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To
Life
By
Laura Leon
After
the Wedding
Directed
by Susanne Bier
Years ago, Mystery Science Theater 3000 spoofed Santa Claus
Conquers the Martians. Obviously, not a difficult target.
But the single most memorable moment from that particular
episode was when the MST3K people, eyeing a scene featuring
two morose-looking blonde children, intone something like
“We’re not sad, Santa. We’re Norwegian.”
This bit of foolery played into a stereotype that I probably
share with others: that Nordic Europeans, with their high
suicide and alcoholism rates, tend to be melancholy beings.
This impression initially took hold when my sister forced
me to watch Ingmar Bergman movies like Cries and Whispers.
And so I wasn’t terribly surprised when, watching the Danish
Oscar nominee for Best Foreign Picture, After the Wedding,
I was presented with a lot of crying and stoicism and, well,
melodrama.
Children born out of wedlock and raised by surrogate fathers.
Unsuspecting paterfamilias. Troubled youth. Alcoholism and
encroaching illness. A tinge of adultery, a hint of despair
. . . all of these figure prominently in After the Wedding,
which was directed by Susanne Bier. Luckily, Bier is a woman
who knows intuitively how to play such broad emotions in such
a way as to convey deeper insights into the frailties of the
human family. The movie begins not in Copenhagen but in Mumbai,
a place awhirl with heat, dust and ragged humanity. Social
worker Jacob (Mads Mikkelsen) has been summoned back to his
native Denmark in order to secure desperately needed funding
to continue the orphanage he’s presided over for nearly 20
years. The potential benefactor, Jorgen (Rolf Lassgard) is
a self-made man, a master of industry who, we learn in quick-cut
scenes, is equally at east in the comfort of his palatial
country estate, reading to his twin blonde sons, comforting
his aging mother, or sneaking in a bit of romance with his
loving wife Helene (Sidse Babett Knudsen). Our first instinct
might be to recoil with Jacob at the notion of being summarily
ordered to a face-to-face, on the basis of sealing the deal,
but as we consider Jorgen, we realize that there’s much more
to this capitalist than Jacob’s blatant class-hatred would
have us believe.
Within a few short scenes, Jacob is coerced into attending
the lavish wedding of Jorgen’s and Helene’s daughter Anna
(Stine Fischer Christensen), and it is here, as the title
suggests, that things begin to move forward. Secrets are spilled,
news is learned, and all bets are off, as Jacob realizes that
there is much more to Jorgen’s generosity than previously
met the eye. That said, and without divulging crucial plot
details, this is not a movie whose purpose is to wax poetic
about social injustice. It takes some time before the viewer,
perhaps lulled into a certain mentality by too many films
which purport to be about the evils of wealth and the virtues
of poverty (before rewarding the poor hero with millions),
to forget to look for Jorgen’s “secret evil” plan. Bier is
far more interested in the interactions between family and
friends—in particular the choices we make which result in
cohesion and unity or independence. Interestingly, we view
the character of Jorgen almost entirely, in the beginning,
as a father, son or husband, and it is through the familial
prism that we cannot help but see him as something far more
than the sum of his bank account. On the other hand, for all
of Jacob’s obvious selflessness with respect to the Mumbai
orphans, examples abound of his overriding and historic selfishness—indeed,
from the start, he whines about having to return to Denmark
even though it is the only means by which he can secure the
future of the orphanage.
After
the Wedding teems with moments of drama, and at times
it almost seems over the top. The headstrong Anna, whose husband
seems more enamored of her powerful father than of his new
bride, comes home from a party to find said mate getting carnal
on the couch with another woman. She and Helene argue over
past untruths and hints of an overriding desire for control,
and then they are tearfully clinging to each other as best
friends. Jorgen breaks down to Jacob, who recoils from such
raw emotion. Jorgen and Helene argue and make up. It’s only
as the movie rambles toward its mostly satisfying, if pat,
conclusion that one realizes that such entanglements, rapprochements,
détentes and, yes, coincidences, are the stuff of everyday
life—even if you are Norwegian. Bier celebrates life and living,
and as corny as that sounds, it’s a testament to the choices
we make and the dilemmas we share.
Deadly
Fun
28
Weeks Later
Directed
by Juan Carlos Fresnadillo
It’s been almost four years since Danny Boyle’s lean, mean
and absolutely terrifying 28 Days Later reanimated
the zombie genre with its flesh-eating, fast-motion Londoners
infected with a bioengineered “rage virus.” Juan Carlos Fresnadillo
takes over the director’s chair from now-executive producer
Boyle, and the sequel 28 Weeks Later, which picks up
with an attempted repopulation of England, is almost as strong
as the original.
Unlike the traditional George A. Romero-style zombies, these
“zombies” aren’t the undead—they’re diseased humans who will
die if unable to feast on human flesh. So, 28 weeks after
the initial infection, all of those initially infected are
dead, and a U.S.-led NATO force has set up a “green zone”
in central London for the uninfected survivors and English
refugees who were out of the country at the time of the crisis.
Yes, it’s called the Green Zone. Taking a tip from Romero,
the filmmakers eschew, mostly, the Lord of the Flies
drama and psychological approach of 28 Days Later,
in favor of pointed social commentary. And no, the occupation
of infected England doesn’t go any better that that of sectarian-group-divided
Iraq.
The main characters are a man (Robert Carlyle) and his wife
(Catherine McCormack), who were trapped in England during
the outbreak, and their two kids, Andy (Mackintosh Muggleton)
and Tammy (Imogen Poots), who were in Spain.
Things do not go well for them either.
Without fail—and unlike in 28 Days Later—every choice
the characters make is wrong. That includes the choices of
an army doctor (Rose Byrne) and her fellow soldiers. The action
is fast, the tension is brutal and the payoff is a real kick
in the gut.
