Liam Donovan takes a look at Andrew Haigh’s coming of age drama.

Lean on Pete, the latest from Weekend and 45 Years director Andrew Haigh, proceeds at a trot rather than a gallop. And that’s exactly why it works. Although the main subject, a quiet and reserved teenager named Charley (Charlie Plummer), both begins and ends his journey by running, this is not a film that races across the frontier landscapes of Northwestern America it depicts. The magical and eerie plains that swallow up our protagonist as he moves through the night, and the viewer feels the weariness of this long, arduous voyage. Haigh has shown us a homeless person, whether he’s at ‘home’ or not, trying to find somewhere he belongs.

The starting point for what begins as a fairly traditional coming-of-age tale, which eventually becomes something wildly different, is a ramshackle dwelling in Portland, Oregon. Charley dreams of being a professional athlete, but these dreams – along with his sense of purpose – have dwindled thanks to his nomadic lifestyle. The high-schooler finds himself perennially on the move from town to city, city to town. This latest relocation is just another attempt by deadbeat dad Ray (Travis Fimmel) to give the pair some structure, and although clearly trying his best, it’s apparent very quickly that he just can’t look after his son anymore. Charley’s mother walked out on them both a long time ago, and the one maternal presence who might have been able to help, Ray’s sister and Charley’s aunt Margy (Alison Elliott), has been excommunicated from the Thompson family’s lives.

The starting point for what begins as a fairly traditional coming-of-age tale, which eventually becomes something wildly different, is a ramshackle dwelling in Portland, Oregon. Charley dreams of being a professional athlete, but these dreams – along with his sense of purpose – have dwindled thanks to his nomadic lifestyle. The high-schooler finds himself perennially on the move from town to city, city to town. This latest relocation is just another attempt by deadbeat dad Ray (Travis Fimmel) to give the pair some structure, and although clearly trying his best, it’s apparent very quickly that he just can’t look after his son anymore. Charley’s mother walked out on them both a long time ago, and the one maternal presence who might have been able to help, Ray’s sister and Charley’s aunt Margy (Alison Elliott), has been excommunicated from the Thompson family’s lives.

So where does this leave Charley? Soon enough, he discovers a race track near his house and offers his services to Del (Steve Buscemi), a cantankerous representative of a bygone age, barely making ends meet by racing his worn-out horses. If you were still wondering where the film’s peculiar title originates from, ponder no more. ‘Lean on Pete’ – or just Pete for short – is a horse Charley finds affinity with. He really doesn’t have much to care about in his life, especially after turbulent events flip his world upside down, so it’s hardly surprising that ‘boy’ gets emotionally attached to ‘horse’.

At this point, you’ve probably formed a mental picture of where this potentially sweet and sentimental drama is leading, but for all the conventional elements you might succeed in identifying, Lean on Pete constantly defies expectations. Haigh’s script blazes a path of its own. It’s for this very reason that the measured pace and subtle exploration of Charley’s tumultuous existence is so effective, for when those shocking jolts of trauma and brutal reality hit the main character out of nowhere, the viewer will probably have as much trouble breathing as he does.

Despite avoiding the quaint and straightforwardly uplifting conclusions it could have resorted to, Lean on Pete is not the achingly depressing and unwieldy experience you might fear. Charley is characterised by a certain helplessness, especially when his new family of parental influences, in the form of Del and seasoned jockey Bonnie (Chloë Sevigny), also manage to let him down, but Haigh’s approach to the character is caring and sympathetic; even when his destination appears to be out of sight, there is faith he will eventually reach the new beginning he so desperately needs.

It’s not difficult to point our own sympathies towards Charley, who is so vulnerably and convincingly portrayed by sort-of-namesake Charlie Plummer. If you felt sorry for him in Ridley Scott’s All the Money in the World, where he played the role of hostage and mutilation victim J. Paul Getty III, you will find him even more devastating to watch here. The actor teeters on the very precipice of a breakdown in what feels like every scene. For most of the film’s duration, he staves off the wave of overwhelming emotion that should engulf him, and we share in his struggle as he does so.

Plummer is ably supported by a fine supporting cast who, without stealing away any limelight from the star, help to formulate the unique tapestry of Charley’s life. On the strength of his performance as Del, ‘old-man’ Buscemi is a new direction I could really get behind, his rough and pragmatic opinion of the world a never-stifling, but always entertaining, antidote to the protagonist’s initial optimism. Unfortunately, you fear he may start to see existence as Del does, though there is a youthful exuberance to Charley that manages to remain intact. Sevigny represents an important middle-ground between the two, compassionate like the main character, but worn down like the horses to Del’s stubborn ways. What is perfectly clear, above all else, is that nobody is quite content.

