Thirty minutes into Garden State, and it’s fairly obvious that this is the best comedy of the summer. Eighty minutes into the film, and it seems apparent that it’s the best drama of the summer. One hundred minutes into the picture — or, more precisely, at that moment when the end credits begin their upward crawl — and it’s safe to claim that this is the best movie of the summer, period.
Or should that be the best movie of the winter? Garden State first gained notice back at the beginning of the year, when it wowed those film lovers who had made the annual pilgrimage to Sundance. That’s not saying much in itself — in their collective zeal to spot the Next Big Thing, that festival’s moviegoers often spew praise where none is warranted — but in this case, they aimed their salivation in the right direction.
Zach Braff, known to TV viewers for his leading role on the sitcom Scrubs and known to movie watchers for absolutely nothing, used his minimal clout to secure financing for his first endeavor as a writer-director-star. He does more than knock it out of the park — this one reaches all the way to the county line.
Braff cast himself in the starring role of Andrew “Large” Largeman, a struggling LA actor who spends more time waiting on tables than emoting in front of the cameras (his most notable role was as a “retarded quarterback” in a made-for-TV weepie). Heavily medicated ever since a troubled childhood, Large is too numb to feel much of anything; nevertheless, he knows that it’s only proper to return to his New Jersey hometown to attend the funeral of his mother, a paraplegic who drowned in the bathtub.
Large hasn’t been home in nine years, which understandably leads to some tense moments with his authoritarian dad (Ian Holm); in an effort to keep some distance between them, he decides to spend most of his few days in town hanging out with his old high school acquaintances, an uninspiring assortment that includes an aimless gravedigger (Peter Sarsgaard) and a clod (Michael Weston) who became rich after inventing “silent Velcro.” Yet Large’s most significant relationship turns out to be with someone new to his circle: Sam (Natalie Portman), a vibrant life force who’s the perfect remedy for an emotionally bottled-up guy trying to make some sense out of his muddied existence.
Braff takes a chance with the tone of his picture, trusting that we’ll follow him as he drastically switches gears from providing laughs to imparting poignant life lessons. It’s a gamble that pays off, resulting in a film that gives our emotions a vigorous workout. Braff packs the majority of the humor into the first half, accentuating the eccentricities of his characters and providing them with some killer wisecracks. Yet as the story progresses, the humor takes a back seat to the more weighty issues on Braff’s mind, specifically the exploration of the ways in which Large can put to rest the ghosts of the past while also coming to new understandings with Sam, with his father, and, most importantly, with himself.
Braff has a nebbishy Everyman quality that suits the part of Large, while Sarsgaard (who turned heads as the conscientious editor in Shattered Glass) contributes an edge of brittle hostility to his character, enough so that at any given moment he seems equally capable of hugging or slugging Large. Yet it’s Natalie Portman who shines brightest — hammered (unjustly, I think) for her turns as Princess Amidala in the new Star Wars flicks, she’s nothing short of sensational here, punching across the whiplash moods that Braff’s script requires of her. It’s an empathic performance — even eclipsing the heartfelt ones she gave in Beautiful Girls and Anywhere But Here — and her compassion eventually wears off on us: It’s hard not to laugh, weep or ruminate right along with her character. Braff’s Garden State is a film of many crescendos, yet thanks to Portman, it works best as an exercise in audience participation.
Scores of filmgoers have been known not to venture further than knee-deep into the ocean after being terrified by Jaws. Subject them to one showing of Open Water, and it’s safe to say that they’ll be reluctant to even get one toenail wet.
Shot in a grainy, you-are-there style that inevitably brings up comparisons to The Blair Witch Project, this thriller from writer-director-editor Chris Kentis still manages to be less fanciful than that no-frills blockbuster. There’s no supernatural element at work here, just a deep, dark sea that contains as many hidden horrors as one of those haunted houses that dot the city streets come Halloween.
Even at a compact 80 minutes, Open Water takes its time actually getting to the sea, spending a while with yuppie couple Susan (Blanchard Ryan) and Daniel (Daniel Travis) on dry land as they schedule a quickie beach vacation in between the demands of their high-stress jobs. The R&R itinerary includes a scuba-diving excursion, but this popular maritime activity takes a decidedly devastating turn when the pair resurfaces after 30 minutes to discover that, due to crew incompetence, their guide boat (packed with 18 other tourists) has already headed back to shore. As the minutes turn into hours and day turns into night, the couple’s mood switches from deep concern to outright panic, with the time in between reserved for mutual comforting, medical musings (will drinking this salt water help or hurt?) and a brief bout of finger-pointing. All the while, the natural inhabitants of the sea continue to make occasional appearances, none more petrifying than those creatures with the dead eyes and very pointy teeth (played by real sharks; no CGI fakery here).
Open Water is based on an actual occurrence, but that of course doesn’t mean anything as far as American cinema is concerned. Since history is only there to be molded by ambitious moviemakers, the fates of the real-life couple need not necessarily be shared by their movie counterparts. It’s this lack of inevitability — will Susan and Daniel be rescued in time, or will they end up as shark entrees? — that makes the movie such an uneasy watch, with Kentis effectively stripping away all the protections of the modern world until nothing is left except two individuals stranded in the middle of a beautiful yet deadly expanse that neither seeks nor provides favors.
Forget all those vague, attention-grabbing warnings from the White House about Al-Qaeda operatives in our midst. For a true Terror Alert, look no further than the auditorium housing Open Water.
The notion of matinee idol Tom Cruise playing a hardened killer may sound like a gimmick — yet another bald attempt to score that Oscar that has long eluded him — yet as Michael Mann’s Collateral demonstrates, it’s a gamble that pays off. Cruise likely won’t be winning any awards for this one, either, but his performance is nevertheless a fine one, nicely seasoned with just the right touch of piquantness.
Sporting salt-and-pepper hair that suits him rather well, Cruise stars as Vincent, a contract killer who forces a cab driver named Max (solid Jamie Foxx) to ferry him around nocturnal Los Angeles so he can carry out his assignment. Vincent’s been paid to bump off five individuals who can help the law clamp down on an international drug cartel, but along the way he has to contend with his hostage-driver, who’s none too happy with his latest fare and repeatedly tries to escape.
Scripter Stuart Beattie creates some interesting give-and-take dynamics between Vincent and Max, yet he and Mann (Heat) seem to be equally interested in the peripheral elements: a relaxed soliloquy by a jazz musician (Barry Shabaka Henley) who’s still marveling over his brush with greatness; a dialogue between Max and one of his passengers, a self-doubting prosecuting attorney (Jada Pinkett Smith), that feels real because neither character knows exactly where it’s heading; and the reflective headlight glare captured in the eyes of a wayward coyote that’s silently padding its way through an urban — and decidedly untamed — jungle.
This article appears in Aug 18-24, 2004.
