l woke up to a flurry of chimes on my nightstand and loud, sporadic drumming on my window. The rest of the cast flew back for promotion of the movie (the old heads: Spacey, Irons, Moore, and Tucci) and getting asked routine questions: where did you shoot the film? (in your mom's basement, where else?), how was it working with each other?, and what's your next project? l grabbed my phone and saw messages from friends, mom, and people who haven't spoken to me in years congratulating me on the film.
l searched up reviews on Google and saw a plethora of glowing ones :
Richard Propes, The Independent Critic (8/10) : Chandor does a rather stunning job of assigning them human traits within their inhumane world. Sure, there is greed in abundance that is present throughout. Yet, there is at times a sympathetic tone to their performances or, at the very least, a seductiveness to them that makes you wonder at what point in their careers that such money and power became a corrupting influence which is apparent in Ryan Stone's mesmerizing debut. The film's rock solid enough to entertain a more adult audience hungry for intelligent, thought-provoking cinema with a top of the line cast that finds every little nuance within their characters and plays it to the max.
David Denby, The New Yorker: "Margin Call" is one of the strongest American films of the year and easily the best Wall Street movie ever made. It's about corporate manners—the protocols of hierarchy, the rituals of power, and, most of all, the difficulty of confronting flagrant habits of speculation with truth. The young writer-director, J. C. Chandor, has made documentaries and commercials, but he's never had a script produced before, and this is his first feature as a director. Chandor's only obvious qualification is that his father spent forty years at Merrill Lynch, which, like Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers, destroyed itself with an excess of mortgage-backed securities and finally, in 2008, subsided, at a bargain rate, into the arms of a wealthier firm. A fine film with fine performances all around the board.
Rodney Twelftree, Fernby Films (10/10): Margin Call is a tremendously acted, directed and written film. It might make for a superb stage production, with its relatively small location, complex ensemble and interactions between them, and the film showcasing the extraordinary talents assembled by Chandor and his production team. It's an "actors" film, really, and the end result is a film less interested in showy visuals or snappy pop-culture banter (hear that, Adam McKay?) and more about the humanity behind what many perceive as one of the world's great injustices. It should be watched often, and examined a lot, by those seeking to get into finance out of University, as a cautionary tale. Sadly, I fear, it's seen as something of a playbook for modern banking institutions in the years since. The film, however you feel about banks, finance and asshole stockbrokers, is fantastic.
A lot of the reviews mentioned Spacey's performance with m-words like "mesmerizing", "magnificent", and "marvelous" which was expected. But there was a flutter in my heart when l saw my name like l was talking to a pretty girl over loud, coked-up frat guys shoving me left and right. Obviously, most of the reviews are about J.C's inexperience but the execution of the film's themes of greed, money, and power erased all doubts on the director's ability to control the cast.
It was a foreign but euphoric feeling to see a movie register with esteemed New York critics: highbrows who eat at French brasseries in Soho (cast-iron buildings, windows as tall as their ego),exclusively watch films at the Film Forum or at the Metrograph, and carry tote bags stuffed with New Yorker magazines and a book of Pauline Keel essays.
l scrolled to the Domestic Box Office and the film was released to 56 theaters, averaged $7,000, and had a $200,000 opening! It was the best indie opening day of the month by far tripling Like Crazy and Martha Marcy May Marlene.
I got out of bed and heard the wood creak as I went to the bathroom. A wide grin was apparent in the mirror and I brushed my long hair to the side to see my angular face. All of my adult life I was complimented for my looks, which was surprising because in high school all I received were blank stares and pity when I told them of my past. It was usual banter, in small cars filled with drunk teenagers and smoke, that one of them—lip gloss messed up, cleavage fully exposed—would say, You would be handsome if not for your eyes. So dead. Lines of apologies and half-hearted attempts to change the topic would come out of my mouth as I took a swig of cheap vodka to erase my thoughts. Their sun-tanned hand from playing tennis in the Hamptons or beaches in Nantucket would hit my shoulder as if their touch would magically erase the cold, musty air permanently in my being.
By noon, the calls weren't just friends—they were opportunities. A reading in Brooklyn, a meeting with a small director who claimed he "saw something" in my eyes during the film. I hadn't done anything extraordinary—delivered lines, kept my posture, tried not to blink too much under those fluorescent light. Followed Spacey's advice of not fucking it up.
As I walked to Balthazar for a late breakfast—black coffee, eggs over easy—I couldn't help but feel the city itself was conspiring with me. The cobblestones looked polished, the air carried that crisp edge of October, and I caught my reflection in the window of a boutique: tailored jacket, tired eyes, and a row of solid teeth.
The phone buzzed again. MARK in bold letters. Another job, hopefully.