Prisoners
Review by John L. Ng
October, 2013
This movie's title "Prisoners" may insinuate more than the obvious. During their shared Thanksgiving dinner, two families are enjoying the abundance of a shared comfortable middle class lifestyle. Then in a blink of an inattentive moment, their two daughters are missing and presumed prisoners of their abductor(s). But there are many more prisoners in this film. The mothers (Maria Bello and Viola Davis) become prisoners in their grievous sense of lost. The fathers become prisoners in their fuming anger. Keller (Hugh Jackman), already angry with the world, is enraged toward vicious violence. Franklin (Terrence Howard) is vexed over Keller's ambivalent morality. Detective Loki (Jake Gyllenhaal) is a prisoner of his own idiosyncratic inability to solve the crime. The two suspects themselves are prisoners of their haunted past and pathetic present. The aunt (Melissa Leo) of one of the suspects is imprisoned by her noxious societal disdain.
The notion of imprisonment is ubiquitous in this child abduction mystery. Everyone seems a prisoner of anger. The two counterparts, Keller and Loki, play against the other's anger while coping in their own anguish confinement. Keller's Catholicism in all its religious trapping does not lead him beside still waters. He recites the Lord's prayer in earnest; a crucifix dangling conspicuously in his truck; recorded sermons breaks in while he is driving. Yet Keller perpetrates cruel vengeance as if his faith's Creator has no higher moral order. The incongruity between his religious devotion and reprehensible violence renders him a prisoner of his own anger.
The other prime prisoner is Loki. Just as Keller's pathos is glaringly transparent, Loki's interior is veiled in inexplicability. We know nothing about him except his sensible detective work and sensitivity toward the two families. However, his conspicuous tattoos, buttoned down ruffled shirt, slicked back hair, downturned lips and twitchy eyes allure to something mischievous behind his mysterious persona. He is much like the Loki in Norse mythology and Marvel comics - angry with his higher authorities and frustrated by his subordinate ability to right a wrong.
"Prisoners" takes place during Thanksgiving week, a national holiday set aside to celebrate American abundance. Yet every frame is draped in the drabs of dreariness. Many scenes are in the dark of night. Pertinent encounters are under dark clouds of torrential rain. More so, this dark prison is full of dark emotive nuances. There is no difference between anger and depression. When evil invades their existence, Keller gets angry while his wife, Grace, gets depressed. Only a smudged line divides anger and apathy. In their agony over the amoral behavior of Keller, Franklin and his wife, Nancy, resign to passive disregard. There is a propinquity with anger and frustration. Loki smolders in torment when he is frustrated by his hand tied limitations.
This troubling film depicts a troublesome world that is frequent by senseless tragedies. To be human is to be tragedy prone. Our world is a dark place when our abundance of wealth and substance can do nothing to avoid them. In our helpless anger, we succumb to its darkness. In the most inopportune time, anger holds us captive when we assume wrongly that our middle class lifestyle should be pain free. By film's end, we come to a rude realization that life, even in America, is full of tragedies. And anger is impotent against it. If only someone like Keller would heed to St. James words in the Bible: your anger does not produce God's righteousness.
October, 2013
This movie's title "Prisoners" may insinuate more than the obvious. During their shared Thanksgiving dinner, two families are enjoying the abundance of a shared comfortable middle class lifestyle. Then in a blink of an inattentive moment, their two daughters are missing and presumed prisoners of their abductor(s). But there are many more prisoners in this film. The mothers (Maria Bello and Viola Davis) become prisoners in their grievous sense of lost. The fathers become prisoners in their fuming anger. Keller (Hugh Jackman), already angry with the world, is enraged toward vicious violence. Franklin (Terrence Howard) is vexed over Keller's ambivalent morality. Detective Loki (Jake Gyllenhaal) is a prisoner of his own idiosyncratic inability to solve the crime. The two suspects themselves are prisoners of their haunted past and pathetic present. The aunt (Melissa Leo) of one of the suspects is imprisoned by her noxious societal disdain.
The notion of imprisonment is ubiquitous in this child abduction mystery. Everyone seems a prisoner of anger. The two counterparts, Keller and Loki, play against the other's anger while coping in their own anguish confinement. Keller's Catholicism in all its religious trapping does not lead him beside still waters. He recites the Lord's prayer in earnest; a crucifix dangling conspicuously in his truck; recorded sermons breaks in while he is driving. Yet Keller perpetrates cruel vengeance as if his faith's Creator has no higher moral order. The incongruity between his religious devotion and reprehensible violence renders him a prisoner of his own anger.
