Vicky Christina Barcelona

Written at the time of the film's release...

"Juan is the Loneliest Number That You'll Ever Do"

or

"To Javier and Javier Not"

Vicky Christina Barcelona (Woody Allen, 2008) The latest film in what will, no doubt, be called Woody Allen's "Scarlett" period, Vicky Christina Barcelona was shot almost totally in Spain, and benefits from the change of location. It's a large part of what drives the plot and the two women who vacation in Spain for different purposes.

Vicky (Christina Hall) is studying Catalan architecture (particularly Gaudi), and spends the time in Spain as a prelude to getting married to staid, reliable Doug (Chris Messina). Christina (Scarlett Johansson) has just written and directed an 18 minute film starring herself, and broken up with the latest in a series of men in impetuous affairs. She has no business in Spain, but goes to spend time with Vicky and get away. Vicky values the safe and dependable. Christina is searching, "certain only of what she doesn't want," as explained by a ubiquitous Narrator (Christopher Welch), whose constant comments make the film feel less a visual experience than a story with pictures.

While in Spain, the two women are approached by darkly handsome artist Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem) who offers to fly the women to the town of Oviedo for the weekend to view the Gaudi works, drink wine, and make love. Vicky thinks Juan is a creep. Christina is intrigued, but both women end up going, Vicky to protect her impetuous friend.

Juan is soulful, attentive, but it is obvious he is in love with his ex-wife Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), despite the fact a) they couldn't make it work, and b) she stabbed him in a rage. ("Oh, that..." she says dismissively when it's brought up).

Things get complicated, but never enough for the Narrator to be lost for words or explanations, and when Maria Elena shows up again in Juan Antonio's life, the movie turns, at equal turns poetic, and dangerous. Despite the mannered ways that Allen's films can frequently turn out, this group of actors is particularly well-suited to working outside of Allen's tic's and rhythms. The closest any of the characters come to the Allen neurotic persona (a staple in Allen's films, either played by Allen or a stand-in) is Vicky, but she's much more sure of herself, if not her situation.

Bardem is sadly relaxed in the film, but Penelope Cruz is a force of nature, this generation's Sophia Loren. After being stuck in some unmemorable films with some straight-jacketed performances, the last few years and films have displayed a bravura presence, and she runs a gamut of emotions in this one to full effect. It's a tough role to pull off--she's held up as an icon until she appears, and when she shows up later in the film, arriving bedraggled from the hospital after a suicide attempt, Cruz more than fills the bill, with her extremes of behavior never seeming contrived or phony.

And Johansson has rarely been better represented on-screen—one close-up in particular of Christina listening to Juan Antonio explaining his love for his ex-wife fairly burns on the screen with resentment.

 

It may ultimately prove to be a minor Allen film, but as a change of pace and an expansion of style it couldn't be more successful.

To Rome With Love

Written at the time of the film's release...

Around the World in Woody's Malaise

or
The Ozymandius Melancholia Gambit ("Turbulence!  My Favorite!")

Far be it for me to suggest that Woody Allen might actually be comfortable in his own skin as a storyteller. but when it has come time for him to do his own "Roman Holiday" film, To Rome With Love, there's not a hint of Fellini in it (Been there, done that—specifically, way back in 1980, when he made his Stardust Memories in tribute to the great Italian film-maker). 

Truth to tell, his latest has more in common with the Italian "anthology" films of the 1960's, where directors would tackle similar themes in short personal films.

To Rome With Love has four interlocking fantasias about love and personal dissatisfaction: in the first, a young married couple (Alessandro Tiberi and Alessandra Mastronardi) come to Rome, where he is to be introduced to his new work situation—eager to make a good impression, the wife goes shopping and ends up getting lost and involved with an Italian film-star, and hubby, thanks to a case of mistaken identity, must go to his functions in the company of a pre-arranged hooker (Penelope Cruz); the second involves two architects, one seasoned (Alec Baldwin), the other just starting out (Jesse Eisenberg) who become each other's fantasy figures (of a sorts) when the young architect, already attached to Sally (Greta Gerwig), falls for her best friend Monica (Ellen Page), a self-involved, if fascinating, actress.

