TWO DAYS ONE NIGHT - Film Corner Criterion Blu-Ray Review By Thomas Zachary Toles

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Two Days, One Night (2014)
Dir. Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne
Starring: Marion Cotillard, Fabrizio Rongione, Timur Magomedgadzhiev, Pili Groyne, Simon Caudry, Catherine Salée, Baptiste Sornin, Alain Eloy, Myriem Akheddiou, Fabienne Sciascia, Hicham Slaoui

Film Corner Guest Review
By Thomas Zachary Toles

Unembellished Beauty in Two Days, One Night

In Two Days, One Night (Deux jours, une nuit), the Dardenne brothers wield their harsh naturalistic style to position viewers amidst the often humiliating anguish of financially strained working class life. Yet, through the pain, a sensitive humanistic viewpoint emerges. The numerous figures who populate the story are not romantic evocations of poverty nor are there any cane-twirling villains. The film is a gorgeous series of vulnerable conversations in understatedly dire circumstances. The Dardennes create stunning tension by pitting the ordinary there-ness of its characters against the prodigious capitalist forces surrounding and constricting them.

After Sandra (Marion Cotillard) suffers a nervous breakdown, her not-so-sunny coworkers at the solar panel factory learn that they will each receive a €1000 bonus if she is made redundant. The whole affair is put to a depraved vote, leaving Sandra with two days and one night to beg each of her colleagues to put her above themselves. Sandra methodically approaches as many of her coworkers as she can reach, finding some understanding, some fearful, others furious. She, and the filmmakers, are keenly aware of the emotional power of a face, up close and personal. Sandra’s goal is not so much to make a complex argument as to bare her pathetic humanity to those who have plenty to gain by ignoring it.

I typically expect to like Cotillard more than I do. In James Gray’s The Immigrant, I found her unable to rise above the sanctimonious suffering of the character as written. With the Dardennes, however, Cotillard seems unflinchingly exposed, internalizing her character’s intermittent ugliness. Her strength is impressive without revelling in the glory of “I-am-victim-hear-me-roar.” The rest of the actors all pull their weight to fill the drab, industrial landscape with a careworn community.

Sandra’s biggest obstacle, larger than her depressive anxiety and medication dependence, is shame. And while the filmmakers are sympathetic to her desperate mission, they are equally careful to imbue each of her targets with their fair share of desperate humanity. With each rejection Sandra faces, she and the viewer are painfully reminded of the costs of her victory. Even the true hard asses, as Renoir put it, have their reasons—no relationship in the film is shallow.

Even the seemingly inexhaustible support of Manu (Fabrizio Rongione), Sandra’s husband, is undercut by Sandra’s suggestion that he no longer loves her. The film leaves it ambiguous whether Sandra’s assessment is a purely deluded symptom of her misery or if Manu’s efforts are fuelled more by pity than affection. His uncompromising aid keeps her going but it is possible that Manu, on some level, views her employment as a guilt-cleansing prerequisite for their future separation.

In many ways, the film is a hate letter to the capitalist system that makes its premise possible. The situation will be settled by twisted democracy, a practice that seems far more barbaric than it is typically regarded. To maintain the mediocre status quo at work, more than half of the employees must choose to vote against their own self-interest on a piece of paper marked either “Sandra” or “Bonus.” It is no surprise that many have trouble empathizing. Even if Sandra wins, those who saw their bonuses as essential may not soon forget what she took from them. In the end, Sandra is presented with a prototypical paradox of capitalist reasoning.

Yet, despite the bleak scenario, the film is not bereft of hope. It insists upon the importance of fellowship in impossible circumstances. When Sandra’s pleas meet an understanding ear, the faint burst of buoyancy is palpable. In one scene, after she has interrupted Timur’s (Timur Magomedgadzhiev) soccer to wearily recite her petition, his apologetic collapse restores some bewildered life to Sandra’s features.

The monumental emotional payoff of the film’s final scenes is made possible by the Dardennes’ patient pacing. We are forced to fully experience the arduousness and excess of Sandra’s journey, rendering the seemingly brief period described in the film’s title as both fleeting and endless.

