we can answer for ourselves, “What can happen when a person goes adrift with few reservations about it?”

Wanda is a true wonder of American cinema. Barbara Loden gave us a scintillating snapshot of our country in a thematic context no less than this: personal liberty. In an unforgettable work of art, and in rarest fashion, she gradually reveals the dynamics and the limits of freedom and consequences.

If you stumbled upon it at two in the morning on an arts channel, within a minute you’d ask yourself, “What is this strange movie?” A few minutes later: “This is crazy. I love it!” There’s never a dull moment in Loden’s rough-hewn, crackling, fiery masterpiece. It’s a unique, ever-effective, sometimes obliquely comical blend of character study, socioeconomic observation, and caper story.

Upon viewing, the cineaste will note: “She did that way before the Coen brothers!.. Oh, this feels like Tarantino… Wait, did Alexander Payne get that from Loden?” And on and on down the list. Both directly and indirectly, Wanda deeply influenced what we today call American independent cinema.

In groundbreaking, DIY style, Loden created a work akin to great, self-taught Southern artists like Howard Finster (1916-2001) and Jimmy Lee Sudduth (1910-2007). The latter—in Fayette, Alabama—made his own paint, mixing dirt and cola, for example, for the dark colors he used often in backgrounds. Out in Summerville, Georgia, Finster fashioned fantastical paintings and objects in a style that almost completely lacked the dimension of depth and often included simple seraphim and other heavenly beings. In her white dress and daisy-covered headband, Wanda herself could be mistaken for one of Finster’s whimsical angels.

5 of 5 stars

The new restoration of Wanda (Barbara Loden/USA/color/1970) sees its Miami-area premiere on Friday, September 14th at the Miami Beach Cinematheque. Check for more information.

Film Reviews

Film Review: Gabriel & the Mountain

by Andres Solar

The story Brazilian filmmaker Fellipe Barbosa wants to tell is an excellent one. But it’s one better suited to verbal storytelling—at a bar, a memorial service, or even a lecture hall. A feature film is much too big a medium for it.

It’s the true story of the director’s friend, Gabriel Buchmann, to whom the film is dedicated in the opening title card. Barbosa tells of his college-freshman-age pal who embarked on a year-long adventure to “see the world” with more than a fair share of brio and hubris in tow. As the film depicts in its first scene, the trip doesn’t end well. Much of Gabriel and the Mountain is what you might expect from a director who is too close emotionally to his subject.

At the outset, Gabriel is presented as a Christ-like figure. The children of the Kenyan village where he is staying run towards him, smiling and wanting to touch him. They cheer the mzungu (White person). He pays his local hosts and travels “sustainably” as a “non-tourist” (his own words). Someone truly immersed (also his word) in a culture wouldn’t feel the need to boast about it. At dinner, asked by a daughter of his host to sing a song from his homeland, Gabriel does, and then, ever so “thoughtfully,” he asks the child to sing a song, too. These moments are saccharine and they feel bogus and forced.

Barbosa’s intermittent honesty about his late friend’s foibles is the most refreshing thing in the film. When the director is in that mode, the bittersweet stumbles of Gabriel are unflagging. As an expression of the writer-director’s anger at his compatriot, the sequences where the man behaves foolishly are admirable. Yet, Barbosa’s manipulative efforts to get the audience to love his friend like he does—especially noticeable in the first act—while sweet and certainly understandable, do not make for good cinema. Tonally, then, the film is scattershot.

João Pedro Zappa (Gabriel), a moderately experienced television and movie actor, struggles with the tone throughout, except in the climactic final scene where the dramatic notes are fairly obvious. It’s telling that these are the most emotionally effective and subtly powerful minutes.

But Barbosa, who previously directed one narrative feature and one documentary—and here delivers something in between the two—flatly hangs Zappa out to dry in about a dozen scenes. The film plunges into “comically bad” territory, mostly during sequences where Gabriel interacts with locals. Though, last year, Gabriel and the Mountain won the France 4 Visionary Award at Cannes, I could almost hear the notoriously tough audiences there heartily booing these awful scenes.

