We took our usual seats in the back row right hand side (if one is facing the seats). This spot is perfect for making out with liberal groping and maximum saliva exchange but the subject never came to light during the course of the film. I glanced around the theatre and noted the attendance was expectedly low with perhaps ten other patrons present for the enjoyment of this spy flick. The previews began and were of such variety as to through off our expectations. Typically the trailers inform one of the type of film that shall immediately follow. But these previews included drama, action, horror and comedy thus making it difficult to commit to a proper emotional state. The January Liam Neeson actioner seems to have become an annual fixture and I await The Gray (or is the Grey?) with much anticipation (of course now the movie has come out and I have already seen it but I refuse to change that line. It adds to the verisimilitude of this review. Richard Donner spoke often of verisimilitude when directing Superman: The Movie, saying it was an absolute must that the film possesses this quality. He succeeded and that film has great verisimilitude which is one of the many reasons it remains a classic to this day, I could watch that movie twelve times a day for the rest of my life and never tire of it) I’ve been a fan of Neeson’s since I first watched Darkman back in an old dollar theatre in Detroit when I working for an underground music magazine reporting on the local ambient music scene. Drum N’ Bass was still years from taking off as a viable genre but I’ve since received numerous accolades for those early articles for really being at the forefront of the house music movement. Neeson’s performance in the pulply Sam Raimi directed thriller was not so unlike that innovative sound: it was propulsive, electric and with an air of danger. I had the fortune of meeting Mr. Neeson a few years back when he was doing press for K-19: the Widowmaker and he is without question one of the most respectful and intelligent individuals I’ve come across.
I showed up at the bookstore wearing a sharp looking suit and black winter overcoat. I love winter and feel I truly look best in that cold climate. I was late on this particular evening and committed the discourtesy of leaving my good friend Willem Joseph waiting for at least 30 minutes. My heart yearned for a good excuse that could act as a panacea for the ache I had inadvertently aroused in our friendship but it was truly nothing more than poor planning on my part. Those of us from the city know how grueling the traffic can be on the freeway - especially during that peak rush hour - yet I brazenly ignored common sense and did not bother to leave early. If I’m honest with myself I have to admit I do enjoy the road in those crammed moments. Everyone darting in and out of lanes, passing on the right and braking suddenly when they spot a police officer, the sight of my car’s headlights hitting the black street and casting a haunting glow. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to just stare and allow my car to go careening into whomever is to the front or side me. I like to imagine in those moments my seatbelt suddenly subject to manufacturer’s error and tearing free before my body is violently hurled through the windshield (even though I know the glass on cars is specially designed not to cut human flesh in my imagination I have a thousand cuts on my face and upper torso, the blood streams out and the glass cuts through my eyes like good conversation cuts through monotony) like a human missile and then landing on the aforementioned pavement where my skull is unceremoniously cracked open and my brains spill out in a delightful undercooked stew. Nothing like that happened of course and I made it to the bookstore in good physical shape and fine spirits save for my regret of tardiness.