As for Haigh, his direction is consistently patient and precise. Working alongside cinematographer Magnus Joenck, he squeezes all the glory he can out of the gorgeous vistas filmed, these Oregon topographies seemingly ripped from a John Ford western and resurrected in this indie-drama. As Charley reveals more of his past to Pete, the two becoming kindred spirits, we float in and out of his consciousness, and the dreamlike quality of this novelistic structure is a sensation the director so wonderfully captures.

There may be some narrative diversions that interrupt the serene and hypnotic flow pulsating through Lean on Pete, but this remains the kind of filmmaking which transports both body and soul. The punches to the gut are not as firm as those landed in 45 Years, but for a first foray into a new cultural space, across the pond from his usual cinematic canvas, this represents another success for Andrew Haigh.

Liam reviews film on his website liamlovesmovies.com.

Lean on Pete is out now in UK cinemas. Watch the trailer below:

Liam Donovan tackles Guillermo del Toro’s latest fantastical feature.

There are men who can be monstrous, and monsters who can demonstrate great humanity, a principle on which Guillermo Del Toro has built his career as a filmmaker. In Hellboy, the titular hero must overcome his infernal origins to save somebody he loves, while the director’s last offering, Crimson Peak, leads us to believe our protagonist is threatened by a ghostly presence, only to reveal true evil contained within a human form.

This theme has never been more prominent though than here, The Shape of Water proving itself to be an enchanting love letter to the ‘Other’, as expressed through yet another of those strange fantasies which Del Toro has displayed such a fascination with. Assimilating influences that range from fifties musicals to Cold War era spy-thrillers, this genre-mash has already been a massive success, garnering a staggering thirteen Oscar-nominations, and being held up alongside Pan’s Labyrinth as one of Del Toro’s masterpieces. The hype seems almost too great.

Set sometime in 1962, a period of increasingly heightened tensions that either stand apart from, or reflect, more contemporary issues, The Shape of Water is largely focused around the top-secret government facility where our main character, Elisa (Sally Hawkins), goes about her monotonous profession as a janitor, each night reduced to specific and unfulfilling routine. Much like her neighbour Giles (Richard Jenkins), an artist too frightened to express the true nature of his feelings and sexuality, Elisa finds her existence lonely and disconnected, despite her close friendship with fellow janitor Zelda (Octavia Spencer). Also, and this is important, she can’t speak. Elisa is completely mute, which offers her both an adorable vulnerability and an air of alluring mystery.

Her life is drastically changed when she comes into contact with a strange, amphibian creature (Doug Jones) that is brought into the laboratory, described as a possible god to the people of South America where it was discovered. With humanoid features, and an ability to communicate, this creature and Elisa form an intimate bond, until the life of the beast is threatened by the fierce and cruel Colonel Strickland (Michael Shannon), forcing Elisa to make a desperate decision.

Presented as an ‘adult fairytale’, the distinctly romantic tone of the film permeated by outbursts of graphic violence and even some nudity, The Shape of Water is built around a strange and scintillating relationship that shouldn’t work but unquestionably does. It makes the most sense when you view it as a kind of metaphor, whether that be for Del Toro and his own passion for the weird and wonderful, or maybe the idea that affection can exist beyond the realms of what is conventional, where people are seen for the content of their soul rather than external appearances. Perhaps this is a love story between two people who, shut off from the rest of the world, find their own way to communicate with one another.

If that all sounds too idealistic, and potentially sentimental, then it’s probably because it is. Nevertheless, Del Toro’s movie is so sincere and exquisitely crafted, the director designing his own magical landscape within our world, you can’t help but fall in love with it too, even if the thought of Sally Hawkins entering relations with a fish-man seems, at first, too off-putting to be genuinely sympathetic and touching.

It seemed unlikely that, in this year’s awards race for Production Design glory (okay, well at least I care), Dennis Gassner’s impeccable work in creating the expansive world of Blade Runner 2049 could be beaten. However, by bringing together Del Toro’s gorgeously assembled vision of sixties-era America, which feels striking and large in scope, but also incredibly intimate, Paul D. Austerberry must be a front-runner as well. Working under immense budgetary constraints, with The Shape of Water supposedly made for less than twenty million dollars, Austerberry drops us into an artful and immersively detailed environment that feels so physical and tangible that you almost want to reach through the screen and touch it.

