An in-depth analysis of Only God Forgives

*** SPOILER ALERT ***

(Not only does this spoil the movie, it will be incomprehensible if you haven't seen it first)

So we’re about to get into something unusual for BMC: actual film criticism. Yes folks, it’s that time of year again. I’ve seen the One Serious Movie that I’ll probably see this year, which also happens to be one of 2013’s most divisive.

I saw Only God Forgives with a film student friend, whose initial reaction was: ‘Well… it was no Drive.’ And he’s right – it isn’t. However, people are wrong in expecting it to be simply because of the Nicolas Winding Refn/Ryan Gosling pairing. As such, it cannot be judged on the same merits. These are entirely different –in fact thematically opposite – movies (more on that later).

I was more disappointed by is the lack of critics truly probing this film than by the film itself. Analyses I’ve seen so far have been cursory at best, except Chris Stuckman, who is an avowed Refn fan and seems to have drawn a lot of the same conclusions as I.

The following is my interpretation of the film – and there are bound to be many – which hinges heavily on two points.

1. Everything we see is deliberate. There are a lot of critics who felt the movie was light on plot, that Refn didn’t have the same degree of control or assuredness with this movie as he did with Drive, or that OGF was just a flat-out poorly executed revenge tale. I think the opposite. When you look at a film as meticulously crafted as Drive, and observe the quality and care in the cinematography and production design here, it’s impossible to conceive of anything haphazard being in this movie. I believe we are seeing exactly what Refn wants us to. This is not to say that all his decisions are good, merely that they are all purposeful.

2. This is an allegorical tale. This is the main way in which Drive and OGF differ. While the former is a literal tale with symbolism inserted tactically, Refn’s latest is entirely symbolic, with minimal situational elements thrown in for it to have some basis in real life.

Considering Refn’s previous work, I don’t think these are such radical assumptions to get behind.

Only God Forgives is, unsurprisingly, about redemption (no shit dude it’s in the title). Specifically, it’s about Julian’s redemption. This man clearly has a tortured past and is being pulled in two directions. We see this manifested in an idealised, compassionate self, and a brutish, violent self.

Assuming nothing is an accident in this movie, I think that costuming plays a big part. For the opening act of the movie, we see Julian in either a plain black or white t-shirt. I considered the actions we see Julian perform in the white shirt:

• He feeds the stray dog (something that is more of a folkway in developing countries)
• He lets his brother’s killer go free and later tries to reason with his mother about it
• He imagines himself touching Mai delicately (something he does not do in real life)
• He gives Mai a dress and proposes they pretend to be in a relationship

Then of course we are introduced to the dark side (dark shirt), in which he:

• Oversees drug deals
• Mimics/idolises the muay thai fighter statue (in fact he's always clenching his fists in this shirt), which I would argue is tantamount to worshipping violence
• Has his hands tied by Mai (I don’t remember him ever touching her or behaving affectionately while wearing the black shirt)
• Has a vision of his hand being severed by Chang (i.e. his guilt manifests itself darkly)
• Beats the shit out of two guys for no reason

And drags one of them by his teeth through this fucking gorgeous shot

With practically no dialogue, we are introduced to the two warring sides of Julian. We later meet his mother, who obviously brings out the darkness in him (and is implicitly the cause of it).

The relationship between Julian and Crystal is pretty unmistakably Oedipal. The similarities are glaring:

• Parents contemplating infanticide
• Relationship of sexual nature between mother and son
• The son killing the father
• After committing said murder, the son enters a self-imposed exile

Freud argued that the Oedipus complex was a man’s subconscious desire to return to the womb. He asserted that this desire manifested itself sexually, but in OGF’s most shocking scene we see Julian doing this more literally but cutting Crystal’s stomach open and immersing his hand in it.

But before that she looks incredible in this movie. EVERYTHING looks incredible in this movie.

 

These parallels are clear and, as per my initial assumptions, almost certainly deliberate. I feel the link to Greek mythology is paramount, as it carries deeper implications and meaning for the rest of the film.

The Greek notion of the Underworld is not one of burning for eternity; it is more like a waiting room for the damned. The realm of Hades is where souls wait to be judged for their actions during life, and they are either rewarded or punished for these. Hades himself is the ruler of this Underworld, acting as judge, jury, and executioner.

