Documentary filmmaker makes a mess of Menashe
Laboured directing hinders acting in heartfelt story about custody battle
Almost entirely in Yiddish and starring mostly non-actors from the Brooklyn Hasidic community, Menashe is a film unique for its subject matter. Nonetheless, it tries to go beyond simple ethnic and religious exoticism.
Documentary filmmaker Joshua Z. Weinstein makes his fiction feature debut with this film about a father’s custody battle for his son. The end product is heartfelt yet complex, a story that is refreshing in its simultaneous narrative simplicity and psychological depth. But unfortunately it is just not very well made.
Menashe Lustig stars as a widower who is not ready to remarry. His son (Ruben Niborski) is sent to live with his uncle’s family, the Ruv stating that the child must be raised in a two-parent home. As the memorial for his wife approaches, Menashe is given the chance to get his son back and prove himself to the community as a good father.
Perpetually unlucky, Menashe tries his best but seems to always fail. Depicted with great sympathy, we see him make honest mistakes that have dire consequences. He ruins hundreds of dollars worth of gefilte fish at his grocery store job and nearly burns down his apartment when attempting to make kugel for the memorial. At the same time, Menashe reveals himself to be irresponsible and entitled, which becomes increasingly disturbing. In one scene, he gets drunk enough at a party that his son calls his uncle to take him home. When the uncle comes, Menashe reacts with anger toward his son.
Menashe’s story can sometimes seem too banal, but is presented as profound, aided greatly by the performances.
But with the makings of an easily watchable film, the style of filmmaking presents itself as obnoxiously obtrusive. Weinstein shoots the movie like a guerrilla documentary. Every shot is shaky, slipping constantly in and out of focus. The image is always obscured, the camera peering over shoulders and sneaking around corners, as if attempting to hide. This becomes this film’s gimmick.
This could potentially be interesting. The camera’s gaze reflects the filmmaker’s outsider status as he shoots like he’s a fly on the wall.
Rather than the characters moulding themselves to his needs, he takes them on their terms, almost surreptitiously. While the unrefined style denotes a certain realism that may have been harder to convey in a slicker film, in practice this form feels contrived, tired and clichéd at best — with Weinstein taking up a conventional alternative, the usual shorthand to scream “This is not a phony Hollywood product!”