Gilbey on Film: a quiet revolution

Win Win gently subverts the conventions of Hollywood story-telling.

I should begin by warning readers of a sensitive disposition that this blog post contains spoilers pertaining to the movie Win Win, and some strong language, as well as brief, positive remarks about the HBO television series The Wire, which has never knowingly been under-praised.

Many screenwriters include in their work a single line or speech that doubles as a mission statement or a setting-out of the thematic stall. In the case of Win Win, that comes in the form of a declaration wthat, when quoted out of context, would seem to suggest an action movie with a body count numerically commensurate to its running time. The line is: "Whatever the fuck it takes." And yet this movie is gentle to the point of being wan.

That line is spoken by Kyle, a taciturn but sweet-natured teenage wrestling champion whose jet-black eyebrows clash noisily with his vanilla shag-cut. On a literal level he uses it to explain how he liberates himself from an apparently inescapable hold by a competitor: he imagines that he is having his head held under water, and does whatever the fuck it takes to save himself. Kyle is played by Alex Shaffer, a wrestler in real life who makes a beautifully low-key screen debut here. I hope sincerely that Fast Times at Ridgemont High is never remade. But, if it is, the miscreants responsible will have in Shaffer a ready-made Spiccoli (the amiable stoner played in that 1982 comedy by a goofy Sean Penn).

Kyle isn't the focus of Win Win, but rather a catalyst for change and hope and a fuzzy kind of redemption in the life of the shrugging, middle-aged, almost-deflated New Jersey attorney Mike Flaherty, played by Brad Pitt.

Had you there, didn't I? Of course, Pitt would never get as far as auditioning. It's common knowledge that Paul Giamatti has the "unremarkable middle-aged disappointment" market all sewn-up. Rightly so -- he can find in any character new gradations of low-level misery and anxiety (he even dredges some up when playing a version of himself in Cold Souls). Pitt and Johnny Depp and all the other pretty-boys can just go whistle.

So Giamatti is an asset to a film that is mostly compassionate and intelligent but in many ways quite obvious; he keeps Mike real, even when the movie comes begging, cap in hand, for even more sympathy and understanding toward the character than we have already given. The movie, written and directed by Thomas McCarthy (who made The Station Agent and The Visitor, and is therefore Mr Sensitive Indie Comedy-Drama), draws some strange distinctions between its characters. It encourages us to narrow our eyes judgementally toward Kyle's errant, rehab-fresh mother (played by Melanie Lynskey with a vitality that resists our scorn) but gives Mike a free pass for conning the courts and manipulating a senile client.

Behaviour adheres to gender lines: Mike's tough-cookie wife (played by Amy Ryan, who is, like McCarthy himself, an alumnus of The Wire) is fiercely good and true, but Kyle's mother is not be trusted any further than she could stagger in a drug-dazed stupor. Men, on the other hand, flounder somewhere in between, being neither reprehensible nor angelic, but simply rounded and fallible human beings. McCarthy should know from his time on the fifth and final season of The Wire, if from nowhere else, that it doesn't have to be that way; his own character in that series, the extravagantly deceitful journalist Scott Templeton, never seemed less than complicatedly human, no matter how low he sunk.

But we'll let that slide right now. What I love about Win Win is its ending (spoiler alert!), which shows a maturity and pragmatism that is vital in life, but with which precious few films have any truck. If Win Win feels for much of its length like an above-average TV movie, the ending is a tiny wedge of Claire Denis.

It closes with Mike having effectively thrown in the towel -- due to various factors, including the debts that had led him to commit fraud, he relinquishes his practice and is shown instead in the final shot tending bar. The beauty of this is that it is a realistic decision, made by an intelligent man who has exhausted other avenues, and supported implicitly by the movie. "Whatever the fuck it takes" sounds macho and brutish, but in this final turnaround, McCarthy shows us that it can also mean swallowing your pride, walking away, compromising your dreams.

Mike doesn't end the film as a failure; he descends the career ladder because that is what he must do to care for his family. This is his particular interpretation of "Whatever the fuck it takes." Win Win doesn't contain many surprises, but that ending is revolutionary in the context of what American cinema usually tells us about how to live our lives.

Win Win is currently on release

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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In the name of the father: Patricia Lockwood on sex, centaurs and Catholicism

The author of the viral poem “Rape Joke” talks about growing up with her gun-toting Catholic “priestdaddy”.

“Oh my fricking God. It’s a centaur.” The American poet Patricia Lockwood and I are in the lobby of a Whitehall hotel and she is finding the quantity of equine art distracting. I have already been skipped along a corridor to examine the bizarrely detailed rendering of a horse’s anus in a Napoleonic painting (“They made a point of doing him straight up the butt”) that turns out to be a copy of Théodore Géricault’s Charging Chasseur. Now a statue on the mantelpiece has caught her eye, prompting a reverie on what she saw at the British Museum a couple of days ago: “A wonderful statue of a man kneeing a centaur in the balls. It’s the most important thing to me there. It’s so beautiful.”

