Movie Review: A Most Violent Year

In the latest film by J.C. Chandor—a director now with a collection of three movies and three successes—Abel, a New York businessman in 1981, tries to expand his business. He is an honorable businessman, always obeying the laws, but a company consists of more than one person, and a city consists of more than one company. He struggles to succeed in his industry with everything around him pulling him down: a violent wife, insubordinate workers, gangs, and New York's statistically most dangerous year. Oscar Isaac plays the roll smoothly and believably, paying homage (intentionally, it seems) to leads from other gang-related films, such as Corleone in the Godfather: Part II. And even more on its spectacle, Chandor captures the story with style, the shots always fully depicting and explaining the scenes, everything rendered to perfection, often utilizing color schemes, and just generally seeming like art; nearly every shot could be a winning photograph, with or without the movie. As for the story, A Most Violent Year tells a story of choices, how they affect us, and how a right answer just depends on what we value. Choices might succeed in one area, yet fail in another, and so the best choice is simply whatever works best for each person's own personal value, which are always different from another's. Abel wants a legally successful business, and he doesn't care who he hurts in the way. Other characters want to be safe in New York's crime-crawling environment, and they don't care what laws they may need to break. The two of these constantly juxtapose against each other, nobody finds a healthy medium, and the film takes no bias toward either side. So Chandor constantly creates a tone of hopeless relativism, showing how there is no absolute right. A Most Violent Year guides the viewer through a very philosophical and thought provoking story, and it only enhances its viewing with an emotional, very personal, and always moving story. It always has the next objective in mind, and it never slows down.  However, those wishing for a violent gangster film to match the title and advertisement will be very disappointed, and some might find its dry tone rather dull.

Movie Review: Jurassic World

In 1993 Stephen Spielberg directed Jurassic Park, an instant hit and never-aging classic, based on a novel by Michael Crichton. With all its success, Hollywood asked for sequels (go figure), and then came Jurassic Park: The Lost World, Jurassic Park III, and now Jurassic World. And as sequels trend, each installment gets less about story and increasingly about more dinosaurs, bigger dinosaurs, and cooler scenes. Jurassic World tries hard to revive the series' original theme of man playing God with science, and to bring back a compelling story. And trust me: you can tell. From blatant debates between characters, to forced emotional scenes (never created by characters depth or motivation, but only by relatable moments, dramatic music, and lots of crying), everything is so as obvious a narrator might as well have paused the movie, walked on screen, and said, "Pay attention, now, for this is where we talk about our message," or "Now you are supposed to feel sad." And when I said the sequels are about bigger dinosaurs, I meant that quite literally for this latest installment. This new dinosaur is so big and so scary the writers did not even know what to make it. But thankfully they resolved this by simply making him everything. Every time he does something terrifying, the scientists blame it on some peculiar strand of DNA they put in him. The dinosaur can camouflage, and so they reveal, "We gave him chameleon DNA." He can talk to other dinosaurs, and so they reveal, "We gave him velociraptor DNA." I was waiting for him to jump really high and for the shamed scientists to admit, "We gave him frog DNA..." The acting is equally awful.  But at least it looks pretty?

Poem: The Bear Chase

Abash me, abase me,

Come, bear, I am waiting.

Regard me as berries,

Be grizzly and hairy.

Chase me through the forest,

Rip into my storage,

My gore's red and orange,

Please sip it like porridge.

Yet, tell me you're not dumb

How big grizzly bear rumps,

Behind bears on trail-hunts,

Are still prone to snare-guns.