“Quartet”

Four stars

Starring: Maggie Smith, Tom Courtenay, Billy Connolly, Pauline Collins, Michael Gambon, Sheridan Smith

Rating: PG-13, and rather stupidly, for brief strong language

Strong ensemble cast highlights gentle drama about second chances

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Music fills almost every frame of “Quartet,” whether created vicariously by this delightful story’s many talented characters, or delivered via Dario Marianelli’s evocative score, as a means to augment a reflective or dramatic moment.

Dustin Hoffman’s thoroughly engaging directorial debut, working from Ronald Harwood’s adaptation of his own stage play, is another charming — if occasionally bittersweet — reminder that life need not end at 60, 70 or even 80. We’ve seen quite a few such films recently, and while it’s not true that Maggie Smith has been in all of them, she certainly dominates this one.

And that’s no small thing, given the cluster of scene-stealers with whom she shares the screen.

She stars as Jean Horton, a once-celebrated opera vocalist fallen on hard times, whose career is naught but a fading memory; she now must swallow her pride and accept government-supported lodging at Beecham House, a retirement home for musicians. But we don’t meet her right away; Harwood first introduces us to the celebratory warmth and magic of Beecham itself, which echoes morning to night with the rich sounds of pianos, strings, woodwinds and quite a few other orchestral instruments, along with plenty of singing.

Beecham’s residents are a bit more a-flutter than usual, because they’ll soon be performing in the retirement home’s annual fundraiser, timed to celebrate the birthday of famed opera composer Giuseppe Verdi. The event is being helmed by the imperious Cedric Livingston (Michael Gambon), a fussy, fusty martinet who lounges about in day robes and barks commands like a traffic cop.

Contrasting Cedric is Reginald (Tom Courtenay), a calm, quiet and emotionally withdrawn scholar who gives occasional lessons in opera history to local teenagers. Harwood grants us a glimpse of one such session, and it’s utterly enchanting; we expect poor Reggie to be overwhelmed by these kids, but in fact his gentle but authoritative delivery holds their attention — and ours — as he considers the intriguing similarities between opera and rap.

Reggie’s best friend is Wilf (Billy Connolly), a sly, randy goat forever trying to make time with Beecham’s much younger doctor/administrator, Lucy Cogan (Sheridan Smith). Actually, Wilf is equal-opportunity; he also flings passes at his peers and the various nurses and staff members. One suspects that he wouldn’t quite know what to do if somebody took him up on such an amorous offer … then again, he’d clearly have a good time working it out.

Reggie and Wilf customarily share their meals with Cissy (Pauline Collins), a bright-eyed, effervescent bundle of energy who — sadly — is beginning to tiptoe down the road toward dementia. Sometimes we see the woman who must have captivated audiences as a performer: quite bubbly and flirtatious. Then, unexpectedly, she simply disappears into another region, often a fragment of her past pretending to be the here and now.

Collins handles this delicate role superbly. At first, we assume Cissy is merely absent-minded; we then realize that she spends far too much time enclosed within ear buds, wholly absorbed by the “somewhere else” that music seems to transport her.

Despite the obvious propensity for galloping egos, harmony reigns in Beecham … at least, until Jean shows up.

Smith’s arrival at this facility is a masterpiece of silent drama, with poor Jean flinching at every new sight and sound, during the drive up the grounds, like a frightened bird being stalked by some unseen predator. In fairness, this could be the usual initial reaction; Reggie, Wilf and Cissy might have been just as apprehensive, back in the day, before adjusting to what has become a comfortable routine.

Jean, however, isn’t ready to be agreeable; she isn’t even willing to socialize, insisting that her meals be delivered to her room. Worse yet, she has contentious “history” with Reggie, who is furious to learn of her arrival, angrier still that Dr. Cogan didn’t warn him about it. Details are slow to come, but this much is immediately obvious: Somewhere along the way, Jean broke his heart. And time has not healed that particular wound.

To Cedric, though, Jean’s presence is the answer to a prayer. Years and years ago, Reggie, Jean, Wilf and Cissy shared the stage during a still-celebrated opera production; having them together again, reviving the performance that cemented their collective fame, means being able to charge premium prices for the upcoming gala … and therefore increases the chances of a box-office take large enough to keep Beecham afloat.

