I swear I started
trimming my 2012 top 10 list weeks before the year ended. I just kept failing to narrow it down to a neat but meager
10, and the list didn’t take shape until days after the new year dawned. Anyway, long story short, this time I decided
to go with 11 features.
A confession to
make—a trivial one, really—before we go down the list: whenever I work out a
year-end review, it’s such a tempting idea to devise some sort of coherent
narrative encompassing all listed items, even though they are as disparate as
my top 11. Truth be told, I tried hard to do just that, but soon jettisoned
the idea. On second thought, it’s ludicrous to somehow lump together, say, a
story about a self-absorbed adolescent whose involvement in a tragic bus accident
forces her out into the real world and a story about a couple whose divorce
battle serves as a jumping-off point for reflecting on the class-divided
Iranian society. It’d seem equally asinine to cram in the same bracket a story
about a cult leader and his protégé’s relationship set in postwar America, a
story about arguably the most respected U.S. president and his dedication to
the passage of an amendment that abolished slavery, and a story about a funeral
director whose destructive relationship with a rich but extremely unlikable
widow, only because they are all intrinsically American stories.
So I’ll just run
down the list of my top 11 of 2012, one by one, in ascending order:
11.
Wuthering Heights
Andrea Arnold’s
interpretation of the Emily Brontë classic is replete with deliberately
unrefined emotions. Though the 4:3 aspect ratio at first seems an inexpedient choice
to capture the bleak, wide open spaces surrounding the titular house, it turns
out to be an effective approach to infusing a claustrophobic and desolate feel
into the interior of the shambles. Instead of offering a clear-cut, logical
depiction of ill-fated love between the unruly Byronic hero Heathcliff and the
equally unkempt Catherine, Arnold juxtaposes instantaneous, fragmentary
impressions of the two’s unique way of communicating affection, while
interspersing them with metaphorical vignettes of things of nature. The cast
does a fantastic job overall, but a special mention should go to Solomon Glave
who was such a marvel to watch as the young, scarred Heathcliff.
10.
Haywire
It’s hard to
believe a single director is capable of making gems like this so consistently
as Steven Soderbergh does, especially when you consider the rate at which he
cranks stuff out each year. The year before, Soderbergh made Contagion that has a smartly interlaced
narrative; this year (meaning 2012), he made two equally superb films, Haywire and Magic Mike. While the latter seems more in line with the worldwide
trending mantra, “It’s the economy, stupid,” I see the former as more
successful filmmaking.
Just look at the
opening diner fight scene, in which Gina Carano, playing the protagonist Mallory,
beats the shit out of Channing Tatum’s Aaron. There are no unnecessary cuts or changes
in composition here; instead, Soderbergh lets the scene play out in a way that draws
viewers into a clearly delineated, precisely choreographed fight. Every fight
scene in the movie not only makes logical sense but exhibits the director’s
keen awareness of spatial relations between the figures/objects in the scene
(which, again, eliminates the need for excessive cuts). Though Haywire draws on flashback-driven
non-linear storytelling, it doesn’t feel disjointed but offers a smooth revenge
ride.
9.
The Deep Blue Sea
Terence Davies’s
melodrama set in postwar London constantly drifts in and out of memories that
belong to Hester, who is snared in a loveless marriage to an upper-class judge and
helplessly in love with a philistine vet, Freddie. It has one of the year’s
best performances by Rachel Weisz and is bookended by crane shots of the shabby
flat, which encapsulates at once sepia-toned melancholy and a tinge of auspiciousness
about Hester’s unknown days ahead.
8.
Bernie
It’s a bit tricky
to put a label on Richard Linklater’s second collaboration with Jack Black.
Starting with a jaunty opening scene where Black’s titular mortician demonstrates
his embalming skills, it’s equal parts a so-called dramedy and a semi-documentary.
Based on an actual murder case in a small town in Texas, it fictionalizes the
unknown parts of the murderer-victim relationship, while incorporating interviews
with the real townspeople of Carthage. Indeed, Linklater adopts such a
precarious approach by crossing over between the two completely different
styles, subjecting himself to the accusation of condescension towards the
townsfolk. I have to say, though, part of the movie’s charm comes from the mildly
satirical tone seeping through, say, the townsfolk’s gossipy chat about whether
Bernie’s sexual orientation had a part in his crime. But at the same time, Linklater
maintains an endearing attitude to the Carthage residents and their tendencies
to disbelieve the murderer’s identity—which really is an expected reaction, considering
the efforts Bernie has put into making the people (and probably himself, too)
think he’s the type of person everyone likes and God would accept.
7.
