Pines begins
with a long handheld tracking shot of Luke Glanton, a stunt biker, as
he gears up and rides his motorcycle into a giant steel globe. He zips and
zags around the sphere like a hamster caught in an exercise ball,
careening below, above, and between two other stunt riders. It’s a
discomforting and intense stunt but an even more apt metaphor for our
very own existence -- life and death separated by fractions of space and
time, vastly different lives defined by key instances on this journey
going nowhere.
Writer
and director Derek Cianfrance plays with an unconventional leap in both
time and scale. At first, we are coaxed into believing the film will
play as a melodramatic story of a well-meaning but misguided man, Luke
Glanton, who turns to robbery to fend for his girlfriend and infant son.
But soon enough, the film’s focus turns to Avery Cross, the (un)lucky
cop who crosses paths with Luke. From that point on, Avery takes center
stage as he deals with the emotional ramifications of leaving Luke’s son
fatherless.
It’s
extremely ambitious, albeit slightly jarring, that the film’s third act
leaps 15 years into the future, focusing on the tumultuous relationship between AJ and Jason, the sons
of the cop and robber who crossed paths when they were infants. I
admire Pines for attempting to stake a story’s emotional heartbeat not in the
characters introduced in the first two acts, but in the
intergenerational relationships of those characters’ children decades in
the future -- this focuses the film’s thesis around the the future
generation’s obligation to deal with the prior generation’s faults. As a
man, your actions not only impact yourself, but
reverberate like ripples across time. Instances shape lives; moments
define futures.
This is an unconventional presentation of a rather straightforward story, I must admit. And to be honest, Pines
reaches further than it can grasp. Luke’s tale of vigilante heroism in
the first act is by far the strongest arc -- this is no doubt helped by
stellar performances from Gosling and an underappreciated Eva Mendes. By
the time Avery takes the narrative baton, the film begins to lurch,
splintering its focus between Avery’s wife, son, father, and work. Its
execution overshadows -- or perhaps the better word is compensates --
for the weaknesses in the second act’s mundane, and frankly boring,
storytelling. By the final act, it becomes clear that Luke and Avery’s
offsprings simply can’t command the same wattage as their fathers.
But
maybe this sense of progressive devolution through the years mirrors
the movie’s central message -- actions, feelings, and moments that were
once fresh and explosive leave a whimper of a memory over
time, scarred remnants of instances long gone. Stories told in
one generation preordain the future generation’s views, as tragedy or
farce. Or both.
Cianfrance
has crafted an admirable dissection of the repercussions,
weaknesses, and fateful relationships between fathers and sons. But he
seems to relish the broad strokes of the “Wouldn’t it be interesting
if...?” angle of storytelling rather than examining any character in
detail. This results in flurries of intriguing moments but leaves a
blurry image overall. But despite its wrinkles, Pines still displays
a curiosity about relationships and dares to explore humanity in a new
light. Cianfrance clearly operates not from a place of fear or
complacency, but of ambition and risk. And that is not a dishonorable thing.