Over the course of that weekend, the filmmakers present numerous characters honestly and delicately. One by one, we are gently acquainted with different voices, postures, mannerisms. Each figure independently may not leave an immediate impression. But at the end of the film, when Sandra sees the now familiar faces who voted for her gathered together in a single room, the sheer humanity on display is overwhelming. The frame is simply saturated with personhood, bursting at the seams with prosaic beauty.

My chest tightened; I could hardly bear to look.

Therein, in the unembellished revelation of people as they are, lies one of cinema’s greatest gifts.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *****

Two Days, One Night will be released 8/25/15 on Blu-Ray and DVD via the Criterion Collection with a new 2K digital master, supervised by director of photography Alain Marcoen and approved by directors Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, with 5.1 surround DTS-HD Master Audio soundtrack on the Blu-ray. Added value supplements include new interviews with the Dardennes and actors Marion Cotillard and Fabrizio Rongione, When Léon M.’s Boat Went Down the Meuse for the First Time (1979), a forty-minute documentary by the Dardennes, featuring a new introduction by the directors, a new tour of the film’s key locations with the directors, To Be an I, a new video essay by critic Kent Jones, the trailer, an essay by critic Girish Shambu and new cover design by Eric Skillman.

Feel free to purchase directly from the following links and support the ongoing maintenance of The Film Corner.

In Canada, purchase HERE
In the USA, purchase HERE
In the UK, purchase HERE

PARKS AND RECREATION: Ruinous Optimism - Tea Time w/ Thomas Zachary Toles

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The Ruinous Optimism
of Parks and Recreation

By Thomas Zachary Toles


More TV Trash Talking from
The Film Corner's
Tea Time Columnist

The series finale of Parks and Recreation was as saccharine and excessive as a Sweetums Child Size soda. With astonishing conviction, the episode whipped up embarrassingly perfect futures for each of its recurring characters. Tiny fleeting conflicts were drizzled onto certain epilogues as if a couple squirts of lemon could deepen the flavor of 512 ounces of refined sugar.

When did the once tasteful show let itself go?

It did not start in Season 7. Parks and Recreation has, for years, been such a staunch defender of the goodness of its characters that it refused to let anything truly bad happen to them. This was no doubt an attempt by the show runners to distance the series from their previous hit, The Office. Indeed, early in the run of Parks and Rec, it was oft-described as an Office knock-off.

Hoping to escape this identity crisis, creators Greg Daniels and Michael Schur sought an alternate characterization for the show’s central character, Leslie Knope. Between Seasons 1 and 2, Knope transformed from bumbling manager type with delusions of grandeur to one of the most stubbornly ambitious, generous, and hard working characters on television. The joke was no longer on Leslie, but on the whiny, ungrateful people of Pawnee for whom she so tirelessly advocated.

This new approach borrowed significantly from Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life. Capra’s film centres on the personal sacrifices George Bailey must make for the sake of his average little town. Despite the film’s euphoric ending, these sacrifices weigh heavily on George, pushing him to the brink of suicide. He severely compromises his own needs for the sake of others—the perfect metaphor for devoted public service.

In its first few seasons, Parks and Rec followed Capra’s example by ingeniously making comedy out of Leslie’s wildly under-appreciated labor. Historically, comedy thrives on that particular Chaplinesque brand of optimistic hopelessness and all sitcoms especially benefit from such cyclical premises. For a time, Pawnee’s stubborn mediocrity landed its Parks department reliably back where they started, reaching like George Bailey for detectable impact from the drab valleys of Indiana.

Parks and Rec bravely imbued modest goals in potentially soul-draining circumstances with real value. Not everyone had Leslie’s ambition, of course. Ron’s primary commitment was always to avoid any government action; Tom’s commitment was to himself; April’s to macabre cynicism. There was more to these people than those simple descriptions, and fortunately they were allowed to develop over time under Leslie’s arm-twisting, inexhaustible guidance. Yet all the show’s main characters were most interestingly defined by their confinement in the feeble Parks department, a station that seemed to suit none of them perfectly, including Leslie. The possibility of doing meaningful work in such imperfect conditions was the faint ray of sunshine Leslie tenaciously sought after.

