This held such promise I am left wanting more than I get.
There is the potent sense of place for one, the windswept lighthouse on a remote island somewhere north that two men have been assigned to operate. Relief is weeks away, it's going to be just the two of them tending to the light on this rock in the middle of nowhere. We get the promise of drab work and chilly nights ahead.
There is the notion of virulent conflict. Down below is the lowly janitor, tending to a list of menial chores his overseer has just barked in the morning, scrubbing floors, cleaning the cistern. Up above is this capricious old man, who alone tends to the light that he sees as exclusively his and seems to be strangely in its thrall.
Even better, the notion that neither of the two men is quite who they present as. Over the course of drunken nights, we come to realize they're both hiding something. Along the way we have mysterious goings-on around the lighthouse.
So with no one set to come for weeks, with wind and rain fluttering outside and the sense of harbored secrets, we reach that razor sharp edge where the two of them grow unhinged in close quarters. Usually I'm not a big fan of current films in black and white, the sense that it's just a fashion reference to film lore, but it's ideal here.
But then it slips from them and just smears with the material. We get a hodge podge of visions, some of these ignited by guilt gnawing inside, others by magical belief tied to suspicion, still others by real discovery. The sophomoric ending with a promethean reach for the light is a complete wash, rather than opening up to vastness of self, it reduces to silly notation.
The most interesting thing for me here, quite apart from everything else, is the notion of capricious narrators erupting in whimsical performance. There is song and dance, and even a threatened kiss that is interrupted by fisticuffs. Dafoe is just spectacular and his snarled curse because his cooking has been slighted has to be experienced. I'm just beaming at how he gives himself to this role.
Although I leave wanting more, I think film this year is richer for having this film than not. I would like to see how this guy evolves, it's still early. It took Wes Anderson twenty years and many tries, so why not him?
But meanwhile, have you seen By the Law from 1926? A log cabin in the snow instead of a lighthouse, but also madness seeping in with the rain, done with the assured hand of someone who knows how mind can change the weather.
There is the potent sense of place for one, the windswept lighthouse on a remote island somewhere north that two men have been assigned to operate. Relief is weeks away, it's going to be just the two of them tending to the light on this rock in the middle of nowhere. We get the promise of drab work and chilly nights ahead.
There is the notion of virulent conflict. Down below is the lowly janitor, tending to a list of menial chores his overseer has just barked in the morning, scrubbing floors, cleaning the cistern. Up above is this capricious old man, who alone tends to the light that he sees as exclusively his and seems to be strangely in its thrall.
Even better, the notion that neither of the two men is quite who they present as. Over the course of drunken nights, we come to realize they're both hiding something. Along the way we have mysterious goings-on around the lighthouse.
So with no one set to come for weeks, with wind and rain fluttering outside and the sense of harbored secrets, we reach that razor sharp edge where the two of them grow unhinged in close quarters. Usually I'm not a big fan of current films in black and white, the sense that it's just a fashion reference to film lore, but it's ideal here.
But then it slips from them and just smears with the material. We get a hodge podge of visions, some of these ignited by guilt gnawing inside, others by magical belief tied to suspicion, still others by real discovery. The sophomoric ending with a promethean reach for the light is a complete wash, rather than opening up to vastness of self, it reduces to silly notation.
The most interesting thing for me here, quite apart from everything else, is the notion of capricious narrators erupting in whimsical performance. There is song and dance, and even a threatened kiss that is interrupted by fisticuffs. Dafoe is just spectacular and his snarled curse because his cooking has been slighted has to be experienced. I'm just beaming at how he gives himself to this role.
Although I leave wanting more, I think film this year is richer for having this film than not. I would like to see how this guy evolves, it's still early. It took Wes Anderson twenty years and many tries, so why not him?
But meanwhile, have you seen By the Law from 1926? A log cabin in the snow instead of a lighthouse, but also madness seeping in with the rain, done with the assured hand of someone who knows how mind can change the weather.