Les Misérables (Musical; 2012)

The Song of Angry Men
or
"To the Barricades!"

I realize I am not the man to do a critical analysis of Les Misérables, the filmed version of the long-running staged presentation of the concept album produced by Claud Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil and Jean Marc Natel, (from the novel by Victor Hugo) for many reasons: 1) I'm not terribly fond of musicals, finding the form unnatural and artificial—the inclination to burst into song having the requirement of being necessitated by the surge of emotion, which, if you do it too much, is a bit unsufferable—but, if the words and music are clever, born out of character and need, my prejudices can be batted away in the sweep of sheer admiration; 2) I’ve never seen “Les Miz” on stage, so this is my first exposure to the material, which I found musically strong, with nice linking strains between songs, but the lyrics, for the majority of it, trite and of the “Moon-June” variety, and the propensity to insert (with a guillotine) moments of light-heartedness in the midst of the most dramatic moments; 3) I have never liked the direction of Tom Hooper (who directed the mini-series “John Adams” with a heavy emphasis on unnecessary dutch angles, tortured compositions, and camera movement “baggage” for its own sake, and then directed The King’s Speech with a somewhat less gaudy eye, but a penchant for “gilding the lily” of competent performances with camera and lens tricks.

So, Les Misérables is almost a “perfect storm” of things I don’t like in movies, making me feel a bit uncomfortable about even attempting to discuss it without the need to eviscerate it like an after-meal chicken. Oh, there are things I thought were marvelous—the grittiness of it, the general down-troddeness of the whole thing, the brio of the effort in dragging it, naturalistically, to the screen, when everything cries out to leave it on the stage where it seems the presentation would be at its optimum.

So, kids, let’s get started. I’ll leave out the show itself, which has more than silenced its original critical drubbing by becoming the wildly popular “people’s choice” at the box office, entirely appropriate given its liberté/fraternité themes. Vive “Les Miz” and all that.But the stage presentation was already an odd ying-yang of performers belting out their inner emotions to the cheap seats, confessing their shame at the top of their lungs. To then bring it back down to intimacy, forcing powerful song material to be played out with naturalistic emotions—crying, snuffling, doubt—then compounds the confusion by compromising the musical material from its original intentions.

Then, director Hooper further piles on the emotional dissonance by shooting everything in very tight close-up, so we have intimate emotions couched in thundering expressiveness delivered at a timid range right in our faces. Hooper did no service to his actors here, threatening to expose every mis-step of their performances (which, by the way, was sung and recorded on set in real time) so close that the audience can’t miss it.

How’d they do? Admirably well, considering. Anne Hathaway will surely win an Oscar for the “I Dreamed a Dream” sequence alone, finding the right balance of giving the song its due, while also expressing the grief, humiliation and moments of rage in her character.*

Towards the end of the film, Eddie Redmayne pulls off a similar gift with “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” and, surprisingly, Amanda Seyfried makes the most of her moments with a high, feathery voice that doesn’t betray fragility. Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe are other matters. Both great performers with musical pasts (the former on Broadway, the latter with his vanity band), both are very capable, but the material, production and presentation get the better of both of them, exposing Jackman’s reedy voice (somewhere between Anthony Newley and David Bowie) and Crowe’s pop sensibility to pitch to the note he’s seeking.

The unlikeliest successes are Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter, as the unscrupulous Thénadier couple, because their song is a knockabout one with lots of stage business letting them loose from the trap of Hooper’s tight framing, and because Cohen is allowed to throw in a couple of ad-libs (in beat, mind you) between lyrics, allowing a little bit of fresh air into the proceedings.

For me, it was a train-wreck that seemed to go on forever, with only a couple of bright spots to give me hope. But, given the production’s history, I’m sure the people will rise above it all, despite the tyranny of the direction on display.

* One of the best lines at the Golden Globes was Amy Poehler’s about Hathaway’s performance: “I have not seen someone so totally alone and abandoned like that since you were on stage with James Franco at the Oscars."  And, yes, she did win the Best Supporting Actress Oscar.

  **  The creators of the stage version must have realized this, too, as they keep turning up and their capering has a tendency to undercut the heavy drama. Entertaining, yes, but at the expense of the rest of the play.

Jennifer's Body

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

"Cluster-Fox"

 

The critical drubbing that horror film/High School satire Jennifer's Body has endured belies its talent behind the camera. After all, it was critics who first pointed out the particular tenor of Diablo Cody's writing in Juno and championed it through its short Film Festival run into theaters (Jason Reitman's previous film Thank You for Smoking, although a nice piece of film-making with a brain in its head, didn't do well at the box office.) Director Karyn Kusama isn't too shabby a director, although Æon Flux was an MTV-ginzu'd nightmare. I was surprised that 2oth Century Fox advertised it as a straight horror movie starring Megan Fox (aiming at—and only at—teenage boys), rather than including girls in the mix. As a result the film "opened soft" (as they say), and the film received decidedly mixed reviews depending on how serious they took it....even serial contrarian Armond White sided with the majority.

But horror films aren't just horror films—they say something about our fears, and more broadly, the "Holy Shite"-geist of society. The proverbially "good" horror movie touches our souls with a chilly finger and reminds us we're all mortal, but whether it's our relationship with God (in Frankenstein) or our relationship with sex and guilt (Halloween), horror films find our soft underbellies and either tickle us or stab up to the third knuckle. 

Jennifer's Body tells the story of Jennifer Check (Megan Fox) and Anita "Needy" Lisnicki (Amanda Seyfried), girl-hood friends in the small town of Devil's Kettle, who've stayed close despite a Mutt and Jeff relationship in high school. Jennifer is a cheerleader, drop-dead gorgeous and just as likely to tell you...to drop-dead, that is. Needy, by contrast is blond, bespectacled, and Jennifer's beard, of sorts, her "Biff" in "Diablo-Code," able to rein her in if she gets too out of control in their adventures. Unfortunately, one night when the pair go off to a local dive to see an up-and-coming indie band, the place goes up in flames and Jennifer's entranced enough with the lead singer (Adam Brody) to go off in the band's van, leaving Needy behind, in a state of shock.

When Needy gets home, she finds Jennifer waiting for her, pale, crazy-eyed, smiling through bleeding gums, and vomiting a noxious black bile: she's turned into a succubus from Hell, and where in the past she used to merely chew out aggressive boys, now she chews them out (quite literally) and consumes them, leaving behind what one schoolmate describes as "lasagna with teeth." It's up to Needy to keep her Best Friend Forever from being discovered for the fiend she is, while simultaneously protecting her class-mates—a task if she was any good at would effectively kill the movie.

It sounds like very rich material with which to go over the societal strata of High School, if the territory didn't have so many skid-marks running through it already.* One could see it as a revenge flick for all those sosh's who've terrorized the commoners, but Jennifer is as much a victim as anyone, and is an equal opportunity disembowler. And Needy's loyalties are so divided that you begin to wonder just whose side she's on. Stacked like bodies on top of that, the "males as victims of the woman" angle would seem fresh...if it was done 20 years ago.** Ultimately, the message aspect to it is weak and anemic, so ham-strung is the script by its own cross-messages. 

Good direction would divert your attention from them, but even there, everything comes up short. However cob-webbed the old cliche's, Kusama's rhythm for them is off, with loud bumps in the night that land with a dull thud. Opportunities lurk around every steadi-cammed corner and go un-sprung. Then when something happens, Kusama won't cut away until the carnage becomes so much spewing corn-syrup. In trying to do something different and avoid the standard horror tropes, Kusama can't even deliver any chills.

And, despite what you've heard, Megan Fox isn't half-bad, showing far more depth and humor than, say, other sex-bomb's like Raquel Welch, have in the past. Fox isn't afraid to not look beautiful, and does so frequently, even if it's just with an "I'm Sooo-C'ra-zy" glint in her eyes, but she also has the easier part. Seyfried has to play the "normal" girl, who can be both the ugly duckling and beautiful swan when the circumstances call for it. It shows how weak the material is when J.K. Simmons and Amy Sedaris can't find much inspiration in their parts. There was potential here, but it isn't satirical enough, funny enough, or scary enough to provoke any reaction other indifference. And that's the worst death in a horror film.

