Classified, Starring Aaron Eckhart

This is why its not a bad idea to go into the office at least a few days a week. Evan Shaw thought he was doing jobs for an ultra-double-secret division of the CIA. He was recruited by an old trusted colleague, but it turns out he has been under new management for several years. Upon learning the truth, Shaw decides to file a grievance in Roel Reine’s Classified, which is now available on VOD.

Shaw almost left the assassination business, but his old friend Kevin Angler lured him back. He was ready to walk away and spend the rest of his life with Monica Walker, but after her accidental death (which are usually suspicious in his secretive world), Shaw doubled down on the lone wolf lifestyle. Now, Shaw travels from one port-of-call to another, picking up his coded instructions from newspaper classified ads. However, in recent years, his targets changed from cartel bosses and warlords to corporate tycoons and scientists. Yet, he needed a maverick MI6 agent like Kacey to put the pieces together for him.

Of course, he initially refuses to believe, until he starts verifying much of her intel, including Angler’s obituary. Soon, they are off to Malta, where the Shaw was originally recruited. Unfortunately, the super-stealthy assassin never realized his duplicitous employers GPS-chipped him, so they know he is coming.

Frankly, Malta is the perfect setting for Classified, given it was recently governed by PM Jospeh Muscat, whose government was found “collectively responsible” for the political assassination of investigative journalist Daphne Carauna Galizia. If there is a capitol of corruption, it would be Malta.

The tiny EU nation also apparently hands out production tax-credits like candy, while allowing films crews to stage all kinds of pyrotechnics around the islands most picturesque tourist attractions. One thing Classified has going for it is scenic locales—and it is pretty much the only thing.

To be fair, Aaron Eckhart is reliably grizzled as Shaw. However, it is glaringly obvious Abigail Breslin had zero firearms training. Her one-handed grips with absolutely no recoil would even raise the eyebrows of Amish pacifists. Breslin’s rapport with Eckhart isn’t great, but it is horrible either, but it hardly matters in a film like this.

Resurrection

When films treat us like psychoanalysts, openly asking us to differentiate their characters’ delusions from reality, we should start charging them an hourly rate. Margaret is definitely that kind of unreliable protagonist. Her daughter understandably begs her to seek help, but viewers are the ones who have to judge whether her stalker crisis is legit in Andrews Semans’ Resurrection, which opens tomorrow in New York.

Initially, Margaret is so together, she can give the intern empowerment lessons without sounding condescending (not really, but the intern acts like she can). However, the wheels come off shockingly quickly when she spies David Moore, a man from her secret past. As we learn, Moore trapped her in an appallingly abusive and manipulating relationship.

Apparently, Moore is smart-stalking her, appearing in public places, acting like the picture of mild-mannered innocence. Of course, Margaret knows better and Moore will not wait too long to justify her fear. Unfortunately, Margaret is not merely apprehensive. She downshifts into such unhinged mania, Rebecca Hall’s performance has earned comparisons to Isabelle Adjani’s freakout in Possession.

We are told (and come to believe) Moore’s behavior was not just violent and controlling. He took viciousness to macabre extremes. That would still be believable, until Semans ratchets it up to borderline fantastical levels. Yet, that wrinkle is the only interesting angle of an otherwise wildly overwrought stalker thriller, better suited to the Lifetime network than arthouse cinemas.

There are No Saints, Written by Paul Schrader

The Jesuits aren’t what they used to be. These days, they are largely aligned with Liberation Theology. Neto Niente’s nickname “The Jesuit” refers to their hard-charging Seventeenth Century glory years. The gang enforcer could definitely get Medieval on his targets, but he has been cooling his heels in prison for years. When he finally gets released, there’s sure to be Hell to pay in Alfonso Pined Ulloa’s There are No Saints, written by Paul Schrader, which opens today in New York.

Ironically, Niente did not commit the murder he was convicted of, so when the cop who planted the evidence recanted on his deathbed, his lawyer, Carl Abrahams had him released, free and clear. Of course, there are plenty of angry cops who still want a piece of him. Niente would clear out, but he is worried about his son, Julio. His wife Nadia has since married gun-running gangster Vincent Rice, to help provide him a respectable cover. Even though it is not a real marriage, Rice is still abusive—and lethally jealous when Nadia and the Jesuit have an assignation for old times’ sake.

