Toronto International Film Festival 2018 Report Part 8: Smells Like TIFF Spirit

Hi guys. I’m filing these reviews at a late hour. I should be asleep. So I hope you will pardon the lack of preamble. If it’s any consolation, I have five reviews for you today instead of three or four, documenting the films I saw on Friday, September 14th. Some are a little more conventional than others, but all are written from the heart, as they always are. Can you believe I only have two more reports left before you don’t have to hear about TIFF for another year?

I know. I can’t believe it, either.

Asako I & II (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi)

One of the less talked about titles that played Cannes this year, Asako I & II is a modest film that seems a little outré due to the fact that it utilizes a doubling motif to explore a young woman’s relationship with her past self. It’s not played ironically, though one can see how it could’ve been. We’re primed to detect a whiff of irony whenever a film introduces doubles into the story. Here, though, the doubling is more heartbreaking than comic, because it forces Asako (Erika Karata) to remember a man she thought had left her for good. Masahiro Higashide plays the self-assured bad boy Baku first, who is quickly introduced when he marches up to Asako at first sight and plants a kiss on her lips. Love is in the air only briefly, though; one day, on the quest for new shoes, he disappears and never returns.

Higashide remains in the narrative, however, as a different character named Ryôhei. He meets Asako quite by chance, with the latter initially mistaking him for Baku. She eventually gets the mix-up sorted, and the two develop romantic feelings for one another. Ryôhei is not as churlish and confident as Baku, but he is well-intentioned and certainly more likeable. The two seem to be happy, until (unsurprisingly) Baku resurfaces, forcing Asako to make a snap decision that she could soon come to regret. How do you choose between two different men who look the same? Or, in Asako’s case, do you forsake the present for a quick return trip to an incomplete past?

I think it’s easy to underestimate the twist’s power, as it presents no hidden sleights of narrative hand, nor does it turn the film into some overwrought fantasy. But even though it only amounts to an either-or decision for Asako, the symbolic significance is hard to ignore. The way in which we navigate our complex past can yield a bountiful harvest, or it can starve us to the quick. This film shows us that no decision is unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and if we cannot leave the past behind, we are liable to make the future even worse. It’s a lesson Asako learns the hard way, leading to an ending of such heartrending melancholy that you leave the theatre rather stunned by the turn of events. How quickly can a seemingly light rom-com descend into something so existentially powerful!

Yes, my friends, this is the kind of film that sneaks up from behind and wedges into your mind. One of its only glaring deficits is its milquetoast characterization of Asako, who is sort of an empty vessel until her fateful encounter with her two lovers. Considering she is the main character, it’s a little unfortunate that her male co-star has the livelier role(s). Karata does make it count when she needs to, however, so it doesn’t become too big of a deal.

The Death and Life of John F. Donovan (Xavier Dolan)

I’m able to defend Xavier Dolan up to a point. I think his hyperactive style, unabashed love of mainstream music, and go-for-broke direction of his actors is an integral part of the queer artistic identity he conveys. His exuberant “muchness” strikes one heck of a chord when he lays everything on the line, tearing into the fabric of his own emotions so that we can understand the kind of person he is. Films like Laurence Anyways and Mommy demonstrate the unique pull of his queer artistic power; in those films, everything is heightened and stripped of nuance, and the effect borders on the unpleasant if you’re not used to those rhythms. Yet there is a naked honesty to all the fireworks and bravado. He knows how to expose vulnerabilities and show real affection for his characters, who are often revealed to be confused, afraid, and in need of the very love that he shows them.

The Death and Life of John F. Donovan has the characteristics of a Dolan, to be sure: intentionally overbearing performances, an aggressively mainstream soundtrack that runs the gamut from Adele to The Verve, and a sense of unbridled gratuity behind every sharp close-up or use of slo-mo. What it’s missing is warmth. I don’t know where it went—maybe it got lost in the editing room. Maybe it was tied up with Jessica Chastain’s cut storyline. I don’t know. But there is a sullenness here that throws Dolan off his game, best exemplified in a scene in which a grouchy journalist (Thandie Newton) is dressed down by Ben Schnetzer for not taking his narrative (i.e. corresponding with a closeted gay actor in his adolescence) seriously. The scene comes off as condescending, because really, why should a reporter care more about some navel-gazing young upstart than civil wars, poverty, famine, etcetera? Dolan lectures us that she (and, by extension, we) should, and then never adequately proves his point.