The transporting sensation of the setting is only bolstered by the evocative cinematography of Dan Laustsen, who seems to find every shade of green to shoot this feature through, and the retrograde score of Alexandre Desplat, which chimes seamlessly with the timely soundtrack. That being said, a beautifully drawn metaphor, translated to screen, does not resonate nearly as well as The Shape of Water does, for which we have Guillermo Del Toro to thank.

In order to make us really care about the romantic core of the film, which in these circumstances is quite a feat, Del Toro has to conjure all the heart and soul he can muster, creating enchanting and even erotic sequences that spark an unsettlingly tantalising chemistry between Elisa and her fishy suitor. If one had to consider what the ‘shape’ of water really is here, then perhaps we could relate its undulating movements and gracefulness to that of a sexual body, Del Toro offering us the imagery of the egg as yet another suggestive symbol; through these images, the director subconsciously establishes an erotic language between the unlikely lovers.

The visual separation of the two as they initially meet, barriers placed between them that ultimately begin to crumble, creates a sense of longing, a irreconcilable desire that echoes the dissatisfaction of other characters in the film, including Jenkins’ Giles who, secretly attracted to the waiter of a local ‘pie parlour’ (disclaimer: not an accurate description), is also frightened to indulge his secret yearning. In terms of the sea-creature Elisa is enamoured by, one might see Dr. Hoffstetler (Michael Stuhlbarg) as a potential love rival, this scientist in the government laboratory also desperate to protect what he considers a beautiful specimen. The characters in The Shape of Water are, even in the case of Shannon’s villain Strickland, seeking connection.

Although the script, co-penned by Del Toro and Game of Thrones producer Vanessa Taylor, is structured so to gradually absorb us in the burgeoning romance of this fantastical tale, credit must be given to the performers who bring this material to complex life. Sally Hawkins doesn’t speak, but she exudes emotion and her own form of language through simple looks, gestures, or her slightly awkward but innocent movement. Born an orphan by the river, she still appears to be stuck in the dizzying bubble of her youth, where the secret behind her silence is concealed.

Doug Jones, who has long been Del Toro’s go-to guy for his humanely monstrous creations, gives equally innocent and elegant motion to Elisa’s amphibian counterpart, and together they make an extremely watchable pair. As the Oscar nominations for both Jenkins and Spencer would suggest, the supporting cast also play valuable roles, often grounding the more unbelievable content of this magic-realist story, and each experiencing their own trials and tribulations which, like Elisa, they must learn to overcome by the end of the film.

Possibly The Shape of Water’s only weak-spot is Shannon as Colonel Richard Strickland, though he is often gloriously vicious and – as his rotting fingers would suggest – an important counterpoint to the Doug Jones’s creature. Over the course of the film Strickland literally decays into a grotesque monster of a man. However, despite Shannon’s entertaining performance, this antagonist is probably a little too chin-stroking and blatantly sinister, Del Toro’s attempts to reveal his private life and semblance of humanity not translating as well as his work with the other characters, all of whom become hurdles for Strickland to violently neutralise.

That being said, there is something charming about an old-school villain who doesn’t quite fit into a grey area, and is instead just an outright bastard. Literally wielding an electric cattle-prod, like some sixties, suited version of Anton Chigurh, the paraphernalia of his malevolence may be slightly overblown, but few are better in this kind of scenery-chewing role than Michael Shannon.

In The Shape of Water, Guillermo Del Toro indulges the kind of perverted, yet weirdly poignant, romantic-fantasy one might expect from a B-Movie, but chooses to present it as a prestige piece of Old Hollywood, set around lavish movie theatres with an overflowing abundance of style. Inhabiting the limitless streams of the director’s imagination are carefully-sketched characters who are both playful and emotionally resonant, pulling us into the midst of wickedly weird events that are charming, thrilling and extremely powerful.

If Pan’s Labyrinth guided us through the unbounded expanse of a child’s dream, then The Shape of Water is potentially a more grown-up affair, a film where those dreams of an intense communion with the supernatural continue to perforate reality. Drenched in liquid, and flowing like the uncertain river where our protagonist is first discovered as a baby, Del Toro’s movie flows through its audience as well.

The Shape of Water is out now in UK cinemas. Check out the trailer below: 

Liam Donovan examines Scott Cooper’s gritty Western.

