Hannah and Her Sisters (1986)

Written and Directed by Woody Allen

Rating: 9.00/10.00 or ****

Woody Allen, like Charlie Chaplin, likes to play the outsider. In Annie Hall, he plays a person so hateful of himself, he cannot stay attached to his true love because he couldn't believe that she could. In Hannah and Her Sisters, Allen plays a man attached to a family driven by emotion and dreams, not only because of their collective energy, but also because he thinks he has no idea what that feels like.

Allen plays Mickey, a television producer/writer in Manhattan. He is constantly worried about disease and death. If he isn't ill, he thinks he is anyway. One day, a medical appointment regarding his ears ends with him fearing he has cancer. Doctors want him to come in for more tests. He begins to worry. Incessantly. He begins to ponder his past, where he went wrong, why he's never been on the right path.

Mickey is the ex-husband of Hannah (Mia Farrow). Hannah is the source of stability in her family. Her parents, played by Lloyd Nolan and Maureen O'Sullivan, are entertainment elders. They have lived a grandiose, turbulent life. He has cheated on her, and her career choices, as well as her possible alcoholism, have been less than ideal for him. Hannah comes to their rescue in one scene. After a particularly ugly fight, Hannah's mere presence is some sort of peaceful intervention. She is the caregiver.

Mickey's and Hannah's personalities do not quite match. It is easy to see why they are divorced, not as easy to see why they were together. In one telling flashback, Mickey and Hannah discuss having children with family friends. The scene is uncomfortable for many reasons, perhaps most importantly because Mickey's worries do not match Hannah's wishes. Mickey and Hannah have a cordial divorce, and it is easily observed how he wishes he could still be a part of her life and their family.

Hannah is married to Elliot (Michael Caine). Elliot is loving to Hannah, but he has fallen for Hannah's sister Lee (Barbara Hershey). Lee is Frederick's (Max von Sydow) girlfriend. Frederick is an artist so disgusted with society that he has lost all touch with it. Lee is his only source connecting to the outside world. Frederick keeps her around, promising to teach her the ropes in art and life, but she soon becomes too enclosed within his claustrophobia and wants out.

When Elliot confronts Lee regarding his feelings, she only hesistantly rebukes. Soon, she returns his feelings, and Lee escapes Frederick's pitiful dependence. This scene is key to the movie, the very thing that Mickey seeks. When Lee regards Elliot's feelings, Elliot rejoices in a moment of pure ecstasy. He is joyous, overcome with happiness. Compared to Mickey, Elliot knows exactly what he is looking for.

But, Lee is not convinced. Indeed, Elliot's refusal to break Hannah's heart remains, even after a few months of his affair with Lee. In a key moment of the movie, Lee says to him that he is probably "more in love with Hannah than he knows". So Mickey is with the family. Mickey recalls a date with Hannah's sister Holly (Dianne Wiest). The date is a disaster. They have nothing in common. She is a risk-taker, overtaken by drugs and fear, and entertained by the very things Mickey despises most.

But, they meet again some time later, and Mickey realizes they have a connection. They both have a desire to write. For Mickey, it's his way of communicating to the world how much dread there is within it. For Holly, she needs to express how she has come to this point and how she needs to move forward. They bond over this mutual need, and Mickey has once again returned to the family.

Hannah and Her Sisters works so well because it is so strikingly observant of each character's wishes and desires. They always revolve around other members of the family. Each member provides some personality trait that makes the sum better than any of its parts. Hannah is the center, the moral compass maybe. Lee is the loving, innocent sister. Holly is the rambunctious, rebellious sister. Her parents are the troubled family authoritarians. Elliot and Mickey are attracted to multiple members of this family, because (collectively) they are nearly perfect in their imperfections.

Allen tells the story with strong, commanding directorial strokes. Scenes are played out like chapters of a book, even with titles beginning the sequences. He often creates creative diversions in his narrative, but he never loses his way. These only serve to enhance the drama these characters evoke, whether by talking, fighting, or dreaming. These are real people, who only want to find what they need and need what they want.

When Mickey finds out he is cancer-free, he is at first jubilant but soon nervous. Now that he has found life again, he is faced with the sudden reality that he does not know what he wants to make of it. But he wants to find out. Allen shows us that this is why Mickey belongs in Hannah's family, even if he is an outsider looking in.

