Daily Archives: Thursday, January 28, 2016

  • Room

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Lenny Abrahamson (2015)

    Lenny Abrahamson’s Room comprises two distinct parts.  The first is much stronger than the second.  The opening half of the film takes place entirely within the room in which a young woman called Joy Newsome (Brie Larson) has been kept prisoner since she was abducted, as a seventeen-year-old, seven years ago.  Her abductor-jailer (Sean Bridgers) regularly visits the room, to deliver food supplies and to rape Joy.  She shares the space with her infant son Jack (Jacob Tremblay), who was fathered by the man keeping them prisoner and whom they call Old Nick.  The room is, in other words, the only environment that Jack has ever known.  It contains a bed, bath, toilet, basic cooking facilities, a few bits of furniture, a television and a skylight window too high to see through.  First thing each day, Jack bids good morning to the elements of his world in turn – plant, chair, toilet, lamp, etc.  Joy has told him there is no reality beyond ‘Room’ and that everything he sees on the television is a made-up world.  Soon after Jack’s fifth birthday, with which the film begins, Joy decides to start educating him in the truth of their existence.  This puzzles and discomforts her son but ‘Ma’ knows there’s no turning back.  She plans to trick Old Nick so that Jack can escape into the outside world and, once he’s there, tell whoever he first sees that Joy Newsome is his mother.  The first attempt fails, the next succeeds.  Old Nick is arrested and Joy freed soon after Jack has escaped and been picked up by a police car.  Mother and son spend a night in hospital then go to live in Joy’s mother’s home.  The second half of Room is now well underway.  What follows is a description of the struggles of Jack and Joy to adjust to life outside Room.

    The screenplay is adapted by Emma Donoghue from her lauded 2010 novel, which is narrated throughout by Jack.   Except for two or three short pieces of voiceover, his first-person narration has been jettisoned in the film – understandably so. Telling the story from the boy’s perspective obviously couldn’t be fully achieved unless Lenny Abrahamson’s camera restricted what the viewer saw to what Jack sees.   Abrahamson does adopt the boy’s viewpoint at important moments – most notably, Jack’s first experience of the world beyond Room – but the camera is, for the most part, objective.  This isn’t a problem for as long as it stays within Room.  The audience is forced to adapt to this unusual screen environment.  We also get a sustained sense of how both Jack and Joy view their surroundings.  It is a problem, though, once they’re out of captivity.  The tight focus of the first part of the story is lost in more ways than one:  the reduced visual intensity is accompanied by slacker writing and direction.

    The planning and preparations for Jack’s escape are gripping even though you feel that Old Nick is rather easily taken in.  (First, Joy pretends Jack is ill and needs to be taken to a hospital.  When Old Nick refuses, she then pretends the boy has died:  she rolls Jack up in a piece of carpet and teaches him to lie still as a corpse until it’s time for him to run.  Old Nick falls for this.  He removes the rolled-up carpet from Room and takes it off in his pick-up truck.)  We’re so preoccupied with what will happen to Jack that we may not even notice that we don’t see Joy’s reaction to being separated from him – even though this must be overwhelming to her, even though the possibility of salvation for her child also entails increased risk, to his safety and her own.  Jack’s disorientation – when he sees the sky, when he clambers out of his ‘coffin’ in the back of the truck, in the subsequent argy-bargy between Old Nick and a man walking his dog – is powerful.  And the immediate aftermath of the boy’s delivery into the outside world is a relief:  the red truck is identified on Old Nick’s premises, he’s apprehended by the police and Joy is rescued the same evening that Jack gets out.  We’re thus spared not only her captor’s revenge on Joy but also a prolonged, torturous search for her whereabouts.

    Doubts as to where Room is heading set in soon afterwards, though.  When Jack wakes up the following morning in hospital, his and Joy’s bed is in a room on a high floor.  The blinds on the windows have already been drawn up.  Jack gets out of bed, wanders tentatively over to the windows and stares out at the world miles below.  You fear for his safety; fortunately, he’s startled by what he sees and jumps back into the bed.  Although the scene is instantly effective, you’re just as immediately struck by the unlikelihood of two people in these extraordinary circumstances – especially the child – being left by hospital staff to wake unsupervised.  This is the first example of how the narrative ignores the medical and psychological care that Joy and Jack must surely be given after they’ve left Room.  Although the lack of screen time devoted to counselling sessions isn’t a great loss per se, this seems a real omission once Joy’s post-traumatic stress problems kick in.  She appears to have literally no one to turn to.  The fact that it’s Joy’s rather than Jack’s predicament that’s unconvincing connects to two larger, interconnected weaknesses in the second half of Room.  First, the film now seems in two minds as to how to divide its attention between Jack and Joy and, as a result, doesn’t explore either of their struggles in any depth.  Second, Lenny Abrahamson tries to compensate with illustrations of the ‘issues’ that arise from a situation of this kind.  These sequences are shallow and obvious.  A familiar, baying press-pack ambushes the family home to make the point that, very soon after being released from one behind-locked-doors existence, Joy is grateful to take refuge in another.  Her parents split up while Joy was in captivity; the mother, Nancy (Joan Allen), now lives with a new partner, Leo (Tom McCamus), but Joy’s father, Robert (William H Macy), joins the household for a meal – so that he can fail to make eye contact with Jack and the film-makers can feel they’ve dealt with the matter of how tough it is for Joy’s parents to face up to how their first grandchild came into the world.  Joy instantly castigates her father but this major difficulty, once it’s been raised, is checked off the list and forgotten about.  There’s no follow-through to the scene, or any hint of tension in the next one featuring Joy and Robert together.

    Abrahamson and Emma Donoghue may have felt that concentrating on Jack would have asked too much of the child actor playing him – even one as good as Jacob Tremblay turns out to be – but the upshot is that they dilute the story they’re telling.  Jack’s apprehension and subsequent feelings of regret about leaving Room hint at the strongest theme in the material – the idea that a child’s first world, with his mother, is a secure environment, and that Jack’s life in Room is horrifying to Joy (and to the viewer) but not to him.  It’s normal life.  What he’s never had he’s never missed.  Besides, he does have what every child – every boy child, especially – is thought to want:  the virtually undivided attention of his mother.  There’s no avoiding the long Freudian shadows cast by the set-up in Room.  Jack and his Ma take baths together and share a bed, except during Old Nick’s visits:  Jack sleeps in a wardrobe while his mother is being raped by the man who fathered him.  This doesn’t mean Jack need be shown to have a full-blown Oedipus complex to contend with once they’ve left Room and he’s sharing Ma with other people in a different way.  But the film gives us little sense of the effects on the boy of the loss of his extraordinary former partnership with his mother, of whether Jack experiences this as separation even before Joy has attempted suicide and is hospitalised for some time afterwards.  It’s only a matter of time before Jack bonds with his grandmother, Leo and Leo’s dog.  In comparison, Joy fails to cope, and we see her failing to cope.  The banal implication is that kids as young as Jack are naturally resilient and able to adapt in a way that grown-ups struggle to do.

    Imprisoned between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four, Joy has lost a large part of her youth yet can’t regret the experience of giving birth to Jack and raising him.  As soon as she’s free again, she has to cope with the shock of her parents’ marriage being over.  The film’s dramatisation of Joy’s confused and upsetting state of mind is hardly imaginative.  When she gives an interview to a TV talk show, the phony-sympathetic interviewer’s questions expose Joy’s inability to take on the implications of who Jack’s father is, and so on.  (The interviewer is overplayed by Wendy Crewson:  I thought I recognised the name and see from the note on Away from Her that I didn’t like her contribution to that film, for similar reasons.)  A big row between Joy and her mother is too deliberately built towards and Joy’s feelings of resentment are then too clearly articulated:  the scene would have more impact if the argument seemed to happen accidentally – and if Joy’s anger was partly due to her not being able to explain her anger.  It’s a pity that Lenny Abrahamson and Emma Donoghue didn’t go for the artistically (and, I realise, commercially) more daring option of sticking with Jack as the central consciousness ­– and have Joy remain, as she is in the novel, Ma.  This would have allowed Room to present her post-captivity behaviour as relatively opaque – or, at least, as circumscribed by Jack’s understanding of what’s going on.  With Joy’s travails pushed into the foreground in the way they are, the dimensions of the film threaten to shrink to those of a glorified soap opera.

    Brie Larson is a capable actress with a lovely open face.  She gives a strong showing as Joy but the prizes she’s getting are another example of the well-known awards season phenomenon of an actor’s winning thanks to the role they’re playing more than for the performance they’re giving in it.  Larson is required to be emotionally in extremis virtually throughout and the effect is, to be honest, rather monotonous.  As Jack, Jacob Tremblay, who’d just turned eight when the film was shot, is more nuanced.  His good timing makes his one-liners sometimes funny, and water in the desert.  Tremblay isn’t – unlike the film, the direction, the lead actress and the screenplay – up for an Oscar for Room.  He was tipped by some for a Best Supporting Actor nomination that didn’t materialise.    The supporting category is perhaps more competitive this year than the Best Actor field but Jack is, in any case, a lead role – even with the adjustments that have been made to the novel.  Jacob Tremblay wasn’t at any stage mentioned as a serious possibility for a lead actor nomination.  I don’t mean to damn him with faint praise when I say Tremblay’s acting in Room is much better than Leonardo DiCaprio’s in The Revenant but the comparison is obviously pertinent.  All this makes you wonder why the Academy no longer hands out special Oscars for outstanding juvenile performances outside the conventional acting categories.

    Although Room is mostly disappointing from halfway, Lenny Abrahamson deserves credit for the earlier scenes and for his skilful direction of Jacob Tremblay in particular.  Apart from the two main characters, the parts are pretty thin.  William H Macy is a bit too intense in his brief appearance as Joy’s father but Joan Allen does well to suggest mixed feelings in the mother that the script doesn’t supply.  Sean Bridgers is creditably low-key in the thankless role of Old Nick.  There are lots of good things in this film.  Although Stephen Rennicks’s music sometimes gets in the way, it comes across as genuinely sensitive.  During his first five years, Jack has grown very long hair, which he’s not prepared to have cut until after Joy’s suicide attempt and hospitalisation.  He calls his hair ‘my strong’.  It sounds (and is) a bit corny that he agrees to be shorn once he-has-to-be-strong-for-Ma but the lock of his hair that he gives her chimes touchingly with Ma’s bad tooth that fell out while they were still in Room and which she gave to Jack as ‘something of me’.  I liked the repeated and eventually resonant canine influences in the story:  we’re told that Old Nick shot a line about a dog to trick Joy, when he first abducted her; Jack has an imaginary dog in Room; a dog-walker’s real one sends Old Nick scarpering when Jack is trying to escape his clutches; Jack makes friends with Leo’s dog.  In the film’s final scene, at Jack’s request, he and Joy, who by now has returned home, briefly revisit Old Nick’s garden and the shed that contains Room.  There’s no arguing that this finale is emotionally effective, even if you wonder how likely it would be for the police to agree to the pair’s visiting what is still a crime scene.  Jack finds that his first world has grown smaller (as Dylan Thomas did, when he revisited Fern Hill as an adult).  The boy formally says farewell to the objects he used to greet each morning.  He concludes with ‘Goodbye, Room’ and turns to go.  One of Brie Larson’s best moments comes as Joy repeats the two words, in a tiny whisper and with a look in her eyes that’s ineffable.

    20 January 2016

  • Deep End

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Jerzy Skolimowski (1970)

    Fifteen-year-old Mike leaves school with no qualifications and gets a job as a baths attendant – this in the days when the customers of public baths included not only swimmers but people who needed to get clean (and likely didn’t have a bath at home).  Mike looks after the gents; his counterpart on the distaff side is Susan, probably in her early twenties.  Occasionally she asks Mike to look after her ladies when she has to pop out.  This turns out to mean pop over to Mike’s area, where she has quick sex with his customers, particularly a fortyish swimming instructor who brings classes of pubescent girls for lessons at the pool.  Outside working hours, Susan also has a boyfriend, who’s not short of cash.  This is all increasingly difficult for virginal Mike, whose crush on Susan turns into something more and more serious.  Her London accent is further downmarket than his but she’s well groomed:  in her white baths attendant’s smock, Susan has elegance and an almost clinical air of competence.  She’s very pretty and, in this glum environment, radiant.  If the idea of a jewel thrown into relief by a dull metal setting crossed your mind, it would certainly return in the closing stages of Deep End, which Jerzy Skolimowski directed from the exceptionally original and well-constructed screenplay that he wrote with Jerzy Gruza and Boleslaw Sulik.  The picture came out perhaps less than a year before I got into regular filmgoing, and I’d never seen it before.  Made with British and German money, it turns out that Deep End had virtually disappeared until recently, when restoration work was done in Bavaria.  The BFI programme note used David Thomson’s piece about the film in a recent Sight and Sound.  Thomson’s a fan and hadn’t known that the world had been close to losing Deep End.  He writes about it with both relief and excitement.  I understand why.

    Although the images dominate to an extent that Skolimowski’s film might seem heartlessly arty, I think this is only because those images are so very strong – a beguiling combination of brightly-coloured beauty (eventually horror) and grunge.  For example, in a sequence about half an hour from the end, Skolimowski presents snow almost traditionally at first – gently falling flakes, a magically pristine carpet.  Susan is remonstrating with Mike, whose attempts to make him matter to her have turned desperate by now.  She hits him, knocking the diamond out of her engagement ring into the snow, which quickly takes on a different colour and substance.   As the pair hunt frantically for the stone, they keep picking up handfuls of the white stuff – dirtied by mud and, though it slips through their fingers, obdurate too.  Earlier on, when the latrine green walls of the baths are repainted red, the colour is immediately striking (and strikes you as potentially symbolic).  At the end of the film, Susan’s blood mixes with the water in the swimming pool as it’s refilled.  The same swinging ceiling lamp that has caused her death slams into a tin of paint still at the poolside and the red of that bleeds into the water.   This sounds crudely obvious:  that it doesn’t come across that way is because of what happens between the first and last appearances of the red paint pots.  No sooner has the paint been applied to the walls of the baths than it’s looking as old as the desiccated green – like rust, or dried blood.  This transforms the vividness of the paint in the final sequence.   The bright-dull duality of the visuals is mirrored on a psychic level too, as Mike swings between listlessness and intensity moving into obsession.

    The story takes turns that are improbable but, in the context of the world Skolimowski creates, eccentrically believable.   Mike has an idea of how to retrieve the diamond:  he and Susan pack all the snow from within the circumscribed area where the stone must have fallen into plastic bags.  They get these back to the swimming pool then boil a kettle and filter the melted snow.  It makes psychological sense:  you accept that both Mike and Susan would do anything to find the diamond.  What they’re doing looks crazy but that craziness, and the physical effort involved, give their luggage of  snow a real emotional weight, almost a Sisyphean quality (especially from the point of view of Mike, who, in order to get back into Susan’s good books, is helping her find the physical evidence of her attachment to another man).  In an earlier episode, Mike is hanging round the club where Susan and her boyfriend Chris have gone to celebrate their engagement.  Outside a neighbouring strip club there’s a lifesize model of a near-naked girl – with Susan’s face.  Mike steals it.  He sees Susan everywhere, he imagines what her body’s like and hates thinking about other men enjoying it, while he can’t possess the real girl.  Mike may therefore be imagining things – but Susan, for the audience too, is elusive enough for us not to be sure.

