I fell in love with Greta Gerwig the minute I saw her make a face while eating bad pizza in the horror movie The House of the Devil. Since then, I've seen almost all her movies, and even in the bad ones, she's been enjoyable. She's immensely watchable, and her performances always feel completely authentic. When she teamed up with writer and director Noah Baumbach (they're also romantically involved) for Frances Ha, it felt like a perfect melding; this century's Annie Hall. So I was eager to see their latest team-up, Mistress America.
Unfortunately, it's a misfire, and Gerwig gives her first performance that feels like a performance.
Gerwig plays 30-year-old Brooke, a New Yorker who "does everything and nothing." Tracy Fishko (Lola Kirke) is a freshman at Barnard College, and her divorced mom (Kathryn "Law and Order: Criminal Intent" Erbe!) is set to marry Brooke's widower dad. Tracy is reluctant to give her soon-to-be-step-sister a call, but after a few lonely months at school, she does, and very quickly falls under Brooke's manic spell.
Brooke is everything enviable to the naive writing student, and soon she becomes inspiration for Tracy's latest short story. Brooke lives in an apartment that's zoned commercial, is a part time singer, interior decorator, math tutor, and enthusiastic home cook. She has dreams of creating a TV show, writing short stories ("but longer"), and developing an app. But her big dream is to open a restaurant/hair salon/community hangout called Mom's, with help from her boyfriend of whom she says "he's everything I hate except I love him." Problem is, Brooke is 90% dreamer, 10% doer, and her boyfriend is soon out of the picture.
We're supposed to understand why Tracy would be so drawn to Brooke, and this is where the movie — and Gerwig — falters. Brooke is, frankly, annoying as hell, and Gerwig is never able to get her Brooke to rise above that fatal character flaw.
It also doesn't help that much of the dialogue feels stilted and mannered — like it was written to be a stage play. This style dominates the middle portion, an extended sequence with an ever-increasing number of superfluous characters that's supposed to come off as screwball and quirky, but instead grinds the movie to a halt. What had felt slightly like a stage play turns into something that feels like the dress rehearsal for a play desperately in need of a final rewrite.
The media was having a field day trying to figure out why Alexander Skarsgard showed up in drag to the San Francisco premiere of The Diary of a Teenage Girl at the Castro Theatre last Monday. Some wondered if it was because he plays a gay or drag character in the movie (he doesn't). Others thought it was a tribute to "costar" Josh Grannell, AKA Peaches Christ, (yeah Grannell is in the movie, but blink and you'll miss him). But the truth is closer to what I figured all along: half the audience was in drag, and when in Rome--or the Castro--well, why not wear a dress? So, sure it was part tribute, but it was also just solidarity.
Director Marielle Heller took to the stage at the same premiere and introduced Skarsgard and costar Bel Powley; all three looked fabulous in their 1970's dresses. But before anyone could really say anything, Cousin Wonderlette--acting as MC--ushered them all off stage to make way for a bunch of Rocky Horror Picture Show performers to lead the audience in a round of the Time Warp. It was pretty obvious the majority of the audience was not ready to do the Time Warp again; they wanted to see the movie...
..which opens exuberantly, with young Minnie (Bel Powley) walking through Golden Gate Park, a smile on her face, "Looking for the Magic" playing on the soundtrack. "I had sex today," we hear Minnie say. "Holy shit!" It's a perfect, frank opening for what lies ahead: a movie that recognizes that teenage girls can be just as sex-obsessed and horny as teenage boys.
Minnie is fifteen and lives in San Francisco with her divorced mother Charlotte (Kristen Wiig) and her younger sister Gretel (Abigal Wait). It's 1976. They all live in flat in Laurel Heights, (actually filmed at a house on Haight Street), and Minnie goes to a private school in the neighborhood (the Presidio Library poses as the high school). She doesn't think herself very beautiful, even using the word ugly to describe herself, so having someone actually desire her feels momentous. She starts to document this pivotal change in her life via an audio diary, recorded on a cassette recorder she hides under her bed. These recordings serve as the film's narration.
As she tells her diary, having sex for the first time officially makes her an adult, although she can't talk about this sexual encounter with anyone aside from her blue-eyed, blonde feathered-haired best friend Kimmie (Madeline Waters). (Minnie's mother deems Kimmie kind of white trash, "but in a good way.")
