Ocean's Thirteen

The Plot Thickens.... 

Oceans Eleven was an enjoyable, breezy updating of a not-very-good "Rat Pack" movie with a nicely eclectic cast from many walks of the entertainment industry. It was a lark, with no real sense of any danger or risk. It just seemed like director Steve Soderbergh and star George Clooney (partners in the production company, Section 8)were getting free rein of Vegas and dragging along a bunch of pals along with them.
Oceans Twelve, however, showed signs of fatigue. Instead of Vegas, it was filmed in Europe. The large majority of the cast was arranged to "rot in jail" for most of its running time, while Matt Damon and Julia Roberts carried the weight of the plot, storyline and ad-libbed dialogue to sometimes excruciating effect (Okay, so Roberts played Tess Ocean, the wife of George Clooney's character, and when he gets way-laid, she flies to Europe where she's recruited to pass herself off as...Julia Roberts, and hilarity ensues when *gasp* Bruce Willis "cameos in" to complicate matters!!) Not much worthwhile there, but Clooney got to write off his Lake Como estate, so I guess that's something.

So, now it's the third go-'round, the unlucky Thirteen and to "play it safe" and "cover all bets," the crew goes back to Vegas to avenge another hoodwinking of deep-pockets gang member Reuben (Elliott Gould) by another puffed-ego Vegas properties owner, one Willie Bank, played by Al Pacino on cruise control. Once again, it's a con of "Mission: Impossible" proportions involving false identities and accoutrements, loaded dice, coins and roulette balls and the use of not one, but two large tunnellers (that were used to dig the Chunnel we're told) to carry out the various schemes. While it's true you have to spend money to make money this movie takes it to new extremes. 

Along the way there are pleasant cameos by Julian Sands and Eddie Izzard (Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones' absences are explained away quickly--"it's not their fight"), Vincent Cassel (from 12) and even Exec. Producer Jerry Weintraub. Everything's in place--everybody's a wise-acre, Clooney makers a tuxedo look like casual wear, Pitt's wardrobe is still horrendous, and they even manage to work in Andy Garcia's rival casino owner in on the plot--though fortunately, they don't turn him into a suddenly reformed "good guy." 

Ellen Barkin and Matt Damon

(with the nose he wasn't allowed to wear in The Brothers Grimm)

Because Pacino's on board, there's a couple sneaky Godfather references in the dialog--one to Pacino's face, but like most of the in-jokes (right down to the last lines) they're so "inside" that they'll probably go over a large portion of heads. But despite these minute differences, it's the first movie all over again--like Return of the Jedi, the third in the "Star Wars" series and Last Crusade, in the "Indiana Jones" cycle--but as with those films, the ingredients making up Ocean's Thirteen have been left out to curdle a bit. It's fun and all, with a couple of laugh-out-loud moments involving Oprah Winfrey, and Soderbergh directed, shot and edited the thing himself, but is it too much to ask for something a bit more original? One gets the impression that if not for the perks to cast and crew, they would have done well to have left the table and cashed out a little earlier.

To Die For (1995)

To Die For (Gus Van Sant, 1995) Nicole Kidman plays Suzanne Stone, a local tv weather-girl with a particularly aggressive addiction to celebrity. Her new-found fame conflicts with her ordinary home-life and her marriage to a mechanic, despite the financial stability it gives her. So she plots to murder her husband (Matt Dillon), as his lack of status might hold back her fortunes. She recruits three teenage misfits (Joaquin Phoenix, Casey Affleck, Alison Folland), whom she's met while doing a documentary called "Teens Speak Out", to carry out the homicide. But, when her in-law's attempt to pin the murder on her, she turns on the kids with blackmail and the local police with entrapment. Despite being found not guilty, she's only too eager to keep building her career. After all, there's no such thing as bad publicity. To Die For is a black comedy mixed with film-noir (that pairing almost never works as it tends to pile on the ironies) on the sociopathy of celebrity. It was written by Buck Henry (based on a novel by Joyce Maynard, which in turn was inspired by the Pamela Smart case) and directed by Gus Van Sant. 

"You're not anybody in America unless you're on TV."

Those who had seen her in BMX Bandits, "Bangkok Hilton," and Dead Calm knew that Kidman was more than "Mrs. Tom Cruise," but it wasn't until To Die For that she emerged from her superstar husband's shadow and began creating a separate career. An arch performance just shy of camp, it was the first of the actress' many forays into aberrant personalities that have subsequently dominated her career, and, for some, has proved troubling to her audience base. On the other hand, she's become one of those actors who have defied "typing"—one never knows what Kidman one is going to get.  And, as time has moved on and the bar for celebrity has sunk as low as a snake's belly, the film looks positively prescient.

It certainly was indicative of the careers of Phoenix (who had previously been billed as "Leaf" Phoenix) and Affleck, both of whom have gone to Oscar-winning careers. And Kidman—who would win her Oscar seven years after this movie—etches an indelible portrait of a femme fatale, hot-blooded in her manipulation and cold-blooded in her abandonment. Making an audition tape, Kidman's Stone looks directly into the camera with knowing seductiveness and invites the watcher in on her little dark secrets and fervent desires for TV work.

The wiliness of the actress playing the character is matched by the character's own wickedness and the two seem to fuse. Reason enough to watch the film, but Kidman is nearly matched in ferocity by the fine Illeana Douglas, as the Dillon character's sister, who is equally capable of killing for love. It's a movie that will keep you unnerved until the final black comic cold-hearted image.

A Ghost Story (2017)

A Ghost Story (David Lowery, 2017) One of the new breed of directors that I go out of my way to watch is David Lowery. The first film I saw of his, Ain't Them Bodies Saints, was a subtle variation of Bonnie and Clyde with a streak of altruism running through its cynicism. Then, of all things, he took on a live version of a Disney movie—one of its worst, Pete's Dragon—and turned a torturous musical into a simple, song-less Shaggy Dragon story with a genuine sense of wonder. A Ghost Story came next, but like a phantasm, disappeared quickly from theaters—*poof* Next up was The Old Man and the Gun, a story almost too good to be true—except it mostly was—and showed that Lowery was easing off the pictorial precision and giving his performers room to breathe without making them look like they were in an art painting. The constraints—like the performers—were relaxed and no less satisfying for it. 

But, A Ghost Story. What of that?

A recent viewing on Netflix shows it to be the simplest of tales, but what Lowery does with it—with one painterly eye and the other winking—makes for one of those movies you want to discuss after its un-spooled and is flapping against the projector...and you're still in your seat (while the theater clean-up crew give you a wary glance). 

Nobody has any names in the movie—the two main folks are C (played by Casey Affleck) and M (Rooney Mara), a married couple, slightly fracturing, but still together and still in love with each other. He's a musician when he's not doing other things and she's doing other things. They are childless and one would say rootless, except that one of their areas of contention is that she wants to move and he doesn't. In the opening, there are unexplained things that happen in the house—the piano makes a thump in the middle of the night and a wary nighttime exploration reveals nothing. The house subject to areas of shimmering color that have no seeable origin.

Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans. But, so does death. C is killed in an auto accident on the street outside their house. M goes to the hospital to identify the body, and does so. She leaves. 

Long pause on the same angle of the shot of the body on the examination table. Very long pause. And the sheet on the slab sits up. Looks around. The next shot is of a hospital wall with a sink prominent, center-stage, and we see the reflection of the sheet-swathed C approaching screen-right before we see the "real" thing crossing our field of vision.

The "real" thing is a figure in a head-to-floor sheet with cut-out eyes, like a child's home-made Hallowe'en ghost costume. Maybe it's a cost-cutting move to present the main character, appearing in virtually (spiritually?) the entire movie, as a practical costume rather than creating a feature-length digital effect. But, the effect is so simple, so cheery, and so...eerie (especially as Lowery presents it) that one warms to the conceit and "just goes with it," as opposed to grousing about a "cheap effect"—especially when it's Affleck giving the physical performance under the sheet.

C's ghost, wandering around the hospital, has an opportunity to "go to the light"—in a sequence that has the same animated feel of the time-portal appearances in Time Bandits—but does not. Instead, he goes home, back to the house he shared with M, observing the few comings and goings passively, even when the is the threat—from his point of view—of her becoming involved with another man. This isn't A Guy Named Joe (or Spielberg's version Always) or even Ghost. C merely watches and doesn't (or can't) interact with the living, at least, not yet (there will be a time when he is responsible for some poltergeist activity later in the film). He is rooted in one spot and, by his own choice, remains there, even after M has packed off and left, leaving an embedded note in the house's drywall that, once he's able to manifest himself enough to interact with the "real" world, he tries to retrieve. It will take years. 

Until another family moves in to the house—one of a few—his only contact is another ghost, inhabiting the house next door and who waves from one of its windows. Their communication, rather wittily supplied in sub-titles, concerns the basics ("Hi." "Hello." "I'm waiting for someone." "Who are you waiting for?" "I don't know.") It is only once the houses are abandoned and razed, does the other ghost say "I don't think they're coming" and disappears, without another word.

But, C stays, never venturing from the spot where the foundation existed. Even after the suburb has become overtaken with urban development, he remains, finally inhabiting the office building that has risen up in the house's place. And it's here that the film starts to become a bit phantasmagorical as C's "stay-in-place" journey becomes more identifiable as one of time and not place.

I eat this kind of movie like a fine continental breakfast, the kind of film that tells its story through image more than dialogue. Mostly silent—there is a wonderfully mordant score by Daniel Hart—the film plays out like the "Zarathustrian apartment" sequence towards the end of 2001: a Space Odyssey; things happen and it's the viewer's job to keep up with the changes without a narrative hand-holding strategem. One should keep in mind that literal-mindedness may not be an asset—the film is dealing with the after-life, after all, and rules don't necessarily apply in that dimension. It is a journey, but its not one anybody alive enough to watch the film could be able to argue with.

Shot in the claustrophobic aspect ratio of 1.33:1—the old "Academy" ratio, that was jettisoned when wide-screen started to be introduced—A Ghost Story is a simple story, well-told, beautiful to look at, and leaves one pondering what one has just seen and marveling at how such a thing has come to be.

It has an amazing after-life.

ParaNorman

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

Re-Animators
or
"I See Dead Puppets"

The town of Blithe Hollow depends on the supernatural for its tourist trade. But, what the city fathers probably don't understand is that if you live by the sword...well, let's just say you'd better have a good cleaning crew.

One of the town's citizens is young Norman Babcock (voiced by Kodi Smith-McPhee) and he has a problem—he sees dead people, all of them. He's ostracized from friends, family and reality...from life, really...as most of his acquaintances are non-corporeal and that leads to bullying, loneliness and a general lack of enthusiasm. He'd be better off dead—as the only people he can relate to already are.

Then, there's his creepy Uncle (a wonderfully comic vocal performance by John Goodman) who tasks him with a special duty—saving Blithe Hollow from destruction by the wrath of the very witch of the town's fame, killed by the city elders centuries before.  To do so, he must go on a hero's journey with unlikely allies, many roadblocks both physical and emotional, while evading zombies, the undead, jocks, bullies and narcissistic big sisters to confront the evil witch.

ParaNorman is hilarious, quirky certainly, but also has a lot of depth and breadth to it.  It would be an easy—too easy—temptation to call it a Tim Burton knock-off (stop-motion animation, horrorific subject matter...it must be a Tim Burton knock-off), but it's actually far more concerned with story over effect than Burton, whose work can become tangentially derailed for a sequence or bit that the director finds funny, even if its a mismatch for the rest of the film and its non-sensibilities. ParaNorman stays on track, managing to brings its humor out of character, rather than despite it, and with a sense of comic timing that's by turns subtle, surprising and goofy. Yes, there are scary bits—it's rated PG, so maybe the littlest of kids shouldn't go—but its horrors are not there to shock, but to thrill. 

