Four stars. Rated R, for frequent profanity, graphic injury images, and fleeting sexuality and nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.22.17
Some things transcend their
real-world existence.
Football is a crowd-pleasing
spectator sport; baseball is ... something more. Baseball inspires myth-making
films such as The Natural and Field of Dreams. You simply can’t
imagine football doing the same.
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| Jeff (Jake Gyllenhaal) takes a few tentative steps on his new prosthetic legs, much to the overly eager delight of his helicoptering mother (Miranda Richardson, center), and the cautious concern of his girlfriend, Erin (Tatiana Maslany). |
Los Angeles and Chicago are
cities. New York and Boston are ... dreamlike.
Boston’s intangible, ferociously
indomitable spirit (“Boston strong!”)
has much to do with the triumphant, fist-pumping exhilaration that powers Stronger, but director David Gordon
Green’s fact-based drama likely will be remembered best for its quieter,
intimate moments. Two will linger in my mind for a long time: one for its near-silent emotional intensity; the other
for the heartbreaking wallop of an unexpectedly personal story, related by a
late-entry supporting character.
Both are staged, lensed and
performed impeccably; both are moments of pure cinema magic. And if the rest of
Green’s film doesn’t live up to those high points, it nonetheless remains
inspirational and thoroughly satisfying.
Stronger, based on Jeff Bauman’s best-selling 2014
memoir of the same title, depicts his agonizing emotional and physical struggle
after losing both legs during the April 2013 Boston Marathon bombing. His saga captivates
for all sorts of reasons; his being a survivor at times seems incidental.
Jeff’s presence at the finish
line was sheer caprice; he “showed up” in an effort to win back the
on-again/off-again girlfriend (Erin Hurley) who was running the race. In the
blast aftermath, he likely would have died, were it not for the rapid
intervention of Carlos Arredondo, a Costa Rican-born American peace activist
who attended the marathon for his own deeply personal reasons.
Immediately upon regaining
consciousness after surgery, still intubated and unable to speak, Jeff
indicated — by writing — that he’d seen one of the bombers; his description of
Tamerlan Tsarnaev helped police and FBI narrow down the suspect list.
All of which gives this film a
hefty emotional center, although scripter John Pollono wisely focuses on the
all-important relationship between Jeff and Erin. Everything else flows from
that bond.
Jeff — as introduced — is played
to lackadaisical perfection by Jake Gyllenhaal, who works his goofy smile far
more successfully than the guy deserves. He’s a slacker who still lives with
his mother, Patty (Miranda Richardson), an alcoholic clearly unwilling to part
with her beloved son. Despite a tendency to let people down, Jeff has
maintained steady employment in the deli department at the local CostCo; he’s
obviously a trial to boss Kevin (Danny McCarthy), who nonetheless likes the
guy.
Who wouldn’t? Jeff’s failings
aside, he’s eminently likable. He’s also part of a boisterous, frequently
profane working-class family that includes his father and Patty’s ex-husband,
Big Jeff (Clancy Brown); his Uncle Bob and Aunt Jen (Lenny Clarke and Patty
O’Neil); and longtime buddies Sully and Big D (Richard Lane Jr. and Nate
Richman).
When gathered together, they
squabble, snipe and shout over each other, seemingly most comfortable when
arguing at high decibel. This dynamic immediately evokes memories of Micky
Ward’s similarly large and dysfunctional family, in 2010’s The Fighter. (Must be a Massachusetts thing.) We can’t imagine
being part of such a brood, and yet Green and Pollono never, ever hold them up
for ridicule.
They may be a neighborhood
nightmare, but love and loyalty burn fiercely beneath their rowdy exteriors.
Proximity — and the ritual of
watching Red Sox games at a local tavern — repeatedly throw Jeff and Erin
(Tatiana Maslany) together. They’re on the outs as the film opens, Erin having
tired of Jeff’s self-centered unreliability. This stings; he therefore promises
to cheer her home, when she runs in the upcoming marathon.
Which he does. She’s within sight
of the finish line when the bombs go off, initially unaware of Jeff’s presence.
When she does find out, and realizes that she’s
the reason he was there ... words cannot convey the horror. Indeed, Green
and Pollono don’t try for words; they rely on Maslany, who silently carries the
next several scenes with palpable intensity.