The other prime prisoner is Loki. Just as Keller's pathos is glaringly transparent, Loki's interior is veiled in inexplicability. We know nothing about him except his sensible detective work and sensitivity toward the two families. However, his conspicuous tattoos, buttoned down ruffled shirt, slicked back hair, downturned lips and twitchy eyes allure to something mischievous behind his mysterious persona. He is much like the Loki in Norse mythology and Marvel comics - angry with his higher authorities and frustrated by his subordinate ability to right a wrong.
"Prisoners" takes place during Thanksgiving week, a national holiday set aside to celebrate American abundance. Yet every frame is draped in the drabs of dreariness. Many scenes are in the dark of night. Pertinent encounters are under dark clouds of torrential rain. More so, this dark prison is full of dark emotive nuances. There is no difference between anger and depression. When evil invades their existence, Keller gets angry while his wife, Grace, gets depressed. Only a smudged line divides anger and apathy. In their agony over the amoral behavior of Keller, Franklin and his wife, Nancy, resign to passive disregard. There is a propinquity with anger and frustration. Loki smolders in torment when he is frustrated by his hand tied limitations.
This troubling film depicts a troublesome world that is frequent by senseless tragedies. To be human is to be tragedy prone. Our world is a dark place when our abundance of wealth and substance can do nothing to avoid them. In our helpless anger, we succumb to its darkness. In the most inopportune time, anger holds us captive when we assume wrongly that our middle class lifestyle should be pain free. By film's end, we come to a rude realization that life, even in America, is full of tragedies. And anger is impotent against it. If only someone like Keller would heed to St. James words in the Bible: your anger does not produce God's righteousness.
Lars and the Real Girl
Review by John L. Ng
June, 2013
At a church ministry seminar, the speaker alerted us to a movie that portrays how a caring community brings emotional healing to a troubled individual. The 2008 released film "Lars and the Real Girl" is about a sensitive, delusional loner (Ryan Gosling) who lives in a converted garage next to his brother and sister-in-law's house. Painfully shy, Lars is almost void of all human interaction. His brother, Gus, has resigned to their shared troubled past and is detached from Lars' troubled soul. Exasperatedly he adduces to his wife, Karin, that Lars "needs more help than you and I can give him."
At a co-worker's offering, Lars buys a life-size anatomical detailed doll through the internet. In time, Lars treats "Bianca" as a real girl. He talks to her, eats with her, baths her, brings her to social events and is his closest friend. He convinces Karin and Gus to take his girlfriend into their home. Being a good Christian girl, Lars reasons, it would be improper for Bianca to live with him. In time, Karin suggests that they seek professional help. Dr. Dagmar diagnoses that Lars is delusional and the best care they can provide him is unconditional acceptance. It is a difficult world in which he lives; Bianca is Lars' coping mechanism to get through its difficulties.
Lars also needs a community to help him cope. On Sundays he brings Bianca to church to the disconcertments of its worshipers. But the pastor and a Mrs. Gruner of the congregation possess mighty good hearts. They gracefully convince the church to accept Lars as he is and Bianca as his real friend. In time, the church creates a warm hospitable community for Lars and Bianca. Many congregants inconveniently extend themselves to them. In time, Lars agrees to see Dr. Dagmar with Bianca. In their weekly sessions, within an accepting congregation, Dr. Dagmar helps Lars talk through his maladies and find light.
Much of the film is in winter, when the days are short and the nights long, when the sky is dreary and the horizon bleak. Toward the end of the film, Lars longingly reassures himself that "winter isn't over until Easter." In Christian traditions, Easter is the celebration of Jesus' resurrection. It is a season of newness of life. As Saint Paul writes in Romans 6.4, ". . . just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life." As winter is thawing in anticipation of Easter, Lars finds a slow but sure light of hope that he is getting better in mind and soul.
The center of Lars' healing is a faith community. When contemporary cinema often ignores the church's place or mocks its ineptitude in society, "Lars and the Real Girl" presents the Christian church in an affirming portraiture. All of us have problems, live with problem people and are problems to others. To get through our day is problematic enough. The film's implication of our need for a caring community is not exceptional but normative. It takes a whole community of accepting and caring people for us to get by. The church is that people for Lars.
