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It’s pretty fascinating to trace the long-term impact of Ingmar Bergman’s Seventh Seal. In terms of modern cinema, it would probably make sense to dive right in with Woody Allen. Allen pulls symbiotically from Bergman, time and time and time again – most notably toward the end of Love and Death (if not throughout the play, Death Knocks). Dig a little deeper and you’ll find certain aspects of The Seventh Seal playing out via Bill & Ted, popular episodes of Seinfeld, and even during the final scene of The Sopranos: Season One. And that’s really just the tip of the iceberg, so far as direct homages are concerned.

While Death has held a constant place in mainstream cinema for years, The Seventh Seal cracked the yoke on turning Death into a caricature. Bergman lightened the load, so to speak, persuading the audience to accept death as an extension of humanity. In that spirit, The Seventh Seal features dark comic jabs throughout. A priest turned surly vagabond? A lowly squire playing liege? A classic game of Chess and Death amidst the backdrop of Black Plague? These were highly questionable themes back in 1957, so much so that Bergman’s script was rejected several times.

To that end, it’s probably worth noting The Seventh Seal has lost some of its cinematic appeal over the years. I mean, keep in mind, we’re talking about a 56-year old screenplay here – one that was filmed in black and white with Swedish subtitles, no less. Bergman’s film was originally released during a time when Dwight Eisenhower was still in office, Father Knows Best ruled the roost, and (leading actor) Max Von Sydow was busy reveling in the wonder of his youth. Given the constant movement toward split-second gratification, it’s difficult to watch a film like this without escaping the sense it drags. In fact, these days, watching a movie like The Seventh Seal requires an investment of focused time and undivided attention. The good news is, Bergman’s film provides an unequivocal return, if not a much more stringent understanding of its connection to the greater whole.

(The Seventh Seal is currently available as part of Hulu’s Criterion Collection.)

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You’ve really gotta hand it to James Gandolfini – in the iron-hot days immediately following his 10-year run as the greatest television character of all-time, dude had the prudence to step back and allow his typecast image some much-needed room to breathe.

When at last Gandolfini did emerge (at least as an actor way up on the big screen), it was via a string of off-beat roles that spoke much more to rebelling against that image than they did his clinging to it (e.g., In the Loop, Where the Wild Things Are, Welcome to The Rileys, etc.).

And yet slowly, over the past few years, Gandolfini has subtly immersed himself in those waters once more, only this time via a cadre of supporting turns, in films like Killing Them Softly, Not Fade Away, and (available in limited release as of this coming Friday) the 2011 indie drama, Down The Shore.

Forget about the fact this type of role represents Gandolfini’s stock-in-trade, and consider for a moment how much it speaks to innate depth. I mean, in a sense, James Gandolfini has taken that whole “do-one-for-them-and-then-do-one-for-me” thing and turned it on its ear. What’s more, given his highly-documented disdain for all-things-Hollywood, one can only assume Gandolfini accepts these roles out of sheer reverence for the work.

According to past interviews, Gandolfini worked his way up on the nightclub circuit prior to breaking into film. To assume this offered much-needed fodder would be to miss the point entirely. The more likely scenario would be that Gandolfini cottons to a specific mold because it speaks to who he is – to where he’s from, and what he’s done.

In that spirit, Down The Shore presents the actor in that classic Jersey brand – sporting the accent, assuming the lumber, even removing that partial cap from his front tooth. And yet, the circumstances surrounding this film are really anything but nostalgic. There’s death and double-cross, betrayal and deceit, all set against the backdrop of a modern-day class war. Socialism, Capitalism, all for one or none for all? These are the themes Down The Shore is consumed with, and they’re at the very heart of Gandolfini’s role.

The reality is, if you’re familiar with any of the small-town politics surrounding the New Jersey shore, then you also understand why it’s a fool’s errand to keep any outdoor amusement open after November (much like Gandolfini’s Bailey does throughout Down The Shore). Metaphorically speaking, I imagine that’s kind of the point. The only problem being, Guskin’s movie hinges itself far too heavily on that premise. And the damage is only compounded by the way the last half hour just kind of forces everything together, running roughshod over all the delicate care it took to get there.

And yet, despite that, Down The Shore is still a semi-entertaining affair, thanks in large part to the actors who stepped up to fill each role. There’s that kid who played Gandolfini’s son in David Chase’s Not Fade Away. There’s the gorgeous Famke Janssen, who’s dressing down to fit the bill. And then, of course, there’s Gandolfini, who just keeps right-on giving till it hurts. In the end what it all adds up to a middling small-town drama, steeped in the rather bold presumption that we are all our brothers’ keepers, and – as such – we are all stuck in this together.

