Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal‘s Detroit (Annapurna, 7.28 and 8.4) opened and died a bit more than four years ago. It flopped, I feel, because it felt more like crude torture porn than an urban thriller, and not enough like Gillo Pontecorvo‘s The Battle of Algiers or Costa-Gavras‘s Z, both of which seemed like adaptable models for dramatizing the 1967 Detroit race riots.
Primarily a reenactment of the Algiers Motel incident, Detroit mainly felt like a bludgeoning. I’ll never give it another go (I saw it twice before it opened), but perhaps someone in the community has? And if so, how did it play?
HE really misses the vision and discipline of director Kathryn Bigelow, who also helmed The Hurt Locker (Best Picture winner of ’09) and Zero Dark Thirty (’12). The failure of Detroit was undoubtedly painful, but life is short and you have to get back on the horse. Bigelow is too good of a filmmaker to sit on the sidelines. The first woman to win a Best Director Oscar needs, in fact, to return and do it again.
“Detroit Broke My Heart,” posted on 7.23.17: Detroit is a raw-capture history lesson hoping to arouse and enrage, but it mostly bludgeons. I’m saying this with a long face and heavy heart as I like and admire these enterprising filmmakers, but there’s no getting around the fact that they’ve made a brutal, draggy downer. Detroit lacks complexity and catharsis. It doesn’t breathe.
I was hoping that this blistering docudrama, which isn’t so much about the 1967 Detroit riots as the bloody Algiers Motel killings, would play like Gillo Pontecorvo‘s The Battle of Algiers, but alas, nope. Failing that I wanted Detroit to be an investigative political thriller in the vein of Costa Gavras‘s Z, but that wasn’t the scheme either.
No one is more beholden to Bigelow-Boal than myself; ditto their magnificent Zero Dark Thirty and The Hurt Locker. But after these two films I’ve become accustomed to brilliance from these guys, or certainly something sharper, leaner and more sure-footed than this newbie.
At best, Detroit is a hard-charging, suitably enraged revisiting of what any decent person would call an appallingly ugly incident in the midst of a mid ‘60s urban war zone. And of course the system allowed the bad guys to more or less skate or not really get punished. What else is new?
The Algiers Motel incident happened, all right, to the eternal discredit of Detroit law enforcement system back then. But guess what? It doesn’t serve as a basis for an especially gripping or even interesting film.
Detroit has good chaotic action, street frenzy, bang bang, punch punch and lots of anger, and I really didn’t like sitting through it and I watched it twice, for Chrissake. For they’ve made a very insistent but air-less indictment film — militant, hammer-ish, screwed-down and a bit suffocating.
Set in 1954 Detroit, Steven Soderbergh and Ed Solomon‘s No Sudden Move “centers on a group of small-time criminals who are hired to steal what they think is a simple document. When their plan goes horribly wrong, their search for who hired them — and for what ultimate purpose — weaves them through all echelons of the race-torn, rapidly changing city.”
I adore the idea of Soderbergh channeling the spirit of a ’50s Phil Karlson film a la Kansas City Confidential (’52) and 99 River Street (’53).
No Sudden Move will have an outdoor Tribeca Film Festival premiere on 6.18, and then move to HBO Max on 7.1. The costars are Don Cheadle, Benicio del Toro, David Harbour, Ray Liotta, Jon Hamm, Amy Seimetz, Brendan Fraser, Kieran Culkin, Noah Jupe, Julia Fox, Frankie Shaw and Bill Duke.
Readers of the Michigan-based Creem magazine were devotees of raunch rock and enemies of prissy, fussified baroque rock — metal, early punk, Lou Reed, MC5, the Ramomes, the Boxtops, the Stooges, “96 Tears”, Joan Jett, Grand Funk Railroad, etc.
But (and I realize this will sound like an appalling opinion to some) rock music of the ’60s and ’70s encompassed richer, greater realms than were dreamt of by Creem philosophers. I dearly loved Phillip Seymour Hoffman‘s Almost Famous portrayal of legendary Creem critic Lester Bangs, but Bangs was more of a bully instructor than a critic who channelled, felt and explored. I respected Creem and its writers, but I never bought a single issue. Not out of antagonism or disdain — I just didn’t care enough.
Scott Crawford‘s Creem: America’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll Magazine (Greenwich, 8.7) played at SXSW ’19 under a different title — Boy Howdy! The Story of CREEM Magazine.
From 3.10.29 Glide review by James Roberts: “In a way, the story of Creem is the story of late 20th century America. The magazine was as much a response to the culture as it was an impetus of culture. While the interviews tell the tale of wild debauchery and astounding feats of journalistic courage, they also hold up a mirror on the state of the culture at the time.
“It’s impossible to think of a single publication doing as much as Creem did for a particular scene in today’s culture. Today, even thumbing your nose feels like a marketing decision. Today, we build brands and conventions. It’s hard to imagine a publication where rock stars like Alice Cooper or Iggy Pop would go just to hang out. It’s hard to imagine a publication that would, in 40 years, inspire the likes of Kirk Hammett, Chad Smith, Keith Morris, Joan Jett and Michael Stipe to talk about it in a movie.”
At Aretha Franklin memorial, Michael Eric Dyson to President Trump (starting at 1:12): “[You] orange apparition, you lugubrious leech, you dopey doppelganger of deceit and deviance, you lethal liar, you dimwitted dictator, you foolish bastard!”
This feels like a frenzied, Detroit-flavored version of At Close Range — i.e., young teenage criminal (Richard Wershe, Jr.) rats out ruthless, drug-dealing dad (Matthew McConaughey). Directed by Yann Demange, White Boy Rick was written by Steve Kloves, Logan Miller, Noah Miller, and Andy Weiss. Costarring Jennifer Jason Leigh, Bruce Dern, Bel Powley, Piper Laurie.
Pic was initially slated to open on 1.12.18, was pushed back two weeks to 1.26.18, then again to 8.7.18, then again to 9.4.18. Do I hear a fifth release date?
In my February 2014 review of Demange’s ’71, a Belfast-set action melodrama set during “the troubles”, I noted that the emphasis was on “menace and fear and thrills and adrenaline…exceptional verisimilitude and throttling realism…in some ways reminiscent of Paul Greengrass‘s Bloody Sunday, this is a jolt-cola movie.”
A portion of the Detroit team greeted journalists during a two-hour schmoozer earlier today at Nerano (9960 Santa Monica Blvd., just east of Century City). By “portion” I mean that the only above-the-title guy to attend was producer-writer Mark Boal, and the only familiar faces among the cast were Will Poulter, who played the most belligerent of the racist cops, and Algee Smith, the good-looking guy who played musician Larry Reed. Questlove, the composer of the closing-credits tune “It Ain’t Fair“, was also there.
Not in attendance were director Kathryn Bigelow plus senior cast members John Boyega, Jacob Latimore, Jason Mitchell and John Krasinski. Producer Megan Ellison, owner and CEO of Annapurna Pictures, didn’t show either; ditto Annapurna marketing honcho Michael Tritter.
(l. to r.) Detroit cast members Malcolm David Kelley, Nathan Davis Jr., “It Ain’t Fair” composer Questlove, Kaitlyn Dever Chasity Saunders (from The Knockturnal), Will Poulter, Leon Thomas III, Joseph Davis Jones (“Jojo”).
BoxOfficeMojo figures indicate that Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal‘s Detroit, which opened limited on 7.28 and wide on 8.4, is at best sputtering along. You’re not supposed to dwell on this lest you be suspected of having the wrong attitude about black-history films, but Detroit made a lousy $13,421,464 after 10 days of nationwide play. That’s not a horribly shitty figure, but it’s not very encouraging.
The opening weekend tally was $7.3 million, on 3007 screens. Boxoffice Mojo reported a $2370 average after the 8.4 opening weekend, but if (I say “if”) it was still on 3007 screens as of last night and if you presume that the ten-day wide total is around $13 million ($13,421,464 minus the limited 7.28 first-weekend haul of $350K), the per-screen average is $4323, which doesn’t sound like an absolute calamity.
At least Detroit is doing better than Rules Don’t Apply did after opening on 11.23 — $1,589,625 in 2,382 theaters for a $667 average.
