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Firth, Tucci face tragedy with restraint in ‘Supernova’

Oscar buzz mounts for two straight actors playing gay

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Supernova, gay news, Washington Blade
Colin Firth and Stanley Tucci star in ‘Supernova,’ which is available for streaming on Jan. 29. (Image courtesy of Bleeker Street)

After decades of films in which LGBTQ people were so often victims of tragedy (it became known as the “kill your gays” trope) it’s nice to see more movies being made where we don’t have to suffer so much.

We now have queer love stories that end happily, stories about queer young people that have nothing to do with the struggle to come out, and even stories that feature LGBTQ superheroes. Even better, we are now allowed to exist in stories that aren’t about us; our queerness is unimportant to the plot but we’re part of it, nonetheless.

That’s the goal of representation; the onscreen world needs to include LGBTQ people right alongside everyone else, just like real life. More than that, it needs to depict the experience of being LGBTQ authentically.

True authenticity, however, requires showing the bad along with the good, and that presents a quandary. There is a tendency to equate positive representation with a happily-ever-after ending, and anything falling short of that ideal runs the risk of being characterized as a regression to the days when we were punished in the movies simply for being who we are. It’s understandable, of course; for a community so long deprived of positive stories about itself, it’s easy to see why anything less would be a hard pass.

That’s one of the hurdles faced by “Supernova” in finding a queer audience. The new film by British writer/director Harry Macqueen may be a love story between two gay men, but it’s every bit as bleak as it is authentic.

The two men in question are Sam (Colin Firth) and Tusker (Stanley Tucci), a deeply bonded couple on the upper end of middle age, who’ve been together so long they are like extensions of one other. Sam, a once-prominent pianist, has been coaxed into playing his first recital in years, so the pair set out in their old RV on a road trip across the English countryside; their plan is to visit family, friends, and hallowed spots from their memories together as they make their way to the performance venue, but there’s a deeper motivation, too.

Tusker has been diagnosed with early-onset dementia, and his condition is deteriorating faster than either of them want to admit. Hoping to make the most of the time they have left, the two men are on a quest to come to terms with the future before Tusker’s mind and memories fade away forever.

Audiences jaded by Hollywood’s typically ham-handed treatment of such subjects might be tempted to assume that’s a scenario for just another overtly sentimental tear-jerker. Fortunately, Macqueen’s film (his second feature after 2014’s “Hinterland”) is not a product of Hollywood, but of the UK film industry, and while that doesn’t necessarily guarantee a higher level of sophistication, it certainly improves the odds. What pushes “Supernova” into the category of a sure bet is its understated, elegiac screenplay.

Macqueen lets his characters reveal themselves gradually. The depth of their relationship is built for us in observing these two men interact with the kind of casual comfort that comes from years of being together, a sort of intimate indifference that any long-term couple is sure to recognize. Their tenderness is matter-of-fact, and when they snipe at one another it’s only for the fun of sparring. When things inevitably begin to get heavy, there are no emotional outbursts, no histrionic laments, no ugly crying. Instead, their feelings are expressed in small moments, through a tender touch, a burst of anger, or a shared laugh over a bit of gallows humor.

The true weight of their grief, however, is most obvious in the way they talk around it. Like the proverbial elephant in the room, it’s there for everyone to see, but there’s nothing to be done about it. The sorrow is a given. What matters to these lovers – and ultimately, to “Supernova” – is how they can each make peace with a grim but inevitable future, so they can find the strength to face it together as a couple.

As a director, Macqueen doubles down on the same restraint. His visual style, composed within the gold-tinted hues of Dick Pope’s rich cinematography, is stately and picturesque, capturing the soothing calm of England’s Lake District while evoking a sense of nostalgic melancholy. At the same time, he artfully exploits the power of simplicity by letting the imagery speak for itself, without embellishment.

He captures moments that are both intimate and profound; his artful shots of the two lovers – whether entwined in naked sleep on their bed, holding hands as they enjoy a beautiful view, or gazing into the vastness of the eternal cosmos together – tell us more about shared human experience than any heart-tugging monologue could ever hope to convey.

The studied elegance of his “less-is-more” aesthetic keeps his film from veering into the manipulative territory that could easily undermine the cumulative emotional power it works so carefully to build.

