Queens

  

 Three queens — Barrow (Robert James-Collier) in Downton Abbey, John du Pont (Steve Carell) in Foxcatcher and Hubert (Xavier Dolan) in I Killed My Mother —

 the good, the bad and the much, much better

When the first season of Downton Abbey originally aired, I told a friend how hot I thought Barrow (Robert James-Collier), the gay footman, was. “But he’s evil,” my friend protested. True, during the series’ first few seasons, Barrow was notorious for scheming to get at anybody he thought threatened to surpass his position in the household. At times — as when he tried to embarrass the new valet, Bates (Brendan Coyle), who limped because of a wound sustained in the Boer War — he was downright vile.

But writer Julian Fellowes contextualized Barrow’s plotting early on. The revelation of his homosexuality came in a particularly painful scene, when he was rejected by the Duke of Crowborough (Charlie Cox), with whom he had enjoyed a sexual relationship until the Duke started courting the upstairs family’s eldest daughter, Lady Mary (Michelle Dockery). It was one incident, but it set the stage for the depiction of Barrow's sexuality during the repressive years of the early 20^th Century. Although hardly enough to let Barrow off the hook for his worst misdeeds, it at least explained his excessive concern with his place in the household. As a social outcast, it was all he had, particularly since for the series’ six-season run he never had a love interest.

In the new feature film version of Downton Abbey, Barrow is back. He's risen to the post of butler with the retirement of family standby Carson (Jim Carter) at the series' end. Although the film's principal focus is the turmoil wreaked by the announcement that King George V and Queen Mary will be visiting the Abbey, writer Julian Fellowes has given Barrow a subplot. When Lady Mary asks Carson back to help with preparations, the younger butler decides to take the weekend off and accompanies one of the king's valets, Richard Ellis (Max Brown), on a trip to York. There he's picked up in a bar and taken to an underground gay party. It could be a scene out of a gay pulp novel as he walks in on a large room filled with men dancing and making out, but there's nothing smarmy or exploitative about it. Rather, this is Fellowes’ presentation of what life was like for gay men outside the big cities in the period between the wars. The scene offers the character a rare release and, once again, suggests that he's been more than just the stereotypical soap opera spoiler. There’s a liberated feel to the sequence, particularly in the shots of Barrow dancing joyously with another man, but there’s also a sadness at the shabby surroundings where gay men were forced to hide their desires.

Like the series on which it is based, Downton Abbey the film is a curious paradox. It upholds, even exalts in the notion of class distinctions with its nostalgic depiction of the upper-class Crawleys, living with style and grace on their palatial estate while served by a large staff led by champions of tradition like Carson, Barrow and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes (Phyllis Logan). Yet the series itself, with its strong ensemble and the equal disposition of drama between upper- and lower-class characters, dissolves those class differences on a meta-theatrical level. When it comes to playing their roles, suffering nobly or dashing off humorous lines, all good actors are created equal.

This also seems to extend to the film’s (and series') handling of social issues. Fellowes does not flinch from depicting the negative side to the treatment of women, LGBTQ peoples and racial minorities during the early 20^th century. In the film, the Crawleys' younger daughter, Edith (Laura Carmichael), bemoans the fact that marriage to a marquess has meant giving up her career as a magazine publisher. As a married noblewoman, her only acceptable job is serving on committees. A Crawley relative serving the royal family reveals that her personal maid is actually her illegitimate daughter. It's probably stretching credibility a bit that the Crawleys, even the Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith), accept the fact that the illegitimate child will be their cousin's legal heir, just as they accepted Edith's adoption of her own illegitimate daughter. Through the series, the family was also amazingly open to Barrows' sexuality. Only some of the servants were less trusting. Had it not been for the support of the two lady’s maids, tolerance would have seemed a class-based virtue.

