Never Let Me Go

It wasn’t until I saw the trailer for the film adaptation of Never Let Me Go that I knew I had to read the book. The visuals for the film intrigued me in a way that the book cover and summary had not, though we all know movie trailers and dust jackets can be deceiving. How else can we know what goes on inside? It’s like the education of Hailsham students, walking the line between “told, but not told.”

Much of the narrative of Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel and Alex Garland’s screenplay is memory, making the sea-air texture of the film suitably nostalgic. One has to wonder, though, what these characters have to be nostalgic for when they’re in their youth. Life at Hailsham hardly seems worth noting. Screenwriter Garland adds his own details to life at Hailsham, and not merely unwarranted, but they don’t add anything, either. While he’s very good at expressing the ideas threaded through Never Let Me Go, the affection or friendship between Kathy and Ruth is decidedly absent. With Tommy, the three are supposed to be inseparable –  whereas it seems that whatever common past they share is a tenuous bond, at best.  I never expect the film of a novel to maintain all aspects of the novel. That said, there were several things I missed, and a few things added erroneously.

For the performances, Andrew Garfield’s Tommy is endearing and heartfelt, and Keira Knightley makes sense as Ruth, even if I expected more of the role. Carey Mulligan, of course, is spot-on as narrator Kathy. Lonely and sympathetic, at times resembling Michelle Williams, her character develops nicely.

Yet somehow, one comes away from the film feeling that something is missing. Then again, maybe that’s one of the many reactions we’re meant to feel from Never Let Me Go: the vague sense that our joys could be more joyous, our losses more somber, and our time together more fulfilling.

Somewhere

In Somewhere, Stephen Dorff is Johnny Marco, an actor whose miserable existence is punctuated with expensive misadventures and alcohol. It’s not very glamorous, and it isn’t terribly interesting, either. Half an hour in, I was fairly certain the first two minutes contained all I needed to know about the film. Elle Fanning’s first appearance as Johnny’s daughter Cleo places her in an angelic light, and it’s true that if it wasn’t for her, there wouldn’t be much to watch. After her first appearance, it’s entirely too long before she returns for a visit. Her energy, smile, and her engagement in life is a sharp contrast from Johnny’s melancholic routines.

What has Johnny done to deserve his fortune or his miseries? We’ll never know. It’s clear he’s a self-absorbed man with a guilty conscience. In LA he thinks he’s being followed, other times, he’s haunted by accusatory text messages from a private number. It comes as no surprise that he’s ill-equipped to communicate or care for to his 11-year-old daughter; more often than not, she takes care of him, better care than any of the adults in his life. By the time he figures it out, it is, of course, almost too late. Unlike most fathers, he has the blessing of leisure time, time to spend with his daughter before dropping her off at summer camp.

Somewhere is a fairly short film, though you wouldn’t guess it from a viewing. Elle Fanning as Cleo is a miniature adult; her uncommon maturity made obvious and more apparent by Johnny’s predilection for women bearing a strong resemblance to Cleo. Having finally spent more than a day with her, Johnny realizes, sobbing on the floor of his dumpy room at the Chateau Marmont, what we have known all along: his life is empty without her.

Now, no one really believes reformation happens overnight, and perhaps this self-discovery is the most we can ask of Johnny. Dorff does a brilliant job at inhabiting the torturous feelings of boredom, self-loathing, and egotism, tempering it with a genuine adoration of his daughter. He’s a marvel to see, even if the context is boring and goes on for far too long. There are no surprises, no unexpected twists, no alternate realities in Somewhere. In fact, the title is entirely misleading – because in the end, we’ve gone nowhere.

Water for Elephants

Adaptations fascinate me. The evolution from one complete medium to another is incredible and revelatory. I love to observe the different forms a story can take, and what difference any changes may make. Many – dare I say most? – popular films, plays, musicals, television series, and even novels are based on older versions of the same story, stories so inherently interesting or diverting that we thrill to tell them again and again. In our world, stories travel through our technology faster than ever before and novels are optioned for film adaptations before they are written.

I read Water for Elephants after it hit the best-seller list, before it was optioned for a film, and before everyone I knew had read it. Naturally, I had developed my own idea for how the characters should look (“Marlena a blonde? No. Absolutely not. Never.”), but the novel itself was written in a very accessible and cinematic manner, and its subsequent adaptation came as no surprise. While I was by no means enamored of Sara Gruen’s novel, there were still a lot of expectations riding on this film.

My own misguided hope that caused me to anticipate something akin to Big Fish, but Francis Lawrence directs a surprisingly faithful adaptation in this elegant period piece. Lawrence previously worked in the shorter media of music video and mini-series, and learning this now explains the up-and-down pacing of the film. The conflict/resolution/climax cycle is off, the film’s arc disjointed – though I have a vague memory of feeling similarly about the book. That aside, his visuals are dynamic and effective, with a very clear depiction of camaraderie and menagerie.

The elephant in the room (forgive the pun) is of course, Robert Pattinson. If you’ve read any of my other reviews, you know that I own up to any partiality where it exists. I have neither seen nor read Twilight, and the closest I have come to watching Pattinson at all is Jimmy Fallon’s hilarious “Robert is Bothered” sketches. But you know what? Good job, Pattinson. And that’s a damn fine performance from Ms. Witherspoon as well. Even if she is blonde. And no one had any doubt that Christoph Waltz would be brilliant as circus ringleader and tyrant August Rosenbluth (though not having seen his Oscar-winning turn in Inglorious Basterds, I could not have imagined his suitability for the part).

There’s something else special about this film, something unexpected and beautiful: the chemistry between Pattinson and Witherspoon, remarkable because it is not sexual chemistry, but something older, wiser, and respectful. Their characters share an instinct for self-preservation, and a sympathy, an understanding, a love of animals of which the circus seems devoid. The profound affection between these kindred spirits actually generates the sense that this relationship – not driven by lust – might actually last.

Water for Elephants is a lovely film, and well-cast, recommended for viewing. Because we all like “tricks and illusion” now and again, don’t we?

Hesher

Catching Hesher was easily one of the best decisions I’ve made in a long time. While it may not win any awards, it’s precisely the catharsis I didn’t know I needed.

I wasn’t sure I’d buy Joseph Gordon-Levitt as a hardcore, no-holds-barred tough guy, but not only did I buy it, I’d pay for it again. A good actor knows that the audience will go along with what he believes to be true; it’s clear that Levitt is – on some level – Hesher, though Levitt’s inherent and undeniable likeability helps to offset Hesher’s vulgarity. Still, Hesher is a side of Levitt we’ve never seen – reluctant rock and roll model whose path crosses with unlikely disciple T.J. (Devin Brochu). And really it’s T.J. who’s at the center of this story.

When a character starts out with a broken arm, you know things have not been going well; and for T.J. things just keep getting worse. It seems that T.J.’s nemesis, a grown up version of Chuckie from Rugrats, lives only to bully T.J. and add insult to his injuries. Surely a kid can’t be expected to properly mourn his mother’s death when he’s having his face shoved in a urinal at school. T.J. puts up a good front for his dad and grandmother at home, but no one should have to deal with that kind of stress alone. Not that Hesher is the friend T.J. needs, but his sudden arrival and persistent presence (Levitt’s footsteps take ‘plodding' to a new extreme) is enough to prompt a reaction from T.J.

Everyone deals with grief differently, but most of us recognize the point at which the only thing you can do is keep going. The characters in Hesher have all reached that point. Devin Brochu is exceptional as a young man on the cusp of adolescence, sporting a red sweatshirt like a miniature, contemporary James Dean. Rainn Wilson plays T.J.’s father, Paul Forney. His role suffers some neglect since his shadow of a man is the shell of an interesting character. Natalie Portman is everything I wished she would be in Garden State – homely and comely and real. And Hesher… well, “Hesher is the id run rampant” (Peter Travers for Rolling Stone), and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is magnetic in one of his most entertaining roles to date.

So. You can do nothing, like Paul Forney, or you can do something, like Hesher. I recommend Hesher.