The Last Wave (1977) *1/2

As the world debates the issue of climate change it is somewhat interesting to watch a film like The Last Wave (1977), which touches on the idea of a cataclysmic weather pattern wiping out humankind.  Still, I was very underwhelmed by director Peter Weir’s would-be apocalyptic endeavor.  I enjoyed both Weir’s Gallipoli (1981) and Dead Poets Society (1989), yet the unresolved ending of this movie did not sit well with me. Perhaps this is my own short-falling,  but I like my conclusions to be less perplexing than what I got at the end of this. 

Richard Chamberlain plays David Burton, an Australian lawyer assigned a legal aid case involving the murder of an Aborigine by a group of other Aborigines. As Sydney becomes deluged by torrential downpours, David finds himself having both dreams and visions of a coming apocalypse.  Hail, black rain, and even frogs fall from the sky as David attempts to wade through both his legal and personal trial, all the while trying to uncover the tribal secrets that led to the murder in the first place.  Along the way he develops a spiritual relationship with one of the defendants, Chris (David Gulpilil), who sheds light on the Aboriginal concept of Dreamtime (when spirits created the world).  David also becomes the main adversary of the tribe’s shaman, Charlie (Nandjiwarra Amagula), who knows David is a Mukuru, which is some kind of prophet from another world.  To fully understand what he is envisioning David must descend into an underground tribal shrine which explains the origins of the world.  By the end of the movie, it is difficult to know if David is in a state of reality or Dreamtime. 

It’s not everyday that you get to see a film cast with actual Aborigines.  David Gulpilil is probably the most well-known Aboriginal actor ever, appearing in such films as Walkabout (1971), The Right Stuff (1983), Crocodile Dundee (1986), Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002), and Australia (2008). In all of his roles, this one included, he exudes an unusual presence.  His gaze is always steady and his bearing seems almost otherworldly.  His Aboriginal counterpart, Amagula, is a  virtual unknown except for his work in The Last Wave.  He was a clan leader that the then-Aboriginal Cultural Foundation director told Weir was the “one man who has enough wisdom, enough breadth, enough understanding” to play the role of Charlie.  He brings a highly unusual element to the film—he is both creepy and ethereal.  While I am not a fan of the overall production, I did enjoy watching the work of these two men.  I am always fascinated to learn more about other cultures, and I think with their help, Weir did enlighten his audience about some Aboriginal practices. 

There’s another reason I didn’t like this film besides the ambiguous ending: Chamberlain. He’s sooooooo boring!  He does not do well in films with extended pauses, and there are many in this. In my opinion, he lacks the necessary charisma to do non-verbal scenes.  His stares off into space just seem void of any emotional depth, and when you are the star of a film with countless dream sequences you kind of need to be able to express something more than a look of vapidity. 

In the end, I just can’t get past, well, the ending of The Last Wave. Head scratching at the conclusion of a film is just not a good sign. 

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Se7en (1995) ***

 

For some reason, cultured serial killers are always the worst. When they base their heinous acts on biblical and classical literature they seem to creep me out more than their illiterate chainsaw wielding counterparts.  Perhaps it’s because I work and live in a world based on knowing and disseminating knowledge. Of course, it doesn’t help that this type of character usually looks harmless, as does Kevin Spacey’s John Doe in Se7en (1995).  Doe bases his murderous acts on the seven deadly sins (more properly known as the Cardinal Sins) and uses quotations from the likes of Aquinas, Chaucer, Dante, and Milton to leave messages for the detectives pursuing him (Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman).  Atmospheric and edgy, Se7en is an uncomfortable look at the depravity of the times in which we live.

Freeman plays Detective William Somerset, a well-read but world-weary man who finds himself seven days from retirement when he catches a serial killer case that he’d rather not have.  He is joined on the case by his soon-to-be replacement, Detective David Mills (Pitt), a jaded but still naïve cop who has recently transferred to the police department. The lead character’s name was not randomly chosen by screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker—he named Somerset after his favorite author, W. Somerset Maugham.  This only adds to the literary allusions throughout the film, when several well-known passages are referenced throughout.  I would even venture to guess that the character of Mills is some type of  proxy for John Stuart Mill and his utilitarianistic harm principle, where each individual has the right to act as they want, so long as these actions do not harm others.

