Bruce Dern – Consumed By Film

Director: Quentin Tarantino

Release Date: December 25th, 2015 (US); January 8th, 2016 (UK)

Genre: Comedy; Crime; Drama

Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, Kurt Russell, Jennifer Jason Leigh

Quentin Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight almost feels like a career denouement. Fittingly, its structure loosely resembles that of the director’s inaugural feature, Reservoir Dogs, though experience has clearly softened his haste. One can imagine a young Tarantino, exuberance overriding patience, penning a screenplay too snappy to tempt overstaying its welcome (at less than 100 minutes, it is his shortest film). With over 20 successful years to his name and having perfected his incomparable style — arthouse blockbusters — snappy screenplays no longer have a place in the auteur’s workshop. The Hateful Eight reflects just that, seemingly to the point of no return.

Post-Civil-War tensions are rife in what is essentially a courtroom western. In non-revelatory terms, let’s run through some of the prosecutors (after all, Tarantino’s screenplay does the best descriptive job). John Ruth (Kurt Russell) is pure Americana, the type who gets glossy-eyed reading a letter written by President Abraham Lincoln. He is transporting criminal Daisy Domergue to Red Rock where she will be hanged — Jennifer Jason Leigh, oddly enough, increasingly channels The Breakfast Club’s Allison with each disconcerting grin and her general weirdness. Along the way they meet Major Marquis Warren, practical and thoughtful, played by Samuel L. Jackson.

He hitches a ride after some toing and froing, as does Chris Mannix who the trio find flailing around frantically in the brewing blizzard. Mannix, the prospective Sheriff of Red Rock, is weaselly and the most out-there of the entire bunch. He is played by Walton Goggins, the film’s MVP on the humour front. Tim Roth (Oswaldo Mobray), Michael Madsen (Joe Gage), Bruce Dern (General Sanford Smithers), and Demián Bichir (Bob) are already huddled up in Minnie’s Haberdashery when the travelling troupe arrive seeking shelter from the storm. Turns out the snow would have been a safer bet.

This rabble, though most engaging, are a noxious bunch. They use “during wartime” as a reductive excuse for past misdemeanours when really those misdemeanours were, and are, a way of life. “Justice delivered without dispassion is always in danger of not being justice,” muses Roth’s Mobray with ominous foreboding. Much has been made about the treatment of Domergue, and it’s plain to see why: she gets throttled often and without much in the way of retaliatory action. The characters are almost universally vile, Domergue included; the abuse is not funny nor, crucially, do I think it is meant to be. It didn’t offend me (the N word is again invoked with consistency) but others mightn’t be so kind.

For around an hour and a half, you get the feeling Tarantino and co. are taking the material seriously, so much so that those doing the striking gain a nasty reputation. But when the spaghetti violence takes form later on, that conscientious veneer ceases to exist and gory absurdity reigns supreme. Perhaps justifiably, given the caricature-esque group involved. At this point the violence is played, at least to an extent, for laughs and shock value — although it is worth noting most of the amusing moments arrive via verbiage. Ruth, for instance, intentionally has the worst comeback patter: “My pistol plays a tune… Domergue’s Death March.”

Jackson gets the best of the dialogue and subsequently repays Tarantino’s faith. He delivers a whodunit monologue with such devious joy; you can just about see the actor licking his lips as he succumbs to the satisfying taste of the words rumbling around his mouth. On the topic of audio, Ennio Morricone delivers another resplendent score, thoroughly grandiose and absolutely worthy of the occasion: his return to the genre for the first time since Buddy Goes West (1981). Galloping horses carry a distinctly cinematic sound and Tarantino, a movie lover, knows it. He also knows and cherishes the woody authenticity of film as a shooting medium, making Robert Richardson’s immaculate visual serving a welcome non-surprise.

There are times, and this is true of all Tarantino outings apart from the aforementioned Reservoir Dogs, when you find yourself actively egging conversations towards their conclusion. This is especially applicable in “Chapter One” of The Hateful Eight, when Warren is attempting to nab a seat in Ruth’s convoy. It might be a genuine attempt to flesh out key characters or simply a matter of self-indulgence, or possibly a bit of both. Tarantino writes and writes, and then writes some more, and when you see one of his films you just have to accept that. Because when he gets it right — and let’s face it, he does get it right quite a lot — even Aaron Sorkin must look on with a hint of jealousy.

Having said that, there isn’t much depth beyond the obvious cultural and political divisions (which are so plainly invoked they barely register as thoughtful). The certainty of death manifests via blood-trails in the snow — these rose markings could also represent the importance of evidence on the path to justice, though I might be clutching at straws with that one. Tarantino makes it work, however, by subbing in rich characters and the unrepentant screenplay I have already alluded to. The film exists in an era that demands people declare their backstory upon meeting a stranger and those variably truthful backstories are thoroughly enticing to hear.

