Much of Mike Mills’ “Thumbsucker” treads fairly standard young adult coming of age territory. Lou Pucci’s Justin Cobb, the protagonist whose titular habit serves an effective metaphor for his juvenility, must undergo familiar trials that provide him confidence and self-worth. He has to learn public speaking skills and romantic graces with a decidedly modern twist – Justin has just added medication for his recently diagnosed ADHD that totally transforms his personality.
But there’s something more to “Thumbsucker” that makes it my “F.I.L.M. of the Week.” Mills, working from a novel by Walter Kirn, does not stop the coming of age with Justin. As it turns out, his emotionally stilted parents have plenty of growing up to do in their own right. The film is just as much about their own slow maturation process as their son’s.
Vincent D’Onofrio’s Mike insists that Justin refer to his parents by their first names since the terms “mom and dad” make him feel old. He serves as the manager of a large sporting goods store while still nursing bitterness and resentment over a knee injury that thwarted his football career. His family serves as a daily reminder of what his life is not.
Meanwhile, his wife, Tilda Swinton’s Audrey, handles all the love and affection for their two kids. She’s genuinely curious and attuned to Justin’s issues. But Audrey cannot shake a girlish fascination with a soap opera actor Matt Schramm. The infatuation reaches levels that embarrass her children; they do not think she would literally cheat on their father, though she is not exactly quick to dismiss the possibility of her fantasy.
“Thumbsucker” shows everyone fumbling through this thing called life together in their own way, and that even includes Justin’s zany, hypnosis obsessed dentist Perry Lyman (played by none other than Keanu Reeves). With over a decade of distance since release, it feels very reflective of a mid-2000s suburban malaise that already feels like a time capsule. Mills is earnest in his explorations of what causes people’s unshakeable, throbbing sensation of vague discontent with their current situation. The sincerity goes a long way in making these unsatisfied characters ones that are worth spending time with to probe their pain.
Movies about movies are a dime a dozen these days, especially when three of the last five Oscar winners for Best Picture have centered on filmmaking. Understandably, many of these ultimately end up taking a stance or attitude that celebrates and valorizes the work done in the industry. (Otherwise, why make it – right?)
When I first watched David Lowery’s “Ain’t Them Bodies Saints,” my initial impression was that it amounted to one of the better spate of Malick-lite films spawned in the wake of “
Whatever one thinks about the quality of Ben Wheatley’s films, the sheer variety of his work is commendable in and of itself. From gangster flicks to romantic road trips and loaded social allegories, his pitch-black comedic sensibilities never seem to settle. For me, that makes him one of the most exciting filmmakers working today.
Michel Gondry’s name is among the rarefied few that can serve as an indicator of sophisticated whimsy and off-center delights. Be that in his seriocomic collaboration with Charlie Kaufman with “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” or even working within the Hollywood machine to produce a film adaptation of “
For no apparent reason save their rapid appearance on Netflix, I’ve been devouring large quantities of turn of the millennium teen movies. While many have charmed and entertained me, most tend to fall in line and preach the same kind of message. Popularity is a sham, inner beauty is what matters, yada yada…
Many people, it seems, saw the title of Hannah Fidell’s “A Teacher” and focused almost exclusively on … well, the teacher. Perhaps as they should. It’s certainly easy to get drawn into the confused, muddled mind of high school professor Diana Watts (Lindsay Burdge) given that she is having an affair with one of her students.
The recent hiring trend for studio tentpoles has been to pluck indie directors from obscurity, combining their strong imaginative knack with their weak negotiating power and strong incentive to roll over and obey for the career boost. Some of these moves make a lot of sense (Duncan Jones, Gareth Edwards) while others still feel strange, like transitioning Colin Trevorrow from “
More movies than you’d like to know are reviewed in a daze, particularly out of festivals. Seeing and listening to Cannes coverage from the past week reminds me of this sad fact. Just think – if you were a filmmaker with your reputation on the line, would you want sleep-deprived critic to write about your movie? Worse yet, in a festival environment, it’s practically impossible to go back and revisit a film once the credits roll.
I’m not sure I could give you a plot summary of Emily Bronte’s novel “Wuthering Heights” based on the 2012 film adaptation by Andrea Arnold. High school English students looking for the newest movie version so they can avoid reading this classic tome of British literature will find themselves sorely disappointed. Film lovers, however, ought to rejoice.
From the opening archival photos in “Neighboring Sounds,” writer/directorKleber Mendonça Filho positions the story in a long history of extreme wealth inequality. We see the construction of palatial estates for the wealthy, which were of course built on the backs of workers who made practically nothing.
May has arrived, which means the lineup for the Cannes Film Festival is officially out. Each year, the official selection provides an extra impetus for me to catch up with the work of world filmmakers whose previous features might have eluded me. Admittedly, I am still working my way through the lineup from the years I attended the festival. Whoops.
The British cinema scene is full of people doing lots of interesting work, but it still gets reduced quite frequently to familiar genres: the black comedy, the kitchen sink melodrama, the suburban crime saga. In his debut feature, “Down Terrace,” Ben Wheatley has the gall to meld all three into one audacious genre-mashing movie. The result is something spry and altogether wonderful, so much so that it is my selection for the “F.I.L.M. of the Week.” (In case you’re just joining this six year old column, that’s a contrived acronym for “First-Class, Independent Little-Known Movie.”)
Do you ever stop and think about what could have happened in an actor’s career if they had caught the right breaks? If people had paid more attention to them when they were younger? (It’s a fascinating thought experiment, if you ever have the opportunity to daydream.)
Marshall and the Movies 
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