She’s ripping up yard art!

I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore

(2017)

(SPOILERS) An assured debut from actor and frequent Jeremy Saulnier collaborator Macon Blair (great first name, unfortunate connotations deriving from the second), I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore deposits itself in similarly unsophisticated, dark criminal underbellies as Saulnier’s, but Blair adorns his tale with a veneer of pitch-black humour, and where Saulnier operates in an arena of taut linearity, Blair (who also wrote the screenplay), embraces the shaggy dog narrative of a plot content to amble waywardly to its ultimate destination.

The title suggests a level of existential angst the picture doesn’t, in all honesty, really comes to grips with, although I’m not sure it really wants to. It’s an oddball name for an oddball movie – not at all a character piece based around Nordic soul searching – and intimations of pervading ennui are continually shrugged off by the convulsively funny antics and exchanges into which any given scene sidesteps.

Assistant nurse Ruth (Melanie Lynskey), for all her vocalisations that “Everyone is an asshole” and “Pretty soon, I’ll just be carbon, and none of it matters”, is too motivated, to roused to righteous ire, to sink wholeheartedly into nihilistic despair. Her quest for her stolen laptop (and grandmother’s silverware) doesn’t end when it is recovered; she desires a confrontation with the perpetrator, but more than that she is trying to prove something, to reach an unattainable goal, “For people not to be assholes”.

Like anyone who finds them “falling down”, it isn’t just a single incident (the violation of her home) that triggers Ruth, it’s that it’s the final straw on top of all the other conspiring elements in her life. From the first scene, darkly comic unease (and Blair’s twisted tone) is the order of the day, illustrated by an old patient’s uncensored last words (“Keep your gigantic monkey dick… out of my good pussy!”). Naturally, Ruth can’t tell the relatives. Then there’s Blair’s cameo, spoiling the novel Ruth is reading (the Elsewhere Saga), and the arrival of neighbour Tony (Elijah Wood), at whom she hurls dog-doo (“You’ve been shitting in my yard!”). That she misses is a good indication of a movie where very little goes according to anyone’s plan (protagonist and antagonist alike).

Every scene in Ruth’s quest is lit up by vignettes of peculiarity. The detective on the case (Gary Anthony Williams) is dismissive of her demands for demonstrable investigation (“Why don’t you want to help me? Isn’t it your job?”), to the point where he gets upset over her upset. With Tony in tow, an inept but good-hearted, rat’s-tailed hipster equipped with throwing stars and trust in Jesus (queried by Ruth on his praying, he replies “You asked for help, I asked for help. That’s how things get done”), she tracks down the laptop on her own recognisees, and then the silverware, where an altercation with a very old man (Myron Natwick, looking like he’s stepped out of Poltergeist) finds him breaking her finger and Tony clocking him one. There’s a lot of clocking going on in I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore. And, while their journey is fraught with injury and mishap, Ruth and Tony prove surprisingly competent, more through luck than anything resembling aptitude, and often to hilariously gruesome ends.

Ruth: Did you do those tattoos yourself?

Marshall: Yeah, sure.

Ruth: They’re fucking stupid.

Every character here is memorable, from appearance to dubious disposition. Christian (Devon Graye, bearing a passing resemblance to the egg-sucking Nazi in A Fistful of Dynamite) is anything but, so thoroughly reprehensible that he takes shits in peoples’ lavatory cisterns. Accordingly, there’s only entailing mirth when Ruth batters him with the plaster of Paris imprint of his own shoe, and he flees straight into the path of a bus.

The final act finds her forced into a robbery with small-time crazies Marshall (David Yow) and Dez (Jane Levy). Following a very bloody standoff that simultaneously juggles the gross, comical and gripping, she flees into the woods pursued by Marshall, where she resorts to insulting her pursuer before lobbing rocks at him. And comes out on top (helped in some measure by an impromptu reptile). By this point, Blair has built up an anything-might-happen scenario, such that an anguis ex machina seems entirely reasonable.

Ruth: Yeah, yeah. What would Jesus do, right?

Melanie Lynskey has worked consistently over the years, but this might be her brightest movie role since her debut in Peter Jackson’s Heavenly Creatures (obviously, it was Oor Kate who went on to the fame and glory). Ruth’s end-of-her-tether unwillingness to let it lie is marvellously complemented by Tony’s earnest sincerity – Wood is always a good choice for earnestness, and sincerity – and if they’re an unlikely duo, the fact of Tony caring – his essential decency – is ultimately the tonic that enables Ruth to persevere yet awhile longer in this world (Blair plays with an “Is he, or isn’t he?” moment in respect of Tony’s survival, but to go for the negative would have jarred too much with a movie that, in whatever offbeat way, is taking its lead protagonist on an upward path).