Minnie's losing her virginity is a bit....complicated, because the man she's sleeping with is her mother's 35-year-old boyfriend, Monroe (Alexander Skarsgard), "the most handsome man in the world." Most of the film's summaries describe this relationship as "an affair," glossing over the whole pesky statutory rape angle. It's certainly an easier way to describe the situation, and in many ways, the two of them are more equal than any two people with that age difference should be. And it also makes sense within the context of the film's setting. Of course, a 35-year-old man having sex with a fifteen-year-old can't be excused with "It was the 1970s; things were different then!" But it can be explained with that.
Minnie is not a victim. She's not a victim of Monroe, or of her own sexuality. If she's a victim of anything, it's the era. The 70's were tough — perhaps even tougher for San Franciscans. Many parents were barely out of their teenage hippie phase before they were faced with the daunting task of raising the next generation. And a lot of time, they didn't do much raising. Sure, many kids had a lot more freedom than they do now, which can be a good thing, but it also meant a lot of learning had to come from painful experience, and not from parental guidance. All of this is illustrated in Diary to tremendous effect, from Minnie's sexual experience, to having a mother who is more of a buddy who shares her drugs than a parent who pays much attention to her kids' welfare.
And yet, Minnie's mother isn't a villain, and neither is Monroe. Skarsgard portrays him perfectly: he's a tad pathetic, basically weak, and is playing at being an adult as much as Minnie is. Wiig is also great as Minnie's mom. She's never a caricature. Moments where she's being a, frankly, terrible parent, feel very real. You don't hate her, but you do wish she'd just get her shit together already.
Minnie's and Monroe's relationship is fun for a while, but then it isn't, and the main reasons it isn't is because it's not right. Which isn't to say it's only wrong, and isn't to say Minnie can't learn from it. Minnie is able to embrace her own sexual needs, accept that wanting to feel another person's body against hers is natural, and go out and get what she wants, and needs.
I'm reluctant to call this presentation of female sexuality "brave," because I don't think it's brave so much as just plain true. Yes, it's rare for a movie to explore it, though it's not unheard of. Some comparisons have been made to 1980's Little Darlings, (a personal fave), but I was also reminded of the 1987 British film Wish You Were Here, which also focused on a teenage girl with a sexual appetite, and little to no shame about it.
And while sex does take up much of Minnie's thoughts, she has other passions that blossom at the same time. It being 1970's San Francisco, Minnie is familiar with the local underground comics scene, and styles her own drawings after them, and her personal hero Aline Kominsky. Minnie's drawings show up as occasional animations in the movie, illustrating her inner thoughts, and giving the movie an extra kick of 1970's nostalgia.
Minnie's fondness for drawing is more than just a passing hobby. Towards the film's end, as Minnie's choices turn a little dark, we know she's going to be OK, because she has an artistic talent and a passion for it that will be able to pull her out life's darkest moments.
Let me end with praise for Bel Powley's performance. She's British, and in her early 20's, but she pulls off playing an American teen perfectly. (It also helps that she's tiny and Alexander Skarsgard is like 7 feet tall.) She's able to appear naive and innocent in one moment, and sexual and eager in the next; not just scene to scene, but sentence to sentence. It's quite remarkable.
Her performance and the film's message were summed up perfectly for me in one brief moment. As Minnie is leaving school one day, a fellow student walks by her and mutters "slut," under her breath. Minnie hears this, and her reaction is: a brief look of puzzlement, followed by a laugh, and a slight shrug of her shoulders.
These days, attempting to separate the image of Tom Cruise, loony
Scientologist elder, from the image of Tom Cruise, Big Movie Star is a
nearly impossible mission. But movies like last year's Edge of Tomorrow and this fifth entry in the Mission: Impossible are making it a little easier.
All five M:I movies have had different directors, which is a
tradition I hope continues with the inevitable sequels — it lends the
series a nice level of unpredictability. And while current director
Christopher McQuarrie doesn't bring anything revolutionary or insane to
the series, (for that, you'll have to reach back to John Woo's Mission:
Impossible 2, which was the nuttiest — and thus my favorite — M:I
movie), he has crafted a solid bit of action-filled entertainment,
complete with the requisite villain hoping to destroy the world (Sean
Harris); an upper level management type who wants to keep the IMF team
apart; (Alec Baldwin); and a femme who may be a fatale, or may be a
friend (Rebecca Ferguson).
