Review Reviews: Telluride Comes to Dartmouth

Each year, six films from the Telluride Film Festival are secured for exhibition at Dartmouth. This tradition began in 1987 and, after the cancellation of the festival in 2020, was held for the thirty-fourth time this year in late September. The films are reviewed in the order in which they were shown at Dartmouth.

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The Lost Daughter

The Lost Daughter is one of those wonderfully visual films in which the dialogue matters very little. It is telling that much of what characters say to each other throughout—when they say anything—is obfuscated by hypnotic music which returns one’s focus to the image. In addition to the film’s beautiful, expressive cinematography, however, certain subtleties of acting and narrative go a long way towards helping it attain broad success.

Olivia Colman portrays a middle-aged professor, Leda, who is vacationing alone in a small village on the Ionian Sea. Much to Leda’s dismay, her desired period of peaceful respite is soon disrupted by the arrival of an extensive Italian American family, whose mafia connections are only alluded to, but whose intrusive, interruptive presence is patent. Leda observes this family from a distance, particularly the relationship of one young woman, Nina, with her husband and young daughter. Ultimately, Leda begins to see in this relationship assured parallels to that which she, herself, experienced two decades previously with her own husband and daughters. Thus can and does emerge, in Colman’s touching portrayal of Leda, a complex portrait of a tortured soul: a woman whose guilt, confusion, and own childlike yearnings ultimately conflate into a spiral of emotional breakdown. It’s a marvelous feat of acting (and scripting) for a filmgoer to behold.

Leda, as a character, is lent still greater depth thanks to Jessie Buckley’s splendid portrayal of a younger version of the character in the flashbacks to some twenty years earlier which ensue. Indeed, the casting of Buckley constitutes a decision that was nothing short of inspired. I would suggest that, in general, the use of flashback sequences in which a different actor assumes a role can only be entirely successful if two criteria are met. Buckley admirably enables the realization of each: (1) The two iterations of the character are, despite the age difference, sufficiently comparable in mien and physiognomy to render them readily identifiable as one and the same; and (2) The use of these flashbacks serves to advance a narrative that is driven by this dually portrayed character—the flashbacks do not merely “exist” to serve an explicatory function. The realization of this second criterion likewise speaks to a strong narrative construction.

While perhaps the final twenty-five minutes or so could have been cut in half, the film generally progresses efficiently, if deliberately. Even so, there exists an incongruity in editing throughout The Lost Daughter that I do not think is entirely intentional, and which I could not help but find occasionally distracting. On the one hand, some of its uniformly character-driven scenes are concise and convey with subtlety particular ideas and impressions. Other scenes, however, are drawn out, in desperate need of truncation, and overstate their thematic elements in often silly and determinedly unsubtle ways.

Nevertheless, the film is mostly successful and features some winning performances. There are also a few marvelous narrative devices (one which I found quite compelling involves Leda’s compulsive interest in a doll) and beautiful cinematography. I conservatively grant to The Lost Daughter 3½ stars.

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The Power of the Dog

The Power of the Dog marks Dame Jane Campion’s return to the director’s chair after a hiatus of more than a decade, and it is clear that she has not lost her master filmmaker’s touch. The film, a Western, is an adaptation of a rather obscure (if distinguished) 1967 book of the same name by Thomas Savage. It is marvelously cinematic, with sweepingly beautiful vistas and intricately adorned, atmospheric interiors. However, The Power of the Dog is first and foremost a remarkable character study, not just of one character, but of four: the highly educated but outwardly hostile Phil Burbank (Benedict Cumberbatch); his simpler, kinder brother, George (Jesse Plemons); George’s wife, the apprehensive Rose (Kirsten Dunst); and Rose’s son, Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee), by her deceased first husband. I am not convinced that one particularly “likes” any of these characters at any point in the film, for all have their foibles and failings. Rather, I suggest that it is a dark fascination on the part of the viewer which keeps one transfixed. Likewise, there is certainly something fascinating about the way in which the viewer’s sympathy gradually transfers from one character to another, corresponding with the narrative’s shifts in focus—and the shifts in Phil’s taunting and ridicule.

Indeed, the film establishes Phil from the start as something of an antagonist, assailing perceived weakness or diminished masculinity (he can be read as homophobic). Still, the manifestation of his antagonism changes over the course of what I would characterize as the “thirds” into which the film’s narrative is divided. In the first third, Phil perpetually mocks and ridicules George, his brother and partner in the ranching business. The viewer’s sympathy therefore lies with George, whose lifelong loneliness and quiet, painful acceptance of Phil’s derision are made manifest. However, when George joyfully (and unexpectedly) marries Rose, a widow, she assumes the narrative’s focus for what is now the film’s middle third. So too does she become the new subject of Phil’s scorn, as well as that of the viewer’s sympathy. Rose desperately tries to live up to the standards which she believes are expected of her in the Burbank household, but she cannot escape Phil’s emotional torment. The film’s final third begins when Rose’s effeminate son, Peter, arrives from medical school. Phil’s disparagement now appears to shift towards Peter, relocating the viewer’s sympathy to the young man. The narrative likewise shifts, focusing on Peter and, to some extent, Phil. And this is where the film becomes truly interesting.

