Four stars. Rated R, for dramatic intensity, disturbing violence, profanity and nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.12.18
This film likely hasn’t been on
most folks’ radar, given its unconventional distribution.
That needs to change.
Director/co-scripter Dee Rees’
compelling adaptation of Hillary Jordan’s Mudbound
boasts impeccable acting and a narrative too infrequently addressed these days:
humble people just trying to get by. Rees’ film shares these sensibilities with
classics such as the 1940 adaptation of John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, and the 1941 adaptation of Richard Llewellyn’s
How Green Was My Valley (both
directed by John Ford).
The all-important distinction is
that Jordan’s saga gets additional dramatic heft from its depiction of the
wary, prickly dynamic that passed for “race relations” in the post-WWII Deep
South. Recent films addressing issues of race — 12 Years a Slave, Selma
and Birth of a Nation immediately
spring to mind — have concentrated on momentous individuals and/or points in
history; it’s refreshing to experience a much more intimate, carefully sculpted
depiction of jes’ plain folks.
Some of whom, it must be noted,
are capable of unspeakable behavior.
Rees and co-scripter Virgil
Williams adopt Jordan’s alternating narrative voices while introducing us to
two families: the McAllans and Jacksons, both struggling on a remote,
hard-scrabble cotton farm in the Mississippi Delta. It’s the winter of 1946,
with flashbacks filling in crucial pre-war details.
Monsoon-like rains occasionally
turn the entire farm into a dispiriting swamp of mud.
We meet Henry McAllan (Jason
Clarke) and his younger brother Jamie (Garrett Hedlund) as they dig a grave for
their recently deceased father, trying to complete this task ahead of another
impending storm. Subsequently easing the plain wooden coffin into the grave
proves too much for the two men; Henry requests help from their tenant farmers,
the Jacksons, as their wagon ambles along the nearby road.
This request elicits palpable
tension; we’ve no idea why.
Answers emerge via lengthy
flashbacks.
Years earlier, during happier
times before the war, spinster schoolteacher Laura (Carey Mulligan) gratefully
accepts Henry’s proposal of marriage. She’s far more of a catch than Henry ever
expected; the flashier, more handsome and charming Jamie would seem to have
been a better match. But although he’s clearly enchanted by Laura, Jamie — ever
the loyal sibling — limits his attention to wishing the new couple well.
Besides which, Jamie is heading
overseas, to serve the war effort as a bomber pilot.
Henry and Laura are blessed with
two daughters, the family living in comfort in Memphis, Tenn. Henry then
shatters this idyll by announcing the move to Mississippi, to fulfill his
lifelong ambition of running a farm. The stunned Laura has no choice but to
accompany him, now forced to live in a dilapidated shack with no electricity or
indoor plumbing.
She’s ill-prepared for such a
life; the day-to-day struggle quickly wears her to a nub.
Their family unit is augmented by
Henry and Jamie’s father, Pappy (Jonathan Banks), a viciously spiteful racist
and generally nasty old coot who probably drowns kittens for amusement.
The farm comes with black
sharecroppers: Hap Jackson (Rob Morgan), his wife Florence (Mary J. Blige) and
their many children, most notably their eldest, Ronsel (Jason Mitchell). The
latter also is serving his country, as a sergeant in the 761st Tank Battalion,
stationed in Germany under Gen. Patton’s command. Ronsel enjoys a degree of
racial equality worlds removed from his experiences at home.
The war ends; Jamie and Ronsel
return to their respective homes, the latter once again relegated to
second-class, use-the-back-door-or-else status. Bitterness and wounded pride
burn in Mitchell’s eyes.
Jamie is damaged, suffering from
shell shock and PTSD; he takes solace in alcohol, his once-breezy insouciance
and savoir faire a distant memory. Proximity brings Jamie and Ronsel together;
they recognize, in each other, kindred spirits who’ve survived war’s charnel
house.