Rushmore (1998)

Directed by Wes Anderson
Written by Wes Anderson & Owen Wilson

Rating: 7.50/10.00 or ***

Sometimes, directors present characters who make you unsure of how to react. Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson have created Max Fischer and Herman Blume. Max is an ambitious but misguided teenager. Herman is an over-the-hill dead man walking. They are undoubtedly similar. Both want the same girl, both go to cunning, sometimes malicious tactics to "win" her, and both admire the other for trying so hard. They're likable, yes, but should they be given their heavy-handed methods? Well, in Wes Anderson's universe, there is no question.

Wes Anderson films are set in worlds that don't quite mesh with ours. Consider the marine biologist's world of larger-than-life, flashy aquatic life in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Or the family of damaged goods that learns to love based on deception and lack of neglect in The Royal Tenenbaums. Anderson makes his films colorful, tangential, and quirky. Each character is distinctive. He pays close attention to the otherwise minor characters, making them instantly identifiable. Some of the great directors (like the Coen brothers) also pay close attention to these characters, making these scenes key to setting tone.

When I think of Rushmore, I think of Max Fischer's father. He's a barber and a straight-shooter. "I hear you're a neurosurgeon," he is told. "No, I'm a barber, but a lot of people make that mistake." Max's father is played by the great Seymour Cassel, a Wes Anderson favorite. Mr. Fischer loves Max, despite his constant misgivings and troublemaking. He is a constant, a father who is like a real father. You can imagine him smirking at a principal when he/she insists that Max's troubles are tiresome. He would probably say: "You ought to see him at home."

Max attends Rushmore, a high-profile, "rich kids" school. Max is smart, to be sure, but his grades don't say so. Probably because he takes part, or leads, every extracurricular activity possible. Max is ambitious, and he's a swindler. He can talk his way into anything, whether it is a favor or a means to an end. His favorite of the extracurricular activities is writing and directing plays. About one per month, it seems. His plays have a significance -- often, they set the tone for the month in which we are shown.

Max meets two people who will change his life here. Herman is one of them. Herman is a wealthy businessman whose family life is a zero. He is divorced, and he hates his spiteful children. In a wonderful sequence, Herman attends his sons' pool party. He drinks beer, throws golf balls into the pool, and then walks to the diving board in a memorably "man's" swim suit. As he walks on the diving board, his kids look away. And then he jumps into the pool and sinks deep within it. He just stays there for a while, being watched by a curious kid.

Bill Murray plays Herman in his dependably quiet manner. His best scenes are the ones in which he says nothing at all, or the ones in which his words seem like last resorts -- the only way he can muster to stay alive in his world. Herman is alone, desperate, and dismal. When he meets Max, he is instantly impressed. He clearly sees a younger version of himself in the young man.

Strangely, their bond grows through its disintegration. It revolves around a Rushmore teacher named Miss Cross (Olivia Williams). Max and Herman are both instantly attracted to her. Miss Cross resists Max, however, given their age difference. She does, however, fall for Herman. Max sees this as betrayal and resorts to violent tactics to take Herman out of the competition. The tactics escalate until Max is jailed for his offenses.

Only in Anderson's world can this result in mutual admiration. You can see it in Murray's eyes. Herman is impressed with Max's tenacity, and Max likes Herman's stepping up to the plate. Eventually, Miss Cross breaks up with Herman, and Max relentlessly pursues. A hilarious scene involving fake blood is one such attempt. The scene is endearing but creepy. We're never quite sure whether to regard Max as a zealous go-getter or an insanely obsessive man. Anderson walks the fine line perfectly here, as he never goes too far with one way or the other.

The film's resolution, though a bit too neat and predictable, is nevertheless endearing and unique. Each character resolves his or her differences with the others, in a lovely sequence involving Max's most ambitious play to date: "Heaven and Hell". It is devoted to his mother (deceased) and Miss Cross's husband (deceased), but it also regards Herman's time in Vietnam. Like I said, neat and predictable, but the presentation is neither off-putting nor manipulative. This denouement is perfectly reasonable in the world Anderson creates.

Jason Schwartzman, a newcomer at the time, plays Max with perfection. He never exaggerates his role, and this is crucial, as any overplaying would make the character repulsive. This is a difficult role to play, and Schwartzman is up to the task. Murray and Williams are similarly effective. Notable support from Brian Cox as Dr. Guggenheim (the "man behind the desk" for Max), Mason Gamble (as Max's dependable underling), and Sara Tanaka (as Max's unrequited love) adds to the film's impact.

