Film Journal October 2018

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the story from a tricky perspective, acknowledging that Rick Jr.’s story is made up of both knowingly irresponsible acts and the unstoppable cycle of crime fueled by desperation. Demange and cinematographer Tat Racliffe adeptly depict the tightknit, street-smart neighborhoods of a tarnished Detroit. Similarly, Amy Westcott’s costuming, especially intricately designed for the background actors, brings the flamboyance of the era to life without falling into the trap of overzealous nostalgia. But White Boy Rick’s treatment of Dawn, whom father and son rescue from nearfatal addiction, leaves much to be desired. She sometimes feels like an afterthought. Similarly, the surprising turn of events that reveals Rick Jr.’s newborn baby unfolds haphazardly and is handled in a cutesy way. But despite its structural hiccups, Demange’s film still manages to highlight the humanity of a family and community that fights to survive their no-win circumstances and aspire to pass on something hopeful to their descendants. —Tomris Laffly BEL CANTO SCREEN MEDIA FILMS/Color/2.35/102 Mins./Not Rated Cast: Julianne Moore, Ken Watanabe, Christopher Lambert, Sebastian Koch, Tenoch Huerta. Directed by Paul Weitz. Screenplay: Paul Weitz, Anthony Weintraub, based on the novel by Ann Patchett. Produced by Caroline Baron, Lizzie Friedman, Karen Lauder, Greg Little, Andrew Miano, Anthony Weintrab, Paul Weitz. Executive producers: Madeline Anbinder, Stephen Anbinder, Robert Baron, Tracy Baron, Ali Jazayeri, Lisa Wolofsky, Viviane Zarragoitia. Director of photography: Tobias Datum. Production designer: Tommaso Ortino. Editor: Suzy Elmiger. Music: David Majzlin. A Screen Media presentation of a Priority Pictures, A-Line Pictures and Depth of Field production. Terrorists kidnap Julianne Moore but free her heart in this far-fetched drama. You don’t go to operas for the plot, but movies about opera singers are a bit different—and one less aria, and one more judicious rewrite, might have helped Bel Canto. Based on the Ann Patchett novel—itself inspired by a real-life incident in Peru—it’s set in a Latin-American country where the vice president is giving a grand diplomatic ball. The guests include various ambassadors and a Japanese mogul, Katsumi Hosokawa (Ken Watanabe), whose investments the country is eagerly trying to obtain. Helping them in that effort? The entertainment for the evening is Roxanne Coss (Julianne Moore), a renowned American singer on whom the opera-obsessed Hosokawa has more than a casual fan’s crush. Coss is only there for the generous fee, but her hosts hope her appearance will persuade Hosokawa to commit to a massive new project. And then terrorists burst in and take everyone hostage. This is the point at which many movies would suddenly reveal there’s a disgracedbut-still-studly Special Ops hero among the guests (and spotting Christopher Lambert in the cast briefly adds to that suspicion). But director Paul Weitz (who also co-wrote the faithful adaptation) is interested in quieter stuff, as the hostage situation drags on for weeks and bonds begin to form. The strongest is between Hosokawa and Coss even though it’s a relationship that has to develop non-verbally; very few people at this international party seem to be fluent in more than one language, so the soundtrack is a colorful babble of Japanese, Spanish, Italian and other tongues. But Hosokawa’s courtliness is obvious—when the terrorists demand they lie on the floor, he makes Coss a pillow out of his folded tuxedo jacket—and it soon warms even this diva’s somewhat chilly heart. That’s fine, and both actors play to their strengths here—Watanabe’s stoic masculinity, Moore’s quicksilver emotions—and the rest of the cast is solid. Lambert adds a few small moments of humor as a French diplomat; Sebastian Koch is the mostly disregarded voice of reason, as a negotiator commuting between the government and the kidnappers. And, as the rebel leader, Tenoch Huerta is formidable without ever becoming simply monstrous. Yet the film—Weitz’s first since 2015’s indie Grandma—feels a little cheap and shortchanged. Grainy bits of stock footage used to pad out scenes of military preparations stick out painfully. Also jarring is Moore’s singing—she lip-syncs expertly to the glorious Renée Fleming’s pre-recorded vocals, but the room tone is off. Even when Coss is singing in a nearly empty, marblefloored home, it has the warm, rich ambience of a concert hall. But even less realistic are the interactions among the characters. That being thrown together in this situation might draw people close is undeniable; that it would encourage explosions of sexual passion seems less likely. But not only do Coss and Hosokawa connect, so do a shy Japanese translator and an illiterate terrorist (who meet for assignations in a china closet). Other bursts of affection include Coss tutoring a would-be singing gunman and the vice president happily chatting with a rebel who’s already killed one of the hostages. Perhaps this worked better in Patchett’s novel, where readers can create a certain poetic distance, but transferred to the screen these moments just fail to convince, as gun-toting rebels conspire to let hostages sneak away for a few hours of amor. Why, it’s just like the last episode of my favorite telenovela, one rifle-toting kidnapper exclaims! Yet, it probably is. And it helps strike one of the loudest false notes in this occasionally, operatically, off-key drama. —Stephen Whitty THE CHILDREN ACT A24/Color/1.85/105 Mins./Rated R Cast: Emma Thompson, Fionn Whitehead, Stanley Tucci, Ben Chaplin, Eileen Walsh, Anthony Calf, Jason