The View from 2021: 

But...but...Jennifer's Body was saying something a little different—something about objectification and the male capacity to exploit, rather than a female's capacity to trap using attractiveness (which, I think most critics glommed onto). But, more importantly, it's about BFF's and their power in the lives of young women—that iffy support system that feels like it will never die—and in the case of Jennifer's Body, it doesn't. I mean, it really doesn't.

 

One could blame the marketing by 20th Century Fox—it was promoted as a sexy horror comedy. The trouble with that is, it wasn't. The only characters that matter are Jennifer and "Needy" and the rest of the cast doesn't matter—especially the "gents". It's a revenge fantasy—the  story of a woman sacrificed on the altar of male-bonding (almost literally) and through a misreading of the fine-print of Ritual 101, Jennifer is allowed to come back to life without the burden of a victim mentality, but, instead, with the urge to avenge herself, combined with a supernatural ability to carry it out. And how, objectively, it might look like the wrong thing to do, empathy makes it subjective and contagious. Think Promising Young Woman with "besties" and fangs.

 

And in that context, with the POV of the sacrificed making her an outsider from Society and its natural enemy, it really is a horror film. But, which side is the monster? 

 

* Carrie, Halloween, Alien, Scream, Species, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" have all staked out the same territory and potential that Jennifer's Body squanders, usually more pointedly and more entertainingly. 

** 50 years if you want to cross-categorize with "film noir."

Chloe

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

"We Used to Do Everything Together"

 
Atom Egoyan's Chloe (based on the movie Nathalie...) is a throwback to the '70's, and that cusp of movie-making history before cable began making the sexually-charged obsession films that used to draw folks into the cinemas. Take a theme of Hitchcockian prurience (including a bit of his fashion sense), slime it with some DePalma directness (without the use of power-tools) and spice it with just a pinch of Kubrickian cruelty and that's Chloe.

Dr. Catherine Stewart (Julianne Moore) has a successful practice as a clinical OB/GYN—very clinical. "It's just the contraction of muscles," she informs a patient who's never had an orgasm. "There's nothing mysterious or magical about it."

In any Hitchcock thriller, such expert dismissal clamors for a cum-uppance. 

Fact is, she's worried about her marriage to classical music scholar David (Liam Neeson). There's not a lot of communication in it. For instance, she throws a surprise party for him, which he misses completely, when he fails to catch a shuttle from New York. Smartie, smartie has a party... She's hurt, embarrassed, vulnerable, and suspicious. David's evasiveness and a happened-upon text message lads her to suspect he's having an affair, despite his protestations (well, she can see him flirting with anything in a skirt!). The couple may be talking, but nobody's listening. 

A chance encounter with student-aged escort Chloe Sweeney (Amanda Seyfried, all eyes and lips) gives her an idea; she hires the young hooker to flirt with David—just to see what happens (just to confirm what she suspects in her mind). "What's the client's name?" asks the girl. "He's not the client," the doctor orders. 

Of course not. That would imply somebody else has control. The situation is about her, willing to tempt fate to tempt her husband, and make concrete her suspicions. An arranged casual meeting at lunch confirms her fears—David is interested in the girl. Very interested. 

This creates a series of triangulations that are liable to hurt somebody with its knife-like edges. The issues become the usual ones in sexual politics: who's in control, what's the motivation, what's the risk, who has the headache. 

This would be a great deal of fun if it was more...fun. For all the frank-talk and the abundant nudity on the part of Seyfried and Moore, little is left to the imagination. And imagination is what the film is all about...or should be. In her voice-over, young Chloe boasts that she is skilled enough to become "your living, breathing...unflinching dream." It's an example of how the screenplay is clever with its words and quite precise in its usage. But it has no wit. It takes everything so seriously to the point of ludicrousness, and can't even laugh at its own contrary prudishness. It's like a partner more concerned in acting the part in their performance than with the act itself. It's not fun. Kinky for awhile, but not fun. 