Unfortunately, as time went on, Parks and Rec allowed the clouds of stifled ambition to float away to Eagleton and beyond. Its writers became so attached to Leslie’s tireless optimism that they refused to place any immovable obstacles in the way of its characters’ desires. The exception that proves the rule is the Parks department’s incessant bullying of Jerry, which is too endless and frivolous to sustain any bite.

Eventually, Leslie could do anything, putting inhuman amounts of work into even the least significant projects. With seemingly unlimited resources and energy, compromise was less and less a part of her life. The same came to be true of the rest of the cast, who grew increasingly successful separate from the Parks department and ever more enamored with each other.

Parks and Rec remained only superficially about the importance of teamwork in adversity, overlooking all the underlying struggles that might make such collaboration inspiring. Without real conflict, like so many sitcoms before it, its characters were allowed to transform into Platonic ideals of themselves, losing their human complexity:

Ron should say something manly here.

April should be cynical to hide her sweetness.

Andy shouldn't get it.

As early as Season 4, an uncomfortable shift can be felt in the ethos of Parks and Rec. Convincingly awkward comic figures like Mark Brendanawicz and Dave Sanderson were replaced by absurd caricatures like Chris Traeger and Craig Middlebrooks. Caricatures were always a colourful part of the show’s background (Jean Ralphio often soars during his infrequent appearances) but had no place in its main cast, further undermining whatever shreds of emotional stakes remained. Ethan Alter noted the somewhat surprising absence of former principle Mark from the finale but the city planner’s credible disenchantment simply would not have made sense in the exaggerated world of the series’ later seasons.

By the finale, the caricaturization reached its apotheosis. As Parks and Rec had already abandoned pain and complexity for broad humour and shallow positivity (becoming as vacuous as the hollow self-help literature affectionately mocked in this final episode), it seemed a fait accompli for every major character to find seamless happiness in both their work and personal lives.

Tom’s improbably bestselling book literally boiled each figure down to three generic traits; meagre summaries as empty and hackneyed as the type of book Tom is peddling.

“April: Individualistic, intense, intimidating."

"Ron: Self-reliant, uncompromising, inner-directed."

"Leslie: Leader, tireless, optimistic.”

Optimism—and comedy—separate from struggle, compromise, and disappointment, does not have much impact. By the end of the series, Leslie’s overbearing idealism was the sole lens through which we were forced to view Pawnee, and governmental work more generally.

A once wonderful, weird, feminist delight deteriorated into a gang of cartoon characters embarking on a happiness scavenger hunt. In the series finale, we were assaulted by a future of boundless false satisfaction.

By that point, to put it in the show’s terms:

Parks and Recreation was beating a dead mini-horse.

LOUIS C.K. LIVE AT THE COMEDY STORE (on VOD) - Success = The Wrong Kind of Asshole: TEA TIME WITH THOMAS ZACHARY TOLES COLUMN

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Louis C.K.’s Success:
Becoming the
Wrong Kind
of Asshole

By Thomas Zachary Toles


The Film Corner's
Tea Time Columnist

Louis C.K. struck comic gold by combining [George] Carlin-esque condemnation of Western society with unfailing self-deprecation. Louie argued that society is horrible precisely because of the things that he and all of us privileged assholes love so dearly:

Because we wait in line for a Cinnabon at the airport we arrived at.

Because we congratulate ourselves for thinking of doing nice things without ever doing them.

Because immense suffering far away can be easily justified so long as we get to write YouTube comments while we shit.

Louie didn’t place himself above these depraved aspects of American life; he participated in them. Louis C.K. was not better than America; he was a true American asshole.

In Louie’s newest special, Live at the Comedy Store, he argues that self-awareness is more important than self-love. Good advice. Hard to follow when you’re America’s comic sage. Glowing with inconceivable success, Louie is slowly becoming the wrong kind of asshole.

In Louie’s best routines he remains entrenched in the very problems he decries. In Chewed Up (2008), Louie revels in his whiteness in order to confess his complicity in oppression. “If [race] was an option, I would re-up every year. Oh yeah, I’ll take white again, absolutely.” Rather than attacking white privilege directly, he celebrated it, revealing how fiercely attached all white people are to their racial advantage. Through Louie’s admission, white listeners were given some self-awareness about all that they have to be thankful for, and all they owe.

