Review: Sweetgrass

When I first heard about "Sweetgrass," -- a family of Montana sheepherders driving their flock into the Absaroka-Beartooth Mountains for summer pasture -- I immediately romanticized it.

That feeling was promptly quashed five minutes into this thing.

Not that that's bad, because I think that is the intention of this enthralling documentary, which is filmed without any narration or interviews. The cameras are simply there on the journey, rolling and capturing its authenticity.

This method of filmmaking reminded me of the documentary "Into Great Silence," which is a contemplative look into daily monastic life at a French monastery. These kinds of films take a certain measure of patience and focus to make it through to the end, but if you can muster it up, they provide a unique experience. You feel free, a part of the setting, and can appreciate their sentiment without ever feeling manipulated by typical filmmaking ploys.

"Sweetgrass" starts out as winter begins to break, and the sheep are sheared (to the soft, lilting notes of AC/DC's "Highway to Hell"), and it was funny to see how the sheep's faces display a perpetual state of calm as they patiently bear with being gruffly handled and tossed about. There is also a very graphic birthing scene, and the roughness with which the lambs are treated surprised me. But at the same time, you can feel an underlying tenderness the workers have for the animals.

As they set out on their trek, there's an amazing shot of the 3,000 or so sheep making their way down main street of the small town. Herded by border collies, sheepdogs, workers on horseback and ATV's, the arduous process is astonishing, and as they make their way onto the trail and into the wilds of Montana, it immediately dawns on you that, this ain't gonna be easy.

The scenery is spectacular -- although, I wish this was available on blu-ray because some of the colors feel a little more washed out than they should be in a film that is set in such a beautiful part of the country -- but you find yourself unable to enjoy the surroundings fully because you're so distracted by all the pitfalls and complications and danger the group faces throughout the entire grueling journey.

But what this documentary also provides are the nuances of sound and a very gifted eye by the filmmakers. From the very start there are incredibly detailed sounds of the animals eating, the tinkling bells they wear on their collars, you hear their footsteps all around you as they march along, you hear the sounds of the birds and the surrounding wildlife, the wind, and the murmur of voices, sometimes singing, from the workers in the distance that puts you right there in the middle of all of it.

Combined with this are some incredible camera shots -- thrust right in the middle of a feeding frenzy or in the middle of the flock as it charges through a canyon. There are dazzling wide and long shots of the wilderness and the mountains that are interspersed so that you are consistently aware of the simultaneous beauty and unforgiving power of nature, that makes this whole endeavor feel very small and perhaps ill-fated.

John Ahern (Cinema Guild)

You get to know two workers along the way. One is John Ahern, a weathered veteran who reminds me of a cross between Jack Palance in "City Slickers" and the modern-day Mickey Rourke. This guy doesn't say much. He doesn't need to. "How can a dog like me if people don't," he says at one point. You can tell he's doing the only thing he was put on this earth to do, and he loves it completely, evidenced by his frequent and reflective gazes. There is a lengthy and intimate scene simply between him and his horse that is especially poignant and tells you everything you need to know about this guy.

The other is Pat Connolly, a younger worker, with a more outgoing personality and a more earnest and emotional approach to his job, although he has a tougher time adapting. I liked the conversations between these two. Sometimes they were nothing but awkward one-liners as Connolly talked and Ahern looked off into the distance (What is he looking at?!) Sometimes they were busting balls. Sometimes they were in-depth, as they discussed what to do about a potential bear situation in one particular instance.

All the while, you admire the unbelievable skill of these workers as the terrain and the journey gets rougher and rougher. There is indeed appalling evidence of a bear attack, and their subsequent reaction to it is a truly entertaining part of this film. And it isn't their last run-in with bears.

But while the skill of these workers is remarkable, it's not enough to combat the brutality of nature combined with the complication of driving thousands of sheep right into the middle of it. You can feel the frustration comically during Connolly's diatribe of colorful cursing as the border collies fail to keep the herd together at one point, and they scatter into a ravine.

Pat Connolly (Cinema Guild)

And you can feel the frustration poignantly when Connolly breaks down in a call to his mother on a mountain top, describing the scattering of the flock, the roaring wind, his border collie that can barely walk anymore, his own knee grinding with every step. You can understand his plight, especially if you think about these problems perhaps being compounded by pressing financial problems at home and the need to get this job done -- "I'd rather enjoy the mountains than hate them, but right now I hate them ... I've been saying a lot of prayers ..." But after venting on the phone, he feels rejuvenated it seems, and he shares a nice moment with his poor crippled dog who's been trying so hard.

This film signifies the end of this method of sheepherding. It's mentioned to us at the end of the documentary, the majority of which was shot in 2001, that the last sheepherder to drive a flock of sheep in such a way -- which turns out to be a 150-mile journey over several months -- did so during that year.

And as Ahern gets into the pickup truck after the exhausting drive is over, another job done -- and, of course, gazing wistfully out the window -- we can feel the nostalgic finality of this way of life and the uncertain transition to what lies ahead.

"Can rain all it wants to now," Ahern says, looking at the sky.

Review: The Good Heart

Wow ... people did not like this movie.

Roger Ebert's review is hilarious, because he plain and simply despised "The Good Heart" so much, it made me laugh out loud reading it. I agree with Mr. Ebert's reviews, I'd have to say, 90 percent of the time, so it's always a surprise when we differ in opinion.

But funny things happen when you see a movie at just the right time or when you are in the right mood. And I have to tell you -- brace yourself -- I actually liked it, despite everyone's apparent loathing.

In short, Brian Cox plays one of the most unlikeable characters you'll meet in Jacques, the owner of a dive bar in New York City -- The House of Oysters (it doesn't serve oysters anymore, just booze and coffee, but he doesn't change the name of the bar because, well, you can't change the name of a bar, according to Jacques). It's so dingy you can almost smell it.

But my fondness for "dive bars" in general probably gave this movie more points than others awarded it, because I thought that place was great. It was so small, it could barely fit 13 people, which Jacques says is the maximum amount you should have in a bar. Yes, he has a lot of head-scratching rules -- No women, no walk-ins, a bartender should be familiar, not friendly, champagne is only for celebrating major sports victories etc ... It has a cool player piano as well, and a worthy mascot, a German Shepherd that goes everywhere with Jacques, and even sits at the bar with the regulars.

Brian Cox (Magnolia Pictures)

Jacques has another problem other than being a curmudgeon. He has a bad ticker and suffers his fifth heart attack. Yes, Jacques' German Shepherd even accompanies him to the hospital, following his master's gurney with hospital slippers on all four paws. At the same time, a homeless kid named Lucas (Paul Dano), who lives under a bridge, tries to commit suicide, winds up in Jacques' hospital room, and the two forge some semblance of a relationship.

Jacques starts to think about his mortality, and decides he'll take Lucas in and teach him the ways of bar ownership with the goal of passing the bar along to him after he dies. It starts to become evident that Jacques will probably learn a bit more from Lucas, and there are some dramatic, quirky and humorous scenes between the two.

At this point, the movie has gotten so gritty and you're wallowing in the depression and angst and coldness of Jacques (What the hell happened in his past that made him so bitter anyway?), and the loneliness and darkness of the bar and the regulars, that you feel the need to open the window and let some fresh air in.

Enter April (Isild Le Besco) -- a most fitting name, no? Finally having a female in this movie was a welcome sight indeed. She is a French stewardess with her own amusing sob story who enters the bar out of the rain and, well, throws a wrench into Jacques' plans.

I do have to say, the ending is completely nutso. Unfortunately, there was a scene earlier that kind of set it up and ruined a bit of the shock for me, but even as the ending develops and the movie wraps itself up, the cynic in me started crying foul about how unbelievably unfair the whole thing is.

Isild Le Besco and Paul Dano (Magnolia Pictures)

But, like the House of Oysters, you have to try and let a little fresh air in, a little optimism, and understand what the ending suggests, as hard as that may be and as far-fetched as it is.

I took it as a cautionary tale, one I was glad to see when I am still relatively young rather than too old and bitter to see any point in making any changes in my life -- not unlike "A Christmas Carol." This life is really nothing unless we open ourselves up and share it with others ... and try to put people ahead of ourselves once in a while.

Some of us are here for just a brief moment, others for a longer spell, and there's no explanation for it, so we should not waste these opportunities we have while we're here to make meaningful connections. Because we can be "pressed into service" at any time, no matter how young or old we are, and no matter whether it's fair or not.

Review: The Road

* May be a spoiler near the end ... read at your own peril.

I read "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy a while ago, knowing that they were going to make a movie out of it, and when I finished the book I couldn't see how that would be possible.

Watching the movie tonight, I have to admit for the first 30 minutes or so, I still felt that way. But as the story unfolded over the hour and 53 minutes it took to tell, it quietly evolved into a surprisingly beautiful piece of work.

The setting is post-apocalyptic, and the plot is simple: A man (Viggo Mortensen) and his son (Kodi Smit-McPhee) merely trying to survive in a world that is uninhabitable. Complementing the plot nicely is the equally simple soundtrack, a solitary piano eventually accompanied by a cello that I thought sounded both haunting and hopeful as the father and son made their way through the cold and the gray, the ash, the devastation and the savagery that now defines the majority of those that survived whatever it is that has happened.

I found the cinematography to be gorgeous in a way, despite being predominantly dark and depressing, because offsetting this were vibrant colors that washed over you when the film conveyed any kind of positivity.

Expanding on this sense is the scene I remember most from the book, and the movie's interpretation didn't disappoint. The two are slowly starving to death and spending their entire existence searching for food in the most revolting places, withering away and covered in dirt and grime -- which brings out the fire and color in the eyes of the father, who has not and will not give up hope -- and they stumble across a bomb shelter that is stocked full of canned goods, water, toiletries and everything one would need to feel human again.

The bright yellow of the Del Monte canned fruit pops out of the gray as the two indulge in what had to be the best-tasting meal I could imagine ("What do you want for breakfast?!" the father exuberantly asks his son).




Later, we see the bright white of the tub as they take their first hot bath in who knows how long, the water washing coats of grime away in contrast -- giving their faces color. They eat a hot dinner by the warm, amber glow of candlelight as it rains outside above them.

Or consider the flashback scenes, echoes of a happier time, in which the palette is always dramatically changed to bursts of color -- comforting your eyes after having acclimated to the brooding overtones. Watching these, I was reminded of the little girl in the red coat in "Schindler's List," or the flashback scenes in "The Passion of the Christ" -- where you felt that burning need for color and relief -- and it was presented when you -- or the characters -- needed it the most.

My favorite part of this movie, though, came when the two happen across an old man, who is alone. And as they talk to him, that's all I notice ... until the next scene, where they had invited him to dinner around their campfire and I realize that ... it's Robert Duvall!

A funny thing happened when that dawned on me -- I actually felt somewhat comforted by Duvall's presence in this movie. Having seen nearly everything he's done -- multiple times -- he represented a sense of familiarity when I recognized his voice amid the bleak existence that I had felt lost in up to that point.

Not to mention, while he's only on screen for a few minutes, he gives a very evocative performance in a way that only he could deliver.




As the film progressed, one of the most disconcerting feelings I found myself having was wondering how close we may all be to this type of existence. Compounding this feeling was watching the featurette, in which they said that they filmed the majority of this movie at locales that have already suffered similar devastation (Katrina, Mount St. Helens).

But for all its despair, the movie ends with what I believe it was trying to convey all along: a feeling of hope. There's a poignant sense of a story ending and another beginning -- without giving too much away.

And as this feeling grows, we remember a minor scene in the movie where the boy expressed interest in a dog that may have been following them. We also remember that we've been told early on that all animals have been wiped out. Well, for me, seeing a fleeting pan shot of the eternally optimistic face of a worn-down mutt at this point not only drove home that feeling of hope but felt like an incredibly powerful and thought-provoking scene in the movie.

(Dimension Films)

What does the dog represent to you? Clearly this was a strategic choice made, and you'd be amazed at the myriad interpretations that are out there, both optimistic and even foreboding.

I think you can take a lot away from this movie. When everything is stripped away and it's just you and someone else, as Mortensen said, is it simply a matter of survival at that point that defines us, or is it something else? Maybe it's the act of preserving our humanity in the face of hopelessness, sin and despair.

Or maybe it's simply a reminder to not take the things we have for granted in our own lives.

Whatever it is, I did take one thing away from the movie. When I went to the refrigerator later in the evening to scrounge, a burst of yellow popped out at me from the Del Monte can of peaches I had sitting there on the bottom shelf ... and I don't remember them ever tasting so good.