The Weekly Gravy #123

The Son (2022) – **

Part of what made The Father so good was how closely it stuck to the titular father’s perspective, and how effectively it depicted his increasing disorientation as he sank deeper into dementia. Part of what makes The Son so lacking is how little it gives us of the titular son’s perspective, and how poorly it conveys the weight of the depression that, over the course of the film, tears his and his family’s lives apart. There are other issues at play, with scenes that are unintentionally amusing and plot developments that reek of unearned melodrama, but it’s the fundamental failure to empathize with Nicholas (Zen McGrath) that finally makes it impossible to forgive its other shortcomings.

The real protagonist of The Son is Nicholas’ father, attorney Peter Miller (Hugh Jackman), who has just had a child with his second, younger wife, Beth (Vanessa Kirby). When Peter’s ex, Nicholas’ mother Kate (Laura Dern) shows up with the news that Nicholas has been skipping school for weeks, Peter agrees when Nicholas asks to move in with him and Beth. Nicholas is enrolled in a new school and, initially, everything seems to be going well.

But soon, it becomes clear that Nicholas is just as troubled as he was before, and while some of his actions – like challenging Peter and Beth over the fact that they began their relationship while Peter was still with Kate – seem par for the course with a moody teenager, others suggest his problems run far deeper. And Peter in particular is tragically ill-equipped to handle them.

If anything, the real problem here seems to be the struggle of these bourgeoisie to communicate with any real emotional openness, mainly operating as they do on a level of generically optimstic small talk. That might at least be a theme worth exploring, but the glut of speeches and shallow exchanges feels less like a feature than a bug, especially when coupled with the muddy plotting and overly broad focus of the story.

For example, we get a decent amount of material related to Peter’s plans to join the campaign of a colleague who’s running for office, which adds nothing to the film except to show what Peter’s up to instead of attending to his family. This subplot does tie into his visiting his own father, Anthony (Anthony Hopkins) – but this scene, despite Hopkins’ capable performance, contributes little to our understanding of Peter, and falls flat on its own because Anthony is so smugly callous about his own shortcomings as a father and husband that you wonder why he isn’t twirling a moustache.

But then, the script fares no better at handling Nicholas; he gives speeches about how hard it is for him to cope with the very fact of living, but it never rings true, nor does it reconcile with his constant fabrications about what he’s up to or his cold, seemingly calculated provocations of Peter and Beth. Not that one person can’t have many facets – not at all – but Nicholas sounds and acts like a plot device, not a person.

If writers Florian Zeller and Christopher Hampton (adapting Zeller’s play as they did with The Father) drop the ball rather badly, Zeller doesn’t do that well as a director either. There are moments like the scene where, for lack of a better explanation, Nicholas, Peter, and Kate seem to share a psychic bond, or the scene where Peter shows off his dance moves, and Nicholas and Beth join in in a moment of what seems to be genuine happiness…until we pan from Beth to Nicholas, staring mopily into space. I laughed.

And of course, there’s the infamous (and if not it should be) scene where Peter confronts Nicholas over his self-arm, and literally forbids him to keep doing it. I think Peter’s being out of touch is the point, but he’s so misguided it becomes almost farcical.

Nothing, however, tops the last act of the film, which moves from a confrontation which allows for a lot of impassioned shouting but which greatly strains credulity (but then, I’ve never been in a mental hospital), to a sensible decision which is then instantly reversed against all reason, to a long scene which is simply treading water until an inevitable and clunkily foreshadowed tragedy, to a corny flashback to happier times (which we’ve seen on and off throughout the film), to a final sequence involving a fake-out so shameless you wonder how Zeller and Hampton expected anyone to take it seriously.

In all this, there are brief moments of truth and power, a decent performance from Jackman as a man whose air of cool control and friendly command mask an emotional age of around 14, a solid performance from Kirby in a very underwritten role as a woman facing considerable pressures without much of a support system, and a score by Hans Zimmer that would’ve worked just fine in a better film, but here fails to give weight to all the melodrama.

McGrath, unfortunately, can’t overcome the script’s failure to really understand Nicholas or his state of mind, and his deliveries lack the pain and passion so haunted a character demands; Dern has her moments, but the script lets her down as well, struggling to define Kate beyond the role of The Forsaken Ex-Wife.

