All posts by One Guys Opinion

Dr. Frank Swietek is Associate Professor of History at the University of Dallas, where he is regarded as a particularly tough grader. He has been the film critic of the University News since 1988, and has discussed movies on air at KRLD-AM (Dallas) and KOMO-AM (Seattle). He is also the Founding President of the Dallas-Fort Worth Film Critics' Association, a group of print and broadcast journalists covering film in the Metroplex area, and was a charter member of the Society of Texas Film Critics. Dr. Swietek is a member of the Online Film Critics Society (OFCS). He was instrumental in the creation of the Lone Star Awards, which, through the efforts of the Dallas-Fort Worth Regional Film Commission, give recognition annually to the best feature films and television programs produced in Texas.

THE BIKERIDERS

Producers: Sarah Green, Brian Kavanaugh-Jones and Arnon Milchan   Director: Jeff Nichols   Screenplay: Jeff Nichols   Cast: Jodie Comer, Austin Butler, Tom Hardy, Michael Shannon, Mike Faist, Boyd Holbrook, Damon Herriman, Beau Knapp, Emory Cohen, Karl Glusman, Toby Wallace, Norman Reedus, Happy Anderson, Paul Sparks, Will Oldham and Nathan Neorr   Distributor: Focus Features

Grade: B+

Even if you don’t share—or can’t understand—the passions that drive the members of the Vandals, the fictional Chicago motorcycle club-turned-gang at the center of “The Bikeriders,” you should be able to appreciate the cinematic intensity writer-director Jeff Nichols, his cast and his crew bring to the telling of their story.  It must be admitted that the film never manages to get inside the characters, but its surface depiction of them is so compelling that it barely matters.  In that respect the film mirrors its inspiration, the 1968 photo-book about a real Chicago cycle gang, the Outlaws, by Danny Lyon, a proponent of what came to be called the New Journalism, who embedded himself in the group to record its lifestyle in images and words, even if analysis of motivation remained superficial at best.

We learn fairly late in the film that the Vandals were the brainchild of Johnny (Tom Hardy), a trucker and family man who was moved to found the club by watching László Benedek’s 1953 “The Wild One,” with Marlon Brando, on TV sometime in the sixties.  But the film begins with a far more violent moment, when Benny (Austin Butler), a member of its founding generation who’s a true rebel without a discernible cause (except the club), gets into an altercation with a couple of guys at a bar when he refuses to take off his leather Vandals jacket.  It leaves Benny seriously injured, and leads to a show of revenge by Johnny, who destroys the place while the authorities look on.

These two events, and others, aren’t told in straightforward linear order, since, like the Lyon’s book, the film is structured as a collage, skipping back and forth in time while also providing an overall portrait of the devolution of the Vandals, originally a haven for outsiders and misfits with its own peculiar code of honor, into what becomes by the seventies a violent criminal gang.  And within that context it follows the relationship between Benny and Kathy (Jodie Comer), which involves more than a little tension in his loyalties to Johnny on the one hand and her on the other.

Kathy, in fact, is the source of most of the narrative, which is told through a long interview with her conducted by Lyon (played by Mike Faist), in which she covers the history of the gang, and of her romance with Benny, retrospectively, and hardly objectively.  Lyon had been living with the gang some years earlier and now, after an absence, has returned for a follow-up.  That structure also allows for the insertion of clips from interviews he’d conducted during his earlier time with members of the group, who include soft-spoken Brucie (Damon Herriman), a moderating force on Jonny;  bushy-haired wild man Zipco (long-time Nichols favorite Michael Shannon); laid-back mechanic Cal (Boyd Holbrook); and sad sack Cockroach (Emory Cohen).

Nichols juxtaposes scenes at the beginning and end of the film to accentuate the changes in the Vandals over time.  There are two instances, for example, when Johnny is challenged for leadership.  In the first, when he rejects a request to establish a chapter elsewhere posed by burly Big Jack (Happy Anderson), the men square off in a muddy confrontation (“Knives or fists?” is the question Johnny poses in such situations), and it’s a fierce battle, but one that conforms to accepted rules.  But later, when Johnny is again forced to face off against an opponent, simply called the Kid (Toby Wallace), whom he’d previously turned down for membership because of a lack of loyalty to his friends, the norms no longer apply, and the transformation of the group, which begins with the arrival of gnarly West Coast biker Funny Sonny (Norman Reedus) and continues with the addition of druggies and violence-addicted Vietnam vets, is complete.

