Moneyball – Consumed By Film

The Big Short (2016)

★★★★

Director: Adam McKay

Release Date: December 23rd, 2015 (US); January 22nd, 2016 (UK)

Genre: Biography; Drama

Starring: Steve Carell, Christian Bale, Ryan Gosling, Brad Pitt

The Big Short recalls the audacious actions of “a few outsiders and weirdos”, a group of like-minded money men who managed to accurately predict the 2008 global financial crash years in advance. Sure, it may not sound like the most enthralling venture, but it is. Adam McKay’s outing finds its footing somewhere between the maniacal antics of The Wolf of Wall Street and J.C. Chandor’s sobering Margin Call, lined with humour and born out of blood-boiling truth. Warning: it is a piece wholeheartedly set in its ways — if you are on the side of the bankers, this ain’t for you (nor, frankly, is decency).

Christian Bale plays Michael Burry, real life hedge fund supremo and heavy metal lover. Eccentric, his brain scorched by numbers and spreadsheets (the film is based on a book by Moneyball author Michael Lewis and it shows), Burry spots a flaw in the structure of the American housing market and, since nobody will take his findings seriously, he opts to invest in said market’s eventual collapse. “This is Wall Street Dr. Burry. If you offer us free money, we’re going to take it,” says one Goldman Sachs representative with glee in her heart and cash in her eyes.

Following an industry-driven family tragedy, Mark Baum has more emotional investment that anyone in Burry’s prediction. Coaxed on by a prowling vendetta against the world, Steve Carell is terrific in the role (there’s not a bum note generally, but Carell is the stand out). You really get the sense this is a guy who wholly detests the fraudulent system, and you feel a shared sense of injustice. However, Baum’s attempt to profit from the system’s downfall — and by proxy the plight of millions of innocent livelihoods — eats away at him, this internal struggle projected with weariness by Carell’s bruised eyes.

Ryan Gosling offers his two (million) cents as the sort of guy who practices catchy lines under his breath in preparation for important meetings — this sets up a hilarious money smelling quip. Gosling is financial trader Jared Vennett, a dick, but a dick with a point. Another Burry believer, he often breaks the fourth wall to explain what’s going on, funding his smarmy exterior in the process. The straight-to-camera dialogue works because the film is relentlessly preaching to us anyway. He and Baum work together but are opposing forces in personality terms: Baum amusingly no-sells Vennett’s macho demeanour while Vennett takes no notice, only interested in his rising bank balance.

Of the four headline names, Brad Pitt has the quietest role: Ben Rickert, having been chewed up and spat out by the banking industry, now abides by a pseudo-apocalyptic philosophy (“Seeds are gonna be the new currency”). Rickert is cajoled by understudies Charlie (John Magaro) and Jamie (Finn Whittrock) and subsequently returns to the field as their unshowy mentor, won over by Burry’s cataclysmic pattern. The presence of Pitt affords some weight to an arc that might have otherwise felt inconsequential given its unoriginal through line — it gets caught in the shadow of the other two, more prominent narrative strands.

McKay and co-writer Charles Randolph’s screenplay admirably juggles all of these hefty personalities, men collectively singing from the same ledger, without homogenising them. Nor does the script hold its protagonists to some sort of impenetrable moral standard — after all, irrespective of their true target, these guys are actively seeking to profit from the misfortune of both rich bankers and struggling Americans. McKay and Randolph frequently add layers to the plot, though when the film threatens to go beyond our intellectual comprehension it is saved by offbeat explanatory segments (chartered by the likes of Margot Robbie and Selena Gomez playing themselves).

It is abundantly clear who the villains are and the film knows that. But The Big Short also recognised the need to remind us of the primary culprits and does so by throwing around masses of Wall Street jargon, creating a divide between the folk who speak said language on a daily basis and everybody else. These are people who deviously undercut their customers and then guffaw about doing so in the safety of luxury afterwards — Max Greenfield and Billy Magnussen play the worst on-screen offenders, two mortgage brokers painted with broad strokes by necessity. They believe the joke is on everyone else when it’s obviously on them.

There are plenty of other jokes too, gags inspired by wit and executed with piercing zest (McKay and Randolph even manage to take a jab at artistic licence by openly owning up to small bouts of fabrication). This overarching smartness does alienate one small story section, namely the jarring appearance of a soon-to-be ailing homeowner. The film is too clever for something so blunt, especially given its tendency to avoid emotional manipulation elsewhere. You might argue the scene puts a face on the economic turmoil, but having lived through the crisis the audience will already be thoroughly aware of the consequences. It does at least serve up an eerie visual of a housing wasteland that evokes Chernobyl connotations.

