(My) Best of 2011: Picture

10. Meek's Cutoff

Kelly Reichardt's revisionist Western was the greatest political movie of 2011. Combining post-feminist theories with a clear questioning of the Obama administration, the film used a historical event to sketch a very accurate portrait of the current state of America. Bruce Greenwood gives a brilliant performance as the charming Stephen Meek, a pioneering explorer leading three families to new territories, who refuses to acknowledge the fact that he has lost his way and is dragging them along to perdition. The film's ambiguous finale, made all the more fascinating because it happened due to budget problems, actually works as an unintentional but poignant reflection of a world economy that is making freedom of expression a luxury.

9. The Tree of Life

For decades, Terrence Malick has been one of the very few working artists who has proved to be in utter and complete awe of our planet and its creation. Instead of following the path of other filmmakers who more and more try to conceal their characters from nature or others who altogether decide to move their stories to different planets, Malick preserves an utmost spirit of wonderment. He is fascinated with the process of "creation" which usually gives his movies a Christian feel. However, in The Tree of Life he reminds us that atonement has little to do with organized religion and more with unity, at-one-ment. His movie might seem like a dream comprised of dinosaurs, abusive parents and traumas, but judging from the way in which one reacts to it, it's more similar to mystical ecstasy than facile psychology.

8. Drive

Nicolas Winding Refn's neon-noir work of art was a refreshing take on the mythical figure of the American cowboy, who has now moved to the city and remains as mysterious and unbreakable as ever. The visionary director makes his hero, a questionable figure who has to deal with common things like working for a living but it still happens to be ruled by a strict moral code that separates him from other mortals. As portrayed by Ryan Gosling, the nameless Driver is a figure we can admire, fear and lust after. If Refn was trying to make a point about the way we project our desires onto others, he does it while stimulating both our intellect and injecting us with adrenaline. The action sequences in the film have a strange beauty that might not send us flying off our seats with thrills, but stir thoughts within us, similar to what modern art does. Like Mulholland Dr. the film was also a critique to the Hollywood way of life, with Refn both reveling in the artifice of Los Angeles and reveling its polished decay. With its spare dialogues and bright colors, it's as if someone loaded Tarantino on Xanax and asked him to make a 70s Clint Eastwood vehicle using Michael Mann's aesthetic sensibilities.  

7. Certified Copy

Nowadays, it's rarely a joy to encounter a movie that foregoes all notions of traditional plot in order to explore the world of ideas. Most movies that try to do this end up confusing intellectualism with bullshitting and rely on facile tricks to convince us about their intelligence. Abbas Kiarostami's Certified Copy ought to change that because it finds unbearably touching humanity in a fascinating intellectual essay. Wondering what makes something a "copy" he explores the notions of creation and recreation by using people. Kiarostami could've easily turned his characters into puppets used to channel a message, but like a generous god he provides them with a soul. If only all philosophy was this richly realized...

6. Shame

It's strange to think of it, but the one thing the characters in this movie never seem to feel is actual shame. Michael Fassbender plays a man with a destructive sexual addiction and Carey Mulligan plays his alcoholic and equally chaotic sister. The siblings live in NYC and seem to have carved a personal playground of pain under the city's stars. Other directors could've shamed their characters and reduce them to morally acceptable examples, but Steve McQueen merely observes them and lets them be. The film is filled with scenes of utmost loss and despair but they are treated with such delicate bluntness that we have no choice but to try and empathize with these people. The film's most poignant scene has the siblings watch a cartoon on TV and for a moment it seems like they've found peace. Even if it alludes to the origin of all our problems in our childhood, it also achieves a mystical connection that resembles time travel.

5. Martha Marcy May Marlene

The year's most astonishing debut had Sean Durkin revisit the dreamlike aesthetics of 70s movies while giving Elizabeth Olsen the richest female role of 2011. The film deals with the trappings of a cult and the consequences their practices have on believers. But besides pointing out the perils of submitting yourself to the will of others, the film draws a fascinating parallel line that studies fact and fiction, the way in which we are our own creators and how we can build entire worlds to fit our needs. The title protagonist isn't merely complex because she can become so many different people, she's fascinating because she evokes the never ending process of creation; we are never sure how many people she has been and how many people she will be. The film's technical achievements were unusually inventive and helped the director transmit paranoia in open spaces, making nature both a witness of our distress and an eternal perpetrator of evil.

4. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Who would've guessed that director David Fincher would craft his most personal movie to date from a pulpy bestseller? The way in which he grabbed the story of hacker Lisbeth Salander and ruined journalist Mikael Blomkvist and turned it into an exhilarating conversation with god, was a perfect reminder that art was invented to connect us to what we couldn't explain. Sure, the film succeeds as a fantastic, exciting thriller (something its Swedish predecessor did with just as much efficiency but without the aesthetic grace) but it works at its best when Fincher leads us past the plot twists and points out the fact that we all hide skeletons in our closets, our collection of personal experiences becoming a cabinet of horrors and wonders alike.
That he allowed Lisbeth to dream of love speaks highly of the director's humanistic side, that just as easily he  takes illusion away from her, speaks of his ruthlessness as a creator.

3. Midnight in Paris

Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris was a surprise because it proved for once and for all, that its maker is one of the few artists blessed with the ability to rejuvenate himself when least expected. How can he keep on finding beauty in subjects he's dealt with constantly for more than four decades? How is it that his movies always seem to be about the same things and each time we find ourselves enthralled by their deep wisdom? His love song to Paris and some of his heroes is a remarkably enjoyable piece that pretty much fulfilled whoever saw it. Like enjoying a rich, perfect dessert, the film pleased and delighted without overwhelming the palate, every time it left you wanting more.

2. Melancholia

The end of the world has never been treated with the delicacy Lars von Trier presents it with in Melancholia. Coming from the ode to chaos that was Antichrist it would've been easy to assume that the director had definitely entered a period of complete darkness, for how does once descend into such hell and come back unscathed? Like mythical heroes, von Trier not only emerged from the underworld alive, he came out with a new sense of appreciation for the beauty in life. His movie about the end of the world is tragic yes, but within the deep pain portrayed by his actors and the precision of his almost operatic conduction (he finds a beauty in chaos that people like Michael Bay and Roland Emmerich only dream of  achieving) there is something breathtakingly beautiful. He does not relish in making others suffer this time, instead he seems to be for the first time looking at death right in the eyes and embracing the sense of peace found in its irreversible finality.

1. Weekend

There are romances with repercussions that resonate for as long as we live. Said romances usually end before we are ready to give them up. Without us being aware of the fact that we are living something that will establish a "before and after" in our existence, we then discover we revisit these moments forever and they most likely will accompany us to our deathbed. Then, there are movies that deal with these romances. Movies like Casablanca, Lost in Translation, The Way We Were, Brief Encounter...all of which talk of love that was, love that is and love that will forever be. Like said romances, we also find ourselves revisiting these movies in our dreams more often than we'd like to. Can it be that we all harbor a secretly masochist hopeless romantic within? Or is it that real life never fulfills what art promised? Both could be answers that come to mind while watching Andrew Haigh's Weekend, this miniature masterpiece is a lovely exercise in style, execution and transcendence. The way in which the director enters the lives of two men who fall in love over a weekend, is nothing if not exceptional. Haigh has such eye for detail that we have to ask ourselves if this wasn't taken straight from one of his memories, watch how lived in the spaces feel, how effortlessly the actors live within these characters...the magic in Weekend is that it doesn't really feel like a movie, it feels like we're witnessing real life, things happening right in front of us. Where it could've been political, the film forgoes the dynamics of homosexuality and instead focuses on the complexities of humanity. Instead of concentrating on representing specific concepts and conceptions, the film aims to address our hearts without forgetting our minds. If you find yourself thinking about Weekend long after you've seen it, you will understand what the characters felt. The movie sometimes becomes too painful to watch, its simplicity bordering dangerously on docudrama without reducing itself to the tackiness of reality shows. However like a failed romance, there is much more to gain from the movie, than the idea of not having it in your life. To watch this movie is to witness love itself being invented. The precision of its storytelling, a reminder that like everything else, love too must fade. The dreamlike quality of its urban spaces an invitation for us to pursue it no matter what.

Motifs in 2011 Cinema: Disillusionment.

Perhaps because it’s one of the youngest artistic forms, cinema is often assessed in much different manner that literature, or the visual arts. We discuss it in terms of genre, not in terms of thematic offering. Comparing, for example, Corpse Bride and Up because they’re both animated leads to some dubious discussion especially when – like any art form – thematic elements examined in cinema and the way different filmmaker address them make for some stimulating discussion. Motifs in Cinema is a discourse, across nine film blogs, assessing the way in which various thematic elements have been used in the 2011 cinematic landscape. How does a common theme vary in use from a comedy to a drama? Are filmmakers working from a similar canvas when they assess the issue of the artist or the family dynamic? Like everything else, a film begins with an idea - Motifs in Cinema assesses how the use of a single idea changes when utilised by varying artists.

- Andrew K.
Disillusionment.

One of my favorite songs says "disillusion takes what illusion gives" and this couldn't ring truer than it does while looking back at the cinema of 2011. The last decade was characterized because its up and downs were more extreme than anything else in the past. When things got bad, it meant war, terrorist attacks, pandemics, severe economic crises, social revolts, harsh weather changes and natural disasters etc. When things got good - if they ever did - it seemed like the world was closer to unity. Not so surprisingly, most of the good came in direct response to the bad, with entire countries uniting to help out a smaller nation in need, technological and scientific breakthroughs and perhaps naively in the promises made by a series of politicians who for a split second seemed like they would be able to change the world.
The movies of 2011, more than before, focused on how all of the good eventually let us down, how racism, intolerance, war and corruption just might've won the battle.

In Meek's Cutoff - perhaps the most aggressive political commentary of 2011 - Kelly Reichardt questions the Obama administration's lack of direction. Her story of wandering pioneers might not seem like a straightforward "movie" in the sense that it never worries about being entertaining and has no regard for plot. However embedded in its desolated landscapes lies the greatest story never told: how people abandon everything precious to them for an ideal that might never materialize. Realizing these people are lost isn't as heartbreaking as the delusional nature of the man leading them (played with astonishing charisma by Bruce Greenwood) who is more keen on preserving his public image than on acknowledging his flaws and how he let his people down. Meek's Cutoff cleverly uses history to make a point out of the cyclical nature of our universe.

This cyclical nature is repeated in Drive a film that takes place in a Los Angeles that seems to have never moved past the Reagan era. A labyrinth of decay surrounded by neon lights, Nicolas Winding Refn's tale questions what happens when society has lost all signs of latent humanity. L.A. here becomes the ultimate symbol of disillusionment, a city where people once came to dream (there is nary a sign of Hollywood glamour, we only see the menial tasks performed by stuntmen and strippers) but now are in deep search of a hero.
That the hero they get is a morally ambiguous macho figure speaks more about how the icons of valor are thought of as primitive creatures that predate the times we live in.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo then gives us a hero(ine) that fits more in our times. Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara) might not be Homer's idea of a savior, but in these times when corporations deal with our private information, she gets the Julian Assange badge of honor for "criminal heroism". When and how exactly did telling the truth and trying to make things right by way of immorality became a sign of courage might be a task more adequate for sociologists, but we'll take our salvation in any way it comes, right?

Although salvation makes no sense when thinking that a single epidemic might invalidate all of our moral codes. In Contagion we saw how an illness not only destroyed lives but shook survivors as well. What is the point in trying to preserve any signs of humanity when we commit the greatest acts of inhumanity against ourselves?
Steven Soderbergh's masterpiece was a chilling reminder that globalization is making us stronger only by giving us a false sense of unity, when in fact countries seem to wish they could erect walls to contain their own troubles without ever recurring to "friendly neighbor" behavior. That we see so many people in the movie trying so hard to contain the pandemic and have them fail so miserably is both horrifying and somehow relieving. Does it make sense that the end of times is then becoming the hedonistic poison of choice to so many people?

The Tree of Life wasn't without loss of illusion, in fact the entire premise circles around having a son realizing he'll never satisfy his father. On a larger scale, the film is also an essay through which Terrence Malick tries to satisfy a supreme power (the ultimate father figure) by trying to find the very essence that created him. It would be facile to blame daddy issues for all that's wrong in the world (despite what Freud would prefer) but The Tree of Life pulled off the ultimate hat trick by offering us a second chance, perhaps those who have faith will find solace in an afterlife. The rest of us are stuck down here mesmerized by the way in which our hopes reach for the sky only to crash with irreverent violence.

Take Two on Meek's.

Ugh, I hate that Meek's Cutoff is SO good that I always take its awesomeness for granted...please remind me not to leave it out of my Top Ten of 2011. In the meantime go read my second review for it over at PopMatters.

Meek's Cutoff ***½

Director: Kelly Reichardt

Cast: Michelle Williams, Paul Dano, Shirley Henderson

Zoe Kazan, Neal Huff, Will Patton, Tommy Nelson, Rod Rondeaux

The advent of Cinemascope brought with it bigger visions of where cinema could take audiences, with it came sprawling musical numbers, larger-than-life Hitchcockian nightmares and the magnificence of the Wild West in all its glory.

For what epitomizes widescreen more than the imposing image of the rocky towers of Monument Valley in The Searchers? With this new expanding screen, filmmakers were finally able to encompass the oppressing feeling of liberty that nature added to stories about cowboys, natives and pioneers.

The idea of the United States of America that was exported to worldwide audiences in these films was one of ample opportunity as long as you could withstand its obstacles (whether they were social, emotional, racial etc.)

Soon enough, the Western was subverted across the Atlantic where filmmakers like Sergio Leone grabbed on to the darkest aspects of this cultural and geographical expansion and explored the way the rest of the world perceived America.

Therefore, the first thing we must ask ourselves about Kelly Reichardt's revisionist entry in the genre is: why did she shoot it in 1.37:1 format?

Meek's Cutoff is presented to us, not in the epic landscape format favored by John Ford, but in the boxy Academy format, which instantly takes us to a time when films like Stagecoach were being made.

Perhaps Reichardt's intention was to take us back in time by using earlier cinematic language to contextualize her story about settlers in the 1800s. After all, it's fairly common for memories to be influenced by images we've seen in the movies. This is why some people imagine the past in black & white.

However effective this may be, if this was her purpose, she's not only subjugating the idea that genres should constantly evolve, she's also disregarding audience members who might not detect this with ease, or at all.

Those for whom film format is indistinguishable, will then wonder why the natural landscapes onscreen feel almost claustrophobic despite their grandeur. It is here, where the movie starts working on a psychological level. It is here, where Reichardt's genius surfaces: she is working on different layers, all of which work depending on the eye that beholds them.

Meek's Cutoff is one of those movies that requires extra attention, not because of the complexity of its plot, but precisely because of its languidness.

The entire film is presented to us in the first ten minutes. The setting is the Oregon Trail, the year is 1845. Three families traveling in wagons and carts are being led by explorer Stephen Meek (Greenwood) towards their final destination.

As the film begins we see the settlers go on about their daily lives-on a journey that is-as they wash clothes, cook and then prepare for further travel.

Despite Reichardt's, and cinematographer Chris Blauvelt's, best efforts to highlight-or perhaps contrast-the beauty of these daily rituals, we soon get the feeling that something's not right.

The husbands (Huff, Dano and Patton) and wives (Williams, Kazan and Henderson) discuss matters separately and soon we understand that they seem to be lost.

Meek reassures them that everything is fine but tensions begin to grow as they start running out of water and supplies. Their voyage becomes even more complicated when they capture an Indian.

The group becomes divided as some claim he should be killed before his tribe members find them, while others think he could help them find water.

Here Reichardt explores the dynamics of gender in society as we witness how the wives speak in whispers, fully aware that they have no actual "voice" in the decision making. This becomes especially potent when we realize that the women have ideas that might actually work, as opposed to the men's obvious inefficiency and apparent fear of Meek.

The director isn't one to hide her feminism under nonsensical disguises but unlike filmmakers that stigmatize non-mainstream ideologies, she is able to recreate the need for said currents of thought to appear.

In Meek's Cutoff she channels this with Emily Theterow (Williams), who to the shame of the others decides that the Indian should be treated with respect. Of course, the film's politics aren't Disneyfied and we understand at all times, that Emily's treatment of the Indian depends on what she can get out of him.

What's more, in her defense of this stranger, she challenges Meek and the entire patriarchal structure that has defined their journey seems on the verge of collapse. The film studies the purpose of following traditional structures under anomalous circumstances.

