True Grit,

My previous opinions on this blog can attest to my cagey relationship with the Coen Brothers. Some films—like The Big Lebowski—stand out as undeniably great, while others—anything from Miller’s Crossing to No Country for Old Men—seem a little too content with their supposed perfection for me to find them genuinely good. True Grit, though, appears to demonstrate a new direction for the Coen Brothers. I remember watching A Serious Man and thinking the only character in the film for which the Coens felt any semblance of genuine interest was the son. If he was the only character they cared about, why wasn’t he the focus of the film?

In True Grit—to which, I will readily admit, I was drawn because honestly who doesn’t want to see Jeff Bridges in everything at this point—the Coens manage to construct a film around a character for whom they genuinely care. The catch is that that character isn’t Bridges’ Rooster Cogburn; instead, it’s Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld), the fourteen years aged Old West control freak out for revenge.

Mattie manages and propels the narrative, and for two hours True Grit never misses a beat. The story builds gently to its moving crescendo. The film takes its time, never folding back onto eye-rolling irony (again, how clever) or the cute, winking cuts that characterize their other films. The narrative of True Grit moves forward without any sense of the Coens’ Kubrickian disdain for the world of the film itself, which crystallizes in a perfection that some admire and others, like myself, can’t stand. Cogburn, too, doesn’t decay into the kind of personage into which you’d expect the Coens to transform him. On the sidelines, Matt Damon’s absurdly straight-laced Texas Ranger La Boeuf emerges out relatively unscathed by Joel and Ethan’s infinitely irritating irreverence, while Josh Brolin manages a deliciously rough and vile Western villain.

Here in the West, too, the Coen’s persistent and enjoyable interest in the bizarre—sometimes the downright ugly and appalling—finds a comfortable home in the mythology of our beloved frontier. From the strange doctor riding the Indian territories wearing a bearskin, to the sideshow-high forehead on a particularly short member of Lucky Ned Pepper’s outlaw gang, there’s always something to glance askew at. But in the weirdness of the Western, the Coens get tamed without losing their balls.

There’s more than a little of my bias here: I love Westerns, and I’m glad that the Coen Brothers saw fit to make a genuine Western as opposed to infuse their own irritating pseudo-stylistics into a Western formula, like they did in No Country for Old Men. What’s masterful about True Grit—and what, to me at least, is entirely new about it—is its tenderness. It comes out not only in Rooster’s tenderness for Mattie, or Mattie’s for him, but in the feel of the film itself: the smooth, round light that shines through the windows of the West; or how big and starry the sky looks, or, most movingly, when the Coens finally return to the beauty of rear-projection at the film’s climax. The melancholy of the film’s finale, too, which shows the West’s descent into an Americana traveling circus, is entirely new to the Coen Brothers. It all comes out like a love letter—something I never knew they could write.

Never Let Me Go (limited September 15)

Music video director Mark Romanek adapts the first Kazuo Ishiguro novel since 1993′s The Remains of the Days. Going from Jay-Z’s 99 Problems to a high literature is an odd transition no doubt, but, judging from the trailer, he might bring to the film the visual flair that the Merchant Ivory literary adaptations of the 80′s and 90′s lacked. The film is populated by a renowned but not haughty cast of Carey Mulligan (abandon Shia LeBeouf, for godsakes), Keira Knightley, and Happy Go Lucky‘s brilliant Sally Hawkins.

The Town (September 17)

Wide-releases in September don’t get much better than this. Ben Affleck’s follow-up to the surprisingly powerful Gone, Baby, Gone returns again to Eastern Massachusetts (which was portrayed gloomily but perfectly by Affleck before). With excellent casting – Jon Hamm finally stepping out of the 60′s and on to the screen, Jeremy Renner post-Hurt Locker, and the always reliably crooked Chris Cooper – a compelling thriller structure and the potential of the plot not tripping over itself in the third act like Baby, this could be the film of the year.