Willem Joseph was reading a fitness magazine of the sort which was always has a massive piece of chiseled, rippling beefcake on the cover. I always prefer the ones with female body builders as I like to imagine their hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me while telling me how useless I truly am but this was not to be. For the better part of eight months my friend has been training for an extensive body building competition. Long have been the conversations held over his philosophical viewpoints on the matter. Willem Joseph views his body as a portal through which he can communicate with a higher power, whether that is God or something else - perhaps something a few degrees warmer if the murmurs of strange writings and ancient occultist texts found in lockers are to be trusted - is anyone’s guess. To that end, he worships his body as the vessel for this communication and eventual ascension where he shall be granted the true immortality he has always sought. I asked him once how he planned to bulk up and he told me the easy answer to bulk is very simple and can be found in thick juicy cheeseburgers with three or sometimes four patties and extra slices of Colby Jack cheese as well as generous helpings of maple bars, ice cream and tall frosty glasses of whole milk, the kind that have the pink and not light blue caps. Indeed, this was the diet he stuck with for several months before adding in a delightful combination of weight training, including aquatic weights (the likes of which can be found at any local gym or fitness center which has a swimming pool. Incidentally I can recall with great clarity the instructor who taught me how to swim as a child. Her name was Jenni and she was tall, generous in thigh and free in spirit. I can still feel the way she gently put her hands on me, one on my stomach and one on my back as I mastered the floating technique. Outside my concentration was firmly locked on the backstroke but inside I was already floating in a sea of unrequited love, I gazed into her large dark eyes and wondered what secrets they held. How I wanted to swim in those eyes, how I wanted to kiss those full, red lips….) Now, whenever he is in public his firm buttocks are barely contained in the tight hip hugging jeans he insists upon wearing. They draw many a stare from female admirers and when he pulls off his jacket to reveal his trademark muscle-tee everyone gasps and blushes, as they all want to feel his ever-growing biceps. He would never admit to it but I know his favorite part of the competition is the oiling up before the show, his muscles glisten and his eyes come alive with boyish enthusiasm. After each competition he always secures a hotel room and requests an order of two large plates of oysters while entertaining whatever guests he has purchased for the evening. I never ask what they do behind closed doors. I have received several kind-hearted invitations to these post competition rituals but due to bad luck have been unable to attend.
The movie began in earnest and despite its slow pace never seemed to drag and was over in a second. I was completely taken by its dense, interlocking narrative. Now, if one were to put a standard police issue glock nine millimeter handgun to my head and ask that I reveal my favorite actor I don’t know that I would have the presence of mind to come up with a cogent response before having my head blown clean off. However during the thinking process I am sure that Gary Oldman would be one of the absolute top contenders. The man has a Bowie-like chameleon nature that allows him to simply become whatever role he is taking on and this is no different. He becomes George Smiley and what we see on screen is a careful, highly intelligent, calculating man whose eyes only reveal exactly what he wants. But in little moments throughout the film – particularly an astounding monologue type scene where he reenacts an early encounter between himself and his nemesis Karla – we see that this is a man who carries a tremendous amount of emotional weight with him at all times and we also sense that he is an individual capable of great violence when the situation calls for it. The film implies so much so well and this is a like a feast for patient viewers who have a thirst for subtle story telling. It is a Powerade of subtlety (Gatoride has always been trash, except for G2 which is easily far and away the greatest drink ever known to man, though extremely overrated) and it is a privilege to see this seasoned master in a top shelf performance.
The movie was set to begin in around 35 minutes. This did not afford us a lot of time for dinner, which was unfortunate, as we both agree that dinner is something to be savored and not rushed. We briefly considered having dinner after the film but Tuesdays in the city are notoriously slow when it comes to the restaurant scene. There was actually a study done a few years back that found the increased immigration from Japan and parts of Europe coupled with the inordinate amount of fiscal matters that build up o Mondays and Tuesdays (Everett Electric is used by nearly 70% of the population on the east side for electricity and their bills are uniformly sent out to businesses and citizens on one of those two days) actually contributes to a diminished early week return in restaurants, golf courses and some specialized interests such as helicopter of scuba lessons. Understand, Willem Joseph and I were not looking for a nutty night on the town - both of us had work the next day - but there is something in the ambience of a nice full restaurant that we were both craving. For my part there may have been another motive for not wanting to postpone our meal.