Rushmore is not perfect. It suffers from a bit too much diversion, mismatching tones, and strong thematic shifts -- but it is an assured construct that creates a world not much like our own but very much like one we can respond to. When Herman says of Miss Cross, "She's my Rushmore", we can instantly relate. And, crucially, there may be no other way of saying it.

Broken Flowers (2005)

Written and Directed by Jim Jarmusch
Inspired by an idea from Bill Raden & Sara Driver

Rating: 8.25/10.00 or *** 1/2

Don Johnston (with a "t") is a man adrift. He's alive, but he's not really living. There is a scene where he sits and watches a movie. He sits there quietly, alone. In another, he sits on the same couch, in the same room. Soon, he lies down face first onto a pillow. He sleeps. In yet another scene, he reaches out to raise a glass. He stops halfway into the motion.

Johnston, it seems, has lived his life in this manner. He has not figured things out. He has aged, but he has not grown. He is just now breaking up with another girlfriend (Julie Delpy). Her reasons are similar to those we can observe. He is not depressed, sad, or pensive. He's not anything.

Johnston has a neighbor, the quirky Winston (Jeffrey Wright). Winston is a friend, a source of life in Johnston's lack of one. His friendship is interesting, because Johnston is nothing close to Winston in terms of personality. Winston is empathetic, caring, and happy. We sense that Johnston is a better person around Winston, even if he is not a nice person to Winston. Johnston knows that Winston means well, and in a way, Johnston looks up to him.

Johnston receives a letter from an anonymous ex-girlfriend. She suspects her son, who is now around twenty years old, is looking for him. This is news to Johnston, as he thought he was not a father. He shows the letter to Winston, unsure of what to do. The postmark is unreadable, the handwriting unrecognizable. There are distinctions to the letter, such as the likeness to the color pink. Winston wants him to find out who his son is, and which of his ex-girlfriends is the mother.

So, Winston prepares a trip for Johnston. The trip is prepared around five ex-girlfriends. One of them has died. The other four may explain, to varying degrees, why Johnston is the way he is. He is at first weary, but his curiosity is too much to handle. He goes on the trip, full of white Ford Tauruses and wooded freeways. Jarmusch is clever here. There are many scenes that show Johnston driving from place to place. Through the trip, we can sense his growing curiosity. He may even need to know.

It is also a trip of nostalgia. Johnston may be looking for a spark in his youth that he has lost. It is not difficult to see why he may have had a spark. His girlfriends are unique, strong-willed, independent. The first is Laura (Sharon Stone), who has a very "outgoing" daughter named, humorously, Lolita (Alexis Dziena). He spends the night there, rekindling some feelings. However, his discomfort is significant, and his belief that she is not the mother is high. But, there is the occasional clue involving the color pink.

His next ex is named Dora (Frances Conroy). She is much more restrained in nature, almost spookish at times. She lives in a very suburban area. She is married to Ron (Christopher McDonald). The three of them have dinner. The conversation is cold and plastic. Johnston asks a question related to children, which makes a scene of tense unpleasantness. There are clues here, too.

The third ex-girlfriend is Carmen (Jessica Lange). She is fiercely independent and appears to hold a grudge. The conversation with Johnston is short and frank. Lange is particularly memorable in the film. It is not difficult to sense a bit of regret on both sides here.

The fourth ex-girlfriend is Penny (Tilda Swinton), a troubled, violent woman. When things get a little too problematic, her friends come over to see why Johnston is there. After this visit, still with no clue as to who the mother is, he visits the fifth ex-girlfriend, at her gravesite. The scene is wonderfully shot and brilliantly acted. Johnston just sits there, with the (pink) flowers he has given to all of the others. We know now the trip was not only an investigation; it was a trip of reminders and of loves lost.

Bill Murray plays Don Johnston. No one can act the "detached" man better. He portrays his characters so effectively. The slightest mannerisms, the silent facade of emotional detachment -- they always bring about scenes of high poignancy, whether in terms of humor or tragedy. This is one of Murray's best performances. We can sense his growth right before our eyes, though he has shown little of it. Subtlety is the key to these characters, and Murray knows it.

The direction of Jarmusch is wondrous. There are numerous scenes that point out the quirks and strangeness of humans in hilarious fashion. The random man talking to himself, the perfection of the typical suburban couple's house, the overprotective clerks. These also help to amplify the funny/dramatic dichotomies of Johnston's reunions with his ex-girlfriends. Throughout the film, Jarmusch always keeps focus on Johnston. There are numerous shots of Johnston just looking out, almost staring in desperation for an answer to his detachment.

Johnston meets a young boy, on a similar road trip. He comes to believe he is his son. He is not, but he does connect with him, if only for a short time. The boy runs away after Johnston tells him he thinks he is his father. Johnston chases after him. The camera pans around him here with vigor. Not because Johnston does not want the boy to run away from him. Instead, Jarmusch is just as excited as we are that Johnston, for the first time, is running after the future.

Zodiac (2007)

Directed by David Fincher
Screenplay by James Vanderbilt
Based on the novel by Robert Graysmith

Rating: 7.00/10.00 or ***

I need to stand there, I need to look him in the eye, and I need to know that it's him.

Zodiac is the story of how a serial killer can disrupt the lives of his chasers just as much as his victims. There are two men obsessed with finding him and two men who cannot get over the savagery of the killings. All four investigate his identity and whereabouts, and all four lose, in varying degrees, their livelihoods.

David Fincher is a fine director. He builds suspense around a mysterious identity. Consider how Jodie Foster behaves in a locked room where she can't see her attacker (in Panic Room), how the identity of an exploitative serial killer is elusive through much of the film in Se7en, or how the reality of one's world may actually be a double identity in Fight Club. Sometimes Fincher hits (Se7en), and sometimes he misses (Fight Club). But he's always built suspense around the shadowy figure. His theme is unchanged in Zodiac, but his presentation has.

Fincher tells the story straight here. No alarming discoveries, no surprise (maybe illogical) twists. This is a movie that details a crime and journalistic investigation, through and through. We see much research, many Q&As with witnesses, much frustration, and potential suspects. But we never see the smoking gun. This is a crime without closure, and Fincher focuses on this particular aspect's aftermath.

Zodiac was a famed serial killer in the 1960s and 1970s near the San Francisco area. He frequently sent letters to the press, often taunting their tactics and investigation -- sometimes threatening more victims unless certain demands were met. Often, these threats were false, but his viciousness was real. There are victims, and all of them were brutal. Fincher shows some of these crimes, and these sequences are undoubtedly disturbing. However, most crime is offscreen or implied -- Fincher's focus is primarily on the investigators and not the criminal.

The two detectives are David Toschi (Mark Ruffalo) and William Armstrong (Anthony Edwards). Toschi is by-the-books, loyal, and driven. He is inspired to catch the bad guys, but he never goes too far -- or, at least, he makes sure if he does, it's for the good of society. Armstrong is more reserved and much more significantly impacted by the crime spree. He is also loyal but becomes exhausted and dismayed by the crimes and the lack of progress in the case. Ruffalo's performance is lackluster, but Edwards is first-rate in his performance -- the wear-and-tear is visible but subtle, making key scenes later in the film tinged with melancholy.

The two journalists are an editor (contributor to the crime articles) named Paul Avery (Robert Downey, Jr.) and a cartoonist named Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal). Downey, Jr., is very effective in his role, as he spirals out of control because of the length of investigation and a couple of personal notes provided by Zodiac. Gyllenhaal, who quietly looms around Avery and is clearly intrigued by the investigation, is reserved through the first two-thirds of the film (emphasizing the performances of the other actors) but comes alive intensely as the film begins to focus on his efforts. His performance here is solid work, confirming his status as one of the leading actors of his generation.

Graysmith becomes obsessed with the investigation. He begins to ruin his personal life because of it. Never home, asking his kids for help or inspiration when he is home. His girlfriend, then wife, Melanie (Chloe Sevigny) is unimpressed, worried, then angry at his reckless investigative behavior. She soon asks him why he is putting his family at risk, why he doesn't leave the investigation to the proper authorities. His response is simple: "I need to know who he is."