Similarly, two scenes are fashioned to reflect Kathy’s initial attraction to and alienation from the gang.  Her description of her initial introduction to the Vandals in their favorite bar is presented with a mixture of humor and menace, but leads to her being swept off her feet by ultra-cool Benny and riding off with him, leaving her hard-working boyfriend in the dust.  But late in the film she’s mistaken at a party for easy prey by some of the newer members, and barely escapes being raped.  It’s precisely the sort of shift in the outfit that compels Benny to make a definitive choice between her and Johnny.

Such choices make it clear that for all the differences “The Bikeriders” has in narrative terms from his previous films, Nichols remains basically a classical filmmaker who might work in a complex structure but uses well-established means to achieve his ends.  The film has been compared to Scorsese’s work, in particular “GoodFellas,” and to some extent the comparison is apt, but not because Nichols is simply transposing a story about a criminal cabal from one milieu to another, but because both he and Scorsese are at heart classical directors, using tried-and-true means, albeit in inventive ways, to achieve their dramatic ends.  And doing it well. 

That classicism is also shown in the work of his collaborators—a superb technical team (production designer Chad Keith, costumer Erin Benach, cinematographer Adam Stone, composer David Wingo and expert needle-droppers Lauren Mikus and Bruce Gilbert) who make the film capture the look and sound of the time and place where it’s set, the varied elements tied together despite the complex construction in the editing of Julie Monroe)—and an equally fine cast.  Hardy cannily depicts a fellow who knows that he has to keep up the pose he’s created, skillfully showing the uncertainty that’s lurking beneath the surface from the beginning, but more and more as he feels things slip from his control.  That insecurity lies behind Johnny’s dependence on Benny, whom he sees as the real deal he can only approximate, the one who can save what he’s built.  And Butler captures that iconic character with a performance that’s movie-star perfect, projecting Benny’s absolute adherence to his personal ideals (and his complete command of appearance and gesture) even when he’s laid up with a broken foot (which, however, he won’t let prevent him from answering Johnny’s call to attend an important meeting even though Kathy objects). 

In the final analysis, however, despite those two fine macho turns and excellent supporting one that run the gamut from Shannon’s highly theatrical Zipco to Faist’s understated Lyon, it’s Comer who proves the essential ingredient here, the chatty, no-nonsense, besotted but perceptive feminine centerpiece of the triangle that serves as the story’s emotional soul.  In a role that could hardly be further removed from her multi-season exhibition of virtuosity on “Killing Eve,” she proves the extraordinary range of her talent.

“The Bikeriders” doesn’t glamorize the culture the Vandals represented early on, nor justify what the gang became.  But it offers an exhilarating portrait of the desperate macho bravado it initially evoked and a trenchant one of the vicious nihilism it degenerated into, showcasing some remarkable performances in the process.   

ROBOT DREAMS

Producers: Pablo Berger, Ibon Cormenzana, Ignasi Estape, Sandra Tapia, Jerome Vidal and Sylvie Pialat   Director: Pablo Berger   Screenplay: Pablo Berger   Distributor: Neon

Grade: B

Based on a 2007 graphic novel for children by Sara Varon (which takes its title from a 1986 short story by Isaac Asimov but couldn’t be more different in tone), Spanish writer-director Pablo Berger’s “Robot Dreams” is a lovely but bittersweet story about loneliness and the search for friendship.  By turns amusing and melancholy, it shares with Berger’s best-known previous film, “Blancanieves” (2012), a distinctive voice; but while the earlier picture was a live-action, black-and-white, silent rethinking of “Snow White,” this one is a dialogue-free but music-filled tale in simple 2D color animation that also melds whimsy and seriousness in a strangely moving fantasy that should enchant sensitive viewers across the age spectrum. 

It’s set in the 1980s in a New York City that’s been reimagined as a sort of Zootopia, where various species of anthropomorphic animals live in peaceful proximity.  Our protagonist is Dog, who lives a solitary existence in an upper-floor apartment of an old building (the resident listing we glimpse at one point indicates that another flat is occupied by “Chicken and Cat,” though we never meet them).  He spends his time watching TV—as he channel-hops there are bits of MTV and a commercial for knives—or glancing across the way at apartments where folks are engaged in, shall we say, communal activity.  Occasionally he stops to heat up one of the many macaroni-and-cheese TV dinners in his fridge in the microwave.  He sighs over the emptiness of it all. 

