"In All Is Lost, Robert Redford put on what is truly a one-man show. His is the only face seen through the entirety of the film. Not just any actor could be up to the challenge presented by J.C. Chandor’s great, highly cinematic tale of survival and tenacity, but Redford brings with him decades of confidence and charisma, things necessary to pull the audience along in a nearly wordless performance that, ironically, speaks volumes. You can know everything about what this man is going through just by looking at his face. In the beginning, it’s rather placid, as we can infer that he is a very experienced sailor, and the damage to his boat at the start of the film is worrisome but not necessarily catastrophic. He sets about fixing it with the mildly-annoyed resolve that many of us would fix a flat tire on a solo road trip. Only as the film progresses, and the situation becomes more and more dire, do worry, fear and, finally, resignation, creep into his weather-worn visage, and Redford remains riveting throughout, even with almost no dialogue (his most memorable line is a very well-earned “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”)
We are given almost zero information on this nameless sailor, billed simply as “Our Man,” and while some see this as a flaw, I see it as incredibly freeing for the audience. I like to imagine that he’s an old hippie, maybe a veteran, who takes to the sea (alone, pointedly) as a refuge from a failed personal life. At least one marriage that ended badly, probably a couple of kids and grandkids that he tries, awkwardly, to keep in touch with. Is Virginia Jean an ex-lover? The one who got away? Most of this I put together though the spare hints given us in the heartrending, resigned letter read to us through narration at the film’s beginning, but most of it I’m just running with. The great thing about it is that you can choose to think about these things or not. For exposition or shoehorned-in character detail would have felt extraneous in a story this simple. It is about survival and the human hunger for it in the most desperate of situations, and if there’s anything more universal than that, I can’t think of it. “Our Man” is everyone and no one, all at once. He is us." -- Jason Alley
"When it comes to measuring the power of Zhang Ziyi's performance in The Grandmaster, for me, it all comes down to that haunting expression of loss in her final scenes with Ip Man.
Throughout much of the rest of Wong Kar-Wai's recent martial-arts biopic, Zhang - who plays Gong Er, the daughter of aging Wing Chun master Gong Yutian, who taps Ip Man (Tony Leung) to be his heir in southern China - carries herself with a steely demeanor that suggests ruthlessly single-minded resolve. This quality comes especially to the fore during the second half of the film, which focuses much screen time on her quest for revenge after her father is killed by Ma San, the northern heir who eventually become a collaborator with the Japanese during the Second Sino-Japanese War in the late 1930s. Not that the actress we remember from such films as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) and 2046 (2005) is completely absent here; in the film’s early stages, Wong makes canny use of Zhang’s cherubic face to suggest a naive innocence on her part that, as the film goes on, is about to lead her astray in life.
Though Ip Man was the spur for The Grandmaster, furthering the small cottage industry of Ip Man-related Hong Kong films kicked off by Wilson Yip’s Donnie Yen-starring Ip Man (2008), Wong Kar-Wai’s film gradually reveals itself to be not so much about the legendary Wing Chun martial artist as it is about Gong Er and how her life stacks up to the far-seeing vision that Ip Man represents. In contrast to Ip Man - who, throughout his life, demonstrates a flexibility regarding not only the passing of time but also adaption to the social changes that inevitably come along with it - Gong Er remains firmly rooted in traditional codes of honor, a mindset that is on one level admirable and on another deeply tragic. When Ma San kills her father, Gong Er proceeds to throw everything — her chance at a family, her knowledge of the now-forgotten “64 hands” technique — away in order to focus solely on, as she says, “avenging her family’s honor”...but what does her stab at nobility get her in the end? A moment’s satisfaction that leads her to lasting bodily harm and, ultimately, a deep lack of fulfillment in her life, a gaping maw of emptiness that she tries to fill in with the help of opium smoke.
Though Wong has Gong Er articulate some of this verbally in her final scenes with Ip Man, really, all one needs to see is Zhang Ziyi’s hauntingly weary expression to feel that sense of undying regret in your bones. That face, previously so full of curiosity and purpose, now looks fatigued, hollowed out, soulless. For all the high-flying fireworks of its major action set pieces and extravagant visual beauties on display, the most purely, directly affecting images in all of The Grandmaster turn out to be simple close-ups of Zhang Ziyi contemplating the life she could have lived - the fuller life she will never have." -- Kenji Fujishima
"Nicole Holofcener’s script for Enough Said is pretty damn harsh on James Gandolfini. Almost every word of dialog aimed at him is a cruel observation on his weight, habits, career, or character. Even his name is a hit below the belt: Albert - as in Fat Albert. The very conceit of Enough Said (a woman secretly befriends the ex-wife of her new lover to better understand what she’s getting into) is designed to expose his every flaw. From the way he eats guacamole to his sexual clumsiness, his boring job or his complete disinterest in bedside furniture, the script is constantly bullying the poor slob. Gandolfini heroically defends Albert from the onslaught by bringing a sturdy grace and sincere warmth to the role. He makes Albert so totally human by exposing the entire emotional spectrum through seemingly-simple eyebrow furrows, grins, grimaces and slouches. Gandolfini makes it impossible not to fall in love with the guy right along with Eva, even if he has too many toothbrushes and doesn’t know how to whisper.
Albert is in his early fifties, and at this age he is who he is. He doesn’t need to grow. He is grown. After discovering Julia Louis-Dreyfus has knowingly befriended his ex-wife, Gandolfini looks to her and says “I know this sounds corny, but you broke my heart. And I’m too old for that shit.” Gandolfini has shown he can explode with rage on The Sopranos, and he brilliantly vocalized defensive insecurity in Where the Wild Things Are. But here, he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t even cry. He speaks the words with bitter acceptance, and they’re absolutely devastating. This is the same third-act confrontation seen in so many rom-coms, but it works because the moment has been earned emotionally. Enough Said is one of the rare rom-coms that actually is genuinely romantic and comedic. Gandolfini makes Albert’s self-effacing “dad” humor unique through his wry delivery and a tendency to laugh at his jokes more than anyone else. After refusing him a first kiss, Eva tries to ease the blow by saying she likes his big “paddle” hands. Albert replies with a mischievous smile, “Thanks. I like your ass.”
Gandolfini, along with a luminous Louis-Dreyfus, elevate yet another story of a pretty woman falling for a slovenly guy into an honest and humane exploration on the meaning and purpose of relationships. As the two sit on the porch in the final scene, Albert tells Eva he finally bought the new night tables she had nagged him about. She lights up, thinking he’s become less of a slob, and exclaims “Really!” Gandolfini’s proud smile gives away the joke before he’s able to reply. “No. No I didn’t,” he flatly states. The two laugh, and the moment is so beautiful and perfect it almost elicits tears. Then the screen fades to black, the credits read “To Jim,” and the tears come after all." -- Kevin Cecil
"Though Brie Larson made memorable appearances in two higher-profile 2013 films - Don Jon and The Spectacular Now - it was her complex and moving lead performance as a twenty-something counselor at an evaluation center for troubled teens in the acclaimed indie Short Term 12 that promises to alter her career in the best way imaginable. Short Term 12, arguably the most emotionally potent independent film of the year, chronicles the lives and struggles of Larson's Grace and co-counselor and lover Mason (played by John Gallagher) as they try to find some definition and contentment amidst the despair that envelops them. The film disavows cliche by showcasing a natural spontaneity, a personal approach to character that gives this work of fiction a compelling cinema-verite feel. Larson's inner productive self takes her many miles away from movie-star posturing and much closer to the 'lived in' nature of a real-life character seen in a documentary. Hence, the romantic scenes seem to flow from that genuine lived-in experience as opposed to fictional replication.
Larson's performance (this writer feels it's the best of the year - ahead of Adele Exarchopoulos, Cate Blanchett, Greta Gerwig and others), is wholly unpretentious and never draws attention to itself. There is a layer of introspection that makes it obvious enough earlier on that she's harboring some secrets, but these matters never intrude on the honesty that defines her; in fact, her life mirrors the kids she is caring for. Larson's Grace is compassionate but firm, and like the very best in her profession she goes above and beyond." -- Sam Juliano
"When I first saw Nick Frost in The World’s End, it was pretty disorienting. Anyone familiar with his previous collaborations with Edgar Wright knows Frost’s knack for playing a certain kind of endearing, pop culture-savvy man-child as seen in Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead. So when he turned up in The World’s End as a sharply dressed, bespectacled attorney, it set me back on my heels more than a little bit. At first glance, the role fit him like a cheap, off-the-rack suit.
Yet Frost doesn’t just make the role work, he makes it positively sing. Like all his films with Wright, The World’s End is essentially a platonic love story between Frost and Pegg. But while Andy (Frost) is devoted to his old pal Gary "The King" (Pegg), he’s more than a little fed up as well. The reason the part works so well is that Andy’s feelings toward Gary aren’t just about anger and frustration - Frost also injects more than a little disappointment, not toward Gary (Andy’s long past being disappointed with his ne’er-do-well friend), but toward himself for being taken in by Gary’s bullshit yet again. If you’ve ever cared about someone who’s constitutionally incapable of letting you do so, you know the feeling well, and Frost portrays it as well as I’ve seen in a movie setting.
Eventually, some elements of the familiar Frost characters come to the fore, particularly in the fight scenes in which he employs his large frame in a formidable, bruising way a la John Goodman. But even after he loosens up a bit, he nonetheless remains Gary’s - and the movie’s - voice of conscience. It would come across as moralistic but for the sense of shared history between Andy and Gary that comes through in the performance. His feelings toward his friend are hard-earned, and the concerns he voices spring not from a safe critical distance but from years of pain. He makes Andy the kind of friend that every Gary needs, the kind who isn’t afraid to call him out but who will stand by him when things go downhill, in spite of everything.
I’ve always enjoyed Frost in the past, but his performance in The World’s End is on a level I’ve never seen from him before. For the first time, I see serious potential for him as a character actor, and I can’t wait to see what he does next." -- Paul Clark
"Horror movies about ancient, villainous covens of witches aren’t supposed to break your heart. But then, in a genre often overwhelmed by the dehumanizing methods of creative splatter and the reduction of the human experience to that of a sack of meat waiting to be ruptured, it’s always an unexpected thrill to see a film gamble and use the shape of horror to get at uncomfortable realities of being alive in the world. As such, Rob Zombie’s The Lords of Salem isn’t your typical horror film; like many of the best films in the genre, it forgoes ear-shredding stings and Saturday-matinee yock-shocks for a creeping, crushing sense of the inevitability of death. Less a thrill ride than a funeral dirge, Zombie spins suffocating supernatural disquiet out of the slow process of a woman giving in to her worst impulses, yet the whole enterprise would collapse were it not anchored, in a revelatory performance, by his wife and longtime collaborator Sherri Moon Zombie. She’s done good work for her husband before, but it’s generally been within the confines of lively yet one-note caricatures, whether as the coquettish psycho Baby in The Devil’s Rejects or Michael Myers’ saintly mother in Halloween. Lords gives her a shot at playing a fully-formed human being, and she tears into it with aplomb.
It’s perfectly modulated work. Whether shooting high-energy shit with her coworkers on the freewheeling radio show her character Heidi hosts, chummily-yet-tersely rebuffing the awkward advances of her friend/cohost Whitey (Jeffery Daniel Phillips in a terrific supporting turn) or solemnly sitting through an AA meeting, Heidi seems like someone who’s had troubles but has finally pulled it all together; this, then, makes watching her slide into the double-boiled bog of witchery and addiction all the tougher. (When Bruce Davison’s avuncular Salem historian claims, “Witchcraft is nothing but a psychotic state of belief brought on by a delusional state of mind,” the forethinking impulse is to chuckle, as indeed Heidi does, but Lords is ambiguous enough to leave open the possibility.) As Heidi gradually spirals away from her life and all who care for her into the graces of three overly-hospitable witches in waiting, Sherri Moon nails the sense of wavering, the confusion, the helplessness and halting terror at that helplessness, and finally the surrendering numbness that comes with either a relapse into the familiar lonely shelter of substance abuse or a demonic possession centuries in the offing. Losing control is just that no matter the circumstances, and when Heidi offers a final, choked sotto voce, “Bye,” to Whitey before capitulating to her ultimate destiny, it’s as raw and wrenching a gesture as any ever seen in horror. That the resultant orgy of decadence and blasphemy still allows the character to go out on a note of peaceful grace, playing with her beloved dog, is remarkable. It’s nevertheless the end earned by Sherri Moon’s equally remarkable performance." -- Steve Carlson
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