Lydia De Matos reviews Kaufman’s latest experimental thriller.

A young couple is on their way to the guy’s parents’ house. They’ve only been together for six weeks. Or is it seven? They’re unsure. Nothing is certain, not even her name; it’s Lucy, or maybe Louisa, it might even be Yvonne. This is their first roadtrip together. She says they have a “real connection; a rare and intense attachment” – but the conversation is awkward, stilted. He’s excited for her to meet his parents. She hasn’t even told hers about them. He’s clearly aching for them to be perfect for one another. She’s thinking of ending things. 

Are you confused yet? If not, you will be. Charlie Kaufman’s latest feature, i’m thinking of ending things, is his least accessible yet, embracing the writer/director’s absurdist style and philosophy to an extent that only Netflix’s infamous do-whatever-you-want policy would have allowed. I don’t necessarily mean that as an insult, perhaps just more as a warning to go into this expecting something uniquely Kaufman-esque. 

The film’s emotional bedrock is uncertainty, especially in the first two acts. The film occupies itself with those uncomfortable stretches of time plagued by apprehension; waiting for someone you’re nervous to meet to finally descend the stairs, a car trip with a boyfriend you’re thinking of dumping, approaching a table full of people who are clearly waiting for you. Kaufman elongates these moments and drops us squarely into them, slowly creating an atmosphere of tense anxiety that sinks its claws into you, making it impossible to turn away. The intricately confusing wallpaper backdrop of the opening credits resembles something along the lines of what Charlotte Perkins-Gilman described in The Yellow Wallpaper, suggesting from the very outset that nothing we see is to be trusted. 

Indeed, every detail seems to shift constantly. It’s not only the young woman’s (Jessie Buckley) name that changes, but her major, the colour of her coat, how she met Jake (Jesse Plemons), how she feels about him, even her voice and face. These shifts are occasionally subtle, and occasionally glaring, challenging us to question them. The world around her changes too. Kaufman takes a very literal interpretation of eternalist philosophy; Jake’s parents (Toni Collette and David Thewlis) appear at different stages of their life almost simultaneously, and the young woman feels nostalgic for things that have not yet happened. Things characters say and do are taken wholesale from notable public figures, from the criticism of Pauline Kael to the paintings of Ralph Albert Blakelock, spoken and presented as though completely, spontaneously original. 

The film’s litany of references seems to be one only the most cultured intelligentsia-type would feel comfortable peppering in, or more accurately, the kind of person who desperately wants to be one of those cultured intelligentsia-types. The kind of person who corners you at a party, purely aesthetic cigarette in hand, starting a conversation about the essays of David Foster Wallace, but inevitably ending up talking about the crushing shame they still feel about having only gotten a participation trophy at their secondary school prizegiving. 

On the surface Kaufman seems to be making a fairly boring critique of the inauthenticity of modern times, the disconnect between our thoughts and our actions, our lack of original thought, something like that. But the further you get into the film, the more it feels like he’s deriding the kind of person who actually believes that such a critique is either pertinent or unique; the kind of person who needs to feel like the smartest in the room, a cut above the unwashed masses and their supposed disregard for “high culture”. The kind of person who oh so desperately needs their opinions to be validated that they’re incapable of connecting with the people around them. If you’ve seen anything else by Kaufman, you’ll recognise the pattern: he’s writing about himself. 

If that seems like a lot to throw at your actors, well, it is. But the whole cast handles it fantastically. Buckley in particular effortlessly attunes her performance to every deviation in tone and character no matter how minor or major. Jay Wadley’s score and ballet is brilliant, shifting from minimalistic terror to uplifting wonder with an ease that makes me question why I’d not heard of him before. 

