Joan Didion once wrote, "We tell stories for a living." And that's what brothers Frank (Emile Hirsch) and Jerry Lee (Stephen Dorff) Flannigan do to each other in "The Motel Life," directed by brothers Gabe and Alan Polsky, who are also producers. Frank tells the stories, and Jerry Lee makes accompanying drawings in a sketchbook. They paste the drawings all over the cement block walls of the various run-down motels they call home. Frank and Jerry Lee are grown but damaged men on the run, living in America's permanent social class, and their stories are the lifeline they have created for each other, the context in which they operate as brothers. Jerry Lee pleads with Frank, "Tell a story, Frank?" Based on musician Willy Vlautin's debut novel, "Motel Life" could have become a sentimental mess in less sensitive hands. It could have turned what is essentially moving and sincere into something kitsch and quirky. But the directors and cast, through a miracle of tone, atmosphere and emotion, have created a film that rings true, that is sweet and sharp and unbearable. Every painting seems right, every choice seems thought out, considered. It all adds up to a moving whole.
The stories Frank tells are escape adventures starring the two brothers facing pirates and Nazis and triumphing over unimaginable obstacles. When they were children, their father abandoned them, their mother died (but not before demanding a promise that the brothers would stay together), and, after an accident with a moving train, Jerry Lee had to have his leg amputated. Since then, life has been one long string of bad luck. In the stories Frank tells, Jerry Lee has two legs, of course. In the stories Frank tells, both brothers are tall, handsome, strong, and capable. We see these stories unfold before us in vibrant pencil animations interwoven throughout the film, clever and captivating, a depiction of Jerry Lee's illustrations come to life.
We meet the brothers in fragments and glimpses. We see them as children, we see them as men. Their bond is unmistakable and perhaps unhealthy, but the film lives in the dome of the brothers' reality, where they have no one else in the world but each other. Frank has friends (people he can ask for money from, that is), but Jerry Lee's only contact with the outside world is through his brother. The motel rooms they live in are so unwelcoming that you can feel how cold the tiles are, how weak the water jet in the shower is, how dirty the covers are. Frank is responsible, and that's not saying much. He strives for every dollar in his pocket. He is haunted by Annie (Dakota Fanning), a girl he abandoned. She was sweet and loyal, and had similar escapist tendencies (she also liked Frank's stories), but she was forced into prostitution by her horrible mother, and Frank can't forgive her, but at the same time, he can't forget her. Jerry Lee seems challenged in a way that goes beyond his physical disability. Whatever is wrong with him is not explicitly explained, and Stephen Dorff's performance is practically a masterpiece, bringing "Motel Life" into "Of Mice and Men" territory, clearly one of the story's original influences. . When Frank steals a dog (he would freeze from the cold being tied up in that yard anyway) and tells Jerry Lee, Dorff's face lights up with a childlike smile that is almost unbearable to witness in his uninhibited joy, saying, "Always We wanted a dog!" The "we" is eloquent
In the plot, when Jerry Lee runs over and kills a boy on a bicycle on a snowy night in Reno. His feelings of guilt don't stop him from fleeing the scene, and most of the film unfolds with the tension of them running away from the law, which is always one step behind. To hide the evidence, Jerry Lee, thinking confused, burns the car and shoots himself in the thigh, leaving him immobilized in the hospital while Frank tries to get money so they can escape. The film deftly illustrates their touching loyalty until death, as well as the innate propensity for self-sabotage that follows them like a dark cloud. Their lives are so intertwined that it's shocking to discover that Frank was once in love with a girl named Annie James (Dakota Fanning), a girl who dreams of escaping the wrong side of town with him, before a devastating incident tear them apart.
Frank helps Jerry Lee escape from the hospital (his prosthetic leg was lost in his travels), and they hide out in a motel, evading the police, trying to figure out what to do. Well, Frank makes the reasoning because Jerry Lee is panicked and in an emotional spiral. The intimacy between these two actors is a miracle to behold. There is a scene where Frank helps Jerry Lee into the shower to clean him up. Dorff is completely naked, and Hirsch is clothed, and at one point they start laughing about the nudity and the cramped space ("You have a big ass, Jerry Lee," Frank comments with a mixture of embarrassment and admiration), and it was a beautiful moment of levity in a story of restless desolation, but also a perfect encapsulation of the strange intimacy between brothers. Movies often get their portrayal of siblings wrong. Actors often fail to convince us that they have a long history together since childhood and emerged from the same family. With Dorff and Hirsch, you never doubt that for a second.
Jerry Lee has an imaginary girlfriend named Marge, and he covers the motel walls with drawings of her, a voluptuous pinup with a 1940s hairdo. Jerry Lee is amazed that his brother was actually ever in love and, more importantly, that a girl would love him. Loved back. He, Jerry Lee, never had that. His eyes fill with tears as he talks to Frank about this, the wreckage of his face showing a swirl of loneliness. Dorff's performance is magnificent and is entirely absent of grand histrionic gestures, cathartic meltdowns or tantrums. His eyes look pained and gentle as he tries to understand what the hell this life has given him. And Hirsch, like Frank, is a beautiful listener, an ingenious and also irreparably damaged support system. The supporting cast is great, especially Kris Kristofferson as a used car salesman and surrogate father figure for Frank. He gives advice that is actually sensible (unlike most of the other people in the film), telling Frank, "Don't make decisions thinking you're a scoundrel. Make decisions thinking you're a great man. Or at least a good man". The fact that Frank doesn't realize that he is already a good man is one of the film's tragedies.