In a sense, Downton Abbey is a fantasy, a look at a world that no longer exists and probably never really did. It's a very entertaining fantasy. Any opportunity to see Smith is to be treasured, particularly when she's matched with a wonderful sidekick-cum-sparring partner like Penelope Wilton, who plays the mother of Mary's late husband. The entire cast is a joy to watch, and James-Collier should be commended for his commitment to his character — homosexuality, rough edges and all. Although the actor has complained about being typecast, he still gives the performance his all, and the film would be far weaker without his presence.

Though some have complained that the film version is just an expanded episode of the original series, that’s not entirely true. There’s a broader sweep to some of the filmmaking that makes big events like the reception for the king and queen and a royal ball suitably impressive. And even without those expanded production values, a return to the series’ virtues is hardly a bad thing. There should always be room in the movies for grace and the delicate playing of expert actors.

Yet, there's also something a little unsettling about the fantasy, particularly in a world where we're seeing the ravages of inherited wealth and where labor has become just another means of exploitation. I wonder how generous we'd be toward the series if it were set on a Victorian estate in Africa or an antebellum plantation in the American South, where the genteel white ruling family would treat their slaves with dignity, help those outside the family estate when they could and weep picturesquely for those beyond the range of their largesse.

Steve Carell, Channing Tatum, Mark Ruffalo and all that makeup in Foxcatcher

Bennett Miller’s 2014 Foxcatcher offers a far more jaundiced view of inherited wealth. The film purports to depict the real-life events leading to John du Pont’s murder of David Schultz, the coach of a wrestling team he sponsored. I say “purports” because the film takes a very liberal approach to facts that ultimately makes it less than satisfying.

The du Pont case is a perfect vehicle for an attack on the privileges of wealth. The man had exhibited signs of mental decay for years. In his 2014 memoirs, David’s brother, Mark, said that du Pont seemed off from the moment he first met him before accepting a job as assistant coach to a team du Pont was sponsoring  at Villanova University. Even before that, du Pont’s one marriage had ended when he physically attacked his wife. In the months leading up to David Schultz’ 1996 murder, du Pont’s behavior had become increasingly erratic. He believed CIA agents were lurking in his mansion’s walls and that David was part of an international conspiracy to murder him. All of this took place eight years after Mark had left du Pont’s employ following the 1988 Olympics.

Understandably, many of the events in the case were streamlined for storytelling purposes. Mark’s various telephone conversations and an earlier meeting with du Pont in a hotel are compressed into a single meeting at du Pont’s mansion. His living arrangements — first at an apartment he rented near Villanova and then in a room in the chalet on the estate’s grounds — became a single stay at the estate, where he has free run of the chalet. In addition, David’s murder seems to take place shortly after Mark’s departure.

All of this could be written off as dramatic license, a necessary tightening of events for dramatic effect. But events are also arranged to create the distinct impression that du Pont’s mental problems spring from repressed homosexuality. As Mark and du Pont become friends, du Pont asks the younger man to wrestle with him in a late-night session during which the film clearly implies that du Pont sexually molests him (Mark Schultz vehemently denies anything of the sort happened). After that, Mark’s behavior begins to deteriorate as he starts drinking, snorting cocaine and overeating so badly that he initially fails to qualify in his weight class at the pre-Olympic trials. His friendship with du Pont disintegrates, and his departure from the estate after the Olympics seems to result from that. With the compression of time between his leaving and David’s murder, it’s almost impossible to see the crime as motivated by anything other than sexual rejection. Du Pont, then, joins a long line of cinematic killer queens, some presented sympathetically, some as two-dimensional plot devices.

I must confess that at times I don’t understand straight filmmakers, particularly when they depict LGBTQ peoples. It’s not that I think only gay filmmakers can depict gay characters honestly. There have been many sensitive depictions of homosexuality by straight writers and directors (like Julian Fellowes’ in Downton Abbey). Nine years before they made Foxcatcher, director Bennett Miller and writer Dan Futterman did a terrific job with Capote (2005), about the famous author’s relationship with killer Perry Smith that led to his writing In Cold Blood. They even gave him a hot partner by casting Bruce Greenwood as Jack Dunphy, the novelist and playwright who lived with him from 1948 until Capote’s death in 1992.

Why, then, did they add a gay element to Foxcatcher that not only cheapens the story, but also obscures the issues related to du Pont’s case? There’s a slight precedent for the invention in a sexual harassment suit brought against him by another wrestling coach with whom he had worked at Villanova. But making sexuality the center of du Pont’s breakdown in Foxcatcher takes the focus off one of the most interesting aspects of the murder case, the way du Pont’s privileged position as heir to one of the U.S.’ greatest fortunes insulated him from any kind of intervention as his behavior grew increasingly erratic.

Nor does it help that two of the leading players seem insulated from the audience. As du Pont, Steve Carell wears a two-hour makeup job to capture the character’s facial contours and performs with dead eyes and a persistent head tilt to the back that creates an almost perpetual sneer. It’s the kind of one note, overly made up performance that wins people Oscar nominations but never really comes across as totally human. That’s particularly disappointing given Carell’s stronger work in comedies like Little Miss Sunshine (2006) and Crazy, Stupid, Love (2011). He was more expressive as a puppet in Welcome to Marwen (2018). Channing Tatum, who brings less to the table than Carell, plays Mark Schultz behind some extensive make-up, as well. The plugs used to give him a wrestler’s nose and plumpers that fill out his jaw make him even less expressive than usual.

Of course, extensive makeup doesn’t have to get in the way of a performance. Samantha Morton manages to bring Alpha to life each week on The Walking Dead despite playing many of her scenes behind a full-face mask. As David Schultz in Foxcatcher, Mark Ruffalo is also heavily made up while working with a new hairline, 30 extra pounds and a full beard, yet he manages to turn in a fully realized performance. Then again, he’s even done credible work acting through motion-capture technology to play The Hulk in Marvel’s superhero films. He doesn’t get all the acting honors. Vanessa Redgrave may have only three scenes as du Pont’s mother, but she easily creates a strong portrait of the powerful, demanding woman whose withheld affections contributed to her son’s mental problems. Of course, she’s been acting for so long and at such a high level of achievement it sometimes seems there isn’t a script or a director that could defeat her.

Lord knows, Miller tries hard. The filming style that worked with Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s flamboyant interpretation of Truman Capote — slow, long takes with lots of long shots and a washed-out, wintery palette — isn’t as effective when two of your leading players are doing everything they can to repress any level of humanity in their work. As Carell’s du Pont leads Tatum’s Mark Schultz into a life of privileged dissipation — introducing him to cocaine, conspicuous consumption and gay groping — the film seems less a dramatic reinterpretation of a real-life murder case than a slowed-down version of “Boys Beware” (1961), the infamous educational film warning young men about the dangers of homosexuality.

Xavier Dolan and Anne Dorval connect on an almost genetic level in the wonderful I Killed My Mother

It’s a natural rite of passage that many young people outgrow their parents. This can be particularly telling for people on the LGBTQ spectrum, whose discovery of their sexuality often means a rejection of their parents’ heteronormative worlds. That’s the twist French-Canadian writer-director-actor Xavier Dolan brings to the coming-of-age story with his first feature, I Killed My Mother (2009). Written when Dolan was 16 and filmed when he was just 20, the piece is an impressive, often shocking feature debut.

In the semi-autobiographical tale, Dolan is Hubert, a rebellious high-school student who underachieves at school despite showing promise as a writer and artist. His mother (Anne Dorval) is a middle-class drudge who can do nothing right in his eyes, while his father is largely absent, having left wife and child after seven years upon realizing that he just wasn’t cut out to be a parent. Hubert is developing tastes of his own, which makes it hard for him to deal with his mother’s bourgeoise affectations. He’s also come out to himself without bothering to tell her. She only learns he’s gay when she runs into his boyfriend Antonin’s mother at a tanning salon.