The viewer realizes in the film’s final third that Phil is a deeply nuanced and conflicted character. Likewise, one comes to understand that what might previously have seemed a somewhat fragmented performance by Cumberbatch is in fact one which he has essayed quite brilliantly. Simply put, despite the epic visuals which abound, the film is about the entangled relationships of just four people, and Phil is at the center of this ensemble.

The Power of the Dog is an outstanding film. Its four lead players contribute exceptional performances, and, uniquely, its epic feel seems to complement—rather than work against—its small-scale narrative. I appraise it at 4½ stars.

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A Hero

Going into A Hero, I had some concern, having read a two-sentence synopsis, that it would simply be far too localized—depicting Iranian life, possessing exclusively Iranian messages and themes, being accessible perhaps solely to Iranian audiences. How mistaken that synopsis led me to be. In the first place, as a piece of cinema, A Hero is as adeptly made as any quality film that I have seen from another country. In the second place, the film is in fact very well plotted, and its central premise is, to my mind, easily transferable to any small community around the world…

Rahim, a man on a two-day pass from debtor’s prison, is presented with the opportunity to pay off part of his debt and potentially secure a near-immediate release. Excited though he may be at first, Rahim begins to question the morality of how he intends to accomplish this feat: using a large amount of money that has been found in a bag by his bride-to-be. He ultimately decides that he can’t go through with the undertaking and elects to seek out the person to whom the money rightfully belongs. He posts signs with the prison’s telephone number, urging people to call him if they lost a bag in the general area where his fiancée found it, and he gives the bag of money to his in-laws for safekeeping upon his return to prison.

Once there, Rahim receives a call, and the woman on the line provides enough details to convince him of her rightful possession of the money. He instructs his family to return it to her, an act which prompts prison administrators, admiring his selflessness, to contact the news media. Soon, television profiles are run which chronicle Rahim’s noble return of the money, and all seems well: a local charity gives him an award, his debtholder accedes to his release from prison, and the local government promises him immediate employment. His future would appear to be secure, even bright and happy. However, there are soon some hitches which emerge—one from a trivial, innocuous lie that Rahim told; the other from a small misstep while returning the money—that plunge him into a world of accusation and doubt.

From here on, A Hero merely traces the natural progression of events to their ultimate inevitabilities, a strategy which ensures its relevance to a global audience. To be sure, there are culturally specific references made in the film regarding dishonor and denouncement, but these are incidental to the plot. Moreover, the situation in which Rahim finds himself is truly universal—being inaccurately accused of fabrication for his own benefit. You’ve doubtless seen this premise in many different forms and in any number of films, but this one is particularly reflective. Ultimately, A Hero has a lot to say about a good many topics; among them, the technology age, media-created celebrity, family dialectics, and personal morality. It is a solid and sometimes profound film, but it does move somewhat slowly, and its characters make repeatedly unwise decisions. I bestow 3½ stars and vow that never again shall I make any presumption from a mere two sentences.

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Cow

Critics who take themselves too seriously (or otherwise have perhaps gone to Cannes a few times too many) often seem to find profundity in films that are, well, poor. I am convinced that the broadly positive critical appraisal of Cow can be neatly summarized along these lines. In writing glowing reviews of this farm flick, critics are misguidedly—and pretentiously—reviewing what they feel is the “bravura” concept behind it, rather than the film itself. And the concept is, I suppose, at least somewhat novel: a humanitarian depiction of a farm animal’s daily life at the commercial level. However, I can see through these critics’ misplaced, prattling nonsense and can assure you that, as a film, Cow fails miserably on every level.

In the first place, it is beyond heavy handed (or heavy “hoofed,” if you will). It often lingers on the eyes of the central “cow-acter” for minutes at a time (almost always in a static, unbroken shot), presumably to elicit empathy from the audience and induce the assignment to this particular cow of certain emotive, human qualities. It does not succeed.

Moreover, the camerawork is by and large uninventive and uninteresting. At some points, one isn’t exactly sure what is being shown on the screen—bits and pieces of cow can be seen, but what is the viewer supposed to be looking at? The assumption must be made that the cinematographer wasn’t sure either. She certainly didn’t have this problem in filming the compulsory procreation scene.  

As for the film’s pacing, there isn’t any. Of course, one understands from the beginning that this sort of film is not supposed to be engaging; it is, after all, an “intelligent social document.” Still, the total absence of discernible humans (until the very end, one only hears disembodied voices) and the post-production insertion of distorted, echoey rock songs—poorly masquerading as diegetic sound (as if the titular creature has a mixtape of choice)—together render Cow a disorienting snooze-fest of the lowest order.