No critiques or interpretations of the film that I have seen have given any consideration to Chang’s name, which I’m certain is also no accident. Chang is the Thai word for ‘elephant,’ an animal that is a symbol of royalty, power, and purity in their culture. This explains not only who Chang is in this movie, but also why everyone treats him with deference or reverence.

The Greek vision of the Underworld is a facsimile for Refn’s ominous Bangkok. Chang is the acknowledged ruler of this Underworld, and therefore the de facto lawgiver or moral epicentre of the film. 

You know what else rules? This shot.

He distributes justice as he sees fit, specifically (and this is super important) punishing people who mistreat children and sparing people who tend to them.  

In the film’s third act we see Julian don the three-piece suit, which sees the light and dark garb intermingled. This is appropriately the moment where we observe the conflict in him surge. He lashes out at Mai, challenges the God figure to a fight (which Refn has straight-up said was a thematic driving force of the movie), and appears ambivalent about exacting revenge on Chang. We see in these moments the dark influence of his mother opposing the desires of his idealised self.

His ultimate test, and the act upon which I posit he is judged, is the last decision he makes in this movie: whether or not to murder Chang’s kid. Crystal orders Julian and another lackey to ‘kill them all,’ and here we witness his first decisive disobedience of her. He overcomes the hold she has on him and saves the child from death. Tellingly, this is the structural climax of the film, rather than his fight with Chang.

The final scene shows Julian offering himself up for judgment in a peaceful environment. Whereas earlier in the movie, his visions of judgment by Chang’s sword came from a dark, cavernous, frightening place, he now meets it in the light, graced by an abiding calm. Chang does not kill him; instead, he severs Julian’s hands, much as he did with the young girl’s father at the beginning of the film. I interpret this as an acknowledgment of sin and repentance, but one that spares Julian’s soul, since he has proven himself as a moral being. This is the diametric opposite of Drive, the point of which was that Driver couldn’t really escape his nature.

Redemption is perhaps the most commonly recurring narrative theme in film. Only God Forgives, however, demarcates itself by stripping the plot bare and dealing with it in a far more mythic and appropriately violent fashion (theology is brutal, for those who need reminding). Julian’s road to redemption is told not through words, but striking imagery, significant allegory, and more than a few dashes of blood.

Interpreted this way and judged on these merits, I feel that Only God Forgives is a strong, if flawed, piece of filmmaking. More importantly it is a case in point for why critics are assholes. Two years ago critics lined up to suck Michel Hazanavicius’ dick for The Artist, saying his return to the silent film was stylish and triumphant. Here and now, you have Refn basically doing the same thing (trying to tell a story non-verbally) and everyone is treating him like a fucking chauch.

There are admittedly many things in the film I didn’t like:

• The violence is gratuitous and, by Refn’s own admission, fetishistic
• Gosling’s performance would arguably not have suffered from him being a little more expressive
• The karaoke scenes are lost on audiences who don’t understand their place in Thai culture (like me)
• The film doesn’t treat women with much sympathy. Strictly speaking I suppose you don’t have to, but come on dude. Women exist in this movie either to be brutally murdered and/or have their bodies defiled. To be fair, the men don’t get much better but there are at least some male characters to like in this movie.

But even when I don't like it, it looks like fucking THIS.

All totalled, the film does more things well than it does poorly. Its imagery is lush and rich, its proceedings have palpable intensity that keep you captivated, the Cliff Martinez score is sure to be one of the year’s best, and stylistically it is one of the most distinctive films you’ll ever see. Despite its detractors, it is a bold piece of work that I’m convinced will be studied and discussed for years to come.

Drive

Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

Starring Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Bryan Cranston, Ron Perlman, Christina Hendricks, Oscar Isaac, and Albert Brooks

It’s difficult not to have massively built-up expectations of this film, which by virtue of its international acclaim and grand showing at Cannes this year had promised to either be a cinematic triumph or a massive letdown.

At the end of the movie I thought the former and Martyn the latter. I left the house thinking we’d simply get boozy, watch Ryan Gosling brutalise a few people and do some fancy driving, have a nightcap, and call it an evening. Instead I was treated to an hour-long drunken tirade about what bollocks the movie was and a midnight footnote resembling: “I hope you write a balanced review.”

Because I am a gracious person and a conscientious friend, I am going to write this chronicle in call-and-answer format. In plain writing will be my thoughts about the movie and what I appreciated in it and in bold what I imagine Martyn would have to say about this being the shittiest film we’ve seen yet and why everyone involved in the production must die.