Wall Street 2: Money Never Dies (September 24)

I want to not promote this movie because of Shia LeBeouf, but, despite my belief that he is overused and untalented and undeserving of Carey Mulligan’s affections, I have to admit it’s a fairly inspired use of him here, although who overlooked Joseph L-G? Much has already been said about the perfect timing of this movie and of Oliver Stone’s much awaited return to form, and I won’t repeat it here (having just done exactly that). And watch out for Josh Brolin, genius.

Waiting for “Superman” (limited September 24)

I hate the presumably legal “quotation.” We’re not going to mistake this for the sequel to Superman Returns, which, if it ever comes out, should be avoided like the plague. Getting past this negativity, let me give this little, important documentary some buzz for our couple dozen readers: My friend saw this at Sundance and said it was the best documentary she had seen in years. Unfortunately, it merely adds to the laundry list of needed national reforms – but education, of course, is a fucking crucial one. Can you picture an even dumber generation? Fortunately, Shia LeBeouf is not approached by the documentarians for his opinion on the subject.

The Social Network (October 1)

When it was announced a Facebook movie was in the making and would be directed by David Fincher, I was puzzled. It seemed as implausible and far-fetched as a Monopoly movie produced by Spielberg. I wasn’t aware of the scandals that erupted out of its creation, which, if you go by the trailer, seem pretty intriguing. I thought it was frivolous at the time, but, really, thinking about it, Facebook is one of the most interesting and important inventions of the last decade. By putting the entire social experience of college [and high school] online, it dominates our culture and shapes our collective unconscious. This is Fincher’s chance to retreat from the Academy’s good graces and make up to his fans for the ill-conceived Benjamin Button.

Inside Job (limited October 15)

Here’s a real thriller. Turns out the economic meltdown was easily avoidable, if only Matt Damon narrated in our heads and not just in scandal-docs. Director Charles Ferguson (the excellent No End in Sight) interviews everyone from George Soros to prostitute-enthusiast Eliot Spitzer to uncover the truth and get us angrier than ever. It’s the last in a year of economic documentaries (Casino Jack, Freakonomics, We Want Your Money) but may be one worth waiting for, as it was voted best film of Cannes.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pt. 1 (November 19)

The movies have been progressively getting better, Emma Watson’s been developing nicely, and the last book is easily the best. It’s also in 3D, and one can hardly wait to see Ron Weasley’s raging erection popping out of the screen.

Black Swan (limited December 3)

After seeing that trailer, how can you resist? Without being sure whether it’s a gripping work of art or the hokiest guilty pleasure of the season, I was thoroughly mesmerized. More Requiem for a Dream/The Fountain in style than The Wrestler, Darren Aronofsky still considers it a companion piece to his last, seeing as both are centered in worlds that require demanding performances, though he seems to have thrown out the Dardennesque gritty realism for psychological nightmarish fantasy. Almost all reviews coming out of Venice have suggested the film displays Arofonsky’s distinct talent, though the Hollywood Reporter claims it is indeed a “guilty pleasure, a gorgeously shot, visually complex film whose badness is what’s so good about it.” This is not to be missed – it is a film that will be loved and hated, but will, most importantly, incite discussion.

True Grit (December 25)

I’ll say that I’m both turned off by the fact this is a remake of a famous Western and such fodder for next year’s awards ceremonies – I mean, come on, it’s the Coen Bros., it’s a remake of a famous film that won John Wayne best Actor, it stars academy favorites Josh Brolin, Matt Damon, and last year’s winner Jeff Bridges, and it opens on fucking Christmas. Of course, that’s no reason to believe it won’t be fabulous.

Another Year (limited December 29)

English director Mike Leigh (Secrets & Lies, Topsy Turvy, Vera Drake, Happy Go Lucky) is nothing if not consistent. He reunites here with Turvy’s Jim Broadbent and Drake’s Imelda Staunton for an ensemble comedy that looks at the loneliness and narrowing options that come with growing old. Reviews have been stellar, but that’s no surprise.

NOTE: I’m upset that these films that are all either American or English, but that’s how it goes this season, I suppose. Julian Schnabel’s Miral is a letdown, as is ZImou’s remake of Blood Simple, and Biutiful, after Babel, I can’t muster enthusiasm for.

The Big Lebowski, dir. Joel Cohen (1998)

Bowling involves a straight shot down a smooth wooden lane. It’s a mechanized ritual; mediated by the apparatus that replaces the pins (perfectly), the chute that returns your ball. Nothing confused about it. The Dude (Jeff Bridges), Lebowski, a California tumbleweed leftover from an era when your opinion, man, was respected; Walter (John Goodman), Vietnam vet who, though the haze of his profanities, is obviously haunted by the ineffectiveness of his sacrifice; and the peripheral Donnie (Steve Buscemi), transparently born to die as a narrative cop-out—but who wasn’t? Together they form a bowling triumvirate: straight shots, the three of them, focused on rolling a heavy ball down a lacquered runway from which they never take off.

The Dude has a picture of Richard Nixon bowling over his home bar: it’s a suggestion, an intelligent, provocative suggestion, to be sure, but only that. Everything that comes together to form The Big Lebowski is powerful because it avoids direct, positive, hollow political statements, preferring to embed them as themes in the film’s masterfully confused narrative, using the Dude as a prism through which the landscape of the early ‘90s is visible with all its complicated political and historical baggage.

The Dude, we know, has his rug pissed on and wants due compensation. The rug-pissers got the wrong Lebowski: they were after the big Lebowski—wealthy, self-made, wheelchair-bound, the big Lebowski is a Dick Cheney lookalike who spurts Republican catchphrases against “free handouts”  and announces, at every turn, that the Dude’s revolution has failed. He helps kids in Watts—that “bitter pocket of reality,” according to Thomas Pynchon—go to college.  Watts, the place where the big Lebowski’s vision of L.A. can’t support itself—and now he’s taking hold of even that.

In a crystalline narrative turn, the big Lebowski hires the Dude to find his kidnapped wife—shades of General Sternberg in The Big Sleep–and the plot becomes dense and unintelligible, featuring luminaries of the L.A. art scene, nihilist pornographers including Ben Gazzara, false handoffs, and child conception. Just as Bogie was a holdover of depression-era decency in an America rich with wartime industry and dizzy with atomic bombs, the Dude’s chunky plastic sunglasses signal the relativism of an optimistic ‘60s lefty eclipsed by Reaganite yuppiedom and Gulf War righteousness.  As a detective, the Dude is suitably carefree, relying on hunches and suspicions. Epiphanies are few and far-between, but the Dude seems to make sense of it all in a fragmentary, half-baked in a way not so unlike Bogie, either. The Dude stitches it all together himself, and he has to. The Big Lebowski is proficient in denying any redemptive revelation. The mystery, in a sense, is never solved: there’s no way to make sense of it all. Pynchon comes to mind, again: always the 49^th day, the Vineland dream overrun by highway patrolmen. Lines aren’t drawn in the sand, there’s no shallow paean to Altamont: just perpetual circles of confusion, the unwavering power of history—even in L.A.—and through it all, the Dude abiding always.

Walking out of the theater after seeing a film with a satisfying ending is like walking out of a restaurant stuffed: the last thing you want to do is go back in for another meal.  As a filmmaker, it seems in my best interest to end my films in such a way that the audience craves to go back in again.

I’ve consistently found that the first time through many of the films I’ve come to love, I walk out scratching my head thinking “really? what’s the big deal?”  That’s the key.

It wasn’t until I walked out of the Coen Brothers’ A Serious Man (2009) that I firmly grasped the power of this sort of ending.

An ending that’s tied up nicely in a bow leaves the viewer with nothing to do.  Everyone’s alive; mankind will survive to fight another day; they got married.  An ending with ambiguity allows the viewer to ask themselves the crucial question: “What did I miss?”  The answer? Everything.

The final thought contextualizes the entire film.  It provides that little bit of knowledge that makes all of the preceding scenes ring true.  In the particular case of A Serious Man, it introduces the relationship between deus ex machina and coincidence.  As Larry Gopnik finally receives his tenure, a tornado threatens the life of his first son.  The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.

