Pickpocket, 4/5 - Richard Bresson
“Knowing a deed is bad doesn’t stop you.”
“But why? Why?”
“To get ahead."
This is an exceptional film—not in the sense of unparalleled excellence but in its uniqueness. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a film that is so unassuming and so focused. The only showy sequences in the film, of which there are two, are masterful and complex: in the bar where Michel learns his tricks (with classical music added to underline the artistry of his craft), and in the train where he’s a just player on a balletic pickpocket team.
Pickpocket is an exploration through an objective eye—no histrionics, no flash, no bullshit.
Its revelations are without feeling but produce feelings effortlessly. I do need to watch it again soon, though, because what I felt most was confusion. I was confused not by anything inherent in the film but by my reaction: why am I so intrigued by such a simple tale that is told so simply?
And after thinking a while I still don’t know the answer. But I do know that this film has a lot to say. The first thing I noticed was Bresson’s treatment of crowds. A while back, there was some nonsense on the internet about a word whose definition was roughly “the realization that everyone around you has a life as complex and as meaningful as your own.” It wasn’t a real word, but it’s a powerful sentiment highlighted in this film.
Michel is shown often in crowds, not distinguished by Bresson but by the audience’s recognition of him. Bresson treats this character no different from a stranger, and he often focuses on a random person who is of no immediate or eventual consequence. As we learn about Michel’s life and his means of living, we realize that this complexity exists for every person shown—insignificant in the movie and probably insignificant to the world, but significant to someone.
It just so happens that Michel is significant to us. He’s a man whose portrait is painted by his actions—even his words, so ubiquitous, offer nothing of deep insight. As the basis for Taxi Driver's Travis Bickle, Michel operates the same as him: he is his job; he’s meek; he’s paranoid; his apartment is dreary; his life is monotonous; and his hands are dirty. He, like Travis, sees himself as a hero, as above mere commoners—but unlike Travis he draws no sympathy.
By himself, he confidently answers the age-old question “Would you steal bread for your hungry family?” But in Michel’s case, the question is: “Or would you just rather?” It’s clear by the end that pickpocketing is all that he knows and brings all that he hates, but he still does it—even with an excess of money hidden behind his baseboard.
I think if Bresson had simply unveiled a bit of the excess he had hidden, Pickpocket might have been a masterpiece. Like Michel, he has the tricks, and he has the abilities—but he hides them because he thinks they are better unseen. Myself, I’m not so sure. This reticence might hold the film back, or it might make it what it is. Despite my uncertainty, Pickpocket is special, and it is what it wanted to be.
Joy, 4/5 - David O. Russell
It’s funny how David O. Russell is derided for being derivative of Scorsese, while every director alive has easily identifiable influences that no one seems to care about.
Funny how?
It’s funny because David O. Russell has a distinctive, personal style that weaves together American influences into his own product. Fallaciously, people see cinematographic exuberance, and point their pitchforks at the screen to say, “Oh, that’s Scorsese!”—which is both an insult to Russell and to Martin Scorsese, whose style has gradually been reduced by these myopic mooks to GoodFellas, who also ignore its origin (and better counterpart) Mean Streets. (“What’s a mook?”)
In Joy, Russell’s style is at its most mature. His camera moves when it should, turns when it should, and fixates when it should—all while adding little hints that refer to and reveal his narrative (like the exaggerated pull-back shot that cuts to Joy’s childhood or the close-up of De Niro’s hands during the bankruptcy scene).
Undeniably, Russell has an firm grasp on emotion and comedy. Who didn’t fall in love with Jennifer Lawrence during Silver Linings Playbook's dinner scene, as Pat did, or wince nervously after their dance? Who didn’t laugh at the continuous “ice fishing” joke during American Hustle? I know lots of people weren’t moved by Joy, but I was. [Insert forced pun about Joy and “joy” here.]
I hated her sister, loved her grandmother, was amused by her mother, and was empathetic to her father. I felt real triumph when Joy opened her warehouse and when she went on TV. I felt nauseating sadness when she sees her design stolen, just the same as when she declared bankruptcy.
I was his puppet, as was his re-used but never-stale troupe of Lawrence, Cooper, and De Niro. Russell is able to recognize their strengths and mold them into great performers who are rewarded with awards (and then resented for them).
And like those awards, Joy is knowingly idealistic. There are white walls, bright lights, and dark sunglasses. A hard-working, charming woman is dragged through the mud by her dirtier-than-a-used-mop family and comes out clean. But it isn’t pandering and it isn’t manipulative; it’s just enjoyable. Actually like Scorsese, Russell is able to present this surface-level fun and still connect with deep emotions and make real statements—on broad ideas like capitalism and feminism and on a single person, Joy Mangano.
I know it sounds like I’m writing my way into a five-star review, but that won’t happen, because the first act of the film—pre-mop, that is—was simply bad. It resembles the soapy melodrama on television more than the later drama on screen. I realize this connection was intentional, but I just could not enjoy the first part of the film. At one point, I even asked myself if Russell’s detractors have been right the whole time.
But they weren’t. For all the reasons above, I can’t wait to watch Joy again to experience the highs and lows of a steadfast character (and to revisit my issues with the first act). I also plan on revisiting David O. Russell’s entire filmography.
I… well… fuck it: it’ll be a joyous time!
Hard Eight, 3.5/5 - P.T. Anderson
The work from Hard Eight's whatshisname director uncannily reminded me of P.T. Anderson’s debut, Boogie Nights, and his follow-up, Nashville.
Seriously, though, this film ought to have garnered more attention—because behind this low-budget, sophomoric effort was clearly a director of great promise. Maybe it’s just hindsight, but it seems evident, even in a vacuum, that Anderson would go on to be a pretty good filmmaker (Boogie Nights, Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love) to ultimately a great filmmaker (There Will Be Blood, The Master, Inherent Vice).
It features camerawork ubiquitous in his next films, from the frequent movement down to the slow zooms. I also noticed a consistent pattern of overhead shots of desks from a character’s point of view, a la Taxi Driver—as well as clear influences from Tarantino and Altman. It also features some of his future regulars in Philip Baker Hall, John C. Reilly, and Philip Seymour Hoffman. Reilly does an o.k. job, and Hoffman flourishes in his cameo role, as he did in every single project he was a part of.
But Philip Baker Hall is the stand-out here. He skillfully plays an at-once fascinating and guarded character whose suspicious patronage drives the film, and whose completed arc makes the film itself whole. He is a man seeking both unspeakable forgiveness and unknowing replacements for his children. He finds them—a boy and a girl—in a place of monotonous chance that eventually, unfailingly catches up.
The biggest problem in Hard Eight is how that life catches up to this Boogie Nights prototype of ensemble and lead. The hostage situation, from the absolute beginning, is ridiculous—especially considering the timeline of this film. We see three years of these lives, and that’s the scene chosen to break the camel’s back?
The film is also too-clearly the work of an amateur, and not in a charming way like some independent films. Poor lighting, scattered awkwardness, and a lack of true originality are the most obvious tells, but in his forthcoming brilliance none of those is an issue. Nothing is.
Oh, and—uh—can I have a cigarette?