SYNOPSIS: In “Die My Love,” a new psychological drama now playing in theatres, Grace (Jennifer Lawrence) and Jackson (Robert Pattinson) leave the hustle and bustle of New York City in search of a quieter life on a rural Montana ranch. As the couple welcome a child, Grace begins to feel isolated, trapped and acts out in unpredictable ways. “I’m right here,” she says to Jackson, “you just can’t see me.”
CAST: Jennifer Lawrence, Robert Pattinson, LaKeith Stanfield, Nick Nolte, Sissy Spacek. Directed by Lynne Ramsay.
REVIEW: A non-linear, stream-of-consciousness look at one woman’s breakdown, “Die My Love” is not a movie you “enjoy” in the traditional sense. Like the recent “If I Had Legs I’d Kick You,” a psychological drama that mined similar territory, “Die My Love” is a confrontational, difficult watch.
The difference is in the execution.
While neither film can be called pleasurable, “If I Had Legs I’d Kick You” displays a sense of purpose missing from “Die My Love.”
Both feature compelling, raw performances from their leads, but “If I Had Legs” gives the viewer something to hang onto story wise. “Die My Love” has a premise—woman has a breakdown after moving to the country—but is frustratingly shy about fleshing out a complete narrative. The result is a film that feels like a series of escalating events rather than a cohesive whole.
The glue holding the entire thing together is Lawrence, whose fearless and ferocious performance physicalizes the character’s inner turmoil in increasingly unpredictable and upsetting ways. Crushed by postpartum depression and isolation, her behavior spirals, captured by director Lynne Ramsay, who co-wrote with Enda Walsh and Alice Birch, in a series of loosely connected vignettes. With little-to-no narrative accompaniment, however, the incidents, while often shocking, become repetitive and drain away the film’s power as a portrait of postpartum and human frailty.
Lawrence’s portrait of psychological collapse is raw and challenging cinema but as a vehicle for the performance “Die My Love’s” mix of reality and delusion falters.
“You Were Never Really Here” is about a man with a special set of skills who rescues young women and yet it couldn’t be any more different from “Taken” and other recent guardian angel action movies.
Joaquin Phoenix stars as Joe, a bulky, bearded veteran who lives with his mother. When he isn’t rescuing young girls from human traffickers he’s doing household chores, helping his mom clean the silver wear or, when memories of his violent past overtake him, trying to kill himself.
Driven by vengeance and haunted by memories of childhood abuse he metes out punishment to human traffickers, violently beating them with fists and hammers. “Can you be brutal?” asks a client. “I can,” he replies calmly.
When a job retrieving Nina (Ekaterina Samsonov), the eleven-year-old daughter of a high-ranking New York politician (Alex Manette), from a pedophile ring goes sideways, Joe is forced to delve deeper than ever before.
There is violence in “You Were Never Really Here” but don’t expect a Liam Neeson style action flick. First of all Joe’s special set of skills mainly include surveillance and ball peen hammer assault. Secondly Joe doesn’t have any catchphrases. He’s a secretive man of action, plagued by PTSD and driven by a sense of righteous justice. Think Travis Bickle, not former Green Beret and CIA operative Bryan Mills.
Phoenix delivers a deceptively simple performance. A man of few words Joe expresses himself in other ways and Phoneix finds way to do much while doing very little. The pain in his eyes, amplified by random flashbacks to his troubled youth, reveals both his personal torture and why he works exclusively with mistreated children. More importantly are the traces of humanity that slip through Joe’s blank façade. The way he dotes on his mother or holds a dying man’s hand, singing along with a syrupy pop song, as life slips away. In another scene he instructs his pre-teen rescue to close her eyes, trying to protect what little innocence she has left, before he bludgeons one of her captors to death. It’s in these moments that Joe becomes a fully rounded character and not simply a killing machine.
Scottish director Lynne Ramsay never gives away the game, doling out the details only as necessary. The flashbacks are jagged, poking into the story like a shard of glass slashing through silk. Those elements, bolstered by an anxiety inducing score—loud, abrasive yet beautiful—from Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood, combine to present an intriguing, elliptical portrait of a tortured soul.
