Knives Out

Director Rian Johnson

Director Rian Johnson (right) with actors Chris Evans and Ana de Armas on the set

KNIVES OUT            B-                   

USA  (130 mi)  2019  d: Rian Johnson                       Official site

When people get desperate, the knives come out.

―tagline for the film

A terrific story does not necessarily translate to a terrific film, as this is easily one of the uglier digitalized film looks in over a decade, resembling some of the earliest efforts with the technology, overly dark, featuring plenty of troublesome empty shadows, while the facial crevices in the multitude of close-ups are just horrific, the likes of which we haven’t seen since the dreary, colorless palette of Michael Mann’s PUBLIC ENEMIES (2009).  From the maker of BRICK (2005), still his most original feature, THE BROTHERS BLOOM (2008), and Looper (2012), this is a satiric, modern era update of the classical Agatha Christie thriller where a ghastly murder takes place in a Gothic mansion, yet no one is allowed to leave the premises until police can interrogate all the suspects, where a clever detective has a way of unleashing all the hidden family secrets, often pitting one suspect against another, where money is always a motive as insurmountable clues mount up, yet audiences relish the idea of playing along, making a collective game out of solving the crime.  This is old-fashioned homage entertainment, turning a house into a board game of Clue (which apparently grew out of the British popularity of Agatha Christie novels, writing 66 of them during her lifetime, devising all manner of novel ways to kill someone), given a modern era twist that lightheartedly pokes fun at the Trump administration’s xenophobic views on immigrants, subverting expectations by making a lesser character (an immigrant caretaker who is viewed as little more than hired help) the smartest person in the room, befuddling all the rich white folks who are screwed out of their inheritance by some vengeful trickery, quickly blaming the outsider, but it’s the family’s own avarice and malicious intent that ultimately does them in, every single one a freeloader, yet they’re left to bitch and moan about how they were cheated out of what was rightfully theirs, while they gleefully support the idea they are self-made success stories (despite receiving a generous million dollar loan to start their business), leading lives of privilege, always identifying with the upper class, continually blaming others for their own shortcomings.  While no one really distinguishes themselves here, no standout performances, you’d like to think there’s some sardonic Buñuelian wit about it, but that’s not the case either, as instead the model seems to be the Joseph Mankiewicz film SLEUTH (1972) based upon the wildly popular play by British playwright Anthony Shaffer, where a famous upper class author of detective novels is pitted against the unorthodox tactics of his lower class rival, each trying to outwit the other, yet the author’s supreme arrogance allows him to presume victory, where his expectations are masterfully subverted, slowly turning the tables, where that smug air of hubris finally gets its comeuppance.  That original source is lightyears better than this material, which feels so middle of the road.   

 

While it’s an unconventional but likeable enough ensemble cast of familiar faces, some absent from the screen for a while, as Johnson creates a pleasant atmosphere of murky suspense, where the viewing audience feels comfortable spending time with this group, much like Tarantino does with his casts.  At the center is the aging patriarch, successful crime novelist Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer), who is happily celebrating his 85th birthday, surrounded by his family, but winds up dead before the night is done, apparently slitting his own throat, which his family finds incomprehensible, thinking it must be murder.  Police detectives arrive in the form of Lakeith Stanfield as Detective Elliot and his underling Trooper Wagner (Noah Segan), who is thrilled to be there, a huge fan, having read every one of Harlan’s books, offering commentary along the way, explaining how it resembles the plots from various books.  Sitting in the background is Benoit Blanc, (Daniel Craig), reprising that southern accent he used in Soderbergh’s Logan Lucky (2017), an overly polite Southern gentleman acknowledged to be a hired detective, though it remains a mystery just who exactly hired him, yet he announces from the outset he suspects foul play.  Losing patience with the dull police routine, he eventually asserts himself as the sleuth mastermind, taking a lead role in the questioning, though at times his grandiloquent verbiage is so charmingly quaint that it feels he’s intentionally pleasing himself, adding a bit of color to the proceedings.  Jamie Lee Curtis is Harlan’s daughter Linda, a successful real estate mogul married to a deadbeat husband, Don Johnson as Richard, an opinionated oaf with decidedly racist leanings.  Harlan put his son Walt (Michael Shannon, always in bulky sweaters) in charge of his own publishing house, with strict instructions never to do adaptations for movies or television, which would make big bucks, but dilute the stories (exactly as this film does).  Joni (Toni Collette) is widowed from a deceased son, yet continues to be married to the lifestyle, while the black sheep of the family is the overly smug Chris Evans as Ransom (the offspring of Linda and Richard), who lavishly spends money like its growing on trees, viewed as a pompous ass, an object of derision by the rest of the family.  The nurse caretaker is Marta (Ana de Armas), who provides the needed medicine for Harlan, and seems to be the one person he could openly talk to, who at some point in the film is from either Uruguay, Brazil, Cuba, Paraguay, or Ecuador, though may in fact have been born in the United States, but her mother is undocumented.  Nonetheless, while professing sanctimonious appreciation for her services, she is largely viewed as undocumented herself, as if the family has done her a huge favor by hiring her.  