The third involves a "normal member of the middle class" in Rome (Roberto Benigni) who suddenly becomes "famous for being famous," and is pursued and interviewed by an indiscriminate paparazzi; the fourth involves a former classical music executive (Allen), who discovers a great opera singer (Fabio Armiliato) in the family of his potential son-in-law..with conditions.

The setting is Italian, but the themes are pure "Allen-town." Each of the characters get a brief glimpse of "life on the other side," gingerly placing their toes where the grass is greener, and find it wanting, but themselves enriched from the experience, survived without harm or consequences paid. Baldwin's architect gets to play devil's advocate (much the same way as Bogart did in Play It Again, Sam) with a realist's wisdom, as opposed to a romantic's fool-hardiness—a good cure for his nostalgia. The Italian couple experience romantic fantasies before settling down to domestic bliss, not older but wiser.

Benigni's civil-functionary briefly enjoys cultural significance, with all the invasiveness and dissection of minutiae, before returning to anonymity and the value of a private life, and Allen's retiree gets to witness a fulfillment of his dreams by providing a channel for another, and, having achieved it, returning to his normal life.

Any of these stories could be set anywhere. Rome provides a nice catalyst for these quick short pieces that summarize the Allen world-view: "Life is terrible, but it beats the alternative." And it's buttressed by the standard "Volare"...which mean "to fly." 

Happy landings.

The 355

It's a Man's World—God Help Us (If She's Listening)

or

"We're Spies, Asshole!"

 

The reviews have not been kind to The 355, and the critics have teamed up around it like a circular firing squad. "Generic" says The Guardian. The L.A. Times says it "feels familiar and is a bit tired." The (London) Times calls it "lazy" and "box-ticking." Christy Lemire of Ebert.com criticized it for the clothes.*

 

Because it stars nice looking women and they should have been dressed more fashionably.

 

The Wikipedia article on it says Rotten Tomatoes reports it has an aggregate score of 4.4/10 (so it's the squishy green emoji). Cinemascore says audiences give it a B+ (which is better than average). I use that to illustrate the summary judgment despite the fact I hate aggregate web-sites, believing that metrics is the down-fall of Society, and that such sites do not promote critical thinking, and individuality. I think they work against people seeing movies, rather than promoting it. I give aggregate sites an "F" and don't visit them so their ads will get one less "little tingle." And one less reason for being.**

 

Add to that, I live on the west coast of the United States, but not in Los Angeles and certainly not in New York (it being on the east coast), so I don't entirely subscribe to the trope that "January is where movies go to die," seeing as I see a lot of good movies released outside of the Academy nominating window here. And I've seen my share of spy movies, action movies, and thrillers. The tendency for them to go over the the top now has only increased with the superhero genre—my eyes still hurt from the rolling they did watching Black Widow running up some scaffolding falling in space. It's tough to find a tough spy thriller anyone, or a smart one, or even a believable one, so many have come before spoiling the barrel.

 

But, the spy genre does teach one lesson: trust no one. The 355 extends that to movie critics.

Not that the film is without flaws. When an important member of a operative team is reported killed and the guy in charge says "I identified the body myself," I muttered "Well, I haven't seen the body..." and the exact nature of the computer drive—the McGuffin of the story—isn't made sufficiently clear other than it can hack into anything and "start World War III" and "set the world on fire" and people ooh and ahh over its elegance and sophistication. Until you drop it in the sink, that is. And just when I was thinking of calling this piece Everything Bond Does But in Heels" someone has to use 007's name in vain: "James Bond always ends up alone." (No, he doesn't—more times than not, he ends up in a boat!).

