Reviews

Angus McFayden's years-long labor of love really got shafted by timing. As I understand it was supposed to be released in US theaters in April 2020, in tandem with a 25th anniversary re-release of Braveheart, but wound up being one of the early casualties of COVID-19.

I loved this film, precisely because of its stark contrast to the earlier film, a more typical young man's hot-blooded tale of war and glory. This is a quieter, more thoughtful film for perhaps an older or more introspective audience, especially men and women who take a more nuanced view of the world than Mel Gibson tends to do and whose values are less cleanly cut along traditional he-man patriarchal lines.

Angus has made a strikingly feminist, egalitarian sort of movie -- the king's life is saved not once but twice by a woman, a *peasant* woman at that, and the ablest warrior during the film's most critical battle scene is a young girl with a quiver. These characters aren't just damsels in distress or the helpless spoils of battle; they're strong, brave, resilient people in their own right who bring with them the "soft" values of nurture, compassion and care. They remind the weary king why he fought for Scotland in the first place. And without them there would literally be no Robert, and no story. (Robert the Bruce himself, at least in this incarnation, is a deeply honorable, wise, fundamentally kind man who is remarkably free of the drive for power, wealth and status that seems to corrupt every conceivable character in these sorts of royal period dramas. He's truly more of a philosopher-king.)

So Bravo, Angus, I see what you did there. I'm just sorry the pandemic took the wind out of the sails of your project on this side of the pond. You were my favorite part of Braveheart, and you didn't disappoint.

*Spoilers intentionally vague*

I first saw this film at a pre-release screening in the filmmakers Jamin and Kiowa Winans' hometown of Denver, and I could not recommend it more highly. (Note: I have no personal connection to the Winans, and had never met them before the screening.)

As an inveterate film junkie, I'm tempted to place this comparatively low-budget indie venture in the same class as some of the greatest modern science fiction films I've seen, like Blade Runner and Dark City. Like them, it tackles timeless, universal themes with clever allegorical relish - not to mention packs an emotional wallop. In addition, the deft cinematography and effects hold up against the mega-million-dollar blockbusters Hollywood has gotten us all used to. It's a work of art and a labor of love. And like many of the best works of art, it invites viewers to examine their own unconscious assumptions about reality, and even, perhaps, to approach their own lives with greater courage.

Obviously "frame" is a filmmaking term...but for those not familiar with this particular definition of the word, within the fields of social and cognitive science (as well as linguistics), a frame is also a way of mentally structuring experiential input in a coherent way, of giving it a narrative. The way we "frame" any given situation can determine whether we're depressed, angry, or happy about it, as well as dictate what choices we make and actions we take. In short: we believe the stories we tell ourselves. "The mind," as John Milton wrote centuries ago, "is its own place, and in itself can make a heav'n of hell, and a hell of heav'n." This is the concept, I believe, at the heart of THE FRAME. The movie asks: how much control do we really have over our stories? And what if we could burn the manuscript?

Filmed in Denver, THE FRAME takes place in the fictional city of Los Perditus (Latin for The Lost) in a state called Animas (Latin for Souls, as well as Jung's word for the archetype of the unconscious feminine in men). The protagonists Alex and Sam (I suspect their gender-neutral names are no accident) are played with fierce conviction by relative unknowns David Carranza and Tiffany Mualem, talented young actors who are that unassuming sort of gorgeous that grows on you. You fall in love with them as they're falling in love with each other.

Alex in particular seems lost, in an all-male underworld of crime, keeping his old resentments alive, rationing his tenderness, suspicious of Sam. This is a man who needs his anima. He can't stand to listen to beautiful music…but he likes listening to Sam sing.

I expect that religious types will claim some kind of overtly religious message in the film - certainly some thorny theological questions are raised - but I'm not convinced that the concepts of God or the Devil as presented here (or for that matter the shady Mechanic, played with restrained menace by Christopher Soren Kelly in a triple role) reflect much more than Alex's own rather traditional and Catholic frame of reference regarding the tension between nihilism and hope, between creating beauty and succumbing to despair. (If the film were intended as some kind of simplistic Christian fable, I'd actually be sorely disappointed. It'd be a bit like turning the cosmos into a cops-and-robbers show.) But is he truly trapped in a narrative not of his own making?