After Rice murders Nadia, abducts Julio, and tries to kill Niente, but the Jesuit is more resourceful than he anticipates. As we fully expect, Niente will chase Rice down into Mexico, leaving a trail of dead associates in his wake. However, Schrader’s grungy payback script is darker than you would expect. Arguably, this is a familiar template for him. Basically, he does for the border town milieu what Hardcore did for the underground LA porn scene and The Yakuza did for the Japanese underworld. Yet, it still works okay, in an unfussy, down-and-dirty kind of way.

Girard’s The Song of Names

It was a legendarily disastrous canceled concert, almost like a classical Frye Festival. The promoter was indeed ruined when Dovidl Rapaport failed to arrive for his much-anticipated concert debut. Unfortunately, that was Martin Simmonds’ father. For years, Simmonds searches for the man who was like a brother to him, hoping to find the closure he needs. It might not be fully satisfying, but at least he will have some answers when he finally tracks down the mysterious Rapaport in Francois Girard’s The Song of Names, which opens Christmas Day in New York.

Shortly before Hitler and Stalin invaded Poland, Simmonds’ father Gilbert took young  violin virtuoso Dovidl Rapaport into their home, promising to nurture his career from the presumed safety of London. Even though young Martin was jealous of Rapaport’s prodigious talents, he too took pride in protecting his surrogate brother. However, the uncertainty of his family’s fate back in Poland tormented Rapaport, causing anxiety that often manifested itself in boorish and anti-social ways. Nevertheless, his talent only grew. By the time he reached his early twenties, he recorded an album that electrified the critics. Everything was fine at the rehearsal and sound-checks, but when it was time for the uninsured concert to start, Rapaport was a no-show.

That betrayal of his family continues to haunt Simmonds for decades. Obsessively, he tracks leads that take him back to Communist era Poland, but to no avail. His wife Helen worries about the financial and emotional strain, but she still mostly accepts his quest for the truth.

It makes sense Girard, who helmed Thirty-Two Short Films About Glenn Gould, would be interested in bringing music critic Norman Lebrecht’s novel to the big screen, because Rapaport’s artistic temperament is not completely dissimilar from Gould’s. Yet, Martin Simmonds is undeniably the film’s protagonist and the primary character everyone will identify with.

Tim Roth is terrific as Simmonds, humanizing his neuroses and making his obsessive behavior sympathetic rather than creepy. He also has some really smart and appealing chemistry with Catherine McCormack playing his wife, even though her character is somewhat thinly sketched. In contrast, Clive Owen emphasizes all of grown-up Rapaport’s rough edges and standoffishness. Frankly, he does some nice work, but he really helps tilt the film towards Roth’s Simmonds.

United Passions: FIFA’s Self-Financed Creation Myth

Last year’s Cannes Film Festival was rough for Tim Roth. First Grace of Monaco was roundly booed when it opened the festival and then FIFA’s self-funded film was even more harshly received. The timing for what has been universally described as a “propaganda film” continues to be so awkwardly bad, you have to wonder if a higher power is out to sabotage it. Mere days after fourteen high-ranking FIFA officials were indicted, Frédéric Auburtin’s United Passions (trailer here) opens this Friday in New York.

It all started innocently enough. A group of European football association presidents joined forces, in hopes of codifying standardized rules for international matches. Much to their regret, the mean old English initially refused to join out of elitist snobbery, or so Auburtin suggests. At least for a few years, it was run without controversy by first president Robert Guérin and general secretary Carl Hirschmann, but the fast and loose dealings commenced with the election of Jules Rimet. Uruguay had pledged to spend liberally on the inaugural World Cup, and ever so conveniently the member associations voted accordingly.

To an extent, United Passions (a title that sounds like it was the ill-conceived product of a marketing brainstorming session) throws long time FIFA president João Havelange under the bus. He is constantly apologizing to his long suffering general secretary Sepp Blatter for mistakes that were made and the mysterious emptiness of FIFA’s coffers, but the film never explains what’s, why’s, or how’s. Instead, the altruistic Blatter simply cuts a personal check to cover FIFA’s payroll.