Some of Hitchcock's naughty sense of humor would be nice, even some of his comic mother issues, as opposed to the earnestly oppressive ones here, would have been fine. Hell, I wouldn't have minded a power-tool or two—just something a little over the top, or off of it. Something that might make it a shade more ironic, iconic or comic. It shouldn't be such a conscientiously cautionary tale. What fun is that? 

Ultimately, Chloe is simply cloying. As disappointing and tasking as a bad date. 

Mank

The Tale of the Organ-Grinder's Monkey

or

"I built him a water-tight narrative and a suggested destination. Where he takes it, that's his job."

The film Citizen Kane has held such a reputation over the years of being an iron-clad masterpiece and possibly "the greatest film ever made" that, of course, people are going to fight over it. One can't dispute its brio and artistry, especially in comparing it to what had come before. So, the alternative is to fight about something else. Tone problems, maybe? (in a film that centers on child abandonment, it's remarkably free of sentiment and thus—it is argued—"cold").

But, no. The big argument is usually "credit." Who did what (and to whom?). And the history of Citizen Kane has been continually squabbled over in a snow-storm of exhumed scripts, continuity pages, notes, and interviews (usually accompanied by a background whine of axes grinding). It's all such flotsam in a snow-globe, shaken up with little purpose or permanence. Time would have been better spent watching the movie because, like the poster tag-line said, "It's terrific!" 

People are just trying to determine "why" that is.

Fincher not using depth-of-field; the looming shadow is that of Orson Welles

Now comes Mank, directed by David Fincher from a script by his late father (and tinkered-with by Eric Roth, who gets a producer credit in lieu of a writing one, ironically enough) and it's a deliciously inventive stirring of the pot, going maybe a bit too "inside" of Hollywood and the games people play to get work and the compromises they make to keep getting it. It is less about the making of Citizen Kane than the writing of it* and it takes the structure of Kane to tell it, weaving back and forth between screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman), bed-ridden from an auto accident, holed up in working convalescence in Victorville, California, and his memories—some fueled by alcohol—of his years in Hollywood, when he wrote with the best of them and circled among the powerful, like William Randolph Hearst (Charles Dance) and his mistress, Marion Davies (Amanda Seyfried).

Reaction in the various corners has been predictable. The Welles loyalists  think it's a smear job and "Paulettes" (writers mentored by—or apologists for—Pauline Kael), and the Mankiewicz relations are reserved in their praise. Nobody in the Mank scenario gets out unscathed...or alive (or they couldn't have made the picture). So, if anybody "wins" it would be merely on points, no knock-out. The character assassinations are done in a circular firing squad, but no one's legacy is left un-besmirched. Credit where credit is due.

But, credit is like Truth in Hollywood. If you got it in writing, the odds are in your favor, but Hollywood is filled with myth-makers; how are you going to know if it's true...or just makes a good story. Mank takes the position that Mankiewicz, having proved his worth in Hollywood, started to take his position for granted—he was an alcoholic and a gambler, so someone for whom consequences come later. His work and his attitudes toward his bosses and his worth changed and he saw himself tolerated rather than cherished and so began to pay less fealty to his overlords. He didn't play politics with California power; politics was too important to waste on film studio's.

Burke as Orson Welles

All of this he recounts to himself, both in his proudest moments and in his weakest, as he dictates the promised screenplay "American" for the New Kid on the Block, the Wunderkind with the Iron-Clad Contract, Orson Welles (Tom Burke). Mankiewicz is writing "American" as work-for-hire, so he's getting paid but that's it. He's being overseen by Welles major domo John Houseman (Sam Troughton)—who drops by, fusses and leaves—but the work is done by Mank dictating, which gets typed up by assistant Rita (Lily Collins), whose husband is lost in the opening fires of WWII, while a nurse Freda (Monika Gossmann) handles medical attention.

Oldman's Mankiewicz with Sam Troughton as John Houseman

We talked about truth, earlier. Among other things, Mank is a movie about conspiracy. Everything about it is under the table and understood between friends. No one knows that Mankiewicz is working on a screenplay, Welles—absent while working at RKO on a planned "Heart of Darkness" movie—is kept vague about work accomplished, Houseman doesn't know that Mankiewicz has smuggled in liquor ("exercise equipment" Mankiewicz calls it), although both Freda and Rita know it and aren't disclosing—the work flows with the liquor and progress is being made.