Beyond the Hills
A cursory viewing
of Cristian Mungiu’s third feature may very well result in the foregone conclusion
that it’s just a scathing denunciation of blind faith. On the contrary, it seems Mungiu tries to head off any rash attempt to turn his work into an ideological
springboard for some sort of blatantly anti-Christian argument. Watching Beyond the Hills, in fact, requires
constant guessing—especially on the characters’ reactions to one another during
conversations. By eschewing the shot/reverse shot pattern and doggedly keeping the characters in medium shot, the director takes a step back, observes them, and avoids dictating the viewer’s emotional
responses. The level of detachment achieved here does not, however, mean
complete impartiality in ethics or the lack of the author’s point of view. While
centering on the disastrous exorcism performed on a girl named Alina, Mungiu
repeats the alternation of chillingly static long shots wherein the nuns
futilely bustle about and the close-ups of their panic-stricken faces, conjuring up
a vaguely satirical vibe. He also touches upon, but does not openly discuss, Alina’s
familial background and her mental illness, as well as her relationship with
her only friend Voichita who has recently decided to devote her life to God.
This is a remarkable achievement of disciplined filmmaking that grants no easy
answers or ready-made judgments.
6.
Lincoln
Having not read
Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals,
I went in half expecting this to be another Hollywood-crafted hagiography. Though
it may still be a glorification of an American historical figure, Steven
Spielberg’s most successful film in years is devoted for the most part to the
passage of the Thirteenth Amendment in the House of Representatives, and the compromises
that had to be made, with occasional portrayals of the personal aspects of
Lincoln’s life—as a husband and a father to (now) two sons. Of its many accomplishments at nearly every level, from Tony Kushner’s meticulous screenplay to the
delicate performances particularly by Daniel Day-Lewis and Tommy Lee Jones, I’d
like to single out the mutually enhancing effects of Janusz Kaminski’s
cinematography and Rick Carter’s production design.
The synergy
produces the most remarkable results in the conversation scenes, whether in cabinet
meetings or in House debates. In one of those cabinet meetings, while Lincoln
listens to his cabinet members, the camera first captures the toned-down room jammed
with furniture and maps letting in only a tiny amount of light through the
half-curtained windows, thereby creating an intimate atmosphere. Soon it starts
circling around the table slowly as Lincoln steers the conversation in the
direction he intends. Then, it places Lincoln at the center of the frame and
gradually pushes in to a close-up of his face, when he finally drives home his
point: wrap the whole slavery thing up now. For the House debates, on the other
hand, a more dynamic approach prevails: the camera switches back and forth
between the floor and upstairs, between the speaker’s platform and the seats,
implying varying levels of interest. And all the while, the use of backlit
silhouettes and shadows mirrors Lincoln’s more personal sides and the sense of
isolation he felt. Such effects might be seen as hints of apotheosis, but the
film makes sure to show that, unlike such radicals as Thaddeus Stevens, Lincoln
himself wasn't an advocate of uncompensated abolition of slavery, nor did his
efforts come without compromise.
5.
Tabu
Named after F.W.
Murnau’s 1931 silent film, Miguel Gomes’s black-and-white Tabu comes in two parts, Paradise Lost and Paradise. Part 1 is
about an ordinary middle-aged woman, who lives drama-free, while seeking
catharsis in the cinema and companionship in political activism, and goes out
of her way to take care of her senile neighbor Aurora. Part 2, on the other
hand, recounts the fascinating past of Aurora and her love affair set in a Portuguese
colony in Africa. The first part feels like an inexplicably constipated, contrived
exercise in style, whereas the second part, after an abrupt shift in tone, is a
vibrant reminiscence of a deceptively nostalgic romance. I believe one way to
appreciate this film is to redirect your attention to what’s not being foregrounded
in the story; further contemplation on the people kept out of focus, and the
blatantly overlooked otherness, will throw into sharp relief the lovebirds’ utter
unawareness of the sociopolitical milieu of their time.
4. The Master
3. Holy Motors
I’m not sure I
will ever be able to find the words that best convey my experience of Leos
Carax’s first feature in over a decade. Let me try nonetheless: for me, its instant
attention-grabber is the duality of its form. The narrative of Holy Motors is fragmented and yet functioning
with an overarching unity maintained by the protagonist Oscar’s very existence.
Carax ensures that what holds it all together is the intermittently reminded
oneness of a shapeshifting Oscar’s core identity as an actor riding and
prepping for his next gig in a limo, which doubles as his dressing room. The
roles Oscar performs each occupy an episode, and these episodes, or chapters if
you will, make up the whole narrative, but they are also part of other stories
that are outside this story world and that can be envisioned as extended versions
of the given events.
Oscar begins each part in medias res and exits it unfinished (so that maybe he can return to the story the next day and pick up where he left off) or somewhat finished. What it would be like as a whole is thus entirely up to audiences, and the movie enthusiastically invites spectatorial engagement. As unmistakably shown in the opening scene featuring sleeping or dead spectators, cinema is seen literally as a medium for collective dreaming, through which everyone enters into the same state and takes away their own meaning from it. That, together with the scene of a cemetery Oscar tramps as Monsieur Merde, has spawned a handful of readings that bemoan the death of film culture; perhaps, it wouldn’t be too far off the mark to link the unconscious audience directly to the demise of the moviegoing experience—just as Oscar muses, “What if there is no beholder?” To my mind, however, even such images of death that abound in the movie do not feel so pessimistic. Rather, Carax seems to celebrate film as a gateway to unexplored stretches beyond the confines of what’s immediately available to viewers.