As I write this, it remains to be seen if Jackman will actually get an Oscar nomination; at one time it seemed very likely, but now it would be a surprise, and not a welcome one. Not because he didn’t do what he could with very poor material, but because he doesn’t do enough to merit a nomination, or to merit making this weak, muddled film an Oscar nominee.

Score: 51

And now I begin my trek through the Oscar nominated films I haven’t seen.

Causeway (2022) – ***

Oscar Nomination: Best Supporting Actor (Brian Tyree Henry)

To look at Lynsey, you wouldn’t think anything was amiss; she looks like Jennifer Lawrence in everyday clothes. It isn’t until you see her struggle even to move her hands, to brush her teeth, to walk, that you realize that her troubles are on the inside. Literally, in one sense – she suffered a brain injury in Afghanistan and has been sent Stateside for rehab, and the film glides past her recovery of her motor skills. It’s when she goes back to her hometown of New Orleans, to live with her mother Gloria (Linda Emond), that the figurative sense really becomes apparent. Because she wants to leave as soon as possible, is anxious to redeploy – and we come to understand that she’s trying to escape the unhappy memories of her youth.

Then she meets James (Brian Tyree Henry), who owns a garage and encourages her to let him repair her old truck. He sees that she’s having difficulties (she cannot remember her phone number) and begins to reach out. They become friends, and if she needs the connection even more than he (she’s reluctant to connect to Gloria and speaks of her brother as if he were dead), he’s got his own ghosts to grapple with, and maybe in forming a healthy bond with another person, Lynsey can find a way forward in life that doesn’t involve putting herself in harm’s way once more.

This is the kind of low-key character piece that only rarely has a name like Lawrence’s attached to it. In a way, it makes the shortcomings of the script stand out more: the underdeveloped plot elements, the disappearance of Gloria from the story when she’s no longer needed, the hasty change of heart Lynsey has, and the rather abrupt ending would all be easier to overlook in a film without the significance her presence – and Henry’s own growing reputation – imparts.

But Lawrence and Henry also take the best part of the script, the developing bond between Lynsey and James, and bring it to life. Yes, the natural drift of their conversations is nudged in this or that direction by the needs of the story – a revelation about Lynsey’s sexuality here, a wrinkle in James’ story of loss there, a flare-up which jeopardizes their friendship (which, to be sure, is not fully healed come the end), and so on – but for the most part, they’re allowed to vibe off one another, and do so winningly.

I run hot and cold on Lawrence as an actress, and she errs a touch on the side of the enigmatic here (she also makes no attempt at a New Orleans accent, for better or worse), but she plays Lynsey’s emotional arc fairly well, and avoids showiness in depicting her physical issues, which are extremely subtle after the first act, but still a frustrating part of her life. Henry, on the other hand, I’ve pretty consistently liked, and he offers a warm, natural performance, charming and funny without feeling like a prop for Lynsey’s journey, and just as believable in his moments of regret and frustration, even if the writing doesn’t quite as true.

Emond does well enough with what she has that you wish she had more; the dynamic between Gloria and Lynsey has promising wrinkles that are only glancingly touched upon. In all too brief roles, Jayne Houdyshell as the nurse who helps Lynsey through her initial recovery and Russell Harvard as her imprisoned brother (who uses sign language, possibly after losing his voice, though Harvard himself is deaf) offer comparably natural and likable performances. And of course, Stephen McKinley Henderson, as Lynsey’s concerned neurologist, is one of the most watchable character actors around.

Lila Neugebauer’s direction is fine in that straight-forward style common to modern indie cinema; the film looks fine and sounds pretty good when we hear Alex Somers’ droning score. The script, by Ottessa Moshfegh, Luke Goebel, and Elizabeth Sanders, could’ve stood some fleshing out – I appreciate the brisk 92-minute runtime, but it’s arguably too trim – but it offers enough moments of heartening humanity between the two main characters, and enough room for a good cast to do their thing, to be worth a watch.