Writers' meeting

Mankiewicz is not shown to be above this sort of "nudge-nuge, wink-wink" flummery in the past as, in flashback, he and an all-star group of studio scribes—like Ben Hecht, S. J. Perlman, George S. Kaufman, Charles McArthur and Ben Hecht go into a script meeting with David O. Selznick and "Joe" Von Sternberg and hash out the progress of an entirely fictional script that they're ad-libbing on the spot; they have been playing cards and other non-writerly things on the studio's dime. It's an intellectual game played on the "rubes" running the studio, a little arrogant "up you" from the smart guys to the dumb, unsuspecting bosses. This mutual loathing/self-loathing society will be Mankiewicz's play-book negotiating around Hollywood.

At San Simeon with Mayer (Howard) and Thalberg (Kingsley)

At parties he's invited to (thank you very much, old sport), he'll always drink too much and talk too loud and be too indiscreet around the likes of the Louis B. Mayer's (Arliss Howard) and Irving Thalberg's (Ferdinand Kingsley) because everyone knows he's clever and he's amusing and a bit of a cheeky sort good for a laugh to fill up uncomfortable party-pauses. It's what brings him to the grounds of San Simeon and the world of William Randolph Hearst, a king-maker as well, but with far more reach than over just stars and starlets. The studio heads are all about fantasy; Hearst makes it real.

Which is fine as long as the liquor is flowing and everybody laughs at—or at least tolerates—your jokes. But, when Hearst and Mayer and Thalberg collude on their own little machinations to influence the vote on the up-coming governor's race (using the M-G-M dream machine to concoct footage to promote fear of a wave of socialism taking people's jobs) that's when Mankiewicz sobers up and loses his sense of humor—and nobody likes that at a Hollywood party. Republican or Democrat.

It spells Mankiewicz's down-fall as a "trustee" and "good ol' boy" and the jobs dry up—without filmed trainloads of migrants having to take them. That and a few other ramifications of the Governor's race gives Mankiewicz the need for the Welles job, the justification for taking it, and the opportunity—and ammunition—to pay back some debts by doing what a writer does best—writing what he knows. Despite having the semblance of a happy ending (wherein Mankiewicz raises another clever middle digit), Mank is a movie that doesn't make him look good. In fact, with the exception of the character of his wife and nurses (and sympathy for the character of Marion Davies), nobody "looks good" in the film. 

But, then, nobody did in Citizen Kane, either.

Mankiewicz's triangulation by Houseman and Welles

The movie certainly looks good, though, even resplendent. Shot in high-res black-and-white that fairly vibrates on the screen, Mank is, in all ways, a labor of love for Fincher. Beyond the parental connection, he revels in the deep-focus compositions and the chiaroscuro lighting pallets in monochrome duly recorded by DP Erik Messerschmidt. Fincher has always been a stickler for composition, but combining the "old movie" format with wide-screen—and the inspiration inherent in the subject, he's like Welles' proverbial "kid in a candy store" even going so far as to include "cigarette burns"—those corner spots indicating reel changes?** (Well, maybe if you're young enough, you don't)—totally unnecessary in a streaming presentation—but here, popping up every 14 minutes or so.*** The projectionist in me was always waiting for the second one and was not disappointed. (No "jump" on the next scene, though).

Although I wasn't exactly the choir Mank was preaching to, I did watch it with a perpetual, appreciative smile on my face. It's great to see this sort of artfulness being festooned over something that merely recreates the past, rather than create a whole new reality. More risk to this, especially for those who'll twitch if they see a flaw in period or manner. 

"...she was carrying a white parasol."

The only caveat I had was one lasting thought on my brain's back-burner almost the entire picture: If Mankiewicz is so much the driving force of the finished work, why then does Fincher follow the visual language and the look of Kane...which was the work of the director?  

Because Kane wouldn't be Kane without it?