That philosophy, of course, is put to the test when Mills and Somerset come up against a serial killer who thinks he’s doing the world a favor by ridding it of the dregs of society. When explaining why he murdered his innocent victims he says, “Only in a world this shitty could you even try to say these were innocent people and keep a straight face.” And, that’s the point—they live in some type of apocalyptic world where everything is gray-toned and it never seems to cease raining unless you go out into the countryside.  Evidently the horrible acts carried out by Doe in this No-name city are nothing too out of the ordinary.  This is the reason Somerset wants out and says as much when he explains to Mills why he’s ready to retire: “I just don't think I can continue to live in a place that embraces and nurtures apathy as if it was virtue.” It sucks in No-name city, and the people who live there are complicit in every awful thing that transpires there.  Those who think they can rise above it, like Mills, find themselves completely enveloped by its sinister ways. 

While we are spared watching the sickening murders take place, we do have the unwelcome experience of seeing the aftermath of Doe’s actions. Gruesome crime scenes abound, and while they are not as stomach-turning as what you would find in a slasher movie, they are still difficult to look at.  His take on the seven deadly sins is rather imaginative, so I suppose if I were grading his psychopathic artistry I’d have to give him an A.  For me, his '”sloth” endeavor is the more memorable of all his “masterpieces”.  That emaciated body sputtering to life sent a jolt throughout my entire body.  Obviously this was the point in Spacey’s career when he embraced his darker side by playing both Doe here and Verbal Kint in The Usual Suspects (1995) in 1995. He must have picked up a few pointers from Anthony Hopkins’ turn in The Silence of the Lambs (1991) about how to play a cool and calculating serial killer, because he does a nice job of not overplaying Doe’s depravity. 

As for Pitt and Freeman, both do admirable jobs with their respective characters.  Freeman, in particular, does an outstanding job as Somerset.  Everyone knows he can deliver his lines with that god-like voice of his, but it is more his non-verbal work here that resonates.  When you are playing a man who is tired of the world it only makes sense that your character should appear physically and mentally drained—Somerset does. Perhaps it’s the way he carries Somerset or how he keeps his eyes and facial features in an almost constant state of underlying tension that makes me believe he has had enough of No-name city and the human race.  The look on his face when he opens up the box of vengeance (I won’t spoil it for those who haven’t seen the film) is priceless. 

My biggest complaint with Se7en is Gwyneth Paltrow as Mills’ wife Tracy.  While I know the character is necessary for plot reasons, Paltrow’s performance is just beyond boring.  Sure, her character is depressed about living on a subway line in a city where she doesn’t know anyone, but that doesn’t mean she has to be mind-numbingly tiring  to watch.  This role does not suit her at all and would have been better cast with the likes of Juliette Lewis or Marisa Tomei.  Oh, and to make things worse, it was on this film that Pitt and Paltrow became romantically involved, which resulted in more than 2-years of annoying gossip fodder. 

Overall, I think Se7en is a highly enjoyable psychological thriller.  It makes you really examine the world in which you live and contemplate how complicit you are in what is happening around you.  Plus, the ending is just beyond shocking and memorable. 

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The Ear (Ucho) 1970 **

Imagine making a film in 1970 and then having to wait 29-years before anyone could watch it. That’s what happened to director Karel Kachyňa when he wrote, directed, and produced a film that audaciously questioned the methods of the Czechoslovakian Communist Party. Suppressed by the same left-wing leaders that Kachyňa was shining a very bright light on, Ucho (The Ear) is a grim look at what it is like to live in a totalitarian state. 

