Wonder Wheel

WONDER WHEEL               D                           
USA  (101 mi)  2017 d:  Woody Allen                 Wonderwheelmovie - Official site

Wow!  What an epic misfire.  Most have probably never seen a Woody Allen film that falls this far off the rails, unfunny and unchallenging, on the wrong footing from the very start, as it feels completely miscast, where viewers recognize the neurotic voice of Woody Allen in the narration, but don’t associate those words and thoughts with any of these actors, as the dialogue is simply not interchangeable.  Allen speaks with a pronounced ethnic Jewishness, which has always been a reference point in his films, but here the constant nagging tone is all wrong, as its Borscht Belt humor is carried out by Gentile actors, where the result is simply not the same, as the actors go through the motions but lack any hint of comedy or vaudeville humor, turning this into an agonizing dramatic misadventure with pretensions to Tennessee Williams or Eugene O’Neill, the great American playwrights, but without the depth and complexity, falling enormously short.  Framed as a Eugene O’Neill dysfunctional family set in the 50’s, where everything that can go wrong does, set entirely within the raucous confines of an overcrowded Coney Island amusement park, even the living quarters, intermixed with elements of A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), a spinoff apparently from 2013 Top Ten List #7 Blue Jasmine, it features an ongoing narration by a family outsider, Justin Timberlake as Mickey (normally a decent actor, but he’s all wrong as the voice of Woody Allen), an aspiring playwright who also works as a Coney Island lifeguard, who never once is seen rescuing a swimmer in distress.  Instead he intervenes in places where he shouldn’t, basically playing the field, fostering the hopes and dreams of two very different women.  First is Ginny (Kate Winslet), an emotionally-charged older waitess in an oyster bar who finds herself lost in a Blanche Dubois delirium, continually going on emotionally distraught monologues complaining of migraines and overwork, where her every last nerve is being tested.  She is a former actress whose career was derailed by a momentary lapse of judgement when she cheated on her husband, an anonymous jazz drummer who consequently left her, forever blaming herself for that mistake, sending her on an alcohol-fueled bender, leaving her with an emotionally damaged son (Jack Gore as Richie) who is clearly affected by his father’s absence, turning into a serial pyromaniac, lighting fires whenever the feeling hits him, which happens to be several times a day.  Finding a fellow alcoholic on the rebound, Ginny re-marries her current husband, a blue-collar carousel operator named Humpty, Jim Belushi, who spends the entire film doing his best Stanley Kowalski impression.  Into their lives walks Carolina (Juno Temple), the second woman, Humpty’s long-lost daughter who got herself involved with a dreamy young mob gangster with pockets full of cash, actually spilling the beans to the feds, where she’s now on the run with the mob looking for her, with shades of Mia Farrow in Broadway Danny Rose (1984).  This is a film where the sins of the parents are handed down to their own children, each an emotional basket case of frazzled nerve endings.

There isn’t a single likable character in this film, much of which is ugly and overwrought, delving into the ongoing personal insecurities and fears of people with barely enough money to scrape by, who constantly harp at one another for the choices they make, as they’re stuck in a rut that they can’t get out of, mostly feeling like caged animals.  Ginny is a whirlwind of fluctuating moods, much of it delusional, where she constantly thinks of no one but herself, growing hysterical when she thinks it’s all too much, with a claustrophobic world closing in on her, giving her no room to breathe, where she hasn’t an ounce of so-called freedom, literally suffocating before our eyes.  Humpty is a loud and blustery character who’s little more than a blowhard, all bark and no bite, that is since Ginny has removed alcohol from his daily regimen, keeping him off the sauce, as he grows brutally violent when drunk, though when times get rough, she takes a swig from a bottle she keeps hidden underneath the sink.  Timberlake’s confessional, on-going narration couldn’t be more off-putting, as it’s completely out of synch with the rest of the picture, where he’s more of a con man than he lets on, always shrouded in innocence, yet he’s a snake in the grass, never being honest with the audience, where the entire film feels like a rationalization for womanizing, yet he’s constantly being judgmental towards others without ever pointing the finger at himself.  At the center of the film is Ginny’s guilt, as she’s forever blaming herself for the pit she’s fallen into, stuck like a trapped insect, unable to pull her way out, as her husband has no ambition, leaving her having to pull the entire weight.  That heavy burden is constantly hovering over her, like a dark cloud, relentless and debilitating, as she’s been sucked into a life she hates, where everyone in it literally disgusts her, including herself, where her son’s constant obsession with setting fires is actually more of an irritation, as she never comes to grips with it, but simply blames him each and every time, having yet another panic attack.  For his part, Richie is cool with all the attention it provides, never fearing the consequences of getting caught, thinking so what, as it doesn’t hinder his actions, simply doing what he wants whenever he wants, with no interference.  From Ginny’s point of view, this is total bliss, as it’s unlimited freedom, exactly what’s missing in her overly constricted life, where she’s suffocating and can’t breathe, drowning in a life of squalor with a man she probably doesn’t even like, much less respect, but she sticks around as he rescued her from her prior emotional downfall.   