The beauty in films like this is in the back and forth banter between characters, where Johnson takes great relish in providing theatrically fun dialogue that moves along at a crisp pace, while unearthed clues and various backstory reveals add to a tautly connected storyline that continually develops over time, moving from one family member to another, where it has the feel as if the dead Harlan is actually pulling the strings behind the scenes, unraveling like one of his books, as so much of the story is generated through his character.  Each family member has a private conference with him on the day he died, the contents of which might provide an alibi for murder, yet each professes perfect innocence to the police, covering up any hint of suspicion, which, of course, arouses suspicion.  Blanc quickly discovers the key to resolving this matter, as Marta has a medical condition where she vomits if she tells a lie, which is like having a polygraph machine for all her testimony.  Rerouting all the witness testimony through her is a new angle, as if under a witness protection program by the police, who avail themselves of her resources, quickly determining that all the Thrombey children have lied to authorities and covered up what was really said behind closed doors, as the brunt of the film is to get to the heart of the matter, weaving its way through a circuitous path of lies and subterfuge.  The double crosses here are fast and furious, as what is presumed as the truth may later come undone, continually unraveling new information, where some of the most effective asides incorporate movie or TV reports about horrendous murders, with viewers intensely riveted by the material, including Marta’s mother, seen viewing a TV episode of Murder, She Wrote in Spanish.  The house itself plays out like a haunted house, protected by an iron gate and an elaborate security system, with two Doberman guard dogs, while the inside is filled with items Harlan loved, including masks, laughing clown or sailor faces (some identical replicas from the set of SLEUTH), with items crammed in every corner, where he was a lover of games of all sorts, spending much of his free time engaged in clever musings.  The film carries that same esprit de corps with each building mystery, as flashbacks, recounted testimony, or new revelations prevent any easy resolution, growing ever more complicated, where there are stories within stories within stories that may leave viewers confused, but that’s the beauty of the detective mystery.  What’s perhaps most surprising is the amount of screen time for Marta, a daughter of immigrants who thoroughly outworks the bluebloods, earnest and apparently sincere, the moral center of a surrounding cesspool, who was initially thought to have nothing to do with it, but may have everything to do with it, but she couldn’t be more distinctly different (though bland) than the vengefully manipulative family members who think only of themselves, where the reading of the will is a hilarious indictment of their true character, each one more detestable than the next, hanging themselves by their own self-centered testimony, eventually falling like a house of cards, coinciding with Blanc’s ultimate epiphany of truth, an indictment that spares no one, creating a topsy turvy world where nothing is real and fleeting perceptions can change in an instant.     

The Hateful Eight

THE HATEFUL EIGHT                    B+                  

USA  (168 mi, 70mm version 187 mi)  2015  ‘Scope  d:  Quentin Tarantino           

It’s less inspired by one Western movie than by Bonanza, The Virginian, High Chaparral,” Tarantino said. “Twice per season, those shows would have an episode where a bunch of outlaws would take the lead characters hostage. They would come to the Ponderosa and hold everybody hostage, or to go Judge Garth’s place — Lee J. Cobb played him — in The Virginian and take hostages. There would be a guest star like David Carradine, Darren McGavin, Claude Akins, Robert Culp, Charles Bronson or James Coburn. I don’t like that storyline in a modern context, but I love it in a Western, where you would pass halfway through the show to find out if they were good or bad guys, and they all had a past that was revealed. “I thought, ‘What if I did a movie starring nothing but those characters? No heroes, no Michael Landons. Just a bunch of nefarious guys in a room, all telling backstories that may or may not be true. Trap those guys together in a room with a blizzard outside, give them guns, and see what happens.’”

