Eric Plaag and Matt Smith

Matt’s Top Ten Films of 2013 (it’s about damn time)

In Uncategorized on April 20, 2014 at 2:20 pm


by Matt Smith

I didn’t see Neil Jordan’s vampire flick until very late in the year, but I’m very glad I did. The visuals are lush, the performances grand, and the tone tender yet still chilling. The film centers on the mother-daughter vamps Clara (Gemma Arterton) and Eleanor (Saoirse Ronan), who stole their immortality from an all-male society centuries ago. The story unfolds in a piece-meal, somewhat labyrinthine fashion, with fragments of information periodically filling in the backstory of our protagonists. Refreshingly, Byzantium doesn’t feel like a retread of either the current vamp vogue or that now-classic other Neil Jordan-directed film Interview with the Vampire. Instead, the film takes a decidedly feminist slant, examining and interrogating the struggles of Clara and Eleanor against the patriarchal hierarchies inherent in the genre, and inverting the power relationships typical of the romanticism at play in stories about vampirism. Ronan is a knockout as Eleanor, delivering her second great performance of the year (the other being in the little-seen young adult apocalypse flick How I Live Now), proving that she is one of the most exciting actresses of her age group, and providing a counter to the equally-talented Emma Watson’s roles as she has attempted to shirk the Harry Potter behemoth from her back. Here Ronan continues her trek into strong female lead territory, with her standard softness which belies a visceral nature of violence lurking just underneath the surface. She’s an impassioned and compassionate character, but vicious when she needs to be. Byzantium is a gorgeous film that begs to be seen, and it was neglected by viewers upon its release. Now would be a good time for everyone to discover this gem. It’s the best thing I saw in 2013.
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Eric’s Top Ten Films of 2013

In Film, Reviews on March 3, 2014 at 12:12 am

aint them bodies saints 2

By Eric Plaag

As promised, just in time for the Oscars, I offer you below my selections for the best films of 2013 that I have been able to see so far. I say that with a bit of disappointment, for two reasons: 1) Finding a way to see independent and foreign films in Boone, NC (my place of residence), and even some big budget pics, is a bit of a challenge, so some highly regarded films like Frances Ha, Blue Is the Warmest Color, Leviathan, and even The Wolf of Wall Street (which I am fighting hard to reserve judgment on, in spite of my spidey sense) simply have not shown up on my radar yet, and 2) as a general rule—in direct contradiction to what I have heard from so many other reviewers—I found 2013’s crop of films to be astonishingly weak.

On this latter point, let me offer some examples of the highly touted films (many of them Oscar-nominated) that left me wondering whether people still know that good filmmaking and storytelling, regardless of genre or subject matter, require looking beyond oneself as creator and connecting with something larger and more resonant. I went into David O. Russell’s American Hustle expecting a smart thriller and instead found a derivative 1970s caper film whose over-the-top dialogue and tone closely resembled the infamous off-screen bickering among Russell and the actors in I Heart Huckabees, so much so that I’m convinced Christian Bale based his entire Irving Rosenfeld character on Russell’s Huckabees rant at Lily Tomlin. (Upon further investigation, in fact, Russell actually looks like Bale’s version of Rosenfeld.) This kind of self-obsession and navel gazing showed up in other films, too, such as Terrence Malick’s To the Wonder, a film I waited for nearly two hours to embrace eagerly but couldn’t because Malick wouldn’t move off his obsessive, often nonsensical nostalgia for a suburban Texas that is rapidly transmogrifying and allow what was an otherwise fascinating meditation on the essence of romantic love to sing, as he did so effortlessly with life, family, and loss in The Tree of Life. Rather than serving as a compelling backdrop and intoxicating miasma, as they did in Tree, Malick’s Texas digressions in Wonder were often the rhetorical equivalent of Malick pausing in the midst of a grand and poignant monologue on a lost lover, then spoiling the climax to ask his audience if he’s ever told them about the tree house he had in his backyard as a child.

