Amores Perros, Alejandro
González Iñárritu’s stunning debut, was as groundbreaking, devastating,
auspicious, and from as far out of left field as Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs. His equally impressive
follow-up, 21 Grams (opens Friday, December 26, at the Little Theatre), is
nearly as accomplished as Pulp Fiction,
and it should see just about as much action during awards season, as well. The
two pictures are worth mentioning in the same breath because of a similar
nonlinear way of storytelling involving fate, though Iñárritu’s is much more
challenging.
Iñárritu once again lends his vision
to a Guillermo Arriaga screenplay involving a traffic accident with
overwhelmingly tragic consequences told in three story threads. But it takes us
a while to figure out exactly what transpired because everything is shown out
of order (it’s not episodic, like Perros,
or Doug Liman’s Go). As a critic, it
would be derelict of me to put it all together for you, especially since the
utter confusion you’re likely to experience in the first 10 minutes is an
important part of the experience of seeing this film. So I’ll just briefly
outline Grams‘ three players.
Sean Penn is Paul, a math professor
with a bum ticker and a slightly ghoulish wife (Charlotte Gainsbourg) who
desperately wants to become pregnant before Paul’s sperm die along with him.
He’s been given one month to live.
Naomi Watts is Christina, a happily
married suburbanite with two kids and a darkish past filled with drug abuse.
Benicio Del Toro is Jack, an ex-con
who, despite serious reluctance on the part of his wife (Melissa Leo), became a
born-again Christian during his last stint in the pen. Jack’s prison tats get
him fired from his country club caddy job, but he works with troubled youth at
his church, which is also where he won his spiffy new truck in a raffle.
Before long, one is dealing with
loss, one is dealing with causing loss, and one is dealing with the loss of
himself. The interconnected stories take place in Albuquerque, and each
involves salvation of some kind. The religious slant starts to become a little
too much from time to time, but it’s really the only major flaw in the film.
Well, that and the part that resembles Bonnie Hunt’s Return to Me, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.
You’ll likely be lining up for the
critically lauded acting (the three leads each won awards at the Venice Film
Festival premiere of Grams); the only
way you won’t be dazzled by it is if you’re sitting in front of morons
complaining out loud about not being able to follow what’s happening. (They’re
the same people who didn’t get Punch-Drunk
Love and All the Real Girls but
just loved Sweet Home Alabama).
Watts
is the standout here, mostly because it’s been a while since we’ve really seen
her in a serious film. Hers is the first best-actress-quality performance I’ve
seen this year. Penn is solid, as usual, in a rather physical role, though his
shot at Oscar glory will likely be foiled… by himself for his recent turn in Mystic River. Del Toro’s role is the
most subtle and the one we connect with the least, but it’s no less impressive
than anything else he’s done before.
Grams,
whose title refers to the weight human beings are supposed to lose at the exact
moment of their death, is just as gritty and audacious as Perros, thanks to photography from Rodrigo Prieto and some of the
year’s best editing from Stephen Mirrione (the Traffic Oscar winner). Iñárritu’s work, however, is noticeably more
mature here than it was in Perros.
He’s become less Tarantino and more Soderbergh. That’s damn exciting
considering the only things he’s done between then and now are shorts for BMW’s
The Hire and the 11’09″01 collection. Grams is the rare film you wish was even longer because it’s so good.
Last Christmas we were
treated to a dark, sexually charged update of Nicholas Nickleby, and this year moviegoers return to Victorian
England for a retelling of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan (opens Thursday, December
25). Oddly enough, both pictures were given a PG rating, while better family
fare like Whale Rider is saddled with
PG-13’s merely for being created outside the standard Hollywood system.
Unlike Nickleby, there’s no cross-dressing in Pan, as Jeremy Sumpter becomes the first young male actor to play
Peter on the big screen. Pan does,
however, conclude with a sexually charged swordfight which takes on new meaning
under the tutelage of Aussie co-writer and director P.J. Hogan (and makes the
name of Michael Jackson’s ranch seem even more creepy than usual).
The drawing cards in Hogan’s ominous
and surprisingly erotic take are Donald McAlpine’s breathtaking photography and
the interaction between Peter and Wendy Darling (Rachel Hurd-Wood, who is
destined to be confused with Evan Rachel Wood). For a while, I seriously
thought they were going to do the deed right there in front of God, The Lost
Boys, and everyone. You’d be hard-pressed to come up with a better on-screen
kiss this year, which probably explains why Tinkerbell (Ludivine Sagnier, who
spent the majority of Swimming Pool baring
it all) would rather just kill Wendy. I sure don’t remember that from the Disney version.
Hurd-Wood steals the show in a half
Kate Beckinsale, half Ione Skye kind of way. Though she’s probably going to end
up looking like something closer to The
Real World‘s Trishelle, who most likely would have banged Peter on the
first date.
Interested
in raw, unsanitized movie ramblings from Jon? Visit his site, Planet Sick-Boy (www.sick-boy.com),
or listen to him on WBER’s Friday Morning Show.
This article appears in Dec 17-23, 2003.
