Critics fret that there is hardly any market left for American films made with adults in mind. One reason we worry is because there has been virtually zero interest in films, intelligent or otherwise, about our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Films as powerful as In the Valley of Elah and The Hurt Locker together grossed less than $20 million.
The new film The Messenger probably won’t do boffo box office itself, but this time we can skip the hand-wringing. Unlike most of its predecessors, this aftermath-of-war movie really isn’t very good. Or rather, for maybe a third of its playing time the film is amazing and maybe even important. But for the other two-thirds I recommend copious amounts of popcorn to keep you company.
Let’s start with the good news. The Messenger is more or less a buddy movie (though admittedly a very idiosyncratic one) that follows the travails of Staff Sgt. Will Montgomery (Ben Foster), an emotionally and physically damaged war “hero” (the movie itself supplies the irony), and his partner, Captain Tony Stone (Woody Harrelson), as they make their rounds informing parents and spouses that their loved ones have just died in action. It’s an audacious idea for a film, and in the scenes where Stone and Will are getting their faces slapped, spit on, and cried into by the heartbroken (such as an excellent Steve Buscemi), the film is extremely moving.
The devastated parents and wives come in a variety of ages, races and economic brackets; at times the film feels like a secret roadmap of American grief.
But filmmaker Oren Moverman, himself a former Israeli soldier, has little idea of what to do with his characters when they’re not painfully reciting their “The Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you…” lines. Despite the fact that the two lead actors work well together, and that their characters mesh in an interesting way (turns out Captain Stone is jealous that his enlisted assistant is a battle-tested warrior and he isn’t), the film only works at all when both men are on screen. There’s a strange tinge of Apocalypse Now here, which for a time had me wishing that the gleaming-pated and emotionally spiky Harrelson had played Col. Kurtz instead of the preposterous Brando. Ben Foster certainly seems to be channeling Martin Sheen’s Captain Willard when his character drunkenly smashes up his own apartment.
Actually, Foster’s performance is a big part of the film’s problem. Outside of the “messenger” scenes, Foster mostly seems to be channeling other war movies rather than honest emotion. He’s gotten some good reviews for his work here, but I’d have to rate his performance a dud. The film’s main subplot, Will’s courtship of the newly-widowed Olivia (Samantha Morton), is not so much awkward, and therefore touching, as “huh”-inducing. Really, Sergeant?
Harrelson’s performance, and his character, are much more interesting. Harrelson’s peeling away of his emotionally stunted good-old-boy’s layers often strikes a nerve, but Moverman unwisely has him playing second banana.
Movie Review
Over-the-top acting and incoherent plot drag down Her Private Hell
Danish filmmaker Nicolas Winding Refn is not someone who plays nice with the general film world. His 2011 film Drive introduced him to American audiences in a big way, but that pulsating thriller was followed up with artier films like Only God Forgives and The Neon Demon that eschewed coherent plots in favor of moody, atmospheric pieces.
Winding Refn, who hasn’t made a feature film in 10 years, has gone fully down the rabbit hole with Her Private Hell. Taking place in a liminal space that kind of resembles Earth but also feels like someone’s dreams/nightmares, the film focuses on Elle (Sophie Thatcher), an actor currently starring in a sci-fi film. Staying at a hotel with newcomer Hunter (Kristine Froseth), the two bond over their shared passion and the legend of Elle’s father, Johnny Thunders (Dougray Scott), who’s now married to Elle’s friend Dominique (Havana Rose Liu).
After spending a good amount of (mostly incomprehensible) time with that group, Refn introduces Private K (Charles Melton), who seems to be living in post-World War II Japan. He is looking for his daughter, who might have been taken by a mysterious figure known as “Leatherman,” and he will stop at nothing to find her, fighting whoever stands in his way.
It becomes clear almost right away that Winding Refn has no desire to engage in traditional storytelling in this film. The main characters wander through neon-drenched streets and buildings, which are often surrounded by a mist that is referred to on multiple occasions but never explained. Everyone speaks as if in a constant state of wonderment, and there are many moments where it’s unclear if events are actually happening, part of a movie-within-a-movie, or something else entirely.
Unlike his previous films, Winding Refn has taken the characters in this film completely out of the real world, with every scene taking place in a sparsely decorated room or street that is obviously a movie set. While there are moments where this decision really works, especially the striking first shot of a human-like figure mixed in with a cityscape and clouds, most of the time it only adds to the stilted nature of the film as a whole.
In fact, the entire movie has the feel of an avant-garde theater exercise. Every actor seems to be trying to outdo the others with awkward performances and out-sized reactions. Two very specific characters make appearances in both sides of the story for seemingly no reason other than to inject their weirdness into both spaces. The shocking violence that crops up on occasion would have more of an impact if it was related to anything intelligible.
Thatcher (Companion) and Liu (Tuner) are among the young stars who have had breakout moments in recent years, but neither of them is served well by this hot mess of a movie. They, along with Melton, still demonstrate the talent they possess, but the oddity of the film weighs them down. Scott makes an impression for all the wrong reasons, while Froseth is called upon to play a character who might as well not be there at all.
If there’s any kind of message that Winding Refn was trying to convey with Her Private Hell, it’s lost among the flashing lights, overload of pink, and jewel-like structures. Filmmakers who try to make art for art’s sake have a place in the world, but this film too often feels like people are making things up as they go, with no real goal in mind.
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Her Private Hell opens in theaters on July 24.