A cynic might just conclude that the film is set in an anonymous Mid-west town and the notion of a nurturing community can only work in middle America. It is difficult if not impossible to find it in an urban desert like New York. Perhaps. It may be difficult to find belonging among eight million people. Out lack of belonging can only verify our innate need for it. This film endears us that we all need a caring community to find solace, meaning, healing, and ourselves.
June, 2013
At a church ministry seminar, the speaker alerted us to a movie that portrays how a caring community brings emotional healing to a troubled individual. The 2008 released film "Lars and the Real Girl" is about a sensitive, delusional loner (Ryan Gosling) who lives in a converted garage next to his brother and sister-in-law's house. Painfully shy, Lars is almost void of all human interaction. His brother, Gus, has resigned to their shared troubled past and is detached from Lars' troubled soul. Exasperatedly he adduces to his wife, Karin, that Lars "needs more help than you and I can give him."
At a co-worker's offering, Lars buys a life-size anatomical detailed doll through the internet. In time, Lars treats "Bianca" as a real girl. He talks to her, eats with her, baths her, brings her to social events and is his closest friend. He convinces Karin and Gus to take his girlfriend into their home. Being a good Christian girl, Lars reasons, it would be improper for Bianca to live with him. In time, Karin suggests that they seek professional help. Dr. Dagmar diagnoses that Lars is delusional and the best care they can provide him is unconditional acceptance. It is a difficult world in which he lives; Bianca is Lars' coping mechanism to get through its difficulties.
Lars also needs a community to help him cope. On Sundays he brings Bianca to church to the disconcertments of its worshipers. But the pastor and a Mrs. Gruner of the congregation possess mighty good hearts. They gracefully convince the church to accept Lars as he is and Bianca as his real friend. In time, the church creates a warm hospitable community for Lars and Bianca. Many congregants inconveniently extend themselves to them. In time, Lars agrees to see Dr. Dagmar with Bianca. In their weekly sessions, within an accepting congregation, Dr. Dagmar helps Lars talk through his maladies and find light.
Much of the film is in winter, when the days are short and the nights long, when the sky is dreary and the horizon bleak. Toward the end of the film, Lars longingly reassures himself that "winter isn't over until Easter." In Christian traditions, Easter is the celebration of Jesus' resurrection. It is a season of newness of life. As Saint Paul writes in Romans 6.4, ". . . just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life." As winter is thawing in anticipation of Easter, Lars finds a slow but sure light of hope that he is getting better in mind and soul.
The center of Lars' healing is a faith community. When contemporary cinema often ignores the church's place or mocks its ineptitude in society, "Lars and the Real Girl" presents the Christian church in an affirming portraiture. All of us have problems, live with problem people and are problems to others. To get through our day is problematic enough. The film's implication of our need for a caring community is not exceptional but normative. It takes a whole community of accepting and caring people for us to get by. The church is that people for Lars.
A cynic might just conclude that the film is set in an anonymous Mid-west town and the notion of a nurturing community can only work in middle America. It is difficult if not impossible to find it in an urban desert like New York. Perhaps. It may be difficult to find belonging among eight million people. Out lack of belonging can only verify our innate need for it. This film endears us that we all need a caring community to find solace, meaning, healing, and ourselves.
The Place Beyond the Pines
Review by John L. Ng
May, 2013
“The Place Beyond The Pines” is Derek Cianfrance’s three-act study of the existential struggle between the fate that determines our destiny and the choices we make that make us. The first act is a study of Luke (Ryan Gosling), a drifter-biker in a traveling carnival. Traveling through Schenectady, (a Mohawk name that gives the film its title), New York, as fate would have it, he chances upon Romina (Eva Mendes) who he met in a previous encounter. Luke soon discovers that she has birthed a baby, Jason, by him. A stab of paternal instinct throbs what seemingly are commendable choices. Even though Romina is living with another man, Luke insists on providing for her and their son. Luke is impulsively selfless and childishly self-possessed. His insistence to stay leads to un-fortuitous decisions of another kind.
The second act is a study of Avery (Bradley Copper), a Schenectady policeman. His chance encounter with Luke also leads to a string of personal and professional choices with irreversible consequences. Full of self-doubt, guilt and blind ambitions, like Luke, he also wants more for his infant son, A J. As fate would have it, the police department’s systemic corruption provides Avery, now a local hero because of Luke, an episodic opportunity to fulfill his political ambition. His quiet disposition is a kind of deception for his ferocity. At times he seems haplessly passive in the choices made by others; other times he cuts his own paths with ruthless determination.