The confluence of violence, sex, orifices, animals and mythology runs throughout Lockwood’s work in wild and witty poems such as “The Whole World Gets Together and Gangbangs a Deer” (inspired by the realisation that “Bambi is a puberty movie”) and “Revealing Nature Photographs” (pastoral verse meets porn spam) – and it also colours her new book, Priestdaddy, a deeply idiosyncratic family memoir in which copulation is a go-to metaphor. Her dad’s frenzied, tuneless playing raises the prospect that he might be “having sex with the guitar”; during Lockwood’s teenage depression, she writes, the only thing she was having sex with “was the intolerable sadness of the human condition, which sucked so much in bed”.

Lockwood (pictured at her First Holy Communion) has dark, cropped hair and elfin features, pearly white nails and sleeping cats on her knees (an effect achieved with decorated tights – “Let this be for the stocking boys,” she says). Her voice is deadpan, frequently dipping into laughter without losing her poise. She is one day off her 35th birthday and has been married since she was 21. Her father, Greg, is a priest and, along with her four siblings in a succession of rectories across the Midwest, she was raised a Catholic – thus ensuring, she says, the permanent sexual warping of her mind.

“We Catholics become perverts because of the way sex is discussed in strictly negative terms. I saw pictures of aborted foetuses before I knew what basic anatomy was.”

As a devout teenager, she attended a youth group called God’s Gang and was given a virginity pledge in the form of a business card. The group leaders had a “very hip and young” approach: “We’re going to tell you every single thing you can do, in explicit terms, and just be like, ‘But don’t do it.’”

The ribald humour of her writing – Lockwood is renowned on Twitter for her surreal “sexts” – often contains a darkness. The poem that made her name, “Rape Joke”, takes her experience of being raped at 19 by a boyfriend and metes it out in discrete, increasingly devastating soundbites and images. It was posted online in 2013 and went viral, leading to a publishing deal for her collection Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals.

After the rape, Lockwood was “absolutely insane” for about five years, but it’s not as if she was entirely happy before: at 16, she had attempted suicide by taking a hundred Tylenol tablets. Her memoir recounts, too, being embedded in a church mired in scandal, a claustrophobic situation that hit home when a priest close to her was arrested for having sex with a 14-year-old boy. Such events led to Lockwood abandoning her faith and escaping with Jason, her future husband, whom she met on an online poetry messageboard.

When Patricia was 30, she and Jason ran out of money and moved back to the rectory, allowing her to observe her parents afresh. The resulting portraits in Priestdaddy are larger than life: her mother, Karen, is a hyperactive generator of mad puns and proverbs; her ex-navy father is a self-mythologising, right-wing whirlwind of talk radio, guns and Tom Clancy novels. Married Catholic priests are rare but Greg, previously a Lutheran minister, got the pope’s permission to convert. Usually to be found in his underwear, he wants for no new expensive gadget or guitar, though the family is expected to make sacrifices. In 2001, two weeks before Patricia – who learned to read at three and was writing poetry at seven – was supposed to leave for college, he told her that they couldn’t afford it. He later “changed the story in his mind so that I had said I don’t need to go”.

“Growing up in my household,” she says, “all of these far-right, retrograde ideas of gender roles and the man as patriarch existed from the very beginning. But I didn’t think of my house as a bellwether of what was going to happen.” It came as no surprise to her that Greg and many like him voted for Trump. When she reported on a Trump rally in February 2016, she “moved like a ghost through the crowd. They saw me as one of their own.”

Anger at her father’s selfishness “would be useless”, and Lockwood respects his sense of vocation, which she feels she has inherited. She has believed in her own genius ever since she was writing “mermaids-having-sex-with-Jesus poems” at the age of 19. Jason is her support staff, licking her envelopes and buying her clothes. His offering the previous day was a T-shirt emblazoned with Justin Bieber’s face: it revealed how much she resembles the singer – “a full 90 per cent overlap” – and is definitely not ironic.

“Do you think we only got irony after Christ was crucified?” she wonders, and then spots two black-clad priests in dog collars who have sat down across the room from us. “Ooh,” she exclaims, awed and delighted, and then, in a whisper, ever confident in her powers of creation: “I manifested them.”

“Priestdaddy: A Memoir” is published by Allen Lane. “Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals” is published by Penguin

Tom Gatti is Culture Editor of the New Statesman. He previously edited the Saturday Review section of the Times, and can be found on Twitter as @tom_gatti.

 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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