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The Mountain
In Rick Alverson's "Entertainment," Gregg Turkington plays a standup comedian traveling through the Mojave Desert, doing his bizarre act in small nightclubs. His cousin John (John C. Reilly) attends one of the shows, and in their awkward conversation afterwards, John suggests that if he wants to attract bigger crowds and get a better reaction, then the act should be changed to "appeal to all four quadrants." I thought of this interaction when I watched Alverson's new film, "The Mountain." In what is by far his most "accessible" film, Alverson maintains his rigorous disinterest in mass appeal and even, at times, comprehensibility. "The Mountain," with its long stretches of quiet, bleak subject matter, and Alverson's staunch refusal to let us in, or fill in the blanks, creates a genuinely unnerving mood.
Taking place in the 1950s, in America's bleached-out autumnal heartland, "The Mountain" appears to be loosely based on the life of Walter Jackson Freeman II, a "physician" who specialized in lobotomies. Freeman developed the transorbital lobotomy, where the "doctor" inserted an ice pick through the patient's eye socket. It was a much easier procedure than cracking open the skull, and it worked for Freeman since he had no surgical training. Freeman traveled the United States, visiting mental institutions, performing lobotomies on an assembly line, documenting it all with photographs. The majority of his patients were women and/or gay people and—in one case—a four-year-old child. Eventually his services were no longer needed, as lobotomies were phased out, replaced by more humane treatment with drugs and psychotherapy. Alverson's almost glacial approach to this terrible subject is undeniably provocative, and galvanized by Jeff Goldblum's truly creepy mad-scientist performance as Dr. Wallace Fiennes.
This is young Tye Sheridan's second collaboration with Alverson, and he is also listed as an Executive Producer. Here he plays Andy, a young man who works at an ice rink where his father—a forbidding German former figure skater (Udo Kier)—trains young girls. Andy is a silent presence, slouching on the edge of the rink, watching the girls in their grey skirts twirl and jump. He wanders through the bowels of the building, smoking, staring into space. His heavy woolen jacket, baggy trousers, boots, all emanate a kind of working-class 1950s aesthetic, no color brighter than a dull green. (Elizabeth Warn's work as costume designer is brilliant throughout.) Sheridan has barely 20 lines through the whole film. Andy is a teenager, but he is weighed down by anxiety, tormented by the absence of his mother. Long ago, she was put into an institution and Andy never learned her fate. After Andy's father dies, Dr. Wallace Fiennes —who treated Andy's mother for an unnamed illness—steps into the scene, inviting Andy to come along with him on one of his trips: he needs a photographer. Andy has ulterior motives for going along. He hopes to find out what happened to his mother. Turns out, the answer might be more than he can handle.
The road trip that follows is filled with a quiet menace difficult to describe, but Alverson's control over the images is total. The scenes operate almost like tableaux, people frozen in space, in time, but frozen in anguished mental states, similar to the photos Andy takes of Fiennes' patients, before and after the "procedure." People are traumatized beyond language, and Alverson—along with cinematographer Lorenzo Hagerman, who also shot "Entertainment"—captures frozen trauma in the silences, colors, vistas. Nothing is welcoming, there's no "give" anywhere.
America looks emptied out of people. Even the motels Andy and Wallace hole up in seem to have no other occupants, and the silence buzzes down the empty dark hallways. This is a movie dominated by long hallways, hallways where people wait passively, all fight drained out of them. Moving from one isolated institution to the next, Fiennes' car drives along lonely roads, bordered by ranks of trees, highlighting the fact that the people in these institutions have been removed from society. Anything can be done to them and nobody would know. Fiennes truly believes he is helping his patients, but this belief manifests in a God complex. Goldblum taps into something truly terrifying here. He doesn't beg for sympathy for his character. There's a zealous gleam in his eye, but he's also a world-class manipulator, able to justify the most monstrous behavior.
People come and go in this world, like automatons. And if they're not automatons, they're on their way to being so. This is not a comforting view of America. Lobotomies were supposed to help suffering people, but of course they were used indiscriminately on people who didn't "fit in" to what was supposed to be mainstream American life, particularly oppressive in the conformist Eisenhower era. The 1950s in "The Mountain" is not just conformist, but frozen, atomized, dead. Warmth doesn't even seem to be a possibility. When Jack (Denis Lavant) enters the scene late in the game, his volatility and expressiveness seem to come not just from France but from another planet. He asks Dr. Fiennes to perform the procedure on his daughter Susan (Hannah Gross). Andy and Susan forge a fragile connection, but there doesn't seem to be any way for it to survive, not in this icy atmosphere. Susan is frighteningly passive. "The Mountain" doesn't seem built to contain Denis Lavant, and the ending comes down like an all-too-obvious hammer.
Production designer Jacqueline Abrahams creates interiors completely lacking in warmth and personalization. Composer Dan Lopatin and sound designer Gene Park underscore the action with low whining moans, persistent buzzes like an eternal headache, and reverberating echoes. In one scene, Andy slumps in a corner, watching Perry Como sing "Home on the Range" on the "Ed Sullivan Show," and the feeling of alienation is so total it's as if Andy was an astronaut, circling the earth, far away from anything connected to anything else.
In films like "New Jerusalem," "The Comedy," "Entertainment" and now "The Mountain," Alverson is aggressively un-commercial in his approach. His work is confrontational and polarizing. I appreciate his refusal to make a film that "appeals to all four quadrants."
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Midsommar
One thing is certain: writer/director Ari Aster comprehends stifling dread in the most profound sense. Via a grief-soaked story of ancestral vulnerability (you can’t pick your relatives, can you?), his terrifying and startlingly confident debut “Hereditary” proved as much. Sure, the film’s demonic mythology, skillfully gory images and creepy miniature models cinematographer Pawel Pogoszelski’s camera fiendishly navigated were all stuff of nightmares. But equally frightening in “Hereditary” was the grudge-filled and deeply claustrophobic domestic helplessness Aster infused into every shot and line of dialogue.