Sam refers to these opposing dark and light elements as chaos and miracle. The inky goo that seeps insidiously into the landscape, blotting out objects in its path, seems representative of the former, while the extraordinary meeting of the two protagonists - and the metaphor that might represent - is clearly the latter. But even then, Sam is still the only approximation of a deus ex machina in obvious evidence; she alters the fates of others daily in her job as an EMT, and refuses to accept a fatalistic script. Her story is literally about hope. The most powerful beings in this universe still appear to be the humans...whether or not they know it.

If anything, I think it may be the New Agey quantum-mysticism crowd who walk away most justifiably satisfied with the film when the credits roll; in the end, as it turns out, it really is all about the vibrations.

But even if you're just an irreligious humanities sap like me who believes in the power of art, beauty, and human love to effect paradigmatic and even cataclysmic change, go see this film. It will move and hearten you. And maybe even inspire you to change your story.

What a fantastic movie. I had to watch it more than once.

Plenty of reviewers have already given a plot synopsis, so I'll skip that part. I was impressed by all the choices the filmmakers made to add dimension and symbolic heft to this film, right down to the smallest detail.

Much has already been said about the role of water as both the giver and taker of life - whether it's a swiftly flowing river or a baptismal fountain. On the eve of his release, Jan even undergoes a violent "baptism" at the hands of his former accomplice and fellow inmates.

Something I noticed about the minimal violence in the movie is that none of it is perpetrated by a supposedly dangerous protagonist. Jan is repeatedly shoved, intimidated, slapped, or otherwise attacked by other characters (including an accomplice half his size), but he never initiates any of it, and does his best to walk away. The only thing this "child murderer" voluntarily harms in the course of the film is literally a fly. Which I found very sly on the part of the scriptwriter.

What's also made apparent is how easy it is for accidents to happen and people to get hurt, whether it's Jan accidentally banging Jens' head on the heating unit or Agnes knocking down the gentle church warden with her impassioned shove. We are more vulnerable than we like to admit.

The church warden himself seems more like a priest than Anna; her self-professed naive faith hasn't been tested by intimate contact with "evil." Quietly watching the proceedings, occasionally prodding Jan to tell the truth, the warden sees all, knows all, and seemingly forgives all. Where can a killer get a second chance if not here? he asks Agnes. I'd like to think that after Jan leaves Anna's flat (and puts on some dry clothes!) he winds up at the church, where he can at least find a little compassion and understanding from this consistently benevolent figure.

That reminds me of one of the brilliant little details: teenage Jan is wearing an sweatshirt that says (with hipster irony) "Hold me." But there's really nothing ironic about it. He's a lost boy, all the way through.

No one seems to have yet mentioned the religious significance of his name(s). Jan's "alias" for much of the film is his middle name, Thomas - the doubting disciple. His questions to Anna are those of a skeptic who can't believe there could be an order or purpose to suffering and evil. But his first name is that of the favorite disciple. As if Jesus' most dearly beloved were only masquerading as a disaffected critic, waiting to be unmasked. In the end, when Jan asks Anna for forgiveness, one senses that he, in his humbled and shattered condition, is more primed to believe in grace than she is.

One other note: I disagree with the harrumphing critic who found the love scene "gratuitous." I found it lovely: two people starved for affection and pleasure giving way to passion after a very restrained and tentative beginning. In this case, too, Anna was the aggressor; it could very well have been Jan's first time.

Those who have something invested in keeping the boundaries of gender and sexuality rigid will be offended by this film, whether they be religious fundamentalist types or gay-rights advocates who argue from the constrictive either/or framing of their opponents. Fundamentalists (and I used to be one!) would, at the same time, find material to support their nurture-not-nature conclusions in Ned Kynaston's background (implicit victimization at the hands of an implicit pedophile), the bigoted comments of the king about effeminate boys, and most of all the actor's eventual orientation "reversal" at the hands of the "right woman." This, of course, would anger those who have chosen to engage them in the loaded "is it a choice?" battle which completely dismisses the B in LGBT. If you are coming from an angle in which no Kinsey scale exists, then the offense makes sense.

