Toronto 2013, Day Two: Prisoners provides American genre thrills, while 12 Years A Slave gets the pundits bloviating
There’s no right or wrong way to attend a film festival, but it seems fair to assert that any American who comes to TIFF to watch nothing but high-profile American movies is—to put it kindly—not getting their money’s worth. Then again, sometimes a star-studded homegrown drama can be a nice festival palate cleanser, especially when the rest of your day is spent grappling with smaller, tougher, more esoteric fare. The English-language debut of Denis Villeneuve, who made the Oscar-nominated Incendies, Prisoners (Grade: B+) fits that bill nicely—though it’s not exactly a breezy genre distraction. Set in Pennsylvania, during the investigation of a child-kidnapping case, the film is conventional but almost nonstop gripping, even after its plotting takes a turn for the slightly ludicrous. A sense of impending doom seeps into the opening shot, in which an unsuspecting deer wanders into frame, the camera pulling back slowly to reveal the teenage hunter—father by his side—moving the animal into the crosshairs of his riffle.
As it turns out, these two aren’t the only ones on the prowl. Hours later, on the afternoon of a rainy Thanksgiving Day, two grade-school girls disappear. One of them is the daughter of the man from the first scene, a devout tough-love type played by Hugh Jackman, seething with intensity. Maybe too much intensity, actually: Burying all traces of his Wolverine-worthy charisma, the actor seems close to the edge from the start, which makes his eventual descent into blinding, bellowing rage less impactful. Better navigating a spectrum of emotions is Jake Gyllenhaal, who plays the investigating officer—a local hotshot detective who’s allegedly cracked every case he’s been assigned. Gyllenhaal lends this archetypal character an amusing irritability; his exasperation is basically the lone source of levity in what turns out to be a pretty relentlessly grim thriller.
Villeneuve crosscuts deftly between the efforts of his dueling protagonists, men united in their aims but divided by their methods. The police eventually nab a suspect, a mentally disabled man (Paul Dano) seen driving a suspicious van in the area, but they don’t have any evidence to keep him in custody. Consumed with paternal desperation, Jackman takes matters into his own hands; the subsequent scenes are disturbing not just for the brutality of their violence, but also for their allegorical power. (Jackman locks his silent captive in a cramped wooden box and slings a pillowcase over his head. Sound familiar?)
Prisoners is concerned with the relationship between ends and means, but not too deeply. It’s predominately a crackerjack mystery yarn, one that grows increasingly farfetched as it progresses but never quite loses its darkly magnetic pull. Working with the great cinematographer Roger Deakins, who lends this ugly material a seductive sheen, Villeneuve takes a heavy step into David Fincher territory: There are shades of Zodiac in the gorgeous nighttime photography and obsessive procedure and of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo in the implausible plotting. Prisoners also recalls the bleak crime dramas of Bong Jo-Hoon (Memories Of Murder, Mother), though it could have used a little more of those films’ ambiguity. In any case, the crowd I watched it with sat in awed, tense silence throughout—a mighty good sign that a thriller is doing its job. I might have to make room in my schedule for Enemy, another film directed by Villeneuve, starring Gyllenhaal, and showing at TIFF this year.
A half hour after Prisoners let out, I ducked into a late screening of a very different movie and experienced an almost polar-opposite reaction from the audience. MANAKAMANA (Grade: B), a repetitive but sometimes beguiling documentary produced by the directors of Leviathan, inspired waves of walk-outs. The impatience was somewhat understandable: A Wavelength selection screening in the less avant-friendly environs of the Lightbox, MANAKAMANA requires total submission to its conceptual methodology. Filmmakers Stephanie Spray and Pacho Velez mounted cameras inside the cable cars that provide access to the eponymous temple in Nepal. The entire film is a series of medium shots of the commuters—a father and son, college girls, women eating ice cream—as they travel up or down the mountain, the breathtaking terrain framed behind them. Though one T-shirt-clad teen insists that the round-trip takes 17 minutes, travel time seems to vary. Are the subjects aware of the camera? Some seem to deliberately avoid its lens, others may be performing for it. (And all but a few seem genuinely unsettled by the loud, mechanical grinding that occurs occasionally during the trip.) Time, most likely, is manipulated; though the directors create the illusion of an unbroken single shot, each landing of the cable car provides a cover of darkness in which they can cut.
Here and there, MANAKAMANA settles on a disarming moment: a married couple plainly unable to disguise its discontent, a lovely musical interlude, even a zoological punchline. But the film overstays its welcome; one too many times does that cable car begin its ascent or descent, to the point where the last few fades to black start to feel likes teases. Still, I found it less tedious than Closed Curtain (Grade: B-), the latest act of defiance from convicted Iranian auteur Jafar Panahi, who’s still under house arrest and still banned from making movies (though apparently his legal situation has somehow changed, in ways the picture doesn’t address.) Like This Is Not A Film, Closed Curtain takes place almost entirely within the director’s home. Unlike that film, it has a kind of loose fictional plot, in which a writer (Kambuzia Partovi, the film’s co-director) spars with a house intruder who comes to represent surrender/suicide. That may sound livelier than the film that was not a film, but without the meta trickery of its predecessor, Closed Curtain just begins to feel like a lesser (though more handsomely shot) variation. It’s nice to see Panahi keeping busy, of course, especially given that the main drive of this one is his fear of not being able to work anymore. But the finished product feels a bit like a restless throwaway, a film he made of compulsion to just make something. Someone, somehow, get this man out of captivity and back into the streets, like the heroines of his great, joyful Offside. —A.A. Dowd