There Will Be Blood

directed by Paul Thomas Anderson
screenplay by Paul Thomas Anderson
novel by Upton Sinclair
USA 2007

Rather than stick to the usual Daniel Day-Lewis program of: 1) point camera, 2) record every sound out of his mouth, and 3) sit back and watch, P.T. Anderson has once again proven his considerable directorial skill by harnessing the presence of this master of method-acting into just another tool in his sizeable kit. The opening shot explicitly demonstrates Anderson's control over the turn-of-the-century world he creates, blasting discordant sounds that resemble music over a rugged landscape. It's an old move (like one of my favorites, Peter Weir's Picnic at Hanging Rock), but like all of Anderson's moves, he executes it with such taste and discretion so as to nicely garnish his storytelling. Very soon after, Daniel's body lies at the bottom of the well-shaft, the crude itself glistening in what little light filters in, an omen of riches to come. For a second, there's no plot or narrative content as the gems of oily reflected light dance around, and the crude oil itself is the scene-stealer, a reminder that even the great Daniel Day-Lewis/ Daniel Plainview, both actor and character, despite such power and resilience, are but a drop in a barrel in this world. Anderson proceeds to out-frame, under-light, and exert countless other subtle strategies toward his leading man in order to further embed him in the picture.

Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood punctuates the film nicely with an interesting take on a jazz fusion/modern chamber music score. The horns and sax reminisce the best bits of Punch Drunk Love, though the violin often seems heavy-handed.

The theme is slightly confusing when the film takes its departure from the spirit of Upton Sinclair, on whose story the screenplay is based. Where Sinclair was an unrelenting, trust-busting social activist, P.T. Anderson is an entertainer. Daniel Plainview's story, quite deliberately, is not representative of the oil industry, an industry that today earns record-setting profits and has absolute dominance over the entirety of human society. When Plainview refuses Standard Oil's million-dollar offer, he becomes something other than this industry. His snide quips about Standard owning the railroads is Anderson's sliver of social commentary, perhaps dividing the world of capitalism into Old money vs. New money, and illuminating a fringe element of humanity therein. The titular blood is spilled by a capitalist renegade, a new-money man, and a fierce competitor, not by the old-money establishment. What's left after the blood is clear is just another well-told character piece, pulling its punches at some truly great opportunities to break into the dirty mind of state-sponsored capitalism.

My Blueberry Nights

directed by Wong Kar-Wai
written by Won Kar-Wai and Lawrence Block
Hong Kong, China, France 2007

So I come to Hong Kong, and Wong Kar-Wai goes to New York. Maybe we both needed to tread water for a little while.

Craftsmanship has always been idealogically divided against itself. The perfection of mass production is balanced by the imperfection of authenticity. Likewise, in the past Wong Kar Wai's strict formalist visual tendencies (i.e. In the Mood for Love, 2046) have made for such flawless delivery, while his playful chaos of shutter speed effects and hand-held trickery (i.e. Chungking Express, Fallen Angles) has beautifully roughened the edges of his ouevre.

My Blueberry Nights may be Wong's first to attempt a reconciliation of these contrasting styles, and he is aware of the craftsman's existential trap. Norah Jones gives a perfectly atrocious performance as Lizzie, an impossibly naive fish out of water, despite hailing from New York of all places. Wong's foray into the American experience is so wonderfully similar, a non-actress fills this title role with that universal authenticity of imperfection. To Jones' credit, this script is so clunky that even naturals Jude Law and Natalie Portman can't escape without some black and blues. But the blacker the blueberry, the sweeter the juice, and Wong seems to run with the idea, forsaking naturalist dialogue for a few excellent lines between clunks ("I'm the king of the white chips," "I beat that game on its ass!"). It's another extension of his reconciliation, like some impossible-to-deliver David Mamet script; stumbling gives the auteur some cred.

The theme of dishonesty is so auspicious in this film, as well. It's not only that Jones can't sell her lines, or that much of these characters' backstories is left unsaid. It's hard to believe that Leslie in fact beat that game, or that Lizzie really was mugged on the subway, or even that Jeremy's key stories are all true. Like Wong himself, his characters struggle with success. A winning image isn't authentic. It's only when we've been roughed around the edges that we've actually lived through something.