Saturday Night at the Movies
Softly, softly: Manglehorn, Hungry Hearts, The Wolfpack, When Marnie Was There
By Dennis Hartley
Being a “staff of one” (story of my life), I occasionally get too much stacked on my plate and consequently fall behind on reviewing new films. One issue is that pesky day job (the one that ensures I can buy food, pay rent…junk like that). OK-I’m also a lazy bastard, but that’s beside the point. So this week I thought I would get you caught up on some recent movies that have quietly tiptoed in through the juggernaut of over-hyped summer fodder:
Manglehorn– One of my favorite John Cassavetes films is Minnie and Moskowitz. There’s a memorable scene where Moskowitz (Seymour Cassel) sits down in a restaurant and is “befriended” by a chatty stranger (Timothy Carey), who leads with way too much information (“My wife died. I’m lonely. I live in the same building for 28 years…walkup.”). It’s a five-minute walk-on for Carey, but he brilliantly conveys that his character has enough backstory to generate an entire other film. Manglehorn is that film.
Al Pacino stars as the eponymous character in David Gordon Green’s episodic study of an aging, lonely locksmith moping through his days in a Texas burg. Stoop-shouldered and world-weary, Manglehorn is the kind of guy who can make a daily walk to the mailbox look like a trek down The Trail of Tears (he’s long past caring about having to reach through a whirling cyclone of angry honeybees who have converted it into a hive). He’s the kind of guy who goes home every night to a pantry full of cat food…and regret.
If you aren’t in the mood for a particularly discernible story arc, this film might be the ticket. I don’t mean that in a negative way; just know that Green (and screenwriter Paul Logan) have taken a naturalistic, low-key tack that hearkens back to films of the 1970s by the likes of the aforementioned Cassavetes (directors like Hal Ashby and Bob Rafelson come to mind as well). In a way, Pacino is getting back to his roots (which are, after all, firmly implanted in low-key 1970s character studies, like The Panic in Needle Park and Scarecrow). It’s also a treat to see him playing off the equally formidable character actor Holly Hunter (as a sweet-natured bank teller). Not for all tastes, but off the beaten track.
Rating: *** (in limited release and currently available on PPV)
Hungry Hearts– It’s official. Saverio Costanzo’s turgid family melodrama has supplanted Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby as Worst. Prenatal. Guidebook. Ever. Two NYC millennials, Jude (Adam Driver) and Mina (Alba Rohrwacher) Meet Cute while temporarily trapped in a bathroom at a Chinese restaurant. Budda bing, budda boom, next thing you know there’s a ring, then a marriage, and then it’s time to buy a baby carriage.
While such whirlwind courtships can be titillating and quite romantic, would you agree that they sometimes circumvent the part where…you get to know the other person a bit (outside the biblical sense) before taking vows? Imagine Jude’s surprise when Mina’s pregnancy reveals all kinds of new layers to the woman he thought he had married. Without giving away too much, let’s just say Mina has phobias…and one or two health anxieties. And once our bundle of joy arrives, all poisons that lurk in the mud hatch out.
Driver (who should be instantly recognizable to fans of the HBO series Girls) and Rohrwacher deliver intense performances, but it feels for naught, as Costanzo’s script (adapted from Marco Franzozo’s novel) skids all over the genre map. Is this a horror thriller? Sirkian soaper? Cautionary tale? Dark comedy? Perhaps it’s a commentary on the rise of the helicopter parent; or a satirical jab at gluten-free, peanut-allergy hysteria and vaccination paranoia (along the lines of Todd Haynes’ more sharply observed Safe). One thing I can say for sure to parents: I would not recommend this one for Date Night.
Rating: ** (in limited release and currently available on PPV)
The Wolfpack– So what do you get when you cross Being There with The Gods Must Be Crazy? Something along the lines of this unique (if not particularly groundbreaking) documentary from director Crystal Moselle. The film is a portrait of the 9-member Angulo family, who live in a cramped apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Susanne Angulo is an American woman who met her Peruvian husband Oscar while travelling through South America. They married and settled in New York City, where they proceeded to raise six sons and one daughter. So far, a typical family story…right?
Here’s where it gets a little…odd. Apparently, Oscar never quite got over the culture shock of moving from the jungles of Peru to the concrete canyons of Manhattan (or something to that effect; the director doesn’t really clarify, which is one of the film’s flaws). At any rate, at some point he arbitrarily decided that all their children would be homeschooled by his wife, and essentially confined to the apartment. And as time went on, Oscar began spending more and more time locked up in his bedroom, making no effort to socialize (or seek employment)…and day drinking (that’s rarely a good sign).
So you don’t start to worry, let me assure you that this doesn’t end in a murder-suicide (even though the enabling pathology seems to be in place). In fact, here’s the real shocker: The kids are normal. OK, maybe not “normal” normal, but not they are not as fucked up as you would expect. They’re all sharp, friendly, engaging. That’s what’s weird. The secret to their success is watching movies. Lots of movies. Oscar amassed a sizable collection, and gave his kids unlimited access. It’s this tear in the matrix, Oscar’s one concession of (relative) “freedom” that most likely kept the family from imploding (I feel validated, as I have been preaching the gospel of “movie therapy” for years on end).
Do the kids ever break out of their prison? I won’t spoil it, though you’ve likely already figured out where it’s headed. Therein lies the problem with the film; fascinating subject, a documentarian’s dream setup…and the director squanders the opportunity, leaving us with something that (stylistically, at least) adds up to little more than a glorified episode of The Osbournes or 19 Kids and Counting. That aside, still worth a peek for the curious.
Rating: **1/2 (in limited release)
When Marnie Was There– Japan’s Studio Ghibli has consistently raised the bar on the (nearly) lost art of cel animation (don’t get me started on my Pixar rant). While it’s sad that the undisputed master of anime (and Ghibli’s star director), Hayao Miyazaki, has now retired, it is heartening to know that the Studio still “has it”, as evidenced in this breathtakingly beautiful new anime film from writer-director Hiromasa Yonebayashi.
The story (adapted from a book by the late British author and illustrator Joan G. Robinson) centers on a 12 year-old girl named Anna (voiced by Sara Takatsuki in the subtitled Japanese version that this review is based upon). Anna, a budding artist, is an insular foster child whose health problems precipitate an extended visit to a seaside town, where she will stay with relatives while she mends. While exploring her new environs one day, she espies a rundown mansion at the edge of a marsh. She finds herself strangely drawn to the place, but doesn’t understand why. Unwittingly stranding herself there when the tide rises, she is rescued by a crusty (yet benign) fisherman. As night begins to fall, she thinks she sees lights in the windows of the abandoned structure. A mystery is afoot.
I don’t want to give anything away, as many twists and turns ensue, with a 4-handkerchief denouement that will leave only those with a heart of stone unmoved. It’s really a lovely story, with some of the most gorgeous animation I’ve seen from Ghibli. Gentle enough for children, but gifted by an intelligent, classical narrative compelling enough for adults. No dinosaurs, male strippers, killer androids, teddy bears with Tourette’s, explosions, car chases or blazing guns…just good old fashioned storytelling.
Rating: **** (in limited release)
…and for giggles, here is a 6-minute acting master class with the late Timothy Carey: