To be an actor is to face some inscrutable challenges. The best of the profession are capable of disappearing into character, convincing the masses that they are someone else. While this can be entertaining to the outside world, there’s still the concern of the personal impact. There are endless examples of method acting going wrong, causing addictions and mental breaks that leave good intentions rattled throughout the rest of the career. It raises the question as to what value this level of dedication ultimately achieves. Is it worth the psychological struggles, of being vulnerable in every instinctive decision one makes? Many have won Oscars this way, but for others, it’s just a sacrifice with very little payoff.
Over two projects now, director Lawrence Michael Levine has found an interest in exploring the human condition through acting. It’s a form of deflection, both serving as this great form of self-expression and the sense of dishonesty. Many hide their anxiety behind that mask, trying to appear brave in horrifying situations. This is where Black Bear (2020) thrives, finding him slowly evolve the story from a conventional retreat story into something greater and more devious (warning: major spoilers ahead). This isn’t designed to be a direct horror story, where a claustrophobic relationship backfires and everyone’s love life is questioned. This is one that tackles a very specific toxic relationship between Allison (Aubrey Plaza) and Gabe (Christopher Abbott) as they deal with the other woman Blair (Sarah Gadon).
When the story starts, it’s a conventional lakeside drama. Allison is a filmmaker who has left the city for a few days in order to clear her head and try to focus on work. It’s here that she forms conversations with Gabe regarding the filmmaking process and if her work is ultimately feminist. Allison doesn’t think about things like that, even as Blair suggests that her agency should make her more interested in these struggles. Gabe pulls the male chauvinist card, going so far as to suggest that maybe women were happier when the family dynamic was more conventional when women were perceived as property and everyone knew their place.
The film is full of these philosophical conversations, giving depth to character as each pulls out another bottle of wine and tries to find ways to shift the conversation to something a tad more pleasant. In the first part of the story, it’s the slow reveal of an affair, where everything suggests that there’s something devious going on. Following Blair’s personal injuring, the trio escapes to the hospital only to run into a bear in the middle of the road. What does this all symbolize? Why is this story slowly ratcheting up the tension, and will the relationship end poorly?
One of the most divisive plot twists of the year immediately follows this smash-cut. As the audience becomes perplexed by what will happen to Blair, even their relationships, the film cuts to a scene that opened the film. Allison walks to a notebook to write down ideas. As the events play out, there are a few things different. There is no conclusion to that hospital adventure. Instead, there’s Allison, sitting on the dock while being filmed. The scene is abruptly cut so that they can discuss personal details about the making of the film, which constituted the first act. Everything that follows is more of a behind the scenes pastiche that goes a little bit haywire.
It’s designed as something more meta, where everything about the filmmaking process is designed to comment on the love of Allison and Gabe. This time Gabe is the director, doing everything to get the best performance out of Allison as she struggles with her own sanity. There are various hijinks on set, such as an intern’s consistent unfortunate running into a man delivering coffee. What else could go wrong when making Black Bear? Whereas the first act is full of taught force, this one is full of the starts and stops, of compromises constantly being made to create a film.
That’s the thing about Levine’s vision. This whole exercise is meant to reflect the different sides of control in a relationship. Whereas act one paints Allison as a directive force looking at her career, the second is Gabe’s. His version is more hangdog, tragic, watching from a monitor as he relives the trauma that only seeks to rattle Allison’s well-being even more. It’s more reluctant, finding insecurity taking over and prolonging the inevitable: the finishing of the film. They need this pivotal scene, and even then Allison is too drunk, criticizing dialogue, and not wishing to be part of this anymore.
Levine had also written the screenplay for Always Shine (2016), which also uses the career of acting to explore societal conditions of women. Along with writing, Levine co-stars in a supporting role. Director Sophia Takal (who produced Black Bear) provides very different energy, turning away from the slow, life-draining drama into something that is more melodramatic horror, constantly putting the viewer on edge as they try to make sense of what’s going on. Whereas Black Bear focused on the failure of a relationship, Always Shine uses actors to explore toxic female friendship in an industry that pits them against each other. They need to be prettier, more charismatic, able to take insufferable criticism because some guy at the studio said it would help sell tickets.
Both of these stories are about the fallout of a support group, though Always Shine seems to be having more fun with the ambiguity. If nothing else, Takal has incorporated a richer style that makes the psychological toll richer. At times reminiscent of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona (1966), the film uses close-ups to emphasize the emotions on each character’s face, having these elaborate monologues show the small things that each brings to a role. Sometimes it’s vocal, others a shift in the eyebrow, but neither are the same.
Even as they blur together, at times dressing similarly, there is that small thing that makes Anna (Mackenzie Davis) and Beth (Caitlin Fitzgerald) different. Beth is more insular, timid in her decisions, unwilling to talk as much about her pain. Anna is confrontational, wanting to seek change in her roles. She’s tired of being called a whore and taking degrading roles. As they take a trip to a cabin, they think that the time away will actually help them relax. Instead, it shows how they have been inundated so much with criticism that they have minor grievances against each other.
Black Bear also exists in a haunting tone, where the soundtrack is constantly clashing with the scenery, but Always Shine uses everything in an accentuated madness. Before the film is even 10 minutes old, there is a schizophrenic nature to the editing, where the opening credits play out a series of images that will come to pass. They’re varying degrees of horrifying, splattered together as some ominous sign of the pain to come. Takal doesn’t do subtlety. She’s building off of a raw nerve that is constantly being scratched at. It starts with a small grievance and eventually builds to a case of mistaken identity, where death feels like it’s on the horizon.
By comparison, Black Bear is quaint. The two sections of the film may have different executions of tone, but they’re all serviceable to central themes. It’s a story about control between Allison and Gabe, who look at Blair as this intimidating outsider. She doesn’t die, though the death of a relationship reflects the therapeutic nature of art, the way that it’s used to try and reflect reality while possibly prolonging the inevitable. Is Allison really going to put up with Gabe when Blair makes him happier? There’s a tragedy in this, especially as the ending reflects a moment from the first act, of walking in on an affair and feeling totally alone.
If there’s a major difference, it feels like Black Bear is reaching for something more personal. It’s asking to watch these people struggling to relate to each other and wonder if their relationship can be repaired. While watching Allison evoke deep emotion for a scene, there is the sense that she’s bringing forth painful memories just to make the take convincing. It’s what the world will see, convinced that this is her acting. However, she leaves the scene in tears, crippled on a bed from so much stress. She does so much to make the relationship work, and all that Gabe does is watch, unable to be helpful, writing her into these terrible corners, forcing her to be in his problems.
Always Shine has a similar approach to toxic behavior, though it’s one of nagging and undermining. The idea of Anna and Beth working together only gets them so far. As they give advice on how to annunciate a line for a trashy new script, they reveal their own differences. It’s the tension to make Beth a more outgoing performer, to make her realize her own self-worth, but at the same time, Anna needs her own space. The desperation emerges, where they fight over the acceptance of the townspeople, finding their fashion senses overlapping. Everything is clouded in an over the top atmosphere, the music blaring, and the imagery recalling horror movies. By the end, there’s no exchange of words that can save them. They’re doomed to fight it out, losing any compassion that they might’ve had for each other.
That is the thing that unites the two. They’re about artists trying to overcome some serious flaws, albeit narcissistic ones that have been placed on them by a judgmental public. When watching Always Shine, the claustrophobic camera work takes away their body, forcing a close-up to unravel their instincts and ask what makes these two women different. It isn’t that their work may be insignificant, forgotten in a year’s time, it’s the idea that following one’s dreams comes with a psychological toll that forever changes one’s outlook. It just so happens to do so with murderous revenge and an ambiguous tone where it’s hard to tell what is real and what is method acting.
For as cryptic as the bear in Black Bear may be, it’s all tied to something more concrete, capable of being construed as a symbol of the destructive relationship. It’s about the destruction of the self without a support group and the fear that one will just become a bloody corpse in the woods. The place that’s supposed to provide them peace only keeps them further isolated from the world. Plaza gives an impeccable performance late in the film where she yells with the pain of many abusive years in order to make a scene work. Will it be enough to restore any justice in this relationship? Will this movie matter enough to warrant such actions, or will it be so popular that her dream of ever again being normal is about to be nonexistent?
Together these films may seem a bit redundant despite their versatile differences. Levine clearly is more of a quiet, dramatic director keyed into emotions and gradual frustrations. Takal may have similar intents, but she’s more experimental, allowing for haunting external shots to subliminally play with the viewers’ minds, allowing the world around Anna and Beth to feel as unwelcoming as their mental states. There is more captivation in the world that elevates the story, even if it’s more confusing and at times underwhelming. Still, it’s doing something bolder, more exciting. It provides an angle on a toxic female friendship that isn’t often explored. Black Bear, meanwhile, is a creative break-up drama that has been more common at the end of the day.
For what it’s worth, both are worth watching for their own clever spin on indie cinema. Levine and Takal both have promising careers and sound like they have plenty to say. For me personally, I’d love to see them make similar existential dramas but move away from the crazy actor motifs, as they’re a bit too straightforward at times. They have compelling tones and play with ideas nicely, but both feel like performative art at times without saying much of substance. It’s compelling, but imagine placing that on a regular character whose job isn’t to convey false emotions. Maybe then both would have truer, more substantial things to say about what brings people together in the first place.
Comments
Post a Comment