But, what sets this one apart is an attitude of viciousness, physical and psychological. Most spy-action movies are exercises for (what Gustav Hasford in "The Short-Timers" called) "the phony tough and the crazy brave"—fan-boys who've never had their noses broken. It looks good with all the kick-boxing moves and quick editing, but it's all ballet, essentially, designed that the feints look close, but couldn't knock a cigar out of a mouth. This one has plenty of that, although the fights are kept to a lesser amount. The women of The 355 just shoot people. And then shoot them again.

The story involves five women from different countries' intelligence services: American CIA agent "Mace" Brown (Jessica Chastain), German GND agent Marie Schmitt (Diane Kruger), Briton Khadijah Adiyeme (Lupita Nyong'o) former MI6 agent, Colombian DNI psychologist Graciela Rivera (Penélope Cruz), and (eventually) Chinese MSS agent Lin Mi Sheng (Bingbing Fan). They're all after this super-drive that is being ponied about by a former drug cartel, now re-branding to concentrate on raw, naked power. Brown and Schmitt are the lone wolves, driven agents with prominent chips—the non-computer kind—on their shoulder holsters. Adiyeme got out of the game and is a tech security consultant with a stable home-life, and Rivera is the civilian, a PTSD specialist—brought in to bring in an operative from the field (physician, heal thyself)—who has a normal family life with a husband and two kids. It's her job to ask "What are you talking about?" when the strategizing starts to get technical.

These five women are operating in a world of men—both bad guys and purported good guys. It was The King's Man—a not-great movie with some "moments"—that pointed out that the best undercover agents are staff, usually made up of women and minorities, so these five are negotiating through the "man's world" by virtue of being overlooked...or being dismissed by allies and enemies alike ("Are you under control?" one of them asks. "No." is the reply. "Are you?" "No!" Of course, they're not) They all have "issues" which might seem less important if they were traits exhibited in "the boys," but these five are all trying to prove something. The result is they have little patience for negotiating, and they're brutal.

Take, for instance, when Brown and Schmitt—who have been seeking the same target from different sides—draw down on each other. Stalemate. Then, Schmitt gives the command to drop the weapon and starts a countdown. "5!" She starts. Then Brown takes it over before that second is up—"4!" Schmitt is even quicker in response with "3!" and you just know something bad is going to happen. Or when they've got a courier tied up and want information and give him the old cliche "You can do this the easy way or the hard way" and he refuses. One of them just shoots him in the leg, tells him she's deliberately hit his femoral artery and he's only got two minutes before he bleeds out. There's a tourniquet waiting if he agrees.

That's matched when the bad guys have the five at gun-point and, when they get stone-walled, bring up screens of the people closest to them, and then summarily shoot one after the other in the effort to get one of them—any of them—to crack. The film is tougher, more mean-spirited, and less contrived in setting up complications than just about any spy or action film that I've seen in a long time. You know the complaint about most spy movies—why don't they just shoot 'em—this is one that does that. But none of the participants in the critical "kill-box" for this film have mentioned it or given it any credit for it.

No. It's all about "the fashion."

* In the comments section of Lemire's review, nobody pointed this out. They were too concerned that women couldn't take out men in a fight because they weigh less. They hadn't seen the movie. Most of the fights dispense with "the manly art" because the women just shoot people in the head. Twice. For good measure. Jessica Chastain's character does have a fight...with one man...and it goes on and on and she's very bruised and bleeding after it. Bingbing Fan has a fight with four guys using the broken base of a free-standing lamp—she dispatches one while putting it through his neck.

 

** Please notice my lack of links for those sites. You can find them on your own without my help.

Nine

Mary Poppins Returns is great. But here's an earlier musical by its director Rob Marshall that stunk, despite a rich subject matter and some great stars. 

Written at the time of the film's foisting.

"How Do You Solve a Problem Like Fellini?"
or
"There Ought To Be Clowns (Don't Bother, They're Here)"

There is a great movie, I'm sure, to be made of the Tony Award winning musical Nine. But this isn't "it." Nor, I think, was "it" an intention for the production company to do so.

