The Revenant

At this point, if Leonardo DiCaprio is in a movie, you know you’re in for a strong performance. If Emmanuel Lubezki is doing cinematography, you know there will be some awesome long takes, taking the audience from the most intimate view of the action to expansive shots of the whole canvas, and then back again. And if Alejandro G. Iñárritu is in the director’s chair, you can expect a film of heavy subject matter with artful touches of the surreal. The Revenant is probably Iñárritu’s most straightforward picture, despite some attempts to insert a deeper meaning into what’s, at its base, a simple man-in-the-wilderness story. Still, holy hell! Even by the standards of these three major talents, the film is a transcendent masterwork.

The movie opens in 1823 in the untamed Dakota territory, where a fur trapping expedition is suddenly ambushed by an Arikara war party. It’s an incredible sequence, practically equal to the famous Omaha Beach assault in Saving Private Ryan in both scope and the feeling of being in the battle, not merely watching. It sets the tone well: this a bloody, unforgiving frontier, one where tropes of the pioneer genre aren’t so much subverted as ripped to shreds. It’s also positively stunning in its beauty. The film has the odd effect of making the gore (of which there is quite a bit) not off-putting, but just another color in a lush, rustic palette.

Among the survivors of the opening attack is Hugh Glass (DiCaprio), a guide hired to lead the company through the harsh wilderness. While scouting ahead of the group, he accidentally strays too close to some grizzly cubs and is attacked by their mother, and wounded seemingly mortally. While the rest of the party moves on, a fellow explorer (Tom Hardy) is charged with guarding Glass until he succumbs to his injuries, but instead leaves him for dead and murders his half-Pawnee son (Forrest Goodluck). And yet, Glass manages to recover enough from his wounds and survive the brutal winter with no supplies and the Arikara on his trail.

The best compliment one can pay DiCaprio’s performance is that eating real raw animal flesh might be the least impressive (or rather, insane) thing he does in the movie. He’s far beyond merely convincing; it’s hard to tell how much he’s really in anguish and braving the elements, and what’s just acting. On at least two occasions, he turns a blueish hue and looks like he’s about to expire for real. And Lubezki’s camera follows every excruciating detail with such closeness that the viewer nearly feels it, too.

On the other end of the spectrum, Lubezki’s signature unbroken shots augment one thrilling sequence after another. The bear attack is absolutely petrifying, with such an intimacy that you can feel the animal’s breath on your neck. Even short, fleeting escapes are meticulous works of editing and constructed chaos. And while the inevitable final chase and showdown at first seems tacked-on and superfluous, it’s revealed in execution to be perfect in its brutality and catharsis.

The picture often moves quite slowly between its impressive peril and bloodshed (to a literal crawl in a few cases). But this seems less like a loose grasp of pacing than a conscious choice to pause and take in the incredible Alberta scenery. And that’s just fine. Nearly every single frame is absolutely gorgeous, always a sight to behold even when not much is happening on the screen (this, more so than The Hateful Eight, would be something see on 70 mm).

A few of the more mystical sequences the film could have taken or left. Some are somewhat haunting and pretty to look at. Some are just trying to be haunting and artistic and weird, but come off as passé. None of these do harm to the final product, but honestly, omitting them would have resulted in a leaner picture of no lower quality. The portions spent in the real earthbound realm, whether breakneck and ruthless or leisurely and awed, more than suffice.

The Hateful Eight

If you thought The Force Awakens was heavy on fan service, well, Quentin Tarantino is not one to be outdone on anything. The Hateful Eight is the director’s most self-indulgent work since the Kill Bill duology, serving up heaping helpings of everything he loves: dirty lowlife characters with deceiving touches of eloquence, liberal appropriation of his favorite genre tropes (in this case, the Spaghetti Western), and long, talky exchanges of profane verbal fireworks, often just for the hell of it. And in addition to the splatter-ific bloodletting, there’s one of those shocking moments of excess where the filmmaker is obviously trying to repulse and offend. Whether or not all this is a good thing depends on how much the viewer likes Tarantino. But hate him or love him, it’s inarguable that this time all the technique and style on display is decidedly not utilized toward any greater, unifying point.

Despite the wonderfully dread-instilling Ennio Morricone score and the brief bits of stunning landscapes (obviously playing to its much-hyped 70 mm presentation, which I’ll get to later), the film is less Sergio Leone than Reservoir Dogs on the prairie. During a roaring blizzard, a nasty assortment of travelers—Samuel L. Jackson, Kurt Russell, Walton Goggins, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Demián Bichir, Tim Roth, Michael Madsen, Bruce Dern, and James Parks (yes, there are actually nine, in spite of the more alliterative title)—take shelter in a one-room cabin in the Wyoming wilderness. With the Civil War in the not-too-distant past, the still-fresh wounds result in some immediate side-taking (to Tarantino’s detractors’ ire, the “N-word” is in frequent use, though Jackson never takes it sitting down). But after a few incidents where the tension in the room boils over, it becomes apparent that there’s some foul plot afoot, and no one is who they seem.

