Death is Beautiful
Director and writer Vadim Perelman's dark drama, the philosophical House of Sand and Fog, would dim the brightest Christmas tree. But Perelman has created that rare motion picture: a true dramatization of ideas.
House, based on the novel by Andre Dubus III, is essentially religious. It's not easy to discuss the reasons without revealing the plot twists, which can safely be described as a death spiral, but the movie's theological subtext is undeniable.
Tangling his flawed characters in fear, guilt and sacrifice, Perelman depicts a property dispute between an Iranian military colonel who has fled the ayatollahs and come to America (Ben Kingsley, superb) and a young woman who possesses the self-esteem of a heroin addict (Jennifer Connelly). After Connelly's character is evicted from her house for refusing to pay delinquent taxes—an error that she does not correct—Kingsley's stern newcomer bids and wins the house at auction.
He moves in and makes his home with his immigrant wife (Shohreh Aghdashloo in a heart-wrenching performance) and his teen-aged, skateboarding son (Jonathan Ahdout in a promising debut). Showing what the unexceptional house means to the new American family and to the wretched woman, who hires a lawyer (Frances Fisher) and enlists a crooked policeman (Ron Eldard), Perelman focuses on their conflict.
As the audience follows the slow-moving battle, punctuated by threats, confrontations and shifting alliances, the Russian-born director sets a deathtrap that snaps in a breathtaking conclusion that plays like slow motion—not the thriller type; even better: a prolonged, torturous finish which is the logical culmination of an explicitly accepted philosophy. House of Sand and Fog is not gruesome—it is not cynical—it is a near-perfect portrayal of selflessness.
For my part, that's why I hated it. And, even on its own terms, the daisy chain is sloppy. Connelly's character, intended or not and it's hard to tell, is despicable; a weak, self-sorry loser. The Beautiful Mind actress is too pretty to be so fundamentally fried. Pretty girls with perfect curves are neither pretty nor curvaceous for long when they've hit rock bottom like this foul-mouthed mooch. With House, sadly, it appears that the fresh-faced Connelly has forever shed the glamour of The Rocketeer for the gutter, mistaking vile for serious. This nasty babe makes Madonna look like an Olsen twin.
Kingsley as the conflicted colonel is magnificent. His transformation from a hard-working immigrant who still believes the world is his oyster to a devout Moslem evokes real pity. Flashbacks to Iran are too brief and too muted and Perelman's fast-action fog is pointless. While the relatively plain house is intended as a metaphor, its rooms, angles and shadows would have enhanced the tragedy.
None of its flaws halts House of Sand and Fog's long journey into darkness, though Connelly's character comes very close. One is left with a morality play that mirrors today's times with disturbing acuity—an America that is lost to newcomers, a universe dominated by self-pity, pain and a sense of entitlement, and the cultural eclipse of nihilism. Perelman has made a movie about nothing—actually, the worship of the nothing—for a world that increasingly, alarmingly, gets his drift.
House, based on the novel by Andre Dubus III, is essentially religious. It's not easy to discuss the reasons without revealing the plot twists, which can safely be described as a death spiral, but the movie's theological subtext is undeniable.
Tangling his flawed characters in fear, guilt and sacrifice, Perelman depicts a property dispute between an Iranian military colonel who has fled the ayatollahs and come to America (Ben Kingsley, superb) and a young woman who possesses the self-esteem of a heroin addict (Jennifer Connelly). After Connelly's character is evicted from her house for refusing to pay delinquent taxes—an error that she does not correct—Kingsley's stern newcomer bids and wins the house at auction.
He moves in and makes his home with his immigrant wife (Shohreh Aghdashloo in a heart-wrenching performance) and his teen-aged, skateboarding son (Jonathan Ahdout in a promising debut). Showing what the unexceptional house means to the new American family and to the wretched woman, who hires a lawyer (Frances Fisher) and enlists a crooked policeman (Ron Eldard), Perelman focuses on their conflict.
As the audience follows the slow-moving battle, punctuated by threats, confrontations and shifting alliances, the Russian-born director sets a deathtrap that snaps in a breathtaking conclusion that plays like slow motion—not the thriller type; even better: a prolonged, torturous finish which is the logical culmination of an explicitly accepted philosophy. House of Sand and Fog is not gruesome—it is not cynical—it is a near-perfect portrayal of selflessness.
For my part, that's why I hated it. And, even on its own terms, the daisy chain is sloppy. Connelly's character, intended or not and it's hard to tell, is despicable; a weak, self-sorry loser. The Beautiful Mind actress is too pretty to be so fundamentally fried. Pretty girls with perfect curves are neither pretty nor curvaceous for long when they've hit rock bottom like this foul-mouthed mooch. With House, sadly, it appears that the fresh-faced Connelly has forever shed the glamour of The Rocketeer for the gutter, mistaking vile for serious. This nasty babe makes Madonna look like an Olsen twin.
Kingsley as the conflicted colonel is magnificent. His transformation from a hard-working immigrant who still believes the world is his oyster to a devout Moslem evokes real pity. Flashbacks to Iran are too brief and too muted and Perelman's fast-action fog is pointless. While the relatively plain house is intended as a metaphor, its rooms, angles and shadows would have enhanced the tragedy.
None of its flaws halts House of Sand and Fog's long journey into darkness, though Connelly's character comes very close. One is left with a morality play that mirrors today's times with disturbing acuity—an America that is lost to newcomers, a universe dominated by self-pity, pain and a sense of entitlement, and the cultural eclipse of nihilism. Perelman has made a movie about nothing—actually, the worship of the nothing—for a world that increasingly, alarmingly, gets his drift.