And, again, any ridicule must be tempered out of respect for a young director and his young friend. The youthful exuberance of both filmmaker and subject can be forgiven, while also noting that Barbosa is almost 40, not 20.

The director’s production strategy was a clever one, though it lacked imagination. He simply retraced the last 70 days of Gabriel’s trek through eastern Africa, documentary-style, adding a handful of actors to the cast of African non-actors who play themselves. The physical settings lent themselves to some beautiful, sometimes breathtaking, cinematography, but artistically the pictures are little more than what you’d see in any well-shot documentary on the region.

Experiencing Gabriel and the Mountain is an exercise in ambivalence. What cannot be circumvented, though, are the privileged places from which its story comes. How many mature adults, never mind recent high school graduates like Gabriel, can afford to take a year-long trip around the world? What’s more, he—and to some extent the film itself—shows the typical obnoxious behavior of the privileged and immature Westerner.

The film asks that we suffer a fool, which is to share in Barbosa’s own suffering. In the end, because of the filmmaker’s honesty and because of Gabriel’s heightening humanity, all is forgiven in this peculiar—if complex, fascinating, and marginally lovely—tribute.

3 of 5 stars

Film Reviews

Film Review: The Third Murder (Sandome no satsujin)


In a crisp, neo-noir style that includes inspired cinematography, Kore-eda Hirokazu (Like Father, Like Son [2013]) bravely draws you into abandoned alleys of wrenching human worriments. Rest assured, there are no clear exits or easy answers.

In The Third Murder, Shigemori is a young lawyer called upon to represent a convicted killer who, after serving 30 years in prison, confesses to a new slaying. As Shigemori and his colleagues scheme to save Misumi from the death penalty, facts arise and stories change. Is the goal to find a resolution satisfactory to both the defendant and the plaintiff, or is it to find the truth?

The Japanese writer-director—in perhaps the film’s overarching theme—asks what the differences really are between the everyday imprisonments of life and the literal incarcerations of prison. Just how free are we? How just is it that we’re not totally free? And, as societal norms increasingly encroach on our liberties—especially under authoritarian power—at what point do hard-case individuals simply decide they would rather live behind bars?

So, Kore-eda’s biggest triumph in The Third Murder is his courageously mining the depths of the murderer Misumi’s motives. This mirrors attorney Shigemori’s tenacity and openness in seeking the truth. As you might expect, performances from all involved excel, with the co-leads particularly nuanced and engaging.

Takimoto Mikiya, who has worked with the director twice before, delivers cinematography with flashes of brilliance again here, and again empowers the story through well-imagined visual emphasis on the writer’s themes. Particularly effective and intriguing are the Misumi-Shigemori shots at the jail, where the actors’ kinetic reflections in the protective glass between them evoke the characters’ moods, comparing and contrasting. Images of their faces interact and overlap, sometimes overlaid nearly to the point of becoming one.

However, Kore-eda and Takimoto’s collaboration here feels less organic and viscerally thrilling than their work on Like Father, Like Son. There, they reached a higher level of visual storytelling, with the director displaying uncanny skills in blocking and timing, and the cinematographer capturing sublime images seemingly effortlessly.

This time around we have a film that’s not as tidy in its narrative flow. Certain symbols, such as crucifixes and a girl who is lame of a foot, come and go without much relevance or development.

The Third Murder sees Kore-eda Hirokazu expanding his cinematic language and drawing from new muses. We miss the tenderness of his deeply felt films on family. Already a qualified success with this courtroom-crime effort, though, his turn bodes well for future works, where we’re likely to witness his mastery in a greater variety of settings. And we won’t have to wait long; His Palme d’Or winner Shoplifters (2017) is scheduled for theatrical exhibition in Miami Beach this winter.

4 of 5 stars