Graysmith gets his moment, but it's not satisfying to the rest of society. During the investigation, the detectives meet Arthur Leigh Allen (John Carroll Lynch), an unstable, resistant working man who his family and friends are not hesitant in saying that he may be dangerous. When the detectives interrogate him, he answers questions elusively, in an aloof and suspicious manner. But the investigation reaches a dead end when warrants are not available, and physical evidence does not match circumstantial evidence.

Graysmith finds him independently of the investigators, and he does stand there and looks him in the eye. He knows that it is him. (The scene is terrific. No words. Just two long, hard stares from each man. Gyllenhaal and Lynch both give superb work in this film.) And, after years and years of searching, one of the victims clearly identifies him. But, it is too late. Allen dies of a heart attack, and the case again reaches an inconclusive state.

Fincher's approach is admirable but a little tiresome. Many scenes feel as if they came out of a Law & Order episode. This is investigative work, to be sure, but it wears on the viewer after a while -- especially given such thorough exploration. The character studies are interesting, but the investigative tactics become slightly monotonous. True to life, but not entertaining to watch. Fincher's matter-of-fact approach also serves a source of boredom. Interestingly, I felt at times this would work better as a TV movie, or a documentary.

But Fincher's message is clear and effective. A serial killer's victims are not limited to just those he/she kills. There are families, there are friends, there are investigators, and there are their families/friends. Strangely, people are drawn to the very thing they fear most. And yet the result is something just as fearful, and just as damaging to those around them.

O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)

Directed by Joel Coen
Written by Joel Coen & Ethan Coen

Rating: 8.25/10.00 or *** 1/2

The Coens take on Homer's The Odyssey in this tale set in 1930s Mississippi. The images of this highly "Depressed" locale mesh with the vignettes of Homer's written "road trip". Critics were notably resistant to the film's material, citing incomprehensibility, lack of purpose, little train of thought, etc. All of these criticisms are true, but I wonder if they are missing the essence of the film. Road trips have diversions, are filled with happenstance coincidences, and contain epiphanies, whether relevant or not.

The Coens have always claimed they have not read the novel. I wonder if this is true. To be sure, they have touched on the most famous of the vignettes, characters, and circumstances. But they also have made their film with much the same style and purpose as Homer's epic. Reading The Odyssey is certainly not essential to enjoying the film. O Brother, Where Art Thou? appreciates the readers but regards the entire audience.

Everett (George Clooney), Pete (John Turturro), and Delmar (Tim Blake Nelson) are three escaped convicts. Everett wants to find his ex-wife Penny (Holly Hunter) and their seven daughters. The other two are more interested in the treasure Everett talks about. Everett wants reunification and a new start. That is Everett's odyssey, plain and simple. But it has many stops and roadblocks on the way.

Many scenes transpire as amusing diversions. There is a fantastic scene involving the "sirens" on the river, who pose here as three women cleaning their clothes. They are singing "Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby". They clean the clothes in unison, with graceful, synchronous movements. The scene is stunning; you can almost see why the fabled sailors jumped in the water to get closer to them. Disaster looms in this movie, just as in the epic, as one of the characters "changes" dramatically after they approach the sirens.

The convicts also meet Big Dan Teague (John Goodman), a suave but scary Bible salesman. There is no doubt the role Mr. Teague plays in this modern Odyssey. His character is later found in one of the most famous scenes of the movie, that of a Klan rally. The sequence is disturbing, indeed suspenseful. At the same time, the Coens give this scene, much like any suspenseful scene, a corny edge. Here, the corniness is edged with strong rebuke, as Big Dan Teague meets his ultimate doom in a ceremony of uncanny evil.

We also meet George Nelson (Michael Badalucco), an on-edge robber. Badalucco steals his scenes with a combination of fascinated exaggeration and wrought frustration. And Penny, the stubborn, in-your-face ex-wife with a heart of gold. All she desires is a husband who will be there, no matter what. Hard for a wanted fugitive. We also meet a candidate for Mississippi's governor (Charles Durning), with the harshness and misguidedness of many a politician in that era. However, his mind and heart are in the right place. Durning's performance is exceptional, despite its brevity.

The Coens focus on the journey and not the destination. Often, scenes are tinged with satire, but others are clearly exploitative (such as the Klan rally). There are repeated phrases, character motifs, and many humorous song choices. Amidst all of this, the film has heart and soul. The Coens love these characters and want them to succeed. They are presented as endearing, and given an amazingly mythical feel. I imagine this is not easy to do when the setting is in 1930s Mississippi.