The third act is a study of Luke’s and Avery’s sons, Jason and A J. Years pass, as fate would have it, the sons encounter each other and fast become friends in the same high school. Their fateful friendship leads to personal choices with extended drastic consequences. They are their fathers’ sons. Jason and A J are boys of thin silence with loud storms whirling inside their troubled souls. They make some plainly stupid choices, as teenagers often do, that seemingly are choiceless. Like their fathers, they suffer the decisions others have made and they make decisions that cause suffering in others. (I stay intentionally vague in summary so not to spoil the ending.)
While watching the movie, I instinctively filter the scenes through my own reflection on fate and choices. My unfinished theistic worldview forms my understanding of predestination and life changing decisions. I can’t pretend to fully comprehend how it works, but the lives of these two families are predetermined and yet the choices they make likewise direct their destinies. A far better mind of the New Testament’s St Paul acknowledges this profound mystery. He does his best untangling this mysterious twine between divine sovereignty and human will in history. But at the end, he throws up his hands in intellectual surrender. Referring to divine prerogative and our free will, he confesses “Oh, the depth of the riches and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!” (Romans 11.33)
“The Place Beyond The Pines” more than hints at that existential mystery without pretending a resolution. Luke, Avery and their sons are victims of their circumstances and perpetrators of their circumstantial decisions. Seemingly their fates are predetermined, and yet their personal choices get them there. Ultimately, who is responsible for what happens to them? In the final scene as the credits roll and the screen fades, that unresolved mystery leaves us to ponder.
May, 2013
“The Place Beyond The Pines” is Derek Cianfrance’s three-act study of the existential struggle between the fate that determines our destiny and the choices we make that make us. The first act is a study of Luke (Ryan Gosling), a drifter-biker in a traveling carnival. Traveling through Schenectady, (a Mohawk name that gives the film its title), New York, as fate would have it, he chances upon Romina (Eva Mendes) who he met in a previous encounter. Luke soon discovers that she has birthed a baby, Jason, by him. A stab of paternal instinct throbs what seemingly are commendable choices. Even though Romina is living with another man, Luke insists on providing for her and their son. Luke is impulsively selfless and childishly self-possessed. His insistence to stay leads to un-fortuitous decisions of another kind.
The second act is a study of Avery (Bradley Copper), a Schenectady policeman. His chance encounter with Luke also leads to a string of personal and professional choices with irreversible consequences. Full of self-doubt, guilt and blind ambitions, like Luke, he also wants more for his infant son, A J. As fate would have it, the police department’s systemic corruption provides Avery, now a local hero because of Luke, an episodic opportunity to fulfill his political ambition. His quiet disposition is a kind of deception for his ferocity. At times he seems haplessly passive in the choices made by others; other times he cuts his own paths with ruthless determination.
The third act is a study of Luke’s and Avery’s sons, Jason and A J. Years pass, as fate would have it, the sons encounter each other and fast become friends in the same high school. Their fateful friendship leads to personal choices with extended drastic consequences. They are their fathers’ sons. Jason and A J are boys of thin silence with loud storms whirling inside their troubled souls. They make some plainly stupid choices, as teenagers often do, that seemingly are choiceless. Like their fathers, they suffer the decisions others have made and they make decisions that cause suffering in others. (I stay intentionally vague in summary so not to spoil the ending.)
While watching the movie, I instinctively filter the scenes through my own reflection on fate and choices. My unfinished theistic worldview forms my understanding of predestination and life changing decisions. I can’t pretend to fully comprehend how it works, but the lives of these two families are predetermined and yet the choices they make likewise direct their destinies. A far better mind of the New Testament’s St Paul acknowledges this profound mystery. He does his best untangling this mysterious twine between divine sovereignty and human will in history. But at the end, he throws up his hands in intellectual surrender. Referring to divine prerogative and our free will, he confesses “Oh, the depth of the riches and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!” (Romans 11.33)
“The Place Beyond The Pines” more than hints at that existential mystery without pretending a resolution. Luke, Avery and their sons are victims of their circumstances and perpetrators of their circumstantial decisions. Seemingly their fates are predetermined, and yet their personal choices get them there. Ultimately, who is responsible for what happens to them? In the final scene as the credits roll and the screen fades, that unresolved mystery leaves us to ponder.
