Rising and falling

Two films, opposite trajectories, each riveting in its own way

‘A Most Violent Year’

Writer and director J.C. Chandor labored in anonymity for more than a decade before his first feature, 2011’s “Margin Call,” put him on the critical map. Set at an investment bank in the early stages of the 2008 financial meltdown, the film picked up multiple awards and even an Oscar nomination for best original screenplay—becoming a stark example of feast or famine.

Wisely, Chandor hasn’t let off the brakes, returning to Oscar with the 2013 Robert Redford-starring “All Is Lost” and now again with his latest, “A Most Violent Year.” The guy has been more or less batting a thousand.

There’s something wonderfully rich going on in “A Most Violent Year”—a film that skirts the edges of genre to craft its own naturalistic story. Oscar Isaac (“Inside Llewyn Davis”) is Abel Morales, the owner of a fuel oil business in New York in 1981. His drivers are getting hijacked; he and his fellow business rivals—memorably represented by Arnold Klein (“True Detective’s” Glenn Fleshler)—all seemingly have something to hide. And he’s leveraging everything he owns with the help of his stalwart lawyer (Albert Brooks), in an effort to buy a riverside shipping hub from a congress of rabbis—so that he might expand his market to the ’burbs.

Morales is the epitome of the American Dream. Work hard, (mostly) play by the rules and enjoy the spoils. Even for an immigrant kid who began with nothing.

But apparently, in the fuel oil business in 1981, following the industry’s best standards and practices doesn’t mean much. As Abel tries to discover who’s stealing from him and lock down his future, it turns out that he and his wife—and accountant—Anna (Jessica Chastain) are on the verge of a multi-count indictment from an ambitious cop (David Oyelowo). Abel and Anna are beset on all sides, swimming hard toward the distant, shrinking hole in the ice above their heads.

“A Most Violent Year,” so named because of New York's historically high crime rates in 1981, isn’t particularly violent. The city nearly went bankrupt that year, inviting all manner of desperation. But none of that is really spelled out, and instead Chandor creates a tangible atmosphere to get the climate across. His directorial elegance is fast becoming his signature, and here he highlights his ingrained themes (ambition, honor and moral ambiguity in the name of a greater capitalistic good) in a way that skirts genre expectations. Deftly painting his story against the enigmatic, gauzy backdrop of its time, Chandor creates depth that goes beyond the excellent production and costume design, tasteful score, and the stellar cinematography of Bradford Young (“Selma”).

All that skill would be for naught without top-tier actors and Chandor’s ability to get transparent performances from such an incredibly well-chosen cast.

Isaac is the hottest thing going now, and here it’s easy to see why. I believe every second of his performance. He is Abel Morales. And more so, we choose to believe he is good because he has noble intentions, though we’re never completely sure how good he is at heart. Chastain is a little less ambiguous in that regard, with hints of a “family” background that could very easily become a part of the game. Their dynamic is searing and natural, two strong people who have met their match in each other. 

“A Most Violent Year” is genuine and plays out with easy grace, and it borders on its own sort of perfection. It’s a throwback that could just have easily been made in the year it was set and still been one of the best.

‘Foxcatcher’

It’s unfortunate that a film as assured and memorable as “Foxcatcher” couldn’t escape the controversy surrounding one element of its story (not unlike “American Sniper”). Compressing timelines or shifting events around in order to achieve a dramatic arc is fine. But once dishonesty—however subtle—gets introduced to the equation of a “based-on-true-events” story, it calls the telling into question.

Written by E. Max Frye and Dan Futterman and directed by Bennett Miller (of 2011’s great “Moneyball”), “Foxcatcher” loosely relates the events behind the downfall of John E. du Pont (Steve Carell), heir to the vast du Pont fortune, whose patriotism led to his ultimate obsession: mentoring a wrestling team to the Olympics.

To that end he enlists Mark Schultz (Channing Tatum), a University of Oklahoma grad and wrestling gold medalist, who trains with his brother and former Olympian, David (Mark Ruffalo). Du Pont relocates the pair to the family estate, Foxcatcher Farm—not far from Valley Forge—where he plans, almost literally, to return hope to the idea of American exceptionalism.

If I’m being vague, it’s purposeful. “Foxcatcher” works best without a knowledge of the endgame (though it’s easily accessible history), since it’ll likely take you by surprise.

Weirdly, “Foxcatcher” and “A Most Violent Year,” being vastly different stories, share the idea of the American Dream. Where Abel Morales ascends from nothing to reach for the gold, John du Pont descends from opulence to do the same. They’re ideologues, interconnected and predicated on overcoming hierarchies designed to thwart their ambitions.

But that’s where their similarities end—because “Foxcatcher” ultimately becomes a quasi-horror film.

It doesn’t really matter if John du Pont was gay, or Mark Schultz’s lover, unless the film is being dishonest about its own motivations. While the storytelling on display is satisfyingly lucid, it does play that brief, sensational element to its own detriment—during a private match in the gallery, or in the contemptuous look of du Pont’s dowager mum, Jean (Vanessa Redgrave). Yes, she thinks wrestling is a low sport beneath her son, but she doesn’t like seeing him beneath another man, either. It amounts to cinematic hearsay.

Descendants of immeasurable wealth seem a little like a different species from the rest. Here, du Pont is comes off as a vampiric, controlling iconoclast, firmly cemented in a world of opportunity most people never know. In real life he’s falling ill, and no one is there to tell him he might be crazy. His station hides that until it’s too late. That’s why it feels a little like a horror film. Miller magnifies those foreboding moments.

Carell’s performance nails that, though I have no idea if he’s anything like du Pont. Equipped with a prosthetic face and a new elocution, he is certainly riveting onscreen, and he believably balances the psyche of narcissism and the wounded mommy’s boy effectively. I found myself more taken by Tatum and Ruffalo, the film's warm center. Tatum delivers a very considered performance. His smoldering fights on the mat give way to a deeper internal struggle, one that can manifest in tenderness or smashing his face with his own fists. He’s anchored by his older brother while trying to define himself, and he makes the kind of frustrating choices (for the audience) that define an immature, dedicated athlete. Ruffalo is typically great, sporting an awesome ’70s neck beard and trademark gravitas that makes him the ultimate everyman—“Hulk” aside.

Bennett Miller captures it all with a discerning eye. The wrestling scenes feel as genuine as if he were making a movie about a band with actors who can play their own instruments. The character work is realized as fully as one could hope, and the (mostly?) true story plays out with the same assurance that Miller has exhibited in every feature film he’s ever made.

And maybe that’s all that matters. Even Capote got accused of embellishment. 

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