    The baths are a world of their own, bleak but pregnant with sexual possibility.  Although Skolimowski used baths in Leytonstone to shoot the exteriors, most of the filming of Deep End was done in Munich and most of the cast were Germans, whose voices must have been dubbed by British actors.  Not for the first time, the effect of dubbing is a sense of artificiality.   Whether or not this was intentional, it contrasts intriguingly with the drab impersonality of the baths and gives the proceedings an incongruously momentous edge that’s both amusing and unnerving – as, for example, when the manager of the baths inveighs against slovenliness.  The confusion of British and German elements is intriguing too.  The manager is played by an actor called Karl Ludwig Lindt but the combination of his looks and the English voice imposed on him has a strongly Dickensian flavour.   Erica Beer as the baths cashier has a heavy-lidded, ponderous voluptuousness that’s characteristically Teutonic yet she’s playing a sexually frustrated Londoner.   In this company, you come to see Diana Dors, a bathhouse regular who tries to seduce and succeeds in terrifying Mike, as a comedy Valkyrie, although that description doesn’t do Diana Dors justice:  there’s force and threat, as well as humour, in her seduction monologue.  Its footballing metaphors anticipate a good later scene when Mike, on the run with the cardboard cutout of the nude Susan, takes refuge in the room of a prostitute (Louise Martini).  There’s also an amusing error in the set dressing at one stage – a weihnachtspyramid, on top of a filing cabinet, gives away the German location where filming took place.  (I don’t believe you could get those in East London as early as 1970.)

    The rather exaggerated look and sound of the older characters contrasts very effectively with the inchoate Mike.  John Moulder Brown’s voice is a little wooden but as a camera subject he’s emotionally fluid and he connects really well with everyone, especially Jane Asher as Susan.  Mike’s outbursts of petulance, although only occasional, verge more and more nearly on violence.  What he finally does, although shocking and uncharacteristic, is what he’s been heading towards.  Mike dreams of making love to Susan in the swimming pool.  First, this is simply a fantasy.  Then he does it with the model stolen from the strip club.  Eventually, it’s Susan’s dead body.  The only real live sex between them is on the bottom of the pool while it’s drained of water and Mike fails to perform.  Described in this way, the film sounds tediously schematic but watching it is very different.  And watching Jane Asher, in her ankle-length yellow PVC mac and with her beautiful, distinctive colouring, you understand why this is the girl of Mike’s dreams.  Asher’s expressive, incisive line readings ground her in reality too.  The fine-featured, stylish, mercenary Susan is a lady and a tramp – somewhere between Mike and the older adults in terms of development.  Susan’s learned to use her looks to get what she wants; in time, she’d settle into the limitedness of the other employees at the baths.  But in a scene like the one in which  Chris takes her to a sex film, Mike comes in and sits in the row behind them and she lets him fondle her, the fiancé unaware of what’s going on, you see that Susan hasn’t yet petrified into predictability.  Her head on that cardboard nude is very right:  she’s a sex object from the neck downwards but not an unthinking one.

    The fiancé is sallow, long-faced Christopher Sandford – excellent as a young man with the financial resources but not the physical equipment to be suave.  (You notice it particularly when he’s wearing a pale pink polo neck sweater as he arrives at the night club with Susan.)  The heavy-set Karl Michael Vogler, as the lecherous instructor-paramour, has a complementary inadequacy.  The only character who doesn’t really work is Mike’s ex-girlfriend Kathy (Anita Lochner) because she detracts from our idea of him as naïve and it’s hard to imagine what their relationship amounted to.  The sequences in and around the seedy clubs are terrifically put together.  The lighting (Charly Steinberger) and editing (Barrie Vince) impart a sense of danger but with real comedy in some of the exchanges in the street.   Trying to make himself inconspicuous as he hangs around waiting for Susan and Chris to leave the club, Mike buys a hot dog, then another, then another.  A group of evangelical Christians hand him some literature.  Two scouse girls ask, ‘Where d’you get that?’ and there’s a bit of crosstalk concerning religious pamphlets and fast food.   (The hot dog seller is Burt Kwouk and one of the girls is Cheryl Hall – the other seems to be uncredited.)   The effective music by Cat Stevens is more akin to his good early singles like ‘Matthew and Son’ than to his softer-edged later work.

    6 May 2011

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