There is no denying that the second installment in The Hunger Games series looks better than its predecessor; the fact that second film's budget was nearly twice that of the first is apparent from Catching Fire's onset. When you add the change in directors from Gary Ross (Pleasantville, Seabiscuit) to someone with a résumé that would at least suggest more comfortability in the genre, Francis Lawrence (Constantine--which, for all its flaws, looked good--and I Am Legend), the fact that the film looked better should come as little surprise to anyone. When grouped with the facts that Josh Hutcherson steps up his game (his performance in the first installment was more than a little lacking) and Wes Bentley is traded out for Philip Seymour Hoffman, and that Jennifer Lawrence, Donald Sutherland, Woody Harrelson, and Elizabeth Banks are as good as they were in The Hunger Games, it is not difficult to see how the product on the screen is going to be better than the one trotted out a year ago.
Unfortunately for the film Catching Fire, the source material is lacking in that it is basically just a bridge to the revolution. While one could certainly attempt to draw comparisons between The Empire Strikes Back and Catching Fire, the real reason that Empire was the best of the original Star Wars trilogy was that George Lucas's involvement was more limited than in the other two films. Where Catching Fire was darker (similarly) than the first film, the limitations of the original story hurt the film as a moviegoing experience. The primary shortcoming of Catching Fire is that with a few exceptions the viewer is taken along on Katniss's journey. This obviously makes sense for the most part. Unfortunately, nearly all of the action takes place outside of Katniss's purview, meaning nearly all of the deaths, large- and small-scale, happen off-screen. In other words because of the nature of the narrative, the bulk of the action happens out of frame. This. Is. A. Major. Problem.
When you combine that with a major anticlimax, you've got a film that just doesn't quite work. As a chapter in a longer series, perhaps one can move past the shortcomings inherent in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire; but when isolating the film on its own merits, it falls significantly short of where it could have gone.
If there is a thread that ties Paul Thomas Anderson's rather diverse filmography together, it is that his works are all offbeat character studies. With each venture, the subject and subject matter may vary drastically, but that central characteristic remains.
As with the rest of his oeuvre, The Master marches to its own beat, and that beat is not set by anyone playing drums. Whether it was Daniel Plainfield in There Will Be Blood, Barry Egan in Punch-Drunk Love, Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights, or the two sides of the coin that Joaquin Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman play in the forms of Freddie Quell and Lancaster Dodd in The Master, Anderson places the most importance on the journey of the character and not nearly as much on the journey itself. To those craving a conventional tale in which the action and events tell the audience everything they need to know, Anderson's careful but at time obtuse studies on character are going to be ultimately unfulfilling.
Even more than his previous works, The Master veers away from a brand of filmic storytelling adhering to conventions. To me, this makes him one of cinema's brightest and most unique working auteurs, with his deft hand and careful eye and maverick vision putting him in the rarified company of Terrence Malick as writer / directors whose vision is so singular and so complete as to leave me grateful just to have gotten to go along on their ride.
In The Master, that ride is one in which two polar opposites in virtually every way are drawn together despite or perhaps exactly because of their stark differences. The extreme contrast of the two is never clearer than when they're both arrested and thrown in jail. Freddie sits (or rather rages) at one end of the spectrum: the animalistic, uncontrollable, volatile, violent man; Lancaster stands at the other pole: civilized, controlled, calm, at peace. The scene is perhaps the most powerful of the film and is a microcosm of the film on the whole. Neither the greater mechanisms and institutions of society nor the man who represents his opposite can control him, and the longer he tries to conform himself to these externally constructed systems the more violent the recoil will be when the controlling grip is lost.