Alas, this proves unlikely not only because of Reggie’s hostility, but also because Jean has abandoned singing. Performance stress and competition with her peers — one of whom, the regal Anne Langley (Gwyneth Jones), also resides at Beecham — prompted Jean to flee, almost in terror, from the demands of her own career. But this isn’t something she can admit to anybody, and thus she behaves with waspish aloofness toward everybody else in the retirement community.

And as we well know from “Gosford Park,” “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel,” eight Harry Potter movies and three seasons (and counting!) of television’s “Downton Abbey,” nobody can deliver a tart line better than Maggie Smith. Jean’s frosty jabs are to die for.

They’re also a self-defense mechanism, and of course we understand this immediately. The uplifting, resuscitating power of music notwithstanding, Beecham House can’t completely conceal what it actually is: the final curtain call for these troupers. Many (most?) of these people are present because they’ve already lost husbands, wives and lovers: the people who’d be caring for them elsewhere, under ideal circumstances.

Farewells obviously are a constant occurrence, and Harwood doesn’t let us forget that, either.

The softly developing drama unfolds in a rhythmic manner, Hoffman often interrupting — or punctuating — intimate encounters with exuberant rehearsals or spontaneous recitals. Harwood uses Jean’s character to stress his story’s key moral: Some of life’s cruel twists cannot be changed, as with Cissy’s deepening dementia. But our self-imposed constraints — withdrawal, apprehension, fear — can be overcome … and should be.

And we marvel at the cleverness with which Harwood has developed these four characters. Reggie initially seems the wise one, but in fact he’s shackled by his own bitterness; we eventually recognize the long-suppressed pain that fills his eyes and constricts his movements, once Jean appears. The flip, seemingly superficial Wilf actually is the perceptive nurturer; pay close attention to the way Connolly hovers protectively over Cissy, or the understated camaraderie that always cuts through Reggie’s hardened exterior.

Cissy, in turn, remains this group’s luminous heart, despite her tendency to drift. The mere thought of completely losing her actual self is shattering. Collins’ performance is every bit as subtle, Cissy’s emotional unpredictability every bit as compelling, as Smith’s handling of Jean.

Hoffman’s directorial approach is perhaps too leisurely, or Harwood’s screenplay a bit too sparse; the core quartet and primary supporting characters — Cedric, Dr. Cogan — obviously would have held audiences rapt during a live stage production, but this film would benefit from opening up, to allow more time with Beecham’s other assorted residents and staff members.

Be sure to linger during the closing credits, as now-and-then photos confirm that Hoffman filled Beecham House with celebrated talents who’ve led long and glorious stage and opera careers.

It’s the perfect coda to a thoroughly charming little drama.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“Snitch”

3.5 stars

Starring: Dwayne Johnson, Barry Pepper, Susan Sarandon, Jon Bernthal, Michael Kenneth Williams, Rafi Gavron, Melina Kanakaredes, Nadine Velazquez, Benjamin Bratt

Rating: PG-13, for violence and drug content

Dwayne Johnson adds dramatic heft to this ruthless cautionary tale

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Despite what’s suggested by the publicity art, “Snitch” is not another shallow action flick, but instead a grim, thoughtful and quite tense drama about an honest man’s foolish and extremely dangerous descent into the forbidding world of narco-trafficking.

It’s also an impressive step forward for star Dwayne Johnson, mostly known until now for, well, shallow action flicks. Until this moment, his notion of “playing against type” meant silly comedies and family-friendly adventures along the lines of “Tooth Fairy” and “Journey 2: The Mysterious Island.” His work here is in another league entirely, demonstrating acting chops that few would have expected.

Don’t expect Johnson to bust heads and wreak havoc, the way he has done since TV wrestling shows granted access to the likes of “The Scorpion King” and the remake of “Walking Tall.” Writers Justin Haythe and Ric Roman Waugh go for credible drama here, and while the results certainly fall short of, say, “Traffic,” Waugh — also serving as director — ably delivers a believable cautionary tale along the lines of “Midnight Express.”

Life-changing disaster arrives in the blink of an eye, as this film begins, when 18-year-old Jason (Rafi Gavron) foolishly accepts delivery of a package, as a “favor” to a friend, knowing full well that the box is filled with illicit drugs. The thing is, Jason never quite agrees to this scheme, but he does sign for the package. And then he opens it, at which point he’s busted in a police sting.