The filmmaker fidgets with that peculiar breathlessness once again throughout “Midsommar,” a terrifically juicy, apocalyptic cinematic sacrament that dances around a fruitless relationship in dizzying circles. We are not stuffed inside a cavernous house of horrors this time around. But be prepared to feel equally suffocated by a ravenous family (albeit, a chosen, cultish kind) all the same. In the midst of wide-open pastoral surroundings we may be, but Aster still wants us to crave and kick for oxygen, perhaps in a less claustrophobic and more agoraphobic fashion. The tangible dread in “Midsommar”—oftentimes alleviated by welcome flashes of comedy, always charged by tight choreography and Pogorzelski’s atmospheric compositions—is so recognizably out of “Hereditary” that you'll immediately distinguish the connective headspace responsible for both tales.
And yet, this superb psychedelic thriller sowed somewhere amid an outdoorsy “mother!,” a blindingly lit “Dogville” and fine, a contemporary “The Wicker Man,” is different by way of Aster’s loosened thematic restraint. You won’t exactly feel lost while disemboweling Aster’s inviting beast, but you can certainly argue that the sun never sets on the film’s cosmically vast subject matter: reaping notions of (white) male privilege, American entitlement (that literally pisses on what’s not theirs) and most prominently, female empowerment. And this is also a fitting way to describe the location where most of the story unfolds, under nearly 24-hour sun. We are in a remote, hidden-from-view Swedish village nested somewhere in Hälsingland, among tranquilly dressed Hårga folk who celebrate summer through initially quaint, but increasingly bizarre and downright petrifying rituals. There is only a slack sense of yesterday and tomorrow in Aster’s locale of choice where an endless string of hallucinatory traditions are exercised in broad daylight.
The folkloric practices start off appealingly enough—a misleading gust of peace (superbly countered by The Haxan Cloak’s skin-crawling score) breezes in the air while heady drugs dissolve in tempting cups of tea. But how did we even get here and find ourselves among these hippy-dippy proceedings cloaked in white linen? Well, we followed Florence Pugh, Aster’s second fearless female lead after Toni Collette, playing a grieving character marked by something unspeakable. In a deeply scarred, emotionally unrestricted performance—you might hear her screams in your nightmares—Pugh plays Dani, a graduate student aiming to put some distance between herself and an extreme case of trauma involving her bipolar sister. (A stunning prologue unravels the details of the tragic ordeal with top-shelf narrative economy.) And Dani isn’t on her own. In fact, she embarks upon the picturesque Scandinavian adventure as an outsider at first, tagging along some fellow scholars of academia, a group that includes her self-absorbed longtime boyfriend Christian (Jack Reynor, convincingly egotistical). Also in the clan are Christian’s buddies Josh (William Jackson Harper)—headed to the festivities for academic research—the blabber-mouthed Mark (Will Poulter, so hysterically douchey that he earns the jester’s cap he’d wear later on), and Pelle (Vilhelm Blomgren), the brainchild of the operation as well as a member of the makeshift family that would host the group.
When the clique arrives in Sweden and joins others alongside Connie and Simon, a couple played by Ellora Torchia and Archie Madekwe respectively, Aster forgoes the aforesaid narrative economy for something sinister. Aided by production designer Henrik Svensson’s deceptively simple work and Andrea Flesch’s distressingly repetitive, angelically Nordic-embroidered costumes, he establishes a creepy sense of being stuck amid compartmentalized fields of boxy sleeping huts, triangular temples and elaborate dining settings. Soon enough (but never hurriedly), the flower-power euphoria thins out in “Midsommar.” Victimized people vanish one after the other and giggles assume an even more uncomfortable dimension—you will reach the climax of your sniggers during a truly hilarious ceremony that puts the last nail in the coffin of Dani’s doomed relationship with Christian. It all sounds crazy, but you can barely blame the clueless tourists for not making a more concerted effort to escape, or at least to decipher the cult’s ulterior motives. The sneaky hex Aster casts has that tight a grip, on both the characters and the audience.
Some will be troubled by the excess in “Midsommar.” The unburdened surplus of lengthy customs does overshadow some of the film’s potentially ripe avenues of interest, such as the scholarly rivalry between Christian and Josh, as well as racial dynamics that are only briefly hinted at. But the invigorating reward here is the ultimate sovereignty you will find in Dani, a surrogate for any woman who ever excused an inconsiderate male, rationalized his unkind words or thoughtless non-apologies. She experiences a liberation that might just feel like therapy.
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The Unloved, Part 67: Mortal Engines
It would have been fun to talk about how Peter Jackson's "Hobbit" movies are a beautifully artificial fantasy, a tinkerer's homemade storybook, a larger-than-life tribute to silent cinema and a return to the obsessive world in which Jackson can't help but live. But those movies are loved by more people than just me! People love to see stories they know already, ideas and aesthetics with which they're already familiar.
The reason "Mortal Engines" failed despite superficial similarities to Peter Jackson's adventure yarns and his name in the credits is that this was not a world most moviegoers had visited, and though it's filled with the kind of action most people would recognize from "Star Wars," it isn't "Star Wars." That's how it goes now. You can get close, it seems, but without the names you've got nothing but a potential future cult movie. I always have high hopes for movies like this because I want desperately for competition to edge out established names and stories. It's only movies like this, with personality to spare and cockeyed intrusions in established formulae, that offer any credible competition now. I wanted better for "Mortal Engines," but I'm not surprised America let it down.
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