Score: 75

Infinity Pool (2023) – ***½

From the start, it’s clear that James Foster is a weak man. Everything about him radiates weakness, indecisiveness, irresolution, and the capacity to be led into a world of surreal depravity by someone sufficiently motivated – like, say, Gabi Bauer, who claims to be a fan of his one novel. That we remain somewhat invested in him, as inevitable as his fall from whatever grace he actually enjoys may be, is a credit to Alexander Skarsgård’s performance; he convinces us at every turn of how helpless James is to resist his fascination with Gabi and the possibilities – narcotic, sexual, and criminal – she and her circle of friends provide.

It’s also a credit to Mia Goth’s performance, yet another impressive turn after her superb work last year in X and Pearl, that, as obvious as it is that Gabi is a femme fatale à la Cronenberg, that she’s bad news walking and that James is a fool to follow her as far as the door (and she damn well knows it), that we’re not much inclined to question his choices.

Oh, we can question why he turns in her direction rather than sticking with his wife Em (Cleopatra Coleman) who loves him, supports him (in a way he clearly finds emasculating), and is about the only person around with a moral compass. But if he were to stick with Em, we wouldn’t have much of a film, and besides, it’s pretty clear that he’s the scorpion on the frog, and plunging into the jet-set depravity of Gabi, her husband Alban (Jalil Lespert), and their clique is very much in his nature.

Ah, but I haven’t mentioned what sets this story apart, what marks it as a Cronenberg film (Brandon, that is; David’s rather talented son): we’re in the country of La Tolqa, somewhere in Eastern Europe (it was filmed mostly in Croatia), a country where, if you cause someone’s death, you will likewise be put to death, preferably by the heirs of the deceased. There is a loophole, however – for a fee, using technology exclusive to La Tolqa, a double will be created, given your memories (so as to feel guilt), and ritually executed.

So happens when James, driving in the dark with Em and the Bauers, accidentally strikes and kills a farmer. Gabi urges them to flee the scene rather than deal with the authorities, but James is arrested the next morning and given the fateful choice by the obliging Det. Thresh (Thomas Kretschmann). La Tolqa is dependent on tourism, after all; it wouldn’t do to kill paying guests. But after witnessing his doppelganger’s death, James finds himself less inclined to leave the country, instead being drawn into the Bauers’ orbit. It doesn’t take long for Em to leave, and Gabi shrugs, suggesting she wasn’t right for him.

Whether Gabi is right for him is a matter of debate, but the fact is that James is the kind of man who can easily fill whatever moral void opens itself to him, and if there’s a central weakness in Cronenberg’s script, it’s that there’s not quite enough friction between him and the slippery slope he’s on. Em is gone from the film a bit too soon, and the balance she offers to the Bauers’ amorality is missed, but even with her around, he’s perhaps too easily led into temptation.

And what he finds, while disturbing and often striking to behold – Karim Hussain’s cinematography and James Vandewater’s editing work together to craft nightmarish, neon-hued images that flicker by so quickly the film actually carries a warning for the photosensitive – feels a bit underwhelming when it’s all over. There’s the notion, touched on in the closing moments, that some people can compartmentalize the darkest parts of their character and some cannot, but it’s not quite enough to prop up the nearly two-hour runtime.

There are ample compensations in the acting, the fine production design that subtly makes La Tolqa a place outside of our reality (the La Tolqan alphabet is suitably cryptic), the costume design, including the wonderfully grotesque masks so prominently featured in the advertising, Tim Hecker’s groaning score, and the sick sense of humor which keeps it all from becoming too dour. It just all feels like a bit less than the sum of its parts.

Score: 83

Women Talking (2022) – ****

Oscar Nominations: Best Picture, Best Adapted Screenplay

CW: misogyny, sexual assault, domestic violence.

At first, Women Talking is a challenging film to watch. On one level, because it deals with the serial sexual assault of the women in a Mennonite community by a number of its men (the assaults are not depicted but their harrowing aftermath is), assaults which are variously dismissed as the work of evil spirts or “female imagination.” On another, because writer-director Sarah Polley plunges us into the story and into the meat of the film – a discussion amongst several members of the community over whether they should stay and challenge the men to treat them decently, or simply leave – at a fierce, even disorienting pace.

