Reviewed: The Place Beyond the Pines

A good gander at Gosling.

The Place Beyond the Pines (15)
dir: Derek Cianfrance

The phrase “Always leave ’em wanting more” was probably not foremost in the mind of the director Derek Cianfrance when he elected to open his latest film with a close-up of the bare torso of his star, Ryan Gosling. (For some viewers, this will be like receiving dessert before dinner.)

Even in the internet age, where it can seem that every bit-part actor is an icon, there is a frisson surrounding Gosling, the like of which has not been seen since those photos of Keanu Reeves looking sad while eating a sandwich. Gosling fills our need for an actor who is simultaneously pretty, intelligent and sorrowful but who has yet to throw in his lot with the blockbuster: a grass-roots idol. He is rather indulged in The Place Beyond the Pines by a director with whom he has become transparently comfortable. (They worked together on Cianfrance’s last film, Blue Valentine, a gruelling story of marital breakdown.) Gosling’s performance is characterised by feigned inarticulacy and mumbling method madness. His co-star Bradley Cooper, who has not previously shown an aptitude for the subtle or the intense, has the comfortable monopoly here on great acting.

Gosling plays Luke, a fairground stunt rider who is first shown in an unbroken tracking shot striding from his trailer to the marquee where he will join two other motorcyclists zooming around inside a giant steel globe. His natural habitat is the open road: in sympathy with him, the film’s recurring motif is a driving shot that floats a metre or two higher than the vehicle it’s following, suggesting surveillance but also transcendence. Luke walks out of his car­nival job and pitches up unannounced at the home of his old flame, Romina (Eva Mendes). Her mother answers the door with a tot in her arms. “Who’s this guy?” sniffs Luke. Not being the sort to beat around the bush, the woman blurts out: “He’s yours.” More than two hours later, most of us will wish she had been placed in charge of the editing.

Romina is understandably reluctant to let Luke back in her life. He is unemployed, has a trashy dye-job and displays his personality in his tattoos. Perhaps it’s wrong to judge a man by his bodily ink: the grenade on Luke’s arm and the knife dripping blood beneath his right eye could very well conceal a talent for macramé, or an abiding love for the films of Joyce Grenfell.

It just happens that he has a nasty temper and a shaky moral compass. He puts out a rival’s eye and turns energetically to crime to support his son. Luke is essentially a brute but there’s rather too much editorialising about him in the script. A scene in which he poses for a photograph with Romina and the baby, telling the waitress who is snapping them to “just capture the mood”, is amusing but out of character; it’s funny without feeling remotely true. It’s as though everyone involved, including Gosling, were worried Luke would come across as a dumb lug. There are actors who can play the dope without tipping a wink to the audience, but Gosling isn’t one of them. There is too much self-awareness in his eyes: the lights are off but there’s still somebody home.

One of the more interesting elements of Blue Valentine was its non-chronological narrative, and Cianfrance has again approached structure in a novel fashion. To say more would spoil some of the film’s disorienting surprises. But as other plotlines impinge on Luke’s story – including a rookie cop, Avery Cross (Cooper), who contemplates blowing the whistle on police corruption – the film grows in stature, assuming tragic dimensions. Cooper’s scenes bring dramatic freshness to a fairly standard cop-movie dilemma. With his soft, square head and hounded eyes, he exhibits levels of fragility that make Montgomery Clift seem like an uncouth longshoreman.

The Place Beyond the Pines has so much ambition that it’s disappointing its sweeping vision of a world governed by guilt and revenge doesn’t extend to women – parti­cularly when you recall the banquet of a part that Cianfrance wrote for Michelle Williams in Blue Valentine. While the men in the film run around injuring one another and gnashing their teeth, female characters such as Romina or Avery’s wife, Jennifer (Rose Byrne), are shunted off screen; presumably they are knitting or skipping through copses until the next time they are required to keep a vigil at the bedside of a male relative. The mythically tinged final scene brings events full circle in a way that is superficially satisfying while also conceding that the movie’s chief concern is men and the art of motorcycle maintenance.

 

Ryan Gosling at the New York premiere party. (Getty Images)

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.