And when the film does build up a full head of horror steam at the end, it provides some of the most awesome sights and effects that have been seen in animation in quite some time. A hybrid of the Burton and Aardmann animation studios—directors Chris Butler and Sam Fell worked for both groups, respectively, and you can see aspects of their animation styles meshing, hallmarking the best of both stop-motion worlds—Burton's "antic-ness" and Aardmann's appreciation (and mining the comedic possibilities) of stillness.  Combine that with the story of an outsider who manages to collect a posse of co-adventurers who handle the auxiliary parts of the hero's main mission, and you have a well-rounded story that manages to surpass the limitations of the parts (making it, amusingly, a bit of a zombie-movie itself).  

What's nice is there's enough time in the plot (involving more than just the cemetery variety) to appreciate the artistry behind it—the way the town is laid out with abandoned squalor in the detail, the people with perpetually bemused expressions, and are, like us, anything but symmetrical, the way an ear glows with the back-lighting of sunshine, and in the ending that manages to combine moments of dark beauty and true psychotic scariness. Lots to appreciate. Lots to like. It's a fine film that makes the most of its slim ambitions, and rises above them.

The Old Man and the Gun

The Last Ride of the Sundance Kid
or
"Brother, I'm Not Talkin' 'Bout Making a Living"

It's the smile you notice. Forrest Tucker (Robert Redford) walks into a bank and if there's no women behind the teller-stations, he'll ask to see the manager. Then, invited to the manager's office, he'll sit down, smile, and open his coat showing the manager that he has a gun, and (very reasonably) ask for an emergency withdrawal of some weight to keep him from using that seen gun in a way injurious to that manager. He never says that the gun is loaded—psychologically, that is irrelevant—it achieves its purpose without getting into details. And he never has to demonstrate. It rarely doesn't work, and he'll leave the banking institution several thousand dollars richer.

Detective John Hunt (Casey Affleck) interviews employees post-robbery and when he gets to motivation, he strives to keep incredulity out of his voice when he re-states what he's been told: "So, you did what you did because he said he had a gun..." "Yes. And also, he was sort of a gentleman."

Robert Redford doesn't direct The Old Man and the Gun, but he does some producing chores on it, and it is David Lowery (who worked with Redford on his miraculous un-tuned version of Disney's worst musical, Pete's Dragon) who is calling the shots, making a breezy film based on David Grann's* New Yorker article on Tucker**, who became known as "The Gentleman Bandit" cutting a swath through Southern banks in the 1980's. Tucker usually worked alone, and on tougher jobs that needed more co-ordination and a fast getaway, with two long-in-the-tooth associates Teddy (Danny Glover) and Waller (Tom Waits), who became known in law-enforcement circles as "The Over-the-Hill Gang."

When we first meet Tucker, he does a job ("Belmont Texas, July 26, 1991" we're told to give the film some authenticity by place/time-stamps as well as a first title that states "The story, also, is mostly true."***), a hearing aid in his ear (which is tuned to police frequencies), and as he makes his escape, he passes a motorist, Jewel (Sissy Spacek), who has broken down on the highway. He stops to help, and as, after police cruisers have raced by, he pulls his head out from under the hood. "Do you know anything about cars?" Jewel asks. "No," he replies. "Not really."

A tow truck is called, as he knows nothing about cars. They're a means to an end, just like lunch at a diner with Jewel while the police are running around outside, looking for this "gentleman bandit." She's trying to figure him out. He introduces himself as "Bob...Bob Kelly." "I like that truck of yours," she mentions. "Yeah," he says casually. "I stole it." But his eyes twinkle when he says it. "Hey, I'm just pullin' your leg." When he's a little vague about what he does, she presses, and he asks for her phone number. She writes it down and slides it across the table. He writes down what he does and slides it back. She looks at him in shock. "What's worse—if I'm lyin' or telling you the truth?" More talk, and he talks about his list of "things I want to do, but haven't done yet."

"Better hurry up," she smirks.

It's probably as good as time as any to talk about Robert Redford's face. There's no longer a hint of the smooth, angelic planes that made his initial days of acting so problematic—finding roles that would play against type than as "the nice boy"—that he finally roughed it up with various facial hair until folks could look past...his looks. His face, now, is a complicated map of wrinkles that crinkle with every expression, going beyond the weathered look he's had in the last couple decades and becoming more expressive and more open in conveying what his character is feeling. It's like Redford's movie-star mask has dropped. And we're starting to see him in his own skin. More on that at the end.

