Time Out of Mind

Oren Mover­man is an exam­ple of a great film­mak­er who has yet to make a great film. This one almost breaks the curse. But not quite. He builds movies that draw on all the sens­es, some­times simul­ta­ne­ous­ly. His lat­est, Time Out of Mind, even man­ages to evoke a pun­gent whiff from its care­worn set­ting – the gut­ters and side­walks of New York City. Mover­man doesn’t just film actors speak­ing lines, or chose to devel­op sto­ries in con­ven­tion­al ways. He’s a film­mak­er think­ing about per­spec­tives, about where to place the cam­era in order to height­en, enrich and com­pli­cate the view­ing experience.

His strat­e­gy for this high­ly impres­sive film is to have the cam­era assume the posi­tion of a pas­sive voyeur, peer­ing in through win­dows, around a cor­ner, or mon­i­tor­ing the action from across a street. Richard Gere assumes the role of tac­i­turn tran­sient, George, who, in the film’s open­ing sequence, is tossed out of a build­ing devel­op­ment in which he has cho­sen to hiber­nate. Mover­man is coy about reveal­ing why Gere is on the streets and with nowhere to go. He doesn’t tell us what hap­pened in his life to cause this melan­choly decline.

Eric Rohmer’s 1962 debut fea­ture The Sign of Leo – one of the prog­en­i­tors of the French New Wave – is a rare exam­ple of this sub­ject mat­ter (the life and lone­li­ness of a tramp) being dealt with absolute­ly head on. So this movie is cer­tain­ly on fer­tile ground, the­mat­i­cal­ly speak­ing at least. And as with that film, this is an unsexy sub­ject that Mover­man refus­es to sentimentalise.

George isn’t just his ambling con­duit to the world of home­less shel­ters, nights rid­ing the Sub­way for warmth, get­ting what you can from hos­pi­tals over­run with patients, and attempt­ing to get your life back on track. It’s polit­i­cal, but sub­tly so. It’s also a char­ac­ter study which stands at a cau­tious remove, want­i­ng to find out what makes George tick, but not want­i­ng to get too close to gen­er­alise his situation.

There’s no real plot to the film, although George does make a few half-heart­ed attempts to recon­nect with his daugh­ter, played by Jena Mal­one. What makes the film spe­cial is the sen­su­al expe­ri­ence it con­cocts through the edit­ing and sound design. Some­times George may be talk­ing to a staff nurse or a home­less com­pan­ion, but his voice will be kept low in the mix. On one occa­sion we’re in a room over­look­ing anoth­er room, the music we can hear play­ing sug­gest­ing that who­ev­er we’re with in this moment is watch­ing the first series of True Detective.

Far from being a mere gim­mick, this is Moverman’s attempt to frame his hero as a per­son who we only see across a divide or through some kind of social par­ti­tion. It lends the film an air of real­ism and light tragedy, as well as some much need­ed objec­tiv­i­ty. This is a por­trait of life below the mar­gins that empha­sis­es the day-to-day strug­gle, but always imbues George with dig­ni­ty and a cer­tain scruffy grace.