The Weekly Gravy #129

A bit of a light week, since I’ve been busy preparing my own awards and my Oscar predictions. But what I saw was pretty damn solid.

Stars at Noon (2022) – ***½

Some things never change. Though the source novel by Denis Johnson (the first edition of which had an awesome cover) was published in 1986 and set in 1984 during the Sandinista-Contra conflict, this adaptation, set in the present day, depicts a Nicaragua where paranoia and turmoil are still a fact of daily life and foreign operators are still trying to advance their interests at the expense of the people actually living there. Of course, the film was shot in Panama – director Claire Denis suggested shooting in a Nicaragua controlled by Daniel Ortega would be “immoral” – but that’s oddly fitting for a film so full of ambiguity and deception.

Trish Johnson (Margaret Qualley) is an American reporter in Nicaragua. Or is she a reporter? She has a press card, and she’s written articles in the past, some of which have gotten her into very hot water with the Nicaraguan authorities, but in the course of the story she never writes anything, nor do we get any hint that she’s consider how she might find a story in her present circumstances. She’s more occupied with sleeping with men like Subteniente Veraguas (Nick Romano), possibly for protection and definitely for money – which she spends mainly on alcohol – but definitely not for passion, let alone love.

Then she meets Daniel DeHaven (Joe Alwyn), an Englishman who works for an oil firm, or claims to, and from their first bout of verbal fencing, it’s clear there’s something more drawing them together – even if she insists on being paid when they first sleep together. And whether or not she’s really a journalist anymore, she’s savvy and observant, pointing out that the man he’s meeting with (Danny Ramirez) is actually an officer of the Costa Rican Judicial Investigation Department and helping him to avoid capture. They grow closer, however ill-advised that might be.

As the walls close in on both of them, it seems prudent for them to flee the country – even romantic, as they take to the road in a stolen car and defy people like the smarmy man from the CIA (Benny Safdie) who wants to cut a deal with at least one of them. But this isn’t the kind of film where love conquers all; it’s the kind of film where you wonder just how downbeat the ending will actually be.

That is, of course, if you haven’t found yourself pushed away by Trish’s attitude – she’s irresponsible, desperate, and frequently abrasive, at one point yelling at a group of Nicaraguan that American tanks will soon be rolling down their streets – or by the pervasive corruption of the world she’s moving through. The mixed reviews would suggest that’s a possibility – but for me, Qualley’s performance, in concert with Denis’ direction and the script, keep us compelled.

Her large, searching eyes, prodigious head of curly hair, self-conscious delivery (as if she’s trying to be as clever as possible at every turn – if there’s any evidence she’s a writer, it’s this), and brief costumes (she’s introduced wearing a light summer dress with no bra) all establish Trish as a character who walks the line between daring and mere recklessness, who knows how to use her sexuality to her advantage but has just enough idealism left in her to admit the possibility of finding love in these circumstances. It’s a fascinating performance.

Alwyn matches her; Robert Pattinson was originally cast as Daniel, but Alwyn’s boyish face, here crested by a self-conscious beard, is a better fit for the role of a man who doesn’t necessarily understand just how dangerous a game he’s playing, whose white suit makes him stand out as an interloper in this society – a doomed man straight out of Graham Greene. Oddly, many critics felt he and Qualley lacked chemistry, but from their first deftly managed conversation to their poignantly desperate clinches, they make an effectively pathetic pair of ill-fated lovers.

Kudos also to Safdie, Ramirez, Romano, Monica Bartholomew as the long-suffering hotel manager, and John C. Reilly in a cameo as an editor who’s had enough of Trish – but greater kudos still to Tindersticks, whose languid, jazzy score beautifully enhances the atmosphere of tension, ambiguity, and lust. Denis’ direction, while not as virtuosic as her work on High Life, is smartly managed; it’s a good-looking film, making good use of the contrast between the luxury hotels which cater to men like Daniel and the humbler hotel Trish calls home, as well as the forests through which she and Daniel attempt to make their escape.

It’s not quite a great film; though the script boasts compelling themes and a worthy central dynamic, it gets just a bit lost in the quagmire Trish and Daniel find themselves in, and the last 20 minutes or so meander rather badly; at 138 minutes, the film could’ve stood a bit of tightening, especially in the back half. But it ends on a suitable note, Trish trying to make a literary observation at a moment when no one would really care is listening, in a world where survival itself is a struggle. And it’s that thoughtfulness which helps to make it a very good one.