Vlautin's story is non-linear and frequently flashes back to the brothers' childhoods, providing a fluid commentary on how their adult lives are essentially unchanged from their youth. The Polsky brothers replicate this tactic on screen with flashbacks and artful transitions, but the film moves at a confusing pace due to the frequent shifts in time and space. The action is further undermined by a series of animated sequences that bring to life the various stories Frank tells the naïve Jerry Lee to comfort him in times of distress. In Vlautin's book, these stories are simply woven into the prose, beautiful in their simplicity and vital to portraying the characters as rogue romantics. But the Polskys struggle to integrate that animation into their film. Instead of coming together to form a unified whole, the flashbacks, animation, and central story simply compete for screen time, leaving the film feeling like it's full of empty affection.
Just as Hirsch and Dorff bring an intense self-awareness to their roles that belies the straightforward nature of their characters, the film's polished formality doesn't fit well with the Bukowski-like setting of dingy motel rooms, dark bars, and seedy casinos. The only actor who seems in the right place is Kris Kristofferson, who plays a canny car salesman in a glorified cameo role, but even his role is limited to revealing the story's predictable thematic epiphanies. Filmmaker Roman Vasyanov's outdoor photography, however, is often stunning. Shooting on real film and taking full advantage of it, Vasyanov captures the cold grandeur of Nevada winters, the frigid temperatures evident in vaporous breaths and frozen trees. There's tremendous thematic potential in these images, but the Polskys, seemingly unsure of how to approach their own film, simply ignore them, leaving them behind in favor of another flashback or an animated distraction.
Set in the least glamorous part of Nevada during winter, the least attractive season of the year, the script seems dedicated to the idea of brotherly love and devotion, but remains strangely enigmatic about all the other plot details that would be needed to give the story more substance. Frank and Jerry Lee may be born losers, but they are truly attached and devoted to each other, probably too honest and decent for their own good, fleeing not only a possible prison sentence, but life itself into the realms of the imagination. The Polsky brothers' latest work benefits greatly from their own personal experiences with the unwavering support network forged between siblings. This clearly resonates throughout their work and is strengthened by the fantastic performances from the leads. Hirsch is as solid as ever, but it's the immensely likable Dorff who seriously impresses here. Easily managing to overcome the real-life age difference of more than a decade between himself and his on-screen brother, the actor cuts a deeply damaged and haunted figure, his gaze permanently pained aware of the fate that awaits him. "The Motel Life" is a melancholic affair, but it remains a deeply engaging and moving journey, with the protagonists' plight unfolding like a stuttered road movie in search of a (seemingly) impossible final destination and cathartic resolution.
The stories Frank tells are escape adventures starring the two brothers facing pirates and Nazis and triumphing over unimaginable obstacles. When they were children, their father abandoned them, their mother died (but not before demanding a promise that the brothers would stay together), and, after an accident with a moving train, Jerry Lee had to have his leg amputated. Since then, life has been one long string of bad luck. In the stories Frank tells, Jerry Lee has two legs, of course. In the stories Frank tells, both brothers are tall, handsome, strong, and capable. We see these stories unfold before us in vibrant pencil animations interwoven throughout the film, clever and captivating, a depiction of Jerry Lee's illustrations come to life.
We meet the brothers in fragments and glimpses. We see them as children, we see them as men. Their bond is unmistakable and perhaps unhealthy, but the film lives in the dome of the brothers' reality, where they have no one else in the world but each other. Frank has friends (people he can ask for money from, that is), but Jerry Lee's only contact with the outside world is through his brother. The motel rooms they live in are so unwelcoming that you can feel how cold the tiles are, how weak the water jet in the shower is, how dirty the covers are. Frank is responsible, and that's not saying much. He strives for every dollar in his pocket. He is haunted by Annie (Dakota Fanning), a girl he abandoned. She was sweet and loyal, and had similar escapist tendencies (she also liked Frank's stories), but she was forced into prostitution by her horrible mother, and Frank can't forgive her, but at the same time, he can't forget her. Jerry Lee seems challenged in a way that goes beyond his physical disability. Whatever is wrong with him is not explicitly explained, and Stephen Dorff's performance is practically a masterpiece, bringing "Motel Life" into "Of Mice and Men" territory, clearly one of the story's original influences. . When Frank steals a dog (he would freeze from the cold being tied up in that yard anyway) and tells Jerry Lee, Dorff's face lights up with a childlike smile that is almost unbearable to witness in his uninhibited joy, saying, "Always We wanted a dog!" The "we" is eloquent
In the plot, when Jerry Lee runs over and kills a boy on a bicycle on a snowy night in Reno. His feelings of guilt don't stop him from fleeing the scene, and most of the film unfolds with the tension of them running away from the law, which is always one step behind. To hide the evidence, Jerry Lee, thinking confused, burns the car and shoots himself in the thigh, leaving him immobilized in the hospital while Frank tries to get money so they can escape. The film deftly illustrates their touching loyalty until death, as well as the innate propensity for self-sabotage that follows them like a dark cloud. Their lives are so intertwined that it's shocking to discover that Frank was once in love with a girl named Annie James (Dakota Fanning), a girl who dreams of escaping the wrong side of town with him, before a devastating incident tear them apart.
