Movie night at Zuccotti Park!
Yes, the fine men and women dug in downtown need to get themselves a big screen, a projector, and a few thousand tubs of popcorn, because J. C. Chandor’s Margin Call is to Occupy Wall Street what The China Syndrome was to Three Mile Island: the fiction that will make it, here in Movie-Mad America, ever so much more real.
Beyond that, it’s a hell of a picture. And shrewd.
We the audience are not down below with—or even, necessarily, on the side of—the bankrupt, the downsized, the unshowered masses. We’re waaaay above the street in the offices of a mighty finance firm staring out at a sea of blue-lit high-rises. We’re perched over the shoulder of risk-management underling Peter Sullivan (Zachary Quinto) as he scrutinizes a computer file passed on to him by his newly deep-sixed boss, Eric Dale (Stanley Tucci), and then suddenly gets that same “Oh … my … God” look on his face as the guy in Deep Impact who realizes a planet-killing meteor is headed straight for Earth. Peter has just seen many of his colleagues coldly given their marching orders, so doom is in the air. But this new development is … apocalyptic.
No, I can’t fully elucidate the nature of the onrushing disaster—and one of the film’s few jokes is that the higher-ups can’t read the elaborate graphs either. But they all, to a person, know instantly what’s coming: complete economic conflagration. What spooks them is not the realization that their assets are toxic. It’s the imminent prospect of everyone else’s knowing. So Peter pulls his half-drunk boss, Will Emerson (Paul Bettany), out of a club, and then Will calls his boss, Sam Rogers (Kevin Spacey), who turns his car around and heads back to the firm, and we move with Peter (who, being a former rocket scientist, is brought along to explain the situation) up to each successive corporate level—or, depending on your perspective, down to each Dantean circle.
Every character is a subtler breed of predator than we’re used to—or a more evolved Randian, or a more sanguine (and better-paid) moral accommodationist. Bettany’s drunken nihilist, with his weird (Irish?) accent, gives way to Spacey’s snappish company man, who escorts us to Simon Baker’s smug Jared Cohen—the most obviously repellent Master of the Universe, with no evident soul to lose—and Demi Moore’s grim Sarah Robertson, with her faintly wizened face and short skirt, the lone female top executive, the one who passed up the chance to have a family and will be first in line for the chop. The helicopter setting down on the roof in the wee hours brings Jeremy Irons’s John (rhymes with Fuld) Tuld, more of a smiling killer than Boris Karloff in his heyday and far less accountable to a Higher Authority.
Margin Call is low-key, the histrionics dampened by the thick carpeting and double-paned glass, by the weight of keeping up appearances. The characters, lit from the side and bottom, get that gray, greasy, muzzy look of people who haven’t slept and whose hearts are racing too fast even to try. Apart from Quinto’s Sullivan, who comes from the world of pure science and retains a smidgen of ingenuousness, these are not likable figures—and yet however much we hate them, we are on their side. For one thing, there’s no one else around. For another, Chandor has structured Margin Call like a disaster movie, and we can’t help being fascinated by problem-solving, especially when it involves throwing around obscene amounts of money. Finally, we moviegoers have more fun when we identify with winners, no matter how unsavory. It’s a habit that has been more than a century in the making and will be difficult to shake. That’s why none of those Debbie Downer Iraq movies made a dime.
There is a moral center—of a sort. Spacey’s Sam Rogers begins the film in his office as many of his employees are fired, staring out the window, his eyes red from crying. But his tears are for his dying dog. Called to rouse his remaining forces, he emerges, stony as Dick Cheney, and tells them they’ve survived and have therefore “won.” But even this not-nice, philosophically complacent capitalist turns out to have a line he’s loath to cross: a fire sale of worthless assets dumped on unsuspecting customers, many of whom will go bust. How, he asks, can it make business sense when those people will never trust you again? Tuld says he’ll take care of that, and maybe he can: Goldman Sachs was caught betting against the very assets it was pitching to clients—and its executives are unbowed.
Spacey gives a major performance, his best in many years, as a near-dead soul groggily shaking off layers of insulation and beginning to feel again, and Quinto triumphs over not only a part with fewer and fewer lines but also the memories we have of him glowering at a computer screen in 24. There is a special joy in seeing an old-style Joan Crawford ham like Demi Moore stop emoting and give the performance of her life, and in watching a pro like Tucci signal momentous emotion merely by gritting his teeth. Irons is a little sepulchral for my taste, but the way in which he drops the boom on Moore’s character—almost tenderly—shows his own killer genius.
Just as fascinating as what’s onscreen will be Margin Call’s reception. Hard-core Randians will babble about “Austrian economics” and Hollywood liberalism—but how much weight will their voices have in a world of such unchecked financial chicanery, a world in which Adam Smith would run screaming into the arms of Karl Marx? And no one will look at Irons’s Tuld and say—as they said of Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko—“I want to be that guy!” I’d sooner pitch a tent in Zuccotti Park.
The Sundance and New York Film Festival raves for Sean Durkin’s Martha Marcy May Marlene have me as mystified as its ending, a cliffhanger aborted in mid-hang that signals, “This is no mere genre film.” Obviously—no mere genre film would get away with a cop-out like that. Until then, the movie is draggy but compelling. The orphaned 20-ish protagonist, Martha (Elizabeth Olsen), is caught between two families, two unsafe worlds: a Manson-like hippie cult overseen by a satanic satyr (John Hawkes), and the Connecticut lake house in which her older sister, Lucy (Sara Paulson), often resides with her wealthy, short-tempered husband (Hugh Dancy). Martha, who’d disappeared from Lucy’s life, keeps mum about where she was and what she did, but her memories—in the form of flashbacks—begin to come fast.
Durkin has a gift for using every inch of the screen, to both evoke Martha’s temporal dislocation and create a sense of menace. And even if Olsen is getting so much attention because she’s kin to Mary-Kate and Ashley, her performance earns it. She has a wide lollipop face that holds the camera and a pregnant stillness: You can feel the roiling within. She and Paulson have an affecting rapport, protective and resentful in shifting proportions. But you never see what drew Martha to that cult (where her name is changed to “Marcy May”), much less what kept her there for so long. And the non-ending turns the whole movie into an elaborate tease, too creepy to dismiss, too shallow to justify its “ambiguities.”
Directed by J.C. Chandor. R.
Martha Marcy May Marlene
Directed by Sean Durkin. R.