With a constantly repetitive jazz retro soundtrack that continuously plays the same song on repeat, feeling like a recurring headache after a while, the film is shot by veteran cinematographer Vittorio Storaro, who creates a mosaic of constantly shifting light and color, especially faces, where a palette of artificiality bathes the screen throughout.  Enter Mickey, who offers Ginny a doorway out, having an affair that couldn’t come at a better time, where she goes all in, like water gushing out of a broken dam, becoming an unstoppable force.  While liking the attention of an older woman and all the associating drama, which he thinks will be excellent material for his plays, Mickey remains more coy about his motives, taking it slower, enjoying the ride, not turning it into such a big deal, which is what she does at every opportunity, constantly reminding him, where he’s her lifeline to a way out.  But Carolina’s youth and good looks complicate the status quo, perking up his antennae, as she’s not like other girls in the neighborhood, having traveled around the world in luxury and style, literally blowing him away, falling for her in spite of himself.  Knowing how this would crush Jenny, he does it anyway, even if it goes against all rationale of good sense, as Carolina is the forbidden fruit.  Of course he does this behind Ginny’s back, never letting on, pretending like nothing’s happening when he knows full well there’s a spark, which changes the dynamic with Ginny, who knows something’s up, but Mickey turns into another good-for-nothing man who deceives her, unable to trust the whole lot of them, turning against all men in the process, spiraling even more out of control, taking refuge in the bottle, with Humpty eventually joining in, becoming the picture of a pathetic drama without an ounce of humanity on display, where instead it’s all bluster.  The male characters are deplorable, every one a sleaze, while the women at least fare better in their scenes together, but in the end Allen’s grim and overly fatalistic view taints all.  With mob heavies Tony Sirico and Steven Schirripa from The Sopranos on Carolina’s tail, she is dangerous merchandise, making her all the more enticing to a young unattached male like Mickey, who seems to have his own issues with illusions, where he’s like a deer in the headlights, hypnotized by her allure, unable to help himself, striking while the iron is hot.  The stage is set for a final showdown with Ginny, but like Blanche, she’s already lost in the cobwebs of her own delusions, barely recognizable as a person, losing every last trace of her dignity, where it all derails into a tailspin of unfiltered torment, each little bit only adding to the collective hell of having to endure more, wiping out any hint of reality, where all that’s left is a waking nightmare that never ends, where she can’t ever wake up, stuck in an endless Sisyphean death spiral of human misery and suffocation, becoming all-consuming, like a fever dream.  Lost in the haze, the film is back where it starts, mired in that sinking feeling of utter futility.  Spare us the drama, Woody, as behind the curtain, nothing is real.  

Nocturama

NOCTURAMA            B                  

France  Germany  Belgium  (130)  2016  ‘Scope  d:  Bertrand Bonello

Another variation of Fassbinder’s THE THIRD GENERATION (1979), a political film set during the era of the Baader-Meinhof Gang (later called the Red Army Faction), revolutionary cells in the 70’s that carried out terrorist activities across the country, wreaking havoc with the status quo.  Fassbinder’s film is more of a satiric spoof of the bourgeois elite who comprise an offshoot underground movement of leftist radicals who come across more like a gang that couldn’t shoot straight, a rag tag group that reads all the literature, holds clandestine meetings, and believes fervently in what they’re doing, but haven’t any coherent ideology to speak of, remaining utterly clueless about how to accomplish social change, instead it’s more of a lifestyle choice, where they believe what they’re doing is fashionably chic.  The biting sarcasm becomes even more exaggerated in this film, which is basically divided into two halves, with the first part nearly wordless, featuring various characters following an exact regimen, following their watches, with time repeatedly imprinted onscreen, as if everything is scripted and coordinated as they take metro trains, pick up or deliver packages, including keys to carefully placed cars, enter buildings, pass through security, and walk through endless hallways, most of it in real time, where it feels like a satiric take of a meticulously synchronized thriller, like RIFIFI (1955), but pales in comparison, as this is more spread out, covering more territory, where the audience has no idea what’s going on as no background information is provided, yet it all seems to be taking place in secret, behind closed doors or in cloistered chambers before finally discarding burner phones after exiting.  Something we find odd is that it’s hard to care about what these individuals are doing as none of the characters are revealed to the viewers, remaining blank slates, where an hour into the film we still haven’t a clue who they are or what they’re doing, where the aloof style of the film intentionally distances the audience, nonetheless, what it amounts to is a choreography in motion through the streets of Paris, like something Rivette accomplished in a variety of his films such as Out 1 and Jacques Rivette R.I.P. (1971), Céline and Julie Go Boating (Céline et Julie vont en bateau)  (1974), and Le Pont du Nord (1981), where he made it a point to crisscross through distinctly recognizable Parisian streets, creating what amounts to loving time capsules of a beautiful city.  Bonello on the other hand is content to travel through non-descript hallways and inner rooms that could be just about anywhere, where the city and featured characters remain discreetly anonymous.    