Then an ad appears on the screen for a companion robot called the Amica 2000, and he immediately orders one.  A gruff delivery man appears with the box a few days later, and Dog goes to work assembling the device while a gaggle of pigeons observe from the window.  Once finished, the robot looks something like Bender from “Futurama,” but its personality is much more agreeable; it doesn’t speak (nor does Dog, or any of the other animals), but it smiles and whistles—most notably Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September,” which is featured in exuberant numbers in which Dog and Robot dance or roller-skate together. It becomes “their song,” just one element of the joyous score by Alfonso de Vilallonga, but a particularly important one.

After enjoying the city together, the two take the train to Ocean Beach for a final summer frolic, but a dip in the water rusts Robot up after he lies down on his towel on the sand, and when time comes to leave for home, he can’t move.  Dog isn’t strong enough to drag him, so they agree that Dog will come back the following day with a toolbox.  Unfortunately, when he returns he finds the boardwalk closed for the season, and is arrested when he tries to break in; his efforts to gain special dispensation to enter prove fruitless.  Disconsolate, he posts a note reminding himself of the date in the following June when the beach will reopen.

From here the film splits into two parts, shifting back and forth episodically between the months Dog and Robot spend apart, to both of which the title applies.  Dog dreams of his absent friend while trying to celebrate Halloween, dressed as a vampire while handing out candy.  But he also seeks new buddies, following a snowman to a bowling alley where they play a game and signing up for a ski vacation in the Catskills, where he has an unhappy experience with what appear to be a pair of nasty anteaters.  He has better luck when an attempt to fly a kite introduces him to Duck, an outdoorsy type with whom he goes fishing.  But she suddenly moves to Europe, leaving him morose.

Meanwhile inert Robot has experiences, both bad (having a leg broken off by a passing boatful of rabbits, whom he first imagines freeing him with an infusion of oil) and good (like sheltering a bird and her nest until her offspring fly away).  But mostly he dreams—of being replaced in Dog’s affections, of being liberated from the ice that’s covered him to walk a yellow brick road toward the Emerald City of New York, surrounded by an army of dancing sunflowers. Fernando Franco’s editing deliberately obscures distinctions between illusion and reality throughout these sequences, cheekily adding to the mood.  But he actually remains trapped until a rat with a metal detector unearths him and takes him to a junkyard where the owner, an alligator, chucks his dismembered parts into a trash pile. 

Dog rushes back to the beach on opening day, but finds only Robot’s leg, discarded by the rabbits.  Tossed out because of his obsessive digging, he eventually admits defeat and purchases a new companion bot called Tin, a floor model on sale at Robot Shack; this time he coats him with oil at the beach to keep him from rusting.  Meanwhile a raccoon named Rascal collects the pieces of Robot from the junkyard and, an inveterate tinkerer, rebuilds him, replacing his leg and using a boombox for his torso, and they’re become happy roommates. 

But while Robot and Rascal are barbequing on the roof of their building, Robot spies Dog and Tin walking by, and remembers; what follows is another of his dreams, capped by a reprise of “September” that points back to an old friendship while celebrating new ones.  It’s an ending different from what some viewers might expect—and want.  But its mixture of regret, resignation and hope seems utterly right.

In visual terms the picture is not a spectacular.  The character design, imported from the book by Daniel Fernandez, is charming but simple, and the animation supervised by Benoit Feroumont, along with Jose Luis Agreda’s art direction, are evocative but relatively plain.  (The repeated appearance of the Twin Towers adds a note of poignancy to the urban background.)  Of special note is Fabiola Orgoyo’s sound design, which adds nuance to the images in the form of the grunts and whispers of passersby, the fluttering of birds’ wings, the shouts of beachgoers and the like.

At a time when most animated films beat viewers over the head with raucous action and noise, “Robot Dreams” offers a welcome respite—a delightful, touching parable of how connection is still possible in a world where a feeling of isolation has become increasingly pervasive.  Of course, it also posits a benign robotic AI, while Asimov’s “Dreams” went in a very different direction.