Frank helps Jerry Lee escape from the hospital (his prosthetic leg was lost in his travels), and they hide out in a motel, evading the police, trying to figure out what to do. Well, Frank makes the reasoning because Jerry Lee is panicked and in an emotional spiral. The intimacy between these two actors is a miracle to behold. There is a scene where Frank helps Jerry Lee into the shower to clean him up. Dorff is completely naked, and Hirsch is clothed, and at one point they start laughing about the nudity and the cramped space ("You have a big ass, Jerry Lee," Frank comments with a mixture of embarrassment and admiration), and it was a beautiful moment of levity in a story of restless desolation, but also a perfect encapsulation of the strange intimacy between brothers. Movies often get their portrayal of siblings wrong. Actors often fail to convince us that they have a long history together since childhood and emerged from the same family. With Dorff and Hirsch, you never doubt that for a second.
Jerry Lee has an imaginary girlfriend named Marge, and he covers the motel walls with drawings of her, a voluptuous pinup with a 1940s hairdo. Jerry Lee is amazed that his brother was actually ever in love and, more importantly, that a girl would love him. Loved back. He, Jerry Lee, never had that. His eyes fill with tears as he talks to Frank about this, the wreckage of his face showing a swirl of loneliness. Dorff's performance is magnificent and is entirely absent of grand histrionic gestures, cathartic meltdowns or tantrums. His eyes look pained and gentle as he tries to understand what the hell this life has given him. And Hirsch, like Frank, is a beautiful listener, an ingenious and also irreparably damaged support system. The supporting cast is great, especially Kris Kristofferson as a used car salesman and surrogate father figure for Frank. He gives advice that is actually sensible (unlike most of the other people in the film), telling Frank, "Don't make decisions thinking you're a scoundrel. Make decisions thinking you're a great man. Or at least a good man". The fact that Frank doesn't realize that he is already a good man is one of the film's tragedies.
Vlautin's story is non-linear and frequently flashes back to the brothers' childhoods, providing a fluid commentary on how their adult lives are essentially unchanged from their youth. The Polsky brothers replicate this tactic on screen with flashbacks and artful transitions, but the film moves at a confusing pace due to the frequent shifts in time and space. The action is further undermined by a series of animated sequences that bring to life the various stories Frank tells the naïve Jerry Lee to comfort him in times of distress. In Vlautin's book, these stories are simply woven into the prose, beautiful in their simplicity and vital to portraying the characters as rogue romantics. But the Polskys struggle to integrate that animation into their film. Instead of coming together to form a unified whole, the flashbacks, animation, and central story simply compete for screen time, leaving the film feeling like it's full of empty affection.
Just as Hirsch and Dorff bring an intense self-awareness to their roles that belies the straightforward nature of their characters, the film's polished formality doesn't fit well with the Bukowski-like setting of dingy motel rooms, dark bars, and seedy casinos. The only actor who seems in the right place is Kris Kristofferson, who plays a canny car salesman in a glorified cameo role, but even his role is limited to revealing the story's predictable thematic epiphanies. Filmmaker Roman Vasyanov's outdoor photography, however, is often stunning. Shooting on real film and taking full advantage of it, Vasyanov captures the cold grandeur of Nevada winters, the frigid temperatures evident in vaporous breaths and frozen trees. There's tremendous thematic potential in these images, but the Polskys, seemingly unsure of how to approach their own film, simply ignore them, leaving them behind in favor of another flashback or an animated distraction.
Set in the least glamorous part of Nevada during winter, the least attractive season of the year, the script seems dedicated to the idea of brotherly love and devotion, but remains strangely enigmatic about all the other plot details that would be needed to give the story more substance. Frank and Jerry Lee may be born losers, but they are truly attached and devoted to each other, probably too honest and decent for their own good, fleeing not only a possible prison sentence, but life itself into the realms of the imagination. The Polsky brothers' latest work benefits greatly from their own personal experiences with the unwavering support network forged between siblings. This clearly resonates throughout their work and is strengthened by the fantastic performances from the leads. Hirsch is as solid as ever, but it's the immensely likable Dorff who seriously impresses here. Easily managing to overcome the real-life age difference of more than a decade between himself and his on-screen brother, the actor cuts a deeply damaged and haunted figure, his gaze permanently pained aware of the fate that awaits him. "The Motel Life" is a melancholic affair, but it remains a deeply engaging and moving journey, with the protagonists' plight unfolding like a stuttered road movie in search of a (seemingly) impossible final destination and cathartic resolution.