What this existential struggle between the two primarily means is that both the two leads, Phoenix and Hoffman, are served up meaty roles with which they can stretch their legs, crank their necks, loosen their jaws, and bite right into. Phoenix's return to dramatic acting* is a triumph. He loses himself in the role. It is one wrought with pathos, infused with a primal physicality, an overarching hyper-pubescent sexuality, and a mischievous spirit. His backstory is a bit murky. It's hard to tell if he was broken before the war or not. Regardless, it is breathtaking. Hoffman's role requires a command of self, a conveyance of confidence, that makes the audience believe in and want to follow him. That confidence has to be so prominent that even when Lancaster Dodd is clearly making up things he believes them to be true as soon as they are uttered.
*I'm Still Here was a lot of things, but I think we can all agree it wasn't a dramatic piece of fiction.
In support, Amy Adams is fantastic. The cold-hearted First Lady of a cult-leader crackpot with an eye on the prize and a believe in The Cause that drives her. Her icy stare, when employed, is startling. It's also nice to have Jesse Plemons in house, as there is never a time that I don't want to see him in something. Unfortunately, he kills no one here, so the Landry/Todd murderer jokes don't get extended to The Master.
And as for Anderson, The Master, a full realization of his very unique vision, is captivating, and in its 70mm glory is something to behold.
George Clooney's fourth time out as a director sees him stepping back into a more serious realm after his middling football romp Leatherheads. While not reaching the heights that he soared to in Good Night and Good Luck--the best film of 2005--it is hard to fault him for not making a masterpiece this time around.
What The Ides of March is about at its core is Junior Campaign Manager Stephen Myers's loss of innocence. The brains behind the campaign, Stephen (played by the ever-impressive Ryan Gosling) embodies the idealistic crusader that so many wide-eyed and hopeful young people getting into politics are. In Governor Mike Morris (Clooney), Stephen believes that he has found his man, the one that can make a difference. Morris is the filmic equivalent of Jed Bartlett or Matt Santos, a paragon of liberal virtues and ideals in the form of an attractive and charismatic man. In other words, Morris is a dream candidate.
Unfortunately, Morris is a human being and is therefore imperfect. As Morris's imperfection becomes an issue, Myers begins to chip away at his own innocence. With both Senior Campaign Managers--of Morris's campaign, Paul Zara (Philip Seymour Hoffman) and that of his Democratic Primary rival, Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti)*--serving as cautionary examples of what cynicism-riddled existences a life on the campaign trail can produce, the future that awaits Stephen is prominently featured throughout the film. His path is sealed by the course of action he takes at each crossroads. As he gets deeper and deeper, he loses more and more of himself.
*The Ides of March is unique in that is likely the only movie that will ever be made requiring the acting talents of both Paul Giamatti and Philip Seymour Hoffman. It must have been odd for the two of them to not be competing for the same role, as there are actually two homely, unscrupulous, manipulative pricks who want to win at all costs in this film.
Stephen's devolution is representative of the inevitable death of idealism in politics as winning takes precedence over maintaining the moral high ground. Governor Morris, too, is required to sacrifice his principles for the prospect of winning. To say that this film holds little hope for the ability of idealists to traverse the treacherous and rocky terrain without losing touch with what they believed in prior to entering into the fray is an understatement.
On these points, the film works. If you were looking for any sort of political intrigue or an unpredictable plot, this isn't your movie. While the central concern of the film is what happens to Stephen Myers, the course that the campaign takes through the Ohio Primary is obvious from the moment Evan Rachel Wood walks across the screen. The campaign is secondary to Stephen's descent, but it still fails to surprise from a narrative standpoint. While one could hardly qualify the campaign as dead screen time, it definitely seems to do little but serve a purpose to forward a single character's story arc.
The film does look great, set against the bleak landscape of the Rust Belt in March, and is carried by great performances from Gosling and Clooney with Hoffman, Giamatti, and Wood holding their own. Clooney, who also co-wrote the screenplay, clearly has an aptitude for crafting a film imbued with strong liberal ideals, as all of Morris's speeches on the campaign trail would have been right at home in the Sorkin-helmed seasons of The West Wing. For the most part, he's got another great film on his hands, although its not flawless like Good Night and Good Luck was.