Macqueen’s greatest asset, though, is undoubtedly his actors. In Firth and Tucci, he has two such gifted collaborators that he can trust them completely to honor the subtlety of his script, and he takes full advantage by simply putting them in front of his camera and letting them do their thing. Neither actor identifies as gay, though both have notably “played gay” several times before; while today’s sensitivity around the subject of inclusion might make their casting in these roles a point of contention for some (that’s the other hurdle the movie has to face), it has nothing to do with the quality of their work.

They are utterly, heartbreakingly believable together; the depth of Tusker and Sam’s connection – or of their love for each other – is never in doubt for a moment, thanks to the skill of these two veteran film artists. There’s Oscar buzz around both performances, and deservedly so.

The result of all this subdued emotion is a movie that can be called stoic in the best sense of the word. By making its protagonists face their hard truth without allowing them the luxury of wallowing in their extreme emotions, “Supernova” forces its audience to do the same. There is no illusion of hope offered, despite half-hearted discussions of promising treatments or clung-to fantasies of some future trip to Italy; there is no remedy and no escape. Yet somehow, the cold frankness of their circumstance never dulls the love they feel for one another, nor diminishes the value of what they have shared during their many years together; somehow, even in the midst of their sorrow, there is joy.

That’s what makes “Supernova” remarkable. It confronts us with the hard truth that every love story ends unhappily, if you follow it all the way, and that’s something most of us must eventually face but few of us want to think about. By letting us share in Tusker and Sam’s tragedy, it allows us to rehearse for our own; that makes it a hard film to watch, but for viewers who are brave enough to stick it through, the rewards are rich indeed.

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With masterful remake, Spielberg tells a whole new ‘Story’

A skillfully constructed work of art that engages emotions at every level

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The Jets and The Sharks face off in ‘West Side Story.’ (Photo courtesy 20th Century Fox)

If you had reservations about the news that Steven Spielberg was remaking “West Side Story,” you aren’t alone. After all, with Hollywood’s track record for producing abysmal remakes of classic movies, it’s probably wise to be skeptical when a new one comes along.

That said, you can now rest assured that your skepticism is unfounded.

From its very first shot, in which Spielberg pays unabashed homage to the opening moments of “Citizen Kane” while establishing almost everything we need to know about the setting of the story we are about to see, “West Side Story” immediately dissipates any concern about the master director’s ability to deliver the blend of theatrical and cinematic artistry it deserves. With unparalleled fluency in the visual language of storytelling, he pulls us briskly into the conflict between the Jets and the Sharks – two teen street gangs, white and Puerto Rican, respectively, at war over territory in a Manhattan slum – and sets the stage for a retelling of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” in which a family feud is exchanged for racism as the basis for a tale of young love thwarted by ancient hate.

For those unfamiliar, the plot centers on the romance of Tony (Ansel Elgort) and Maria (Rachel Zegler) – which is a problem because Tony is best friend to Riff (Mike Faist), leader of the Jets, and Maria is the sister of Bernardo (David Alvarez), leader of the Sharks. Despite the concerns of those around them – including Bernardo’s shrewd and strong-willed girlfriend, Anita (Ariana DeBose) – the couple’s forbidden love endures even as the rival gangs plan to wipe each other out once and for all, setting into motion a tragic chain of events that will shatter the entire community.

Spielberg’s reverent remounting of the classic musical drama – conceived for Broadway in 1957 and first translated to film in an Oscar-winning classic directed by Jerome Robbins and Robert Wise – achieves what doubters assumed would be impossible: a new rendering that succeeds in bringing a deeper, more contemporary sensibility to the material while leaving it essentially unchanged. A substantial amount of the credit for this goes to Pulitzer-winner Tony Kushner, whose literate and pitch-perfect adaptation of Arthur Laurents’ stage script fills in some of the story’s blank spots and expands its scope to illuminate the complicated economic and social issues that lie at its core.

Characters are fleshed out with more detailed back stories that bestow them with greater dimension and humanity; Tony, for instance, is on parole after a stint in prison for nearly killing a rival gang member in a fight, and we find out that Riff’s dad was as much of a hoodlum as he is. Additionally, the minor role of “Anybodys,” a female Jet originally depicted as a “tomboy” who is ridiculed and excluded by her gang mates for being a girl, is here given an embellished presence, which, aided by a powerful performance from Iris Menas, leaves little doubt she is struggling with gender identity at a time when there were no words for such things.