Ferguson steals the show on more
than one occasion — which could be a testament to Cruise, who isn't
afraid to be upstaged. In fact, he's probably at his best when he's
fighting against someone who's clearly a little smarter and/or a little
stronger; it gives his Ethan Hunt a nice does of humility, and humor.
Besides, he'd never be able to come close to the moves Ferguson
masters in her fight scenes, particularly the classic "lady crushes
man's head between her thighs" maneuver, which she tends to combine with
an initial flying leap over the guy, resulting in her landing on top,
head between legs, neck in perfect position for snapping.
The IMF gang is also back: Ving Rhames as Luther, who does NOT do
much leaping in the movie; I think he spends most of it lying down;
Jeremy Renner as William Brandt, who has to fight off Alec Baldwin's CIA
chief; and; Simon Pegg as Benji, who gets more feet-on-the ground
action this go-around.
Sure, the movie's probably about 20 minutes too long, and the ending
is the furthest from surprising that you can probably get. But the Mission: Impossible series has always been a nice alternative to the more serious Daniel Craig 007 and Bourne movies, and Rogue Nation is so much fun it almost manages to make you forget about Crazy Cruise. And that's an accomplishment.
While most of the world seemed to view the death of Amy Winehouse as unsurprising and an inevitable end, I was shocked. I thought she'd end up the equivalent of Keith Richards, or Courtney Love: rock stars who live the lifestyle to the extreme, but who never made into the 27 Club. But after seeing the documentary Amy, I now know there was no hope of that; she was doomed.
If you're a fan of documentaries, the film is worth seeing — even if you aren't a fan of Winehouse's music — because it's a remarkable piece of curation: No new footage was shot for the film, and all new interviews are only heard as voiceover. Instead, it consists entirely of archival video and film, shot by her family and friends, as well as stuff shot for TV and, most disturbingly of all, paparazzi footage; she was hounded by them until her death.
And it's this image of her that prevailed, until now. Thanks to this film, we get to see the Amy that, at age 14, could belt out a version of "Happy Birthday" worthy of the jazz singers she idolized; the Amy that was a burgeoining musician — still just in her teens — promoting her first album, and answering questions about fame with answers like "I don't think I'm gonna be at all famous. I don't think I could handle it. I'd probably go mad."
It's also great seeing the subtle look of disgust she gives when asked what it's like to be shot by photographer Terry Richardson, and not hiding her complete boredom at an interviewer's droning on about Dido's lyrics. Seeing these moments of personality that are so different from the images of her walking through the streets of London in bloody ballet slippers and smeared eyeliner turns her downfall into something heartbreaking, and not something to be joked about — as was the case so often towards the end of her life.
The film doesn't shy away from presenting those who surrounded her after she hit it big as the shitty support system they were. An opportunist father; a dirt bag junkie husband; managers who really didn't know what the hell they were doing. She was only 22 when Back to Black was released, and clearly not prepared for the fame it would bring her. If only she had lived long enough to learn how to live through it.
Imagine being able to live forever in the body of Ryan Reynolds. Welcome to the (sort of) plot of Self/less. Ben Kingsley plays a dying New York billionaire with a ridiculous accent and an insanely tacky, gold-plated apartment worthy of Donald Trump (and ha, it actual IS Donald Trump's apartment, as revealed in the credits). When he's told about a procedure called "shedding," he forks over the money to have his consciousness transferred into the lab-grown body of a virile young man. This involves MRI-type machines and no actual brain transplantation, so is, in other words, completely preposterous.
When he wakes up in his new body, he has all the memories of his former self (although he doesn't have the ridiculous New York accent, which, huh?), but must start a new life, as giving up his old life is part of the deal. And the transition isn't entirely smooth, since without daily drugs, he starts to have weird seizures that come with memories that seem to belong to someone else.
Ah ha! There's the rub. "Lab-grown" body indeed! The majority of the movie features Reynolds searching for the truth behind his new body while being chased by the shady org that facilitated it all. There are some interesting philosophical discussions to be had about the potential for immortality, how the brain facilitates consciousness, and the ultimate opportunities of the haves and the have-nots. But this movie isn't really concerned with any of that that. It's more interested in car chases and gun battles. Your enjoyment depends on your preference for the former or the latter in your entertainment.