In fact, it is hard to determine what "it" is, and what "it" intends to do. Is it a musical adaptation of Fellini's 8 1/2, or of Fellini's life? Is it even an adaptation of the original musical, as there are far more songs left out of it than are in it?* Locations are changed, circumstances and motivations are sliced and diced. One wonders what was so wrong about a hailed musical confection that the late Anthony Minghella and Michael Tolkin (who wrote the script), current director Rob Marshall, and the producers seem to be running away from it.

They aren't the only ones, merely they slowest of the pack. Daniel Day-Lewis was a last minute first tier replacement for the more suitable Javier Bardem when Bardem walked off the project pleading "exhaustion"—but not exhausted enough to flee, evidently. Bardem makes very wise career choices. Nicole Kidman replaced Catherine Zeta-Jones after the producers wouldn't acomodate her demands to expand her part. One wonders why they'd balk about making any more changes for their Chicago Oscar-winner after making so many of their own.

But, truth be told, the thing is a sorry, sorry mess. Not true to its source, its inspiration, or even to itself, one reads the description of the original musical and wonders why it is not the movie. But one gets an inkling. Fellini's film, made about a creator's inability to create a harmonious chorus of the voices in his head, his muses, his collaborators and backers all clamoring for attention had a structure, a purpose and an approach. But it did not have a lift, a creative inspiration until Fellini made it about a director rather than a writer. Fellini had no trouble making it, letting his conscience and unconscious be his guide (or Guido, if you will). On the contrary, he was energized by it. His "film that got away" would not occur until a bit later in his career.

The creators of Nine saw it as about themselves, and the difficulty of achieving a vision. One sees the disconnect with the Fellini inspiration as soon as the musical Guido's obsession with the Folies Bergiere is brought to song. Folies Bergiere? Mama Mia! Where's the Circus? Fellini equals circus! Comprende? But, "Nine" the musical—not the film, that gets even worse—is glitz and spangles and presentation with a smattering of psychological insight embroidered in a mash-up (one can't call it a mixture) of half-inspired and un-inspired songs.

"Nine," the movie, is a whoring down of that concept. Big stars. Small ideas. A polyglot of a tribute to a movie it doesn't understand, and the Broadway production that the money-men didn't feel had enough pizzazz** to put keisters in the seats (Because nothing makes you want to "Fosse, Fosse, Fosse" and booty-shake like ennui and creative stagnation!***). So, we've got Day-Lewis (he's fine—not too believable, but at least he's not doing a John Huston imitation this time).**** We've got Nicole Kidman and Penélope Cruz (wonder what they had to talk about on-set?), Kate...Kate Hudson (??), and....Fergie?(!!). Then, to give it some ethnic legitimacy they throw in Sophia Loren***** and Miramax staples Judi Dench and Marion Cotillard. Cotillard is heart-breaking as the Giulietta Massina look-alike wife—played by Anouk Aimée in Fellini's film (she's even got Massina's brave smile down). Dench does fine by her number, silly and irrelevant as it is, but as if to gin up any excitement, they work over-time trying to make it entertaining. Cruz gets a sizzling number as director Guido Contini's mistress-played by Sandra Milo in the original film. Kidman plays Contini's past star Claudia (based on the Claudia Cardinale character in 8 1/2—which would have tied in with Zeta-Jones' participation, but goes back to the original inspiration, "ice queen" Anita Ekberg for Kidman's participation). Loren plays Contini's domineering Mamma, usually a grotesque in Fellini's films. Director Rob Marshall undercuts the material by over-cutting, editing all the momentum out of the music, which veers from worthwhile ("Be Italian" given a rip-roaring rendition by...give her credit, she's the best thing here...Fergie of "The Black Eyed Peas") to the filler ("Cinema Italiano" given sass by Kate Hudson, but shot and edited like an MTV version of the old '60's "Shindig!" program).

I was looking forward to this one, but very high expectations leave the biggest craters when they fall. Not a fan of musicals, Nine only confirmed why I've rarely enjoyed them, as they can be false and irrelevant to anything resembling life or the impulse to song that it might evoke.