The “friend” rolls over on him immediately, and suddenly Jason faces a mandatory minimum sentence of 10 years in a federal prison. His only avenue toward earlier release would involve deliberately setting up other friends and classmates, perhaps even fabricating evidence — against people he’s not even sure do drugs — and that’s an act of betrayal he’s not willing to commit.

Jason’s estranged father, John (Johnson), is beside himself. Although long divorced from Jason’s mother, Sylvie (Melina Kanakaredes), John still cares deeply for his son. He’s also a respected and well-connected businessman in his American heartland community — with Shreveport, La., standing in for an unspecified Missouri city — and thus secures a meeting with U.S. Attorney Joanne Keeghan (Susan Sarandon, sublime as always), an ambitious political animal known as the “dragon lady” by cops who work with her.

Initially viewing John as little more than a nuisance, Keeghan reflexively points to the quid-pro-quo nature of the mandatory-minimum sentencing laws. (Sarandon delivers this somewhat condescending lecture with just enough smarm to make it sound like a campaign speech … clearly some intentional shading on her part, and on the director’s.) With Jason unwilling to “play ball,” she insists, her hands are tied.

Desperate for alternatives, John rashly offers to ferret out some drug dealers himself, a gesture immediately viewed with considerable concern by veteran DEA agent Billy Cooper (Barry Pepper, excellent in this strong supporting role). Smelling possible, publicity-laden opportunity — with no risk to her own career — Keeghan accepts this proposal.

After all, John is the perfect plant: He’s an established entrepreneur who runs a trucking firm, a business model known to be threatened in this uncertain economy. Long-haul semis are an ideal cover for drug smuggling, which would make John attractive to … whomever he’s able to find and persuade.

Thing is, though, John isn’t merely a divorced father trying to repair a too-long-dormant relationship with his near-adult son. He’s also second-time married, with a devoted wife (Nadine Velazquez, as Annalisa) and young daughter: a guy with far too much to lose. And that’s the rub: Given this film’s ominous, gritty atmosphere, we know full well that once John embarks on this path, there’s no going back.

And, quite likely, no fairy-tale outcome.

Worse yet, John doesn’t merely endanger himself and his own two families. Wanting access to the criminal underworld, he also involves one of his employees: Daniel (Jon Bernthal), an ex-con and two-time loser who is genuinely trying to put his life back on track, at least long enough to get his own family out of a gang-infested neighborhood before his young son is seduced into joining it.

Bernthal brings fascinating duality to his character. We feel for him even more than John, in part because Daniel genuinely understands the stakes, having escaped “the life” with the best of intentions. John buys Daniel’s participation with a fat wad of cash, of course failing to mention the actual circumstances of this scheme.

And Daniel can’t help himself. Although trying to better himself, he’s still a hard, dangerous man in his own right … and that much money is irresistible to somebody trying to transcend his circumstances. His eventual surrender — his reluctant willingness to help John — is a genuinely heartbreaking moment.

Nor will it be the last.

Waugh and Haythe’s script is taut, tense and rigorously real-world. This isn’t a cartoon, where heroes dodge hails of gunfire. People who get shot, die; beatings result in hospitalization. John very nearly gets killed during his initial, half-assed attempt to infiltrate the bad part of town.

I’m also fascinated by the parallel structure that Waugh and Haythe work into their story, notably with respect to the children various men struggle to protect. John wants to free his son from prison, while also being mindful of the fresh danger being introduced to his second family. Daniel prays for the means to keep his son, more or less the same age as John’s daughter, from the influence of gangbangers.

And, on the other end of the spectrum, we note that drug cartel oligarch Juan Carlos “El Tope” Pintera (Benjamin Bratt, quietly lethal), enjoying an aristocratic life in the best part of town, dotes on his own, similarly little boy.

Waugh never strays from this story’s coldly authentic atmosphere, even during a climactic confrontation that exposes the full extent of his hero’s vulnerability. Johnson, in turn, brings considerable heft to his ordinary-guy character; his stand-out scene comes during a visiting-hours session with his son, when John realizes that Jason has been assaulted … and we see, in Johnson’s eyes, the horrible implications that could be concealed within that word.