"A far too-long screenplay for the ages...John Houseman"

* There are two other films if you want to see vague watered-down versions of that, 1996's "The Battle Over Citizen Kane," an episode of PBS's documentary series "The American Experience"(which seemed to come to the conclusion that Welles and Hearst had a lot in common, which is bosh—other than ego) and RKO 281, a fictionalized account based on that documentary produced by ScottFree Productions and directed by Benjamin Ross for HBO, which is even worse. 

The best place to start is reading Pauline Kael's "Raising Kane"--which appeared in The New Yorker and accompanied Mankiewicz's (and Welles') published shooting script in "The Citizen Kane Book" (Bantam Books, October 1971). Using another scholar's work, Kael built her article on the thesis that whatever is great about Citizen Kane is presaged in the screenplay rather than Welles' interpretation of it. 

Kael was a hell of a writer but a lousy researcher—once she had what she wanted to say on her mind nothing could refute it—nor would she seek out information refuting it. On top of that, she had a running feud with fellow-critic Andrew Sarris who took up the mantle of the French "auteur theory"—that the director is the true author of a film—of which Orson Welles was considered a prime example. The article raised all sorts of holy hell, dented her reputation a tad, but she remained unapologetic. Like most of her writing, it came from her heart, not necessarily any research.

** Fincher used the joke earlier in his career with Fight Club:

*** Reels were traditionally 10 minutes in length.

"Forgive us our trespasses"

First Reformed

Suffering from Complications
or
A Letter to the Philistines from the Apostle Paul Schrader

There is a remarkable quality of the ascetic in Paul Schrader's new film, First Reformed, his latest film exploring religion—although you could make a case that everything he's done has had something to do with it, given the director's Calvinist upbringing. But, this one hits the hammered nail on the head and may be his most completely satisfying film he's ever made...although it may confound and frustrate an audience, be they of a religious bent or not. It's an unqualified and non-denominational success. And it's so simple...and so threadbare and low-budget ($3.5 million), it could almost be monk-like. 

Take the aspect ratio, for inescapable instance: First Reformed is shot in the Academy ratio of 1.375:1, that boxy shape that was abandoned in the 1950's for the more heretical widescreen formats designed to lure people out of their homes and away from their own flickering square TV screens. That shape is the shape of old movies and its breadth is so humble, it is practically orthodox.

Reverand Ernst Toller (Ethan Hawke) is a former Army Chaplain, been most of his life. He was married. Not any more. When his son came of age, he wanted to join the Army and although his mother despised the idea, his Chaplain father didn't discourage it. Six months later, he was dead in Iraq. The marriage collapsed The reverend left the Forces and through a mega-church called Abundant Life, has become the pastor of an historic landmark in the town of Snowbridge, New York, the First Reformed, which was a way-station on the Underground Railroad for runaway slaves on their way to Canada. The church is a tourist attraction (with gift shop) and the congregation is spotty, at best.

"I'm going to keep a journal." he says at the beginning of the film. In that journal, he will pour he thoughts, his dreams, his disappointments—even in the writing—an act he seems as a form of communication, even a sort of prayer. At the end of the 12 months, he will shred it, and burn the shreds leaving no trace behind. Writing a journal (like writing a little-read blog) is a solitary, selfish act, but like any form of communication, it can clear the cob-webs, garner perspective, lay bread-crumbs, and even reveal perspective and truth. It can also mire you in a perpetual loop of self-reinforcement, much like the rabbit-hole Travis Bickle burrows into in one of Schrader's early scripts Taxi Driver. And like Bickle, the Rev. Toller is another of "God's Lonely" men of the writer-director's devising.

Toller is passive. His manner is open, but doesn't reveal much—perhaps because he doesn't have much to reveal that he doesn't channel through his journal. He certainly doesn't reveal much passion or zeal or fervor, and it's reflected by the low attendance at the church.

That changes when he's approached by Mary (naturally) (Amanda Seyfried) who is seeking counselling for her husband, named Michael (Philip Ettinger), not Joseph, who is an environmental activist. Mary is pregnant (naturally and presumably not immaculately) and Michael is encouraging her not to have the child—with the Earth beyond its sustainable tipping point, he is questioning the wisdom of bringing a child into this crumbling world (at the child's age of 50, current coastlines will be under two feet of water). "It's a little girl. What do you say when she looks into your eyes and says 'You knew about this all along.'"

