Tell Me Who I Am

TELL ME WHO I AM (Perkins, 2019)

Netflix Streaming, Release Date Oct 18, 2019

Review by Christopher S. Long

When 18-year-old Alex Lewis woke up in a hospital bed, he immediately recognized the young man standing faithfully by his side as his twin brother Marcus. As for the woman also in the room, Alex didn't have a clue until Marcus informed him that she was their mother.

It was the beginning of a new pattern for Alex, relying on Marcus to fill him on all the details of a life he no longer remembered as the result of the motorcycle accident that sent him to the hospital. In the first act of director Ed Perkins's documentary “Tell Me Who I Am”(2019), Alex recounts the early months of this reconstruction project, a disorienting and arduous process also laden with moments of humor. Marcus reintroduces Alex to his longtime girlfriend, and the now-adult Alex (54 at the time of filming) jokes that this provided him the unique opportunity to lose his virginity to the same girl twice.

With Marcus's help, Alex gradually readjusts to the family household, run by his disciplinarian father and a vivacious mother who's always the life of the party. Young Alex, having no memories of his own life, let alone anyone else's life as a comparison point, remains largely unaware of how unusual their domestic situation really is, but it doesn't take long before viewers realize there's a dark secret lurking beneath the semi-placid surface. Perhaps the secret is hiding in the upstairs of the house from which the twins are forever banned.

Perkins delays the big reveal for an uncomfortably long stretch, a dramatic technique I sometimes find ethically questionable when filmmakers deal with true stories. In this case, however, the elongation of tension replicates Alex's real experience. For years, he unquestioningly believed everything Marcus told him about their shared lives. After all, if you can't count on your twin brother, who can you trust? Only after their parents died, did Alex come to realize that the normal, happy childhood he now knew about was largely a work of fiction written by his twin.

I'm hesitant to reveal much more. Suffice it to say that while “Tell Me Who I Am” begins with a story remarkable enough just based on the barest facts (twin brothers – one with no memories, one with all their memories), it soon delves into more profound and unnerving territory. Marcus has very good reasons for this seeming betrayal of one of the most intimate trusts one can imagine, so much so that many will see him as a noble figure who makes a tremendous sacrifice as an act of compassion for the person he loves the most. On the other hand, it's not difficult to understand Alex's anger at Marcus. When the only memories you have never really happened, how can you possibly know who you are?

Perkins mostly relies on Alex and Marcus to speak their truths to the camera, each of them filmed separately for the bulk of the movie, though he also shoots some limited recreations, explorations of the dark spaces of the mysterious house, for example. He returns to select images over and over, a technique which pays off in the film's most poignant shot, that of just one of the twins, as boys, sleeping in their shared bedroom, the other bed empty. It's one of the most emotionally potent moments I can recall seeing in a documentary in quite some time.

Alex has to recreate his identity because he lost his memories. Marcus has to (and perhaps wants to) recreate his identity because he no longer has another person who shares his memories. In its brief running time, “Tell Me Who I Am” can barely touch on the immense burdens confronting each of these men, but it presents their stories with grace, clarity, and humility. Nobody who watches this film will ever forget about the Lewis twins.

“Tell Me Who I Am” is currently streaming on Netflix.

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs

THE BALLAD OF BUSTER SCRUGGS (Coen, 2018)

Netflix, Release Date Nov 16, 2018

Review by Christopher S. Long

The singing cowboy Buster Scruggs (Tim Blake Nelson) has numerous “nicknames, handles, appellations, and cognomens.” Some folks call him “The Harbinger of Death.” His own wanted poster dubs him “The Misanthrope” which Buster deems unfair; he greatly prefers to be known as “The San Saba Songbird” or, in a pinch, “The West Texas Tit.”