It takes a while to reach that point, however, for the film takes its sweet time getting to the cabin where the bulk of it plays out, and continues to do so once there. It waits too long to let a narrative finally take form, becoming a whodunit late in the game after several possible outcomes are already crossed off the list. It also makes the major mistake of walking the audience through it all, instead of offering mystery or misdirection to ponder. It frankly sucks the life out of its only shred of a driving plotline before it even picks up any steam. And that’s when there even is a plot; up until that point, it almost feels like an experimental dialogue exercise transcribed to screen.

Yet, as messy and dirty as it is, it’s also a lot of fun. There’s no denying the energy and skill in every scene. The dialogue exchanges are alternately tense and funny, horrible though they may be at times (in both the dirty and un-P.C. ways). The bursts of violence are also hilarious, displaying a mastery of molding shocking gore into an object of humor that any horror maestro would envy. And while the whodunit is a no-go and the trajectory of some characters is obvious, there’s some genuine surprise that certain players one initially pegs as “good” or “bad” finish in a much different position than expected, especially the seeming protagonists.

That doesn’t change the fact that it’s ultimately Tarantino’s most aimless film, but it’s rarely boring. If a yarn ends up going nowhere, better it be spun by a filmmaker with such talent and style than a mere pretender.

On the 70 mm presentation:

You’ve likely heard about the movie’s release in a roadshow version on old-school 70 mm film in a handful of theaters prior to a digital wide release. You might have also heard that some 70 mm screenings haven’t gone well. At the 70 mm screening I attended, the film looked great. I’m no expert on the particulars of film stock versus digital, but the difference is quite apparent, for the former lends a more real and detailed texture that’s mostly lost upon the glossier latter. It’s not essential for the experience to see it this way, but it’s a cool opportunity to take. One thing that is nice about the roadshow version, however, is the intermission just past the halfway point; even for the most hardcore Tarantino fans, the movie’s pushing it a bit at close to three hours.

Concussion

Even if you don’t follow sports, you’ve probably heard about concussions in recent years. It is the sports issue of this decade. Timing isn’t the only thing on the side of Concussion, as its namesake subject matter is prime material for the best kind of incendiary off-the-field sports film. But for everything in its corner, it doesn’t fully seize the moment, or the Hollywood stage it’s been given.

The arguable impetus for this ongoing issue was the research of Dr. Bennet Omalu. While working for the Pittsburgh coroner’s office in 2002, the Nigerian-born pathologist (played onscreen by Will Smith) was tasked with performing the autopsy of former Pittsburgh Steelers center Mike Webster (David Morse), who died at age 50 after living for years in a shockingly disoriented mental state. Omalu discovered a never-before-seen degenerative disease on Webster’s brain, dubbed chronic traumatic encephalopathy (or CTE, an acronym many have likely heard). The National Football League, not wanting to endanger their lucrative game, tried to discredit and silence Omalu, but a string of more ex-player deaths (many of them suicides) and the revelation that they, too, suffered from CTE proved the doctor right.

Smith anchors the picture admirably. He’s got the accent down pretty well, but more affecting is his understated intimation of a more universal immigrant struggle. Certain moments allude to the need he feels to be a “good American” (i.e., someone who wouldn’t speak ill of the beloved institution of football) conflicting with his conscience as a man of medicine. This element is ever so slight, however, as the depiction is mostly a glowing and pure one, equal parts modest grace and determined strength against long odds. Clearly, the star has a strong reverence for the man he’s playing, as do the filmmakers.

Despite his research and findings, the real Omalu has insisted during the movie’s promotional rounds that he isn’t outright against football. The film, though, is not so nuanced. The scenes of damaged ex-players—Webster as well as the now-deceased pros Justin Strzelczyk (Matt Willig), Andre Waters (Richard T. Jones), and Dave Duerson (Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje) are depicted—are haunting. The only football footage is of hard hits intercut with ominous music, examinations of CTE-riddled brain tissue, and even an animated demonstration sequence straight out of a medical film. And when the NFL doesn’t seem like a faceless, sinister entity, its representatives come off like stonewalling, obviously-lying politicians. And in defense of pro football? A little lip service about how the game is entertaining to watch, and how it's a way out of poverty for a lucky few who play it. The film seems to believe it’s occupying some middle ground, but it's only kidding itself, and doesn't realize its strongest moments are its most damning. 

Concussion is a competent product, if rather meat-and-potatoes in its construction. At the very least, it succinctly transmits the gist of Omalu's story and CTE for those who haven’t been following them in the news. But it probably won't make any waves in the larger concussion discussion like the filmmakers are certainly hoping. It’s not sufficiently angry or impassioned, not daring enough to take a stand. A more polemical approach might have gotten people’s attention, not to mention made for a more interesting movie.