Spotlight

Spotlight, 2015

Directed by Tom McCarthy, 128 minutes

Mark Ruffalo, Michael Keaton, Rachel McAdams, Liev Schreiber, John Slattery, Stanley Tucci

Review by Katherine Scheetz

In the slew of iconic Bostonian movies, Spotlight sits among those that embody the grey-cloud intensity that is more than a movie set in Boston but one that is, in essence, Boston. Think Good Will Hunting (1997) and The Departed (2006).

The narrative takes us in, immediately, to the freshly wounded: small children coloring in a police station room, guarded closely by their mother. Enter well-dressed, overpaid, Catholic lawyer, swinging around the familiar terrain as green police officers mutter about arraignments and trials. Fast forward 15 years and dart down the fluorescent hallways of the Boston Globe to the “Spotlight” special reporting team office, coffee brewing and desks peppered with papers to be piled and filed.

The catalyzing event is the entrance of Schreiber, quietly commanding as Marty Baron, the brand new, non-Catholic, Editor-in-Chief who assigns them the project of following up on a case of a child-molesting priest. One priest turns into three which turns into 14, which turns into, well you get the idea. It’s an investigative journalism avalanche.

Writers Josh Singer (The Fifth Estate) and Tom McCarthy (Up) have crafted a script with words chosen as meticulously as a newspaper article. Every character on the page matters. This intention is not lost on the glowing cast. Ruffalo is dynamite as Mike Rezendes, down to his parted hair, Neanderthal eating habits and slouch, determined under the weight of his shoulder bag. His interactions with Mitchell Garabedian played by the brilliant Stanley Tucci unfold with desperate grace. Tucci, as with all projects he touches, only enhances. Whether an enigmatic TV personality in a dystopian future, quirky husband to the colorful Julia Child or dry-humored liason to Anne Hathaway into the fashion world, Tucci lights up the characters around him. Spotlight is no exception. He nails Garabedian as the fed-up representation to the targeted victims with a nuanced and compassionate rage. McAdams slips out of her skin as Sasha Phieffer, particularly in her interviews with and connection to the survivors.

By way of costuming, the simplicity of the gender neutral, monochrome and functional early 2000s wardrobe is effective. It eliminates any distraction from the story the reporters are following. Except for the intentional smear of red adorning Cardinal Law’s garb. Nothing hints at villainy like costuming. McCarthy’s functional decisions are reflected throughout in minimal set design and glaring, artificial lighting. Every visual component has been considered carefully.

In a surprising score from Howard Shore we hear hints of the millennial music against a grey-rain piano canvas. Shore sprinkles the clacking of computer keystrokes in every once in a while to ground us again in the looming belly of the Boston Globe: the Spotlight team’s home base. The breath of a church pipe organ has a sobering effect in the score as well.

McCarthy has allowed the story to percolate through, playing the role of host to fast-paced, flawless writing and a strength that ripples through the cast in execution. It’s a film – and a story – that deserves the front page.

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Spectre

Spectre, 2015

Directed by Sam Mendes, 148 minutes

Daniel Craig, Christoph Waltz, Léa Seydoux

Review by Katherine Scheetz

             

              The screen is alight with all the elements that make it Bond. Endless well-tailored suits, massive explosions, cutting edge technology, Astin Martins, spy-equipped car chases, boat chases, plane chases, vodka martinis, torture scenes, evil pets, champagne, mirrored, naked women in the opening credits, weirdly flattering turtlenecks, visits to exotic countries, mid-air hand-to-hand combat, seduction, arrogance, glamour and glissandos as the sun sets, golden against yet another seamless Bond getaway. It’s only a tad chaotic.

             

Where else to start in a Bond epic, but with the opening credits? Sam Smith’s “Writings on the Wall” is full of swells, slides and drama that make it the stuff of archival Bond material. The women laying hands on 007 are on fire, sensually wrapped in octopus tentacles, utterly cheesy and a perfect 70s Bond credit replica. A visual treat for any honest fan.

              We enter our plot at a tumultuous time in the “00” program as technological advancement is pushing to eliminate the human element: operatives. The new M (Ralph Fiennes), plays middleman between his agents and the seemingly inevitable change-of-times, reminding us that “a license to kill is also a license not to kill.” Then there’s Bond, still dealing, in his own way, with the loss of our dearest M (Judi Dench, Skyfall) by carrying out her final orders; killing the heart of an international terrorist organization. Using an octopus ring and “the pale king” he sniffs his way off the grid, pulling into the line of duty our beloved Q (Ben Whishaw, Cloud Atlas) and Moneypenny (Naomi Harris, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest), who are given long-overdue time to shine. The outcome is triumphant.

             

A-dork-able Q is fresh right down to his turned-out, academia shoes. His ability to stand next to Bond, looking very boy-genius like, and keep pace with him is impressive. Whishaw put a backbone into the young Q and then some, as we see his quick wits under pressure later in the film. Moneypenny sustains as Bond’s not surprising, but truly heartfelt constant through the trepidations that have plagued Daniel Craig’s Bond career. She calls him James when he is simply 007 to everyone else (and…insert 1967 The Prisoner quote here). Harris is lovely as James’ savvy home-front partner, providing just enough “will-they-wont-they” energy to keep the audience hoping.

              Technically, the camera was on point. Aerial shots flew by time and time again, tunnels and corridors and tree-lined drives that snatch the audiences breathe as much as Craig’s steely blue eyes. The lighting team nuanced every beam to manipulate our mood in seconds, especially helpful through several jarringly dramatic scene changes. The writers kept the smooth sass of Bond intact with quippy one-liners given to every cast member at one point or another, allowing the audience a moment to smirk and breathe in between the string of heart-attack inducing circumstances that make up Bond’s narrative. Craig especially delivers with a slippery tongue and a practiced poker face.

               

It is definitely nostalgic to know that this is the end of Daniel Craig’s reign in MI6 but allows us to reflect on his performance as a full body of work. His contribution to the role has been well researched, without a doubt. Watching him in Spectre, it is apparent that Craig knows the role of 007 well enough to write his memoir. Which is some of what his films have been. Unlike the Bonds before him, Craig’s legacy is in the humanizing of an icon. No longer reduced to the womanizing license to kill, Craig has made him part spy and part man.

              Overall the story is as predictable as the classic Bond villain they created for it, down to his pussycat and his make-up department dream of a battle wound, but that’s not what we came here to see. Craig’s final installment as 007 is a dirty martini; classic Bond vodka, shaken of course, but with just a hint of olive-flavored variation.

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