She’s a phenomenal actress, as
fans of TV’s Orphan Black are well
aware: able to depict a wealth of emotions via the subtle nuances of her eyes
and mouth, the tilt of her head, the frozen tension of her entire body. We
grieve for Erin in these early scenes: wanting to be close to Jeff, unable to
go home despite knowing that she “doesn’t belong,” because she isn’t currently his girlfriend. And so
much more.
But he wants her there, and the
most intimately excruciating moment comes when the dressings on what’s left of
Jeff’s legs must be changed. I often complain about directors who rely overmuch
on tight close-ups, but Green knows the appropriate how and when.
Cinematographer Sean Bobbitt
holds on Gyllenhaal and Maslany’s faces, one of Erin’s arms pulling Jeff’s head
closer to hers, as the off-camera doctor (Dr. Jeffrey Kalish, the real-world
Jeff’s primary surgeon) explains each step of the procedure. Gyllenhaal’s face
captures Jeff’s terror and reaction to the excruciating pain; Erin gently talks
him through it, Maslany exuding tender, nurturing warmth and just a soupçon of
attaboy encouragement.
I defy anybody to watch this
scene, without coming away changed.
What follows moves in compelling
directions, Gyllenhaal persuasively conveying the confusion, apprehension and
guilt that results once Jeff is thrust into the powerfully scary maelstrom of
public veneration. His extended family is giddy: the celebrity, the free stuff,
the best seats at sports events. Over time, this tableau becomes ...
uncomfortable.
Patty, in particular, basks in
the reflective glow enveloping her son, and Richardson shades this role
brilliantly. On the one hand, we despise Patty’s clinging, self-centered,
avaricious nature. At the same time, we can’t help pitying her; Richardson
grants her a forlorn, desperate countenance. We understand that Patty never has
been the center of such attention, even second-hand ... and that she can’t give
it up.
But the increasingly desperate
look on Gyllenhaal’s face — his haunted gaze — convey Jeff’s anxiety over
whether he can live up to public expectation, or even wants to. As time passes,
we sense the growing resentment over his being trotted out, time and again,
like a crippled show pony ... just so (he assumes) other people can feel better
about themselves.
Pollono’s script covers an
impressive range of territory. The core bond between Jeff and Erin — fractured
as it often is — holds our hearts; at the same time, we’re thoughtfully engaged
by the relationship that springs up, often spontaneously, between The Public
and the “heroes” suddenly thrust into the spotlight. Jeff doesn’t speak to this
much, but Gyllenhaal makes us understand: What is the poor guy’s role, under
such circumstances?
Does one become a “hero” merely
by surviving? Or is it deeper than that?
The greater problem, of course,
is that Jeff’s mounting anxiety soon interferes with what must remain his No. 1
job: recovery — physical and
emotional — and the essential post-operative therapy. This moves the story into
its tempestuous, heartbreaking third act, which in turn leads to the appearance
of Arredondo (Carlos Sanz, in a deeply moving supporting performance). About
which, I’ll say no more.
Mention also must be made of the
sensitive work done by McCarthy, as Jeff’s genuinely concerned boss. (CostCo’s
corporate leaders will love their company’s portrayal here.) Derisively
dismissed, at first, by the frequently furious Big Jeff (Brown appropriately
larger than life), Kevin — knowing that he’s out of place amid family grief —
bravely lingers, both to register his presence, and to deliver important
information.
The tech credits are excellent.
Production designer Stephen H. Carter captures the raucous, disorderly
atmosphere of Jeff’s working-class surroundings; Dylan Tichenor’s editing is
spot-on. Michael Brook’s underscore is quietly effective, never artificially
enhancing deeply emotional moments that can — and do — stand on their own.
The Boston Marathon bombing
remains painfully raw, and Green doesn’t shy from re-created images guaranteed
to re-open unhealed wounds. This is where the city’s spirit plays its part.
We’ve already seen one engaging big-screen depiction of the overall catastrophe
— winter’s Patriot’s Day — and I
can’t help feeling that Hollywood’s eagerness to tell this second story derives,
in great part, from the triumphant, resilient je ne said quoi that manifests as “Boston strong!” and fueled the
city’s rejuvenation, after this terrorist strike.
More
power to those cheering citizens.
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