The colony itself, as far as I could tell, is never named in the film (it’s named Molotschna in the source novel by Miriam Toews), and it took me a while to fully grasp the individual characters, and longer still to grasp exactly the positions they were arguing and the values which informed their arguments. To be sure, these women are considering the possibility of leaving the place they’ve called home since they were born; it makes sense that they would feel conflicted.

But Polley’s script falls a bit short in depicting the rhythms of a debate – though, given the acknowledged time factor and the heightened emotions, we understand that some needs are more pressing than others – and arguably not enough of a case is made for staying and fighting; Mariche (Jessie Buckley) is one of the few characters to seriously worry about the fate of her soul should they leave Molotschna. Given that these women have lived there their whole lives, you might think they would have more reservations, however much they resent them, about leaving.

That said, the circumstances which press them to leave – the danger towards themselves, their daughters, sisters, mothers, and friends – seem almost to have broken the spell of Molotschna, a place so isolated that we’re not sure what year it is until a census taker comes by, where the women are so subjugated that none of them know how to read, and so removed from the world that none of them actually know where they are.

And as the film goes along, as we get a better grasp of these people and the choices they face, the film grows more powerful until the triumphant finale – much remains uncertain as the women of Molotschna enter the greater world, but as Ona (Rooney Mara) says, “Hope for the future is good. It is better than hatred of the familiar.”

Women Talking has widely been praised for its ensemble cast, and there’s no denying the glut of strong performances here. You’ve got the bigger names, like Mara as the patient, gentle, optimistic Ona, Buckley as the snarkily pious Mariche, Claire Foy as the fiercely protective Salome (she’s introduced attacking the abusive men with a scythe), and Ben Whishaw as August, the schoolteacher whose parents were excommunicated and got to experience the greater world before returning to Molotschna. (Frances McDormand, as Scarface Janz, is essentially a cameo.)

Mara and Whishaw are especially strong, and the bond they share (Ona and August are clearly in love) is genuinely moving, while Foy is effectively passionate in her insistence that she must leave Molotschna or become a murderer. Buckley, I felt, doesn’t quite reconcile the script’s uncertain approach to Mariche, but she comes through all right, especially in the final stages of the story.

But in some respects, it’s the character actors who are most impressive: Sheila McCarthy as the unassuming, good-natured Greta, eager to use her beloved horses as an analogy for the course of action the women must take; Judith Ivey as the warmly determined Agata, who knows the weight of these choices and will bear them without hesitation; Michelle McLeod as the delightfully deadpan Mejal, puffing irritably at her cigarettes; and August Winter as Melvin, a trans member of the community who openly presents as male in the wake of an assault by his brother, related in a painful flashback.

Polley’s direction encompasses many facets of life in Molotschna, from the central debate to flashbacks showing the aftermath of the assaults, from these moments of pain to moments of song, prayer, and communion, from the adults to the children at play, contrasting their present innocence with the indoctrination and experience that await them if the status quo isn’t challenged, from moments of grief and pain to moments of tenderness and humor. The latter is especially worth noting; this is, as heavy as the subject matter may be, a frequently funny film.

The desaturated colors of Luc Montpellier’s cinematography are acceptable, but don’t necessarily enhance the weight of the story; moments like the rooftop exchange between Ona and August under a starry sky, embracing the simple beauty of the moment, are more effective. Hildur Guðnadóttir’s score (oddly snubbed by the Oscars) ranges from simple, guitar-based folk and haunting strains for the strings to rawer themes played upon, of all things, the steel drum. It’s a fine score that adds to the tension and emotion throughout.

But it’s the acting and the writing upon which the film rests, and while I have other quibbles (the dialogue tends to sound a bit unnatural, especially in the early going), I’m more than on board with the Oscar nomination for the script and quite all right with the nomination for Best Picture, especially given how close the film seemed to be to missing the category altogether. And while it’s frustrating that none of the cast were singled out for nominations – who do you pick? (Even SAG didn’t nominate any of the cast individually.)

As it is, the cast, like the characters, will have to face the world together – but going by the evidence on display, they’re certainly up to the task.

Score: 87