Hank Corwin’s editing encourages a rampant effervescence that is more or less employed throughout; from an opening montage that outlines the inception of the disaster, to various images of music videos, celebrities, models, and cash spliced together — all symbols of corporate America, of the new American Dream sold by capitalism, a false dream. The choppiness can be a bit disorienting but it does induce urgency and even a degree of mess, fitting since it reflects the impending financial calamity.

As characters debate the legitimacy of Burry’s predictions the camera wanders freely between their faces, upholding both the kinetic energy of the fast-moving industry and said industry’s unpredictable nature. When all the desks have been cleared and all the cheques resentfully written, The Big Short unveils its prognosis: that those involved, the guilty bankers eventually given legal clearance, were either blindly stupid or corrupted by immorality. It is a sombre conclusion but one we always knew was coming. Having laughed a lot, you’ll leave angry — and you’re supposed to.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images copyright (©): Paramount Pictures

Foxcatcher (2015)

★★★★★

Director: Bennett Miller

Release Date: January 9th, 2015 (UK)

Genre: Biography; Drama; Sport

Starring: Channing Tatum, Steve Carell, Mark Ruffalo

You could single out any number of attributes and relate them to Bennett Miller’s directorial portfolio, but depth wouldn’t be one. The New Yorker has created four films since 1998 and, at a rate of one film every four or five years, Miller obviously doesn’t take job choices lightly. After a seldom seen documentary feature called The Cruise (1998) and his critically acclaimed biographical drama Capote (2005), Miller tried his hand at exploring the inner workings of American sport on the big screen. Moneyball (2011) was polished and affecting, but never set out to irritate because it was never meant to be that kind of story, just as baseball isn’t that kind of sport.

Foxcatcher, on the other hand, is that kind of story. Whereas Moneyball told a consumable tale that reflected the everyday popularity of baseball, Miller’s latest piece bathes in the sweaty discomfort and disassociation of wrestling. It’s uncensored, but subtly so. It’s damn good too.

Mark Schultz (Channing Tatum) is an amateur wrestler. We first meet him as he somewhat timidly relays semi-encouraging words to a less than half full hall of school children. Perhaps timidness is the wrong adjective. Mark isn’t necessarily a shy person, but his inability to open up is reflected in his distanced demeanour. All he knows is an everyday, basic existence. And amateur wrestling. Tatum excels as the hard-boiled grappler, his physicality more than matched by a powerhouse emotional range that develops alongside the story. He hobbles as you’d imagine a wrestler would, and wears sweatpants and an unforgiving exterior in and out of the gym, unlike the more outgoing Dave.

Dave Schultz (Mark Ruffalo) is Mark’s older brother, the man Mark is filling in for during the opening scene. Dave is also an Olympic champion and, for one reason or another, the more popular brother. Ruffalo brings an awkward charm to the role; we’re instantly drawn to him as he graciously interacts with American wrestling officials, Ruffalo dragging his toes as he shakes hands as if to highlight an inert clumsiness. The siblings train shortly thereafter, and Foxcatcher unleashes its first taste of the brutish sport — as Dave gets the better of Mark the latter lashes out, emphasising Mark’s simmering displeasure towards his overshadowing older brother.

Both men receive the opportunity to head up an all-American wrestling team at Foxcatcher farm, funded by John du Pont (Steve Carell). “Du Pont, a dynasty of wealth and power”, are the words that echo from a History Channel-esque montage about the rich family. Mark accepts, aspiration outweighing alertness, whereas family man Dave rejects. Though the film breeds an air of morbidity from the outset, it really kicks into gear upon the arrival of a terrifying looking du Pont. The three primary actors deliver wholly, but it is Carell’s skin-crawling turn as the internally maniacal financier that’ll stick in the memory and continue to probe long after the final pinfall. Assisted by facial prosthetics more suited to the latest House of Wax horror instalment, Carell maintains false poise that’s ready to burst. He’s devilish and utterly detestable.

Miller’s film teases the inevitability of chaos bred from a relationship between the three men, but refrains from delivering on the fact until the final act. Much of the first hour and a half of Foxcatcher instead focuses on the relationship between du Pont and Mark, a partnership that is clearly on iffy terrain from go. Their first face to face meeting at the farm is one of a catalogue of tension filled moments; du Pont sells his wrestling project to Mark (the multimillionaire wants to foster a gold medal batch of grapplers) under the guise of honour and patriotism. Rob Simonsen and West Dylan Thordson’s score is noticeably absent here as we hang on du Pont’s every word in tandem with Mark.