I think it's a mistaken angle, however. My only complaints about this movie were minor, and involved poor editing, unnecessary dialogue, and a couple of unlikely scenarios (e.g. the carriage ladies' hyperbolic reaction to Ned's petticoat surprise). Otherwise, I loved it - enough to watch it four times on DVD. For me, this story was about identity, authenticity, the malleability of gender and sexuality, and the difference between love and projection.

At the bustling outset of the film, Ned (pitch-perfect Billy Crudup, ravishing in any incarnation) is arrogant and narcissistic; his self-regard is balanced perilously upon a constructed self that relies on the applause of others. Alone with Maria, we get a glimmer of something else in him when he pauses contemplatively to quote his mentor - "Never forget that you are a man in woman's form...or was it the other way 'round?" This hint at an awareness (on his or the film's part) of the essential duality of human nature is echoed by Maria - "You would make as fine a man as any woman."

When Ned loses his role and his audience to Maria, he loses his very identity; in this way, she "kills" him. The theme of killing and dying is cleverly woven throughout the narrative, both onstage and off. (But more on that presently.)

Lost and literally beaten, Ned turns to his former lover, who spurns him with droll indifference. Ned is no longer the shallow Duke's glittering projection but a raw, needy, and very messy human being. Ned's disastrous last-ditch attempt to play Othello for the king in order to save his livelihood is the final humiliation. Maria watches his disintegration onstage, and grasps his utter vulnerability for the first time. It's a credit to Claire Danes' talent that she can speak volumes without uttering a word; in this scene and the inn scene her unexpressed love bleeds from every pore.

The almost-sex scene between the two at the inn is one of my favorite love scenes in any film. The gentle role-switching from "man" to "woman" (in alternate parlance, "top" to "bottom" or "dominant" to "submissive") leads to a passionate confusion in which, if you'll notice, Ned tells Maria (astride him) first that she is the "woman" - "And now?" she says, kissing and caressing him - "The woman," he says - "And now?" she says, her passion intensifying - "The man," he murmurs. Do the roles really matter? If only he had shut up about Desdemona! But there is still some "dying" left to do, and not in the Shakespearian sense. Call it evening the score.

For alas, Maria is a terrible actress: as affected as Ned was, and twice as false. In rehearsal with someone who evokes her own passion, however, her performance begins to come alive.

The harrowing climax of the film has the viewer wondering, along with the theatre audience, if the newfound Othello's murderous passion is real. And it is, which is why Ned is so good at it. In "killing" Maria onstage, he manages at once to work out his Othello-like ambivalence and rage toward a woman he also loves; to "kill" her affected stage persona; and to give birth to himself as an authentic actor in his own male body. It's damn near perfect.

"Finally got the death scene right." Ned may not yet know who or even what he is, but he finds expression of his innermost being with a person who loves and accepts him for whomever he may turn out to be. We should all be so lucky.

All right - Stephen Chow is extremely clever, and I understand and appreciate what he was trying to do. This was one of the most creatively derivative films I've seen in a very long time. And once you get into the Looney Tunes frame of mind, the slapstick humor does work.

The biggest problem for me was that the first six or so minutes of the film were not only unnecessary but incongruous with this frame of mind, and made it nearly impossible for me to make the "switch" for the next twenty minutes. Since there was a written preface on screen about the gang wars before the viewer was transported to Pig Sty, why were the unfunny and brutal opening scenes needed? I found myself wondering if the beginning was the LAST thing added, on the advice of an executive ("Steve-o, you should do a 'Gangs of New York' sendup!"). I'm no Tarantino fan, I cover my eyes during Scorsese films, and seeing an unarmed woman shot in the back (body and blood flying) isn't exactly my idea of a good time. It made it kind of hard for me to get into Jackie Chan mode. I may be "sensitive," but I don't think that's such a bad thing.

I also had to comment on the dumbed-down infusion of Buddhism in the film...it's disappointing to see such a simplistic, Western, John Wayne representation of a religion I admire, but in a story like this where you have to have good guys and bad guys (and the bad guys must be destroyed) I guess you have to have a cosmology closer to the more fundamentalist of the Bible-based religions. Chow's lost-boy character was the only indication that "good" and "bad" are more complicated than that.