Truthfully, i’m thinking of ending things is a difficult film. After the first viewing I found myself unable to decide whether it was a meaningful piece of art, or a wall at which everything had been thrown and few things had stuck. But I could not stop thinking about it, and desperately needed to discuss it. Once I’d had a chance to do so, and managed to formulate an interpretation that actually seemed to make sense, I found myself leaning more and more toward loving it and its wonderfully absurd, surreal terror. It may be a difficult film, but if you want to watch something that will stay with you, it is absolutely worth it.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things is now streaming on Netflix. Watch the trailer here:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Lydia De Matos reviews Michael Moore’s outrage-filled documentary targeting the current political climate in the United States.

Michael Moore’s newest documentary may market itself as a fully loaded gun aimed at none other than the 45th President of the United States, but the reality is somewhat different. Fahrenheit 11/9 (the title a reference to Moore’s 2004 feature concerning the war on terror, Fahrenheit 9/11) is rather a full-scale exposé on the downfall and ultimate failure of American democracy in the 21st century.

For the film’s first 20 or so minutes, however, you’d be forgiven for not realising this. Moore sets his audience up with a fairly straightforward rehash of the later stages of the 2016 US election (emphasis on the word “fairly,” as, let’s face it, this is Michael Moore we’re talking about). It’s from here that we’re spun in a completely different direction, as a perhaps slightly tenuous, but overall necessary, link is made back to the director’s hometown of Flint, Michigan.

Throughout his filmography, Moore has rarely failed to return home. Whether he’s focusing on a Flint-based story such as in his 1989 debut Roger and Me, or covering more widespread issues such as gun control in 2002’s Bowling for Columbine, Flint is always featured prominently. But never has this homecoming felt more crucial. For the past four years the town has been experiencing a water crisis which has essentially poisoned the entire population, a situation which became widely mediatised earlier this year, and I’d been wondering for a while when Moore would announce that he’d be covering the subject. Watching the first segment on Flint, I thought this was it, that Moore had simply used the inherent bait that is Donald Trump to shed more light on an issue which still threatens his hometown. But you’ll soon realise that this, too, isn’t quite the case; instead, it’s merely a part of the overarching argument.

Moore takes us through a series of segments which tackle some of the most important, and decidedly controversial, subjects surrounding the USA over the last few years. From the Parkland shooting, to teachers’ strikes, to the allegations of rape and sexual assault levied against a number of men prominent in the news media (and interestingly, as the film notes, many of whom were critical of Hillary Clinton during her campaign): Moore spares nothing and no one, even criticising the actions of former President Barack Obama.

In spite of this, the director seems to have somewhat restrained his usual style. His interviews are less guiding, with fewer witticisms; in fact, Moore spends most of the film behind the camera, rather than in front of it. No need to worry for Moore fans, though – his style hasn’t disappeared altogether. Acts of stunt journalism, such as attempting a citizen’s arrest on Michigan Governor Rick Snyder before soaking his front garden in water from Flint, serve as proof that Moore is undoubtedly still a performer. If anything, he seems to have finally found a perfect tonal balance, with enough dark comedy to create excitement, interest, and controversy, but not so much that it cheapens the gravity of the subject matter.

At the beginning of this documentary, the audience, faced with footage of the night of the 2016 election, is asked a question: “How the fuck did this happen?” We assume it references Trump, and in a way it does, albeit indirectly. This film, with a scattershot approach seemingly focused on every heartbreaking American crisis of the past few years, begins to make sense of how democracy failed the United States’ public so badly. Trump, in all his toxic glory, is simply the symbol of that failure. Flint, and Parkland, and everything else, represent the other side – the side of those who have been disenfranchised by the current system. Poisoned, unprotected, shot at, and killed, they have given up faith in their system – and who can blame them? Want to know why Michael Moore is angry again? That’s why.

Fahrenheit 11/9, convoluted though its argument is, makes the reason for Moore’s anger clear. It even offers a solution, and a simple one, too: to act, to vote, to get up and do something. It may feel like a slightly naïve message, but as this documentary indicates, there isn’t really a better option.

8/10

Fahrenheit 11/9 is currently released in UK. Check out the trailer below: