The polarizing nature of Johnny Depp may soon be getting a little less so, thanks to his mesmerizing performance in Black Mass, the new film depicting the story of infamous Boston gangster James “Whitey” Bulger. Indeed, the buzz surrounding this movie surrounded talk of a return to form for Depp, whose work for the better part of the past ten years has been scrutinized as indulgent, excessive, overly reliant on costuming, and generally worthy of scorn by many people. I wouldn’t count myself among the voices who lament Depp’s recent roles (I don’t think his performances have lost anything, but the movies themselves may not be as good as his early work—then again, I found Mortdecai hilarious, so you needn’t listen to anything I say), but as Bulger, he makes it virtually impossible to find much fault in his portrayal of the criminal-turned-FBI informant.
Sometimes in documentary, a story is so good on its own that it’s as if the film doesn’t have to do much except avoid getting in the way of its subject. A movie about someone as extraordinary as Malala Yousafzai enjoys this advantage: we’re so eager to see her story told on screen that this gratitude for the film’s existence alone is enough to make this film feel essential. Fortunately, He Named Me Malala goes above and beyond in its depiction of the Nobel Peace Prize laureate thanks to the skill of director Davis Guggenheim.
Usually when you think of a movie as “conventional” it’s meant as a kind of insult. It can be a nice euphemism for boring, trite, or unoriginal pieces of filmmaking. But sometimes conventionality and cliché can be used in interesting ways. This is one of the many enjoyable qualities of Freeheld. Much of it is the type of love story we’ve seen in countless movies: couple meets, go through a period of flirtation, become increasingly close and intimate, then something happens, in many instances one of them becomes sick, and the story turns into one of those better to have loved and lost, tearjerker types of movies. They often serve their purpose, some sort of emotional bloodletting (or tearletting?) because all love stories end in sadness.
Last year, TIFF welcomed two standout films centering on the lives of musicians. The most widely seen of these, Whiplash, depicted the grueling ordeals of a young jazz drummer who is willing to sacrifice his body for a chance at being a truly great musician. The lesser known but similarly well received Love & Mercy, a biopic focusing on two separate eras in the life of Beach Boys legend Brian Wilson, chronicled the musician’s struggles with mental illness, and, in direct contrast to Whiplash, featured a true love story that ended up being his salvation. This year’s festival sees a movie that almost seems like an amalgamation of the best qualities of each of these previous films in Born to be Blue.
“When politics is treated as a game, everybody loses.” I think Warren Beatty said that. Or someone else. Or I just made it up. Either way, it seems like the type of false quote that would be appreciated by Jane Bodine, the central character of Our Brand is Crisis, played by Sandra Bullock. The film is a fictionalized story based on or inspired by the 2005 documentary film of the same name, directed by Rachel Boynton. The doc depicted the American political strategies employed in the 2002 Bolivian national election. In this new story, Bodine is the key political consultant hired by the campaign of former president Pedro Castillo to help him overcome his 28-point deficit in the presidential race—the scenario is the same, but fictional versions of the participants are inserted.
Set in an imaginable, only slightly futuristic apocalypse, Into the Forest is a compelling portrait of a sisterly bond in the wake of an existential crisis.
Creative destruction is a concept that, for many of us, recalls the stereotypical young male who has just discovered he’s really into economic theory and is eager to share his newly acquired knowledge. I don’t know what it is about masculinity and destroying things, but the idea of destruction in itself is enough of a draw to attract many of us (see: every major blockbuster in the past twenty years), and the potential for something positive to come out of that satisfying act of breaking stuff is like a cherry on top. Demolition is a film that takes this idea, makes it both a metaphor and not a metaphor, is aware of what it’s doing, and makes its experience as pleasurable and interesting as it possibly can over the course of two hours.
One thought kept repeating in my mind over and over again while watching Eye in the Sky: criticism, while important, is incredibly easy. Sitting back and critiquing the decisions or work of another person is virtually always done from a position of security. Arguments made by critics should be made and received with the understanding that sitting outside of a particular situation and passing judgment is a completely different exercise than being in the middle of that situation, having to make difficult decisions with actual stakes behind them, bearing responsibility for outcomes that can actually affect any number of people. This is certainly applicable to the relationship between film critic and filmmaker; it’s also one of the ideas running throughout this movie.
