If there is one thing Derek Cianfrance does well, it is constructing intimate, incomparable character development.
As a remarkably adept director, the images he captures of the simplest human interactions wholeheartedly sway one’s opinions, without feeling as if something is being repeated over and over again. He is ambitious, but perhaps too much so.
His second feature film (but really his first in mainstream media, considering his 1998 feature Brother Tied was never released), Blue Valentine is proof of just how successful Cianfrance is at this specific skill.
Through a back-and-forth narrative that convincingly paints both the blissful courtship and subsequent depressive breakdown of a short-lived marriage between Michelle Williams’ and Ryan Gosling’s respective characters, Cianfrance creates a piece of art that achieves an intricacy in tracing its own interconnectedness.
Teaming up with Gosling for a second time in The Place Beyond the Pines, Cianfrance tries to do this once again, but this time on a much grander scale. Instead of a singular narrative, Cianfrance employs the over-arching themes of legacy and consequence to tie together three different story arches that span over the course of fifteen years, using recurring symbolism and imagery to weave together the actions and traits of each character. What could have become just another story about the conflicting duality of a father-son relationship is turned into a philosophical inquiry about fate and inherent human nature, highlighted by the emotional performances of Ryan Gosling and Bradley Cooper.
Set in Schenectady, New York, the first act of what Cianfrance labels a “triptych” surrounds Gosling’s character, Luke (affectionately called ‘Handsome Luke’ by his local fans), a nomadic motorcycle stuntman for the state fairs who learns that one of his former flings, Romina (Eva Mendes), has given birth to his baby, Jason.
With a statuesque build, a canvas of tattoos, and his general motorcyclist allure, Luke is the physical embodiment of masculinity. Yet, it’s his vast layer of insecurity beneath this surface image that makes his character so fascinating to watch, and in turn makes Gosling’s performance so praiseworthy. Marked by a deep emotional wound founded by the absence of his own father, Luke is haunted by the prospect of allowing his son to grow up with the same insecurities he has suffered.
In his warped sense of moral justification, supported only by his own feeling of helplessness, Luke decides to use his motorcycle skill set to rob banks, and thus provide for his family, despite the fact that Romina is with another man.
While Gosling makes the limited dialogue allotted to Luke extremely powerful, with emasculating voice-cracks every time he tries to assume power in the robberies and stuttered speech when trying to defend his dependability as a father, it is often the moments in which Luke says nothing that are most effective.
In a scene where Luke bludgeons another man into unconsciousness, his ability to quickly and silently soothe his baby son from the surrounding screams of terror is so utterly shocking and yet remarkably expressive of his emotional complexity. In this unthinking act of volatility, Gosling’s portrayal of paradoxical inadequacy somehow leads the audience to relate with the completely misguided individual.
As Luke begins to cross paths with the local cops, we are introduced to Officer Avery Cross (Bradley Cooper), a low-level cop, who is nonetheless very intellectual, and who is the son of a well known, albeit retired, judge.
From here, Cianfrance takes us into the second storyline surrounding Cross, a man who shares more with Luke than what meets the eye.
While on two opposite ends of the judicial spectrum, both Luke and Cross are struggling to maintain their family life, which surrounds their respective one-year-old sons. As a cop caught in the middle of multiple cases of corruption, Cross must also deal with his internal struggle of what is important: his reputation or his loyalty, and how far each of those will get him in his personal goals.
While Bradley Cooper reaffirms his versatility as an actor, delicately handling the emotional rollercoaster affecting his character within, Cianfrance allows his own talent to truly shine through his intricate narrative. The way in which Cianfrance captures the contrasting qualities between Luke and Cross is poetic in its essence.
While never outlandish in its claims, the narrative instead implements a certain subtlety that imposes a feeling that you’re reading a book, rather than watching a feature film.
When the film begins its third and final push home, the narrative begins to derail, and it is here that Cianfrance’s ambition takes a turn for the worse.
Without giving too much away, the third section introduces the audience to the now teenaged sons of Cross and Luke, following both their independency and reflexive qualities in regards to their fathers. While this development in many ways completes the trajectory of the narrative, it becomes too independent for its own good.
For only about a half an hour, we are taken into the lives of two individuals who, up until this point, had only played symbolic roles. Cianfrance completes the idea he is trying to capture, but then takes it a step further, never quite reaching a satisfying ending.
Instead, as the thematic music plays out (a score by Mike Patton that is eerily amazing as its own entity throughout the film) you’re left wondering if you actually understood the message the film was trying to convey.
Overall, The Place Beyond the Pines does what it sets out to do: it creates conversation and it allows time for the audience to become self-reflective, wondering how the choices they make will affect others, whether they know it themselves or not. Despite its flaws, The Pines is a beautiful cinematic creation and should be appreciated for the clear amount of effort that was put into making it. If anything, it upholds Cianfrance’s passion for the human spirit, no matter how impossibly ambitious it can be to capture.