This adaptation of an adaptation of a somewhat autobiographical work by the artist, even though titularly and musically adjusted for inflation, just isn't worth as much as the original. Artistically, it is bankrupt.

* Three new songs were written for it, all of them unmemorable—in a bid to score more Oscar nominations for The Weinstein Company which oversaw this sorry mess.

** Imagined conversation: "Y'know? Everybody's singing about their feelin's an' everything! There's not enough dancing with women with big bazooms, and Alfa Romeo's and Fiat's!! Know what I'm sayin'?" 

*** Although Fosse did make a musical based around a heart attack.

****...which reminds me, the last movie I've seen that ended (like Nine) with the director-figure saying "Action" was Clint Eastwood's White Hunter, Black Heart—where Eastwood was playing (and imitating) John Huston!

***** Did it occur to the makers that the only Italian in their film celebrating Italian cinema is Loren? And that she didn't work with Fellini?

Murder on the Orient Express (2017)

The Laboriousness of Hercule
or
"Not No Much a WhoDunnit as a WhyDoIt?"

Agatha Christie was loathe (and that is the precise word) to have her books adapted by Hollywood. She wasn't crazy about the "Ten Little Indian" versions, and absolutely despised the Margaret Rutherford-starring Miss Marple films (especially when Tony Randall cameoed as Hercule Poirot in one of them). She reconsidered towards the end of her life after a personal appeal by Lord Mounbatten (father-in-law of one of the producers) that resulted in Sidney Lumet's 1974 all-star version of "Murder on the Orient Express", starting a series of fims and a flood of adaptations for British television, featuring Marple and Poirot. CBS broadcast a modern-dress version starring Alfred Molina (which was clueless and terrible and would have produced a train-like shriek from Miss Christie from beyond the grave).

When the "Poirot" series (with the dedicated David Suchet) did its adaptation a few years ago (with Barbara Hershey, Eileen Atkins, Hugh Bonneville, and Jessica Chastain among the suspects), it was head-and-shoulders more satisfying than the multi-million dollar film version. But, on the heels of that was announced a new film version to be directed by (and starring) Kenneth Branagh and one could only wonder what the possible reason might be.

The Detective

Having sat through the new version of Murder on the Orient Express, I can only guess that it was to provide work to a lot of film technicians and actors. It's product, but nothing Earth-shaking, and for that, it isn't even a great adaptation. The script is quite good—thank you, Michael Green, Hollywood's busiest script-writer/doctor—but the presentation leaves much to be desired. Maybe the film-makers were merely trying to attract a young audience to a version where the actors weren't aged or deceased (in which case, we'll always have Dame Judi Dench and Derek Jacobi), but I think the film will mostly appeal to the blue-haired matinee-goers, who have a history with Christie so that, even if the film does become a tent-pole production (they hint at a version of Death on the Nile next), it will probably suffer the same fate as the 70's movie series, which faded after a couple of lackluster productions.

It also might have been an attempt to resuscitate Poirot as they did with Robert Downey jr's steampunk Sherlock Holmes (directed by Guy Ritchie)—there are certain indications of this as this version of Poirot sizes up people with a glance ("You're a prostitute..." "Yes, I am!") and has a habit of anticipating events five steps ahead of his suspects. That's new, and certainly outside of Christie's envisioning. But, aside from purloining some aspects from other Christie stories, there's nothing very new—or original—except for getting the character a bit wrong.* Poirot is described as a mountebank (read "snake-oil salesman") by Christie, so although he might be fastidious to a fault, he is no tall, imposing presence. The mind is what is supposed to impress about Poirot, not his appearance. If anything, he shouldn't be too impressive at all.

And we'll get to "the mustache" in a few minutes.

The Victim

Poirot is in Jerusalem investigating a theft involving a priest, a rabbi, and an imam (like "the joke" he comments). Exposing his dramatic side by doing his presentation of evidence in front of a crowd at The Wailing Wall—seems a bit extreme—Poirot solves the crime. Given the ecumenical divisions of the suspects that's at least all-inclusive, but it's a fairly risky procedure to do this so publicly. Why would he do this in front of strangers who have no clue (literally) of the particulars of the case.