What kind of award-season bump can Detroit expect when it becomes a Bluray-and-streaming title in the mid to late fall? I’m sorry to say I don’t see anything happening on that front. The only performance I felt even mildly stirred by was John Boyega‘s as Melvin Dismukes, but it’s not expansive or arc-y enough. Are you honestly suggesting that Will Poulter‘s performance as the fiendish Philip Krauss is award-worthy? Not in my book, it isn’t.
The below quote is from John Semley’s Globe & Mail pan of Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal‘s Detroit. I was more in a lamenting frame of mind when I wrote my reaction. Now the hour of reckoning is upon the HE community. It’s been playing since last Thursday night — what’s the verdict?
A guy who passed along reactions to an Detroit screening a while back mentioned that there might be some grousing about the film not sufficiently investing in black women characters, whatever that means or implies. Consider this excerpt from Angela Jade Bastien’s 7.28 review:
“Before the film’s release, a lot of fury was unleashed when it became clear black women wouldn’t be important to this story. Films about black history seldom grant black women the importance they deserve. In Detroit, black women are in the margins. They’re dutiful wives placing a gentle hand on the shoulder of their husbands; they’re silent spectators in courtrooms; they’re sweet hotel clerks with no real weight in the story. Although an elderly black female character voices dialogue that is the closest the film gets to any commentary: ‘No way would they do this to white men,’ she says angrily to a news reporter hungry for a pull quote.
“But Detroit’s disinterest in black women despite significant time in the film being spent beyond the Algiers Hotel incident is the least of its problems. What leaves the film feeling grotesque and even a bit exploitative is its soullessness.”
Last Sunday I grieved over my inability to give Detroit a positive review. I was ready to sing and shout before seeing it, but after two viewings the best I could manage was a mild pan. But I don’t want Detroit to be hurt during this weekend’s limited break. (The real opening is next Friday, 8.4) It’s a nervy, honorable thing made by gifted people with real passion in their veins. We’ll all feel better if it connects than if it doesn’t. But will it?
Limited platform openings are about connecting with early adopters and getting that social-media buzz going, so it’s probably fair to say that the word in the big cities will either make it or break it. Did anyone catch it last night?
I spoke this morning to an attorney friend who sees what he sees and likes what he likes, and I asked him about Detroit. “What about it?,” he said. Those three words were damning enough, but I asked if he plans on seeing it. Reply: “Uhm, maybe…uhm, actually, no, I don’t think so. Well, maybe.”
I’m a little surprised by the 96% Rotten Tomatoes rating. I know what this movie is, and I know what films boasting an over 90% RT rating generally feel like, and Detroit, trust me, is not one of those down-on-your-knees hail hossanah experiences. It doesn’t have that schwing. Big-city critics want to be as approving as possible, of course. They sure as shit don’t want to go thumbs down. I honestly thought Detroit would land in the high ’70s or low 80s. The 86% Metacritic rating is more reality-reflecting than the RT.
Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal‘s Detroit (Annapurna, 7.28 and 8.4) is a raw-capture history lesson hoping to arouse and enrage, but it mostly bludgeons. I’m saying this with a long face and heavy heart as I like and admire these enterprising filmmakers, but there’s no getting around the fact that they’ve made a brutal, draggy downer. Detroit lacks complexity and catharsis. It doesn’t breathe.
I was hoping that this blistering docudrama, which isn’t so much about the 1967 Detroit riots as the bloody Algiers Motel killings, would play like Gillo Pontecorvo‘s The Battle of Algiers, but alas, nope. Failing that I wanted Detroit to be an investigative political thriller in the vein of Costa Gavras‘s Z, but that wasn’t the scheme either.
No one is more beholden to Bigelow-Boal than myself; ditto their magnificent Zero Dark Thirty and The Hurt Locker. But after these two films I’ve become accustomed to brilliance from these guys, or certainly something sharper, leaner and more sure-footed than this newbie.
At best, Detroit is a hard-charging, suitably enraged revisiting of what any decent person would call an appallingly ugly incident in the midst of a mid ‘60s urban war zone. And of course the system allowed the bad guys to more or less skate or not really get punished. What else is new?
