The Weekly Gravy #144

جوائے لینڈ/Joyland (2022) – ***½

The title of Joyland is profoundly ironic (it comes from an amusement park the characters visit) because the film is all about people who deny themselves joy or make such a mess of things in seeking it that all they find in the end is sorrow. It is a frustrating film, but why? Is it because of the choices the filmmakers made, or because the story it tells is so full of human weakness and repression?

In Lahore, Haider (Ali Junejo) lives with his wife Mumtaz (Rasti Farooq), his brother Saleem (Sohail Sameer), their father Amanullah (Salmaan Peerzada), Saleem’s wife Nucchi (Sarwat Gilani) and their young children. While Mumtaz works at a local salon, Haider helps Nucchi keep house; the chores need doing, the kids need supervising, and Amanullah needs help with his daily needs. But it’s not quite right for a man to stay home while his wife works, and Haider’s meekness only amplifies the frustration his relatives feel towards him.

A friend encourages him to audition as a backup dancer for Biba (Alina Khan), a transwoman nightclub performer whom Haider had previously seen in passing and been struck by. Despite his trepidations, Haider is hired, telling his family he was hired as a manager. Amanullah suggests that Mumtaz leave her job and take care of the house with Nucchi; she doesn’t want to, but when Haider fails to back her up, she relents.

As Haider works with Biba, he falls in love with her, and they eventually begin an affair which, while clandestine, puts additional strain on his marriage – and then Mumtaz discovers she is pregnant, a revelation which fills her more with terror than joy. Meanwhile, Amanullah’s long-standing friendship with widow Fayyaz (Sania Saeed) seems poised to develop into something deeper – but as noted above, this is a story of happiness denied, whether deliberately or accidentally.

I saw Joyland with a friend, something I rarely get to do these days. But I always enjoy doing so, and this was a particularly rewarding experience as we discussed the film at some length after it ended. Walking out of the film, I felt mainly that A. Mumtaz deserved better and B. Haider kind of sucked. My friend was rather aghast at this second point, suggesting that I, being used to stories of characters triumphing over adversity (or making a valiant effort to) was struggling to accept this more realistic look at characters who are crushed by a stifling set of social codes.

That’s entirely possible; I haven’t seen many Pakistani films (this might actually be the first), and I’m not that familiar with the particulars of their culture, as much as it overlaps with Indian culture. In some ways, the film might actually challenge one’s preconceived notions of the country; while Biba faces prejudice for her gender status (and is misgendered to her face at least once), she lives openly as a transwoman and never mentions leaving Pakistan, at least not permanently. The pressures the characters face are ultimately more social than legal and come as much from within as from without.

If there’s a reason the film, and particularly the character of Haider, doesn’t quite work for me, it’s that the pressures from within aren’t as clearly communicated as those from without. But then, I would argue that passivity is extremely hard to dramatize, and that in any case the film doesn’t quite bring Haider’s own passivity to compelling life. There are moments we feel for him, but more often than I not I found him exasperating and hoped Biba and Mumtaz would find someone better.

I also think the film overplays its hand in the final act. There’s a scene that would’ve made a fine ending: Haider and Mumtaz meet in their bedroom, each having gone through an emotional wringer, and she (clearly over his dithering) reveals her pregnancy. He tries to smile, but breaks down in tears, probably not out of joy, and she wearily consoles him. It would’ve left some things unresolved, but that’s life.

Instead, the film goes on another 25 minutes, doubling down on the tragedy and tying things up in a way that just didn’t work for me – not more than that quiet moment which promises little joy but leaves us room to wonder.

Even in these scenes, however, the film does much right. My frustrations with Haider are not a knock on Junejo’s performance; he’s good, but Farooq and Khan are even better, bringing much pathos and spirit to the table. But the whole cast is good (Saeed gets a brief but effective speech late in the film which falls on deaf ears), and Saim Sadiq’s direction is effective; the film is quite well shot (the use of faces and light is often striking), has good production values and spare, haunting music.

There’s much to recommend Joyland, which convincingly depicts a society of selective traditionalism and self-denial, amplified by the characters’ struggles to communicate what they want, need, and fear. That so much of it is wrapped up in a character I found tiresome does not negate its strengths, and who knows; if you’re lucky, you might see it with someone who challenges your notions as well.

Score: 83

Revelations: Paradise Lost 2 (2000) – ***½

11 months ago, I watched the first Paradise Lost film, noting that its greatness lay not in its narrative treatment of the West Memphis Three’s wrongful conviction, but in its depiction of the people involved and the environment that shaped them:

…the enduring value of Paradise Lost is not as a factual record of a brutal crime and a miscarriage of justice, but as a carefully observed portrait of the personalities involved and the atmosphere in which these events took place. It inspires the viewer to reflect on prejudice, positive and negative alike, societal and personal alike. It offers a window into a particular variety of the belief in evil, and of the corrosive effect grief and anger have on the human soul.

Revelations, released four years later, is even less concerned with narrative, dealing with the state-level appeals process, and focusing less on the Three – Damien Echols is seen and heard throughout, but Jason Baldwin and Jessie Misskelley are only seen briefly at the beginning, at least in new footage – than on the families of the Three (especially Echols’ mother Pam), on Misskelley’s lawyer Dan Stidham, who works with a forensic expert to uncover details in the crime scene photos that were overlooked at the time, on the support groups which have been founded in the wake of the first film and who have come to support the Three during the process, and on John Mark Byers, the only relative of the murdered boys willing to take part in the sequel.

But what a part he takes, as he rants defiantly for the camera, stages a fiery mock funeral for the Three at the crime scene, moans in anguish over the graves of his wife and stepson, and hangs around the courthouse, scorning the support groups, unable to stay away even as he professes his disgust. He courts attention at every turn, unflattering though the results may be.

There’s the matter of his wife’s death, the cause officially undetermined; there are rumors he was responsible, but it may have been the results of drug abuse and a broken heart. There’s the matter of a possible bite mark on one of the victims; he can’t provide an impression of his teeth because he had them removed. His reasons for why are constantly changing and easily challenged, as is the timeline of their removal.

Personally, I don’t think Byers was the guilty party; later evidence points towards a different suspect in any case, but it’s hard to imagine, if he were the killer, that he would’ve covered his tracks remotely well enough, or kept his mouth shut enough not to confess. (Were this fiction, he’d be so blatantly suspicious that one could easily eliminate him as a suspect.) That’s not to say much else in his favor, as he seemed like a troubled man full of petty rage, eager for attention and distinctly free with the truth. But I don’t think he was a murderer.

Of course, that’s my own conclusion, based solely on the films, which is not much less real evidence than was used to make the Three the prime suspects. But we and the film can only grasp at the truth of the case, which lies somewhere beyond the truth of the messy humanity we see in such detail here – with Byers as the most fascinating example.

Compared to him, the support groups are rather less interesting, and one may wonder if the filmmakers were a bit swayed by so many of the subjects citing their film as an inspiration. It’s hard not to see them as well-meaning tourists, especially compared to the less glamorous but more tangible efforts of Stidham and the expert, who reviews the harrowing evidence and notes details the original investigators may have ignored or misinterpreted.

As a result, this is a bit weaker than the first film; it’s a very good film, but it doesn’t quite reach greatness. It’s still well worth seeing, and I’ll be seeing the third film before long – and possibly checking out West of Memphis as well, since that is able to take a broader view of the whole tragic affair.

Score: 86

The Flash (2023) – **½

The producers of The Flash are not to be envied. After much bad publicity, most notably for Ezra Miller’s off-screen behavior (the most charitable interpretation is they’re a deeply troubled person quite unequipped to handle the pressures and privileges of stardom), but also for the ever-turbulent state of the DCEU. Despite relatively positive reviews, the film opened to $55 million, well below expectations and a dismal result for a summer tentpole. (The money-losing Watchmen opened to $55 million in March…14 years ago.)

With James Gunn taking the reins at DC. one has to wonder how much of this film will even matter down the road. I should think it prudent to leave it all behind and start afresh – and not just because of Miller’s behavior. In this case, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and the taste is distinctly off.

The story tells of Barry Allen (Miller), who’s trying to clear his father Henry’s (Ron Livingstone) name for the murder of his mother Nora (Maribel Verdú). As the situation looks hopeless, Barry runs to vent his anguish, going fast enough to travel back in time. He decides to try and prevent Nora’s murder, despite the warnings of Bruce Wayne (Ben Affleck), and does so, but ends up in an alternate timeline alongside his 18-year-old self (whom I’ll call Other Barry).

Other Barry has no grasp of the tragedy Barry has prevented, and no knowledge of the meta-humans who make up most of the Justice League. Barry realizes that the invasion of Earth led by Zod (Michael Shannon) is about to occur, and to save the Earth, he’ll need all the help he can find, starting with Other Bruce Wayne (Michael Keaton), a retired recluse who finally agrees to help the Barries.

They rescue this timeline’s Kryptonian refugee, Kara Zor-El (Sasha Calle) from a Siberian prison, and her distinctly low view of humanity is bolstered by Barry’s compassion. But can this scrappy quartet defeat Zod, or will Barry learn the hard way that some things can’t – or shouldn’t – be changed?

The external issues facing the film notwithstanding, it falls well short of the mark on its own merits. To begin with, the story, the character, and the tone all fail to mesh. At its core, this is a rather poignant and bittersweet narrative about the limits of superpowers, and about how exploring alternate timelines can simply lead one to alternate tragedies. In a way, it’s like the Next Generation episode “The Inner Light,” where Picard lives what feels like a lifetime in a simulation created by a long-extinct race.

But there’s little sense of loss or poignancy when Barry must let the alternate timeline go, because it all feels like a giant boondoggle, because we never really get to care for most of the people in this timeline, because the film leaves so much potential for emotional weight and depth of character on the table, because the film puts more weight on generic action and broad humor than on good storytelling.

It certainly doesn’t help that most of the humor in the film falls flat, either because the material is weak, the execution is lacking, or off-screen events have made it hard to laugh at bits like Barry thinking out loud about drugging Other Barry to keep him from making trouble, or Other Barry, having gained Flash powers, accidentally burning off his clothes and running around naked. Some bits would’ve been off-putting regardless, like the gag about Barry’s dislodged tooth.

And then there’s the falling babies scene, which is actually a funny concept, but the CGI on the babies – the director’s defense be damned – is distracting and off-putting. The “Chrono-Bowl” concept, through which Barry observes the past and its parallels flitting by, is off-putting in a different way; seen briefly, it’s kind of clever, but seen at such length as it is here, it’s an overcrowded mass of imagery.

As for the infamous sequence with the alternate Supermen, including deep-fakes of George Reeves, Christopher Reeve, and Nicolas Cage’s narrowly averted take on the role, it not only looks bad, but it serves no meaningful purpose in the story; it’s just empty fanservice. At least bringing Keaton back allows us to enjoy his singular energy, even if his reprised lines are, again, empty references which hardly raise a smile, let alone a cheer.

Calle and Verdú, each playing a poignant figure, are given too little room to find the considerable pathos their arcs in the film should generate – room that is given to inane running gags like Marty McFly in Other Barry’s timeline being played by Eric Stoltz. If anything, Kiersey Clemons is even more wasted as Barry’s crush, journalist Iris West.

But we got more than enough of Miller, and dare I say it, but they’re not really leading-player material, at least not in this kind of vehicle. As a quirky supporting character or an offbeat lead in a small film, sure. But given this much focus, their energy, especially as Other Barry, is more grating than charming, more mugging than magnetic, by turns mannered and manic, and all ultimately rather tiresome.

They have their moments, as the film has its moments; it’s not really bad, just not good. But it’s been so thoroughly scooped by better, more imaginative, more affecting, and more thoughtful uses of the multiverse concept – one of which is still very much in theaters – that it’s hard to recommend except has a sad curiosity, aptly capped by a limp reprise of the tooth gag and a useless post-credits scene.

Score: 62

Asteroid City (2023) – ****

For some reason, I keep on thinking I don’t really like Wes Anderson – that his precisely composed visuals and deadpan humor too often curdle into an affectation I should’ve long tired of. And yet, watching Asteroid City, I almost always had a smile on my face, right through to the little dance the roadrunner does over the closing credits – the kind of little touch Anderson’s frames are filled with, which you might overlook on a first viewing because there’s so much going on.

Here, the main story is framed as a stage play, shot on full sets in full color, itself framed by a dramatization of the play’s genesis, shot in black-and-white on deliberately limited sets. This allows Anderson, with his dutiful stylization, to tackle the world of the theater, which greatly pleased the thespian in me, while the layers this adds to the story and characters (since most of the cast play their characters and the actors playing those characters) tickled the writer in me.

The main story, set in 1955, follows a group of characters who converge on the tiny desert community of Asteroid City for a “Junior Stargazers” convention. This has been organized with the help of the military, and when an extraterrestrial arrives and steals the asteroid (in a hilariously understated scene), they place the town and characters under quarantine, during which time tensions and romance blossom alike, grief is processed, and a schoolboy writes a song about the alien and performs it with the help of a cowboy band who happens to be stranded in the town.

The results are, of course, funny (“Let’s say she’s in Heaven, which doesn’t exist for me, but you’re Episcopalian), touching (as in a late scene with Margot Robbie which notes the value of letting go and moving on), sweet, and a bit strange, as any film where an alien just shows up out of nowhere is wont to be.

Anderson executes all of this with his typical wit and command of style, in league with production designer Adam Stockhausen (who builds a delightfully retro desert community with details like an overpass to nowhere and a vending machine that sells plots of land), costume designer Milena Canonero (the 50s fashions are spot-on throughout), cinematographer Robert Yeoman (the precise pans and tracking shots are as crisp as ever), editor Barney Pilling (who balances the various levels of the story and keeps the comic timing sharp), and composer Alexandre Desplat, whose twinkling, celestial score shares the soundtrack with a selection of vintage tunes.

And of course, there’s the massive cast, some of whom get the space to really shine, but all of whom are welcome presences. For me, the standouts are Jason Schwartzman as the grief-stricken Augie (one of his most likable turns), Scarlett Johansson as the sardonic movie star Midge Campbell (showing, as the character notes, how good a comedienne she can be), Grace Edwards as Midge’s sharp-eyed daughter Dinah, who sets her sights on Augie’s nervous son Woodrow (Jake Ryan, also good), Jeffrey Wright as Gen. Gibson, delivering strange motivational speeches and military orders with equal briskness, Steve Carell as the sweetly enterprising motel manager, Bryan Cranston as the dryly authoritative host of the framing device, and Maya Hawke as a sweetly unassuming schoolteacher whose lesson plans are no match for the ongoing hubbub.

As with much of Anderson’s work, it can be tricky to say when his themes are all right there on the brilliantly detailed surface, and when it behooves the viewer to look a bit deeper, to find the touches of humanity behind the carefully choreographed behavior, most vividly embodied by Augie’s three young daughters (the Faris triplets). But as the density of his imagery invites repeat viewings, so repeat viewings may well find extra layers of emotion and insight beyond the ornate settings and many hilarious moments.

I could quibble about Anderson’s storytelling, especially in the final scenes, which don’t flow quite smoothly, but that’s a minor complaint in a film I well and truly enjoyed. The comparatively mixed reviews suggest your mileage may vary, and it’s very much a Wes Anderson picture, with all that entails (though it is, I think, more accessible than The French Dispatch). But for me, that’s come to mean a good time at the movies.

Score: 89