The story takes place over one brief paranoid evening in the life of Ludvík (Radoslav Brzobohatý) and Anna (Jiřina Bohdalová), a caustic married couple. Ludvík is a senior ministry official who finds himself under suspicion when his superior and others in his office are arrested and held for questioning.  Upon returning home from a Party function, he and Anna encounter a house where both the power and phone lines have been turned off.  In addition, there are cars parked outside and men milling about in the garden.  Internal and external panic ensues inside their dark and untidy home, where they fear the “ear” is listening to everything they say and do. 

Shot in stark black and white and employing unflinching extreme close-ups and deep focus, Ucho purposefully makes you uncomfortable—because that is how the characters feel.  The first half of the movie is shot primarily in the dark, with only candlelight and a small flashlight to shed light on the happenings inside the house.  If Ludvík and Anna can’t see what’s happening to them why should the audience?  Later in the film, when there is a shift in tone and the lights come on, we see a piercing examination of the relationship between husband and wife. Someone should have flicked them off, because this is a couple obviously in need of a good marriage counselor.  She’s a drunk with a nasty disposition; he is a man consumed with getting ahead at all costs. Still, when they are faced with the prospect of Ludvík being taken away, the couple becomes extremely protective and shows a previously unseen tenderness toward one another. 

The relationship between Ludvík and Anna has been compared to that of George and Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966).  While there are obvious similarities (alcoholism and verbal barbarism) between the two couples, to diminish the political element would be a mistake.  The fractured martial relationship is nothing compared to the repressive political state in which they live, where psychological terror is the weapon of choice.  It is telling that they last line of the film has Anna saying to Ludvík that she’s sacred—that’s the point. 

While Ucho isn’t the greatest film I’ve ever seen, it is one of the most politically daring ones I’ve encountered.  As an American it is difficult to imagine a world where political expression is so easily suppressed, but it ran rampant throughout Eastern Europe during the Soviet Era.  It is because of films like this that I am reminded of how lucky I am to live in a country where free expression is both protected and valued. Karel Kachyňa should be heralded as a hero in the Czech Republic today for having the courage to make a film that stood up to authoritarianism—even if he knew it wouldn’t be seen by anyone for 29-years.

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Withnail and I (1987) **

Strange British humor is the best way I can describe Withnail and I (1987).  At times it is irreverently funny, and then there are moments when it just seems inane.  I’m usually a big fan of black comedy, so I was a bit disappointed by this effort by writer/director Bruce Robinson.  The film was semi-autobiographical for Robinson, as it was based on his life during the late-1960s in London, so perhaps more distance from the subject matter would have served him well here.

The film takes place in 1969 Camden Town. Withnail (Richard E. Grant) and Marwood (Paul McGann) are out of work actors living in a squalid, dilapidated flat. Something seems amiss with this living situation as it soon becomes abundantly clear that these are two university educated young men.  Withnail’s vocabulary and overall bearing betray him as upper middle-class, and Marwood’s idiosyncratic tendencies make it clear that these two really don’t belong in a building that should be condemned.  Yet, once you know that Withnail is a drunk and Marwood is a paranoid freak you are more accepting of their living accommodations.

The story doesn’t really take off until the guys decide they need a change of scenery and ask Withnail’s Uncle Monty (Richard Griffiths) to let them stay at his country home.  Monty is a stereotypical eccentric gay man who quotes Baudelaire and fawningly reminisces about former paramours.  He’s the best thing about the entire film.  Everything he says and does is funny, especially since there always seems to be some sexual undertone to whatever he says.  For example, in discussing why he prefers carrots to geraniums he says: “I think the carrot infinitely more fascinating than the geranium. The carrot has mystery. Flowers are essentially tarts. Prostitutes for the bees. There is, you'll agree, a certain 'je ne sais quoi' oh so very special about a firm, young carrot.”  His pursuit of a very uninterested Marwood is hilarious—and even a tad sad, too.

As for the two leads, Grant and McGann, they do admirable jobs portraying rather unlikable characters. I think Grant deserves more credit for his performance because he is actually allergic to alcohol, so the idea that he played a complete drunk so convincingly should be acknowledged.  Still, I found nothing whatsoever redemptive about his character, so it made it difficult for me to care what happened to him.  As for McGann, his overly-neurotic character was annoyingly boring. 

I suppose you could call this a coming-of-age story, but it still seems like a film without a plot.  I suspect this is one of the reasons I’m not a big fan of this movie.  Had there been more story development and less focus on ingesting drugs and alcohol this might have captured my attention more.

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Jezebel (1938) ****

(This is my contribution to the William Wyler Blogathon.  Please check out all of the wonderful blogs participating in this great event, which is hosted by The Movie Projector and runs June 24-29.)

Of all the directors screen legend Bette Davis worked with in her storied Hollywood career William Wyler was her favorite.  They worked together three times: Jezebel (1938), The Letter (1940), and The Little Foxes (1941)—she received an Academy Award nomination for all three films.  No other director knew how to handle Davis like Wyler. As an actress Davis was known for her uncompromising dedication to her roles, no matter if she were playing a complete shrew in Of Human Bondage (1934) or an alcoholic actress in Dangerous (1935). She was also known for her ability to hijack a picture from a weak-willed director. And, this is the main reason she and Wyler worked so well together: he was anything but weak-willed.  He, like Davis, was a perfectionist.  The difference is he knew perfect when he saw it, while she had the habit of assumption.  What I mean by this is that she often thought if she held nothing back and gave the most honest and raw take that she could then it must have been perfect.  Yet, Wyler knew there was more to capturing cinematic greatness and that is what he taught Davis when they worked together on Jezebel. 

Based on the 1934 Owen Davis play of the same name, Jezebel, which was nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, tells the tragic story of headstrong New Orleans debutante, Julie Marsden (Davis, in a role that was originated on the stage by her not BFF Miriam Hopkins). When Julie decides to test the love and patience of her longtime on-and-off-again beau Preston Dillard (Henry Fonda) on the cusp of the announcement of their engagement by wearing a red dress to the Olympus Ball (where all unwed women wear white) she sets in motion a series of events that lead to her eventual downfall.  There are three things that make Jezebel such a memorable picture: the costume design, the Olympus ball scenes, and Davis’ performance. 

The story takes place in 1850s New Orleans, so when the first glance we get of our heroine is her riding a hellish horse and wearing a riding habit we should know she’s a bit progressive for the times in which she lives.  The fact that she would wear said riding habit into greet a roomful of “properly” dressed guests to a party she’s late for only compounds the fact that Julie Marsden is obviously a feminist.  Still, the riding habit is by far the least memorable of the costumes Davis wears in Jezebel when one remembers the infamous red dress and the virginal white gown she wears to beg Press to take her back.  Designed by Orry-Kelly, every costume Davis wears is perfectly matched to the scene in which it is worn.  The dress most remember is the red gown that gets poor Julie into all kinds of trouble.  To answer Julie’s question upon seeing it: yes, it was saucy!  What most people don’t know about the dress is that it was first made out of red satin but when photographed in black and white it looked dull, so the color had to be changed to rust-brown to appear red on film.  Still, it is a rather startling dress, especially when it is contrasted against all the white gowns at the Olympus Ball.  It fits Davis perfectly and matches Julie’s fiery personality at that point in the movie.  The other standout gown is the frilly, virginal white dress that Julie wears when she greets Press at Halycon Plantation.  At this juncture in the film Julie is filled with humility and repentance and is more than willing to lower herself before her beloved.  This is a key point, because when Orry-Kelly designed this dress he had to make sure it showed well when Julie literally kneels at Press’s feet and begs him to take her back. She is enveloped by the dress and it shows just how small Julie feels about the way she’s behaved. 