Yes, the restaurant was already a foregone conclusion [Oddly, I was watching Michael Mann’s classic Manhunter earlier today and Dennis Farina’s character also used the phrase “foregone conclusion” in reference to saving a family before they became the next victims of Tom Noonan’s character. Savvy folk will know that Dennis Farina plays Jack Crawford in that movie, a character played by Scott Glenn in Silence of the Lambs and Harvey Keitel in Red Dragon. It is strange yet fascinating that such a largely inconsequential character should have three very different – yet very talented – actors across three films. It’s hard to say who my favorite Jack Crawford is. Farina was slick and hard-edged, Glenn was subdued and intellectual and Keitel was rough and stony. I’m feeling depressed and suicidal right now, wondering why I lead such a worthless life and knowing that I will never achieve any of my dreams but that I will always be too cowardly to try harder or take the necessary action to end my futile existence. These thoughts are substantially clouding my ability to judge who is the best Crawford. However I can still say with absolute certainty that Manhunter is a much better film than Red Dragon (and no, I am not a Brett Ratner hater, the Rush Hour movies are great fun, X-Men: The Last Stand was a superb surprise and After the Sunset is an underrated little gem that deserves praise if only for all scenes which feature Salma Hayek, oh Salma please stay with me…forever…. Still, there is no comparison; Manhunter is a rich feast for the senses.)] If it’s Tuesday then there really is only one logical choice: Federico’s. This is a Mexican restaurant located on the lower east side, down the street from the Four Seasons and conveniently right next to our favored multiplex. While true that the location helped with our endeavors this is not the reason why the restaurant was selected. The lovely Claudia and the lovely Irma were the true motivating factors here. Oh sweet Irma, with your bold makeup, the lovely blue eye shadow, thick brows and radiant smile. How I long to hold one of those heavily bejeweled hands. And Claudia, do you know the dangers you present to my cholesterol strained heart with those pants you wear? You are even shapelier than Willem Joseph! These two women - these two Diosas - know me well and the rapport between us deepens my unhealthy obsession on every return trip. W.J. has long since learned to cope with my obsessions, he understands that we are all merely slaves to our passions just as he understand the necessity of concealing the true darkness in his own blackened heart.
Though Oldman is exceptional I’d be remiss if I did not mention the rest of the cast. Tom Hardy, who is appearing in more and more flicks these days (and who has amazing lips) is particularly effective as Ricki Tarr, the scalphunter whose tragic Russian liason may hold the key to the rotten core of the Circus (spy central for these guys). Perhaps the centerpiece of the movie is the flashback where he details this meeting and the shocking events that followed its discovery. This in itself feels like a small movie within a movie and is one of the most captivating sequences in recent memory, made all the more effective by the haunted looks in Hardy’s eyes throughout the film. Mark Strong turns in another strong performance (haha, God I’m good!) and shows why he is the one of the best and perhaps most underutilized actors around today. The man’s face is an emotional palette rife with expressive color. Benedict Cumberbatch, aside from having a great name, also turns in stirring work as Peter Guillam, a character of fierce integrity who has some interesting and unexpected secrets of his own.
With bellies full of chicken taquitos and my heart full of lust we stole through the night and arrived at the Regal Cinema with only minutes to spare. An elderly couple in front of us bought tickets for New Year’s Eve after a lengthy search for their rewards card. I briefly ruminated on the strange enchantment discounts seem to hold for those in their golden years and wondered if I too would turn out the same. With tickets firmly in hand we made our to the concession stand where Willem Joseph promptly purchased an extra large helping of Nachos and two ball park franks. He applied extra cheese to the nachos and extra mustard, relish and sauerkraut to the hot dogs. I noted the elation in his eyes as he watched that gooey cheese drip down and spread across the hard, angular chips. He consumed one of the dogs before the “stubs” were even ripped from the tickets. Dear reader, you most certainly noticed how the word stubs appeared in quotation marks, indicating some type of extra significance. One of the chief joys in my life has always been that moment right before entering the theatre where the stub is torn along the perforated line and then handed back to me. I would hold my breath to see if the tear would be perfect or if my stub would be returned uneven or bent. I keep my stubs secure in various tomes on my bookshelves. Sometimes I take them out, spread them on the floor and admire them while cracking my knuckles in a threatening way. But it seems those days are numbered and I am helpless to do anything but punch myself in the face and watch old recordings of the legendary luchadora Lola “Dinamita” Gonzalez. The nobility, skill and beauty of this woman are incredible. Her talents as a luchadora were unparalleled in her time and she still remains a living legend, her presence in the ring still a pure display of power and grace that commands the utmost admiration and respect. One day, when I have untold billions of dollars I will track down all recordings of her and digitally remaster them George Lucas style (except I won’t add any additional, superfluous scenes or dodgy CGI, damn you Lucas!) and then release an amazing, lush set of dvd’s, blu-rays, ultraviolets, red lightnings, purple passions or whatever format is popular. I will also produce a multilayered in depth documentary on her life and wrestling career, if anyone wants to help with this project now, feel free to contact me. Oh Lola! Why have you forsaken me (in your heart, forsaken me)? One day I will see this promise to fruition, I promise! For you Lola, oh Lola, oh Salma, mi Salmita, oh Irma, oh Claudia, how can I go on living when there is so much beauty in this world? How can I be so useless and miserable when I am surrounded by such wonders? And has the economy really become so fragile that movie tickets can no longer made on the stiffer, thicker card stock and must now be relegated to that thin, cheap, easily smudged receipt paper?