There is a certain degree of irony whenever Russia’s favorite son, Gérard Depardieu appears in a sports film, but that is least of Passions’ problems. In fact, he is perfectly presentable as the reportedly not so athletic Rimet. On the other hand, Sam Neill would probably prefer to forget the baffling, vaguely South African accent he uncorks for the Brazilian Havelange. Looking visibly embarrassed, poor Tim Roth tries to call as little attention to himself as possible as Blatter, the unassuming crusader against corruption. At one point, St. Sepp (who Havelange praises for “being good at finding money”) stands accused of his predecessor’s misdeeds, but defends himself with what must be the dullest, drabbest climatic speech in the history of cinema. It doesn’t matter, the fix was in.

Passions commits enormous sins of omission, but its worst oversight is the lack of dramatic development. We see little more than vignettes illustrating “great” moments in FIFA history, interspersed with World Cup montages and hackneyed scenes of a pick-up game in some racially balanced third world slum designed to clumsily illustrate the game’s unifying global significance. However, there is not a lot in terms of character or plot for viewers to sink their teeth into. Instead, we hear Blatter identify a problem, which he then presumably solves since we hear nothing about it four years later.

As if the weak narrative and conspicuous white-washing of FIFA’s corruption were not bad enough, the film displays an outrageous bias against the English, time and again featuring British characters making ridiculously racist statements. This simply is not a film that deserves to be taken seriously on any level. However, it is precisely the big screen treatment Blatter and FIFA deserve. Hopefully, they are happy with it, since they paid for it. 

Indeed, this is truly a Blatter production. It is a staggeringly arrogant, insular, and tone-deaf work that assumes the rest of the world is stupid. Compared to Passions, See You in Montevideo and Montevideo—Taste of a Dream, the unapologetically sentimental, patriotic, and generally pleasant Serbian films about the first Yugoslavian World Cup teams are like the best of Rocky, Bull Durham, and Chariots of Fire all rolled together. Not recommended, United Passions opens this Friday (6/5) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Grace of Monaco: From Cannes to Lifetime

Alfred Hitchcock very nearly lured Princess Grace out of retirement to star in Marnie. He wasn’t known as “the master of suspense” for nothing. Unfortunately, her return to the silver screen was scuttled by the French campaign to dominate the tiny principality of Monaco. Once again, French saber-rattling ruined things for the rest of us. Fortunately, the former Grace Kelly will stand tall in her Cartier diamonds, facing down threats to her adopted home’s sovereignty, both foreign and domestic, in Olivier Dahan’s now notorious Grace of Monaco (trailer here), which premieres on Lifetime this Memorial Day, after getting booed off the Croisette at last year’s Cannes Film Festival.

Rumor has it, Princess Grace’s marriage to Prince Rainier is on the rocks. Of course, tensions with France have not helped much. With the Algerian War hemorrhaging cash, De Gaulle issues the House of Grimaldi an ultimatum: start taxing all the French business re-incorporating in Monaco and turn the proceeds over to France or face a blockade and possibly even an invasion. Unfortunately, Princess Grace’s American habits of speaking her mind and having her own career rock the boat at an inopportune time.

Despite the fissures in her marriage, Her Serene Highness is determined to serve the interests of Monaco. With the help of Rainier’s American Chaplain, Father Francis Tucker, Princess Grace will undergo a crash course in courtly etiquette and assemble her own kitchen cabinet. Frankly, they can hardly do worse than Rainier’s advisors, including the sleazy big-talker, Aristotle Onassis.

It is easy to see why Grace of Monaco crashed and burned at Cannes. In all fairness, the first two thirds play out like a relatively competent TV movie, but the puffed-up self-importance of the third act is almost offensive. This is the sort of film that acts like all the world’s problems can be solved with a heartfelt, ramblingly incoherent speech. Honestly, the supposedly Oscar-baiting climatic address basically boils down to: “Oh Monaco, you’re just so swellaco.” Is that enough to shame De Gaulle into behaving? Did Hitch like blondes?

