Skip to main content

Barrett's Reel Talk

 "Margin Call" is a beautiful, severe film about the collapse of Lehman Brothers.


A young man discovers that a major bubble is about to burst; he brings the news to higher-ranking colleagues. Meetings ensue; whom should we blame? Which heads should roll? How can Lehman Brothers minimize its own "health problems" after the disaster?


Amoral Jeremy Irons--ruler of the world, owner of a private chopper--announces a plan. Lehman Brothers will knowingly sell off its worthless assets to interested buyers; there will be some lying. Let ignorant competitors shoulder some of the "hurt."


Throughout all this ugliness, the camera keeps drifting back to Penn Badgley, a minor player, possibly a sociopath, who can pass the time only by asking, "You know that guy on the third floor? The fourth floor? What do you think his annual salary is? The stripper in front of us -- what do you think she makes in one night?"


When Penn Badgley learns that he will lose his own job, he bursts into childish tears, in a bathroom. "This is all I ever wanted to do with my life." A head honcho--Simon Baker--stops shaving and gives a reptilian nod to Badgley. "Really?" he asks, in a clinical way. "Are you serious?" And that's the end of the scene.


I don't really "like" anyone in this movie, but I'm fascinated by tiny details....The pristine white sailing boat on the pamphlet you're handed when you're fired. ("Your Future Awaits....") The distraught man who buries his dog in the yard that belongs to an ex-wife. The dreadful Kevin Spacey "rally" speech after a series of terminations. ("They're gone. You're not. Go out and kill....")


A vivid, haunting dream -- a movie worth seeing. A chance to study dialogue and subtext -- almost non-stop writerly brilliance, scene after scene after scene.





Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...