Jamie insists on building a
friendship, skin color be damned. Ronsel, no fool, responds warily. Gradually,
tentatively, this nascent bond becomes the film’s heart and soul.
That’s no small thing, given the
many other equally compelling relationships that fuel the storyline.
Blige and Morgan are similarly superb.
The warmth that characterizes the bond between Florence and Hap is one of
equals; they share in work, family and important decisions in a manner that
emphasizes Laura’s isolation, in her
home. Hap regularly leads a local church service; Florence watches over their
children with the quietly protective embrace of a mother tiger.
Florence doesn’t talk much; when
she does, every word counts. Blige augments her observations with impressive
emotional heft, particuarly since her eyes often are concealed behind dark
glasses. Florence and Hap know how to play the game; they’re deferential to
Henry and his often ill-timed demands, while exchanging silent glances that speak
volumes.
To his credit, Henry tries to
make such appeals sound more like requests. But we understand — as do Hap and
Florence — that his surface geniality would vanish at the slightest hint of
“uppitiness.” Clarke depicts Henry as an uncomplicated man who expects — by
virtue of his being a man, and white
— unswerving obedience from his wife, children and tenant farmers. He’s by no
means a villain; Clarke shades him as a guy who simply doesn’t question the way
the world runs.
Banks’ Pappy is the villain: a
walking nightmare, not to be crossed. Banks literally vibrates with seething,
barely controlled rage. Worse yet, his eyes glow with a similarly frightening
degree of crafty cunning.
Mulligan, frequently cast into
glamorous roles by virtue of her cute-as-a-button looks, vanishes utterly into
her portrayal of Laura. She sags visibly, much of her dialog seeming to emerge
only with great effort, as if she barely has the strength for each syllable.
Mulligan’s performance is heartbreaking in the same manner as Mitchell’s
handling of Ronsel: Both are trapped, by convention, in “roles” guaranteed to
beat them down every minute of every day.
But whereas Laura has all but
abandoned the struggle, Ronsel remains quietly defiant. Mitchell imbues this
young man with levels of pride, dignity and poise — and a sparkle of nobility
in his eyes — that make us grieve. We know, all too well, the limitations
destined to crush him.
Much the way Jamie and Ronsel
forge a friendship, Laura and Florence come to an understanding. Theirs is
mostly unspoken, and frequently heartbreaking: the shared bond of two women who
realize that they’ve no choice but to suffer ... and endure.
Rachel Morrison’s cinematography
emphasizes the earth tones and bleakness of this harsh environment. At no time
do she and Rees attempt to depict this agrarian setting in an attractive light;
it’s grim, foreboding and gloomy. The lighting often feels like a murky dawn or
dusk, even at high noon.
Rees frequently pauses the
action, shifting to a parallel narrative while smoothing the way via brief
voice-over narration. We get a sense that all these characters are recalling
these events from a remove of time and distance: perhaps being interviewed,
individually, for some collective memoir. Unlike the often clumsy off-camera
narration that denotes lazy or uncertain direction, Rees employs it deftly; it works.
The story’s underlying anxiety is
unsettling throughout, and builds gradually to the horrific climax that we
sense must be coming ... at which
point, we understand the prologue’s palpable tension.
The script isn’t perfect. Lucy
Faust appears memorably but far too briefly as Vera Atwood, a white neighbor
whose plight is even more dire than what Henry and Laura face; events revolving
around Vera and her husband Carl demand more time and attention.
And despite the care and fidelity
with which Rees and Williams have adapted Jordan’s novel, the filmmakers
indulge in a fairy tale postscript that definitely isn’t in the book, and which
feels wholly out of place. It’s the only time Rees resorts to shameless
sentiment, and she should have resisted the temptation.
Otherwise, Mudbound stands as one of the recently departed year’s best dramas
... but you won’t find it at any local movie theaters. Aside from brief runs on
both coasts, to qualify for Academy Award consideration, this film is available
only via Netflix streaming.
And is well worth the
subscription fee (which, let’s face it, is significantly less than the price of
several movie tickets).
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