A chapter in the film’s second act expertly refreshes proceedings just when you think the film might be turning stagnant and a tad repetitive. “The name of the game is patience.” It is true; patience welcomes more positives than negatives in The Hateful Eight. Quentin Tarantino is the sort of director who would rather swim across an ocean than take a speedboat in order to prove his point. You’ll know by now whether or not you enjoy that sort of storytelling. Regardless, there is something charming about a film that keeps you in the cinema a little longer than necessary — especially if said film has a lot going for it.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): The Weinstein Company

Director: Alexander Payne

Release Date: December 6th, 2013 (UK); January 24th, 2014 (US)

Genre: Adventure; Drama

Starring: Bruce Dern, Will Forte, June Squibb

Alexander Payne truly has a knack for relaying the road story on screen. You need more than an echelon of soul, characters whose individual hearts collectively beat in time with the narrative, and a narrative that quips comically, evolves raucously and affirms genuinely. In Sideways, he created a cinematic Everest, a pinnacle that will require something pretty spectacular to reach. And although Nebraska — Payne’s latest venture into the genre that sees characters finding their way around town before finding themselves — doesn’t quite reach the Sideways summit, it’s still a comforting, humorous and reminiscing ride.

Absolutely dead-cert he’s stumbled upon a one million dollar sweepstakes letter, getting to Lincoln, Nebraska is the first, last and only thing on Woody Grant’s (Bruce Dern) torpedoing mind. If it weren’t for highway patrol, he’d have walked there. His end goal momentarily scuppered by the confines of a police station and a sigh-fully approaching son, Woody mentally prepares a case for action. Because in his eyes, there’s a mound of cash crying out to him at the end of a Nebraskan road. Son David (Will Forte) believes the letter is a scam, and initially denounces Woody’s nonsensical intentions. However, after a number of persistence-driven incidents, David agrees to chauffeur his father towards the elder’s prescribed destination; probably not out of curiosity, rather, in order to spend time with his ageing old man.

From its elegant cinematography to a perfectly poised story, Nebraska evokes a sense of accomplishment and craftsmanship. Of course, the road-trip mantra will always centre on character study, and it’s no different here. However to not acknowledge the technical prowess on display would be doing the film a disservice. The black-and-white scape works both as a visual appeasement and as a narrative cog, as it represents not only the blunt tone, but also Woody’s depreciating mind and somewhat selfish outlook. In composing a curtain of sound, Mark Orton infuses proceedings with a Wild West twang, harking connotations of the primitive western ‘every man for themselves’ adage. Technically, the film is better than proficient. It is wholly engaging.

Having communicated the industrial superlatives, I ought to focus on the film as a depiction of characters, because without doubt Nebraska is about people and family and relationships. Those, and the subsequent pile of complex baggage associated with such humanistic tendencies. Although Woody isn’t the most amiable chap — his monetary determination prevails above all else — the viewer still sympathises with him to the point where you are subliminally rooting for the lead to walk away with a heap of cash, if only to see him smile. Bruce Dern embodies the retired Woody in all his stout manliness (“I served my country, I paid my taxes”), a portrayal that in many other hands would sway towards generic, yet Dern emits realism. But he’s also frail and his exuberance is quenched before it really gets going, demanding many a refuelling tavern trip.

Will Forte is the caring son David, who stands by his father through thick and thin. Forte must act as a sufficient bumper against all of Woody’s grouchy impulses, a challenging task if there ever was. The duo are essentially a two-man act, strained as a pairing but valiant against any external threat (much like Miles and Jack in Sideways). Enter June Squibb as mother Kate, the experienced firecracker of the family, whose hilarious opening statement sets the tone for her appearance: “You dumb cluck!” The withered status of Kate and Woody’s relationship is prevalent throughout, but it’s a natural abrasion brought on through years of being together, rather than simply a clash of personalities. Squibb impeccably channels her character’s outspoken demeanour into one of protection over Woody.

Bob Nelson’s screenplay is terrific, and Alexander Payne coats an affirming lesson with crude comedy. As father and son settle down at a family gathering alongside a ramshackle troupe of wordless Woodys and ditsy Davids, we watch that familiar social awkwardness at its most humorous. Cousins Cole and Bart insist on mundane car conversations, but at least someone is trying to cover over the cracks of silence. “Cole here did some jail”… maybe silence was the way to go after all. And it’s that tonal take-no-prisoners style that the film thrives on. Yet, there is a dramatic strand running throughout, one that takes its subject matter seriously. Woody is old. His senses are dwindling; he walks along motorways and unwittingly unveils his perceived monetary gain to strangers and enemies. This melancholic exercise on advancing years and losing oneself is relatable — everybody gets old, and many of us have spent time with elderly loved ones. Whilst Woody’s millionaire claims are momentarily amusing, they’re also sad in reflection as we see judgement fail him. At one point, you question Woody’s actual intentions: to chase a false dream, or to live and relive a reminiscent present? For David, the road-trip is a touching venture of discovery about the wholesome life endured by his father, a man you don’t get the impression David knows all that well, despite their familial ties.

Nebraska is another successful excursion for its director. Suitable in its simplicity and subtle in its sensitivity, the film is spearheaded by three admirably relatable performances. At the end of it all, Payne reflects on trust, on bonding, and on seizing the moment. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but it is, to quote Woody himself, “Pretty good”.

Tag: Bruce Dern

The Hateful Eight (2016)

Nebraska (2013)