(Down The Shore arrives at The Quad in New York City this coming Friday.)

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“The responsibility is on the artist, even when he tries to evade responsibility. If, so far, American experimental and ‘little’ films haven’t received much support, most of them haven’t deserved it, either. All too frequently, after an evening of avant-garde cinema, one wants to go see a movie (at least a little fresh air comes in through the holes in Hollywood plots). Though avant-garde filmmakers don’t always know what they’re doing when they make a film, they demonstrate a marvelous talent for the post-factum scenario; often their greatest effort at composition is in explaining away the lack of it in their films. They become so adept at escaping consideration of their failures and limitations that they rarely develop at all; what they fail to put in they deride you for not seeing there. You’re supposed to find a whole world of meaning in that three-minute cinepoem. The times are out of joint: The poisonous atmosphere of Hollywood premieres is distilled to pure pretension at avant-garde premieres. Object to the Hollywood film and you’re an intellectual snob; object to the avant-garde films and you’re a Philistine. But, while in Hollywood, one must often be a snob; in avant-garde circles, one
must often be a Philistine.”

Simon Killer is a well-acted, well-directed film that’s going nowhere, slow.

I mean, somewhere – somewhere deep inside – there may exist some subtle subtext regarding the way American aristocrats treat their French brethren like whores. But, otherwise, the entire movie’s nothing more than a well-acted, well-directed screenplay that – once again – is going nowhere, slow.

Watch the first 10 minutes. Watch the last 10 minutes. Fast forward past the dead air in between.

(Simon Killer arrives in limited release this Friday, April 5th, and will be available via Video OnDemand as of next Friday, April 12th.)

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“I don’t think about the reader; I think about the book. I think about the sentence. I think about the paragraph. I think about the page. I go over it, and over it, and over it. The book begins to make its demands. The demands are intellectual, they’re imaginative, and they’re aesthetic … I’m a very bad judge of how people will respond to my work; how the general reader will respond to a book. And I’m always surprised by the responses that a book elicits. I don’t think I’m the only writer who experiences this. There’s a kind of dummy who lives [inside] here, y’know? And you don’t know what you’ve done.”

Ryan Gosling has not so much reimagined the strong, silent type as he has made it his own. Drive, Blue Valentine, Half Nelson, Lars and The Real Girl – These are all unique, well-constructed character studies in a signature mold. The good news is, The Place Beyond The Pines continues in that vein, providing one of the most visceral performances Ryan Gosling has elicited to date.

Pines is a brilliantly-adapted cautionary tale about fathers and sons, good guys and bad, and the very thin – sometimes even nonexistent – line that separates one from the other. Ben Mendelsohn is noteworthy, Bradley Cooper is superb, and Eva Mendes, well, Eva Mendes is just fucking fantastic, boy. That’s what Eva Mendes is.

Mendes is so spot-on, in fact, that you may even find yourself resenting her good looks. I mean, sure, the same can be said for most of the leading cast here. But it’s Mendes, more than anyone else, who always seems to be afforded such short shrift. Perhaps that’s because Mendes is a spokesmodel, and, as such, it makes it chauvinistically acceptable for the media to simply accept her on those terms. But Mendes is so much more than that, really. And, to that end, she is absolutely fantastic in this film – a welcome female presence in a veritable sea of virile men.

Above and beyond that, The Place Beyond The Pines is a pretty remarkable motion picture. It’s the kind of vehicle that a lot of mainstream critics might dismiss as being unnecessarily dark or uninspiring. But those are probably the same critics who’d be quick to point out just how fucking hot Eva Mendes looks throughout. So my advice would be to ignore them, ignore that, and treat yourself to one sprawling king-hell-bastard of a film – a penetrating reminder that we’re all paying for the sins of our fathers, and we’ve been doing it so long we almost languish in the foil.

(The Place Beyond The Pines arrives in limited release in New York City and Los Angeles today, with a national rollout to follow.)

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It was just past 1 am when the ocean breeze came pressing down, forcing rusty hinges on the porch to bend and squeal like aching joints. I was alone in my apartment, drinking Mad Dog from the bottle; listening to the cut and buzz of cables in the storm.

When out of nowhere came a clap so loud it set me rolling on my heels. I recognized that clap on spec, having heard it several times before.

I pulled the plug out on my Tiffany, assumed a foothold near the door. I pressed one ear up to the woodwork, genuflected on the floor. I swept both knees across the threshold, turned the doorknob like a dial. Then I eased the chain-lock open, slithered low into the hall.

