Guy David

Studio Ghibli partners with Dutch director Michaël Dudok de Wit for this minimalist take on the Robinson Crusoe/man on a stranded island story. It's a beautiful, mostly silent meditation on our need for others, time, and nature's relentlessness. Robert Zemeckis's CAST AWAY, another entry in this genre, is carried by a familiar face: Tom Hanks. In that pic, we can easily empathize with him, knowing this aww-shucks actor for so long prior to his FedEx plane crashing in the Pacific. But here, in THE RED TURTLE, we know nothing about our cast away. He's a stranger. An illustrated mystery man who is drawn in the European/French-style of animation, which relies more on form than facial expression, we are swept up in his immediate cause of trying to find a way off the island. The problem with desert island castaway stories is they fall into a predictable plotline: crash, reaction, finding a way off the island, the character's acceptance that help isn't coming, survival, and finally finding meaning and sanity in existing away from civilization. Here, too, in THE RED TURTLE we follow that plotline, but there is magical realism at play here. The titular red turtle is encountered early on by our cast away and soon becomes not a turtle but a woman, a companion, lover, and ultimately wife who bears this castaway man a son. There is never any winking to the audience that perhaps our castaway has gone mad and is merely imagining all of this taking place; no, rather, we are simply along for the journey and accept it at face value, which is fine as the crux of this film's story is not about a man losing his sanity but instead gaining it. Is he imagining finding a turtle who turns into a woman (like sailors of old who imagined women in the sea who were really manatees and turtles)? Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't really matter, and the film's comfortable, minimalist approach allows for us to accept this fact simply and purely. It's a meditation instead of a prayer of urgency. Studio Ghibli, taking direction from Michaël Dudok de Wit, relies on an illustrative style that is bare and works in contrasting its characters with the natural environment. Much of the film could be distilled into an extra long picture book - an exquisite one at that. The colors are vivid but never overbearing, the lines are sharp, and we are reminded of the evolution of Studio Ghibli, which has come into its own after its captain Miyazaki approached retirement (earlier this year, Miyazaki said he's returning for one more film). Like Robinson Crusoe and all of the stories of people stranded from civilization, THE RED TURTLE raises questions of what really matters once society is stripped away from the individual. As most philosophers, sages, and those who've arrived at their own sliver of wisdom have found it's tilling your own garden, marking time in your own way, and loving that are the key ingredients not only to happiness but to a life well-lived.

The divisive (among fans) new entry into the STAR WARS universe, THE LAST JEDI tears the myth to shreds, only to build it back up once more by film's end. As a lifelong STAR WARS fan, I can say I loved this film, but I understand why it is deemed a failure in other fans' eyes. The original trilogy relished in its own mythic creations, playing lightly on one hand while sweeping along with timeless tropes on the other. There is a reason those first three films, under the helm of George Lucas, made such a cultural impact: they told simple stories in a grand way. Like Disney before him, Lucas Americanized universal myths and fairy tales, not asking the viewer to intellectualize or even think, but simply to feel. Children, especially, were caught up in this - just as the very best Disney films capture the imagination and ancient longings inside of us all. THE LAST JEDI is a deconstruction of these myths. It's as if, instead of watching the STAR WARS movies, you're listening to Joseph Campbell wax poetic about them. And to me, this is wonderful, but again, I understand how this leaves a bitter taste in some fans' mouths. Rian Johnson, the director, is known for this, which is what puzzled me the most when hearing his appointment by Kathleen Kennedy. Johnson has reveled in deconstruction from his first breakthrough film: BRICK. For anyone familiar with that film, they know that Johnson brilliantly deconstructed the film noir genre through his telling of a high school murder solved by a young private detective, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. That entire film is a careful deconstruction of tropes and plot beats, of stereotypes and icons. Same, too, with Johnson's other films (notably LOOPER's self-referential sci-fi story that dragged on a bit too long). Here, too, Johnson tears apart the STAR WARS mythos - it is rather jarring the seemingly laissez-faire way in which it is done. For example, Luke's first reaction to Rey's handing him his famous lightsaber is to throw it away over his shoulder. Gravitas is jettisoned in many instances throughout the film, but in exchange, we get hard examinations of what are favorite heroes are: human. And maybe that's where Rian Johnson reaches too far with the STAR WARS machine: he turns quasi-mythic characters into simple, everyday folks. We want our Luke Skywalkers, like our Hercules and Odysseus, to be larger than life. That's why they are myths to begin with: they're bigger, better, and stronger than we could ever hope to be. No, says Johnson, they're human. They've only become legends because that's what we do: we create them. Like THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK, this middle part of the sequel trilogy is a dark act (as all second acts ought to be). Our heroes fail, but in their failing, they grow as characters. This is a passing of the guard from the old generation to the new, and in that passing, the young upstarts learn they don't know everything. And as one familiar character reminds us, "Failure is the greatest teacher." Some people have compared it to a Marvel movie, which I can understand: the Marvel movies, too, deconstruct the mythos of legendary characters, humanizing them to an almost unsettling degree. Is this the STAR WARS I wanted? I don't know. The last STAR WARS I wanted was RETURN OF THE JEDI and that didn't turn out the way I thought it would either. But that's okay. At some point, I realized STAR WARS wasn't mine. All the great myths are meant to be torn down: that's their purpose. To instruct, yes, but to allow you to make your own choices, your own failures. To grow. And in this sense, Rian Johnson succeeded in telling the story he wanted to tell. Whether or not it lasts the test of time, we'll see, but as an enjoyable STAR WARS tale, it passes that litmus test for me.