Oscar begins each part in medias res and exits it unfinished (so that maybe he can return to the story the next day and pick up where he left off) or somewhat finished. What it would be like as a whole is thus entirely up to audiences, and the movie enthusiastically invites spectatorial engagement. As unmistakably shown in the opening scene featuring sleeping or dead spectators, cinema is seen literally as a medium for collective dreaming, through which everyone enters into the same state and takes away their own meaning from it. That, together with the scene of a cemetery Oscar tramps as Monsieur Merde, has spawned a handful of readings that bemoan the death of film culture; perhaps, it wouldn’t be too far off the mark to link the unconscious audience directly to the demise of the moviegoing experience—just as Oscar muses, “What if there is no beholder?” To my mind, however, even such images of death that abound in the movie do not feel so pessimistic. Rather, Carax seems to celebrate film as a gateway to unexplored stretches beyond the confines of what’s immediately available to viewers.
2. A Separation
Asghar Farhadi’s meticulously structured drama opens with a couple filing for divorce looking directly into the camera, establishing the audience in the judge’s position before it guides it into the couple’s lives. Then, with the introduction of a nurse hired to tend the husband’s father, this tale of family disintegration becomes an exposé of the class divide both specific to Iranian society and relevant to a broader audience. What elevates the movie to a work of cinematic genius is Farhadi’s thoroughgoing pragmatism: he wisely refrains from resorting to a flashback-driven narrative and lets the characters create the story gaps by deceiving each other while keeping the audience in the dark as well. Also, his lens seems oriented solely to what needs to be displayed at a particular point in time, in a particular situation, in order to advance the plot exactly as planned. His charting of conflict and tension between the characters allows for no deviation or subjectivity, yet the emotional blow it eventually lands is so immense that you end up feeling for every character in it.
1. Margaret
My best film of
2012 is Margaret, Kenneth Lonergan’s
cacophonous, sprawling, elegiac ode to a confused adolescent and a city still overcoming
collective trauma. In it, growing up couldn’t be more painful and complicated. Lisa
Cohen, a teenager living in a upper-middle-class Manhattan home, inadvertently finds
herself thrust out of her sheltered life and launching a legal battle after she
becomes indirectly responsible for a fatal accident.
Combing an ever-expanding web of relationships among people breathing the same air of a grief-soaked city yet irreconcilably disconnected from one another, Lonergan, primarily through his ingeniously crafted, realistic dialog, sculptures characters practically impossible to reduce to certain types or patterns but familiar and relatable. As Lisa continues to grapple with ethical dilemmas beyond her grasp, the saga reminds that coming of age is at once the loss of innocence and about realizing the world doesn’t revolve around you, that your strong convictions about right and wrong may not have as rock-solid a foundation as you want it to be. That’s sort of what Lisa is taught during her confrontation with the victim’s friend Emily, but Lisa simply doesn’t get it—Emily assures her that she will, as she gets older and when she finally understands caring too easily can be as damaging as not caring at all.
Combing an ever-expanding web of relationships among people breathing the same air of a grief-soaked city yet irreconcilably disconnected from one another, Lonergan, primarily through his ingeniously crafted, realistic dialog, sculptures characters practically impossible to reduce to certain types or patterns but familiar and relatable. As Lisa continues to grapple with ethical dilemmas beyond her grasp, the saga reminds that coming of age is at once the loss of innocence and about realizing the world doesn’t revolve around you, that your strong convictions about right and wrong may not have as rock-solid a foundation as you want it to be. That’s sort of what Lisa is taught during her confrontation with the victim’s friend Emily, but Lisa simply doesn’t get it—Emily assures her that she will, as she gets older and when she finally understands caring too easily can be as damaging as not caring at all.
In all fairness, though, Lisa seems spot-on when she says people no longer relate to each other: even her mother, Joan, fails to fully meet her daughter’s need for support because she, too, is plagued with her own career and relationship issues (as Lisa tells Joan, “I’d rather not talk about it when you have one foot out the door”) and Lisa’s conversation with her father gets constantly interrupted—let alone her unintentionally poor choice of words and difficulty better expressing herself. As if to prove Lisa right, Lonergan amplifies background noise and lets a jumble of chatter and horns drown out the main characters’ conversation; he also interjects shots of Lisa traversing the streets, tuning out her surroundings, or blending in with crowds rather awkwardly. Through this coming-of-age tale, Lonergan’s ambition seems to transfer New York's cityscapes in their entirety to the screen, which is delivered successfully.
My top 11 of 2012:
11. Wuthering Heights (UK)
10. Haywire (USA)
9. The Deep Blue Sea (UK)
8. Bernie (USA)
7. Beyond the Hills (Romania)
6. Lincoln (USA)
5. Tabu (Portugal)
4. The Master (USA)
3. Holy Motors (France)
2. A Separation (Iran)
1. Margaret (USA)