Tony also offers a tempering influence on Ruth’s unleashed capacity to push it further and further. At the beginning, she lets it lie when customers drop items on the floor of the supermarket and cut into the queue ahead of her; before long, she’s calling them out on their indolence and cutting in herself. The first sign of a kindred spirit is not that Tony is reading the same book, but that he objects to spoilers (“Don’t tell me what happens, I hate that”; quite right too, that’s why I put warnings on reviews).

Marshall: She’s ripping up yard art!

There also seems to be a suggestion of universal balance at work, bellying Ruth’s sense of futility; she asks “What are we doing here, in the world?”, but Tony professes no such doubts. Indeed, he’s most clear when Ruth goes over the line, ripping up yard art (“It’s not your lawn tiger” and so inviting bad karma. Her penance is becoming an accessory to the bloody final act, that nearly does for Tony. Lynskey measures a character who is fearful but determined, lost but resourceful, just right – we completely buy that she’d insult the man (Chris Rumack) into whose residence she has just insinuated herself (“I can see why he turned out like he did” she says to Christian’s father), regardless of whether that’s very wise; nothing she does is very wise, but it works, give or take.

Wood has never been more goofily likeable, from congratulating Christina’s stepmother Trixie (Christine Woods) on her coffee (“Thanks for the cappuccino. The foam was amazing”) to showing rudimentary computer skills (“You’re so sly, but so am I”: obviously a fan of Manhunter) and even less convincing ones with throwing stars (although, like Jack Burton, he hits a target – sort of – when lives depend on it). He has a magnificently expressive pooch too (witness its reaction to “It’s butthole time!”).

In some respects, I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore recalls the shambling gait of the Coen Brothers’ stoner take on Raymond Chandler, The Big Lebowski; both begin with a robbery that initiates a spurt of amateur detective work, in which the protagonists succeed through luck rather than judgement or skill. But, while Blair’s movie is much bloodier and less cartoonish, it’s also possibly more optimistic and burdened with more heart; it is, after all, a vision of her dead grandmother that leads Ruth to the imperilled Tony and so provides her with an answer when she most needs it. This is great, at times queasy, fun, and shows Macon Blair as a ridiculously competent all-rounder (at least he has the restrain not to furnish the score as well – he had to make do with the fine tuning of his brothers Will and Brooke).

Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.

Comments

Mondo bizarro. No offence man, but you’re in way over your head.

The X-Files 8.7: Via Negativa I wasn’t as down on the last couple of seasons of The X-Files as most seemed to be. For me, the mythology arc walked off a cliff somewhere around the first movie, with only the occasional glimmer of something worthwhile after that. So the fact that the show was tripping over itself with super soldiers and Mulder’s abduction/his and Scully’s baby (although we all now know it wasn’t, sheesh ), anything to stretch itself beyond breaking point in the vain hope viewers would carry on dangling, didn’t really make much odds. Of course, it finally snapped with the wretched main arc when the show returned, although the writing was truly on the wall with Season 9 finale The Truth . For the most part, though, I found 8 and 9 more watchable than, say 5 or 7. They came up with their fair share of engaging standalones, one of which I remembered to be Via Negativa .

You have done well to keep so much hair, when so many’s after it.

Jeremiah Johnson (1972) (SPOILERS) Hitherto, I was most familiar with Jeremiah Johnson in the form of a popular animated gif of beardy Robert Redford smiling and nodding in slow zoom close up (a moment that is every bit as cheesy in the film as it is in the gif). For whatever reason, I hadn’t mustered the enthusiasm to check out the 1970s’ The Revenant until now (well, beard-wise, at any rate). It’s easy to distinguish the different personalities at work in the movie. The John Milius one – the (mythic) man against the mythic landscape; the likeably accentuated, semi-poetic dialogue – versus the more naturalistic approach favoured by director Sydney Pollack and star Redford. The fusion of the two makes for a very watchable, if undeniably languorous picture. It was evidently an influence on Dances with Wolves in some respects, although that Best Picture Oscar winner is at greater pains to summon a more sensitive portrayal of Native Americans (and thus, perversely, at times a more patr

You’re a disgrace, sir... Weren’t you at Harrow?

Our Man in Marrakesh aka Bang! Bang! You’re Dead (1966) (SPOILERS) I hadn’t seen this one in more than three decades, and I had in mind that it was a decent spy spoof, well populated with a selection of stalwart British character actors in supporting roles. Well, I had the last bit right. I wasn’t aware this came from the stable of producer Harry Alan Towers, less still of his pedigree, or lack thereof, as a sort of British Roger Corman (he tried his hand at Star Wars with The Shape of Things to Come and Conan the Barbarian with Gor , for example). More legitimately, if you wish to call it that, he was responsible for the Christopher Lee Fu Manchu flicks. Our Man in Marrakesh – riffing overtly on Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana in title – seems to have in mind the then popular spy genre and its burgeoning spoofs, but it’s unsure which it is; too lightweight to work as a thriller and too light on laughs to elicit a chuckle.

You know what I sometimes wish? I sometimes wish I were ordinary like you. Ordinary and dead like all the others.