Gavron is just as good here: Jason’s terrified, shamed expression, in turn, offers proof of John’s worst fears.

This film claims, as it opens, to be “inspired by true events,” in this case a January 1999 PBS “Frontline” piece — also titled “Snitch” — that profiled people given the Hobson’s choice of becoming informants or going to jail. The news story, no surprise, focused on how mandatory minimum sentencing and conspiracy provisions have, in many cases, rewarded the guiltiest and punished the less guilty (or more naïve).

Pretentions toward real-world authenticity often are greeted by skeptical smirks these days, but Waugh and Haythe deserve considerable credit for effectively straddling the line. Clearly, these are fictitious characters navigating a writer’s concept of actual fact, but at the same time we recognize the genuine stakes involved, and understand the object lessons at play.

Bottom line: We are well advised to avoid getting caught in this particular set of circumstances.

Not a bad take-home, for a modest little B-drama.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“Amour”

Two stars

Starring: Emmanuelle Riva, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Isabelle Huppert, Alexandre Tharaud, William Shimell

Rating: PG-13, for dramatic intensity, painful intimacy, brief profanity and fleeting nudity

Strong performances are buried beneath insufferable directorial flourishes

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

However impressive Emmanuelle Riva’s starring role in “Amour” — and her work transcends mere words such as brave and raw — the film itself is a colossal yawn.

At all times, and in every possible way, writer/director Michael Haneke refuses to grant access to these characters; they’re little more than two-dimensional ciphers. Dialogue is sparse, Haneke often preferring the intimate intensity of searching gazes amplified by extreme close-ups. He and cinematographer Darius Khondji also favor faraway compositions, with people occupying only a small portion of an otherwise quiet and static room.

Haneke holds, at great length, on the most mundane behavior — unpacking groceries, donning clothing, eating meals — to a point well beyond aggravation. This really isn’t a film, or a least not a narrative in the conventional sense: more a lengthy tone poem or mood piece.

The wafer-thin story could be scrawled on a postcard: Retired music teachers Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant) and Anne (Riva) are enjoying their twilight years in a spacious city apartment laden with culture: books, music, a piano. She suffers a sudden stroke, then in time endures a second, much more crippling one; she declines before her husband’s eyes. And ours.

He insists on caring for her, coping as best he can. Which, ultimately, isn’t too well.

That’s all, folks.

So yes, fine: Haneke’s emphasis on the routine and commonplace underscores the degree to which Anne finds it harder and harder to accomplish any of the thousand-and-one little tasks that we take for granted each day. Dressing, eating, moving across a room. Going to the bathroom.

But all this would mean more — and become more poignant — if we had the slightest clue about this couple, prior to this tragedy. They appear to have done well professionally; money isn’t an issue. But did they get along? Were they satisfied with living through the artistic successes of students who went on to become famous? Are they kind and honorable? Do their deserve our sympathy?

They have one child: an adult daughter, Eva (Isabelle Huppert), who appears to have married unhappily. Her personal life is sketched even more superficially, her relationship with her parents strained at best, possibly even estranged. She and her father talk like casual back-fence neighbors, rather than intimates. We’ve no idea why. At best, Eva behaves like a self-centered dolt; at worst, she could be actively insensitive. Impossible to be sure.

Huppert’s performance is brittle and clumsy, as if she’s trying to fabricate behavior on the spot, rather than having studied a script and rehearsed a part.

These people are so superficial, their lives so claustrophobic — we spend the entire film within the rooms of this apartment — that Haneke’s dry, leaden touch minimizes the very emotional intensity we should be experiencing. It’s almost as if Haneke and Riva are working against each other, with the director undercutting, minimizing and muting his lead actress’ achingly powerful performance.

Yes, fleeting moments are unexpectedly powerful, and — as the narrative progresses — Haneke imbues this apartment with an unsettling atmosphere of creepy tension that strongly echoes Roman Polanski’s “Repulsion,” wherein Catherine Deneuve slowly went mad within the walls of her self-imposed apartment prison. But Haneke’s snapshots of emotional brilliance inevitably are undone by prolonged stretches of … nothing.

Then, too, there’s the mystery of this story’s prologue, and the questions raised by the emergency crew that removes a barricade in order to enter the apartment. Barricaded, from the outside? Say what?

This, actually, is where the saga concludes; the story then unfolds as an extended flashback.