Although the screenplay relays a number of striking lines — “Horses are stupid. Horses eat and shit, that’s all they do” is a particular stand-out that comes from the mouth of du Pont, breeder of amateur wrestlers — the piece doesn’t necessarily rely on words to succeed. Rather, it’s about tension and ambiguity and the toxic atmosphere burning the three men involved. The overarching moodiness serves a purpose, but it is also a necessity given the real life framework. Foxcatcher resembles David Fincher’s Gone Girl in many ways, though the Gillian Flynn-penned film alleviates tension via brief moments of humour, unlike Foxcatcher. This incessantly serious approach works given the context, and Miller’s tactful management of the potentially tricky sullenness is a true masterclass in pressure-building on screen.

Taking all of the above into consideration, it’s unsurprising that the camera refuses to shy away from raw moments — shots are dynamic when showing matches and totally still otherwise. Greig Fraser’s cinematography effectively positions the audience in amongst any wrestling and as such captures the fleshy warring in full flow. Both Tatum and Ruffalo ought to be commended on their very immersive abilities, and it’s also worth noting the most horrifying celebratory expression in recent memory from Carell after a victory.

The culmination is game of pawn playing, a deliberation of moral values, and of blind understanding. Three men are at the forefront, their rapport with each other and with amateur wrestling challenged. Foxcatcher might only be Bennett Miller’s fourth film in almost 20 years, but it is absolutely his most accomplished.

Images credit: IMP Awards, Collider

Images credit (©): Sony Pictures Classics

The Wolf of Wall Street (2014)

★★★★

Director: Martin Scorsese

Release Date: December 25th, 2013 (US); January 17th 2014 (UK)

Genre: Biography; Comedy; Crime

Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Jonah Hill, Margot Robbie

It’s their fifth director/actor collaboration and The Wolf of Wall Street may well be Martin Scorsese and Leonardo DiCaprio at their most exuberant. This maniacal tale of excess drowns in a flood of alcohol, showers in a plethora of drugs and embezzles in enough debauchery, sex and controversy to last a lifetime, although probably not a Jordan Belfort lifetime. Yet, in spite of the countless unsavouries on display, there’s a hint of caution lingering. A moment of thought, of silent consideration. It’s only a whisper though, nothing more — caution is perhaps the only trait lacking throughout the film.

Is The Wolf of Wall Street, then, glorifying a repulsive glut-based culture? Perhaps for over two and a half hours, yes. You laugh, guffaw even, when a damning head shake should suffice. That is until a line of blood trickles down one character’s forehead, when perspective and sense reign supreme. Maybe not from Jordan Belfort or any other money-gorging lackey at his disposal. Rather, from Scorsese himself, who subtly denounces the previously lauded mounds of greed and subsequently, masterfully, ties this disastrous party in a bow of warning.

Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) is the kind of guy who would strut into a room full of more experienced heads and immediately present himself as bigger and as better. In fact, shortly after a Black Monday layoff, Belfort does exactly that as he aggressively and successfully makes an impressive sale in his new job as part of a small brokerage firm. This sale, or in layman’s terms customer manipulation, is the catalyst for Belfort’s booming career, one that sees himself and partner Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill) set up their own financial consultancy business that, funded by immorality, skyrockets the pair to monetary heaven.

From the outset, The Wolf of Wall Street positions itself as relentless and indulgent, maintaining those tonal traits throughout, effectively, its entirety. Excess is the mantra, limits are ostracised. Belfort narrates in a gloating manner not too far removed from, “Hey, look at all this crazy, hilarious shit we got up to!” Animals are paraded, devoured. Women are either reduced to objects solely to aid the male desire, or are rendered forever in debt to their gender opposites. At one point Belfort bellows, “I want you to deal with your problems by becoming rich!” absolutely believing his own deplorable motto. Yet, in all its apparent glorification of the obscene — a glorification that has attracted waves of controversy in some parts — the film never dawns a disguise. Scorsese, and perhaps he has earned to right to do so, goes that bit further. Of course there’s distaste galore, how could there not be given we are seeing the world through Belfort’s eyes? The film is not a bait-and-switch — this isn’t a narrative presently neutrally, one which then props up one or two flailing dubious remarks. Far from it. The cards are on the table from the off, boisterous cards without question, but the only cards possible.

What then, of the unadulterated humour that often floods the screen? If these obscenities playing out before us are so hideous, uncaring and self-centred, why are they presented comically — or better yet, why are we laughing along? Primarily, you laugh because it’s difficult not to get caught up in it all; in the madness, the chaos, the highs… and that’s the point. Belfort’s story is a journey of ever increasing lavishness (if his sewage ran dollar-full, nobody would bat an eyelid) and there is so much surplus residue that realistic comprehension becomes ridiculous — “It was a madhouse,” says the ringleader, and it most certainly was. Quaalude binges at work. Customer misguidance at work. Chimpanzees at work. Less-romantic-than-animalistic group interactions at work. We meet FBI agent Patrick Denham investigating the dodgy dealings on Wall Street, and sure enough our disbelieving minds are served another shocking reminder, one that puts beyond doubt the main reason why we are recession-hit. These insanities are just that, yet they’re quickly glossed either with a witty one-liner that you chuckle at, or an utterly hilarious hum ritual simultaneously employed by everyone in a crowded room. Terrence Winter’s screenplay is at times uncompromisingly funny, often because it adheres to Belfort’s drastic lifestyle and blends vibrantly with Scorsese’s scoping direction.

Significantly though, the film does not condone its characters’ actions. Without giving too much away, Belfort’s status during the final twenty minutes ensures that his previous shenanigans are not to be heralded triumphantly, perhaps not even by the man himself. After loudly depicting his life of riches and numerous abnormal behaviours, the screen displays Belfort’s resultantly crippled existence. Yet it’s worth noting that the film refrains from divulging an absolute stance in its final scene; after two and a half hours incessantly shoving overabundance down your throat, Scorsese rightly lets the audience take for themselves that which they so desire — incidentally, the film is an 18 certificate, and surely any sensible adult would regard the on screen depictions as probably funny in the moment, but then even more wrong in reflection.

Matthew McConaughey looks set to pick up the Best Actor gong at this year’s Academy Awards for an incredible performance in Dallas Buyers Club, and he has a cameo here where the Texan gives an eccentric diatribe so oddly humorous that its seven and a half minute length races by. The speech sets the scene for what is to come, crudely summed up in three words: “Fuck the clients.” On the other end of said speech is the man McConaughey is likely to trump at the Oscars, Jordan Belfort himself, Leonardo DiCaprio. DiCaprio’s portrayal is awards-worthy, without doubt. From that first rampant manipulative sell he has the audience in the palm of his hands, unwittingly eating and then repentantly spitting out his soup of excess. Belfort is a dick; nuances such as talking down to the phone and beaming at the camera confirm exactly that. Somewhat surprisingly then, DiCaprio manages to keep you engaged in his aura just enough. It’s not that you ever like him, or that you feel sorry for him at any point. Yet DiCaprio ensures that there would be never any doubting a pleading second helping from the audience, even if Belfort sold you an initial injustice.

Jonah Hill’s acting stock ascends further up the ladder (no pun intended) as he once again proves his dramatic and comedic worth. The opposite of Belfort’s slick demeanour, Donnie is brash and instantly uncontrollable. If it weren’t for his gleaming teeth, you’d be certain that he’d kissed a few asses in his day. Hill is even better here than in Moneyball, where his underplayed wit is substituted for full on abrasion. Margot Robbie is Naomi, Belfort’s mistress and later wife, and she holds her own in a display of smutty elegance. As Swiss banking extraordinaire Jean-Jacques Saurel, Jean Dujardin combats Belfort’s booming ego with an even more pompously narcissistic mindset. Kyle Chandler solidly plays aforementioned FBI agent Patrick Denham and the narrative flirts with this idea that, on another day, Denham could’ve been a Jordan Belfort. However, this intriguing notion is regrettably gobbled up by the monstrous endeavours on show when, on another day, it might’ve played a bigger role.

Denham’s undervaluation is slightly disappointing, although like many other potential complications, his infrequent presence in a way adds to the overbearing message of excess. For example, problems such as the finance-driven plot becoming too difficult to consume and to follow, along with the superfluous length of the film, both drive home the exuberant attitude on display. Even the series of infomercials (Jordan Belfort’s Straight Line) all add to this inherently consumerist ideology. Another nit-picky annoyance that occasionally rears centres on editing. In particular, one glaringly obvious mishap occurs during the now notoriously funny Quaalude-incapacitating scene, where a set of stairs intermittently grows and shrinks in size. Maybe noticing that kind of sparing mistake is an indication that the action on screen has lost you which, for once, is accurate. The joke isn’t all that funny and this is a shame considering how well DiCaprio frustratingly manoeuvres.

The controversy surrounding this latest Martin Scorsese romp is unjust, or at least unnecessary. While the film does, to a degree, glorify the antics of its morally hideous protagonist played exceptionally well by Leonardo DiCaprio, the final few scenes denounce rather than herald all that has come before. Funny, rapturous, and although hampered by one or two problems of over excessiveness, the film delivers with punch. If The Wolf of Wall Street was a pen ready for sale, Scorsese would have me buying paper. Lots of it.

Trouble with the Curve (2012)

★★★★

Director: Robert Lorenz

Release Date: September 21st, 2012 (US); November 30th, 2012 (UK)

Genre: Drama; Sport

Starring: Clint Eastwood, Amy Adams, Justin Timberlake

Whereas Bennett Miller’s Moneyball laid out the intricacies of baseball and created an engrossing film about the sport for people who don’t know the sport, Trouble with the Curve sees baseball solely as a starting point; as the spark that will go on to ignite a splendid tale of relationships, trust and stubbornness. The cast is excellent and each bring something different to the field, but it’s simplicity that allows Trouble with the Curve to thrive. The low-key approach is very laissez-faire, almost as if the film isn’t striving to make that home-run. Only, it just about gets there anyway.

Gus Lobel (Clint Eastwood) is an elderly scout who has plied his trade at the Atlanta Braves for decades. He has devoted his life to baseball and Gus’ ageing mind is always wandering in search for the next bat. Eyes failing him (a scout’s nightmare) and given one final chance to unearth a diamond, Gus finds himself on the road with his daughter Mickey (Amy Adams) whose success in law suggests more than just strength and independence, as it instead covers up the cracks dealt in a life without her father.

Not an awful lot happens in Trouble with the Curve, but it’s exactly that deficiency in over-doing things that gives the film its mellow charm and warmth. Having its toes dipped in the sports genre, a danger certainly exists where the attraction of glorifying situations and entering an all-too-familiar schmaltz territory is never far off, but director Robert Lorenz ensures sappiness is kept to an absolute minimum, meaning that when it does rear its mushy head, you are obliged to forgive. In a film about overcoming obstacles, it’s definitely more fitting to have some puddles of slush rather than sheets of uncompromising ice.

At the heart of the film are two performances, both of which provide the elevation needed for Trouble with the Curve to stand out from the pack. Clint Eastwood is gravelly, rustic, abrasive, croaky and a whole manner of other blemishes associated with an elderly man who has seen his best years, and who probably wont see much more of the sport he loves and lives. Gus Lobel’s colleagues are often seen exclaiming, “He may be ready for pasture,” “Game’s changed,” and “New blood”, and although he doesn’t hear these put-downs in the open, Eastwood’s defiant yet deep-down defeated demeanour tells you all you need to know about his character’s own perception of a bleak future.

Along, then, comes the simply delightful Amy Adams, who bursts with soul as she injects life into both Eastwood and the film. Although a cagey lawyer-type in the beginning, her relationship with Eastwood develops into an absorbing one: sometimes sad, sometimes funny, but always worth its weight in screen time. Gus and Mickey are far too stubborn to admit defeat (in their eyes, at least) and the film plays with this idea of withholding from loved ones until it might be too late. Mickey is always coiled up in work; her aspirations of getting a promotion in an industry she only entered to please her father are shallow, as he is never there to see her thrive anyway (“Everything’s okay as long we don’t talk”). Gus is distant, embroiled in baseball and relentlessly stutters when attempting to unveil feelings and sentiment towards his daughter. Justin Timberlake portrays former player Johnny Flanagan, someone who was apprehensive in the past about discussing the arm injury that prematurely ended his playing career. Timberlake deserves recognition for his charismatic contribution too, and together the three actors develop brilliant chemistry which ultimately drives the film and sharpens its principals.

In its lack of narrative extravagance, Trouble with the Curve does run the risk of inducing monotony, however the aforementioned engaging characters should be enough to guide you through until the end. Although not as funny as other road-trip films (which it essentially is) there are undoubtedly moments of comedy, a handful of which tread the black humour realm. This is Eastwood’s first non-self-directed acting expedition since a Casper cameo in 1995, and one or two playful sniggers towards age and losing touch with reality are on show — the whole ‘loss of sight’ element might even be a nod towards Eastwood’s real life front-of-camera career wind down.

It is all about the people involved, and thankfully the people involved are excellent company — there are even fun roles for Matthew Lillard and John Goodman, who has been pried from the Coen Brothers’ grip in order to film this. Purity is pivotal throughout Trouble with the Curve; heck, maybe a riskier, more diverse plot would’ve offered surprise and ingenuity. That’s wishful thinking though and, to be honest, probably a disservice to the brilliant effort on show from those involved.

Anyway, it is breakfast time… where’s my pizza?