Before anything else is said about Netflix's and David McKenzie's OUTLAW KING, we have to get the elephant with tartan colours out of the way first: this is not BRAVEHEART. Of course, the film stands in Mel Gibson's shadow and there are enough callbacks to the brilliant 1995 film, but OUTLAW KING makes its own way just as Robert the Bruce did. Is that a good thing? Yes, and no. Unfortunately, mostly no. OUTLAW KING begins with a grand continuous shot sequence that is a marvel to behold. Chris Pine is subdued as Robert the Bruce. He's a good fit, but even so, there's nothing inspiring about him like there was with William Wallace. Of course, that's partly the point, but even so: why make a picture if it's not inspiring, especially with this material? McKenzie seems more interested in pageantry and pomp, reveling in the medieval milieu with long takes, wide shots, 3/4 shots and full shots of actors as they go about their business of archery, dining, and other things. The problem is, even though the pic is nice to look at - and kudos to McKenzie for going his own way visually here - there's little to no interest in the characters. Decent performances, but the script is flat and produces more plot than solid, emotional moments, which were aplenty in BRAVEHEART. OUTLAW KING is decent for a night's viewing, but it's not memorable. It tries hard to stay away from BRAVEHEART, but keeps returning to its motifs, themes, and even sequences (the English fall for the long spear thing AGAIN?). BRAVEHEART keeps the Scottish crown. Long live the king.

Hey, it's a new Coen Brothers movie, everybody! And... it's on Netflix? Of course it is, it's 2018. Everything premiers on Netflix first (or soon will), and that's all right, though I wouldn't mind seeing THE BALLAD OF BUSTER SCRUGGS on the big screen. I am disappointed, however, that it wasn't shot in 2.35:1 (it's 16:9 to fit nicely on your TV screen). But that's small potatoes compared to the sheer joy of a Coen Bros. premier, and BUSTER SCRUGGS doesn't disappoint. It begins with the titular Buster Scruggs serenading the audience as he travels through a bright Western landscape in a clean, white Roy Rogers cowboy getup. This is the opening overture to this film of western short stories, and it serves nicely as that, but not as a story in it own right. It sets the tone, which is Coen Bros. dark humor. The rest of the stories in this anthology are hit and miss (James Franco makes an appearance as a lucky outlaw in such a clichéd entry that it only serves to introduce one of the funniest characters in the Coen Bros. universe). The best of the bunch is a Jack London short story of a crusty old miner (played absolutely brilliantly by Tom Waits), a heartbreaking tale of a young woman (Zoe Kazan) riding a wagon train headed to Oregon, and the final denouement that pays homage to STAGECOACH through a lens darkly. This is like a surprise experimental album from one of your favorite bands. It's both pleasing because it's a surprise and because it allows a bit more leeway in terms of storytelling. Though this doesn't come quite as close to perfection as say O BROTHER, WHERE ART THOUGH?, BUSTER SCRUGGS does have some great Coen Bros. moments from Buster Scruggs himself (a hilarious creation brought to life by Tim Blake Nelson) to the price-of-admission performance of a crusty Tom Waits panning for gold in a peaceful valley. Like AKIRA KUROSAWA'S DREAMS, the shorts the film comprises of are arranged just so as to follow the themes of a story arc - and though DREAMS ends on a positive note, SCRUGGS is more in line with the Coen's cynicism: never flinching at the dark sides of human nature and always accepting that death is inevitable. All that darkness aside, BUSTER SCRUGGS has plenty of laughs. A worthy entry to the Coen's oeuvre.