Those members of the small audience who managed to stay in the theater, and awake, for the entire ordeal (I was barely among them) were few and far between. Ten people walked out early on, once they had seen about as many minutes. Ten more elected to leave in the next ten minutes, abandoning its bastion of bovine for greener pastures. After this second wave of departure, no others walked out. Most everyone else was either asleep or had to write a piece on Telluride for The Dartmouth Review. In the end, as if the film wasn’t poor enough, the central cow is, upsettingly, shot and killed. The reasons as to why this happens (or, for that matter, why this is depicted) are terribly unclear. And it represents a rotten ending to a rotten film. I am being generous in giving Cow half a moo out of five.

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The Hand of God

The Hand of God is predominantly autobiographical in nature, coming from the Italian filmmaker Paolo Sorrentino, who wrote, produced, and directed the film. It is set in the time and place of Sorrentino’s youth, 1980s Naples, and explores the various events and subjects that defined his teenage years. The film is often successful, being variously funny, touching, and unabashedly sentimental (in the best of senses). But it is also widely variant in tone and somewhat perplexing in the messaging that it seeks to convey.

In constructing the screenplay, Sorrentino wisely detached his own identity from the narrative, instead transplanting the aura of his teenage self into a fictional character named Fabietto Schisa. Fabietto, the youngest of three children born to attentive, humorous parents, finds himself unsure of the course he wishes to take in life (self-assertion is not his strong suit). To some extent, he merely saunters through a peaceable existence, watching the world go by, obsessing over soccer, and enjoying inside jokes during meetings of the Schisas’ large extended family, in which dysfunction can readily be found. Among other matters, Mrs. Schisa’s sister is subject to mental illness and has a violent husband. There is also an actively corrupt, government-employed brother-in-law.

The viewer is taken through a series of amusing intra-family affairs and hears much excited discussion, particularly from Fabietto, of Argentinian soccer star Diego Maradona, who just might be joining “Napoli,” Naples’ football club. It’s all entertaining and rather benign for at least the first half of the film, until a tragedy suddenly occurs. What has been, until now, a permeative sense of humor and irony is abruptly brought to an end by an enveloping atmosphere of sadness and alienation, from which Fabietto must seek to emerge by the film’s end. This being a more-or-less autobiographical film, it comes as no surprise that Fabietto decides to become a filmmaker. It is intriguing to watch how he reaches this decision.

The Hand of God features some marvelous set pieces, and there are moments when the film truly feels like a masterwork. This impression is only heightened by the fact that, from a technical perspective, the film excels. There are moments of great cinematic majesty—especially during scenes set on the Italian coast—which demonstrate a sumptuous cinematographic skill that harkens back to a grander era of filmmaking. It is too bad that this sporadically outstanding film possesses an episodic nature which cannot come together without some tonal and narrative flaws and points of confusion. The Hand of God tightly grasps its 3 stars.

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The Real Charlie Chaplin

Charlie Chaplin is one of the defining figures in the entire history of film. Not only were his films groundbreaking in their myriad thematic explorations, but the very image of his Little Tramp character remains ubiquitous—bowler hat, toothbrush mustache, shaky cane, and all. Even if one has never seen City Lights, The Gold Rush, or The Great Dictator, the image of the Little Tramp is almost universally recognizable.

Given the titular assertion that this documentary will seek to reveal the “real” Charlie Chaplin, one cannot help but wonder what this task will entail. Presumably, the filmmakers will undertake a revelation of the man behind the image of the Little Tramp, and, to some extent, this is precisely what they do. However, it emerges from the beginning that a singular “real” Charlie Chaplin cannot be biographically isolated. There were, in the words of Max Eastman, simply “too many” iterations of Chaplin the man for there to ever be a concrete profile. Hence, the documentary does not seek to function as a comprehensive biography. Rather, it seeks to highlight Chaplin’s impact on the world during his lifetime and how we should conceive of him today.

In so doing, the film doesn’t exactly cater either to film buffs or to the uninitiated. It instead pursues something of a middle ground, pleasing both groups of filmgoers by trying something unique. The Real Charlie Chaplin features a stylized atmosphere that renders it pleasing to the eye and accentuates the tonal nature of those biographical details which are provided, whether they be somber or exciting. 

As a documentary, the film is highly successful in taking the viewer on a journey through the major arcs of Chaplin’s life. It also features to great effect a host of archival audio interviews. It uses the voices of Chaplin and others but incorporates newly filmed reenactments of the interviews, lending to much of the film a sense of freshness and spatial freedom that is sorely missed in other documentaries.

I was interested in seeing how the film would address the two biggest points of controversy in Chaplin’s life: his recurrent marriages to much-younger (teenage) women, and his ostensible Communist ties and ultimate exile abroad. The film does well on both counts, sympathetically portraying Chaplin’s wives and fairly presenting his politics.

Although there are some minor points of history that I wish were included—there is no mention, for instance, of Chaplin’s only competitive Oscar win, some twenty years after the initial release of the film for which he was so honored—The Real Charlie Chaplin by and large succeeds quite brilliantly. It conveys his significance to the industry and honors him for the right reasons today. I am pleased to award 4 stars.

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These film reviews were first published in The Review’s print issue of October 6, 2021.