"It is doubted whether a man ever brings his faculties to
bear with their full force on a subject until he writes
upon it."
-- Cicero

My favorite radio DJ, Mona, said the same thing. But nowadays
I feel like checking into an institution any time I write notes
about movies, given the stunning disparity between the received
wisdom and my view.

Exhibit A is _Manchester by the Sea_, which received a 96%
positive rating on rottentomatoes, 112 awards, and close
to a $50 million box office -- a remarkable haul for an
indie film. What did everyone see in the film?

In truth, _Manchester_ is both better than I expected, and
also much worse. In terms of tone and story-telling technique,
it is certainly an improvement over _You Can Count on Me_,
the same director's much lauded film about sad sack losers,
messy family, a hipster long past his sell-by date and going
nowhere. _Manchester_ is at least funny, in a black,
mordant way. The sad-sack, odd-job man/protagonist Lee
Chandler superficially reminds me of Aki Kaurismäki's
heroes in the latter's films. The Finnish director's
films are also darkly comic, often feature funerals and
dead bodies, and have classical music/hymns for soundtracks.
Whereas _The Man Without a Past_ and _Lights in the Dusk_
deal with fundamentally decent heroes, condemned to the
margins of society but hanging on to their core integrity,
it is hard to figure out what Lee Chandler stands for
other than self-pity.

In the complicated, multiple flashback structure, it is
gradually revealed to us his remarkable mistake that has
destroyed his life. Partying with his friends and high
on coke, he accidentally burns down his house in the
titular town, killing his child. The crime is so outrageous
the director must have meant it as a joke at the audience's
expense. Lee flees to Boston, and is lured back years later
by the death of his brother, who leaves him in charge of
the orphaned nephew. (The wayward mother is a drunk,
played by Gretchen Mol who seems to have found a voice
coach at long last.) He is forced to confront his memories,
people he knew, including his ex-wife (Michelle Williams)
whom he almost killed in the fire.

Casey Affleck won multiple awards for the grim, one-note
role of Lee. Michelle Williams is wonderful as always, but
has too little screen time. What crystallizes the film's
many problems is ironically the much praised, climactic
confrontation between the two. Williams' character runs into
Lee with new baby, bursts into tears, tells him how sorry she
is for saying mean things to him in the past (not shown on
screen), that she should burn in hell for her transgressions
(!), and that she loves him. So after Lee's deadly blunder,
it is really all *her* fault. He stutters that he cannot
handle it and walks away; the last scene finds him fishing
with the very unpleasant nephew on the family fishing boat,
which, come to think of it, is probably what they would have
been doing if there hasn't been the tragedy anyway.

This crystallizes my suspicion that this is all a male wish-
fulfillment fantasy. It invites the viewer to identify with
and feel sorry for Lee. It is at least an improvement on
asking us to laugh at him, which would have been par for the
course in the heady days of Cinema of Humiliation rampant
in the early 2000s. Still, the scene is beyond nauseating.
The fact that so many critics single it for praise fills me
with dread. (No idea whether Affleck prepared for the scene
by getting worked up and feeling aggrieved about the sexual
harassment lawsuits filed against him.) Even the National
Review critics, seldom confused with militant feminists,
find the male self-pity unbearable. What do the 96%-ers
see in this film?

I have two uncles who are very much blue-collar-minuses. They
drift in and out of employment. One of them surround his
bunk bed with porno DVDs, like a moat guarding his corrupt
kingdom. Their lives aren't redeemed either; their potentials
are wasted. But they have more self-respect than the entire
cast of the film combined. They didn't kill anyone while high
on drugs, and do not expect phony apologies from anyone for
their lives.

----------------------------------------------------------

With Lars von Trier's last set of films flopping badly at the
box office and Michael Haneke thankfully losing at Cannes,
is it finally time to declare the Cinema of Humiliation,
rampant since the time of September 11 and the invasion
of Iraq, officially dead? If so, what defines the cinema
of today? I think most art-house critics and film festival
gate keepers have absolutely no idea; they are lunging
from one topical area to another. To me, it is obvious.
The 2010s is the decade of Terrence Malick and his like-minded
auteurs. They restore originality and spirituality into
the increasingly stale cinema scene, and will be inspirations
for the next generation of filmmakers -- whether the critics
recognize that or not.

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