Louie’s technique of identifying with the oppressor to bring light to the oppressed is also found in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Twain’s book is written so as not to clash with a racist reader’s sensibility while delicately inviting the reader, along with Huck, to see the escaped slave Jim as a complex human being. This is somewhat ironic because, in Live at the Comedy Store, Louie mocks the excessive use of “nigger” in Huckleberry Finn. The bit has an element of condescension to it that rarely appears in his earlier work.

In the past, Louie has been rightly suspicious of white people’s hypocritical tendency to falsely censor “nigger” with "the n-word.”

“That’s just white people getting away with saying ‘nigger,’” he proclaims in Chewed Up. In his latest special, however, Louie more conservatively encourages the audience to jeer at Huckleberry Finn's careful use of such bold language. The bit's dismissiveness is atypically shallow and simplistic, edging towards the biggest threat to Louie’s enormous talent: self-righteousness.

Perhaps pride is inevitable for the most successful and beloved comedian imaginable. Certainly there was no way Louie could pretend to still be broke, to never get laid, and to live a lousy life. He has inventively worked around the handicap of success for a time: in one segment he admits that the only reason he can resist being as deplorable as a parent who hits their kids is because he has money. Nevertheless, a troubling awareness of his own eminence has quietly seeped into his work.

Louie, a show that long wowed me with its Lynchian weirdness, has recently fallen victim to this very issue. Louie writes, directs, edits, and stars in the show and what once seemed like thrilling individualism has begun to feel moralistic. After five seasons one wonders why Louie must have total control over this show.

“So Did the Fat Lady” from Season 4 is a perfect example of the problem. In an extended monologue, Vanessa (Sarah Baker) voices all the bullshit that overweight women have to deal with in daily life. Louie’s character awkwardly transitions from naivety to empathy by the speech’s end, and the episode concludes with him compassionately taking Vanessa’s hand (as per her meagre request). But we know that Louie wrote this monologue, that he directed himself to feign naivety only to be converted by his own words, to be commended for having the generosity to make such an episode at all. Louie empowers himself more than Vanessa. The old Louis C.K. would never have had the motivation to take Vanessa’s hand. He would have mumbled an excuse and walked away like the asshole he is.

There was something more human, funny, and frightening in that old asshole, in the person who vividly saw the world’s atrocities but was powerless to resist his self-serving urges. Through Louie’s flaws, we became a little more disturbed by our own selfishness and a little more sympathetic to the people we so frequently reject.

Louie was Dostoevsky’s Undergound Man, an intelligent screw up with agonizing self-awareness. Success has lifted him from clumsy indulgence towards knowing wisdom, robbing him of his brutal edge.

Louis C.K. is still a terrific comedian. He still makes me laugh.

He used to make me hurt.

LOUIS C.K. LIVE AT THE COMEDY STORE is available for a mere five smackers by clicking HERE.

It's TEA TIME with THOMAS ZACHARY TOLES, The Film Corner's All New Columnist: Draw up thine comfy chairs for some High Tea at Oxford University, as Rhodes Scholar, young Master Thomas Zachary Toles gives BREAKING BAD a jolly good thrashing.

If you require a better view of Thomas and his illustrious credentials, please click on the friendly masthead just above.

Walter White Privilege: Facile Empathy in Breaking Bad

By Film Corner Tea Time Columnist THOMAS ZACHARY TOLES

Given that Better Call Saul, the spin-off of Vince Gilligan’s universally acclaimed Breaking Bad has placed its first record-breaking season six-feet-under (in slavering anticipation of the second season, ordered by AMC before Season One even aired), it’s high time for a critical reexamination of the series that started it all, a show that pretends to test the limits of our empathy while rewarding its viewers for lazily aligning with a singular, dominant perspective.

Let us examine what is broken and bad with Breaking Bad.

"Let's just blow EVERYBODY the fuck away!"

Walter White (Bryan Cranston), an overqualified chemistry teacher with an ego, is driven to meth dealing and murder by the onset of lung cancer. He hopes to earn enough to cover his exorbitant treatment costs and posthumously bequeath a large sum for his family. The apparent premise of the show is: to what extent can this ordinary man justify his increasingly immoral behaviour with ostensibly compassionate motives? How long will the viewer’s allegiance to Walt last before siding with him becomes impossible?

Breaking Bad’s great fault, however, is that it creates a warped world in which there is effectively no human alternative to Walt. He is the cleverest, coolest, most compelling person in the show, unquestionably a better meth cook than any Hispanic cartel member who preceded him. The genius middle-class white man with crazed ambition (the American dream!) is glorified in his corruption while the devastating effects of meth addiction on impoverished communities are only shown once or twice in the entire series. Walter White is “Whiteman,” America’s presiding figure--a superhero of narcissistic greed.

The emotional consequences of Walt’s actions on his family and other major characters are deceptively insubstantial. The wronged family includes his wife Skyler (Anna Gunn), a character so unsympathetic to most fans that desperately cheating on her lying drug-dealer husband was widely deemed unforgivable. Then there are his children: Walt Jr. (RJ MItte), whose primary arc consists of driving lessons and breakfast consumption, and Holly (Elanor Anne Wenrich), a baby forgotten as frequently by the show’s writers as Maggie is by Homer Simpson.

Skyler is a controversial case because, as Erin Gloria Ryan (writer and managing editor of JEZEBEL) argued, fan hatred for her was due to misogyny, despite the show’s loud assertions of her blamelessness. I counter that her blamelessness reflects Gilligan’s inability to imagine a rich inner life for the character. Skyler’s existence separate from Walt’s endeavours, and her pain, become increasingly vague as the show takes Walt’s continuing survival as its central concern. Walt also causes anguish for Jesse (Aaron Paul), his partner-in-crime, but Walt’s final sacrifice for Jesse allows the older man’s manipulations to be overshadowed by the real villains of the show.

Breaking Bad ends by establishing a ludicrous dichotomy between Walt (a human with flaws--like us) and the fantasy of truly evil people (neo-Nazis) who, unlike Walt, don’t have their reasons. Walt confesses his selfishness (self-awareness achieved!) and redeems himself by vanquishing actual, uncomplicated evil and rescuing Jesse.

Walter White and Edward Hyde: Happy Bedfellows!

For the show’s legions of viewers, Walt has been a surrogate Mr. Hyde, allowing us to tacitly revel in his immorality from the safety of our couches. Breaking Bad relies on the seductive illusion that our dark sides can be outsourced to Walt, vicariously embraced, and then neutralized with Walt’s death and his accompanying self-awareness (that we are invited to share).

Gilligan expresses his desire to redeem Walt and provide a satisfying, palatable ending in his comments on a possible alternate ending in which Walt shoots up a jail to free Jesse:

“[W]e kept asking ourselves, ‘Well, how bad is Walt going to be at the end here? Is he going to kill a bunch of upstanding, law-abiding jail guards? What the hell kind of ending is that?’”

Gilligan wants closure and gratification for his audience; he does not want to leave them frustrated or confused. Walt’s redemption purges the viewer’s guilt for fetishizing him, tying up the show’s loose ends on a chilling note of admiration.

Fiction has the power to vividly portray disorder and ambiguity, in ways that may help us reach a wider, more empathetic outlook. Yet Breaking Bad rewards its viewers for lionizing its slick, troubled protagonist, not challenging us to peer at the peripheral figures beyond him.

Countless Americans are indifferent to the commonplace killings of unarmed people of colour by police officers—proclaiming that Mike Brown, Miriam Carey, Eric Garner, and many others just shouldn’t have broken the law. Undoubtedly, many of these same Americans readily accepted Walt’s violent criminality.

Breaking Bad dangerously inhibits empathy for real-life abuses of power because it predominantly asks its viewers to identify with the one character with both authority and explicit motives. Walt is a complex figure surrounded by stereotypes like Tuco’s homicidal cousins, whose non-existent personalities are only justified by their brutish foreignness.

Breaking Bad encourages empathy for yet another white authority figure (who kills, like Darren Wilson or George Zimmerman, when he “fears for his life”), while disregarding the humanity of those less powerful than he.

A narrow vision, indeed.

Breaking Bad is available in Canada by clicking HEREand in the United States of America by clicking HEREand in the Jolly Old United Kingdom by clicking HERE The first 10 episodes of Season One of Better Call Saul premiered on AMC on February 8, 2015.

All photo collages by GJK