In a similar expansion, we find out that the neighborhood is set to be demolished ahead of the construction of Lincoln Center and the high-dollar housing that surrounds it, definitively planting the film in the same period as the original work while bringing forward the impact of urban upheaval and gentrification on the low-income and marginalized communities they continually displace.

With flourishes like these, Kushner’s screenplay brings “West Side Story” into the present day without removing it from the world that gave birth to it, emphasizing the connections and parallels between the two eras and reminding us just how relevant this American classic continues to be.

Similarly, the supremely talented cast is instrumental in reframing the story for a more evolved age – and not just because all the Latino roles are played by Latino performers this time around. Each of the young stars gives a heartbreakingly authentic performance, with DeBose’s Anita a particular standout who commands the screen in every scene she’s in (as she should!), and Zegler, a screen newcomer, providing a Maria who is as bold and self-possessed as she is luminous and delicate. But perhaps the film’s most magnificent performance comes from Rita Moreno, the original movie’s Anita, who here takes on the rewritten (and re-gendered) role of a neighborhood shopkeeper who serves as Tony’s surrogate parent; she imbues the character with a combination of warmth and hard-won wisdom, and her presence brings an element of having come full circle, a touch of nostalgia that links the film to its heritage and lingers with us long after the credits roll.

The same can be said of the much-revered score by Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim (RIP, genius), which is here preserved and performed almost completely intact. Some of the songs are reordered within the story, and some of the singing is done by different characters than the ones we’re used to, but arranger David Newman and conductor Gustavo Dudamel succeed in delivering a rousing and passionate rendering of the show’s classic music – bolstered by the outstanding vocals of its cast, none of whom required the kind of dubbing that was standard practice when “West Side Story” graced the screen the first time around.

As for Spielberg, it’s hard to imagine another director who could pull this off. He pulls from his vast sea of cinematic influences to create a larger-than-life, skillfully constructed work of visual art that handles the spectacular and the intimate with equal deftness and engages our emotions at every level. He frequently references the classic films he loves, weaving nods to them into a tapestry that acknowledges his debt to the great filmmakers who came before him yet firmly asserts his own mastery of the medium. He even asserts his self-assuredness by invoking fond memories of the classic 1961 version, from the subtle but unmistakable emulation of its color palette and lighting choices in key scenes to the more obvious echoes of Jerome Robbins’ original choreography in the dancing – brilliantly restaged by Spielberg and choreographer Justin Peck in a style that emulates the athletic movement of the original’s dance sequences while leaping to heights of its own.

Yet despite all this deference to the past, Spielberg’s rendition of “West Side Story” excels and excites because it feels so firmly rooted in the here and now. His intention is to learn from the past, not dwell in it, and he challenges us at every turn to see the story with a contemporary – and sometimes uncomfortable – perspective. Most provocative, perhaps, is his choice not to use subtitles when characters are speaking Spanish; with that one, simple touch, he aims straight at the heart of the divisive turmoil in our culture today, thereby using a 64-year-old musical written by three gay men as it was always meant to be used – as a powerful condemnation of bigotry and hatred in a world that has seen enough killing.

Spielberg’s vision honors, even celebrates the beloved original film, yet simultaneously reiterates it into something thrillingly new. Even the most rigid purist can’t ask for a more faithful adaptation than that.

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Toxic masculinity gets its comeuppance in ‘Power of the Dog’

Cumberbatch, Dunst shine in unforgettable anti-Western

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Kodi Smit-McPhee goes for a ride with Benedict Cumberbatch in ‘The Power of the Dog.’ (Photo courtesy Netflix)

Say what you will about the Western being a tired genre, but when it comes to tracing shifts in the American cultural identity over long stretches of time, there’s still nothing quite like it.

Take, for example, “The Power of the Dog,” the newest effort from acclaimed New Zealand filmmaker Jane Campion, now playing in theaters (and on Netflix) and topping the best-of-the-year lists of critics across the U.S. Set against the expanse of the American frontier of a century ago, it leans into time-worn tropes that have become wrapped up in our nation’s self-image, much the same as the great classic Westerns have done since the first flickering images of cowboys began to appear on screens in the very dawn of cinema history.

