Art is hard, the Oscars are easy
In this installment: a smattering of films about the artist at work.
Looking for a something to watch? Start here.
Paterson
Jim Jarmusch
I stayed at a hotel in Tbilisi once with its own pre-programmed movie channel that cycled through an admirable list of auteurs (David Lynch, Wes Anderson, Bernardo Bertolucci). I never figured out the exact schedule, but whenever Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson queued, I knew I could count on somnolence, my boyfriend dozing off like clockwork. Something about the film’s determined saunter makes it an ideal movie-lullaby — but don’t take its nap-inducing quality for boredom.
In Jarmusch’s movie, a man named Paterson living in Paterson, NJ confronts life at a determined speed, without the ceremony and aspirational zen of today’s studied wellness and meditation seekers. Every day he does the same thing — drive the bus, write a few poem, walk his dog, get a beer. The film advocates for the rhythms of the unadorned life, while asking us if what we do matters when removed from public recognition.
Pairing: Paterson/Paterson is humble and slightly out of fashion like writing by hand or a slice of pie — with plums of course.
Can You Ever Forgive Me?
Marielle Heller
Based on the true story of Lee Israel, a writer and biographer who never quite made it. Melissa McCarthy plays against type (jolly, affable) and tries out the Catherine Keener beat — a woman who is highly disagreeable as a person, yet irresistible as a character — but as a frumpy disgruntled lesbian instead of Keener’s usual monied Manhattanite. Lee is in league with other writers who prize a well-placed barb over friendship, like Nora Ephron at whom she sneers, and Dorothy Parker who she admires and pretends to be on paper by forging fake letters to sell to autograph dealers and the like. The literary forgery is more than the physical construction of ochred stationery paraphernalia — it requires a certain prowess to write in someone else’s voice, and it supplies Lee, struggling to find work, a sense of pride, a reason for living.
Prioritizing wit over rapport often ends poorly and it does so, too, for Lee who strikes up a friendship — the centerpiece of the movie — with a jaunty Englishman (Richard E. Grant: Withnail, a Star Wars general, and new owner of a two-foot statue of Barbara Streisand’s face), who has mischief and charm in spades to make up for her lack thereof.
Pairing: A pilfered late-night sandwich because Lee does not give a fuck.
Inside LLewyn Davis
Ethan and Joel Coen
Another man hapless object catching the restless ire of Coen brothers imagined torments and Old Testament punishment. This time a downtrodden folksinger in the 1960s assailed by random misfortunes, lack of fame, and the bitter NYC winter — the film’s palette desaturated to greyscale, the color of the hazy puff of warm breath, the sky before it snows. In other words, a plaintive dusk. But here, some comfort in the form of Oscar Isaac as the titular Llewyn (a fake folk singer based on Bob Dylan’s real life sometimes mentor). There’s little profundity in this film even on second viewing (though J. Hoberman AKA THE WORLD’S BEST FILM CRITIC has an excellent and hot take on it), but great and lasting revelation in listening to Isaac exercise his angelic and Juilliard-trained vocal chords.
Pairing: Something that cold and delicious that leaves you unfulfilled, like sorbet.
At Eternity’s Gate
Julian Schnabel
Making a movie about the world’s most famous painter is so gargantuan undertaking that it can only generate the lowest of expectations.
But behold, this most effecting portrait of Van Gogh, respectfully truncated into snippets of his life: the bitter cold in Arles; a stimulating friendship with Gaugin (Oscar Isaac again); doleful times with sanitarium priest (Mads Mikkelson, on brand); the agony and ecstasy of painting and creating known full-well by any artist, but more deeply and specifically perhaps by Vincent.
A blend of arch, nearly Shakespearian line readings and numerous closeups invoke and reimagine his agitated state of mind and invite viewers into the realm of a misunderstood genius.
Pairing: Schnabel (the film’s director, and a painter himself) seems like an asshole. Who else would burden himself with such a grand endeavor? Yet he manages to exercise restraint and ultimately succeeds. Similarly, Frenchette, a type of upscale bistro ubiquitous in Manhattan, opened a little over a year ago in Tribeca and the results are mostly splendid. A bar stocked with natty wines enlivens what could’ve been a stodgy standby.
My Name is Dolemite
Craig Brewer
Buried under the glut of Netflix originals, an enticing bright spot: an Eddie Murphy comeback vehicle, a resounding reminder of underutilized talent. In this biopic (another one, I know) he fittingly plays a struggling comedian who becomes a successful comedian and then a movie star. Rudy Ray Moore was the belle of a very specific ball in the 1970s (think the The Deuce but in L.A. and less white people) who performed rhymed jokes underscored by jazzy beats, instead of bookended by a rim shot. (Ba dm tss, no more). If that sounds like rap music that’s because it was; Moore, who counts Snoop Dogg a fan, essentially made the blueprint.
Then wanting to expand beyond comedy (album titles include “Eat Out More Often” and “The Cockpit”) sought to make his silver screen debut. The second half of the film set to the tune of let’s make a movie camaraderie as non-professionals cobble together a low-budget picture about a night-club owner/pimp and his cabal of prostitutes. Through most of the film I, unschooled and ignorant, waited for the other shoe to drop, for the fans to boo, for the movie never to get made. Shame on me. Moore gets the last laugh — Dolemite became a cult hit, a quintessential blaxploitation flick.
Pairing: Dolemite Is My Name is less a cinematic revelation, than an amiable, well-worn formula that sheds light on a piece of cinematic and cultural history you may not have known. Lauded chef JJ Johnson pan-African restaurant Henry at the Life Hotel was part history lesson and love letter to spice focusing on the flavors of the diaspora and also made an effort to diversity restaurant staff. It’s sadly closed, but he’s opened a more casual yet no less comforting venture all about rice, which he calls “a great connector.”
SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION
Money lessons from this year’s Oscar nominees.
A NOTE ON THE OSCARS
Gone are the days when I’d track and predict the Oscars the way some people bet on sports. This year’s selections are as white and disgusting as the Republican Party (with the exception of, like, one film — which perfectly captures the zeitgeist.). Despite that, the awards remain a significant barometer of the current voting body of the Academy which is to say the state of the film industry, and thus cinema today at large. Wesley Morris patiently explains this better than I can.
Two gems though:
The first film out the gate from the Obamas’ production company: American Factory demonstrates an inverse relationship between how boring the title sounds and how enthralling every minute is. This documentary is about a Chinese glass company that now occupies and works out of a former GM plant in Ohio. It’s pleasures — the fuckedness of labor unions, capitalism, the stereotyping of Americans, and the Chinese — are perverse and revealing. (Streaming on Netflix)
Did you know that documentaries don’t have to have interviews? Honeyland is not a climate change awareness movie about bees — though it does elegantly touch on such consequences of limited resources etc. while it follows the day-to-day of a woman living in remote Macedonia. It’s a piece of cinematic nonfiction so good I can’t believe it’s real.
It has been nominated for both Best Documentary and Best Foreign language film — the first film to ever cross the line and do so. At least the Academy got something right. (Streaming on Hulu)
Willem Defoe and Vincent.