This article first appeared in the 12 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Centenary Special Issue

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Politics doesn't just connect us to the past and the future – it's what makes us human

To those people who tell me that they’re not interested in politics, I often say: “But politics is interested in you!”

I have long been haunted by a scene in George Orwell’s great novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. Winston Smith, the hero, is forced to watch propaganda films depicting acts of war and destruction. He is moved by something he sees: a woman trying to protect a child by wrapping her arm around him as they are attacked. It’s a futile gesture. She cannot shield the boy or stop the bullets but she embraces him all the same – before, as Orwell writes, “The helicopter blew them both to pieces.”

For Winston, what Orwell calls the “enveloping, protecting gesture” of the woman’s arm comes to symbolise something profoundly human – an expression of selflessness and of unconditional love in an unforgiving world. Scenes such as this we now witness daily in footage from the besieged eastern Aleppo and other Syrian towns, people in extreme situations showing extraordinary dignity and kindness.

I read Nineteen Eighty-Four for the first time in late adolescence. I’d dropped out of sixth-form college without completing my A-levels and was commuting on a coach from my parents’ house in Hertfordshire to London, where I worked as a junior clerk for the Electricity Council. During this long daily journey – sometimes two hours each way – I started to read seriously for the first time in my life.

I was just getting interested in politics – this was the high tide of the Thatcher years – and Orwell’s portrayal of a dystopian future in which Britain (renamed “Airstrip One”) had become a Soviet-style totalitarian state was bleakly fascinating. Fundamentally the book seemed to me to be about the deep ­human yearning for political change – about the never-ending dream of conserving or creating a better society.

Nineteen Eighty-Four was published in 1949 (Orwell died in January 1950, aged 46), at a time of rationing and austerity in Britain – but also of renewal. Under the leadership of Clement Attlee, Winston Churchill’s deputy in the wartime coalition, the Labour government was laying the foundations of what became the postwar settlement.

The National Health Service and the welfare state were created. Essential industries such as the railways were nationalised. The Town and Country Planning Act was passed, opening the way for the redevelopment of tracts of land. Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent was commissioned. New towns were established – such as Harlow in Essex, where I was born and brought up.

To grow up in Harlow, I now understand, was to be part of a grand experiment. Many of the families I knew there had escaped the bomb-ruined streets of the East End of London. Our lives were socially engineered. Everything we needed was provided by the state – housing, education, health care, libraries, recreational facilities. (One friend described it to me as being like East Ger­many without the Stasi.)

This hadn’t happened by accident. As my father used to say, we owed the quality of our lives to the struggles of those who came before us. The conservative philosopher Edmund Burke described society as a partnership between “those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born” – and I find this idea of an intergenerational social contract persuasive.

Progress, however, isn’t inevitable. There is no guarantee that things will keep getting better. History isn’t linear, but contingent and discontinuous. And these are dark and turbulent new times in which we are living.

A civil war has been raging in Syria for more than five years, transforming much of the Middle East into a theatre of great-power rivalry. Europe has been destabilised by economic and refugee crises and by the emergence of insurgent parties, from the radical left and the radical right. The liberal world order is crumbling. Many millions feel locked out or left behind by globalisation and rapid change.

But we shouldn’t despair. To those people who tell me that they’re not interested in politics, I often say: “But politics is interested in you!”

And part of what it means to be human is to believe in politics and the change that politics can bring, for better and worse.

What, after all, led so many Americans to vote for an anti-establishment populist such as Donald Trump? He has promised to “make America great again” – and enough people believed him or, at least, wanted to believe him to carry him all the way to the White House. They want to believe in something different, something better, in anything better – which, of course, Trump may never deliver.

So politics matters.

The decisions we take collectively as ­humans have consequences. We are social creatures and rational agents, yet we can be dangerously irrational. This is why long-established institutions, as well as the accumulated wisdom of past generations, are so valuable, as Burke understood.

Politics makes us human. It changes our world and ultimately affects who we are and how we live, not just in the here and now, but long into the future.

An edited version of this essay was broadcast as part of the “What Makes Us Human?” series on BBC Radio 2’s “Jeremy Vine” show

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage