"Mad Max: Fury Road" and "The Revenant" Display Technical Wizardry, But the Former Leaves a Better Impression

Mad Max: Fury Road literally features a character who just plays a

flaming guitar to set the mood for Immortan Joe's men.

For all their differences, Mad Max: Fury Road and The Revenant strike a similar chord with me. Both feature actor Tom Hardy and both take a hard look at the violent nature of men, but the connection runs a bit deeper than that. They are certainly the most divisive films among the recent Best Picture nominees with each having been called a masterpiece by some and an overhyped piece of garbage by others. I’m somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. While I respect the undeniable craft, ambition and technical wizardry on display in each film, both feature parts that are greater than their collective wholes.

Fury Road is the fourth Mad Max film, but you don’t need to have seen any of the Mel Gibson-led entries to watch it. Not at all, really. Writer/director George Miller has spoken about how the Road Warrior franchise isn’t meant to be some ongoing narrative with sensical continuity, but rather a pliable urban legend of the post-apocalyptic wasteland. These stories are whisper-down-the-lane lore told around camp fires, mythical tales about a man who takes on different shades depending on the orator.

It is helpful to appreciating the film if you view it in that context, because the narrative is little more than a sparse allegory and Miller makes some big stylistic choices that are likely to turn off viewers looking for something a bit meatier and a lot less weird. Fury Road thrusts a haunted Max Rockatansky (Hardy, communicating mostly via his glances and grunts) into a feminine uprising against Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), a maniacal warlord with several of wives (i.e. sex slaves), throngs of devoted War Boys who view him as a god and even more oppressed plebs just hoping to get bit of the water Joe hoards from all but the select one-percenters.

The action starts when Imperator Furiosa (a dynamite Charlize Thernon), one of Joe’s top lieutenants, goes AWOL during a gasoline run in an attempt to liberate Joe’s five wives from captivity. It’s basically one long car chase from there, but really it’s a psychedelic music video for a feminine empowerment ditty that’s raging against overbearing masculinity and maybe a little against capitalistic over commodification as well. It’s all good zeitgeisty stuff that fits snuggly alongside the likes of Ex Machina (reviewed here) and all the other media examining gender entitlement and rape culture. But, while I expect Fury Road to age well, I’m just not as gaga over the whole thing as its most ardent admirers. There's just some mysterious x-factor missing that prohibits me from connecting fully to the film, which probably says more about me than the movie itself.

Nevertheless, Fury Road is a sensory experience of the highest order. The Oscars it netted for editing, sound, costuming, makeup and production design are well deserved, and the film also would’ve been my choice for director and special effects due to its inventive lensing, energetic choreography and eye-popping stunt work. That doesn’t even cover the performances, which do their fair share in adding to the artistry of the visuals. Take, for instance, Nicholas Hoult, who is somehow batshit manic and introspectively still as Nux, one of the more nuanced takes on a homicidal zealot you’re likely to come across.

Leonardo DiCaprio finally got his Oscar for The Revenant.

The Revenant delivers plenty on the sensory level as well, with stylistic flourishes wrapped around a traditional narrative that will sit just fine with people unaccustomed to tonal idiosyncrasies. The tale of a fur keeper (Leonardo DiCaprio) who is mauled by a bear and then left for dead by the cohorts left in charge of tending to his needs, it’s basically concerned with suffering and survival, although it does make some nods toward the all-consuming nature of vengeance. Much of that is hollow tokenism, especially compared to Prisoners (reviewed here) or even something lesser like Death Sentence.

Packaging impressive long takes and unbelievable camera movements that trump what director Alejandro Gonzalez Iñarritu and cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki previously achieved together with Birdman, The Revenant is as viscerally immersive in its best moments as any movie out there. Unfortunately, in between those moments the film is so emotionally static and faux meditative that it falls way beneath their previous collaboration.

DiCaprio won the Academy Award for his work here, and while some would have you believe his victory was basically a lifetime attaboy along the lines of the Oscar Al Pacino received for Scent of a Woman, that would be untrue. DiCaprio gives a grounded and raw performance, and although this doesn’t even rank as one of his 10 best performances and I wouldn’t have even nominated him this year, his win is far from some embarrassing make-good. It’s just that there’s not a lot of meat on the bone. Hardy has more to work with as the chief antagonist, another brooding brute like Max, albeit inverted, rotten and way more talkative. A win for him would’ve made more sense to me, but I’m not in charge of awards.