Anne suffers her first stroke while she and Georges share a meal; she simply freezes, her expression blank, as if all the inner synapses have failed to fire. Unable to rouse her, his concern mounting by the moment, Georges prepares to call a doctor. But then, just as suddenly, Anne is back, utterly unaware of the missing few minutes.

He wants her examined anyway; pride and defiance chase each other across Riva’s expressive face as Anne objects. He apparently perseveres; some period of time passes, and she returns home after unsuccessful (botched?) medical intervention, her entire right side now paralyzed. (It should be mentioned that Haneke appears to take a rather dim view of the French health care system.)

They adjust to this new reality, Anne growing more frustrated by what she’s no longer able to do or enjoy, Georges increasingly troubled by her unwillingness to cope.

They entertain one unexpected visitor: a former student (Alexandre Tharaud) now turned concert pianist, who takes a chance and just “drops in.” The atmosphere is tense, uncomfortable; the visit is short. When he later sends them one of his CDs, Anne cannot listen to it, apparently reminded too much of what she’s no longer able to do at a piano.

Then, precisely at the midpoint of this 127-minute slog, one scene cuts to the next and whoosh … suddenly Anne is in bed, now infirm, having suffered another, much more severe stroke. We’ve no idea how much more time has passed; indeed, it’s impossible to clock the passage of time to any degree. In a sense, time doesn’t exist: no doubt another deliberate touch on Haneke’s part, and just as irritating as so many others.

Nurses become part of the routine; one proves a disaster, an exchange so brief that we wonder if some relevant scenes have been chopped away. Her “exit wages” are 780 euros, surely a suggestion that she has been present for at least several days.

Haneke can’t be bothered with such details. He’s far more interested in (for example) showing the paintings — one … after another … after another — on the walls of this apartment. Paintings with no people, further symbolizing Anne and Georges’ enforced isolation. We get it, we get it.

Riva has garnered the lion’s share of acting attention, and she certainly deserves the accolades; you’ll not soon forget the heartbreaking, painful intimacy of her performance (this despite — never because of — Haneke’s intolerable filmmaking style). We ache for the wearing away of Anne’s dignity, and her increasingly desperate efforts to cling to the more radiant self she must have been.

In fairness, though, Trintignant deserves equal credit for a performance that is less “showy” but just as strong. We see the depth of love in Georges’ eyes, the growing despair as the woman he knows withdraws from him … in part because of the strokes, but also of her own doing, because she can’t bear him to see her like this. Trintignant radiates mounting grief at a level that becomes painful.

Or it would be painful, anyway, given better circumstances. Under Haneke’s guidance, however, Riva and Trintignant too frequently act up a storm in a vacuum. We can’t help being relieved when the screen finally goes dark: not for any sense of closure to this sad, dreary saga, but simply out of gratitude for the bloody film being over and done with.

A best picture nomination? Best direction? Best writing?

Gimme a break.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“The Impossible”

4.5 stars

Starring: Naomi Watts, Ewan McGregor, Tom Holland, Samuel Joslin, Oaklee Pendergast, Geraldine Chaplin, Ploy Jindachote, Johan Sundberg

Rating: PG-13, for dramatic intensity, horrific mass injury and brief nudity

A horrific natural disaster is seen through the eyes of a desperate family

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Félix Bergés and Pau Costa have been deservedly lauded for their special effects; the replicated tsunami — which killed more than 230,000 people in 14 countries, on Dec. 26, 2004 — is completely terrifying, as depicted here on the screen.

But these images, although breathtaking and grim, aren’t the strongest element of director Juan Antonio Bayona’s film. That honor belongs to Oriol Tarragó and Marc Bech, who designed and edited the chilling sound effects. Indeed, that’s how “The Impossible” opens: on a black and silent screen, with a rising, gurgly sort of rumble that intensifies until we scarcely can stand it, wondering precisely what the sound signifies.

We imagine the worst, our minds racing in ghastly directions, this directorial choice far more powerfully placing us “in the moment” than what might be shown.

Then we nearly jump out of our seats as a passenger jet screams into the suddenly illuminated frame, taking our protagonists to what they expect will be an idyllic Christmas holiday in Thailand.