The Algiers Motel incident happened, all right, to the eternal discredit of Detroit law enforcement system back then. But guess what? It doesn’t serve as a basis for an especially gripping or even interesting film.
Detroit has good chaotic action, street frenzy, bang bang, punch punch and lots of anger, and I really didn’t like sitting through it and I watched it twice, for Chrissake. For they’ve made a very insistent but air-less indictment film — militant, hammer-ish, screwed-down and a bit suffocating.
In and of itself, the Algiers Motel incident repels but dramatically under-delivers. There’s not a lot of complexity in the portraying, although the episode obviously reflects upon several well-documented 21st Century instances of white-cop brutality and murder.
The white-guilt factor is abundantly earned in terms of the behavior of three pathetically brutal Keystone cops who also happen to be racist fucktards — Will Poulter‘s “Phillip Krauss”, Jack Reynor‘s “Demens” and Ben O’Toole‘s “Flynn”. But it needed more than this.
Ugly, blatant racism in and of itself is obviously repellent, but Detroit doesn’t feel sufficiently layered. It makes for a jarring but rather one-note movie.
The principal actors portraying the victims of harassment — John Boyega as Melvin Dismukes, Algee Smith as Larry Reed, Anthony Mackie as Greene — hold their own; ditto those portraying the shooting victims — Jason Mitchell as Carl Cooper, Nathan Davis, Jr. as Aubrey Pollard and Jacob Latimore as Fred Temple.
I can’t think of a single good sticker line — a line in the vein of Al Pacino‘s greatest Heat moments, say — or anything in the way of clever, diversionary movie craftsmanship. The Detroit script barely feels “written” in the sense that any number of urban thrillers have been. It doesn’t feel tightly sprung or strategized as much as thrown at the wall.
Too often the film feels coarse, pushed, misshapen, misjudged. I plainly, simply didn’t like watching it.
I didn’t even like Barry Aykroyd‘s photography — way too many tight close-ups. And if you ask me the cop haircuts feel a wee bit too long for ’67, when straight-laced society was still rocking short hair and whitewalls. Longish hair (hint of sideburns) didn’t sink into mainstream society until ’69 or ’70 or ’71.
It feels like a decent if rudimentary attempt to recreate the Detroit chaos of ’67 rather than some wowser re-visiting or, you know, a major redefining or rejuvenation of same.
Yes, there are four or five uniformed law enforcement figures plus a nurse (played by Jennifer Ehle) who come off as decent human beings, but otherwise the idea seems to have been to remove any and all shading, dimension and subtlety as far as the white characters are concerned. After a while your spirit wilts in the face of this diseased, cut-and-dried cardboard slime factor.
I’m not saying that white Detroit beat cops were anything but foul and deplorable for the most part back in ’67 (as many cops have recently shown themselves to be when it comes to treatment of black suspects in God knows how many altercations in recent years), but a movie of this sort has to deliver some kind of balance and finesse and shared humanity and quiet-down moments (i.e., we’re all scared children running around on God’s blue planet) or it’s just crude caricature — a racial hit piece.
Whatever the content or mood or metaphorical thrust, all good movies have to feel cinematically sexy. You have to be charmed by their chops, aroused by their strategy. If a movie doesn’t turn you on in one way or another or doesn’t at least make you sit up in your seat, it probably isn’t very good.
I could’ve rolled with Detroit if it had felt more slick and “commercial.” If only it had the look and professional cutting and smooth camerawork and assured pacing of Alan Parker’s Mississippi Burning. Yes, I know — an absurdly inaccurate film history-wise, but a very good one in terms of chops, and a damn sight better than Detroit in this respect. Remember the repetitive hammer music in Parker’s film? Not very melodic but it really worked, really connected.
Detroit makes its points but it’s direct and blunt to a fault. The attack on the bin Laden compound finale in Zero Dark Thirty was 11 or 12 times better than anything in Detroit. Ditto that lively firefight involving Ralph Fiennes’ character in The Hurt Locker.
What happened to the smooth, fleet editing, and the sense of planted authority and versimilitude that I got from Zero Dark Thirty and The Hurt Locker? I’ll tell you what’s happened to it. It’s taken a powder.
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