Hunt actually has contact with Tucker, when he's inside a bank that gets robbed by him right under the detective's nose. The bank goes into lock-down and all he can think of is his kids in the car, who are probably wondering that's going on with daddy in the bank; they'll be panicking when they see the police cars showing up. Try as he might, he can't convince the bank officials that he IS a police officer and he doesn't NEED to wait for the police to show up. Somewhere in there, he must be frustrated that he's less convincing to the bank officials than the robber.

Hunt had been frustrated with police work, maybe even quitting, but Tucker's spree energizes him (despite the ribbing his fellow officers give him for chasing a senior citizen bank robber). He WANTS to catch this guy, even goes on television saying that he WILL catch him—a broadcast that Tucker sees, and when the next job happens, the Gentleman Bandit leaves a present of a $100 bill saying "Detective John Hunt: Good Luck! 'The Over-the-Hill Gang'."

Oh. It's on.

Meanwhile, Jewel and "Bob" start seeing more of each other. She invites him out to her farm, introduces him to her horses, tells him she's keeping the place, despite her kid's protestations that she should get herself a condo with little up-keep. "Now's the time to be a little selfish." "Bob" likes the idea of her keeping the place, being independent, but he's not smiling when he looks out at the place. At a mall, they look at a bracelet Jewel likes, and Bob grabs her by the arm and they walk out without paying for it. He's all smiles. She looks at him...and stops in her tracks. She turns to go back to the store, and he, sheepishly, follows her.."sorry, we totally forgot..he's paying for it."

The FBI steps in when the Gang pull a job across state lines, leaving Hunt to merely look on in frustration, while somebody else handles the leads. Then, he gets a letter: a young woman named Dorothy (Elizabeth Moss) writes him a letter, saying that the robber, from his description and from stories her mother told her about her absent father makes her suspect that the two might be one and the same. Her father's name: Forrest Tucker. Background work on Tucker shows a lifelong criminal history, with a penchant for escaping whatever prison thought might hold him. A chance encounter between the two men in the bathroom of the local diner just confirms what Hunt has begun to suspect—and the two men now know each other—by sight.

"Lookin' sharp makes you look like you know what you're doin'
...even if you don't."

Lowery's direction is low-key and efficient, less concerned for the striking image (as he has in the past), but keeping an eye for the magic that his cast can deliver at the drop of a smile, and the energy transference between a scene between an old pro like Redford and a "bury-it-deep" performer like Affleck manages to bring out sparks in both actors. Working with Redford seems to invigorate Affleck with just that much more wattage, as Spacek does the same for Redford. The story lends itself to making one wonder what makes a character like Tucker tick, and the answer lies in the very longevity that belies a high-risk occupation. This is some of Redford's more subtle work in his career and it's helped by the etching carved into his face that allows the slightest of smiles shine through with satisfaction. It is a melancholy acknowledgment of damage along the way, which might be apparent to those around Tucker, but he wouldn't be aware at all.

One can't help but smile, albeit sadly, in return.

If this is Redford's last film performance (I'm highly skeptical of that), it's a great one to go out on.

* Grann also wrote the book The Lost City of Z.

** January 23, 2003, if you're checking or looking for it at the old magazine store.

*** One should remember that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid started with the title "Most of what follows is true." The "also" of The Old Man and the Gun hearkens back to it. The film is a sly little tribute to Redford in places; at one point there's a clip of the young Redford from The Chase (1966), and there's a sweet little nod to The Sting, that I won't spoil by pointing it out.

Manchester By the Sea

Good Grief!
or
Tough Love, Massachusetts-Style

I giggled in the lobby of the theater after seeing Manchester by the Sea. A matronly patron groused "Well, THAT was the 'feel-good movie of the year!'" And the voice in my head said "It wasn't SUPPOSED to be, you ass!" Then, I laughed. I could have been doing dialog from the movie.