It was out there – in the darkness – that my world, it set to shifting. And my head, it set to spinning, like a tape set on rewind. I was floating through the cosmos, flitting high above the jetties; past the coastline and the inlet, past December and the new year; past re-enrollment for the Spring term, past four buses every weekday; past student loan funds meant to finance, past mid-term essays meant to bolster; past the fall of Tonya Harding, past the death of Kurt Cobain; past preseason on the boardwalk, past one year spent dating Meghan; past it all until I drifted down into that pitch-black cauldron – a musty hallway where my feet went numb and my legs could hardly feel for burning.

I could smell the ripe asbestos now; could hear the dying smoke alarms.
I could feel the mounting pressure; could sense the stiff hairs on both arms.
The corridor ran 100 feet, with splintered doors down either side.
I swept the starboard with my fingers, caught the flood box with my arm.
I ran my palm along the base; found a button, pushed it hard.
What followed was a blunt-force clap, much like the punching of a card.

Then a blinding flash of light so bright, it took 15 seconds to adjust.
I turned one eye toward the entrance, saw a black man bathed in dust.
This man was wearing crushed velour, over cutoffs and brown Uggs.
He held one hand toward me; squared both feet upon the rug.
“Can I help you?” I then shouted, my body planted to the floor.
“Can I help you?” I then shouted, a second time, and then once more.

The vagrant propped himself up, let out the snarl of a boar.
Then he let his weak hand falter, exposed a rash of open sores.
He was sweating like a hound now, charcoal embers through his pores.
And so I made a break for it; held that button, nevermore.
I was scrambling in cold darkness, tracing a hard line to my door.
Strobing freeze-frames marked each footstep, pounding boot-prints shook the floor.

He was ambling toward me, bone-snarl slow-building to a roar.
I caught the doorknob with my shirt sleeve, forced the issue with my core.
I dove head-first into my bedroom, pulled the chain-lock, tight and sure.
Then I fell hard to the carpet, crabwalking backward on the floor.
I could hear each boot-step fall now, could sense him circling the fore.
He was there now, waiting for me. He was the Beast of 1994.

***

(Moving On is a regular feature on IFB)

©Copyright Bob Hill

There’s something so stunningly sedate about the pieces on display at Gallery Henoch through this Saturday, it’s almost worth the visit just to let the whole damn thing wash over you. The artists are eclectic, and the pieces are, as well. But there’s a common thread throughout here – one that captures subtle nuances set throughout the urban sprawl. Five-floor walk-ups, first-floor lobbies, Midtown diners and Mexican delis – all present and account for, in an altogether tranquil exhibition.

(Gallery Henoch’s Winter Group Show runs through this Saturday at 6 pm, free, 555 W. 25th Street)  

Five More For the Offing:

• Gotham and Beyond by Luca Campigotto @ Laurence Miller Gallery (Free, through 4/21, 20 West 57th Street)
• Film Noir by Bill Armstrong @ ClampArt (Free, through 4/6, 521-531 West 25th Street)
• Artists of Atlantic featuring work by 15 deifferent artists @ Atlantic Gallery (Free, through 4/20, 210 11th Avenue at 25th Street, Suite 801)
• Now and Now by Daido Moriyama @ Steven Kasher Gallery (Free, through 5/4, 521 West 23rd Street)
• Passion and Resurrection Motets at the Renaissance by Pomerium @ The Cloisters ($45, 3/30, 1 & 3 pm, 99 Margaret Corbin Drive, Fort Tryon Park, NY)

Poor poor Jimmy McAvoy – forever playing second fiddle to a star. First came Keira Knightley in Atonement. Then a surging Michael Fassbender in X-Men:First Class. And now, in a more recent twist, McAvoy’s been taken to the woodshed once again.

Yet the problem – in almost every case – is that McAvoy absolutely insists upon doing his Little-Big-Man routine. He’s constantly yelling, or stewing, or harumphing to no end. Consider, for example, McAvoy’s role in Welcome to The Punch – a mid-range thriller, featuring a pair of taut performances by Johnny Harris and Mark Strong. What brings The Punch down to its knees – time and time and time again – is Mr. McAvoy’s whole stammer-stammer-kick routine. I mean, on the one hand, it seems like McAvoy was specifically cast to elevate Strong. On the other, it’s McAvoy’s consistent lack of anything that ultimately diminishes his role. It’s like watching a poor man’s Jeremy Renner, despite the fact no one wants to watch the real Renner at all.

And the utter shame of it – at least in so far as Welcome to The Punch might be concerned – is that poor poor Jimmy McAvoy just tends to feel more like a liability. For it’s not only Strong that outshines him in this film. The entire supporting cast does as well. And that, well, that certainly does not bode well for the Napoleonic Mr. McAvoy, regardless of where B-List celebrity should take him from here.

(Welcome to The Punch arrives in limited release today, and will be available via most OnDemand platforms as of March 30th.)

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