Score: 85

Pacifiction (2022) – ***½

NOTE: I’m counting this film towards my 2023 awards since it didn’t receive a full release in the States until February.

It’s fitting, given that both were recommended to me by the same person, how well Pacifiction pairs with Stars at Noon. Pacifiction also has, for a male lead, a white-suited European who cuts a pathetic figure, whether set against the savvier and more ruthless people who’ll out-maneuver him or the Tahitian natives who accommodate him but may not necessarily like or respect him. He may be the High Commissioner and the official representative of the French government in Tahiti (which is part of French Polynesia), but he might as well be Michael Scott in sunglasses.

His name is De Roller (Benoît Magimel), and he’s approached by native leaders, including Matahi (Matahi Pambrun), who are concerned about rumors that nuclear testing in the area will soon resume. De Roller is concerned, of course, but does he have anything like the skill or authority to do anything about it? He can schmooze like nobody’s business at Paradise Night, the tacky nightclub where Tahitians in very little clothing serve a mostly European clientele, he can make rambling speeches at various functions, he can chat up a troupe of native dancers (under the direction of a French choreographer), and he can try to manipulate a shady Portuguese operative (Alexandre Melo) or a shady French admiral (Marc Susini), but in the end, as he admits in a moment of self-awareness, “Not even I control anything.”

He’s fascinated by Shannah (Pahoa Mahagafanau), a māhū (a third gender in Polynesian culture) whom he tries to draw into his inner circle – as much as he actually has one – and employ as his agent to manipulate people and events, to ends he never gets around to defining. Shannah, in the course of the story, does very little, but you can tell, with every smile, with every free-spirited laugh, with every sip of a cocktail, that she knows just how to make things work for her.

He’s dwarfed by the staggeringly beautiful scenery, which Artur Tort’s cinematography features prominently, the soft lighting and intense colors (we often see the sky glowing pink, in a kind of neon twilight) filling the eye while contrasting with the absurd people who skulk and scheme (the characters often observe or spy on one another), putting a real paradise in jeopardy for their ridiculous aims – a point made clear in the film’s chilling final scene.

There’s a defining moment late in the film where a topless female DJ at Paradise Night sways to the ambient drone they’re playing for the mostly empty club, whose patrons are in any case inclined to simply sit, brood, drink, and quietly make their shady deals. The great erotic cliché of the South Pacific set against the spiritual inertia of the colonizer, bathed in gloomy blue light (Tort’s work shines even when he’s not showing off the natural beauty of Tahiti), with music unlikely to stir the spirit. Later, we’ll see the admiral dance to Freddy Butler’s “I Like Your Style”; when such a man is having fun, you know something’s wrong.

I can absolutely see why my friend so admires Pacifiction. In addition to the magnificent cinematography, the excellent performance from Magimel as the ineffectual commissioner, the fine performance from Mahagafanau as the enigmatic Shannah, and a solid turn from Pambrun as the coolly motivated Matahi (who’s quite prepared to steamroll over De Roller if he needs to), there’s the script by director Albert Serra, with its interrogation of modern colonialism and its patiently crafted satire of bureaucracy, Serra’s sly, unobtrusive direction, and the sparingly used but effectively haunting score.

That it doesn’t quite reach those heights for me is partly due to there being, for my money, too much dead air between the high points. It could easily have justified its 165-minute running time, with its large cast and multiple story threads, but there quite a few scenes where, frankly, little of interest happens. The languid pacing works at times to create an atmosphere of sensuous ambiguity and mystery, but at other times, especially towards the end, it feels like Serra is just drawing things out unnecessarily.

It’s certainly worth seeing for the gorgeous imagery, and a must for anyone interested in modern colonialism. But if you get the chance (I wish I had), see it in a theater, so you can relish the imagery and the soundscape (birdsong and other sounds of nature pervade the soundtrack) and immerse yourself in the deliberate pacing, which might test your patience if you’ve got distractions around.

