Hot Freaks

Only Lovers Left Alive (Jim Jarmusch, 2014)
First off: What a title! The phrase “Only Lovers Left Alive” dates back 50 years, to a science fiction novel in which adults have departed and left the world to be run by reckless, sexy teenagers. (This was not an uncommon theme in the 60s.) It’s a combination of words that’s as romantic or dark as you want it to be, and Jim Jarmusch wants it to hit both marks. In his movie, brilliant and beautiful people who have been undead for a long time are struggling with how to stay interested in the world and each other.

It’s slow-moving, like most of Jarmusch’s stuff, but the pace works perfectly. The first time we see Adam (Tom Hiddleston) and Eve (Tilda Swinton — also, get it?), they are lying flat on their large beds, listening to records, and the camera is slowly descending at the pace of a spinning LP.  Adam is a musician who was famous, or at least cult-famous, at some time in the past, but now he’s recording the same droning “funeral music” and asking a fixer (Anton Yelchin) in his abandoned corner of Detroit if he can find a wooden bullet “for an art project.” Eve lives in Tangier, reading piles of books — there’s a very nice touch in which she quickly runs her fingers down the pages, speed-reading, because she’s had centuries to master this — and wants to be reunited with her lover.

Vampirism, in this movie, is like being a grad student for all eternity. After Eve flies to Detroit, the two of them reminiscence about the great people they’ve known (“What was Mary Shelley like?” “Delicious.”) and take long drives as they wonder how human civilization will crumble.

“Everybody left,” says Adam of Detroit.

“But this place will rise again,” says Eve. “There’s water here.  When the cities in the south are burning, this place will bloom.”

“Do you want to see the Motown museum?” says Adam. “Well, there’s not much to look at from the outside.”

To me, that’s pretty funny. As is the scene when the lovers have to dispose of a corpse, and Adam grumbles that “it’s not like the old days when we could just choke them in the Thames alongside the rest of the tuberculous floaters.” These people (well, monsters) have witnessed centuries of human progress, and become bored and a little scared of the diseases that now contaminate blood. They are not in control at all — they are trapped amid their hobbies and attachments. But don’t they look good that way?

Frank (Lenny Abrahamson, 2014)
On the way out of the theater, I overheard the lesson that someone else took from it: “Social media ruins music!” He wasn’t wrong. Approached one way, Frank is the story of a young man who wants to be a famous musician and succeeds for two minutes. When we meet Jon (Domnhall Gleeson, who like most red-headed male actors always plays the approachable but goofy character), he’s walking around his anonymous English town, writing bad lyrics for songs with chord sequences that he belatedly realizes are from Madness songs.

By black-comedy-luck, he’s eating a panini (which he tweets about, with the hashtag #livingthedream) by the seaside when the keyboard player for the Soronprfbs, a band whose posters are advertising a show that night, is trying to drown himself. As the keyboardist is gurneyed away, Jon is invited to sit in with the band. With no practice, he is told to walk onstage right before Frank (Michael Fassbender) arrives, wearing a wetsuit (which he doesn’t always wear) and a giant paper mache head (which he does). Frank is magnetic, the song is a noise-rock jumble of words and concepts, and Jon adds some Cs and Gs and Fs to the show before the power blows and the manic Clara (Maggie Gyllenhaal) erupts, ending the show.

Jon wonders if he’s lost his chance at greatness. Then he gets it: The old keyboard player is institutionalized, and Frank wants Jon to join the band. For what? A gig, Jon assumes, though when he jumps into the Soronprfbs van, he discovers that 1) Frank never takes the head off and 2) the band is actually renting a cottage in Ireland to record a perfect album. Jon uses his life savings to pay the rent, documents the madness with his iPhone, and gets the band booked at SXSW.

“Why does it say ‘two-three-seven-five-one” at the bottom?” asks Frank, looking at a YouTube clip Jon has uploaded.

“That’s the number of people who’ve watched the clip,” says Jon.

“Two-three-seven-five-one people are interested in us?” asks Frank.

Against Clara’s advice, and against the warnings of the (mysteriously French) band members, the band heads to SXSW. You can guess what happens. This movie is based loosely on a real encounter Jon Ronson had with a comedian/performance artist whose “Frank Sidebottom” persona played fractured covers of pop songs. It’s based more closely on the lives and critical moments of a few outsider artists like Captain Beefheart and Daniel Johnston. Johnston was a breakout star at a pre-corporate version of SXSW, and was too mentally distraught to capitalize on it, and at times Frank felt like a version of Johnston’s life with some tropes removed (unlike Johnston, Frank does not pine for an unrequited love) and some added. Like Johnston, Frank seems to write songs about whatever is running through his mind or in his field of vision at a given moment, and like Johnston he retreats to be with his understanding, supportive parents when the pressures of success destroy him.