Little White Lies (Les Petits Mouchoirs)
Review by John L. Ng
March, 2013
For those who are old enough to remember the 1983 American film "The Big Chill," the similarities, including its American pop soundtracks, are apparent in "Little White Lies." Written and directed by Guillaume Canet, this French production peers into a group of friends on vacation together. The movie opens with one of them involves in a horrific motorcycle crash. After visiting Ludo in intensive care and knowing his injuries are life threatening, they abandon him to go on with their vacation plans. Each rationalizes with selfish justifications. As a consolation compromise, they agree to cut short their time away.
They stay with Max, older and the core of the group, in his seaside house in Cap Ferrat. A mixture of farce and melodrama, these friends play in the sand with and play planks on one another. They eat and drink, laugh and argue, throw tantrums and catch grief together. Without sonorous celebration, the film pays homage to friendship and family. The golden thread that sews the fabrics of their lives is enduring friendships. As narcissistic as they are, they are truly friends with one another. There are two closer pairings. Max (Francois Cluzet) is uptight and controlling but selflessly generous. Vincent is mild mannered and self-absorbed but caring. Each, married with children, struggle with the meaning of friendship after Vincent, in a moment of transparent weakness, confesses that he is in love with Max. There are Eric and Marie (Marion Cotillard) who are best of platonic friends with sexual undertow. Both are promiscuous in unaware insecurity and in obvious neediness. Even in momentary selfish behaviors, they are intensely loyal to each other. They share the other's inner angst implicitly. The odd person out Antoine is love sick for his estranged girlfriend. His own best friend, Antoine is the obnoxious comic relief who is incapable of seeing beyond his aching heart. But they all accept him anyway.
The silver lining that weaves their community is the marriages of Max and Vincent. People who study this stuff say that marriages are riddled with love and hate, between the lover we long for and the partnership we work in. Women usually suffer more than men in marriage. Predictably, these two emotionally immature husbands are boys in men's bodies. Acting as virtual suffering mothers, one wife copes in quiet desperation and the other in ranting. Both suffer long but stay true. At the end of each day, they retreat to their rooms to refresh their marital commitment. To fill the other portions of the day, watching their children at play provides light-filled moments of joy and hope.
David Brooks' book "Bobos In Paradise" describes this bunch of materialistic, narcissistic friends. "Bobo" is the acronym that combines bourgeois and bohemian, a new social class in post modernity culture. A bourgeois is an upper crust preoccupied with respectability and material values. A bohemian is a free spirit who disses traditional morals and conventional behaviors. In moral values and sexual attitudes, in leisure and work habits, the bobo leads a carefree lifestyle.
There is a moral voice in the movie that speaks against this new social class's fused individualism. He is Jean-Louis, a working class oyster farmer. He befriends this bobo community but rebukes it for its bourgeois superficiality and bohemian self-indulgence. In a fleeting moment of reflection, perhaps seeing their little white lies they find redemption. At the last scenes, when confronted with an overwhelming lost, they grieve together in a communal loving embrace. It is their friendships with family that becomes their final solace.
March, 2013
For those who are old enough to remember the 1983 American film "The Big Chill," the similarities, including its American pop soundtracks, are apparent in "Little White Lies." Written and directed by Guillaume Canet, this French production peers into a group of friends on vacation together. The movie opens with one of them involves in a horrific motorcycle crash. After visiting Ludo in intensive care and knowing his injuries are life threatening, they abandon him to go on with their vacation plans. Each rationalizes with selfish justifications. As a consolation compromise, they agree to cut short their time away.
They stay with Max, older and the core of the group, in his seaside house in Cap Ferrat. A mixture of farce and melodrama, these friends play in the sand with and play planks on one another. They eat and drink, laugh and argue, throw tantrums and catch grief together. Without sonorous celebration, the film pays homage to friendship and family. The golden thread that sews the fabrics of their lives is enduring friendships. As narcissistic as they are, they are truly friends with one another. There are two closer pairings. Max (Francois Cluzet) is uptight and controlling but selflessly generous. Vincent is mild mannered and self-absorbed but caring. Each, married with children, struggle with the meaning of friendship after Vincent, in a moment of transparent weakness, confesses that he is in love with Max. There are Eric and Marie (Marion Cotillard) who are best of platonic friends with sexual undertow. Both are promiscuous in unaware insecurity and in obvious neediness. Even in momentary selfish behaviors, they are intensely loyal to each other. They share the other's inner angst implicitly. The odd person out Antoine is love sick for his estranged girlfriend. His own best friend, Antoine is the obnoxious comic relief who is incapable of seeing beyond his aching heart. But they all accept him anyway.