—Tarantino quote by Mike Fleming Jr. from Deadline, November 10, 2014, "Quentin Tarantino On Retirement, Grand 70 MM Intl Plans For ‘The Hateful Eight" 

Outside of Pulp Fiction (1994), this is easily the most fun film in Tarantino’s career, and the reason is largely the towering performance from Samuel L. Jackson, where this is something that only he could have pulled off, a perfect mix of intelligence and outlandish humor, where he’s like an eloquent spokesperson for the times who literally grabs our attention before he walks us through this movie like our own personal guide.  While he’s only one of several well-defined characters, curiously he’s not even the man in charge, as that would be Kurt Russell’s John “The Hangman” Ruth, doing his very best John Wayne imitation as a notorious rifle-toting bounty hunter who always brings his wanted outlaws in alive so they can have a proper hanging, which in the era of the American West is the closest thing to defining justice.  Part of the attraction to the film is that it was released in two versions, one a 187-minute “roadshow” that includes an opening overture and intermission, shot on 70mm which can only play in selected theaters equipped with appropriate reel projectors, where this resembles the glorious spectacle of the golden age of Hollywood, while an alternate digital cut will be shown in regular theaters without an overture and intermission, where the film itself is about 6-minutes shorter, using alternate takes of earlier scenes shot on 70 mm that might look distorted on smaller screens.  Of note, this is the first western scored by Ennio Morricone, the music behind the Sergio Leone westerns, in 40 years, the 6th collaboration between Tarantino and Samuel L. Jackson, while it is the third film in a row where someone is shot in the testicles.  Imagine an entire movie resembling the extraordinary opening sequence from INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS (2009), one of the most unique examples of protracted storytelling, where the extensive lead-up to whatever happens next is a film in itself, filled with its own plot twists and dramatic crescendos, where the audience is drawn into a different time frame, as patience is a virtue.  Tarantino seems to be saying “Stick with me, and I won’t let you down.”  The resolution of these scenes, at least to some, have always been a disappointment, as a fury of violence always prevails, where it just becomes a bit too predictable.  But no one can deny the power of Tarantino’s theatrically-inclined, dramatic construction of a scene, building tension throughout, with peaks and valleys, where he slowly and patiently builds up to that momentous edge that he eventually crosses.   

Opening on a lone stagecoach led by a six-horse team driving its way through a snowy blizzard in Wyoming, set sometime after the end of the Civil War, the nation has not exactly mended its wounds, as a good deal of lingering resentment hovers over the country like a festering wound, but all that is kept tightly under the vest as a wicked storm approaches.  The mountainous landscapes are put to good use as the audience gets a whiff of the widescreen Ultra Panavision 70 format, where the last Cinerama film to be shot in a similar format was KHARTOUM (1966) a half century ago.  But as Tarantino is one of the last remaining holdouts insisting upon shooting his movies on celluloid, compared to everything else that we see in theaters today, the look is spectacularly vivid and crisp.  John Ruth is transporting his prisoner, Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh), to Red Rock in order to watch her hang, while also collecting the $10,000 reward, but he picks up two stragglers along the way, Samuel L. Jackson as Major Marquis Warren, a particularly successful black military leader in the Civil War, whose claim to fame is carrying around with him at all times a genuine letter written by Abraham Lincoln, while also transporting 3 dead bodies worth an $8000 bounty, but also Walton Goggins as Sheriff Chris Mannix, the newly appointed sheriff of Red Rock who once rode with his notoriously racist father‘s Confederate renegades, developing a reputation as a degenerate killer.  The political divide between these two decorated war veterans on opposite sides increases the racial tensions, creating immediate antagonism, with John Ruth ready to bust heads if there’s any trouble, though Mannix warns them both they’ll have a difficult time collecting their bounties if something happens to him, as the sheriff pays out the reward money.  The worsening weather forces them to stop at Minnie’s Haberdashery to wait out the storm, though Minnie and her loyal sidekick Sweet Dave are both mysteriously missing, with Cowboy Bob (Demián Bichir) supposedly left in charge, along with a motley group of criminally inclined outcasts sidelined by the raging blizzard outside.  Sizing up the situation, including a broken front door that needs to be hammered shut after each opening, the two bounty hunters suspect something is up and form a pact protecting their property from the others, as each one of the guests looks eminently suspicious. 