Watkins, Dominic Carter. Directed by Richard Eyre. Screenplay: Ian McEwan, based on his novel. Produced by Duncan Kenworthy. Executive producers: Glen Basner, Ben Browning, Joe Oppenheimer, Beth Pattinson, Charles Moore. Director of photography: Andrew Dunn. Production designer: Peter Francis. Editor: Dan Farrell. Music: Stephen Warbeck. Costume designer: Fotini Dimou. A BBC Films, Toledo Prods. and FilmNation Entertainment production. An impressively acted but uncompelling film about a family court judge in the U.K. who grapples with her faltering marriage and the impact of her legal decisions on a young boy—and ultimately herself. Perhaps I’m suffering from compassion fatigue, but no matter how hard I tried (and I did, really and truly), I couldn’t muster any serious empathy for Fiona Maye (Emma Thompson), a high-powered family court judge who has to make life-and-death decisions (most of which are no-brainers for any reasonable person). At the same time, her husband Jack (Stanley Tucci) has announced he’d like to have an extramarital affair with a particular young woman, though he has every intention of returning to Fiona. It’s his last-ditch sexual fling, he explains, arguing that Fiona has grown passion-free altogether too wrapped up in her cases and career to care one way or the other. Arguably, he has a point. Still, asking for her stamp of approval strains credulity. On second thought, if she okayed his proposal (and that might be the sensible thing to do), problem solved. Also, no movie. Adapted for the screen by Ian McEwan from his 2014 novel and directed by Richard Eyre, who helmed Iris and Notes of a Scandal (two subtle and moving films), The Children Act, referencing a 1989 U.K. child-welfare law, feels manufactured, certainly more so on the screen than in the book. Nonetheless, the picture has its rubbernecking appeal, watching it unfold to see what happens next given its contrived premise. It’s also fun to watch highly educated, successful people (Jack is a professor of ancient history) at work and at home—in this instance a spacious, comfortable refuge that proclaims lowkey affluence (credit to production designer Peter Francis). There are the book-lined walls, Persian rugs and a grand piano. Fiona is an accomplished pianist, too. Talk about aspirational! Like many of McEwan’s novels, The Children Act consists in large measure of the protagonist’s introspective journey. Transferring it to the screen is therefore challenging. Several of his earlier adaptations have succeeded, most notably (and recently) On Chesil 66 FILMJOURNAL.COM / OCTOBER 2018 063-074.indd 66 9/6/18 11:39 AM
Beach. What’s missing in McEwan’s Children is Fiona’s private motivation, which could account (at least in part) for her otherwise incomprehensible actions. For example, in the novel it’s clear that Jack’s proposition is devastating to Fiona not because she’s wildly in love with him—though she once was, and the memory is haunting. His breach, rather, shatters her stability, identity and sense of place in the world. She is suddenly forced to question her choices, including her decision not to have a child. Jack and Fiona spend many weekends playing host to his very young nieces and nephews. They have a designated guest room overflowing with stuffed animals and other toys. Fiona is indisputably committed to her time-consuming, intellectually demanding career—she’s engrossed by the moral and ethical legal twists and turns it provides—but now in the throes of a major crisis she hurls herself into it with even greater fervor as a way to focus her attention and block out the intrusive pain. This connective tissue is missing from the film. We know Fiona is troubled, but that’s about it. Her behavior doesn’t add up. Her most recent case centers on a 17-year-old leukemia patient whose parents, committed to the teachings of Jehovah’s Witnesses, forbid the hospital from administering blood transfusions that (in conjunction with chemotherapy) would save their son’s life. Transfused blood is viewed as unclean and a violation of God’s will. The doctors present their case; the parents (convincingly played by Ben Chaplin and Eileen Walsh) present theirs, insisting that their son fully shares their religious convictions. Fiona decides to visit the young boy in question, Adam Henry (Fionn Whitehead of Dunkirk), lying in a hospital bed, to see how he feels about all of it, knowing it’s an unprecedented step on her part (in fact, virtually inconceivable). As it turns out, Adam is a bright, charming, even flirtatious youngster who spars with the judge on judicial and religious matters, making it clear he is not being coerced by his parents or the church elders. He impresses Fiona with his sharp intelligence and artistic sensibility, especially his love of poetry and music. Guitar in hand, he strums away while the two of them sing a duet, “Down by the Salley Gardens,” a sentimental folk song with a poem by Yeats. Nurses and social workers silently observe the performance. This moment rendered me slack-jawed. As expected (no spoiler here), Fiona rules on the side of the doctors. Adam receives his treatments, including the transfusions, and recovers. It’s a transforming experience for him. He’s thrilled to be alive and looking forward to his future. He’s beginning to question his faith. He’s also fallen in love with Fiona. After all, she’s given him new life, literally and metaphorically. In all probability she’s the first woman who has expressed any interest in him. He writes, calls and trails after her, at one point traveling from London to Newcastle, where she’s attending a legal gathering. Finally, he suggests moving in with her as a