Of course, gingerish Nicole Kidman is not exactly a classic Hitchcock type, but she is about the only name actress in Hollywood who can play classy convincingly. She is not bad as the reserved but vulnerable Princess. Even though he apparently put on some poundage for the role, Tim Roth is relatively restrained as Rainier. Unfortunately, Roger Ashton-Griffiths and Sir Derek Jacobi go all in for shtick as Hitchcock and decorum guru Count Fernando D’Aillieres. For the first time probably ever, Parker Posey is also boring (or maybe she was just bored) as the Princess’s officious staffer, Madge.

It is sort of entertaining to watch Kidman and Roth glide through the opulent world of 1960s Monaco. Unfortunately, any good will they manage to accrue is undermined by the third act cheesiness. Frankly, Dahan and screenwriter Arash Amel completely miss the film’s most relevant takeaway: high taxation inevitably leads to capital flight. Cinematographer Eric Gautier makes it all look glitzy enough, but there is just no way to recut the laughable climatic speech into a presentable cut with any sort of dramatic credibility. Yet, given all the off-screen notoriety and behind-the-scenes recriminations, it is impossible to avoid a certain morbid curiosity. Those so intrigued should watch Grace of Monaco in all its awkward clunkiness when it airs on Lifetime this Monday (5/25), before Harvey Weinstein locks it away in the old vault for good.

October Gale: Clarkson and Nadda Together Again

Imagine a Hallmark Hall of Fame production that breaks out into a thriller—eventually. Viewers should be advised: they will have to wait a rather long time. Dr. Helen Matthews has come to her family’s cabin to mourn her recently deceased husband and clear out the clutter. It is decidedly off-season in Northern Ontario’s Georgian Bay. That will be perfect for either cathartic meditation of criminal skullduggery in Ruba Nadda’s October Gale (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York at the IFC Center.

Matthews’ son tries to dissuade her from moping about the cabin during the stormy season, but she is drawn to the place. Perhaps it is the solitude she really needs. Alas, her seclusion will be interrupted when a man with a conspicuous bullet-wound collapses in her cabin. Vague on the details, he is eager to be on his way once she has stitched him up, but that simply is not realistic. Even if he were strong enough, his dinghy could never navigate the mounting storm.

Of course, someone shot the man calling himself William. Turns out, one of them was an old neighbor of Matthews’ who comes calling. Belatedly, Matthews’ realizes the extent of their trouble and starts to prepare for his return. Fortunately, he will be bringing the man responsible for the violence with him. That would be the mysterious Tom, played by the ever-reliable Tim Roth, who delivers a much needed energy boost to the film.

It is nice to see Nadda working again with Patricia Clarkson, the star of her art-house hit, Cairo Time. Their first collaboration is a beautiful ships-passing-in-the-night romance. Nadda’s Syrian-set follow-up Inescapable had its heart in the right place and made some worthy points, but it just did not click as a thriller. Unfortunately, such is also the case with Gale.

Nevertheless, Gale is not a complete dead loss. In general, it is always refreshing to see a character like the intelligent and mature Matthews on screen. Medically trained and handy with firearms, she is the antithesis of a helpless victim, which is cool. The compulsively watchable Clarkson is instantly credible in the role. However, aside from Roth’s late arrival, she does not have much support. Scott Speedman, who must be the primary beneficiary of some sort of Canadian protectionism for thespians is so lifeless and wooden as William, you could almost confuse him with the dead parrot in the Monty Python sketch.

The thrills never really coalesce in Gale, but it has a strong sense of place (as was also true of Cairo). Cinematographer Jeremy Benning capitalizes on the striking scenery of the isles dotting the bay, conveying both the beauty and the ominous power of nature. Thrillers just aren’t Nadda’s thing. Best saved for cable or Netflix streaming, the uneven October Gale opens this Friday (3/6) at the IFC Center.

Broken: Parents Worry

Her name is Skunk, not Scout, but it is easy to understand how viewers might hear it that way.  This British coming-of-age tale might yearn for Mockingbird comparisons, but it is a pretty good film when considered on its own merits.  Skunk will indeed observe the best and worst of people in Rufus Norris’s Broken (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Archie is a conscientious single father, but there is only so much he can do to protect his tomboy daughter.  Life has not done her excessive favors, starting with the mother who abandoned the family shortly after her birth.  However, she gets along with her older brother relatively well and her solicitor father is a good provider (yes, he is a lawyer, just like Atticus Finch).  She seems to be maturing into a responsible young adult, caring for her Type 1 Diabetes and starting a new term at school.  However, a violent assault on Rick Buckley, an ambiguously developmentally challenged young man living across the street, will set off an escalating series of tragedies.

