Toy Story 3

This Is the End, Beautiful Friend

2010 // USA // Lee Unkrich // June 21, 2010 // 3D Digital Theatrical Projection (Landmark Tivoli)

A- - I've previously observed that the most gleefully gratifying aspect of Pixar's triumph over the realms of American feature animation has been the burgeoning thematic sophistication of its films, which have evolved from wholesome entertainments into nimble and sensitive works of art. However, I've also long held the perhaps heretical view among Pixar aficionados that Toy Story and Toy Story 2, despite their charming qualities and seminal status in animated cinema, seem, shall we say, slighter than the later-model Pixar efforts. The first two chapters in the saga of Woody and Buzz Lightyear are unambiguously lesser films when held alongside subsequent films. Little in the first two Toy Story films compares to Ratatouille's virtuoso storytelling, WALL●E's sweeping sci-fi explorations, or Up's adroit blending of giddy thrills and profound sorrow. For this reason, there is a rich sense of fulfillment to be had in Toy Story 3, quite apart from its inherent sensory and emotional pleasures. Director Lee Unkrich—here taking solo helming duties for the first time—expands the scope of the studio's most familiar franchise to encompass delicate matters such as emotional abuse, the sting of betrayal, class-based tyranny, and the specter of mortality. Yet Toy Story 3 never loses sight of the fundamental appeal of pint-sized adventure in the perilous wilderness of suburbia, nor of the essential pathos of growing up, here handled (as always) with the utmost care. The third chapter in the Disney / Pixar behemoth reveals itself to be the best: gorgeous, intricate, a little frightening, and shamelessly touching.

The film opens with a ticklish flashback sequence that visualizes a child's frenetic fantasies on a grand scale, as young Andy (Charlies Bright) casts Woody (Tom Hanks), Buzz (Tim Allen), and the other toys in an outlandish adventure. In the present day, however, the toys are lamenting their long state of disuse just as seventeen-year-old Andy (John Morris) is about to depart for college. The inevitable emotional separation from his grown-up owner haunted Woody in the second film, but it seemed a distant thing. At the outset of Toy Story 3, this slow-motion calamity has finally come to pass for all of Andy's playthings. (Oddly enough, only Woody, as the designated Best Friend, has a chance to tag along to college as a keepsake, a privilege that engenders resentment from the other toys.) Banishment to the attic is the toys' most likely fate—a dull prospect, yet preferable to the landfill—but a series of mix-ups and hasty gambits lands them in the donation bin at Sunnyside Daycare. There they meet a faction of second-hand toys led by the genial magenta teddy bear, Lotso (Ned Beatty), who speaks glowingly of the never-ending cohorts of playmates at the daycare. Naturally, not all is as it seems at Sunnyside: Andy's toys discover to their horror that as "new recruits" they've been relegated to a gaggle of savage toddlers who only know how to bite, bash, and break. (The recommended age metric, it would seem, is less about the safety of the child than that of the toy.) It turns out that Lotso, jilted by a former owner and seething with bitterness, is running Sunnyside as if it were a prison, complete with a rigid caste system and fearsome punishments, such as banishment to the dreaded (Sand) Box.

Consistent with the previous chapters in the series, the narrative of Toy Story 3 is essentially a framework for an extended slapstick adventure tale, although the threat of outright destruction has never been as acute for the toys as it is here. The urgency of a reunion with Andy propels the story forward through a landscape fraught with peril for our eight- to twelve-inch heroes. However, their owner's nascent adulthood heightens the ambiguity of such a reunion. Whereas the primary villains of Toy Story and Toy Story 2 were humans who failed to recognize the sentimental value of the toys to their rightful owner, this outing's antagonists are other playthings who have been traumatized and hardened by their past experiences. On another level, however, the true villain of Toy Story 3 is mortality itself, which menaces our little heroes in a manner that is almost disconcerting for a children's movie. The emotional earnestness of the Toy Story films has always seemed a bit suspect—Can we truly be moved by the travails of plastic junk, no matter how robust the allegorical aspects of their story?—but here the dread of abandonment is paired with a genuinely frightening threat of outright annihilation. One of the film's most affecting scenes confronts the compulsive need to struggle against oblivion, and, with superb poignancy, reveals our heroes' grim resolve to face their demise hand-in-hand. (Their eventual salvation by means of a deus ex machina only moderately detracts from this sequence's potency.)