The show over and the exposed non-denominational thief caught, Poirot decides to take a last-minute trip back to London and uses his friendship with Bouc (Tom Bateman), roguish son of the director the Orient Express to gain passage. He takes the place of a "no-show" and in transit, strikes up a casual friendship with governess Mary Debenham (Daisy Ridley) and a doctor named Arbuthnot (Leslie Odom, jr.) who seem to be more than familiar with each other. It is enough to cause more than a tickle in his little gray cells, as the two are making pains to not seem familiar.

Once he gets to the Calais Coach, he makes note of the other passengers cutting across all sorts of ages and strata of society, princesses and practical men—the usual disparate suspects. He is approached by a dealer of art named Rathcett (Johnny Depp, channeling Ray Liotta in Goodfellas) who asks for Poirot's protection—he fears for his life, but Poirot, despite sharing a dessert with the gangsterish fellow, refuses for the most basic of reasons—"I do not like your face." In the middle of the night, he will be murdered, stabbed repeatedly and the train will be stopped by an avalanche, keeping the occupants conveniently trapped aboard. It will be up to Poirot to discover who aboard could have committed the crime before the train can be freed and continue on its way to waiting authorities.

There are clues aplenty and the reasonable assumption that the murderer is still on-board, as a couple of random attacks, none fatal, make it suspicious that one of the others could be next. But, who could be the perpetrator of such a vicious murder? As Poirot interviews everybody on the train, he finds threads and suspicions, but most of them seem to be distractions rather than real clues.

There are attempts to make the film less claustrophobic, but they seem a trifle desperate to create some action in a scenario that is mostly talking and thinking. And Branagh (the director) tries to inject some mystery and resonance by making use of the di-optic qualities of the glass partitions in the carriage—a bit too much, actually. Like most of the film it is mere obfuscation to a denouement that answers the questions, but creates an ethical dilemma that is the real center of the story. That dilemma is resolved by a tricky maneuver by Poirot (not in the book, which ends abruptly with the solution of the murder without any sort of hand-wringing about justice) that is a tad simplistic and more than a bit impractical in matters of weight. Versions had resolved it "similarly," but Poirot's deliberate entrapment creates a scene that makes him seem more decisive and conniving, and does so without a lot of talk. Personally, when the subject is justice and right versus wrong, I much prefer talk.

At least, Branagh's is not as perversely celebratory as the 1974 Sidney Lumet version—a murder is committed, after all—but it is not as brave and resolutely moral as the Suchet television version, which has the detective shaken and fighting tears by his own actions (or lack of them) in the service of what might be justice. The detective is trapped by his own catholic history (far beyond the aspirations of Christie) and feels complicit in the whole affair. Now, that is something of some import. "The Murder on the Orient Express" has one more victim; it kills something in Poirot.

Now...the mustache. A review can't seem to go by without a mention of the very large and ferret-like mustache that Branagh's Poirot sports throughout the movie. Such is the sort of thing that dominates internet criticism or what passes for it. The cliche is the dainty little handlebar curl of Albert Finney and David Suchet. Branagh's winding "extreme" Imperial is a distraction—maybe that's why it's there, dramatically. But, there is one other reason it might be a part of this film. Dame Agatha was alive at the time of the 1974 Lumet version and her one criticism of it was thus: "It was well made except for one mistake. It was Albert Finney, as my detective Hercule Poirot. I wrote that he had the finest moustache in England — and he didn't in the film. I thought that a pity — why shouldn't he?"

I guess that is the answer to the ultimate mystery—why do it?  I just wish the answer was something more than "why shouldn't they?"

