3.5 stars. Rated R for strong violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.7.18
Anthology films — also known by the far niftier term “portmanteau films,” with interior short subjects usually linked by genre, author, premise or even star — have been mini-fads at various points in cinema history.
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| Having unwisely left the wagon train in search of her wayward little dog, Alice Longabaugh (Zoe Kazan) is terrified to discover that she and her sole companion have been spotted by a band of angry Native American warriors. |
They became something of a vogue during the 1940s, starting with 1942’s Tales of Manhattan. That was followed by 1943’s occult-laden Flesh and Fantasy; 1945’s deliciously spooky Dead of Night; 1948’s Quartet, with its four Somerset Maugham stories; 1950’s Trio and 1951’s Encore (Maugham again); and 1952’s O. Henry’s Full House.
Occasional one-offs notwithstanding, portmanteau films didn’t become popular again until 1968’s The Illustrated Man — with its selection of Ray Bradbury tales — led to a series of horror entries: The House that Dripped Blood, Asylum and Tales from the Crypt, ad infinitum to this day.
High-tone entries included 1989’s New York Stories, with segments directed by Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola and Woody Allen; and 1995’s Four Rooms, with Roald Dahl short stories loosely adapted by directors Allison Anders, Alexandre Rockwell, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino.
This brings us to Joel and Ethan Coen’s The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, which gathers half a dozen short concepts they’ve had kicking around for the past quarter-century. The tales are linked by their setting in the American West, which rarely has looked more vicious; and by a clever framing device that “lifts” each yarn from the pages of a vintage hardcover book, complete with gorgeous color illustrations whose captions — in each case — give a dramatic clue to what we’re about to see.
As always is the case with portmanteau films, the contents vary from excellent to good to not such a much. But since we’re dealing with the Coen brothers, even the lesser entries are worth viewing for tone, acting, cheeky directing, and Bruno Delbonnel’s lush cinematography.
The segments also have a few things in common: a darkly comic, even macabre tone; unexpected bursts of gruesome violence; and — in most cases — an atmosphere of grim despair.
The film opens with its title segment, as the indefatigably cheerful singing cowboy Buster Scruggs (Tim Blake Nelson) rides first into a fly-speck saloon, and then into a small town. The gimmick here is that Buster both sings his ongoing saga, and constantly breaks the fourth wall to makes us part of his joie de vivre.
Nelson is a stitch, all decked out in blinding-bright white. Buster is quite the happy chappie, and it quickly becomes obvious that his singing talents are eclipsed by his prowess with a pistol. Cue a series of hilarious — if wincingly grotesque — gun battles … assuming duels so one-sided can be called “battles.”
Ah, but in true Rod Serling tradition, there’s a scorpion’s sting to this story, as with many that follow.
James Franco’s unnamed outlaw is far less successful with his weapons, in “Near Algodones.” This playlet opens on a droll tableau, as he silently takes in the sight of the First Federal Trust Co. of Tucumcari: a lone building in the middle of nowhere, staffed by an equally lone teller (Stephen Root), who seems ill-equipped to prevent a bank robbery.
Appearances can be deceiving, just as the outlaw’s eventual fate puts an entirely new meaning on the term irony.
“The Mortal Remains” takes place during a stagecoach ride being taken by an Englishman (Jonjo O’Neill), an Irishman (Brendan Gleeson), a Frenchman (Saul Rubinek), a prim lady (Tyne Daly) and a filthy, bearded trapper (Chelcie Ross). The latter initially regales his trapped companions with a long-winded and increasingly earthy chronicle of his life, leading us to assume that we’ve ventured into the snarky dialogue territory that Tarantino exploits so well.
Indeed, Daly’s expressions grow ever more riotously appalled, and even the other three men slowly slide into paroxysms of boredom, disbelief and disgust.
Ah, but things shift when the dusty afternoon abruptly turns into the inky-black darkness of nighttime … rather too abruptly, we realize. Of all the segments, this one has the most tantalizingly ambiguous — perhaps even symbolic — conclusion.
Which isn’t the case with “Meal Ticket,” a bewildering tale that focuses on a traveling impresario (Liam Neeson). Each evening he transforms his wagon into a makeshift stage, from which his companion (Harry Melling) entertains curious townsfolk with a collection of “great works” soliloquies from Shakespeare, various authors and even Abraham Lincoln’s speeches. A hat is passed, and the two men can eat for another day.
This “artiste” is known only by his billing as “The Wingless Thrush,” a uncomfortably apt sobriquet. The story is something of a character study, of two men held together solely by circumstance and mutual dependence. But it goes nowhere, and concludes abruptly and clumsily: quite disappointing, given the absence of irony that spices all the others.
The preceding are all short-shorts, running no more than 15 or 20 minutes. The remaining two entries are longer, better paced and far more satisfying.
Tom Waits is a one-man show in “All Gold Canyon,” based on Jack London’s 1906 short story. This one opens on a truly dazzling tableau: a canyon lush with greenery, a stream laden with fish, a watchful owl and a wary buck, all set to Carter Burwell’s sweeping orchestral score (sounding more than a little like portions of Ferde Grofé’s Grand Canyon Suite).
The critters vanish with the noisy arrival of a prospector (Waits) seeking gold. The Coens take their time with the back-breaking labor involved in such an endeavor, particularly when carried out single-handedly; we gain renewed respect for all the individuals who braved the elements — and each other — during the mid-19th century gold rush.
Waits is cranky, cantankerous and fussy, carrying on a terse running monolog heard only by his mule. We can’t help being fascinated by both him and the process, as we wonder precisely where all this effort is leading.
The Coens’ jewel, however, is “The Gal Who Got Rattled,” based on one of Stewart Edward White’s Western-themed short stories. Zoe Kazan dominates this tale as Alice Longabaugh, a “spinster” who — apparently having no local prospects — leaves civilized Eastern society to join her brother Gilbert (Jefferson Mays) in a wagon train heading to Oregon’s Willamette Valley.
Alice is shy and naïve, but educated and quite sensitive. Her brother Gilbert is a blue-sky dreamer who boasts of a “close business colleague” in Oregon, who will give him a job, and become a husband to Alice. But Gilbert is primarily obnoxious, and his yappy little dog — a terrier dubbed President Pierce — doesn’t endear him to the other settlers.
The wagon train is led by Billy Knapp (Bill Heck), youngish and kind-heartedly tolerant of Alice’s discomfort in these surroundings; and the taciturn and much older Mr. Arthur (Grainger Hines). Knapp and Arthur have been a team for years, and they know everything necessary to lead their charges to safety.
An unexpected event shifts the overall dynamic, slowly pushing Alice and Billy into each other’s orbit; what follows is sweetly poetic, thoroughly engrossing, and acted with impressive sensitivity by both Heck and Kazan. She’s a marvel: timid and tentative to the point of almost vanishing, but nonetheless giving Alice a stubborn refusal to appear completely useless.
Kazan’s eyes light up each time Billy treats Alice with unexpected (and probably unwarranted) respect; we can almost see her protective emotional armor being shed.
This segment will linger, even haunt, long after the film has concluded: the delectable main course that pretty much blows away the appetizers and dessert.
Perhaps because of its unusual format, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs has been granted only minimal theatrical release, in order to qualify for Academy Awards; as is becoming more common, instead it’s readily available to Netflix subscribers.
Which actually could be preferable, because it makes more sense to watch these stories two or three at a time, in order to savor each; otherwise, they tend to run together.
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