First off, I loved it, it's definitely a highlight of what has been a dispiriting and disappointing year of movies. Part of the reason is that Manchester by the Sea is determined to not do things the usual "movie" (Hollywood) way. For all the touting of "grit" and "realism" in films, there's always a disconnect. People do not talk like writers talk. If anything, the interpretation by the actors "saves" dialog that is too pointed or too "on the nose" to be really reflective of reality. Movie-goers like to have things spelled out—you show them what's going and reinforce it by telling them what they're seeing. That is the typical movie-making way. You fill the audience in, so no one gets left behind, even if you have to beat somebody over the head with a tacked-on "looped" line.

Manchester by the Sea doesn't do that. At times, it comes frustratingly close to going in that direction and then simply...doesn't do it, not meeting expectations or going the easy way. I like that. I felt like the movie was treating me as an adult and that's a rare sensation in movie-going these days. 

But, then my definition of an adult—as opposed to a child—is someone who knows grief.

Lee Chandler (Casey Affleck, absolutely brilliant, but not showy, which will frustrate some) is a live-in handyman for four properties in a suburb of Boston. His life is "getting by". He gets called to solve problems for the tenants in as efficient a way as possible in order to get the job done. He shovels snow on walk-ways before people can fall and break a hip, he'll do plumbing, electrical—all non-union, all skirting code—janitorial. He gets it done. He's responsible. But, he has a low tolerance for bullshit, as he demonstrates with a tenant, who clearly has issues with thinking of things beyond her orbit. Chandler disrespects her and the super gets wind of it and tells him to apologize. This Chandler won't do, reminding the super very matter-of-factly that he's got a very good deal with him as an employee, but no, he's not going to apologize. The super caves "Alright, I'll talk to her!" Lee goes back to work.

But, a phone call throws him off his duties. He gets a call to go back to his home-town, Manchester—his brother's in the hospital. He goes and quickly, but by the time he gets there, his brother Joe (Kyle Chandler) is already dead of heart failure. He talks to the nurse, he talks to the doctor, he talks to family friend, George (C. J. Wilson), who was there when Joe was stricken. Joe had a bad heart, everybody knew it and it just gave out. The doctor expresses his concerns and Lee just brushes it off with a harsh "Fuck this...."

Cut to eight years earlier. A simple cut. No warning, no fade. A single cut to the day Joe is told he has congestive heart failure and has maybe five to ten years to live. "It's a bad disease," says his doctor. "Is there a good disease?" asks Joe. "Poison ivy," she offers. "Athlete's foot," Lee adds. That's the breaking point for Joe's wife (Gretchen Mol), who is trying to deal and she walks out of the room. 

Back to the present, and Lee is escorted to the morgue to see his brother's body. He lingers, unable to speak, leans over his brother's body and kisses him on the cheek. He leaves.

Joe's son, Patrick (Lucas Hedges) is in hockey practice and is having a bad day, when Lee shows up to tell him. Despite facing disciplinary actions for his attitude on the ice, he is allowed to go home with his uncle. "So that's the Lee Chandler," says one of his classmates. "You know, that story is total bullshit..." says another.

Back home at Joe's house, Lee is trying to make arrangements, find a funeral home, and deal with the logistics of his brother's service and burial...and trying to keep an eye on Patrick. Patrick is a diffident teen, and Lee is having a difficult time trying to be a supportive uncle and being there for him like Joe would have. He's unsure and agrees to have Patrick's friends from school come over to help him deal, even...somewhat reluctantly letting Patrick's girlfriend Sylvia stay the night.

But, the two males have a difficult relationship, especially given the difficult times. It's when he drags Patrick along for a meeting with Joe's lawyer that Lee gets his biggest shock: Joe has arranged for Lee to be Patrick's guardian in the event of his death. This floors Lee—financially, Joe has everything set up for Lee to take over (Patrick gets everything and Joe has set up a stipend for Lee to handle things until Patrick turns 21), but it means that Lee will have to uproot what there is of his life and move back to Manchester—which he does not want, nor does he want the responsibility of being Patrick's guardian, all for reasons of his own. Lee has a past there, and his ex-wife (Michelle Williams, who has few scenes but don't be surprised if she wins the Oscar for them) lives there and...well, he just does not want to move back.

This sets up a conflict between uncle and nephew that becomes contentious. Both of them have trouble communicating, anyway—Lee has few words, if any, and Patrick can't help but retort to anything other than derision and sarcasm. Patrick is without a parent, and is old enough that he wants to have a say in his own life, and Lee would just as soon give that to him, but he is legally and responsibly bound to take care of his nephew, who he loves...but....

I hate to cop out at this point, but to say any more will spoil some big reveals that Lonergan inserts at opportune times to show the reasons Lee does what he does, and why. Affleck plays his scenes with an internal intensity that may be off-putting for most audiences, but he's a man in pain and deeply grieving and infects his entire being right down to his soul. He's a man who doesn't trust himself, and doesn't trust the responsibility of taking care of his nephew. He's responsible and it scares him to death.

"Feel-good movie of the year?" Not in the least. But, I deeply loved Manchester by the Sea, which, like Lonergan's You Can Count on Me, feels less like a movie than life, which is messy and you have to pick your way through it, with no easy answers. It's not for everybody. But it certainly is for me.

Ain't Them Bodies Saints

Written at the time of the film's release

Dear Ruth
or
"Goin' a direction that ain't been invented yet."

David Lowery's independent study of love on the run, Ain't Them Bodies Saints, is a romantic's view of criminal activity in the same spurting vein as Bonnie and Clyde, Badlands, and Thieves Like Us, where the romantic glow of need and obsession have a tendency to blind a body from the rest of the world and what's considered normal.

Ruth Guthrie (Rooney Mara) and Bob Muldoon (Casey Affleck) are young and in love, and Bob's in the employ of Skerritt (Keith Carradine), who runs a hardware store in town, but a has a nice little underground thievery ring keeping it afloat. Bob and Freddy (Kentucker Audley—what a great name) do the deeds, then run back to the abandoned farm that was their grandfather's before it went bust to hide out and wait for Skerritt's pay out. But, when we first meet them, Ruth and Bob are young, in love, spatting, she's pregnant and practical, and he's a moony-goony kid with nothing going for him in the long term. 

Except for the prison sentence. The cops get wind of where the outlaws are hiding, and it looks like it's going to be one of those barn-burners where everyone gets killed. Freddy dies first, then Ruth shoots Officer Patrick Wheeler (Ben Foster), and Bob devises that he'll say he shot Wheeler, so that Ruth can go free, he'll take the prison stretch, and he'll come back to his family when his time is up.

Best laid plans.

Ruth has her child, a girl, which Bob finds out about in prison, but he's not the the practical one—he's the impulsive one—and before long he's on the run with five other prisoners, presumably to get back with his family. The police and Skerritt are both on high alert, figuring that they know that Bob's headed in their direction.  But a lot has changed. Skerritt proves he has a conscience by setting up Ruth and her child in a place (across the street from him, so one wonders if the reason is totally altruistic or simplified reconnaissance). And Wheeler starts calling on Ruth, ostensibly to see if she knows anything about Bob's whereabouts, but also because he finds he starts to have feelings for her, not knowing that she's the one who shot him, and not knowing that she knows.

Four people, with an awful lot of shared history, but none of them know very much about the others. But all are in an agitated state of anticipation and uncertainty and trying to take pains to head off what could be disaster. Doesn't sound like much. story-wise, but it is far from mundane, and all four leads have a way of maintaining masks of dis-information, while acting as if everything's normal, really.  And that's something of a small miracle.

Where Lowery excels, though, is (with cinematographer Bradford Young) in creating beautiful images—again, out of pretty mundane things—and letting those images tell the story (it has to, the reason being that the dialogue is useless, except to let you know that everybody's lying and/or hiding something) and that's a considerable challenge for someone's first feature. Those issues also complicate the acting, but between Affleck, Mara, and Foster, you have three excellent actors who acquit themselves at playing "opaque." Keith Carradine (who starred in Thieves Like Us, by the way), though excellent, is a little more obvious in his intentions, although he's an actor who can apply both comedy and drama masks to his face.

It's an interesting study and makes one wonder what other subtle things Lowery is capable of pulling off.