Some of these tropes, of course, have come to be seen as toxic. The way that Western movies have perpetuated racism by equating “Cowboys vs. Indians” to “Good vs. Evil” is perhaps the most clear-cut example; almost as obviously “problematic” is a presentation of manhood in which physical prowess is held up as the ideal, while emotional sensitivity or intellectualism are devalued as tell-tale signs of weakness. With 2022 right around the corner, outmoded and tone-deaf assumptions such as these make it easy to understand why many people think of the Western as an out-of-touch and irrelevant form of cinematic expression that deserves to be retired, once and for all.

Yet as Campion’s visually eloquent, quietly subversive adaptation of Thomas Savage’s 1968 novel reminds us, Westerns have a way of reflecting our changing attitudes. Just as “The Searchers” or “Little Big Man” challenged our stereotyped ideas about indigenous people, “The Power of the Dog” forces us to confront our acceptance of the rough-and-rugged cowboy as a paragon of masculinity and suggests he might have just been an overbearing bully, all along.

The cowboy in this case is Phil Burbank (Benedict Cumberbatch), who along with his brother George (Jesse Plemons) owns a lucrative cattle ranch in 1925 Montana. He’s the embodiment of the “alpha” mentality, presiding over his life and business with absolute authority; when George marries a widow (Kirsten Dunst) and brings her home – along with her son Peter (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a young man with aspirations of becoming a surgeon – he browbeats the newcomers to his household and treats them with open contempt. He takes particular delight in tormenting Peter, whose slight build and effeminate manner make him an easy target for ridicule, but an awkward encounter in the woods sparks a change of heart; he decides to take his new nephew under his wing, hoping to turn him into a “real man” and perhaps reconnect with a tender side of his own nature he has long kept buried.

A reading of that brief synopsis is enough to make it clear that Campion’s movie plays on other tropes besides those found in Westerns. Traditional queer narratives in American culture inevitably lead us to expect an “unexpected” romance between these two initially antagonistic men, and a subsequent blossoming that will allow the hardened rancher to undergo a heartwarming transformation not unlike that of the Grinch.

But “Power of the Dog” is not that kind of queer narrative, just as it’s not the kind of Western where gunslingers resolve their conflicts with a climactic showdown on a dusty street. It leaves little doubt that romance – or some stunted, self-loathing version of it, at least – is on Phil’s mind once he hits upon the possibility of it; but it’s also keenly aware that men like Phil, who hide their own presumed desires under a mask of reflexive intolerance and are only willing to explore their secret side if they can maintain plausible deniability, are a big part of the reason why gay men – or anybody else who has been repeatedly lumped together in the category of “other” and turned into social outcasts or worse – have been subjected to so much bigotry and abuse for so very long.

To be sure, he’s a product of his time and place – but where a film from a different era might have given him the benefit of the doubt and helped him to find the redemption we’ve been conditioned to think he deserves, this one is not ready to let him get off scot-free. It doesn’t matter if he’s queer – he’s also a narcissistic tyrant who maintains his own assumed superiority by terrorizing and belittling those around him (his nickname for his brother is “Fatso,” which tells you all you need to know) to keep them submissive and docile. The days when such individuals got a pass for their bad behavior feel very much like a thing of the past in a world still reeling from the influence of Trumpism and other such movements, and Campion’s movie works its leisurely way to a conclusion that seems designed to make an example of its charismatic but unsavory central figure. Compassion is afforded, but it’s the kind of compassion that might be expressed by putting a wounded animal out of its misery.

Campion’s writing and direction of this deceptively pastoral period drama is as flawless as might be expected from a filmmaker of her caliber; she blends the awe-inspiring landscape (stunningly photographed by Ari Wegner, with New Zealand’s breathtaking natural beauty doubling for the Wyoming badlands) with the quietly jarring strains of Jonny Greenwood’s superb score to reinforce the roiling tensions below the placid surface of the story, and shrewdly trusts our own preconceptions to keep us from seeing the obvious indications of an ending that is being set up for us right in plain sight.

The cast, too, is uniformly outstanding. Cumberbatch turns in a powerhouse performance that’s as boldly unsympathetic as it is unforgettable, carrying himself with a ramrod-straight bearing that is just affected enough to suggest he’s not all that he seems but defies you to call him out on it; deservedly, he’s high on the list of likely Best Actor contenders for the next Oscars. Also award-worthy are Plemons, whose quiet underplaying of the good-hearted George helps him steal almost every scene he’s in, and Smit-McPhee, whose Peter exudes a refreshingly contemporary understanding and wisdom while retaining just enough enigma to keep us guessing about his motives. Rounding out the main ensemble, Dunst earns both our sympathy and respect in a role that might easily have been overshadowed in the hands of a lesser actress.