The mystery aspect is quite compelling in terms of who is the mole within the organization but in many ways seems to be beside the point of the narrative. This is a meticulous portrait of the lifestyle and mindset of individuals whose entire existence is predicated upon secrets and what that does to external personal lives and their interior selves. The crisp, assured writing allows the ensemble cast to reveal so much with only the smallest lines of dialogue or quick facial tics. There is no information spoon fed to the audience at any point and crucial moments are displayed as seemingly offhanded as throwaways. The score is appropriately unassuming, creeping in unnoticed at first but adding immensely to the overall tension-filled tone. This is most evident during the “climactic” scene where the mole’s identity is finally revealed. This flick also has one of the best-structured finales I’ve witnessed in a good long while, all set to the tune of Julio Iglesias’s “La Mer” (not to be confused with the also excellent “La Mer” by Nine Inch Nails, The Fragile owns my body and soul…)
I’ve been listening to a lot of Krautrock, a lot of electonic music and a lot of Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart as of late. Aside from the obvious sonic similarities between artists like Waits and someone like Brian Eno or Klaus Schulze the principal unifying factor in that music is the precise and practiced pacing. The albums by those artists are masterful with the mature understanding that so much relies upon those spaces between the notes. The passion that music exudes is as much from the carefully crafted restraint as it is from the moments of reckless cacophonic abandon. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is the filmic equivalent of those albums and a glorious slow burn of a movie. Layers upon layers of names, numbers and information, it is a rich, delicious cake of nuanced performances and meticulous detail. This is actually one of those rare instances where I feel this could (not sure about should) have been a bit longer. But this is a not fault of the film but rather a compliment to director Tomas Alfredson and his crew who have all crafted a wonderful film that repeatedly rewards concentration and complete submission (which I love) to the art form and the narrative. This movie becomes even more satisfying on subsequent viewings where one can fully grasp the story and appreciate the careful craft in its execution. I have seen it twice and would have gone back to see it a third time had it not left the theatre in a such a hurry (looks like Brooks from The Shawshank Redemption was right). I am currently ass deep in the book and am thoroughly enjoying that as well however this film truly stands on it’s own. I would love to call it the first must see of 2012 – this, the year of our reckoning – however that wouldn’t really be accurate as it came out in 2011. Maybe I could call it the last must see movie of 2011 but I can’t say for sure if that is true either. Perhaps it is best to just leave it as a must see movie, beautiful, impeccably crafted art that reaffirms my faith in film and reminds me what I love so much about this medium. No doubt, I will rush to a local conglomerate the day it comes out on blu ray to purchase it that I may lock myself in my home and watch it in privacy, while gulping down tall glasses of red wine. For two hours I was completely immersed in this world of intrigue, danger, political machinations and lives treated as pieces on a chessboard. It is an experience I look forward to having again and again.