Nameless young Driver (Ryan Gosling) is a wayfaring stranger and strict adherent to voluntary simplicity working as a mechanic, stuntman, and moonlighting as a getaway driver for whoever pays the piper and plays by his rules. His fatal flaw is a soft spot he develops for neighbour Liz (Carey Mulligan) and her son Benicio (Kaden Leos). They become his link to the world and a chance at redemption, even though he would never ask for it outright.  When Liz’s ne’er-done-good husband Standard (Oscar Isaac) is released from jail, money-hungry thugs inevitably come calling and the Driver’s attachment to the family gets him in deeper than he expected.

The only thing deeper than expected in this movie was the stage of sleep I fell into.

In terms of genre, tone, and style, Drive had me from the word “go.” Director Nicolas Winding Refn stays true to his neo-noir influences, painting a bleak portrait of a shady and unforgiving Los Angeles. A cliché in itself, granted: gritty realism is the name of the game here, and Refn has it down pat. Film-noir has never been a world megalomaniac villains, superhuman ass-kickers, or black-and-white morality and loyalties. It is about a hapless player unable to insulate himself from disaster. It is about survival of the fittest in a world that punishes error swiftly and brutally. When your back is against the wall morality goes right out the window. This sense of helplessness is conveyed perfectly not only in the Driver’s quiet and violent determination but also in Albert Brooks’ against-type crime boss Bernie Rose, a villain who is fearsome and lethal by necessity, not by choice or out of sadism.

Oh please! Only an American could have made this movie. It tries so hard to be European – whatever the fuck that means anymore – but fails miserably. The most European thing about it was that there were pizzas in a scene or two. The sparse dialogue and dark shots of Los Angeles are meant to telegraph some sort of depth but frankly I’ve been in deeper swimming pools. Film-noir? More like film-shit.

As an avowed fan of the lone gunman mystique, Ryan Gosling roped me in as the stoic, mysterious, steely-eyed anti-hero, joining the ranks of Alain Delon’s Samourai, George Clooney’s American, and Forest Whitaker’s Ghost Dog in an immutable canon of strong, silent, deadly protagonists. He is a sly actor with a profound understanding of the genre and he walks the line between protector and destroyer in flawless, compelling form.

Gosling: Moody when he should have been nudie

Christ on a bike! That wasn’t acting. He smirks and grunts his way through this movie and he doesn’t even get his cock out! If this were actually a European movie, from France or Denmark or something, he would have gotten his cock out. I cannot believe I paid 12 quid to see Ryan Gosling wearing a fucking scorpion jacket for two hours.

Refn’s sparing, tactical use of action, sound, and violence is nothing short of masterful. For a crime thriller, the first hour of Drive is remarkably uneventful, although not without purpose. Ever so carefully, Refn builds and aura of menace an impending catastrophe, a powder keg of nefarious alliances and blood money threatening to explode at any minute. The tension in this movie is drawn out like a tightrope and Refn milks it by dropping long periods of ominous silence in the middle of Drive’s heist scenes, making palpable the trepidation of the characters involved.

Not a single good car chase in the whole bloody movie! They should have called it Parked. I have never before in my life fallen asleep in a movie and I nodded off completely in the first 10 minutes of this one, during that whole opening “car chase” scene.

You were drunk.

I wasn’t! I wasn’t even tired. As an action movie this blows more pole than Liam Fox in a room full of Scottish underclassmen. You’re a cowbag.

Stop. Hammertime.

While the movie is shockingly brutal, it is so in short jabs, just enough to allow the audience to understand the lengths to which the Driver and his nemeses are willing to go, and a disturbing reminder of the darkness that lies in all of them. As with all great storytelling, the threat of violence proves infinitely more effective and nerve-wracking than its overuse.

The violence didn’t work at all. What, I’m supposed to be impressed because Ryan stomps on a few people and gets his face covered in blood? Limp-wristed at best. It was as satisfying as watching a Hasidic porno.

To be fair, the music in this film was fucking awful.

So. Fucking. Awwwful.

Damage: 3/10 (Pre-movie: 1 pint Guinness, 1 measure Bowmore 15yo; During: 4 x 250 ml Grolsch)

Boozy Rating: 6/10 (A fantastic movie but there’s really no added value in seeing it drunk)

Crazy, Stupid, Love.

Directed by Glenn Ficarra and John Requa
Starring Steve Carell, Julianne Moore, Ryan Gosling, Emma Stone, Marisa Tomei, Analeigh Tipton, John Carroll Lynch, Josh Groban, and Kevin Bacon

Change of pace this week: it’s going to be a serious review.

To be frank, I was expecting a regular old boozy Wednesday dotted with episodes of Martyn collapsing drunk over rows of unsuspecting moviegoers and me forgetting where I lived and asking the guy at the Kebab shop if he could provide directions to “please which way is me home? I… home? Ben?”

Instead we ended up remaining relatively sober and seeing a terrific movie. Never too late to teach an old dog new tricks, I guess.

Crazy, Stupid, Love is a simple tale, some may call it worn, but rendered in a way that is sweet, contemporary, unpretentious, and heart-warming. A brilliant opening scene shows us Cal (Steve Carell) and Emily (Julianne Moore) at the tail end of a 25-year marriage, surrounded by youthful romance and bankrupt of their own. Within a two minutes of the WB Production logo leaving the screen, Emily is confessing her extra-marital dalliances and asking for a divorce. Cold as ice, right? I had just cracked open my first Peroni. This woman, clearly, was not a time-waster.

Carell: learning the tricks of the trade

The rest of the movie evolves out of Cal’s ensuing tailspin, which lands him devastated in a nouveau-riche California lounge bar observing modern-day Don Juan Jacob (Ryan Gosling) working his magic on any woman around and getting pick of the litter night after night. Jacob, as it turns out, has also noted Cal’s sad-sack antics and, for nebulous reasons of his own, offers to take the new bachelor under his wing.

Married in his late teens, Cal has never had to think twice about dating and sex appeal. Now thrust back onto the market by the slickest womanizer this side of the Sierra Madre, Cal proves to be quick study and more of a catch than he thought possible. 

Unfairly pigeonholed as a supporting or TV actor, Carell here reminds us just how lovely he is as a leading man, and how strong yet subtle a performance he can give in the hands of the right screenplay and director. He never goes over the top with his comedy or his portrayal of a man in total emotional disarray. An early scene where he drives young babysitter Jessica (Analeigh Tipton) home having just split from his wife is spectacular in terms of how much weight Carell can deliver when only saying a few words (and being filmed over-the-shoulder, no less).

Carell and Moore: effortless chemistry

Although Cal becomes an able lady-killer in his own right, the movie is, at its core, about the pursuit of romantic love and turns people take on the road to it. It's about him finding his way back home.

Crazy, Stupid, Love takes viewers completely by surprise and separates itself from other like-genre movies in a number of ways. For starters: it is a film without villains. None of these people have set out to harm others; even Kevin Bacon’s homewrecking accountant David Lindhogen is somewhat pitiable in his cuckolding of Cal. Even though the movie is unabashed in its love-conquers-all paradigm, it acknowledges the complications of relationships in a modern world, even when none of the parties involved are malicious in the slightest.

The film is also a rare character-driven rom-com, as opposed to plot existing merely as a vehicle for coupling some eight-figure salary movie stars and dropping lame humour like breadcrumbs along the way. Even Jacob – whose appearances are brief and could have been mishandled by a lesser actor – is three-dimensional and sufficiently tragic in his opulence and solitary malaise that the audience invests in his character too.

Gosling and his winning smile

2011 is Ryan Gosling’s year and he is, yet again, a triumph in this film. A testament to his versatility and onscreen charisma, he is as effective, credible, and human as a trust-fund lounge lizard in light romantic-comedy as he is in heavier fare like Drive or Half Nelson. Even more commendable is his enduring sex-symbol status, since he’s one of the few celebrities who have properly earned it. Unlike Brad Pitt or Hugh Jackman (who, let’s face it, were just born pretty and aged gracefully), Gosling has a young puppydog face (a bit lopsided, even), is not formidably tall or broad, and doesn’t possess strong distinguishing features. What he does have is attitude. He has singular control over his image, his physical presence on camera, and can exude sex appeal on command. As Lars (of Lars and the Real Girl), he is utterly convincing as a completely repressed and introverted small-towner, whereas this latest incarnation of a 21^st century lothario looks sexy eating a slice of takeout pizza. He is seriously one of the great actors of his generation.

While not groundbreaking, Crazy, Stupid, Love is funny and brilliantly acted and fearlessly optimistic. You can’t help but love it.

Next week: The Three Musketeers