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“Strong Men Also Cry”: RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman

In Film on February 2, 2014 at 5:16 pm


by Matt Smith

You know, I have had trouble writing pieces for TheSplitScreen since early last semester. I have even put off posting my “Best of ’13” list even though it’s now February for various reasons, though mostly it’s pure laziness. But this afternoon, I found out—much like the entire internet—that Philip Seymour Hoffman had died, and I was gobsmacked. To put it lightly, Hoffman was, to me, a god among men. He is one of the greatest actors of his generation, respected by his peers and fans alike for his seemingly indefatigable ability to turn character after character into an amazing one-of-a-kind creation. His range of talent, his immense personality on and off the screen, and his personification of the profession of acting were already nearing legendary status. And now Philip Seymour Hoffman is dead at 46.

To know what this man has meant to me, I have to begin with my youthfulness. I am in my thirtieth year of life. Quite literally, Hoffman was there at the birth of my awareness that cinema meant something big to me, deeply, personally. In 1998 I saw both Boogie Nights and The Big Lebowski, and I fell in love with cinema in a way that was different than my previous love of watching movies. I loved movies. P.T. Anderson, the Coens, and their amazing stable of actors changed the way I saw the world, and I would never be able to go back. Philip Seymour Hoffman was a key part of that development, playing Scotty and Brandt in each film, respectively. He was amazing, and I made note.

It would be easy to merely catalogue the man’s great performances (and there were many), but instead I want to gesture toward his career more broadly by saying that Hoffman had a presence and talent that was infinitely watchable. Even the most bland of projects could be turned around, even slightly, by his involvement. To illustrate this, think of the middle-brow and competent but otherwise forgettable Ben Stiller rom-com Along Came Polly, in which his best-friend character Sandy Lyle is the only thing with a comedic pulse in the film. Or, consider his rock-n-roll radio DJ the Count in the Richard Curtis counter-culture misfire Pirate Radio. Whenever the films like these in his filmography come up in casual conversation, he is quite literally the only part of them I remember fondly, if I remember the rest of the film at all.

The point being that Philip Seymour Hoffman was there for me as I developed a deep appreciation for the art of cinema, and the craft of acting. And in all honestly, I find that surprising, as he was not the physical embodiment of perfection we seem to so often demand of our entertainers. But we accepted him, and he gave to us, and it was all wonderful. He was to the late-1990s and 2000s what Bruce Dern was to the late-1960s and ‘70s. He was an actor’s actor, which is a rarer thing it seems; the great actor that gets the recognition, but not always the fireworks or the awards (though he received at least one major award and a bevy of nominations). As good as Day-Lewis, but on a different plane, one where the similarly always-terrific Gary Oldman has never won an Oscar, but is beloved and respected.

Hoffman did win the golden man statue for his turn as Truman Capote in Bennett Miller’s biopic of the writer’s investigation of the killings that eventually turned into the groundbreaking classic In Cold Blood. In his speech, he thanked his mother: “My mum’s name is Marilyn O’Connor. She’s here tonight and I would like if you see her for you to congratulate her because she brought up four kids alone and she deserves congratulations for that.” That portion of that speech is one of the most memorable Oscar moments in recent memory, mainly because Hoffman came off as so very human.


His last great performance—though he is certainly terrific in the Hunger Games sequel Catching Fire, don’t get me wrong—was in P.T. Anderson’s The Master, which is by many estimations, mine included after repeated viewings, the best American film made that year, if not so far in the current decade. In that film he played Lancaster Dodd, the leader of a religious cult that was not entirely unlike Scientology and its founder L. Ron Hubbard. Dodd was a part that Hoffman disappeared into completely. He became the driving force of a film that could have (and by some accounts did) wandered off into its own headspace, especially with the knock-out performance by Joaquin Phoenix as a boozed-out, sexed-up ex-sailor that functioned as the film’s emotional crux. Hoffman crafted a character so soulful, charismatic, and by turns frightening that I haven’t been able to shake the thought of him since I saw The Master in theaters.

And that’s all I wanted to say. I had to get it off my chest how important this man was as an actor and artist. The death of Philip Seymour Hoffman has affected me deeply. Even I am surprised at how much. I just can’t imagine the world without the man.


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