Score: 83

Creed III (2023) – ***½

The first Creed was a really good film that, arguably, outdid even the original Rocky and managed to take what should’ve been a cheap extension of the franchise and turn it into a real crowd-pleaser – not a great film, in my view, but a good one. Creed II was also good, not least because it took the character of Ivan Drago – created as a caricature of the Soviet super-athlete – and gave him a measure of humanity. So now comes Creed III, which takes two major risks: it drops Rocky from the story completely, and it elevates star Michael B. Jordan to the director’s chair.

As you might guess from my rating, losing Rocky doesn’t hurt the film (especially since his final scene in Creed II was a fitting farewell) and Jordan acquits himself pretty well behind the camera, especially in the climactic fight, where touches of pure fantasy and style (apparently nods to anime, which Jordan is a big fan of) take this cinematically grounded series in a new direction. It works, because those touches serve the emotional tenor of this particular matchup.

At the start of the film, Adonis “Donnie” Creed (Jordan) retires from boxing having once again secured his heavyweight champion title. Some time later, he’s shifted gears into mentoring boxers like champion Felix Chavez (José Benavidez Jr.) and having tea parties with his daughter Amara (Mila Davis-Kent). One day, he finds Damian “Dame” Anderson (Jonathan Majors) waiting for him outside his gym; they had been close friends when they were young, but after an incident where Donnie got into a fight and Dame pulled a gun to defend him, Dame went to prison and Donnie’s adoptive mother, Mary Anne Creed (Phylicia Rashad) made sure Donnie didn’t receive Dame’s letters.

Dame was a promising young boxer and wants to prove himself once more, asking Donnie to help him get a title shot. Donnie demurs but allows Dame to spar with Felix, over the objections of trainer Duke (Wood Harris), who’s concerned about Dame’s aggressive attitude and approach. But when Felix’s opponent in an upcoming title defense is attacked and unable to fight, Donnie suggests giving Dame a chance. He regrets his decision when Dame, after a dirty fight, wins and becomes the new heavyweight champ, later learning that Dame was behind the attack on Felix’s original opponent.

Initially unable to come to grips with his complex emotions, a tragic loss leads him to open up to his wife Bianca (Tessa Thompson) about what happened between him and Dame and the guilt he carries from it. But he now knows what he has to do: he has to face his old friend in the ring and settle their unfinished business.

So for the second time in less than a month, Majors has assumed the role of antagonist in a major franchise film, and while he was fun as Kang in Quantumania, here, in a better and more grounded film – a film which actually has a story to tell – he plays a character who’s genuinely sympathetic, having some legitimate bones to pick with Donnie and the hand that life dealt him, yet fearsomely implacable, unwilling to settle for anything less than the title he dreamed of as a teenager. It’s a powerful turn which further proves his range and ability.

But Jordan, in addition to showing his chops as a director – he handles the film with confidence throughout – continues to flesh out the role of Donnie Creed, both as tenderly devoted family man, coolly confident public figure, haunted ex-hooligan and bastard son of a father he never met, and fiercely driven – and fiercely intelligent – competitor. Add in capable supporting turns from Thompson, Rashad, Davis-Kent, and Harris (plus Thaddeus J. Mixon and Spence Moore II as the young Donnie and Dame respectively), and you’ve got a solid ensemble to ground the film in between the fights.

To be sure, the fights, especially that superb final match, are the highlight of the film, with the brutal sound effects, forceful editing (there’s a shot where Dame punches Donnie in the stomach and we see the sweat fly off Donnie’s back), and visceral imagery all complementing the fine work Jordan and Majors put into selling the fight. And of course, the training montages are as rousing as ever. Whether as the third Creed film or the ninth Rocky film, it can stand comfortably alongside its predecessors.

It’s solid outside of the ring as well, though there are points where one might wish the film actually built up its characters a bit more. There are some lovely moments, especially when we simply sit back and watch the Creeds be a loving family, and kudos to the film for its unassuming treatment of Amara’s deafness and the family’s use of sign language (it helps that Davis-Kent is herself hearing-impaired; for my money it’s a more satisfactory piece of representation than CODA), but intriguing threads like Amara’s own interest in boxing and how Dame actually handles going from a total unknown to a champion in a single match aren’t given enough room to develop.

Still, it’s an invigorating entertainment with moments of real heart (one scene in particular takes a big swing and manages to land on the side of poignancy), deserving of its success (it’s well on its way to profitability) and leaving the door open for further sequels. I’ll be ready for them.

Score: 82