O Brother, Where Art Thou? is not for everybody. Indeed, it is sometimes difficult to follow and lacks much substance. But, the Coens did not intend for any substance, or purpose. Instead, this is their weird version of a road trip. There are stops on the drive, nearly all of which are uniquely memorable. A journey has stumbling blocks, surprises, and detours. But, in the end, we reach a destination, and sometimes we find buried treasure, even if we don't expect to find it.

21 Grams (2003)

Directed by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu
Written by Guillermo Arriaga

Rating: 7.25/10.00 or ***

There are three separate people and three separate lives. One is dying, one is recovering, and one is rehabilitated. 21 Grams tells the story of how three seemingly unrelated lives become hopelessly and tragically intertwined because of horrific circumstances. The impact is substantial, but the story is manipulated.

Inarritu is no stranger to the nonchronological method of storytelling. His superb Amores Perros also features a tragic event and three intertwining stories. The difference is that in Amores Perros, the method of storytelling developed the plot. Here, it only disorganizes it. So, although the movie is profoundly moving, it is also frustratingly slow to develop, for seemingly little reason.

21 Grams stars Naomi Watts as Cristina, a recovering drug addict. She is married and has two kids. Her life is turning around, and she is becoming comfortable in stable happiness. She is married to Michael (Danny Huston), a caring and loving husband. The two work well together; it can be interpreted that Michael helped pull Cristina in the right direction.

Secondly, there is Paul (Sean Penn), who is dying of heart disease. In one of the first scenes of the film, we see him near death staring at the ceiling, pondering his life and the moments just before death. We live in these words throughout the film, wondering what meaning they have and who they could be possibly referring to, besides Paul, of course. Paul is married to Mary (Charlotte Gainsbourg), who frequently demands he denote sperm so she can have a baby. Mary is a constant reminder to Paul of his death, but we know she cares about him, too.

Finally, there is Jack (Benicio Del Toro), a man of past crime but of present redemption. He has become deeply religious, and he appears to be a clean man now. With his newfound religion, he fathers his children with a strong but caring hand. He is married to Marianne (Melissa Leo), who is clearly concerned about his means of recovery. However, her support is unwavering.

Unfortunately, it takes nearly a quarter of the film for these characters and their lives to be understood. Did it have to be this way? When we are presented with the tragedy that ultimately brings these people together, it is emotionally gripping but not gut-wrenching. The event in question is profoundly tragic, almost unthinkable, but it takes a while for the impact of the event to reverberate throughout the film and, ultimately, within the viewer.

By this time, we are placed in scene after scene of isolated provocation. Each event we see is charged, almost (but not quite) to the point of hyperbole. In a way, this muddles the impact of the stockpile of events that clearly change these characters' lives. I'm not sure this is desirable.

Then, of course, I wonder if the choice of nonchronological plot structure is appropriate for the subject matter (if it does not help to tell the story). Strangely, the structure of the film feels like a game, which seems somewhat out-of-place for a movie portraying a human tragedy.

Fortunately, the subject matter is simple enough to begin understanding what is going on. Nearly halfway into the film, understanding has emerged, and each event begins to have more "place", more value. This makes the second tragedy of the film much more powerful, even profound. This, to me, is evidence that telling the story "straight" may have had more effect.

There are two things this film gets right, however. Acting is one of them. Watts, Penn, and Del Toro are exceptional in their portrayals. Del Toro, in particular, is astounding. The weight of past and present guilt crushes him like a ton of bricks. Del Toro shows this in his eyes, mannerisms, and way of speaking. Supporting performances are also noteworthy, especially from Gainsbourg and Leo.

Inarritu also has a clear command of tone. Some of his shots are startling in their tragic weight. There is a wonderful scene where we see a man with a leafblower. He soon drops it after one of the tragic events occurs. Rather than chasing the man, the camera stays still and looks at the dropped leafblower. All we can hear is that leafblower, and yet we know exactly what has happened. In many ways, this holds much more weight than by observing the event itself. Inarritu makes similar choices throughout the film, and they are almost always the best ones.

Unfortunately, it takes a substantial time watching the movie for us to know it. And because it is not clear how this storytelling method enhances the film, I am hesitant to do anything more than recommend the feature. 21 Grams is good, to be sure. But I think the director was trying too hard to make it exceptional.