“Power of the Dog” is unquestionably a great film, assembled by a proven master at the peak of her powers and augmented by impressive performances – but does that mean the Western still has something to offer in a world more “woke” than it was in the heyday of the genre? For all its artistry, it tells a subtle story – and a bleak one, at that, albeit one that leaves us with a somewhat conflicted sense of satisfaction. It’s likely to leave some viewers cold – especially fans of a genre known for action, adventure, and the reinforcement of traditional values. In this way, perhaps it’s better characterized as an “anti-Western.”

Whatever label you decide put on it, it deserves your attention.

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‘Passing’ is one of the year’s best films

Brimming with intense racial and sexual tension

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A scene from 'Passing.' (Screen capture via IMDB)

You wouldn’t think a quiet, 138-minute film centered on two women’s friendship, where the joking use of a racial epithet is more shocking than a gunshot, would imprint its images and ambiguities in your head. But that’s what “Passing,” director Rebecca Hall’s debut movie of the 1929 novel of the same name by Nella Larsen, does. It’s now in limited theatrical release and streaming on Netflix.

“Passing,” produced and written as well as directed by Hall, takes place in 1920s Harlem. It tells the story of Irene Redfield (Tessa Thompson) and Clare Kendry (Ruth Negga), two light-skinned Black women who were childhood friends.

They haven’t seen each other for years. Clare was raised by an alcoholic father. After he died, she was sent to live with her white racist aunts. She escapes from them, passes as white and marries John (Alexander Skarsgard), a white banker. They have a daughter. John has no idea that Clare is Black or that his daughter is biracial. Clare lives well. The couple travel. Their daughter goes to a school in Switzerland. Clare is good at passing. But John hates Black people.

Irene lives in a lovely townhouse with her handsome husband Brian (Andre Holland), who is Black and a doctor, and their charming sons. A maid helps her to clean and maintain the elegance of her home. She does volunteer work for the (fictional) Negro Welfare League.

Unlike Clare, Irene doesn’t pass as white. Except, occasionally. As she does, on the warm day, when she and Clare unexpectedly encounter each other at a posh Manhattan hotel after not having seen each other since their youth.

Clare is there because John has business in New York, and Irene, hot after a day of shopping, has stopped by for a refreshing spot of tea. Irene, at this moment, is like Clare, passing as white. Because, she knows, through unwritten Jim Crow, that she would be turned away if the establishment’s staff knew she was Black.

“Passing,” which is in black and white, is luminous! Hall has said in interviews that she shot it in black and white to reflect the films of the 1920s and 1930s. Hall has succeeded brilliantly. “Passing” is visually stunning.

The racial and sexual tension in “Passing” is stunning in a different sense.

As Clare and Irene sit, sipping tea and catching up, John, Clare’s husband comes by. At first glance, he seems like a nice, if clueless, white guy. Until, not realizing Clare is Black (thinking her complexion is olive), he jokingly greets her with a racial slur.

The epithet is as jarring as an unexpected snake hiss. As a moviegoer, you’re laughing and crying inside as you watch Irene laugh at John’s racial slur until she cries.

The story in “Passing” is told from Irene’s perspective. Often, we watch Clare and Irene gaze intently at each other. It feels as if they are attracted to each other.

But, true to the spirit of the novel on which the film is based and with the time in which  “Passing” is set, whether or how they were intimate isn’t made explicit.

At times, Irene believes that Clare could be having an affair with Brian. 

Despite the ambiguity, it is clear, though, that Irene and Clare have an intense friendship.

“Passing” won the U.S. Narrative Feature Jury Award at the 33rd LGBTQ film festival New Fest, “Variety” reported. The honor is well deserved. 

It is highly likely that Thompson and Negga will receive well-earned Oscar nominations for, respectively Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress.

Nella Larsen, an acclaimed Harlem Renaissance writer, and  “Passing” languished in obscurity for decades, after the novel was published to critical acclaim. 

Hall’s film makes Larsen’s work from nearly a century ago come alive in our time on the screen. See “Passing.” It’s one of the best films of the year. 

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