Buster, a murderous Looney Tunes character made flesh, is a crack shot, but there's reason to question his judgment in other matters, despite his sunny disposition and his impeccable white clothes. After he has disposed of the gambler Surly Joe (Clancy Brown) by “downright Archimedean” means, Buster entertains the entire saloon by celebrating Joe's death with a song and dance routine. Shortly after Buster belts out the prediction that his latest victim “won't be missed by anyone,” Surly Joe's brother (Danny McCarthy) appears on the scene to prove otherwise, cradling the corpse and sobbing “We've lost him!” Unmoved by this sincere display of grief, the crowd continues to hoot and holler at Buster's show-stopping number which, to be fair, is truly sensational.

Buster's faulty assessment plays to me like an oblique response to General William Westmoreland's infamous claim during the Vietnam War that “The Oriental doesn't put the same high price on life as a Westerner.” I'm not claiming that the Coens intended that, though I've heard tell that some critics have already interpreted Buster as a symbol of American military intervention.

I'd rather let the movie sit for a few months before making any similar claims, but what's clear is that the West depicted in the movie is no place for the sensitive or the vulnerable, for anyone who does put a high price on life. Surly Joe's brother, for example, doesn't last long after his genuine expression of sorrow, courtesy of Buster who dispatches him swiftly, though not painlessly. And Buster's the white-clad singing cowboy hero.

Structured as six short films (if you love Buster, better enjoy him before he's gone) with no direct narrative connection, “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs” frequently underscores the plight of those who simply “don't belong” in this hardscrabble frontier. In “The Gal Who Got Rattled” segment, a single woman (Zoe Kazan, absolutely flawless) heading west with a wagon train must rely on the kindness of strangers for her very survival. Said kindness turns out to be surprisingly abundant and yet may still not be sufficient, not for someone who just shouldn't there in the first place.

A more haunting example of this theme manifests in “The Meal Ticket” segment. A gruff impresario (Liam Neeson) barnstorms tiny frontier towns with his star attraction, a quadruple amputee Artist (Harry Melling, delicate and ethereal, like an ancestor of Edward Scissorhands). Belted into a makeshift chair on a tiny portable stage, The Artist entertains crowds by reciting great speeches and poems: “I met a traveler from an antique land...” Crowds? Well, at first maybe, but Old West America is about as interested in culture as is 21^st century America. Once the new “freak” show loses his shock appeal, Neeson's businessman must decide how to best invest his money and time to adapt to fickle public tastes. The Artist, of course, will not be asked for his input.

An excessive focus on the commonalities risks ignoring the distinct pleasures of each stand-alone story. And there is perhaps no greater pleasure in the movie than watching Tom Waits embody the ultimate grizzled prospector, a near-solo performance of stubborn digging and cantankerous muttering, his eyes ever on the golden prize he calls Mr. Pocket. I've always loved Waits as an actor from his work with Jim Jarmusch, but he outdoes himself, and just about everyone else this year, in a virtuoso physical performance.

If forced to select the weakest of the stories, I'd probably choose the one in which James Franco plays a hapless bank robber. But this segment still offers some of the movie's best moments, including an eccentric turn by Stephen Root as a tough bank teller and perhaps the film's funniest line, when Franco, sent to the gallows for a second time (long story), turns to a fellow condemned prisoner about to get the noose, and, with a friendly smile, asks “First time?”

The Coens are, of course, masters of the medium by now, and “Buster Scruggs” showcases all of their usual strengths. Always adept at idiosyncratic dialogue and long-winded speeches, they are at complete ease with the quirky argot of the Old West. We witnessed that in “True Grit,” of course, but if you thought they were coasting on Charles Portis's words, well, they weren't.

The impeccably-cast film features great performances from top line names to veteran character actors: in the film's final and most mythic segment, Chelcie Ross may deliver the best monologue of all as an uncouth trapper sharing his life's philosophy (“People are like ferrets...”) In the space of six stories, “Buster Scruggs”covers the gamut from cartoon hilarity to classic tragedy, from quiet stretches to serial verbosity, from the wide open plains to the cramped quarters of a passenger carriage racing through the mist-shrouded night with a coachman who never stops before his destination.

“The Ballad of Buster Scruggs” is currently available on Netflix, and is playing in select theaters. Here's hoping Netflix will see fit to give the movie a proper Blu-ray release.