I prefer Mad Max: Fury Road to The Revenant, but they are both good films chiefly defined by the auteur touches of their directors. Neither is a top 10 film for me in 2015, but there’s always a few of those thrown in with the Best Picture crew, and I would way rather have those spots go to these masters of the form than some boilerplate prestige pic defined by middling competence.

Mad Max: Fury Road B+, The Revenant B

DiCaprio Impresses in Baz Luhrmann’s Polarizing “The Great Gatsby”

Baz Luhrmann brings his patented style to The Great Gatsby.

Long ago christened the great American novel, The Great Gatbsy has, to some degree, suffered from such a lofty designation. Perhaps due to high expectations, many have walked away unimpressed by the slight nature of the story and unsold on the big ideas placed upon it, often indicating the acclaim seems a whole lot of sound and fury signifying nothing.

I get this sentiment. There is so much fervor for the text amongst a great deal of scholars that it has become as much a legendary false idol as Jay Gatsby himself. This has led the uninitiated to roll their eyes, which is a shame, because such a chain reaction ultimately dims the beauty of the story’s moving tragedy and elegant prose.

I mention this, because it colors my thoughts on Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby, a somewhat problematic and bloated adaptation that overcomes its shortcomings by nailing the plight of the titular character, a man whose overreaching claim to Greatness conceals his true value.

Called a “nothing man from nowhere” by his chief romantic rival, Gatsby is a newly rich man of humble beginnings.  His persona, like his wealth and parties, is extravagant and inauthentic, a sham product conjured from imagination and subterfuge. 

However, underneath the hubbub, Gatsby, like the book that bears his name, is far more than nothing. He is a man of immense passion, resolve and hope on a romantic quest to live out a dream scenario with his lost love. The problem, to paraphrase Fitzgerald, lies in the fact that the idealized fairytale stored up in his heart is just another overdone exaggeration, a self-deluding illusion of colossal vitality. 

Leonardo DiCaprio plays all of this perfectly. Like the books in Gatsby’s library, he’s real, but with uncut pages. The bravado and posh accent increasingly prove themselves to be affectations, and the actor does an excellent job of cutting thorough the mystery and false confidence to show a sad and desperate man who’s achingly real. 

Leonardo DiCaprio owns the role of Jay Gatsby.

Given DiCaprio’s deft work in Shutter Island and Inception, two movies that saw him playing men with their own falsely idealized romances, perhaps his success here shouldn’t be surprising. Ultimately, he offers up the definitive portrait of literature’s most famous dreamer.

As successful as DiCaprio’s performance is, most of the talk surrounding the movie concerns Luhrmann’s stylistic flourishes. When I first heard Luhrmann was hired to tackle this adaptation, I applauded the decision. Although it certainly allowed for the potential of a massive misfire, I thought it could also be a shrewd match of material and director. Given his work on Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge, Luhrmann seemed well equipped to handle the roaring 20s excess and even better prepared to tackle the tragic romance. Besides, at the very least, we were going to get something uniquely different from previous attempts to translate the Fitzgerald classic.

Having seen the results of Luhrmann’s effort, I’m very much understanding of what Nick Carraway meant when he said he was “within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled.” At times, what appears onscreen is enthralling. The production design, mis-en-scene and costuming are highlights, and, certain moments from the book are adapted unbelievably well, particularly the New York apartment party scene in which Nick ponders the inexhaustible variety of life.

However, there are other moments, particularly during the first half hour, that just don’t work. For instance, Nick’s whole first trip to the Buchannan home is fraught with overcooked style. Although it’s pulled straight from the books, the depiction of the whipping curtains is silly, as is the synchronized movements of the wait staff and the overzealous and disorienting editing of the dinner sequence. 

The shot composition in this film is pretty rad.

