So I guess I'll answer my own post. I'll actually go further than filmnoir1 and say that it's likely the best American film I've seen this year. Absolutely exceptional across the board and deserving of close consideration, especially given the astonishing amount of truly hateful responses it has received (like
this one from Reverse Shot). I think the reasons for this antipathy go far beyond what is stated or implied or assumed on our part and constitute much of what is profoundly fascinating about the experience of this truly monumental work.
First, I will acknowledge that I have not read the book and I'm sure I am likely to be more generous to the picture than one who has read and loved it, like Tully above. Still, part of what I find most deeply valuable about it is the fact that it works so very well as cinema but with an aesthetic many may simply not like. But I really feel that unlike most times a proper favorable reaction to this particular film absolutely requires a direct engagement with its most virulent critics as what is at stake here is so significant and pivots on very specific cultural adjustments. As I say, much of Mendes' approach may simply be rejected out of distaste but this is to reject out of hand a systematically applied thematic and stylistic design which pays great dividends if we are willing to accept its legitimacy. Beyond that though there is the more problematic occlusion that occurs with the particulars of cultural perspective and that is harder to reconcile.
Having said all that I will admit as I watched this that I wondered how most would react to the film. I can't help but think it will have only a vague anthropological value for many. Do the specifics of these circumstances have great truck with a lot of people? I think the risk toward reduction is significant and inherent to the material itself, though to the credit of all involved it is not their fault if that is what happens. For my own part I was riveted from beginning to end and, beyond that, transfixed even; distressed on occasion to the point of distraction and distinct anxiety.
RR resonated with me far more than I would like and in multiple ways. In other words, it became a profoundly personal experience and, as such, may render my conclusions somewhat suspect. But I do believe that it is the potent artistry on full display here that cut into me, and my reaction is not purely a product of a specific psyche.
I'm not sure where the notion has come from that so-called suburban ennui films are these oh-so-obviously banal didactic commentaries from and directed toward those with very little to complain about. This seems like a dangerously dismissive reaction to a whole subset of very real social and cultural problems. But I too am often hesitant with this kind of thing and went into
RR with trepidation as I know all too well how easy it is to make a film which is an equally dismissive statement of this sort and deserves the derision it receives. Even an earnest picture with the best of intentions can simply regurgitate what we all already think we know and thus not challenge us and, in fact, simply congratulate us on our retrospective perceptive acumen, as with the posturing hyperbole and false hysteria of Haynes'
Far From Heaven, a
counterproductive self-conscious exercise.
It amazes me that critics are saying that this film has little to say about our own times. That certainly makes me feel more marginalized than ever in my own reaction. Perhaps it's the unfashionable idea that Mendes has that we are to take even the small moments seriously, especially as they are what lead to what is undeniably not small or petty. All this is tied inextricably into a formal scheme which cuts very deep and is not at all satisfied with superficial shots at a supposedly superficial time. Without this commitment the film would just be another pandering liberal assessment of a currently reviled era, cast in only the most shallow of terms.
But that is not what happens. From the start when April and Frank are introduced to us they are "in character", posturing with cigarettes in hand, perfectly coiffed, trapped in a fully formed, already fully realized image. But unlike Haynes's noxious self-congratulation under the banner of "love of the medium", these moments are a message to us to be alert to the depths and nuances of sensitivity and sympathy on display here. Because these are fully inhabited roles, not actors pointing out "Oh God, look how conformist the 50's were!". The tragedy of April and Frank is the tragedy of a limited spectrum of imaginative scope and vision and the gradual realization of same. Mendes' high artifice style perfectly captures the suffocating claustrophobia, not of the maligned times, but of two very specific psychologies , both of which are still as absolutely relevant today as ever. This absurdly laughable notion that because of highly touted economic ruination we are all post-consumerist is simply wrong. If the 50's are the template it is because they may prove to be the best go-to template historically speaking for a period that is still very much with us and will be till absolute economic collapse.
Mendes' style is also the justification for his unique approach to character orientation. Critics scoff with irritation at the fact, for instance, that April and Frank's kids are rarely seen--as though this is some gaffe. Perhaps instead it may be profitable to ask why they are hardly ever seen. Frank's secretary is also little more than a prop for his ego and this is as it should be in a cloistered psycho-dramatic world such as the one in
RR.
All the other characters merely serve as enablers or sounding boards or, in the case of Michael Shannon, reflections of truth. To be honest, this is the only way the Shannon stuff works for me as otherwise it is simply too telegraphed, too much of an on the nose, flat on the screen literary embellishment. Interestingly in a film so full of real rage and emotional flare ups (so much more resonant for me that the similar stuff in
Virginia Woolf), Mendes never loses sight of the horrifying point of his ruminations. They are all perfectly realized in the gradual fade out denouement; no satisfying resolution or even release being possible.
I couldn't help but think of my own circumstances and responses during the course of this but I also thought of friends who all, to one degree or another, filled in the gaps and articulated the truth of Mendes' vision of things. I have a friend for instance who is a fine artist but has endlessly bemoaned his social and economic circumstances and yet it is often hard to imagine that he is not in some sense grateful for the justification to be "unable" to pursue his ambitions. Similarly, I know a couple whose marriage is fraught with anxiety (though carefully subdued) due to exactly the kinds of romantic disillusionment on display here. Of course some will say, and rightly, it's no easy task to have a marriage but it's the particulars that interest me.
RR is unsparing in the way it calls us all out on all our illusions. And the carefully rendered logic of the many arguments (all of which build and adhere to a welcome coherence) is impressive as it adds immeasurably to their force.
I realize I've said little about Dicaprio and Winslet. They are hardly incidental. They are revelatory, shattering here. The agony of these encounters never felt feigned to me, despite Mendes' admirable "high art". And the distress of faltering ego and the crushing force of recognizing inadequate spiritual courage was simply leveling.
One final anecdote if you'll allow me. I remember getting a ride home from work once with a woman who was very self-evidently upper middle class and aggressively content with her lot when asked about it. At one point in our conversation I inquired about her husband and she told me that he worked some kind of insane amount of hours at some job that sounded stupefyingly dull. I then asked her how he could handle that. She seemed genuinely put off that I would question his assumed satisfaction. She said that coming home to her and his "little darlings" were all the vacation he ever needed. I would have been less effected by this story if he had been the one attempting to convince me of its truth. Anyway, the image came back to me as I watched the scene in which Dicaprio returns home to his own "little darlings" and makes the effort to be appeased.