* ...for instance, in a couple of scenes, Branagh is seen clutching a locket with a portrait of his lost love, Catherine. Who? No such person existed in all of Christie. The closest Poirot came to "the woman" (how Sherlock Holmes referred to the woman he most admired, Irene Adler) was the Countess Vera Rossakoff. Setting something up for another movie. Well, to do that the first one has to be good. 

The Counselor

Couples Therapy
or
How to Get a Head in Business

The Counselor is not "The Worst Movie Ever Made" (as some would have it) nor should such a withering condemnation (from a critic? *pfft*) warrant it any sort of pity-praise to escalate it above what it deserves. Pity is the last thing on the mind of The Counselor.

What it is is the first original screenplay by Cormac McCarthy—he also exec-produced—and directed, with a lavish budget for just about everything, including dirt, by Ridley Scott, who one should now probably call a "stylist," rather than a director. Everything looks great. But, again, one wonders if Scott read the script beyond descriptions.  

Like so much of McCarthy's work, it is dark and gritty and nihilistic—in a hopeful, moral kind of way; in other words, it's a story or very bad people doing very bad things from the point of view of a person who is tsk-ing in the background. Perfect director for this would have been Martin Scorsese. But, it's Ridley Scott who, given his past, seems to have a lot of sympathy for the devil (Blade Runner, Legend, Hannibal, Matchstick Men, American Gangster, Prometheus), indeed, in his last movie, the hero was, once again, a synthetic human being with its own sense of ethics. That synth was played, rather brilliantly, by Michael Fassbender, which is why he's the titular lead.

The thing about novelists doing screenplays and writing for the movies is they're slumming, unless they see themselves as legitimate film-makers (see the Coen Brothers or John Sayles).  Maybe McCarthy couldn't flesh out his characters for the novel form. Maybe he wanted to see what a film-maker wanted to do with a work he wasn't happy with and see what the collaborative process would produce. Maybe he wanted to make some money. But, for whatever reason, McCarthy chose to do this as a film, and not a fully thought out novel.

"...red in tooth and claw"

Maybe he just didn't like it. It's extraordinarily simplistic—The Counselor spends the first half warning its protagonist "Don't do this" and casually mentioning ways in which people can be killed, usually involving decapitation ("it's just business"). Once he's "locked in," it spends the second half eliminating most of the cast in precisely the ways that have been described in the first half. It answers the question that is contained in a couple of questions in that first half—"Why am I telling you this?" Obviously, so we can anticipate it being used later and knowing what's happening. In other words, literally, the first half of The Counselor is a prolonged "you just don't get it, do you?" speech. The second half, he gets it (I'd warn about spoilers here, but everything is telegraphed fairly early on, even "the surprise" puppet-master of the thing).

One interesting aspect of The Counselor is the cast...or, at least, the cast as it once was. Fassbender was always going to be in it, evidently, but the others were going to be real-life couples Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie and Javier Bardem and Penélope Cruz, but slightly scrambled so that Bardem and Jolie would be a couple and Fassbender and Cruz would be paired. At some point, Jolie dropped out and Cameron Diaz was cast in her role. She's as fine as everybody else in the cast, but the dialog is difficult for swallow.  Take for example, this:

I suspect that we are ill-formed for the path we have chosen. Ill-formed and ill-prepared. We would like to draw a veil over all the blood and terror that have brought us to this place. It is our faintness of heart that would close our eyes to all of that, but in so doing it makes of it our destiny... But nothing is crueler than a coward, and the slaughter to come is probably beyond our imagining.

I remember a scene from the Elia Kazan film of The Last Tycoon where movie mogul Monroe Stahr in a fit of pique exits a screening saying "'And I, you...' nobody TALKS like that." Everybody talks like that in The Counselor, everybody's vocabulary is up to snuff, and everybody has the time to ponder and philosophize. But what their philosophy centers around is Nature, "red in tooth and claw." But Nature doesn't have the time to think about what it is doing, except strategically. If there is a slaughter to come for the human race, the meek won't inherit the Earth, but evidently the pretentious will. 

Everybody talks a good game in The Counselor, but it makes a bad movie.