Needless to say, the visuals of Toy Story 3 are tremendously lush and vibrant. The animators paint a setting of colossal corridors and vast playgrounds, where everything pops with a level of detail that puts even Ratatouille's magnificently realized kitchen to shame. There is an element of undistilled delight in seeing characters created fifteen years ago given life within a reality that finally feels settled and seamless. The script is admirably witty, although the film flirts with raunchy and scatological humor to an unfortunate extent not observed in prior Pixar films. There are plenty of gags that are unmistakably geared towards the adults in the audience, but the film's bountiful cinematic allusions are far more memorable and stimulating. Much of the extensive Sunnyside segment of the film plays as a riff on The Great Escape, but there are abundant nods to influences ranging from Cool Hand Luke to The Ten Commandments, from The Return of the Jedi to The Exorcist. However, Unkrich maintains a generous focus on the story at hand, such that these elements never attain the air of stilted homages or winking novelties, but rather signify a disciplined use of generic tropes to tell a sentimental adventure yarn.

Mawkishness is an obvious risk when one's very subject matter is childhood nostalgia, yet Toy Story 3 evades it with grace by showing us—more so than its predecessors—the authentic creative joy of kids, where the toys are beloved but the act of play is what endures. The film poses that while the relics of our past might exert a powerful magnetism over us, nostalgia is ultimately wrought from emotion and memory, not objects. The authenticity of the film's final scenes, as Andy at last lets go of his old friends, is rooted in the clarity and pain of his sudden revelation that his childhood is gone forever. If there is a spot of comfort, it lies in the notion that Woody the Cowboy is still out there somewhere, riding alongside another little buckaroo.

Sweetgrass

USA // 2009 // Ilisa Barbash and Lucien Castaing-Taylor //June 18, 2010 // Theatrical Print (Webster University Moore Auditorium)

[Sweetgrass is being featured in a limited engagement from June 18-24, 2010 at the Webster University Film Series.]

B - Raw and curiously engrossing, Sweetgrass is unwavering in its sparing, hard-edged appraisal of a vanishing way of life. While Barbash and Castaing-Taylor are palpably fascinated by the Allestad sheep ranch, where men on horseback still graze their herds in the high country of Montana, the film aims for something far more lyrical than a mere anthropological treatise on the West. Spiritually urgent and yet possessing a bittersweet lassitude, Sweetgrass bears witness to uncommonly cruel pastoral patterns that once characterized America's proud self-conception, but are now forgotten, withered, and nearly vanished. Nocturnal visits from hungry grizzlies and other daunting challenges lend the story a dose of drama, but the film-makers are more assured when they are simply observing the sensory character of herding life with reverent diligence. The enduring sights and sounds are sustained, pensive, and faintly abstract, whether the dirty-white blur of hundreds of sheep picking their way through a stream, or the uncanny hush of men who are comfortable sitting in silence. Sweetgrass might be an essentially American portrait, but the film's closest kin might be Yung Chang's Up the Yangtze, as both share a quiet attentiveness borne of equal parts absorption and gentle sorrow.

The Wolfman

2010 // UK - USA // Joe Johnston // June 14, 2010 // DVD - Universal (2010) (Unrated Director's Cut)

[Note: This post contains spoilers.]​

C- - I have to give screenwriters Andrew Kevin Walker and David Self a point for hewing to the essential elements for an old-fashioned werewolf feature, particularly the now-slightly-subversive notion that the luckless protagonist must perish by the time the credits roll. Unfortunately, the film tips its hand entirely too early with respect to the progenitor lycanthrope, and as a result the whole enterprise runs out of steam long before the clunky, climactic werewolf-on-werewolf brawl. The Victorian-gothic production design is admittedly luscious, even downright bewitching at times, but this only contributes to The Wolfman's disjointed tone. When the titular monster is nowhere to be seen, it's an atmospheric B-movie, stuffed with faux-gravitas and lent a dollop of menace by Anthony Hopkins' glowering, lip-licking presence. When the werewolf attacks, meanwhile, the film veers off into slasher-flick camp, clashing dreadfully with the chilly tone that dominates elsewhere. The film's R rating is utterly unnecessary, other than to provide the beast with license to rend limbs, slash bowels, and devour a victim's liver. The crowning disappointment is that while the film-makers capitalize on the evocative power of the classic Universal feature, they disregard the screamingly obvious role of the werewolf myth as a metaphor for the unrestrained id.

Orphan

2009 // USA // Jaume Collet-Serra // June 13, 2010 // Blu-ray - Warner Brothers (2009)

[Note: This post contains spoilers.]