Divided by chapter headings, we are slowly introduced to the twisted group of unsavory characters trapped inside a single room with no way out, where their pasts and secret motives are revealed, while their notorious reputations curiously precede them, as they all get acquainted waiting for the first one to blink before they make their move.  Spanning around the room, along with the stagecoach driver, O.B. (James Parks), we meet Tim Roth in a bowler hat as Oswaldo Mobray, who contends he’s the hangman at Red Rock, Michael Madsen as Joe Cage, an irritant and lowlife, and Confederate General Sanford Smithers (Bruce Dern), an unrepentant racist idolized by Mannix, but despised by Major Warren, particularly for his gruesome treatment of black Union soldiers during the war.  While John Ruth and Major Warren suspect there is someone working against them in the room, perhaps more than one aligned with the prisoner, they maintain their pact of working together as they don’t know who it is, but taking no chances, they do disarm all the suspects, creating an uneasy tension that suffocatingly chokes on its own inherent, claustrophobic cabin fever atmosphere.  As prejudices and resentments are revealed, it’s surprising how these few men coincidentally brought together by a storm have already heard of all the others and developed opinions about what kind of men they are, with all manner of trash talking taking place, but none more venomous than Major Warren’s contempt for General Smithers, which leads to the most grandiose and extraordinary story of the film, an extended soliloquy by Jackson, whose performance dominates the film, none more memorable than his provocative comments and personal insults reserved for the General, taking great pleasure in cornering the man into a position of weakness and disadvantage, then slowly tightening the screws, literally stripping away any pretense of manhood, leaving him disarmed and completely exposed, offering him a firearm within an arm’s reach, goading the man, literally toying with him until he has no other alternative but to reach for the gun, only to be shot down in cold blood, yet presumably deemed self-defense under the circumstances.  This theatrical display reveals Tarantino at his best, as it’s an extremely well-written scene, set up by such antagonistic character extremes, embellished by the most vulgar and detestable humor imaginable, yet somehow it’s an exceptional and memorable moment leading into the intermission, where viewers will have plenty to talk about. 

On the other side of the intermission, Tarantino himself indulges in a little narration, offering unseen clues the audience may have missed, turning this into a variation on Agatha Christie’s best-selling 1939 novel And Then There Were None, a murderous chamber drama where ten people have been invited to a remote location by a mysterious stranger, where each of the guests holds a secret leading to someone else’s innocent death, and then one-by-one, the guests themselves start dying.  First published under the name Ten Little Niggers, the book went through a series of title changes, including Ten Little Indians (The History of 'Ten Little Indians' - ICTMN.com) before settling on the words drawn from a nursery rhyme.  While it’s not nearly as simplistic as that, the film instead moves in a more circuitous path, where each of the characters has a major scene, with each one revealing themselves to be abhorrent and revolting, with Daisy Domergue, the object throughout of nonstop abuse, outshining all the other men for the dubious honors of the most vile character of them all, where Major Warren is the closest thing to a protagonist.  As they weave their way to unraveling the underlying mystery, complete with a flashback sequence with the delightfully plump Dana Gourrier as Minnie, Zoë Bell as Six-Horse Judy, and Gene Jones as Sweet Dave, the stage is reset with different implications, yet a good deal of the film is an appropriate commentary on xenophobia and the racial divide in America, exposing the roots of the race hatred, and showing how little progress has been made in the last 150 years, as we are still dealing with the same visceral anger that has plagued America throughout its contentious history, perhaps best expressed by the seemingly neverending sentiments from the Civil War.  When Major Warren suggests, “Let’s slow it down.  Let’s slow it way down,” it allows the audience to reevaluate our own history but also enjoy the art of storytelling, where Tarantino is simply having a blast with this film, returning to his own roots, as the one-room structure certainly resembles his own existential Reservoir Dogs (1992), which recalls the hopeless futility of Sartre’s No Exit, a portrait of eternal damnation, where the ultimate realization is “Hell is other people.”  While it’s often brutal and excessively violent, and once more there are grotesque uses of the n-word, this is the one Tarantino film that seems designed for a theatrical stage, as even the flashback sequences are set in the same location, so expect to see possible variations in the future, yet this original casting is sublime, as the fun on the set cannot be denied, as they are all in complete synch with the director’s sick humor and tendency for tastelessness, where it’s not lost on the viewer that the director ironically heralds this spectacular 70mm widescreen “Ultra Panavision,” and then sets a 3-hour film in the suffocating confines of a single room.  Nonetheless, through a witty structure of endless dialogue, politics makes strange bedfellows, and the final alliance in the film is perhaps the strangest of them all, where the Lincoln letter, in all its ambiguous implications, figures prominently.