Toller falls back on some yin/yang comparisons and calls upon the mystical—"Courage is the answer to despair. Reason has no answers."

Then, Michael hits him with the ultimate question: "Can God forgive us for what we've done to this world?"

Toller deflects: "Who can know the mind of God?"

"I felt like I was Jacob wrestling with the angels." he writes later. "It was exhilarating."

Exhilarating. That's got to be a charge for someone who's clinically depressed, and that's what Toller is—going through the motions, cutting himself off from people and differing perspectives, which just might show him a way out of his funk...if he was looking for it. But, when the person you grasp onto is also a depressive, and is, in fact, a suicidal depressive, the risk is to stay in your dark comfort zone, but also jump into another rabbit-hole, one that only seems new and different, but is also deeper. 

Did I say suicidal? Who said anything about suicide? Well, Toller gets a text from Michael—"Meet me at the park"—and when he gets there, Michael is dead, having blown his head off with a shotgun. Toller calls the police, and goes with them to inform Mary. Mary has previously seen that Michael had created a suicide vest and informed Toller, who took it away, where it was squirreled away in the garage, away from prying eyes. The discovery that it was missing may well have prompted Michael's final act. But, what was he going to do with it? It couldn't have been any good.

Toller follows the specifications of Michael's will—to proceed over his funeral, scattering his ashes at a toxic waste dump, a dump created by the town's chief business, a paper mill and chemical plant run by Edward Balq (Michael Gaston), who happens to be one of the biggest contributors to Abundant Life and is spear-heading the celebration of the First Reformed's 250th anniversary. A large event is planned with the governor, mayor, and Balq all in attendance, At a lunch meeting between Balq, Toller and Abundant Life's pastor, the Rev. Joel Jeffords (Cedric the Entertainer), Balq reads Toller the riot actor for making Michael's funeral a political act about climate change, which Toller defends as the man's wishes, which he knew because he was counselling him. "You counselled him and then he shot himself..." Balq barks back. "Well, I think before you criticize others, you should take a hard look at yourself, Reverend."

Toller does take a hard look, but at Michael's laptop and all the research Michael had done in his activism. And more and more, he starts to become obsessed.

So, you have a self-isolating man spirographing his own thoughts, you expose him to ideas that have just enough  intersection with his own, ideas that alarm him and touch him simultaneously, then you put in his hands a weapon and a target and you start the clock until it counts down. Schrader was editing First Reformed when he noticed how similar it was to his earlier Taxi Driver, but you don't have to have seen that film to connect the dots and see the fire on the horizon. As Toller's resolve crystallizes, he becomes distracted by Mary, who is still dealing with Michael's suicide.

At one point, in his spartanly furnished rectory, she mentions something she misses about Michael—they used to lie together, feet touching feet, hands touching hands, face to face, aware of each other's breath, heart-beat, pulse. When Toller agrees to do the ritual with her, it is non-sexual, but transcendant, like an out-of-body experience, floating above the floor, imagining flying over beautiful, pure vistas that gradually darken, become sullied and polluted. Talk about losing the moment.

You know how Taxi Driver ended (I assume)—with a bloody catharsis, that becomes misrepresented in the culture as a heroic act, when it was actually a murderous rampage born out of frustration for not having pulled off an assassination. First Reformed ramps up to just such a crisis-point, that is potentially horrifying. One starts to feel one's palms sweat the closer one gets to that Anniversary celebration, even as Toller begins to behave irrationally and starts to break. Oh Lord, here we go again.

But, Schrader, for whatever reason, does something different, staging a form of cinematic intervention that is not only inventive, but actually inspired, making your jaw drop. It's hard to imagine this word being used for a Paul Schrader film, but it's actually sublime, and apt, and, frankly, heaven-sent. It also points to a rejection of -ologies or -osity's, a breaking free and its own catharsis. First reformed is tight, focused, and concentrated, no less concerned with the struggles of the soul and the conscience as with other Schrader films. But, it's brevity, spartan nature and straight-forward narrative make it the best film Schrader has ever done.

And, just when the guy was about to quit making movies.

Imagine...