The dual nature of the story, which flits between Schnetzer’s youth (where he is played by a shrill Jacob Tremblay) and the short life of his celebrity idol (an unconvincing Kit Harington) also keeps you at a remove from both protagonists, as neither has the kind of depth we’re used to seeing in Dolan’s characters. The Schnetzer/Tremblay character, Rupert, is yet another thinly-veiled cipher for Dolan himself, embroiled in yet another hostile love-hate relationship with his mother (Natalie Portman, who looks desperate to be anywhere else than in the film).

Harington’s Donovan also has a matching maternal harridan (Susan Sarandon, garish) and so! much! angst! that doesn’t ring true. Also not ringing true is the letter-based correspondence between Rupert and Donovan, which is referenced repeatedly, and yet never amounts to anything substantial. Why would a busy Hollywood actor keep writing to a young child in England—a child he’s never met—when he can’t get his own life in order? Who knows. Somehow, Dolan thinks we’re supposed to unquestioningly believe in its plausibility, and that’s that.

There’s still enough earnestness here to appease Dolan diehards. The way he doubles down on the importance of a queer kinship between two sympathetic souls shows that he cares about the people he’s depicting, even if they’re less rounded than usual. What this needs is cohesion and a greater insight into the actions and outcomes he traces. And, most importantly, it needs far more heart than what is ultimately there. A Dolan film without the heart is about as disappointing as you can get.

Destroyer (Karyn Kusama)

Kidman could’ve shaved her head bald, and it wouldn’t have made any difference to the film’s overt listlessness and insistence that we take its po-faced worldview seriously. Set in the torrid Californian desert, Kidman plays a haggard cop named Erin Bell, who is thrust into a murder investigation as if by chance when a John Doe is found shot to death during her beat. The victim has markings on his neck which she recognizes as ones used by a criminal gang she once infiltrated. It appears the gang’s leader (Toby Kebbell) is back in town and looking for payback. That is, unless Bell can get to him first.

I’m not averse to police procedurals. I grew up reading detective fiction, and did a double major in criminology during my undergraduate studies. This is a genre that I can dig, and I usually do. Destroyer is something of an exception, and I think it really amounts to how dour the whole affair is. Kidman’s character is a boozy, distant loner whom no one particularly likes being around, especially her teenage daughter. She spends most of the film grimacing and glowering into space, recounting her failures in standard flashbacks that foist more narrative on us than we care to unpack. When she stops being passive, it’s usually to kick in someone’s teeth or fire bullets into the air. There’s either a flatlining of action or sudden lurches into graphic violence, with the middle occupied by the hazy tedium of the past. Karyn Kusama tries to package it up in an artistic compendium of noir-like grunginess, yet forgets to make it engaging.

I suppose I can concede Kidman has a decent go of it, seeing as she rarely gets to play against type nowadays. It’s nice to see that she’s willing to test her limits and dirty up her image, even if the end result is so uninteresting. It’s possible the gaunt makeup she wears limits her, as it’s not the most flattering of prosthetics. I’m more inclined to think, however, that she just doesn’t have a good enough script to warrant such a drastic transformation. If the story were actually good, then I think the performance would’ve excelled. Kidman would’ve had the grist for her mill and been able to take things to the next level. But, as it stands, the material she has is not really worthy of her talents, and so all she can do is trudge from scene to scene, looking pained and…old.

And don’t get me started about that farce of an ending. If there’s any film that doesn’t deserve to get all Malickian on you at the last minute, it’s this one. I’m just surprised more of my P&I audience didn’t burst out laughing at its ridiculousness.

Tell It to the Bees (Annabel Jankel)

Every bee has its day. Especially when that day involves rescuing a woman from her abusive husband after their child begs you to emerge from your hive. Then you get to swarm around the evil git so that mom can escape his clutches, and voila, you’ve become a pintsized little hero! I mean, why wouldn’t you choose to help a kid who has whispered his secrets to you day in and day out? Usually kids swat at you until you’re forced to sting them (and die). Rarely do you meet one that understands how to communicate with you. You naturally want to return the favor.

… No, I’m not going to review a film from the perspective of a bee, as tempting as it sounds. Nor am I going to make a stupid pun like “What a buzzzzzzkill!” I am a mature twenty-something, and do not partake in such tomfoolery. I am here to review Annabel Jankel’s Tell It to the Bees, and review it I shall. As you can see, though, it’s a bit hard to take it seriously when the climax literally involves semi-sentient bees acting as an angry deus ex machina, stopping the villain from doing harm because they apparently know exactly where to fly.