That bad behavior, of course, is on full display at the Olympus Ball.  After Julie refuses to change her red dress before going to the ball Press decides he’s going to teach her a lesson in humility. For a sequence that was originally scheduled for only a half-day of shooting the ball scenes turned out to be some of the best in the film.  A half-day soon turned into five excruciating days of extensive takes and camera movements.  The ballroom was huge and had a massive chandelier that hung oppressively overhead. Countless couples (all “properly” attired) are dancing as a full orchestra plays a waltz when Press and Julie enter the ballroom.  When Press removes Julie’s cloak to reveal her scandalous dress all eyes are shockingly focused on the young couple for a moment.  They literally walk the gauntlet as they slowly walk past a line of men who Press warningly glares at. It is at this moment that Wyler and Oscar-nominated cinematographer Ernest Haller focus in on Julie’s eyes, which go from defiant to humiliated in a matter of seconds. Things become even more intense when Press forces her to dance, even as the entire floor of dancers leave the floor, repulsed by the couple’s impropriety. The overhead shot of the empty dance floor, sans Press and Julie, is almost unbearable to watch. The scene itself is what I like to refer to as a theatre of tragedy.  Press and Julie are the actors, while the other attendants are the audience.  As his grip tightens around her waist while she begs him to take her home, you see them encircled by those white dresses in a domineering overhead shot. A spotlight literally shows the complete disintegration of their relationship.  It is one of the most powerful, almost completely non-verbal scenes I recall ever watching. 

Of Davis’ many great performances, Julie Marsden is most probably the most subtle.  Davis had Wyler to thank for this, as well as for her Best Actress Oscar statuette. Perhaps one of the reasons most people don’t remember Julie as a bitch is because of the way Wyler asked Davis to play her.  Instead of speaking aggressively and dealing death glances with her eyes, Davis was asked to play Julie with a smile on her face and a sweet lilt in her voice.  She may have been giving Press hell or inciting duels, but she did it with a sweet Southern smile and a coquettish twinkle in her eye. At first when Wyler asked Davis to play her character like this she didn’t understand and was very off-put, but after watching the rushes she soon realized that her director was right. I think that is what makes Julie one of her most memorable characters—she was so different from the roles Davis usually played.  I mean, really, who can ever forget how she looked as she knelt before Press—completely humble and innocent—begging for his forgiveness and love.  How often did Bette Davis kneel before any man?  And, then, of course, you have that indescribably baffled look on her face when Press introduces his new wife (Margaret Lindsay) to her.  As she takes a moment to take in what he’s said you can see her internal struggle to understand what has just taken place. Her only response, obviously dumbfounded, “Your wife?”  Priceless.

Oddly enough, Jezebel had as much drama happening behind the scenes as it did in front of the camera.  For one thing, Wyler and Davis started a torrid affair that reportedly resulted in a pregnancy. And, perhaps to fully encompass the role of Jezebel, who in the words of Aunt Belle (Best Supporting Actress winner Fay Bainter) was “a woman who did evil in the sight of God,” Davis also conducted an affair with Fonda after having a fight with Wyler.  It took a phone call from Fonda’s pregnant wife (she was carrying Jane) to make Davis end the fling.  In addition, at one point Jack Warner was seriously considering replacing Wyler with William Dieterle because Wyler was so far behind schedule and over budget. Davis had to plead with Warner to keep Wyler and promised to work until midnight every night if that’s what it took to finish the film with Wyler.  In the end, the film finished a month late and nearly $400,000 over budget.  Ah, but it was all worth it, as Jezebel made Bette Davis a superstar and William Wyler a top-tier director. 

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Black Swan (2010) **1/2

(Please be advised that there is no possible way of discussing this film without revealing spoilers. Consider the entire post one prolonged spoiler.)

I will never again watch Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s ballet Swan Lake without wondering whether the ballerina playing the Swan Queen is certifiably insane. I have Natalie Portman and her Oscar-winning turn in Black Swan (2010) to thank for this. Greatly aided by the deft direction of Darren Aronofsky and an outstanding production design, Portman’s complete metamorphosis into a gifted but mentally unstable ballerina is phenomenal.