The silver lining that weaves their community is the marriages of Max and Vincent. People who study this stuff say that marriages are riddled with love and hate, between the lover we long for and the partnership we work in. Women usually suffer more than men in marriage. Predictably, these two emotionally immature husbands are boys in men's bodies. Acting as virtual suffering mothers, one wife copes in quiet desperation and the other in ranting. Both suffer long but stay true. At the end of each day, they retreat to their rooms to refresh their marital commitment. To fill the other portions of the day, watching their children at play provides light-filled moments of joy and hope.
David Brooks' book "Bobos In Paradise" describes this bunch of materialistic, narcissistic friends. "Bobo" is the acronym that combines bourgeois and bohemian, a new social class in post modernity culture. A bourgeois is an upper crust preoccupied with respectability and material values. A bohemian is a free spirit who disses traditional morals and conventional behaviors. In moral values and sexual attitudes, in leisure and work habits, the bobo leads a carefree lifestyle.
There is a moral voice in the movie that speaks against this new social class's fused individualism. He is Jean-Louis, a working class oyster farmer. He befriends this bobo community but rebukes it for its bourgeois superficiality and bohemian self-indulgence. In a fleeting moment of reflection, perhaps seeing their little white lies they find redemption. At the last scenes, when confronted with an overwhelming lost, they grieve together in a communal loving embrace. It is their friendships with family that becomes their final solace.
Side Effects
Review by John L. Ng
March, 2013
The pathology of mental health is big business in America. As a sub-text, Steven Soderbergh's "Side Effects" is a commentary of this gigantic medical industrial complex. Perhaps more so than any other peoples on earth, Americans want to look and feel good more than anything else. It seems everyone in this movie is medicated. In a post-modern dread, every troubled soul is promiscuously on something to take the edge off. In one scene, Dr. Jonathan Banks (Jude Law) reassures his wife, while pushing her a pill, "it's easier to be who you are."
"Side Effects," with its opening scenes a homage to Hitchcock's "Psycho," is about Jonathan, a psychiatrist, who attends to a suicide patient, Emily Taylor (Rooney Mara). She is a troubled soul whose husband is recently released from prison for insider trading. Perhaps because of her unrepentant husband's release or something else entirely, she descends into a series of depressant and dangerous episodes. With genuine compassion, Jonathan seeks to help her.
He explains that depression is the feeling of hopelessness without a future - the anxiety that cannot see, predict or construct a reliable tomorrow. Emily's sad countenance betrays her angst. But her porcelain face also masks something troubling deep inside beyond depression. Her few words maneuver in disguises through dense duplicity. Something else is going on in her dark head. She seems hopeless without a future and yet her undercurrent rages determinatively to get there. She begs her doctor to give her something to soften that edginess.
In this feel good, medicated culture, money is ubiquitous. Jonathan's compassion co-exists uncomfortably with greed. When asked why he left England, Jonathan matter-of-factly reasons that there is a better future in America to make money in psychiatry. Corralled in a complex labyrinth between attending to his patients and making more money, Jonathan barely manages to navigate this inherent conflict. In due course, his future is also hopelessly threatened by this unavoidable conflict. Those who study this stuff say that there is a fine line between depression and rage. When his career is threatened as a consequence of his treatment of Emily, he also descends into a moral confusing rage.
There are two stories of side effects here. There is Emily's struggles with the side effects of taking depressant drugs. And there is Jonathan's struggles with the side effects of dispensing depressant drugs. The two halves of this movie intersect as their lives unraveled. To help Emily, Jonathan reaches out to her previous therapist. In fine clothes and controlled cadence, we sense immediately that Dr. Victoria Siebert (Catherine Zeta-Jones) in her greed is a virtual snake pushing virtual snake oil. Not unexpectedly, Jonathan is dazed by her hiss. The new anti-depressant drug, recommended by Dr. Siebert, causes violent side effects in Emily.
With the right (or wrong) happenstance anyone is capable of anything. In an instant, everything can be altered irreparably into a hopeless future. In hopelessness, a troubled Emily dives into criminality. In hopelessness, Jonathan evolves from moral confusion to vicious desperation. Life, as we understand it, has no future without hope. Or at least our future is precariously unpredictable. With hope, our future, as well as our present, has a better possibility. The Bible defines hope as having unswerving faith in God for our future according to what God has promised (Hebrews 11.1) Sadly, this hope neither Emily nor Jonathan apparently possesses.