And while I think the 3D is solid and am not bothered by the multitude of anachronisms (most notably the hip hop soundtrack), I dislike the framing device that reveals Nick is in a sanitarium telling this story to a psychologist and later writing it as a sort of therapy. These scenes add up to quite a bit of screen time spent on an unnecessary and hollow subplot, time that would’ve been better utilized in other ways (like adequately translating the relationship between Jordan Baker and Nick).

Outside of DiCaprio, the cast, which includes Tobey Maguire, Carey Mulligan and Isla Fisher, acquits themselves well enough. Elizabeth Debicki left me with the best impression, but unfortunately her Jordan is totally underutilized in the second half of the film. Meanwhile, Joel Edgerton brings the right amount of hulking pompousness to the role of Tom, and he kills it in his confrontation scene with DiCaprio.

 The Great Gatsby is destined to be a polarizing film, but while I have a few issues with it, I’m inclined to throw my support behind it. Like Gatsby himself, the film is sometimes flashy to a distancing degree, but underneath the pomp there’s a substance to it that makes for an entirely immersive experience.B+

Anderson and Tarantino Embrace Their Quirks to Great Effect with Moonrise Kingdom and Django Unchained

Wes Anderson (left) and Quentin Tarantino (right) are two of Hollywood's

half-dozen or so auteurs under 50.

It’s odd to say because of how vastly different their output is, but it occurred to me recently that Wes Anderson and Quentin Tarantino have had eerily similar career archs.

If you count the Kill Bill saga as one film, both writer/directors have made seven full-length features that have defined them as modern day auteurs with idiosyncratic approaches that countless filmmakers have unsuccessfully tried to emulate.

Both emerged with ’90s indies and gained increasing acceptance through their first three films before backlash hit in the middle of their oeuvres. Many critics and fans took issue with the likes of Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2, Death Proof, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, and The Darjeeling Limited, basically inferring they were derivative “style over substance” trifles, while decrying each man for growing stagnant in their all-consuming quirks.

Interestingly, both Anderson and Tarantino reclaimed critical adoration by releasing films in 2009 and 2012 that were, in many ways, the most Andersony and Tarintinoesque movies of their careers. Somehow two filmmakers that were criticized for working within defined wheelhouses were able to rewrite the narratives around their careers by going even further down their own stylistic rabbit holes.
 
Let’s start with Anderson. For a long time, he has been criticized for his meticulously detailed almost dollhouse-like mis-en-scene, twee sensibilities, use of slow motion, and deadpan dialogue, as well as a supposedly increasing inertness and lack of emotionality. I’ve always thought these were odd criticisms – I never could grasp why people so detested the idea of a filmmaker creating his own visual identity, and always thought that Anderson did a wonderful job of crafting wonderfully emotive and cathartic moments strikingly set against artifice. 


Moonrise Kingdom features slow-mo walking. Duh.

 Nevertheless, the complaints existed, and many people had begun to tune Anderson out as a significant purveyor of American cinema. Then, somehow, the man got back into the good graces of many and landed his second Oscar nomination for The Fantastic Mr. Fox, a film brimming with deadpan quirk and featuring costumes and set design so detailed that the they are almost otherworldly (and, in fact, they are literally slavishly rendered doll clothing and dollhouses).

Anderson has followed that success with Moonrise Kingdom, a film that garnered him another Oscar nomination and that many have called the best of his career, despite the fact that it contains all of the same Anderson eccentricities and ups the twee to even higher levels.

 Although I prefer several other Anderson titles, I found Moonrise Kingdom to be a great little film, choke full of richly thematic undertones involving first love, destiny, abandonment, and the need to be, if not understood, than accepted. The film focuses on two 12-year-olds – Sam (Jared Gillman), a resourceful orphan Khaki scout, and Suzy (Kara Hayward), the mostly ignored black sheep child of two checked out lawyer parents – who decide to run away together after courting via a series of letters.

Anderson nails the uncertainly, exhilaration and sensitivity of navigating love for the first time. Sam and Suzy know what their supposed to do and awkwardly go through the romantic motions, but what really forges their bond is a refreshing and needed dose of head-on openness.

Importantly, Gillman and Hayward are inherently interesting and natural performers, and the absurdity that these kids decide to run away together on an island is part of the charm. So too is the contrasting lack of purpose present in all the adult characters (Edward Norton as a scout leader, Bruce Willis as a local sheriff, and Bill Murray and Frances McDormand as Suzy’s parents), although, other than Willis, I’d say they are largely wasted.


The chemistry between Christoph Waltz and Jamie Foxx is

the heart of Django Unchained.

Tarantino has operated on a larger scope than Anderson, making larger, more popular movies, while having already landed an Oscar for writing Pulp Fiction. However, backlash for his incessant concentration on ironic violence, endless bouts of verbal dexterity, use of fake brands, and employment of eye-popping angles and zooms, as well as his penchant for fawning riffs on genre movies seemed to reach a boiling point with the release of Death Proof.

And yet he reemerged in a big way three years ago when Inglorious Basterds – an alternate take on WWII that plays up the revenge-tinged violence and indulges Tarantino’s love for stylistic embellishment and long, immersive dialogue scenes – dominated at the box-office and grabbed eighth Oscar nominations (including best director and screenplay). 

This year he’s repeated the trick with Django Unchained, another genre exercise revenge story mash up. This time, the director combines spaghetti westerns and blaxploitation in an examination of slavery. Although that seems a dicey prospect, the film has become Tarantino’s highest grossing film and nabbed five Oscar nominations to boot (including another writing nod for him).

The entire film is conceived with a wink and a nudge, even more so than Inglorious Basterds, which felt more realistic in a way, despite the fact that it was rewriting known history while this story is at least probable. The film is often comedic in the way it’s shot, scripted and acted, and although it contains tracks from Ennio Morricone the legendary composer of Sergio Leone's Dollars trilogy, most of the soundtrack is composed of funkified originals and classic pop tunes. 

The film focuses on Dr. King Schultz (Christoph Waltz), a dentist-turned-bounty hunter who buys a slave named Django (Jamie Foxx) to help him locate and take out several marks. In return Schultz offers Django his freedom and agrees to help him save his enslaved wife Broomhilda (Kerry Washington) from Candie Land, a plantation lorded over by the maniacal Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio) and run by treacherous house slave Stephen (Samuel L. Jackson).

Waltz steals the picture outright with a role that was likely written in direct response to his head-turning turn in Basterds. I imagine Quentin so loved Waltz’s take that he was inspired to convert the archetype into a good guy and get back in the sandbox with him. Schultz is the same type of pragmatic and dangerous charmer as Hans Landa, except he’s layered with a level of humanity and compassion that none of the hardened Americans in the piece seem to possess.

DiCaprio and Jackson also are afforded larger-than-life characters and they more than make their mark in transformative roles, despite being absent for the first two-thirds of the film. DiCaprio shows a different, more flamboyant side of his range, while Jackson manages to keep Waltz at bay for the title of greatest Tarantino collaborator based on the sheer diversity of their collaborations alone. 

By design, Foxx is given less to work with, as Django is rejiggered version of the badass of few words made famous by western luminaries like Clint Eastwood. He’s solid and projects the right amount of attitude, but it’s hard to deny that the life begins seeping out of the film once Schultz is out of the picture and Django takes center stage. A lot of that has to do with the minimal amount of investment put into his relationship with Broomhilda. She barely registers as more than a plot device, and the heart of the film is the bromance between Schultz and Django (Foxx’s delivery of expertly set up “Auf Wiedersehen” is a sweet coda to the relationship).

I greatly enjoyed the tone and pulpy aspects of Django but I felt it didn’t have half the momentum or development of Inglorious Basterds, and so it plays like a lesser version of a similar movie. That said, there’s so much to like here that it hardly matters it fails to reach such lofty heights.

Overall, I’m glad to see both Anderson and Tarantino back on top. I never understood the backlash against them, because I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want these men to make films that weren’t personal and drenched in their own eccentricities. While I admire filmmakers like Ron Howard who are almost invisible in their ability to craft diverse, four-quadrant movies with minimal overlapping distinctiveness, I don’t think we should be forcing specialists like Anderson and Tarantino to stifle their artistic identifies. To me, it’d be like forcing Picasso or Salvador Dahli to paint classical art – an utter waste of individuality and talent.

Fortunately, that’s not the case with these two great filmmakers. Moonrise Kingdom A-, Django Unchained B+