Directed by Dan Algrant
Al Pacino plays Eli, a high-powered New York publicist who’s heading for a crash in this rambling character study. As a gay Southerner with the ability to schmooze celebrities and politicians, Eli comes off as a cross between Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams. Pulling favors, staging political fundraisers, putting a good spin on a flop play – this is all in a day’s work for Eli. But when his day extends to helping the strung-out hooker friend of a longtime Hollywood client (Ryan O’Neal), things get out of hand. Eli is led to a hidden brothel/opium den in an upscale high-rise in Manhattan, and soon loses track of what really happened. All he knows is that there’s a dead hooker in his apartment (Tea Leoni) and a strange videocam in his jacket pocket.
Dan Algrant’s direction focuses on Pacino’s face for the most part, and this is good, because it’s Pacino’s movie: etched into those crags and folds are years of experience, self-medication, self-deceptions and compromise. He plays it like he still hasn’t slept since Insomnia, drawling his lines and flopping around like a woozy fighter. The script by Jon Robin Baitz is a bit too wordy, as it traces an underlying pulse in NYC – the power brokering between Jewish and Afro-American leaders – but it has plenty of wit and bite. Somehow, despite feeling like time is running out, Eli manages to do his job, and maintain a few threads of his shabby dignity and outdated ideals in the process. But of course, there’s a price to pay for this, as any wheeler-dealer like Eli would know. Worth it for Pacino’s deep slice of Method.
•Confidence
Directed by James Foley
Director Foley prefers deep blue interiors, lit by barlights. That’s the look of his previous film, Glengarry Glen Ross, and it dominates the neon-lit world of Confidence. Ed Burns plays grifter Jake Vig – a con artist who’s short one partner after the money they stole turns out to belong to a mobster named King (Dustin Hoffman). Jake tries to cut a deal with King (a slimy, oddball performance by Hoffman which is still more human and lifelike than Burns’s bland smoothness). The deal? Do this other con, then the King will forgive your thievery. And let you live.
As in all heist films, most of Confidence is about the set-up (in more ways than one). Jake’s gang enlists a hard-nosed grifter named Lily (Rachel Weisz) because they need a sexy female to distract their mark. You’ve seen this type of film a hundred times, but it’s still mesmerizing when done right. Andy Garcia turns up as an even shabbier Drug Enforcement Agent, and you’re not really sure who’s fleecing who until the end, and that makes for pretty good viewing.
•The Shape of Things
Directed by Neil Labute
A rethinking of Shaw’s Pygmalion, Neil Labute’s play-turned-movie is his least misogynistic. But it’s no less misanthropic, and possibly his most effective yet. Rachel Weisz (Again? This must be her year...) plays an anarchistic art student who is caught spraypainting genitals on a male statue by geeky museum guard Paul Rudd. She coyly spraypaints her phone number on the inside of his corduroy jacket. He’s captivated, and begins dating her. She immediately starts making suggestions for self-improvement – contact lenses, hipper clothes, a better haircut. Rudd’s character gains confidence, enough so that he starts acting on vibes sent out by his former classmate (played sweetly and preppily by Gretchen Mol). Mol’s overbearing fiancé similarly starts playing around with Weisz. Where is it all heading? It’s worth sticking through The Shape of Thing’s ultra-tart observations on human behavior to find out just how far people will go to gain acceptance. And how that acceptance changes them forever.
Weisz carries her lead role with scary ease – I used to think of her as a less talented Kate Winslett with bigger breasts – and she even produced Labute’s movie. It’s her final gesture, though, that viewers will remember after the lights go on: two middle fingers raised at the audience, silently mouthing the words: "F**k you."
•Whale Rider
Directed by Niki Caro
What makes this New Zealand feature about coming of age in a shrinking Maori community so watchable? Has to be the galvanizing performance of 14-year-old Keisha Castle-Hughes as Pai, the surviving granddaughter of crusty and stubborn Maori Chief Koro. No girl can become the next chief, a duty which began centuries ago with the first whale rider, according to Chief Koro. He begins a leadership class for Maori boys, showing them the colorful and vivid warrior dances (eyes bulging, tongue thrust out) and challenging them to retrieve a whale-tooth necklace which he’s flung into the ocean. Meanwhile, Pai has to choose between living in Europe with her artist father (who has turned his back on the dying Maori life) or putting up with the constant ridicule of her grandfather.
It’s Pai’s story, and newcomer Castle-Hughes narrates and plays it with skill and grace. She has a poignant face which speaks volumes of her bravery and destiny. Like Jane Campion’s films, Caro’s feature relies on surreal imagery and mythical echoes to tell the story. Gorgeous underwater shots, beached whales and vibrant colors made Whale Rider a standout at Cinemanila this year. See it on video, because you won’t likely see it at your favorite mall Cineplex.
•The Dancer Upstairs
Directed by John Malkovitch
Malkovitch… the director? Don’t be surprised, but the iconic actor has done a credible job in the Costa-Gavras vein with this political thriller. Set in an undisclosed South American setting (which, judging by the mountains and Japanese leaders, has to be Chile), The Dancer Upstairs follows police investigator Augustin Rejas (Javier Bardem in a quietly explosive performance) as he tries to track down an anarchistic cult that supports a revolutionary named "Ezequiel." There are public bombings, and dead dogs found strung up on streetlamps. As Augustin digs deeper, he starts falling for his daughter’s dance instructor, whose theater may have links to the political assassinations.
Quirky in a way that can only be described as "Malkovitch," The Dance Upstairs never tips its hand about who’s really behind the coming revolution. The anarchists never print manifestos or appear on TV. This suggests that the revolution has to be spread by people, by true believers. (Or as singer Gil Scot-Heron put it: "The revolution will not be televised.") These are esoteric points to carry a thriller, but Bardem’s performance – all soulful looks and meaningful glances – keep you hanging around until the somewhat anticlimactic ending.