It’s very strange and very silly, and a move at odds with what is otherwise a respectable lesbian romance. There’s hardly a need for magic realism when you’ve got a strong foundation already. Did Todd Haynes’ Carol need bees to make its LGBTQ love story work? Did we need to see Harge battered down by a horde of raging insects while Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara puffed away at their cigarettes, smiling conspiratorially? This is a rhetorical question, by the way… as fun as it may sound…

Alright, alright. I’m losing my track. Look, this is a nice little film that takes a semi-probing view of same-sex relationships in a highly conservative era. That should be admired. The work from Holliday Grainger and Anna Paquin (her dodgy accent aside) is quite strong, neither of them trying to outdo the other. Even the child actor here, Gregor Selkirk, is a bearable presence. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel that this is all a bit too tidy, following the well-trod road of matching each conflict with its most obvious resolution (even when that resolution must involve an illegal abortion). Every arc is sketched out well in advance, and even when the ending tries to counter any sort of fan service, it’s still met with more of a shrug than a teary sigh.

Jankel, who is probably best known for helming that bonkers Super Mario Bros. film from the ‘90s, directs this agreeably; at times, even a little lyrically. She clearly admires the material, and there’s no reason why she shouldn’t. Unfortunately, her attempts at lyricism cannot hide the lack of nuance within the script, where the villains are alarmingly two-dimensional, the sexual politics polite at best (apart from maybe one semi-steamy love scene), and the metaphors gratingly uncomplicated. Then there are those bees, which seem to be flown in from a children’s picture book and play the most infantile role imaginable.

But hey, it could’ve been worse. They could’ve been wasps.

Her Smell (Alex Ross Perry)

Bless you, Elisabeth Moss, for being up for whatever insanity Alex Ross Perry concocts on your behalf. First it was the Persona-like downward spiral in Queen of Earth; now it’s no longer a spiral, but a full-on freefall into demonic possession in Her Smell. And you do it so well. You babble semi-coherently and sneer and torment every living soul around you, masticating the scenery with the most gleeful abandon I’ve seen from you yet. I’m in awe that you didn’t collapse from the exertion (or maybe you did, and we just don’t know about it).

Your take on Becky Something, riot grrrl extraordinaire, is brazen (and often repulsive), and for the first two-thirds of the film I questioned whether Perry was seeking to mock your character through the way he lets her sink into a mire of drug binges and unchecked mental illness, making us watch every painful moment. Maybe he sees all punk rock chicks as degenerate offshoots of Courtney Love. But then he lifts Becky up in the final two acts, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Release at last. Female solidarity wins the day.

I’m sure you feel this is a tricky film in your CV—one that you will be proud to show some people, but not others. I, too, feel it’s a devilishly demanding text, as raucous and immature and obnoxious as it can be at times. It takes a while to justify having to sit through all the self-destructive behavior Becky inflicts on herself, because no healthy person can enjoy watching someone deteriorate in real time. Even when that self-destruction is accompanied by some Twin Peaks-y background distortion whirring somewhere in the Great Beyond, beckoning toward an otherworldliness that you may not otherwise consider.

In the same way Brady Corbet’s Vox Lux tests your patience, Her Smell goes one step forward and outright dares you to keep that patience intact. But, you know, the trial by fire is worth it, because soon we hear you sing Bryan Adams’ “Heaven” in a scene that feels like a ritual cleansing. It is at this moment you know the storm is over, and that Perry has a plan in place. Becky is not going to die an undignified death, alone and unloved by the people she estranged. No, she’s going to soar. She’s going to take flight and rise above the darkness that once engulfed her.

Her Smell, as you very well know, Miss Moss, is a tale of sweet, sweet redemption. The line you draw from lost cause to rescued soul becomes one riveting journey, and taking it with you, one bumpy act at a time, is worth it all. Worth the pain, worth the ugliness, worth the weird voodoo magic—worth it all. Calling this film “good” or “bad” is almost immaterial, because you’re the one who takes it to the most exciting of places. Even if this never sees the light of day (it’s still seeking distribution as of this writing), at least you know you’ve accomplished a great feat in making us come to love a person we never thought we could love.

Toronto International Film Festival: Next Time

As the festival neared its conclusion on Saturday the 15th, I took in two more Cannes titles (including the current Palme d’Or winner), as well as two debut features from lesser-known directors. How did they fare? You’ll have to stick around for just a little while longer to find out.

Do you think you have the stamina to watch five complete films in a day? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

The Toronto International Film Festival ran from September 6^th to the 16^th.