non-paying lodger who will earn his keep by doing chores around the house. She knows she’s aroused feelings in him that she had no business arousing. In the novel there is some reciprocity of feeling and that makes for a more complex—yes, emotionally compelling—scenario. Onscreen she’s dismissive, even cruel. Adam is still an inexperienced child and she has unwittingly exploited him. Painful consequences follow. The climactic scene takes place during a Christmas concert in which Fiona is performing. Throughout much of the film, she rehearses the program with her friend (Anthony Calf), a High Court barrister. Music plays a central role in this film, and that works well. Less successful is the melodrama that has been concocted to take place at the aforementioned recital. Fiona receives bad news before the performance, struggles through most of it and finally has a public meltdown. It’s just plain false. This is a steely, private British woman. It would never happen. That said, Thompson cuts a highly intelligent, empowered figure whose silent moments are evocative of thoughts unvoiced. Whitehead as a young boy on the cusp of adulthood struggling with God, mortality and overactive hormones is impactful, too. And in a small supporting role, Tucci is as much a witless sad sack as he is a bastard. The acting is not the problem. It rarely is. And, within parameters, the movie is not dull. Just don’t expect to feel much short of guilt in response to your own apathy. —Simi Horwitz BLAZE SUNDANCE SELECTS/Color/2.35/127 Mins./Rated R Cast: Benjamin Dickey, Alia Shawkat, Josh Hamilton, Charlie Sexton. Directed by Ethan Hawke. Screenplay: Ethan Hawke, Sybil Rosen, based on Rosen’s memoir Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley. Produced by Jake Seal, Ethan Hawke, John Sloss, Ryan Hawke. Executive producers: Louis Black, Sandy Boone, Gurpreet Chandhoke, Stephen Shea. Director of photography: Steve Cosens. Production designer: Thomas Hayek. Editor: Jason Gourson. Music: Blaze Foley, Townes Van Zandt. Costume designer: Lee Kyle. An Under the Influence production. An unconventional reimagining of a country-music legend’s career from writerdirector Ethan Hawke Languid, associative, at times dragging, at other moments deeply affecting, thanks to a song and a trick of the light, Ethan Hawke’s Blaze is difficult to define. It’s based on the life of country singer Blaze Foley, so should we call it a biopic? But Blaze lacks your standard cradle-to-the-grave scope; instead, the movie, directed and co-written (with the late Blaze’s former wife, Sybil Rosen) by Hawke, interweaves three different time periods to paint a portrait of an artist that’s more impressionistic than comprehensive. And yet the movie isn’t nearly abstract enough to be called a “tone poem.” Almost as singular as it claims its subject once was, then, what Blaze does offer is an experience fueled by the undeniable strength of the real Blaze Foley’s country-folk music. We are given to know our hero through flashbacks and flash-forwards: as he was in his relationship with the aspiring actress, Sybil (Alia Shawkat); on the long night before he met his tragic death; and through the narrative recollections of fellow musicians and friends Townes (Charlie Sexton) and Zee (Josh Hamilton), as they give a radio interview an unrevealed amount of time after Blaze’s death. Blaze is a gentle giant, hippy troubadour, romantic, great talent and—that unfortunate aspect of his character that gives his onscreen story its dramatic weight—a self-destructive mess. We see him falling in love in 1970s Georgia with the intelligent Sybil and living an Edenic life with her in a tree house in the woods. We see him, too, brawling in bars and drunkenly abusing hecklers across the Midwest. And we see him—we hear him, above all else—sing through every high and every low. The un-billed star of Blaze, the reason you stick with the story despite its relative lack of action and its time-jumping (which takes some getting used to), is the music. Impressive, too, are the handful of great performances given in service to those songs—think of the actors in this film as the equivalent of backup singers to Blaze’s tunes—most notably from Sexton as Townes, who brings such ease to his dialogue you’d think he was improvising on the spot, and Ben Dickey (who, like Sexton, is a musician off-screen as well) as Blaze. The latter is sometimes difficult to understand, with his Southern accent and his lyrical-jive way of talking. At times, when he’s whispering with Sybil in bed, he sounds not unlike a Dixie “Godfather.” But, having never heard any of the originals he covers, I found after a while I ceased to mind how difficult it was to understand Dickey when he spoke; I was only waiting for him to sing again. Although the screenwriting plays second fiddle to the songwriting here, there are a few noteworthy moments of humor that enliven the longer stretches without a song. Townes and Blaze are given to telling jawing anecdotes that are like short, comic stories unto themselves. (Perhaps unsurprising, coming from author Hawke.) Yes, they reveal things about the characters who tell them, but do these interludes also make the two-hour-plus film longer than it needs to be? Maybe. Possibly. Yes. But Blaze is not an economical movie when it comes to its storytelling, and the color these drawling anecdotes brings is so vivid, their length—that is, the length of the film in its entirety, really—must be given a pass. OCTOBER 2018 / FILMJOURNAL.COM 67 063-074.indd 67 9/6/18 11:39 AM
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Film Journal October 2018

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