Steadfastly ridiculous from its opening moments to its unnecessarily prolonged conclusion, and yet still a rather fun, ghastly ride, Jaume Collet-Serra's odd little thriller gets lots of mileage out of the Evil Kid archetype. We know from the outset that Isabelle Fuhrman's Esther—all chestnut curls, lacey ribbon, and icepick glares—is Bad News (even if her dimwit adopted father doesn't), but the exact nature of her schemes is a revelation left for the final scenes. Evil Kid thrillers have long been a favorite haunt for creaky nature-versus-nurture questions, going all the way back to Mervyn LeRoy's The Bad Seed. If Orphan were merely a weary retread of such paths, it would be entirely forgettable. However, this murderous nine-year-old girl is, in fact, a murderous 33-year-old Estonian dwarf. That changes things, no? On the one hand, this twist turns Orphan into just another Homicidal Maniac film, robbing it of the Evil Kid sub-sub-genre's unsettling appeal. On the other hand, Esther's adulthood spikes the film with Freudian voodoo, giving Collet-Serra space to engage with twisted themes that most horror films can't tackle, especially the notion of child as spousal replacement. Orphan has its spatters of brutally graphic violence (I'll never look at a workbench vice the same way again), but its most memorable moments are those the revel in their emotional and visual perversity. Chief among these is Esther's vampish seduction of her adopted father, which is, frankly, about nine levels of Fucked Up. Nonetheless, an audacious high concept can't entirely atone for over two hours of ludicrous implausibles, foolish character behavior, and dreary narrative predictability.

Shutter Island

2010 // USA // Martin Scorsese // June 11, 2010 // Blu-ray - Paramount (2010)

[Note: This post contains spoilers.]

Grading on a curve is a tricky and sometimes ill-advised endeavor, but now that I find myself at the halfway point in an apparently dismal year for cinema, Martin Scorsese's relentlessly moody labyrinth seems to merit a bit more affection than I afforded it back in February. Granted, the flaws that were in evidence on a first viewing are still present: the dearth of gratifying horror rhythms; the relative aimlessness of the middle act; the fragility of Dr. Crawley's outlandish scheme. However, the whiff of disposability that emanates from any film reliant on a concluding twist proves to be phantasmal here, for a second visit to Shutter Island provides bountiful avenues for engagement. Foreknowledge of "Teddy's" situation reveals a marvelously scrupulous aspect to the film's assembly, especially vis-à -vis its performances. One could dedicate a screening solely to observing Mark Ruffalo or Ben Kingsley, each of whom delivers a stunningly modulated portrayal that operates on two planes simultaneously. Even the reaction shots from the bit players offer a peculiar kind of amusement, with each actor discovering their own way to convey, "I can't believe we're going along with this..." In the end, however, the film succeeds on the strength of DiCaprio's throbbing performance, unquestionably his best in years, which arrives brimming with sweaty, anxious hostility and descends to place where oblivion seems a sweet release. What might have been a garish carnival hoax is synthesized into a searing portrait of a man hollowed-out by unsettled guilt and rage. While the film's ruminations on aggression are of a piece with Scorsese's absorption with "men of violence," as Dr. Naehring describes Andrew, the film is far more compelling (and vigorous) when it is occupied with memory's double-edged sword. In this, Andrew shares with Lost Highway's Fred Madison a preference for "remembering things in his own way," as opposed to confronting the horrors that he has witnessed and wrought.

October Country

This American Life

2009 //  USA // Michael Palmieri and Donal Mosher // June 5, 2010 // Theatrical Print (Webster University Moore Auditorium)

[October Country is being featured in a limited engagement from June 4-10, 2010 at the Webster University Film Series.]

B+ - On its weather-beaten surface, October Country is a straightforward documentary in the "anthropological study" vein. Surprisingly deft and arresting, the film profiles a blue-collar family living in the Mohawk Valley of upstate New York, and marks co-directors Michael Palmieri and Donal Mosher as emergent talents in documentary film-making. Emulating Errol Morris' signature approach—restive, slightly distanced, and ever-conscious of their medium's artificiality—the directors chronicle a year in the life of Donal's extended family, observing their tumble-down surroundings and listening to their stories with sorrowful attentiveness. Undeniably, the Moshers' tale is a bleak one, characterized by wartime ghosts, criminal betrayal, domestic violence, cruel estrangement, foolish decisions, and perennial economic hardship. What's remarkable about October Country is how Palmieri and Mosher elevate the story beyond voyeuristic goggling at misfortune to achieve something far more intricate. In its finest moments, the film serves as a bitter rumination on the cyclical quality of family history, as well as a cinematic séance, not only with the Mosher clan's particular demons, but with the Puritan shades that still haunt the American experience.