This is the sort of movie that shows big, gaping seams while it’s playing, and feels much more taut and poignant when it’s over. Jon’s quest for fame is handled perfectly, because whether or not you like Frank’s music, you don’t disagree that it’s fascinating and could find an audience. You also can see that Jon is talentless, and jealous that he is not a genius. “Miserable childhood, mental illness… Where do I find that kind of inspiration?” he asks himself. It’s a laugh line when he says it, and a profound line after he meets the real Frank. That’s the other thing — Fassbender is completely spellbinding as Frank, conveying emotions with just his voice and body the way Tom Hardy had to when he slapped on the Bane mask. When Frank is in his element he’s loose and limber. When pressure drops, he seems to shrink in on himself, standing around like a cigar store Indian. It’s very recognizable behavior if you’ve met (or are) a depressive person, and Fassbender plays it just right.

Adventures in America, 1921-2014

Boyhood (Richard Linklater, 2014) Earlier this year, New York culture critics came up with one of those trends that’s unprovable outside Brooklyn yet sets the entire Internet on fire. “Normcore,” allegedly, was a “self-aware, stylized blandness” adopted by cool kids, who were eschewing high fashion. (Surely this had nothing to with living in a city so expensive that two-income couples are willing to flee to Jersey City.) They were putting no thought into their clothes, so they could focus on the rest of their lives.

I thought of this trend — again, it may or may not be real — when “Boyhood” opened with the fake-dangeous guitar riffs of Coldplay’s “Yellow.” The song arrived in America during the dark reign of rap-rock and Sisqo, and it seemed meaningful at the time, but no self-respecting snob would admit to liking it in 2014. Yet here was Richard Linklater, who was making Austin’s weirdness famous before anyone was willing to shell out for SXSW wristbands, putting “Yellow” on the soundtrack and starting a movie with a kid gazing at a bright blue sky.

Much smarter critics (critics who are actually paid to analyze movies) have dissected “Boyhood” like a science class frog already, so I’ve got little to add beyond amazement at normal it is. It was filmed in yearly segments over 11 years, and the music cues reflect what was generally popular among average white people at the time. (The official soundtrack excludes schlock by Sheryl Crow and Soulja Boy, but it’s perfectly used in the movie.) There are many scenes of young kids playing video games.

Some of the story cues are familiar: Every time a character is drinking booze in a strange setting, he will turn out to be an alcoholic. But the callbacks to details filmed over 11 years are either nonexistent or purposefully transparent. The only Big Speeches are given by characters who have reasons to give them, which is Ethan Hawke’s Mason, Sr gets the most memorable dialogue as he spends precious weekends with the kids he’s left his estranged wife to raise.

There is no subtext. At one point, Mason, Sr pulls over his 1968 GTO to inform his kids that they simply are not going to be one of those families where the kids have bland conversations with their biological fathers. Yet after you watch the already-famous scene in which Mason, Sr gives his son a two-CD compilation of post-breakup Beatles songs (“There is no favorite Beatle!”), you expect Mason, Jr to meaningfully plunk it into his truck’s sound system at some point. That doesn’t happen. You expect some dark consequence when Mason, Jr drinks and does drugs. That doesn’t happen, either — he’s a white kid living in central Texas, he gets away with that sort of stuff on the way to figuring out what kind of man he is.

See, this movie is a rich and strange experience because there’s nothing particularly strange about it. What would it have been had Linklater just cast a few actors of different ages to play the same characters over 11 years? I don’t think it would have worked at all. The metatextual details are everything. The 2005 bookstore party for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince reminds you that Linklater did not invent the idea of tracking a few characters over their difficult years, but realized how much more vicariously you can live through characters if you watch them live and age, instead of living through one crazy night or the aftermath of some crime, or other plot contrivance. Like Slacker, Linklater’s first movie (and one of my favorite movies, period), it’s about how interesting human beings can be when they’re being alive. And, yes. When they are enjoying the music of Coldplay.

The Immigrant (James Gray, 2014) And here’s a movie that’s all about contrivance and setting. Set in 1921, Gray’s melodrama begins when Ewa (Marion Cotillard, whose voice is the quietest in any scene she’s in unless she’s crying) and her sister are prevented from entering New York City via Ellis Island. Bruno (Joaquin Phoenix), the manager of a less-than-racy burlesque show, takes advantage of the situation and brings the beautiful, lost Ewa to his lair. Over the course of a few months, she’s degraded by her surroundings and rejected by her family and — well, I’d spoil it if I mentioned what happens with her love life.

It’s an old-fashioned melodrama, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I heard one critic describe Ewa as “the opposite of a Lars Von Trier character,” and I’d invert that — this is like a Lars Von Trier movie made by human beings who believe in strong women and happy endings. I ended up seeing this movie soon after Von Trier’s “Nymph( )maniac,” and funny enough I think Von Trier’s heroine asserts herself more fully. In the morality of that movie, sex is a pastime and a tool. In Gray’s movie, sex is like kryptonite to Ewa, depriving her of her destiny as a madonna finding her way in America.