Portman plays Nina Sayers, a sexually repressed ballerina in what I can only assume is supposed to be a company modeled on the New York City Ballet.  When the company’s director, Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel), chooses Nina to replace his former muse, Beth (Winona Ryder in an inspired but brief role), and play the Swan Queen in the season’s opening ballet, Nina believes all of her dreams have come true.  Technically precise and incapable of coming off as anything but innocent, Nina makes a wonderful White Swan.  The problem is that self-doubt begins to creep in when Thomas constantly berates her for her inability to lose her frigidness and dance with the passion that is required for the Black Swan.  Already suffering from mild hallucinations, the pressure to meet Thomas’ expectations and to fight off a would-be competitor in Lily (Mila Kunis), causes Nina to rapidly descend into a world of mental instability. 

Okay, I’m not ashamed to admit that I had to watch this film twice before I got it (at least, I think I did). Sometimes psychological thrillers need a second look—think the Sixth Sense (1999)—and when I wasn’t fully convinced that Nina and Lily were two separate people I had to re-watch it.  Think about it: Nina is almost always dressed in white, while Lily is always in black.  Then you have Lily’s creepy winged tattoo; plus, there is that now infamous lesbian love scene that didn’t really happen.  Oh, and let’s not forget the would-be dressing room catfight where Nina stabs Lily with a shard of broken mirror glass. Yes, I had a “WTF” moment when after delivering a scintillating Black Swan Pas de Deux Nina is congratulated by Lily.  This was my reaction: 1) If she was real and Nina stabbed her shouldn’t she be dead? 2) If she’s alive and unharmed, who got stabbed? If you were like me, you “got it” when Nina pulls that shard out of her own stomach.  But then you start wondering how she danced with it in her and then how she continued to dance the Coda after she pulled it out. Hence, why you might watch it again. This uncertainty is why I can’t convince myself this is an extremely good film.

However, I am convinced that Portman deserved her Academy Award for Best Actress (although, the competition that year was lacking).  No doubt having a degree in psychology from Harvard University helped Portman wrap her mind around her mentally unstable character.  She never seems to overplay just how deranged Nina is, which is one of the reasons her performance is so visceral.  Still, she had to do more than understand her character’s motivations for this demanding part.  She spent over a year physically preparing for the role by studying ballet with Mary Helen Bowers and Benjamin Millepied (whom she later married) and she transformed her body into that of a ballerina’s.  Portman has said that at one point during filming she felt as though she might die from exhaustion.  While she may have been tired off the set, her complete embodiment of Nina is anything but tired.  I haven’t seen her give such a raw performance since Closer (2004).

The overall production is also memorable.  Costume designer Amy Westcott (with occasional help from Rodarte) does a splendid job of outfitting an entire ballet company. The Black Swan costume in particular is a standout design, but her choices of clothing for scenes between Nina and Lily are also creatively crafted.  I especially liked the dresses she designed for them to wear to the benefit party. 

The other shining element of Black Swan is Clint Mansell’s score. Not just anyone could take a canonical piece of music like Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake and completely rip it apart and then reshape it into their own vision, but Mansell did.  Known primarily for his work on Requiem for a Dream (2000), Mansell re-recorded his version of Swan Lake with an 80-piece orchestra and totally revamped a timeless classic.  It is unfortunate that his score was not eligible for the Academy Awards, because he truly deserved to be recognized.  His music expertly sets the tone throughout the entire film.

While Nina might have found her performance “perfect” (even though she said this as she lay bleeding to death, so how perfect could it really have been?), I can’t go so far as to categorize Black Swan as such.  Still, I enjoyed watching Portman’s powerful performance, and I really liked the music and costumes. 