The film follows four generations of the Moshers for a year, from one Halloween to the next, gradually revealing not only the ever-shifting landscape of their travails, but also the surprising and often heartbreaking texture of their personalities and relationships. Dottie is the resolute but also palpably saddened matriarch, determined to keep her family afloat despite mounting evidence that its fate is almost entirely out of her hands. Her husband Don is a taciturn Vietnam veteran, a man who returned from the war hardened and withdrawn. He seems to be the most level-headed member of the clan, but his resentments and his untreated (and virtually unacknowledged) PTSD consume him. Their daughter Donna is a domestic abuse survivor who gave birth to a daughter, Daneal, when she was still a teenager. Daneal, in turn, has repeated her mother's mistakes, and is fighting for custody of her two-year-old daughter Ruby with the girl's abusive father. Daneal's eleven-year-old sister Desi is both smart and a bit of a smart-ass, pushing nonchalantly against the constraints of her kin and her town. Other family members lurk around the periphery. Don's obese, arthritic sister Denise is a cemetery-skulking Wiccan, shunned by her brother for her religious beliefs and her "attitude". Their own familial problems notwithstanding, Dottie and Don have taken in a foster son, Chris, a swaggering shoplifter who is painfully aware he is on the wrong path, and yet seems unwilling to change his ways. Everyone chain-smokes.

Palmieri and Mosher permit the family to paint the contours of their story in their own words, intruding only rarely with an off-camera question or two. Similar to Tia Lessin and Carl Deal's stunning feature, Trouble the Water, the directors avoid domineering narration in favor of a shared storytelling approach with their subjects. In contrast to agitprop documentarians, Palmieri and Mosher's artistic arsenal is first and foremost that of the cinema: photography, sound, music, editing, and always the faces of the family. Their visages command the frame, simultaneously seeking the camera's approval and ambivalent about how anyone but God (or the dead) perceive them. The film's understated revelations are as compelling as anything in the worthiest fictional feature, such as when ex-cop and war movie aficionado Don is shown laboring in his attic woodshop on, of all things, delicate dollhouse furniture. However, where Lessin and Deal's film forged a triumphant sense of perseverance from calamity, Palmieri and Mosher are working in a far more poetic mode, one that is unabashedly melancholy and offers no easy answers. Consumer culture, globalization, misogynistic violence, abortion rights, and imperialistic war all feed into the Moshers' tribulations like raw, knotted timber, but the film is not ultimately about such matters any more than it is about the Halloween holiday that serves as a backdrop to the opening and closing scenes.

Repeating patterns figure heavily in the thematic landscape of October Country, and the "turn of the seasons" framework—cogently but modestly presented—resonates with the cycles that crop up in the lives of the Moshers. Daneal is following in her mother's ill-fated footsteps, but resists the hard-won wisdom of the older woman's bruised experience, preferring the simple myth of villainous mom and saintly (absent) dad. There are boyfriends, one after the other, always possessive and abusive and always trashing the family before leaving it, like a cheap hotel room. Chris is a habitual criminal who has no intention of straightening out, even as he speaks glowingly of the Moshers' generosity and love. He promises that he will eventually hurt them, and he does. Everyone looks at Desi, on the verge of adolescence, and wonders aloud if she will repeat their mistakes. The girl just snorts, rolls her eyes, and turns back to her video games: "I'm smarter than any of them." There is an aura of Old Testament doom that permeates the film, a sensation that nothing that was ordained by unseen forces can be escaped. Will I always be a bad person? Will I always love bad men? Do I have to grow up and get a shitty job in this shitty town and eventually die here?

Palmieri and Mosher pose their film not just as record of personal despair in twenty-first century America, but also a communion with something more profound in the national fabric. Deep in its chilly bones, October Country represents a fragment of our ongoing cultural struggle with our Puritan forebears, those English exiles who valued stoicism, saw the Devil's hoof-prints everywhere, and still hiss of the futility of escaping that which God has written. What would those forebears say, the film implicitly asks, of the plastic witches and artificial cobwebs of the Moshers' Halloween party? What would they say of Family Dollar and Ninentedo, of family court and disability checks? What would they say of Denise, with her unicorn paintings and loneliness, standing with a camcorder in a graveyard and asking the phantoms, "Anybody want to talk to me?" Whether our Puritan past has any salience in this age of modern uncertainty and desolation is debatable, but October Country is persuasive in its assertion that—to paraphrase Faulkner—the past is not past at all. It's a sentiment written on every careworn and hard-bitten Mosher brow.