The most obvious silence was a hollow and resonant calm, constituted by the things that were missing. If there had been depth in the characters, they would have been interesting, connected with each other and dragged the silence down the street as if it were A most violent year. If there had been a more consistent development, even if it were only a handful of plot lines, they would have filled the silence with their materialization and with the noise and calculation of an action thriller. If I had directed Kathryn Bigelow ... but no, of course I hadn't directed Bigelow. In fact, she had only remained as an executive producer, and perhaps that's why the silence persisted.
In the movie Triple Frontier, a group of characters, in a jungle in South America, advanced with sordid determination, avoiding serious discussions on political issues. His presence added another silence, small and opaque, to the other silence, hollow and greater. It was a kind of alloy, a counterpoint.
The third silence was not easy to recognize. If you spent an hour watching the movie, perhaps you began to notice that the supposed complexity of the characters did not amalgamate with a fast-paced action, nor with excessive tension in the face of a peremptory death. I was at the weight of a history of violence with little to discover. I was in the slow comings and goings of dialogues that didn't contribute much. And it was in the hands of the man there, filming a film that was expected a lot but in the end offered little.
The man had a very interesting filmography. His stories were careful and solvent, and he moved with the subtle certainty of those who know many things.
The Triple Frontier movie was his, and the third silence was also his. That was the way it should be, for that was the greatest of the three silences, and it involved the other two. It was deep and wide like the end of The Shawshank Redemption. It was big and heavy like a Marvel blockbuster. It was a patient and impassive sound like a score by John Williams; the silence of a man who has not given all of himself. ”
Well, after this narrative attack, which is nothing more than a robbery of Patrick Rothfuss's beautiful introduction of The Name of the Wind [1], it only remains to say that Triple Frontier is a totally approved film, but still fails to find the size of the great JC Chandor, who was getting good movie after good movie, but here stumble and gives us his weakest performance. Of course, a weak Chandor performance is not the same as one of, I don't know, Uwe Boll, but we would do a disservice to the truth if those of us who wrote in 24 Pictures did not say what we really thought. I urge you to look at it, because a director like Chandor deserves to be followed, even when an internet crook says that his latest film is a more or less pulling less.