In other words, it’s terrific. I can’t wait for the final
film in this proposed trilogy.
—Shawn
Stone
Absence of Taste
Black
Book
Directed
by Paul Verhoeven
Few European directors have “gone Hollywood” to the degree
that Paul Verhoeven has. After leaving his native Netherlands,
where he was respected for his edge, he made such enjoyably
commercial hits as RoboCop, Total Recall, and
Basic Instinct, and then steadily degenerated to junk
like Showgirls, Starship Troopers, and Hollow
Man. For Verhoeven to retreat to Holland and reconnect
with his earlier career was a smart move; for him to make
a lavish epic about the Dutch resistance was a brilliant one.
And at times, Black Book, the labyrinthian tale of
a Jewish femme fatale who is recruited as a spy during World
War II, shows flashes of talent and a sure hand for large-scale
storytelling. But it seems that the director’s lurid streak
and lack of narrative integrity (he co-wrote the script) follow
him wherever he films—overall, Black Book offends more
than it informs.
The femme fatale is Rachel (Carice Van Houten) a beautiful
singer who is experienced in getting her way with men even
before the Germans invade Holland. Black Book opens
with Rachel teaching school in Palestine and then flashes
back to the turmoil that brought her to a kibbutz. The framing
device is clumsy and undercuts the suspense, since we know
from the get-go that Rachel survives the occupation. Her effect
on men is the story’s main thrust, and for long stretches,
it seems that an escalating series of backstabs and betrayals
is simply an excuse to showcase Van Houten’s sex appeal (perhaps
not coincidentally, she resembles a young Sharon Stone).
During an escape attempt, Rachel’s wealthy family is gunned
down by Nazis. She miraculously survives and is recruited
into the Resistance. The circumstances of her family’s execution
are eventually revealed by the convoluted plot, which snakes
through an impressive amount of the subterfuge and profiteering
that plagued the Resistance. Rachel’s assignment is to seduce
and spy on the German head of police security (Sebastian Koch),
who she met on a train while switching suitcases to protect
a contact from the Gestapo. Verhoeven apparently didn’t have
the patience to work out the details of an ambitious espionage
tale so he takes narrative shortcuts on a par with the lesser
James Bond films. And he doesn’t miss a single opportunity
for sordid scenarios, lingering on sex and degradation at
the expense of character, motivation, and background. This
results in a few howlers, and to unintentionally cause the
audience to guffaw during a movie that relates to the Holocaust
is an appallingly different thing than producing sniggers
during Starship Troopers.
Not even the beguiling and authentic production (notably Anne
Dudley’s score and Yan Tax’s costume design) can disguise
the director’s lowbrow sensibility. As Rachel falls in love
with her Nazi sympathizer, the script has a chance to go somewhere
daring, but instead, it follows formula, violently piling
up suspects and corpses (and giving Cadbury the most egregious
product placement in movie history). The real shame is that
some of the dilemmas that arise in-between breast shots and
red herrings deserved better treatment, such as the resistance
leader’s conflicted agenda between liberating Holland and
placating the Germans to save Jewish lives. Black Book—the
title object is an account ledger—negates its own internal
logic with its framed ending, a cheaply symbolic wrap-up with
about as much substance as a candy-bar wrapper.
—Ann
Morrow
Silence? Not So Golden
Into
Great Silence
Directed
by Philip Groning
According to an onscreen note at the end of his documentary,
German director Philip Groning had to wait 16 years for permission
to film within the Grand Chartreuse monastery in France. At
the time of his first request, the Carthusian order—by reputation
one of the most unchangingly ascetic in the world—believed
it was “too early” for such a presence in their most important
cloister. It’s amusing to wonder what happened in the 1990s
that motivated the Carthusians—founded in 1084, their motto
is Stat crux dum volvitur orbis (The cross is steady
while the world is turning)—to relent. Amusing, if entirely
rhetorical; for Into Great Silence provides little
information that would suggest an answer, to that or other
questions.
Over six months, Groning filmed alone, observing the monks
in their daily rituals of prayer, study, song and labor. Note:
“observed,” rather than interacted. Though the Carthusians
do not swear a vow of silence, per se, they do avoid unnecessary
conversation and spend most of their days alone in modest
cells. They leave their rooms for three daily, communal prayers,
a shared weekly meal, an occasional walk through the surrounding
(and absolutely spectacular) landscape—and for very little
else.
Groning convincingly reproduces the repetitiveness of the
monks’ lives, revisiting shots and recycling onscreen biblical
text. It’s an interesting and understandable tactic to mimic
the outer form of the brothers’ experience. However, it’s
also a risky one. Groning captures the narrowness, the invariability,
of the Carthusian monastic life but he misses its— presumed—depth.
Perhaps cautious of taxing his viewers—and at 162 minutes,
Into Great Stillness is potentially quite taxing—Groning
avoids overly long shots. He intersperses takes of the monks
in their practice with shots of empty sky, swirling clouds,
time-lapse starscapes, pools of water rippled by rain, and
so on. He further varies the texture of the movie by switching
between hyper-clear imagery with rich, almost saturated color
and grainy, diffuse footage. Any 10-minute excerpt of this
movie contains beautiful and thought-provoking film. Unfortunately,
it doesn’t add up to much.
What Groning cannot do—what perhaps no filmmaker could do—is
capture the inner result of this repetitive discipline. His
slideshow approach adds significant visual interest, and it
is by no means certain that a two-and-a-half-hour film of
another person’s uninterrupted meditation would have fostered
a greater contemplativeness in the viewer. But, this film,
while interesting and ambitious, would be more accurately
labeled Atop Great Silence. It’s pretty, but not penetrating.
—John
Rodat
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