All the Money in the World, The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach

Christopher Plummer and Mark Wahlberg in All the Money in the World

All the Money in the World is one of the more successful examples of Ridley Scott's recent work. Part of this is due to a good script which clearly delineates all the twists and turns in the story of J Paul Getty III's kidnapping. It is also because the material jibes well with what has become Scott's go to theme: the futility and emptiness of corporeal power. When Scott has a good script, say in American Gangster and especially The Counselor, the results are interesting. When the script is not up to snuff, as in Robin Hood and Exodus: Gods and Kings, we are left with white elephants.

Even at his best, there is a certain vacuity in Scott's work. When we see Christopher Plummer as Getty Senior surrounded by antique busts, ornate tapestries, expensive paintings and other prized tchotchkes, we are not seeing a particularly realistic portrait of the wizened tycoon, but another of Scott's portraits of hollow titans (always men) whose thirst for power has erased their humanity: think of Joaquin Phoenix in Gladiator, Joe Turkle in Blade Runner or Guy Pearce in Prometheus. This is precisely what Getty was, but it is not the Getty on display here. Christopher Plummer has too much charm and charisma for one thing. Getty had the looks, charisma and charm of a mummy; at least in 1973. I think Kevin Spacey, booted from the film for various transgressions, may have been more interesting in the role. Plummer always gives intelligent, well-modulated performances, but there is too much of a twinkle in his eye to be convincing as the reptilian Getty whereas Spacey is perfectly cast as cold-blooded opportunists. 

The casting of Mark Wahlberg as Getty's fixer is a worse fit. When cast as a mook or a mick, as in The Departed and The Fighter, Wahlberg can be extremely effective. Here a dollop of sophistication is needed and Wahlberg is as sophisticated as a meatball grinder. I know Wahlberg is a name and a competent performer, but how could anyone believe he would be well cast as someone named Fletcher Chase?

Happily, the two other main performances are home runs. Charlie Plummer is astonishingly good as the young Getty, a reminder at how adept Scott is in drawing fine work from young performers. Even better is Michelle Williams, who pretty much carries the film on her thin shoulders. Expert at both vocal and physical performance, Williams' provides the heart of the film as a mother determined to save her son. Scott's work is often icy and glacial, it needs the heat of an impassioned performer like Williams or Russell Crowe to bring it to life. Scott's oeuvre is a mixed bag, half tabula rasa, half stylish and intriguing. Primarily due to Williams' performance, All the Money in the World is one of his more effective films.

Daniele Huillet and Jean-Marie Straub's The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach, from 1968, is an entirely different kettle of fish. In essence, this is an art film whose relation to the commercial narrative cinema is tangential at best. The title itself announces that Huillet and Straub are not seeking to tell a tale, but to present sequential annals of time that pictures Bach's life, mostly through glimpses of his wife, children and music. There are numeral historically accurate recreations of Bach's musical performances with Dutch musician Gustav Leonhardt impersonating the maestro. Huillet and Straub intersperse the film with various Bach related scores and documents. This makes the film more an exploration of the semiological possibilities of the cinema than its narrative ones. This limits the appeal of this kind of film. I know that other members of my household will not be clamoring for me to bring home another disc by Huillet and Straub anytime soon. 

Still, I was riveted by the film and I am rather lukewarm to the composer finding him, at times, more mathematical than musical. Leonhardt's period appropriate performances let the music breathe in a way that most modern arrangers, synthesizer twiddlers or Glenn Gould do not. In a weird way, the minimalist direction reminds me of David L. Wolper productions like Appointment with Destiny and You Are There from my youth. This is not a diss. These shows entertained the young history buff Biff greatly and their pedagogic impulses are not dissimilar from the ones behind the historical films Rossellini did for television. What directorial touches there are moved me, particularly a slow dolly back from Bach to include the ensemble as they chime in to join the master. I was a Straub and Huillet virgin until this film, but seeing it will spur me to seek out their other works. Even in this age of streaming gluttony they are hard to find, Netflix certainly has none of them, but I will endeavor. (8/29/2018)