This won’t be the last time Bayona unsettles us with his imaginative application of sound and sound effects. He plays us masterfully, utilizing every element at hand: visual, aural and psychological. The result is impressive, if arduous: often quite difficult to watch.

Sergio G. Sánchez’s screenplay is based on the events as experienced by María Belón, Quique Alvarez and their three sons: Lucas, Tomas and Simon. They’re played here, respectively, by Naomi Watts, Ewan McGregor (renamed Henry), Tom Holland, Samuel Joslin and Oaklee Pendergast. The actual family is Spanish; the script’s one major deviation from fact is to re-cast them as British.

This isn’t merely a concession to box-office popularity, Watts and McGregor undoubtedly being perceived as a draw. This cinematic family’s pale skin and clearly privileged manner — Henry’s high-level job in Japan allowing the luxury of their global travel — more visibly shorthands the cultural divide, once tragedy strikes.

Dozens of moments in this film will build a lump in the throat — indeed, after a time, the emotional intensity never diminishes — but the simple, unexpected gestures of kindness, often across language barriers, are the most powerful. A door, ripped from its hinges and used as a makeshift stretcher. A cell phone. A child’s shy smile, and gentle stroking of a friendly arm.

Devastating.

The story begins peacefully, even idyllically, as Maria, Henry and their three sons arrive at the lush Orchid Resort. These characters are sketched quickly — but vividly — in these early scenes: Henry the loving husband and father, perhaps concerned about the stability of his job; Maria a doctor who has put her practice on hold, to raise her family.

Lucas has reached the mildly rebellious age where stirrings of independence prompt him to lose patience with his two younger brothers. Middle son Thomas, unusually timid, is fascinated by stars and constellations. Five-year-old Simon is cheerful and untroubled, still too young to believe the world is anything but a happy, magical place.

Christmas comes and goes; Boxing Day arrives equally untroubled. The family joins other tourists in the resort pool. Henry, Thomas and Simon tussle in the water; Lucas crosses the deck to retrieve a large plastic ball; Maria chases a loose page from the book she’s reading, finally snatching it while crouched in front of a plate-glass barrier. (Oh God, we think.)

Birds shriek overhead, flying away from … something. The low roar that has been at the edge of everybody’s awareness — ours included — builds. Lucas pauses, and Bayona trusts young Holland’s tense pose and stunned expression to convey the horror of this suddenly approaching wall of water.

Then, chaos.

Maria eventually surfaces, battling for sunlight while countless other people, knocked senseless after being hurled into hard objects, silently drown. She spots Lucas, similarly struggling; they fight implacable currents while trying to reach each other. Fingers clutch, part, clutch again.

This lengthy second act is devoted to Maria and Lucas, as the boy takes charge after realizing the severity of his mother’s injuries. The first shattering moment comes as they reach the (possible) safety of shallow water, and Lucas recoils from his mother’s bared and gashed breast. Holland’s face is a powerful blend of anguish and embarrassment, as he says, barely audibly, “Mum … I can’t see you like that.” (She doesn’t yet know about the gaping tear on the back of her right leg.)

Watts, in turn, continues the moment: Despite the pain building by the second, now that panic is subsiding, Maria grimly tries to cover herself, instinctively understanding that her son needs the assurance of propriety, if he’s to hold it together. Lucas, in turn, quickly realizes that he dare not cry; if he does, his mother will lose her fragile hold on self-control.

Watts’ Academy Award nomination is a given; rarely has an actress been to hell and back so many times, and so persuasively. Her hold on life itself seems to slip away, as Maria’s wounds take their toll. I’m deeply disappointed, though, that young Holland hasn’t been similarly acknowledged. He charts an impressive emotional course as this saga progresses, his manner and actions never less than absolutely authentic.

Holland’s Lucas becomes our surrogate, the boy rising to various challenges in the manner we’d hope to possess. I’m reminded of young Ross Harris in 1983’s “Testament,” as the resolute boy who bicycles throughout his fallout-infected town, serving as a de facto messenger for friends and neighbors.

Holland has a similarly poignant scene when the action shifts to the Takua Pa hospital, with lone survivors wondering whether family members might be alive elsewhere in this huge, now largely makeshift facility. He initially promises to help one man, and soon Lucas is trolling the corridors, calling off names from an ever-expanding list.

Bayona, torturing us anew, juxtaposes elation with heartbreak.

Coincidence, trauma and misidentification — in great part due to the language barrier — build to a point that’s impossible to bear. Bayona is quite adept at such emotional manipulation, having profoundly disturbed us with 2007’s chiller, “The Orphanage.” “The Impossible” is a different sort of horror film, with moments, images and emotions so raw that they’re capable of leaving mental scars.

Watts and Holland get the lion’s share of screen time, but the acting throughout is sensational. Joslin’s Thomas visibly struggles to overcome his own terror when put in charge of Simon; the transition is poignant beyond words. Pendergast’s tiny face, in turn, turns painfully desperate when circumstances prevent Simon from going to the bathroom: a remnant of civilized behavior the little boy can’t bear to part with.

Óscar Faura’s cinematography is superb, initially conveying this land’s delicate beauty, and then — in the aftermath — the oppressive, fetid, heat-drenched devastation. Editors Elena Ruiz and Bernat Vilaplana deserve considerable credit for both pacing and intensity. Bayona similarly understands when to bring the camera in for a close-up, and when to pull back, to convey the utter helplessness of frail human beings beset by Nature at her worst.

“The Impossible” is profoundly hard to endure at times, and yet it’s also profound in a spiritual sense: a testament to human resilience and compassion, and the willingness of total strangers to pull together, in a crisis, for the collective greater good.

Frankly, it’s refreshing to see such a positive, uplifting depiction of people as selfless citizens of the world.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“Promised Land”

Four stars

Starring: Matt Damon, Frances McDormand, John Krasinski, Rosemarie DeWitt, Hal Holbrook, Titus Welliver, Lucas Black

Rating: R, for profanity

No doubt Damon has been waiting for just the right property, and he certainly got it with “Promised Land.” Once again under director Gus Van Sant’s capable guidance, this captivating drama gets its juice from well-crafted characters, tart dialogue, a solid ensemble cast and a hot-button scenario ripped from real-world headlines.

Damon shares scripting duties with John Krasinski, a rising film star making good on the promise he has shown for so many years, on television’s “The Office.” He and Damon have deftly adapted a story by Dave Eggers, who burst on the scene a few years ago, with scripts for “Away We Go” and “Where the Wild Things Are.”

Good screenplays get their power from many elements. It’s not enough to craft piquant one-liners; they must be true to a well-constructed plot. (They also must be delivered well by actors who understand how to maximize the impact of crisply timed dialogue, and that’s where we credit Van Sant.) The characters themselves must be interesting, efficiently sketched and cleverly integrated with all the other players on stage. We must care about them, either as good guys or bad guys.

Damon and Krasinski never err. Even casual exchanges of dialogue have consequences; watch for the payoff on a passing reference to a little girl selling lemonade outside a high school gymnasium.

Damon and Frances McDormand star as Steve Butler and Sue Thomason, seasoned corporate “handlers” for a multi-billion-dollar energy titan dubbed Global Crosspower Solutions. Steve and Sue are sent into distressed small towns in order to persuade cash-strapped residents to lease the drilling rights of their farms.

Steve and Sue have built a reputation for sealing deals rapidly, and with contracts far less expensive — which is to say, less generous to townsfolk — than other Global teams. The pitch is a well-honed blend of smooth talk, vague promises and the occasional bribe, of necessity.  They make a great team: Steve is a sympathetic former farm boy who watched his own home town dry up and blow away when the only local industry closed; Sue is a dedicated soccer mom who advocates the value of the superior schools that can be built with the leasing payments.

Left unspoken — but certainly known to these advance scouts, and equally obvious to us — is the fact that ground never will be broken on such schools, because every cent will be devoured by the financial institutions propping up everybody’s over-mortgaged farmland.

Left unspoken, as well, is the fact that the natural gas which Global desires — the resource repeatedly championed by Steve and Sue as “clean energy” — will be extracted from the shale rock beneath everybody’s farm via hydraulic fracturing, or “fracking” (a word they’re careful to avoid).

The story begins as Steve and Sue land in McKinley, a small farmland community in a never-specified state. (Van Sant shot the film in western Pennsylvania.) That detail doesn’t matter; the American heartland — and the West Coast — are laden with such towns. The Global raiders expect a slam-dunk like all the others; McKinley is economically distressed, its many farmers clinging by their fingernails to property that has been in their families for generations.