Given Dolan’s youth and the autobiographical elements of the story, you might expect this to be a one-sided condemnation of parental failings. It isn’t. One of Dolans’ great gifts as a director — in this and in later films like Heartbeats (2010), Laurence Anyways (2012) and Mommy (2014) — is an ability to capture privileged moments when characters drop their guard and reveal themselves as they really are. He’s movingly generous to his characters and his fellow actors in that. After almost an hour of showing Dorval’s Chantal at her worst, leading to her shipping her son off to a Catholic boarding school so she won’t have to deal with him, Dolan gives her a beautiful moment. Hubert tells her not to bother walking him to the school bus stop, then shoots back at her “What would you do if I died today?” As he walks off, her anger fades and she simply says, “I’d die tomorrow.” It’s a heartbreaking moment. For all their differences, there’s a tie the two can’t escape. That’s what makes their disagreements so feverish.

In early scenes, the fights between mother and son are amazing bits of psychodrama that manage to be both horrifying and very funny. Each knows how to get to the other and doesn’t hesitate to go for the jugular just to score points. Yet they also try. In one extended sequence, Dolan fixes his mother breakfast and promises to have dinner waiting for her when she gets back from the tanning salon. He even does the dishes, but by this point she’s hurt and angry at having to find out he’s gay from a virtual stranger. She invites him to ride with her to the store so he can rent some videos while she’s shopping, then gets angry when he takes too long. The fight escalates to the point that she strands him. That sets the stage for her shipping him off to boarding school.

Like the young Orson Welles, Dolan doesn’t know what you can’t do, so his framing and cutting are often surprising. When Dorval brings home a new lampshade in a ghastly animal print, he focuses the shot on Hubert sitting on the sofa. You see the lampshade in her hands, but not her face. After he forces himself to compliment her, Hubert stands and takes her hand, which suddenly becomes the shot’s focal point. With almost any other director that would be just wrong, but within the context of the scene, it’s very moving. Throughout the film Dolan cuts freely to Hubert’s dreams and memories. Initially some of those shots are confusing, but they all come together in the end. There are shots of a child running freely on a grassy beach that are finally contextualized when Hubert runs away to the same beach near the house where he spent his early childhood at a time when he and his mother always seemed to be in synch.

At other times the filmmaking is almost breathtaking, reminiscent of the early work of Truffaut and Godard. The boyfriend’s mother asks Hubert to paint her office in the style of Jackson Pollock. The sequence is all quick cuts, culminating in the two men making love in a rush of excitement mirrored in the editing. On his first weekend home from school, Hubert goes dancing with a new friend (Niels Schneider, who would go on to play the disruptive lust object in Heartbeats) who introduces him to speed and then kisses him. Instead of staying to make out, Dolan rushes home to share his feelings with his mother in an orgiastic rush of words. It’s a terrific acting feat that once again captures the character’s desperate need to connect with his mother. Dorval gets a similar scene later on when she tells off the principal at the boarding school. Both scenes are thrilling. You may find yourself holding your breath for fear that they won’t pull it off. But they do, and it’s wonderful.

Dolan doesn’t hold back from displaying Hubert’s faults. At times the young man is a little shit. When he goes at his mother, you can see him going too far, and after a while you may want to shake him just to get him to ease up on her. Dolan even lets the boyfriend (the coltish young Francois Arnaud, who’s much more open here than in his later television work) call Hubert out for his selfishness. As in the rest of the film, the scene is a mix of frustration and love. Antonin really cares for this kid, but at times he just can’t put up with him. The much-reviled mother tracks them down and meets Antonin for the first time. When she goes off to take care of her son, who’s wandered off to the beach, the pain in Arnaud’s face is real. For all the friction between mother and son, how can he ever compete with their connection? How can anybody?