Time Out of Mind

Image: IFC Films

Richard Gere in 'Time Out of Mind'

Time Out of Mind opens with a black screen and the sound of church bells ringing. Since it’s a movie about a down-and-out homeless man, one wonders if the bells are a hint at redemption to come.

As the scene brightens, the Manhattan skyline comes into view. The camera doesn’t budge, but there’s plenty going on in the bustling neighborhood below. We know this because of the sounds. The church bells give way to the cacophony of children playing, pedestrians walking, traffic moving, trains clickety-clacking, and, finally, sirens wailing.

And the camera still hasn’t moved.

Finally, it pulls back slowly, and we see that we’ve been looking through a window. In one corner of the pane, a beautiful butterfly—or is it a moth? If the former, is it a pointing to beauty, resurrection, and new life? If the latter, is it a harbinger of things to come, of a place “where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal”?

The camera slowly turns 180 degrees, bringing us inside that window, revealing a filthy, ratty apartment—holes in the drywall, trash on the floor, furniture strewn about. A man, apparently the building superintendent, comes through the front door, bringing in new tenants. After a few epithets and apologies about the condition of the place, he walks into the bathroom to find Richard Gere, sleeping in the bathtub. He’s fully clothed, even wearing a coat and scarf. He has fresh cuts and scratches on his face, and he looks like hell. The supe tells him he’s got to leave, right now. Bathtub Guy claims someone named “Sheila” told him he could stay there. The supe doesn’t know Sheila, and kicks him out.

And then there’s Richard Gere, all alone out on the mean streets, looking sad and confused and beaten down, with no place to go.

Image: IFC Films

Richard Gere in 'Time Out of Mind'

For much of the next two hours, that’s how it goes. Gere, playing a man named George, is roaming New York’s streets, trying to find a decent place to sleep, trying to find food, trying to find his next drink, and trying to find himself. Because other than knowing his name, George doesn’t really know who he is, or what he’s looking for, or what he wants. He just seems utterly lost.

Initially, George seems to be in denial about his state. After a night in one shelter, another homeless guy named Dixon joins George out on the street. He asks George, “You done much walking since you’ve been reduced?” It’s a fascinating word choice, reduced.

George glares at Dixon and insists, “I’m not reduced.”

Dixon retorts, “Oh, you’re reduced, all right. Refined, relocated, readmitted, replaced. Whatever they call homelessness, that’s what you are.”

“I’m not homeless,” George insists.

In time, he faces his reality, and we feel it with him. We don’t know what circumstances put George on the streets, or how long he’s been there. We are, for much of the movie, almost just as lost as George, not knowing where to turn next, or what he’ll do tomorrow—much less this afternoon.

The film, written and directed by Oren Moverman (an Oscar nominee for his screenplay for 2010’s The Messenger), moves slowly, drearily, bleakly—and that’s what makes it so incredibly good. I don’t like to use the word “literal” unless it really is so, but this film comes as close to literally putting the viewer into the shoes of a homeless man as anything I’ve ever seen. No, it isn’t shot from George’s perspective, and no, we don’t see things unfolding through his eyes.

But the pacing—the sheer tedious, painstaking monotony—achingly captures what it must be like, to quote Dylan, “to be without a home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone.”

I’ve met and talked to many homeless (and formerly homeless) people over the years. Part of my full-time job is to write marketing and fundraising materials for homeless shelters across America—including Atlanta Mission, just blocks from my office—and I’ve heard many stories of what it’s like to live on the streets. It sounds trite, but I do have a “heart for the homeless,” and there’s great satisfaction in knowing that my work really helps men, women, and children to get off the streets and back on their feet.

Image: IFC Films

Richard Gere in 'Time Out of Mind'

So, as we follow George through the streets, part of me wants to swoop in and help—to buy him a sandwich, to find safe shelter, to get services. I want to hear his story. I’m keenly aware of my own impatience, wanting to fix things now . . . and I’m reminded that when you live on the streets, everything moves excruciatingly slowly.

That’s certainly true for George, whose wallet is stolen early in the film, and he has no identification. He goes from shelter to shelter, agency to agency, caseworker to caseworker, seeking help and services. The people he meets are, for the most part, compassionate. But with no identification whatsoever, George gets a lot of bureaucratic runaround. He says he doesn’t have any family, and can’t remember his Social Security number. Without any documents, he has a hard time getting any services. He spends his night in noisy shelters and his days in waiting rooms.

Waiting. That’s a big theme in Time Out of Mind. Moverman and cinematographer Bobby Bukowski let their shots linger long, almost uncomfortably so. But that’s the point. This film forces you, like George’s character, to wait for something to happen.

Bukowski’s camerawork is masterful. Many scenes are shot indirectly—through windows, through gates and fences, as reflections off of glass doors and mirrors. We see events unfold through the grit and grime and smudge—we’re literally watching George’s life “through a glass darkly.”

Often characters talk outside of the frame. In one scene, George carries on an entire conversation with a homeless woman while he’s obscured (from our view) by a tree; we see her, but we only hear George’s voice, plaintive, pleading. It all adds to the feel of confusion, loss of direction, and dim hopes. The voices and sounds are often peripheral to George’s story—the ambient noises of the city, the conversations nearby.

“It’s kind of an observational film, an experiential film,” Moverman says. “It’s a film that allows you to spend some time with a man you would never spend time with if you were not in his situation. It’s not a movie with answers. It’s a movie with a lot of questions that lead to the possibility of compassion.”

In time, we learn why George became homeless. We also learn that he has a 30-ish daughter, a barmaid named Maggie (Jena Malone), with whom he’s desperate to reconnect and reconcile, but she wants nothing of it. It’s gut-wrenching and heartbreaking to watch their interactions, but there’s also a glimmer of hope. I’ll say no more than that.

I don’t recall seeing Ben Vereen in a movie in a long time, but he is terrific as Dixon, a fast-talking, happy-go-lucky whirlwind who befriends George in a shelter—and may just save George’s life. Dixon, despite his incessant gabbing, senses George’s depression, and encourages him to get help. He sits with George in those waiting rooms, constantly jabbering about his past life as a “jazz man,” and giving George pep talks. George appreciates the friendship, but is often irritated by Dixon’s ceaseless chatter.

Kyra Sedgwick and Steve Buscemi also shine in brief roles, but this film belongs to Gere, who is extraordinary. He’s never been nominated for an Oscar, but now, at 66, his time may have come. He really seems like a homeless man here, and even without much dialogue, he totally inhabits the role. The camera often stays on his face, a study in pain, sadness, and frustration. In some ways, such scenes remind me of All Is Lost, in which Robert Redford says little but carries the movie through his facial expressions and body language. Like Redford’s performance there, Gere’s here is sublime.

Image: IFC Films

Ben Vereen and Richard Gere in 'Time Out of Mind'

It’s a project Gere, well known as a humanitarian and activist for human rights, has wanted to make for years. He wants to call attention to the plight of homeless people.

Though bleak, Time Out of Mind is well worth watching because it reveals the darkness and hopelessness that many homeless people feel. And for Christians, it’s a stark reminder of our call to serve “the least of these.”

The Bible is actually quoted twice in the movie. In one shelter, an arrogant punk taunts an exhausted George and asks, “Do you read the Bible? That which is crooked cannot be made straight. So, here we are.”

Like the author of Ecclesiastes, George might indeed think life is meaningless. At one point, frustrated by his lack of any identification, he screams, “We don’t exist!”

But later, in another shelter, Dixon gives George a more encouraging word from the Good Book. He takes off his shirt to reveal a tattoo of The Lord’s Prayer, perfectly inked between his shoulder blades.

“It’s on my back,” Dixon says. “That’s Jesus sayin’ ‘I got your back.’”

Caveat Spectator

Time Out of Mind does not have an MPAA rating, but it would probably get an R for occasional strong language. There’s also a brief sex scene, but no nudity is shown. It’s a bleak, slow-moving film in which not much “happens,” but that’s precisely the point. For viewers who want to a better idea of what it must be like to be homeless, I cannot think of a better movie to watch. And if the film stirs a desire for action, I highly recommend supporting your local Christian-based rescue mission—through donations, volunteering, praying, and/or shopping at their thrift stores—you can find it here. Many homeless shelters do great work, but I’m convinced the Christian ones do the best, longest-lasting work. They dig deep, getting to the root of the problems that caused homelessness in the first place. The transformative power of Christ really makes the most of second chances.

Mark Moring is a copywriter at Grizzard Communications, where he writes marketing and fundraising materials for non-profits, including many rescue missions. He especially enjoys helping formerly homeless people tell their stories of transformation and new life.