March, 2013
The pathology of mental health is big business in America. As a sub-text, Steven Soderbergh's "Side Effects" is a commentary of this gigantic medical industrial complex. Perhaps more so than any other peoples on earth, Americans want to look and feel good more than anything else. It seems everyone in this movie is medicated. In a post-modern dread, every troubled soul is promiscuously on something to take the edge off. In one scene, Dr. Jonathan Banks (Jude Law) reassures his wife, while pushing her a pill, "it's easier to be who you are."
"Side Effects," with its opening scenes a homage to Hitchcock's "Psycho," is about Jonathan, a psychiatrist, who attends to a suicide patient, Emily Taylor (Rooney Mara). She is a troubled soul whose husband is recently released from prison for insider trading. Perhaps because of her unrepentant husband's release or something else entirely, she descends into a series of depressant and dangerous episodes. With genuine compassion, Jonathan seeks to help her.
He explains that depression is the feeling of hopelessness without a future - the anxiety that cannot see, predict or construct a reliable tomorrow. Emily's sad countenance betrays her angst. But her porcelain face also masks something troubling deep inside beyond depression. Her few words maneuver in disguises through dense duplicity. Something else is going on in her dark head. She seems hopeless without a future and yet her undercurrent rages determinatively to get there. She begs her doctor to give her something to soften that edginess.
In this feel good, medicated culture, money is ubiquitous. Jonathan's compassion co-exists uncomfortably with greed. When asked why he left England, Jonathan matter-of-factly reasons that there is a better future in America to make money in psychiatry. Corralled in a complex labyrinth between attending to his patients and making more money, Jonathan barely manages to navigate this inherent conflict. In due course, his future is also hopelessly threatened by this unavoidable conflict. Those who study this stuff say that there is a fine line between depression and rage. When his career is threatened as a consequence of his treatment of Emily, he also descends into a moral confusing rage.
There are two stories of side effects here. There is Emily's struggles with the side effects of taking depressant drugs. And there is Jonathan's struggles with the side effects of dispensing depressant drugs. The two halves of this movie intersect as their lives unraveled. To help Emily, Jonathan reaches out to her previous therapist. In fine clothes and controlled cadence, we sense immediately that Dr. Victoria Siebert (Catherine Zeta-Jones) in her greed is a virtual snake pushing virtual snake oil. Not unexpectedly, Jonathan is dazed by her hiss. The new anti-depressant drug, recommended by Dr. Siebert, causes violent side effects in Emily.
With the right (or wrong) happenstance anyone is capable of anything. In an instant, everything can be altered irreparably into a hopeless future. In hopelessness, a troubled Emily dives into criminality. In hopelessness, Jonathan evolves from moral confusion to vicious desperation. Life, as we understand it, has no future without hope. Or at least our future is precariously unpredictable. With hope, our future, as well as our present, has a better possibility. The Bible defines hope as having unswerving faith in God for our future according to what God has promised (Hebrews 11.1) Sadly, this hope neither Emily nor Jonathan apparently possesses.
Silver Linings Playbook
Review by John L. Ng
January, 2013
Wailing the hardship of relationships, a friend quipped, "never make friends in a psychiatric ward." He has not yet seen the film "Silver Linings Playbook." Directed by David O. Russell and loosely based on Matthew Quick's novel by the same title, the movie is about relationship making in a virtual psychiatric ward. After a stay at a mental institution, Pat (Bradley Cooper) is discharged by his longsuffering mother. While living with his parents he runs around in a black trash bag, analogous of what has become of him, trashed. But he is determined to find a silver lining in his dark cloud. His plan is to get back with his estranged wife.
His mother reassures everyone early in the film that "it's all under control." Not really. Nothing in Pat's world is orderly or under control. It thrives on social chaos. Racked with pain and anxiety, Pat's ranting raves even more with hysteria, for himself and others. His world is crammed with irregular people, including his father (Robert De Niro), friends and psychiatrist, crammed with obsessive-compulsive behaviors. No one talks calmly or listens quietly. They only yell and scream, stumbling on that proverbial line between sanity and insanity.
Pat tosses Hemingway's "A Farewell To Arms," a story of tender love and tragic lost, and rails that life is difficult enough without its existential bleakness. Into this emotive turmoil, along comes Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence). She too is wrecked, wounded and wanting. In time, their relationship evolves into healing nurture. Almost as an antidote to Hemingway and tonic for his angst, she shows Pat a clip from "Singin' In The Rain," a 1950's lighthearted musical comedy.