Séance on a Wet Afternoon (1964) (SPOILERS) Bryan Forbes’ adaptation of Mark McShane’s 1961’s novel has been much acclaimed. It boasts a distinctive storyline and effective performances from its leads, accompanied by effective black-and-white cinematography from Gerry Turpin and a suitably atmospheric score from John Barry. I’m not sure Forbes makes the most of the material, however, as he underlines Séance on a Wet Afternoon ’s inherently theatrical qualities at the expense of its filmic potential.

I tell you, it saw me! The hanged man’s asphyx saw me!

The Asphyx (1972) (SPOILERS) There was such a welter of British horror from the mid 60s to mid 70s, even leaving aside the Hammers and Amicuses, that it’s easy to lose track of them in the shuffle. This one, the sole directorial effort of Peter Newbrook (a cameraman for David Lean, then a cinematographer), has a strong premise and a decent cast, but it stumbles somewhat when it comes to taking that premise any place interesting. On the plus side, it largely eschews the grue. On the minus, directing clearly wasn’t Newbrook’s forte, and even aided by industry stalwart cinematographer Freddie Young (also a go-to for Lean), The Aspyhx is stylistically rather flat.

A ship is the finest nursery in the world.

A High Wind in Jamaica (1965) (SPOILERS) An odd one, this, as if Disney were remaking The Swiss Family Robinson for adults. One might perhaps have imagined the Mouse House producing it during their “Dark Disney” phase. But even then, toned down. After all, kids kidnapped by pirates sounds like an evergreen premise for boy’s own adventuring (more girl’s own here). The reality of Alexander Mackendrick’s film is decidedly antithetical to that; there’s a lingering feeling, despite A High Wind in Jamaica ’s pirates largely observing their distance, that things could turn rather nasty (and indeed, if Richard Hughes’ 1929 novel had been followed to the letter, they would have more explicitly).

The best thing in the world for the inside of a man or a woman is the outside of a horse.

Marnie (1964) (SPOILERS) Hitch in a creative ditch. If you’ve read my Vertigo review, you’ll know I admired rather than really liked the picture many fete as his greatest work. Marnie is, in many ways, a redux, in the way De Palma kept repeating himself in the early 80s only significantly less delirious and… well, compelling. While Marnie succeeds in commanding the attention fitfully, it’s usually for the wrong reasons. And Hitch, digging his heels in as he strives to fashion a star against public disinterest – he failed to persuade Grace Kelly out of retirement for Marnie Rutland – comes entirely adrift with his leads.

My Doggett would have called that crazy.

The X-Files 9.4: 4-D I get the impression no one much liked Agent Monica Reyes (Annabeth Gish), but I felt, for all the sub-Counsellor Troi, empath twiddling that dogged her characterisation, she was a mostly positive addition to the series’ last two years (of its main run). Undoubtedly, pairing her with Doggett, in anticipation of Gillian Anderson exiting just as David Duchovny had – you rewatch these seasons and you wonder where her head was at in hanging on – made for aggressively facile gender-swapped conflict positions on any given assignment. And generally, I’d have been more interested in seeing how two individuals sympathetic to the cause – her and Mulder – might have got on. Nevertheless, in an episode like 4-D you get her character, and Doggett’s, at probably their best mutual showing.

Isn’t it true, it’s easier to be a holy man on the top of a mountain?

The Razor’s Edge (1984) (SPOILERS) I’d hadn’t so much a hankering as an idle interest in finally getting round to seeing Bill Murray’s passion project. Partly because it seemed like such an odd fit. And partly because passion isn’t something you tend to associate with any Murray movie project, involving as it usually does laidback deadpan. Murray, at nigh-on peak fame – only cemented by the movie he agreed to make to make this movie – embarks on a serious-acting-chops dramatic project, an adaptation of W Somerset Maugham’s story of one man’s journey of spiritual self-discovery. It should at least be interesting, shouldn’t it? A real curio? Alas, not. The Razor’s Edge is desperately turgid.

Just wait. They’ll start listing side effects like the credits at the end of a movie.

Contagion (2011) (SPOILERS) The plandemic saw Contagion ’s stock soar, which isn’t something that happens too often to a Steven Soderbergh movie. His ostensibly liberal outlook has hitherto found him on the side of the little people (class action suits) and interrogating the drugs trade while scrupulously avoiding institutional connivance (unless it’s Mexican institutional connivance). More recently, The Laundromat ’s Panama Papers puff piece fell fall flat on its face in attempting broad, knowing satire (in some respects, this is curious, as The Informant! is one of Soderbergh’s better-judged films, perhaps because it makes no bones about its maker’s indifference towards its characters). There’s no dilution involved with Contagion , however. It amounts to a bare-faced propaganda piece, serving to emphasise that the indie-minded director is Hollywood establishment through and through. This is a picture that can comfortably sit alongside any given Tinseltown handwringing over the Wa

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

Search This Blog