This idea is only introduced in this final scene.  There is no tornado striking down young Danny Gopnik, no tearful funeral, no resolution from Larry to go to Temple more often, simply the two situations.  Throughout the film, we have aligned ourselves with Larry in his growing cynicism of Judaism, but this final scene is just enough to instill a heaping dose of doubt.

Are you serious?

A Serious Man, dir. Ethan & Joel Coen (2009)

The Coen brothers have been celebrated in the United States as filmmakers of reliability, intelligence, and, in a certain sense, esotericism. This means that their films are understood to be not only good, but also smart, and that their films are decidedly “not for everyone.” Liking films by the Coen brothers, furthermore, connotes that one is a person of good taste. This is how the very experience of going to see a Coen brothers picture should be understood: by its status as a kind of iterable event which is valued due to the status of the Coens as filmmakers who are unquestionably “good.” In this sense, the Coen brothers are representative of the pervasive decay of criticism, in that all arguments against them can be deflected with the use of sheer opinion: if you don’t like the Coens, their films are “not for you,” which in turn means that you are not a person of good taste and thus not reliable or intelligent. Presumably, you should be next door, watching The Box and eating popcorn.

A Serious Man, then, is the latest in the line of “good” films by the Coen brothers, of which the most well-known are Fargo and No Country For Old Men. Perhaps the most controversial is their previous film, Burn After Reading, and the best is The Big Lebowski. Too much time has passed, it seems, for anyone to challenge the cultural memory of Fargo; and The Big Lebowski is a truly great film. There are technical reasons why No Country For Old Men simply doesn’t work, and the failures of Burn After Reading are so blatant that it seems useless to indulge them here. A Serious Man–which presents itself a micro-chronicle of the Jewish experience in America during the second half of the twentieth century–is the first film to accurately contain, in its construction as a film, an accurate representation of the experience of going to see a film by the Coen brothers.

The film sets a morally gray and ominous tone by beginning with a parable about two peasants who (perhaps) mistake a man for a demon. In their confusion, the woman stabs the elderly visitor (demon?). As he leaves their home, the man claims that they are now cursed for their act. This parable could also be a case of narrative atavism, wherein the cursed couple are in fact the ancestors of Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg), and thus responsible for the “bad luck” about which he whines throughout the film proper. Gopnik is a professor of physics in the Midwest. The year is 1967—before the storm, the Coen’s make painfully obvious, of 1968. He is beset by increasing burdens, what appears to be never ending bad luck: his wife leaves him for a man curiously reminiscent of Tim Robbins’ character in High Fidelity, his kids don’t give a shit, he has an uncomfortably macho-neighbor (shades of American Beauty, here), he’s stressed about his ongoing tenure review, he has a really annoying brother. He’s kicked out of his house and has to move into a motel called the Jolly Roger. Life is tough, and Larry knows it: when he’s not saying “why me” out-loud he’s just bursting into tears.

The Coens don’t seem to care about anything other than whether or not something can be laughed at—which, when you think about it the way they do, means that anything is good for a laugh. In this light, couldn’t the film itself be a parody of that which it presents, rendering it a successful comedy and ensuring that, on the contrary, the Coen’s know how unbearable Larry is and—don’t you see?—that’s the joke! Fine, fine, this could be true. But isn’t such a maneuver, which is effectively a parody themselves as cliché, unfavorable in and of itself? The cynicism of such a film—through what would be so subtle a parody as to make parody itself inseparable from realism?—would mean that the Coens are only interested in the cliché of the whiney Jew, thus making the film itself fundamentally uninteresting. Even in this defense of the film, it would be hard to find anything to celebrate.

Yet the film, constructed from Larry’s point of view, creates a narrative that constantly wonders: why is everyone else so crazy, so intent on doing me harm, when I’m so normal? Can’t these crazies see what’s really going on? It is in this sense that Larry’s experience becomes analogous to the viewer’s: what’s so wrong with you that you don’t see what’s right—that this is a great film? For the very act of “seeing a Coen brothers film” has, embedded within it, a statement against all those who don’t go see Coen brothers films. It’s an unbearably smug situation to find yourself in—and an unbearable way to construct a film.