MCN Blogs
Ray Pride

By Ray Pride Pride@moviecitynews.com

Sundance Review: Ain’t Them Bodies Saints

They live and die by night: David Lowery’s second feature, Ain’t Them Bodies Saints, is all sweet flash and filigree in a muted Texas outlaw couple fable-cum-triangle, envisioned in crepuscular beauty. A dim juke, a dark barn, an unlit road: It’s nighttime in this part of Texas. Some Sundance viewers found ready comparisons to Terrence Malick’s early films, but more than Malick, Saints seethes with the sparse parsing of Cormac McCarthy, the fated trajectory of trudge in Altman’s McCabe and Mrs. Miller, the intimately tactile character of Claire Denis’ many movies. Still, a reference to “A train up near Bartlesville” is a sly nod to the Man With The Beard (and a minor role is filled by an actor named Rami Malek).

The main title is calligraphed as if in walnut ink on faded parchment, but this is the not the time of pioneers, but the 1970s, indeterminate, a time of boxy, elongated vehicles. In the town of Meridian, Texas in hill country, Saints’ romantic triangle between outlaw Bob Muldoon (Casey Affleck), his wife Ruth Guthrie (Rooney Mara), and local sheriff Patrick Wheeler (Ben Foster) is also a fugue for a bastard who’s tangled up the lives of others. Backstory is minimal. Moments, gestures tell all. Affleck’s self-regarding man who would be a small god has some of the jumbled confidence of a Nick Ray antihero, confident but callow, and there are scenes that hint at a lost-childhood scene in Ray’s Lusty Men that Wim Wenders has also nodded toward. (An abandoned house as hideout; a child’s toy horse as spent currency.)

The actors are splendid, including Keith Carradine (from Robert Altman’s Thieves Like Us, itself a remake of Ray’s They Live By Night). Muted calm suffuses each injured gesture. Ben Foster’s attentive sheriff is calm but hardly restive: mustachioed, quietly bustling inside, his eyes fixed on Ruth. In one of many exquisite, near-perfect images, Lowery and cinematographer Bradford Young (who shot the luminous, silken Pariah) shoot Ruth sitting on a porch, finding a pluperfect moment of light to capture Mara’s liquid brown eyes and dimples and fantastically manicured eyebrows: she seems lit from within, electric with caution, presenting a precise face to her world.

Lowery’s Texas, simmering, shimmering, altogether gorgeous, is a place of extraordinary ordinariness and the simplest details sing: Ruth’s simple white dress in an early scene, lightly cinched with thin rope, barelegged in boots with the tongues nearly loose; a second-story view of a street corner at dawn, similar to a quietly haunting shot in Badlands; a sandwich in wax paper folded just so, fingers tickling the dark under a bar counter, finding, of course, a sawed-off double barrel; shadows as deep as daylight is bright, the warmth of particular shadows that fall to black just past faces. What scenes are not shot at golden hour are shot, boldly, in the hours just beyond. It’s the same commonplace rustication as in his rich, minimal first feature, St. Nick, the story of two children on the run. Spaces and places feel as warmly worn and lived-in as an old man’s boots.

There’s a swarming, enveloping score by Chris Heath and others: sonically, its bountiful sorrow weighs a passel of portent. And what sound design: The thrumming communal rasp of crickets, a kitten’s blurt of miao; the pop-pop of the worn needle in the last grooves of a record on an old jukebox.

The characters sometimes sound like their words have been running in their heads for months and years, like the brittle pages of a scrapbook that’s been a hot attic for so many summers and flipped into crumbs. Muldoon’s affectations include “I came across the woods and mountains with no shoes on”; ” I hear people talking about regret but I don’t have any”; “How do I look?” “You look like you.” “That’ll do.” And Rooney murmurously bites off her share of lines like “Ah kin handle some kittens at least.”

Ain’t Them Bodies Saints is an exquisitely tinged fable for a nation of arthouses that hardly still stand. “Where you headed?” a man asks Muldoon and he answers, “That direction hadn’t been invented yet.” Ain’t Them Bodies Saints is rich with reinvention: that’s more than a beginning.

Be Sociable, Share!

Comments are closed.

Movie City Indie

Quote Unquotesee all »

It shows how out of it I was in trying to be in it, acknowledging that I was out of it to myself, and then thinking, “Okay, how do I stop being out of it? Well, I get some legitimate illogical narrative ideas” — some novel, you know?

So I decided on three writers that I might be able to option their material and get some producer, or myself as producer, and then get some writer to do a screenplay on it, and maybe make a movie.

And so the three projects were “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,” “Naked Lunch” and a collection of Bukowski. Which, in 1975, forget it — I mean, that was nuts. Hollywood would not touch any of that, but I was looking for something commercial, and I thought that all of these things were coming.

There would be no Blade Runner if there was no Ray Bradbury. I couldn’t find Philip K. Dick. His agent didn’t even know where he was. And so I gave up.

I was walking down the street and I ran into Bradbury — he directed a play that I was going to do as an actor, so we know each other, but he yelled “hi” — and I’d forgot who he was.

So at my girlfriend Barbara Hershey’s urging — I was with her at that moment — she said, “Talk to him! That guy really wants to talk to you,” and I said “No, fuck him,” and keep walking.

But then I did, and then I realized who it was, and I thought, “Wait, he’s in that realm, maybe he knows Philip K. Dick.” I said, “You know a guy named—” “Yeah, sure — you want his phone number?”

My friend paid my rent for a year while I wrote, because it turned out we couldn’t get a writer. My friends kept on me about, well, if you can’t get a writer, then you write.”
~ Hampton Fancher

“That was the most disappointing thing to me in how this thing was played. Is that I’m on the phone with you now, after all that’s been said, and the fundamental distinction between what James is dealing with in these other cases is not actually brought to the fore. The fundamental difference is that James Franco didn’t seek to use his position to have sex with anyone. There’s not a case of that. He wasn’t using his position or status to try to solicit a sexual favor from anyone. If he had — if that were what the accusation involved — the show would not have gone on. We would have folded up shop and we would have not completed the show. Because then it would have been the same as Harvey Weinstein, or Les Moonves, or any of these cases that are fundamental to this new paradigm. Did you not notice that? Why did you not notice that? Is that not something notable to say, journalistically? Because nobody could find the voice to say it. I’m not just being rhetorical. Why is it that you and the other critics, none of you could find the voice to say, “You know, it’s not this, it’s that”? Because — let me go on and speak further to this. If you go back to the L.A. Times piece, that’s what it lacked. That’s what they were not able to deliver. The one example in the five that involved an issue of a sexual act was between James and a woman he was dating, who he was not working with. There was no professional dynamic in any capacity.

~ David Simon