We are left wondering then, if a shift in power during the journey would result in long lasting change, or would thing return to normal once their destination was reached?

The film then is by all means a political work, not only because it challenges our notions about the status quo but because in doing so Reichardt, perhaps unintentionally, recreates time appropriate situations, because Meek's traditionalism and stubbornness can easily be perceived as a parable of the Bush administration , but his calm charm and "coolness" in the face of adversity easily take us to the Obama who only recently seems to have achieved an actual purpose in his presidency (it's a freaky coincidence that like Meek, his sudden decisiveness relied on the seemingly accidental encounter with a feared enemy).

If the film seems to be trying to discuss too much, it's only testament to art's capacity of molding itself to the necessities of those who consume it, for it can be said that a few years ago, the film would've been touted as a liberal pro-immigration essay and fifty years ago it would've been feared for its subversive takes on feminism and segregation.

Meek's Cutoff is transgressive political study, a convention-defying genre film and all in all, an excitingly entertaining film (you must watch it if only to witness the year's most authentic action sequence!) but overall it's an ambitiously ambiguous, but never purposeless, evaluation of American history: how they got there and where they're going.

Because when all is said and done few images of this movie year will remain as potent as that of Michelle Williams fearfully holding on to a rifle, trying to reach a compromise between physical and ideological survival.

Sheet-y Saturday.

Where we take a look at posters for upcoming features.

I find both Kelly Reichardt and Michelle Williams to be some of the most overrated figures in contemporary cinema. However something has fascinated me about this poster for Meek's Cutoff. Despite its True Grit by way of hipsters vibe there is something almost primal in its simple design.

Now, is this creepy or what?

Would you hang these on your walls?

Wendy and Lucy *

Director: Kelly Reichardt
Cast: Michelle Williams, Walter Dalton
Will Oldham, John Robinson, Will Patton

Some of the greatest films of all time have dealt with the simplest kind of situations and have found universal truths in their quest and resolution.
Like the man looking for his bicycle without which he's unemployed, the sick man who won't get medical care for bureaucracy and the single mother trying to protect her daughter in a war savaged country, Wendy (Williams) is looking for a new job in Alaska taking only her dog Lucy, that is until her dog disappears in a strange town, leaving Wendy heartbroken.
What Neorrealist masters, modern Romanians and documentary makers have found in similar situations, director Kelly Reichardt never even comes close to achieving.
Williams gives a subtle performance as Wendy and her scenes with the dog achieve a kind of urgency most people who've owned pets will recognize.
But when she tries to touch social problems in which we find her stealing groceries, sleeping in her car and washing herself in public restrooms, Wendy comes off looking as an arrogant woman looking for the easiest way out.
Williams doesn't give her enough of a background for us to understand why is she putting herself through this misery and when an offended clerk tells her that people who can't afford food for their pets shouldn't be owning one, it's impossible not to agree with him.
The film's problem might be then that Wendy's struggles stay at a very local level and people outside the United States will find her hassles as those of a drama queen who always had another option to fight her poverty.
Who cares that Wendy can't start her car to travel when there is people around the world who don't even have the dream of owning a car?
Who can understand her shoplifting for food when later we find out she has money to pay her bail?
Eventually the situations Reichardt puts Wendy through come off looking as "now what?" instead of being empathic buildups to the film's climax.
When the movie reaches its final scene it strikes a chord but for all the wrong reasons, instead of having worked harder to show that Lucy meant the only love left for Wendy in the world, it highlights her selfishness.
The plot also has trouble convincing us that this trip would help Wendy, what if there was no job in Alaska? There is never much of a clue that Wendy has thought of anything before we meet her, it's as if the character started existing once the cameras started rolling.
Sadly the film begins rather well, even hinting at some moments of greatness and inventive cinematic qualities.
One scene particularly has a great transition where Wendy observes a group of homeless people, the camera shifts from her face to the people she's watching and immediately the camera becomes her eyes.
During this scene Williams proves what a great actress she can be as she simply listens to everyone else and doesn't try to hog the spotlight.
Despite Williams' best efforts, for Reichardt Wendy never materializes beyond gender studies and economic critiques.
She's thesis material, not an actual person.