As the subtext of their encounter, Tiffany maneuvers Pat to partner with her in a dance contest. With a quick wit and brutal honesty, she brings light into his dark cloud and clarity in his fog. No doubt, his mother is his designated emotive stability by her unconditional maternal acceptance. But he needs to reconcile with his father, the basis of all his other relationships. Especially here, Tiffany injects healing in Pat's hurtful detachment from his father. In time, he finds paternal acceptance.
"Silver Linings Playbook" pleads for and provides a happy ending. But it is not a romantic comedy nor a fairy tale. Both its wailings and laughers are real. Some call it a dark comedy. But can a film portrayal of mental illness be comical? The answer is yes only when the absurdity of its dark humor happens to someone else. When someone we love is drubbed with mental illness, it is not so funny. We chuckle at certain scenes because we are distant from the people in them. The film is a sad story with a happy ending. Although its end is not really the ending of Pat and Tiffany's story, we feel good about them and want things to work out for them.
It is not by coincidence that the movie cumulates around Christmas. As the camera pans across the front lawn, we notice a nativity scene depicting the birth of Christ Jesus. Later the camera frames Pat's family inside the house. On its living room wall, we catch several glimpses of Warner Sallman's famous portrait of Jesus. There is no hint that Pat or his family is religious. Then why the two intentional images of Christianity, a gospel of reconciliation and redemption with God and humanity? Perhaps even in secular culture, Christmas has always been the wintery season of light and hope. Our greeting at year's end, even to total strangers, is merry Christmas and happy New Year. "Silver Linings Playbook" makes us feel good that way.
January, 2013
Wailing the hardship of relationships, a friend quipped, "never make friends in a psychiatric ward." He has not yet seen the film "Silver Linings Playbook." Directed by David O. Russell and loosely based on Matthew Quick's novel by the same title, the movie is about relationship making in a virtual psychiatric ward. After a stay at a mental institution, Pat (Bradley Cooper) is discharged by his longsuffering mother. While living with his parents he runs around in a black trash bag, analogous of what has become of him, trashed. But he is determined to find a silver lining in his dark cloud. His plan is to get back with his estranged wife.
His mother reassures everyone early in the film that "it's all under control." Not really. Nothing in Pat's world is orderly or under control. It thrives on social chaos. Racked with pain and anxiety, Pat's ranting raves even more with hysteria, for himself and others. His world is crammed with irregular people, including his father (Robert De Niro), friends and psychiatrist, crammed with obsessive-compulsive behaviors. No one talks calmly or listens quietly. They only yell and scream, stumbling on that proverbial line between sanity and insanity.
Pat tosses Hemingway's "A Farewell To Arms," a story of tender love and tragic lost, and rails that life is difficult enough without its existential bleakness. Into this emotive turmoil, along comes Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence). She too is wrecked, wounded and wanting. In time, their relationship evolves into healing nurture. Almost as an antidote to Hemingway and tonic for his angst, she shows Pat a clip from "Singin' In The Rain," a 1950's lighthearted musical comedy.
As the subtext of their encounter, Tiffany maneuvers Pat to partner with her in a dance contest. With a quick wit and brutal honesty, she brings light into his dark cloud and clarity in his fog. No doubt, his mother is his designated emotive stability by her unconditional maternal acceptance. But he needs to reconcile with his father, the basis of all his other relationships. Especially here, Tiffany injects healing in Pat's hurtful detachment from his father. In time, he finds paternal acceptance.
"Silver Linings Playbook" pleads for and provides a happy ending. But it is not a romantic comedy nor a fairy tale. Both its wailings and laughers are real. Some call it a dark comedy. But can a film portrayal of mental illness be comical? The answer is yes only when the absurdity of its dark humor happens to someone else. When someone we love is drubbed with mental illness, it is not so funny. We chuckle at certain scenes because we are distant from the people in them. The film is a sad story with a happy ending. Although its end is not really the ending of Pat and Tiffany's story, we feel good about them and want things to work out for them.
It is not by coincidence that the movie cumulates around Christmas. As the camera pans across the front lawn, we notice a nativity scene depicting the birth of Christ Jesus. Later the camera frames Pat's family inside the house. On its living room wall, we catch several glimpses of Warner Sallman's famous portrait of Jesus. There is no hint that Pat or his family is religious. Then why the two intentional images of Christianity, a gospel of reconciliation and redemption with God and humanity? Perhaps even in secular culture, Christmas has always been the wintery season of light and hope. Our greeting at year's end, even to total strangers, is merry Christmas and happy New Year. "Silver Linings Playbook" makes us feel good that way.