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Ordinary People with Extraordinary Issues (1980) ***

 

Ordinary People (1980) was nominated for six Academy Awards; it won four. To this day, some people are still upset over the fact that Ordinary People won the Best Picture Oscar over Raging Bull (1980).  These same individuals will also debate you to death about how ridiculous it was that the film’s first-time director, Robert Redford, beat out Martin Scorsese as Best Director.  While I find Raging Bull mildly better than Ordinary People, I can’t bring myself to say that Scorsese’s film was robbed, either.  Each had its strengths; it just so happens that voters that year went for an understated drama over a powerful one.  Of course, there is one true issue to be had with the 1980 Academy Awards—how could Timothy Hutton be nominated (and win) Best Supporting Actor for a film in which he was without a doubt the primary lead?  That, to me at least, is the biggest head scratcher. 

Based on the 1976 novel of the same name by Judith Guest, the film tells the story of an upper-class Midwestern family’s gradual destruction following the death of a child.  Hutton plays Conrad Jarrett, a teenager dealing with survivor’s guilt.  Conrad is plagued with flashbacks of the horrible night in which he and his brother Buck (Scott Doebler), were involved in a sailing accident in which Buck drowned.  Having just been released from a mental hospital after attempting to slit his wrists, Conrad struggles to deal with his depression and his mother’s (Mary Tyler Moore) indifference.  The very shaky glue that attempts to bind mother and son is Conrad’s father, Calvin (Donald Sutherland).  The Oscar winning screenplay focuses on what happens when polite appearances are shattered by callous truths.  Of course, no one in the family is willing to admit what those harsh truths are, and so it takes a good psychiatrist (Oscar-nominated Judd Hirsh) to bring the Jarrett men to the conclusion that not everything is neat and easy.

Mary Tyler Moore was a complete revelation as Beth Jarrett. Primarily known as a comedic actress, who emitted warmth and enthusiasm in her famous sitcom roles, Moore plays a cold, unfeeling woman in this film.  Beth is always perfect—her hair, clothes, and house are always immaculate.  Yet, she has a dirty little secret: she despises weakness, especially if it involves emotions.  Her interactions with a son who is obviously begging for her love and compassion are almost too brutal to watch.  Mind you, she is not evil or malicious—she just refuses to connect with him.  The most painful scene in the entire film is when after having an emotional breakthrough of his own Conrad hugs her and she stiffly sits with a frozen look on her face. Moore was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar and she deserved it.  She makes you want to scream at the screen, “Wrap your arms around him you cold-hearted bitch!” Her scenes with Sutherland are just as powerful, especially the final one in which he tells her the truth about who she really is. 

Hutton, for his part, gives an understated performance that is propped up by fine supporting turns by Sutherland and Hirsch. Like Moore, Hirsch was known primarily as a sitcom actor, and so his Dr. Berger’s crass language and matter-of-fact demeanor was a surprise to many.  Still a teenager himself, Hutton had to run the emotional gamut in this role: remorse, guilt, despair, love, fear, and happiness.  As I said earlier, he was the star of Ordinary People and to label him as a supporting actor was completely ridiculous.  And, Sutherland, does an admirable job of playing a man struggling to keep what’s left of his family together. 

Other than the gripping story and the fine acting, what most people remember about the film is its music, specifically the constant presence of Pachelbel’s Canon.  Baroque in style and so composed in such a way as to produce dramatic emotions, the Canon was an interesting choice of thematic music for Ordinary People. For those unfamiliar with it, the Canon employs three voices (or players) that engage in the same music (this is a canon in music) but then there is also a fourth voice (the bass) that plays an independent part.  Right about now you’re asking yourself what is the point of this music lesson, right?  Well, I believe the choice of the Canon has symbolic meaning in that Conrad, Beth, and Calvin play the canon voices, while Buck (or perhaps Dr. Berger) plays the bass voice. Still, whether there was symbolism behind its choice or not, the Canon is expertly used throughout the film. 

Overall, Ordinary People is a gut-wrenching family drama that examines the meaning of both guilt and disconnectedness.  For anyone who may have had a less than warm relationship with a parent or struggled with survivor’s guilt, it might provide some insight into the human condition.  While it may not be as emotionally packed as Raging Bull, it quietly makes a statement about the meaning of loss. 

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