  

Certainly one aspect driving the suspense is a pulsating, electronic score written by the director himself, paying homage to none other than John Carpenter, whose haunting, atmospheric musical themes provide chilling counterpoint to his visceral thrillers throughout his indelible career.  As daylight turns into early evening, Bonello uses a device of four screens, like security experts watching a panel of different viewpoints, with explosions of violence erupting on each screen, followed by close-up views of each moment, where this is the first sign of what this film is really about.  When jolted into a better understanding of the master plan, the irony is that it seems small and insignificant, as the target was not human life, but they just wanted to blow up stuff, like the Weather Underground of the late 60’s and early 70’s.  But while the 60’s radicals targeted government buildings, along with several banks, they were also careful to alert these institutions ahead of time in order to evacuate humans to safety, while also sending a political message with each attack.  This group showed no such foresight, nor does it appear they are particularly concerned about others, as throughout the film they show a decided self-interest, identifying with the Selfie generation.  This scattershot approach to radicalism resembles Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point (1970), a picture of a fractured America expressed through a portrait of young radicals, police violence, capitalist cronies, endless desert landscapes and discontented youth, using unknown stars who had never acted before, where the prerequisite was not acting talent, but to flaunt their youth and be completely unashamed.  Jump ahead half a century and this film seems to be exploring similar themes, using a modern era context where smartphones have replaced the counterculture, where people are nearly always electronically connected to something of interest, resembling the giant advertising billboards in Antonioni’s film, as much of this feels entirely random.  In a mysterious turn, all the participants meet afterwards in an upscale department store, hiding to avoid detection until it is safely closed and locked up for the night.  While we see a few security guards start their rounds, in a gruesome turn of events, none are around to complete them, subject to a specific brutality that makes little sense and seems like it happened more out of convenience than anything else.  What’s radically different about this eclectic group of outsiders is that they have no common cause or ideology, where the director leaves out any hint at why this happened, suggesting they may not know themselves, which makes it all the more chilling. 

When an all clear is given, our motley group comes out into the open and is finally identified as a group, a collection of privileged white university students along with a couple of Arab kids, where it’s never clear how they all came together, or even what they were trying to accomplish.  Instead, a security guy from the building, a new character we’ve never seen, has complete familiarity with the building, turning on the lights as well as the escalator, where people are free to wander around at will, trying on clothes, playing with various electronic gadgets, even riding around on a little mini-car, as well as invading the food courts and liquor cabinets, turning it into a party atmosphere, breaking off into smaller groups, friendships or love affairs, where they even blast contemporary music out of the sound system, feeling very good about themselves, completely disconnected from their earlier business.  As they wander around the building, the interaction with name brands and recognizable merchandise adds a degree of interest, as they’re hardly anti-capitalists, as these kids are completely at home in a capitalistic paradise, happily indulging themselves.  While there are televisions galore to watch the city recovering from the attacks, most show little interest, where the lack of curiosity certainly stands out, as these are not the brightest kids, some obviously having it all too easy, where a brother and sister compare alibis given to their mother for a night away from home, revealing the kind of personal attachments they still have.  Borrowing the security guard phone, who must remain accessible to his employer, one even calls his mother to send his love.   Other than that, they are all cellphone free so as not to leave any traces for the police.  Without it, apparently, this kids are completely rudderless, as not one of them is seen reading a book or writing something of significance, instead they appear bored with themselves and each other, as if that is their driving force.  As they wander the grounds, one of them even goes outside to smoke a cigarette, exploring the vicinity, asking about what happened, clearly unafraid of being seen by security cameras or the thought of being captured, even inviting a homeless couple inside, telling them there is plenty of food, adding a Buñuelian touch of the macabre when they have a feast and gorge themselves, where it all looks so ridiculously out of place, perhaps the only carefree zone in the entire city that is not affected by what is being described as terror attacks.  Occasionally one or two of them will have thoughts about what might happen to them, even thinking the worst, but they’re only really thinking of themselves.  Without warning, or revealing how they found out, a SWAT team moves into the ground floor and works its way up each floor, radically altering their smug view of themselves.  Immediately, two films come to mind, the fatalism of van Sant’s ELEPHANT (2003), where viewers remain clueless to the killer’s motives throughout, yet the camera wanders the halls first revealing the banality of just another ordinary day before the armed killers alter the mood entirely by seeking to execute anyone they see in those same halls, but also Fritz Lang’s M (1931), where the police systematically go floor by floor in a similar multi-floor office building that is closed for the night, hunting a trapped criminal suspect who is hidden somewhere inside.  But Lang builds an extensive psychological profile of both the deranged criminal and the police while all but inventing the police procedural film, while this in comparison feels overwhelmingly empty, void of any real purpose, with characters we never really get to know, where you couldn’t even call these kids terrorists, but in this day and age the police have little choice but to mercilessly treat them as such.  This film feels like terrorism light, as it’s not the real thing, becoming more of a satire on how easily kids can confuse grandiose ambitions with reality.