But something unexpected happens this time: a stirring of pride, wariness … and bad timing. Local high school science teacher Frank Yates (Hal Holbrook) leads the resistance, and he finds it easy to stall the Global engine; fracking has become the evil term du jour, and the Internet is laden with well-documented stories of farmland turned poisonous by the chemical brew employed during the process. Global’s behavior, so smoothly kept under the radar until now, is being dragged into unforgiving sunlight like a vampire hauled from its coffin.

Although Steve and Sue already have numerous signatures on contracts, having preyed on local anxiety, this apparent victory morphs into a mirage when Yates encourages his McKinley neighbors to delay their collective decision, pending a vote. In three weeks.

Needless to say, Global isn’t happy about the delay. To make matters even worse, another newcomer blows into town: Dustin Noble (Krasinski), a slick environmental activist bearing ghastly photos of dead cows and stories of tainted water supplies.

What shapes into a massive battle for McKinley’s soul unfolds subtly, almost delicately, via small encounters. We get the first skirmish quickly, as Steve and Sue stock up on “local duds” at a general store displaying a sign that advertises “Gas, Groceries, Guns and Guitars.” We can’t help chuckling, more so as McDormand’s tart-tongued Sue mocks the place; we share her sense of superiority.

The chuckles die seconds later, once we meet the store’s owner — Titus Welliver, as Rob — an obviously intelligent, if pragmatic fellow who isn’t about to tolerate smugness from big-city invaders. And yet Rob isn’t “the enemy,” particularly when he takes a shine to Sue. Welliver’s carefully nuanced Rob is but the first of the many McKinley citizens who defy expectations: ours, and Steve’s.

Holbrook’s Frank Yates is another example. Although clearly hostile to Global’s slick steamroller approach, he doesn’t blame Steve and Sue per se; indeed, he could use the money as much as anybody else. Frank merely voices the doubts that need to be raised: Is the tantalizing short-term offer of cash in hand worth the long-term risk of seeing one’s heritage destroyed … individually, locally and nationally?

Corporations are notorious for having no soul; any appeals to conscience must be made to foot-soldiers such as Steve and Sue.

Holbrook delivers a finely shaded performance worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting, but with a modern twist: Frank Yates isn’t merely a veteran farm owner, he’s also a highly respected former scientist filling his retirement years as a school teacher. We ache upon hearing his own personal “solution” to the Hobson’s Choice being offered by Global.

McDormand’s dry delivery is a hoot, her critical sidelong glances to die for. We’re never quite sure whether Sue actually has a heart; she clearly plays a role in public, surrounding by McKinley residents, yet she also keeps in loving touch with her son, via Skype, when concealed behind the closed door of her motel room. The truth undoubtedly resides in her view that, at the end of each day, what she and Steve do is a job. Just a job.

Krasinski’s Dustin is a force of nature: a seductive, silver-tongued emissary who hearkens back to the glib, glad-handing antics of Robert Preston, in “The Music Man.” Despite being an outgunned underdog, Dustin instinctively understands how best to reach these people, thanks to a cocksure attitude that infuriates Steve more with each passing day.

Although the nominal star, Damon generously shares the spotlight with all his fellow actors. His handling of Steve is another in a recent line of ethically challenged businessmen in the mold of George Clooney’s Ryan Bingham, from 2009’s “Up in the Air”: guys who, push come to shove, may not be quite as callous as they’d like to believe.

Damon has numerous standout scenes, both kind and ruthless. Best of the latter comes during a brutally frank conversation with a local civic leader (Ken Strunk) who seeks financial “incentive” to persuade his town to accept Global’s offer. Alternatively, Damon turns playful during his flirtatious encounters with DeWitt’s Alice, their verbal sparring genuinely cute.

“I’m not a bad guy,” he tells her repeatedly, and we begin to wonder who he’s trying to persuade.

Its merits as a well-crafted drama notwithstanding, this film has become a lightning rod for its unapologetically critical assault on fracking. Pundits and even some critics are “reviewing” only the message, with a predictable divide between red and blue states, liberals and conservatives.

No question: This is advocacy cinema. That said, I remain impressed by a compelling work of art that entertains while encouraging debate on a topic that, yes, could use a helluva lot more exposure.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com