__EXT. NIGHT / ROOFTOP__
After having thrown all of his clothes from the rooftop, the man approaches the building's edge. The wind howls menacingly.
Sarah (off-screen) : DON'T JUMP, HARRY! PLEASE DON'T JUMP!
man turns around. He jumps.
Sarah : NOOOOO!
Sarah stares above, watching the thin man's body cascading towards her like a descending halo.
The nearby citizens are barely watching the disturbing spectacle. ''Another one'', they appear to think. Sarah is isolated in her panic.
Suddenly, in one swift, airsplitting motion, the man glides right above her and flies back up. Sarah's checkerboard hat and regal scarf hit the concrete. Large, dragonfly-like wings have erupted from the man's back during his fall.
he is now free.
Sarah : HARRY! HARRY!!!
Sarah watched uncomfortably as her best friend dissapeared into the city night.
Difficult and contrived, much like spinning into adulthood in a terminally fucked-up world can feel like. Lonergan has verve and social reviling to spare, and to watch almost none of his ideas cohere and yet crackle like very few other network narratives do nowadays gives the effect a really disturbing read. By its final pages, Margaret proves to have transcended its horrifying post-producting trials and landed on the street as a real shot to the heart to whoever has decided to remain on its wounded wings. Paquin is incredible, and so are Smith-Cameron and Berlin.
Built one hundred percent on the dreadfully unimaginative rise-and-fall biopic template, yet there's no denying its emotional wallop due to the sheer wonderfulness of the subject. Phoenix and Witherspoon play off each other with beauty, chemistry and depth, but little about their respective performances has the transportive power to make one label them as unforgettable.
The sole notable aspect of The Devil Inside is that it is far and away the least engaging, scary or satisfying shit-show in both the handheld horror and exorcism-gone-wrong craze. Seriously, movies don't get much worse than The Devil Inside.
Coked out hysterics occur aplenty in London, a lovesick chamber piece that treats empty hedonism with a surprising balance of solemnity and humor. Much of the writing here comes across as very brittle and cursory and whiny, and yet first-time director Hunter Richards' mise en scene makes it clear that these characters (his two male leads, actually) are indeed meant to sound like fucked up near-sociopaths with dick size issues. Evans delivers a strong, appropriately erratic performance, and Statham would match him if it were not for a handful of scenes where he litterally explodes onscreen, and not in a good way. Biel's own take on ethereal, gorgeous-looking insecurity also proves to be a smart piece of casting.
A psyche puzzle with danger and secrecy lingering on the edge of every frame. Manages to feel both sparse & expansive as it reads on a sensitive subject. Very few scenes don't click. Olsen builds something truly beautiful on her initial muffled downcastness, while Paulson & Hawkes in particular each get their moment.
Less biting comedic romp than abhorrent case study. Cody's thorniest script meets Reitman's most comfortable direction, to a certain fault. Moments of pure human terror are aplenty. Theron is terrific, almost beyond belief.
Daldryism find its nadir in Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, where exploration of grief allows nothing more than pretty surfaces and every sentiment has to be wanly noodled with past degree of tolerance. Thomas Horn has the chops, but is never permitted to break out of elf-child mode. Limps to a finish.
Engaging, textured film-as-history fare, A Dangerous Method's screenplay changes a mixed bag. It gets richer and richer as it reels along, largely thanks to four committed performances, despite the fact that they often seem to take part in four separate films. Mortensen, all cloistered judgment & obstinate command, leaves the strongest impression.
Yasmina Reza's stage play is given a sturdy (if relatively uninspired) big-screen workout. Political correctness gets less a dart to the back than a pie to the face. Save from the odd blooper, every actor clicks, Waltz & Winslet being my favorites.