Skunk always liked Rick and his middle aged parents, but Bob Oswald’s trampy delinquent daughters next door are a different story.  It was their false accusation of rape that precipitated the attack poor Rick.  In the annals of bad movie neighbors, they are some of the worst.  Nonetheless, Skunk will also see examples of ennobling human behavior, including that of Mike Kiernan, her favorite English teacher and her nanny’s ex-boyfriend.

For good or for ill, just about every significant event in Broken is driven by parents’ concern for their children.  Even the knuckle-dragging Oswald is acting on flawed parental instincts and has his moments of fundamental decency here and there.  Indeed, Broken excels at showing human nature at its messiest and most complicated.  Strangely though, it ends with a rather overwrought excursion into symbolic expressionism at odds with the rest of the film’s grounded realism.

Tim Roth might be channeling his inner Gregory Peck, but he is still fantastic as Archie.  It is a smart, patiently understated, and wonderfully humane performance.  Avoiding most of the pitfalls young actors fall into, Eloise Laurence is neither too cloying nor too overly obnoxious as Skunk and her vocals on the film’s soundtrack nicely reinforce the sad pseudo-nostalgic mood.  She makes it clear this is a bright kid, but sometimes a bit of a handful.  Denis Lawson (Wedge from Star Wars) is quietly compelling as the anguished Mr. Buckley, while Rory Kinnear humanizes the mercurial Oswald to a remarkable extent.

While Broken may not break any new cinematic ground (and the late inning stylization is a mistake), the honest earthiness of its characters is dramatically compelling.  Likewise, Roth’s work will speak directly to most parents, representing a marked but welcome departure from the sort of rogues and fast talkers he often plays.  Recommended for viewers who appreciate family dramas with grit, Broken opens this Friday (7/19) in New York at the Quad Cinema.

Tribeca ’13: Mobius

In Russia, today’s captain of industry is tomorrow’s rogue oligarch.  Even sponsoring the next head of the FSB is not enough to protect one tycoon.  Instead, it makes him a liability.  An agent specializing in sensitive assignments will target the shadowy money man through an attractive employee, leading to all sorts of complications in Eric Rochant’s Möbius (trailer here), which screens at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

Gregory Lioubov commands an FSB team pretending to be a Monaco police task force, attempting to turn Alice Redmund, a brilliant trader for with a scandalous past.  Redmund works for Ivan Rostovski’s multi-national firm, but she also secretly reports to an American handler.  Realizing the Russians are putting a play on Rostovski, the CIA instructs Redmund to play along with the task force she still assumes are local cops. 

When Lioubov accidentally picks up Redmund to protect his cover[s], it compromises them both.  Suddenly, Redmund is hiding their burgeoning affair from the jealous Rostovski while Moïse, as Lioubov calls himself, scrambles to keep his incompetent subordinates in the dark.  Then things really get tricky.

Möbius is pretty steamy stuff by espionage movie standards.  These spies definitely come in out of the cold.  As Lioubov (or whoever) and Redmund, co-leads Jean Dujardin and Cécile de France have real chemistry and are not afraid to go all in.  However, the rest of the cloak-and-daggering is not bad either.  While there seems to be a bit of an anti-American bias, at least it is rather muddled.  The FSB on the other hand is clearly portrayed as a nest of vipers indistinguishable from its previous incarnation as the dreaded KGB.

In a change-up from his Oscar winning turn in The Artist, Dujardin brings a dark, brooding physicality to Lioubov.  De France is a respectable femme fatale-anti-heroine, but Tim Roth nearly steals the show as the erratic British educated Rostovski.

Rochant nicely juggles all the feints and double-crosses as the film alternates between romanticism and cynicism.  Cinematographer Pierre Novion gives it all a stylish noir polish that should satisfy genre fans.  Recommended for patrons of French cinema and cerebral spy thrillers, Möbius screens again tomorrow (4/27) and Sunday as part of this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.