In Scott Cooper’s latest film, the gruelling western Hostiles, two former foes are asked to put their differences aside and embark on a long voyage together. These men, a soldier and a Cheyenne war chief, are attempting to leave behind the violent life which has always followed them and cross the American frontier. Their journey is set against the backdrop of a landscape both brutal and beautiful – a common contrast in the genre – and witnesses these characters’ attempts to forgive each other and, more importantly, forgive themselves.

If the director’s last feature, Black Mass, was cold and callous without clear narrative purpose, then Cooper’s work here is imbued with romantic sweep and cinematic grandeur. The frontier stands as a majestic, sacred land that, for all its splendour, remains unstable and uncertain. This is a revisionist tale battling to reconcile the relationship between America and its native population, neither side innocent of violence in the struggle for freedom and ownership over these lands.

Set in the Old West of 1892, Captain Joseph Blocker (Christian Bale) is approaching the end of his military career and preparing for retirement when his Colonel (Stephen Lang) orders him to complete one last mission, the escort of Yellow Hawk (Wes Studi) and his family back to their tribal lands in Montana. A general in the Cheyenne forces Blocker has fought against on many occasions, the chief is now dying and must return home, a mandate which Blocker takes serious issue with given their fraught history.

Forced to carry out his orders, the captain sets off with Hawk’s family and a detail of fellow soldiers. They will meet suicidal widow Rosalie (Rosamund Pike), a deadly group of Comanche warriors, and other challenges along the way. What should be a relatively simple endeavour soon becomes a whole lot more complicated, with Blocker beginning to question his previous prejudices towards the native people as the bond between the travellers grows stronger, their barbaric past and present not so easy to escape.

Recently, westerns have tended to skewer their focus one way or another, from the blockbuster fare of the recent Magnificent Seven remake to  smaller films like Jane Got a Gun, highlighting the destructive and abusive nature of the white man. Others such as Bone Tomahawk have chosen to highlight the threat of indigenous, cannibalistic tribes who gruesomely oppose the American lifestyle by quite literally consuming their enemies. Hostiles stands out then for its slower, balanced and more contemplative approach towards the subject matter of both conflict and violence, the metaphorical journey of overcoming such a problematic hurdle echoing the literal expedition that also takes place. The quest is mapped out by the episodic structure writer and director Cooper employs, telling a larger story vicariously through a series of self-contained events to form a tapestry of life in a period where old values are making way for what feels like a more hopeful and compassionate philosophy.

If Hostiles is thematically flawed in any way, it is probably because it refuses to commit, at least entirely, to hope. The spiritual passage from the ardour experienced by the characters leads to a proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, but this is seemingly upended in the final act, and even an eloquent and poignant epilogue cannot quite salvage it. The long duration of this film is often broiled in depression and regret, the overwhelming negativity of the world-view never reconciled by a satisfying note of optimism.

The conclusion may leave you somewhat mystified, or perhaps wondering where the American and Native populations are left by the events we have just witnessed. That being said, Cooper’s feature is as picturesque and elegant as it is despairing. The cinematography of Masanobu Takayanagi gorgeously renders the American frontier as a staggering and vibrant expanse which, despite the gloomy philosophical horizon which Hostiles offers, still begs to be explored.

Equally evocative is the music from Max Richter, a score that manages to be both eerie and intimate, the composer incorporating unique instrumentation, and strange, unearthly sounds to emphasise the isolation and danger posed to Blocker’s group as they traverse the vast wilderness ahead of them.

Cooper’s structure does translate to screen in a rather disjointed manner, with the various episodes breaking up the story into disparate elements rather than contributing to a consistent whole. The film juxtaposes quieter moments with the frenzy of a Comanche attack, or the chase of an escaped prisoner, and this does communicate the suddenness of violence and conflict, across this complicated landscape, quite effectively. On the other hand, there are also long stretches of Hostiles where it is difficult to actively engage with what feels like familiar territory being trodden once again, the film too long and overly ponderous by the same token.

The sheer number of characters, interlocking storylines and personal relationships presented to us, throughout the movie, ultimately means that very little is developed enough and Hostiles rarely carries the emotional heft a morose and existential western like this should possess. Yellow Hawk’s family is given particularly short shrift: the chief’s son Black Hawk (Adam Beach) and his wife Elk Woman (Q’orianka Kilcher) pretty much voiceless for the large majority of the film, while the likes of Jesse Plemons and Timothee Chalamet don’t exactly get their moment to shine either. Even the appearance of Ben Foster later in the film is wasted, too much of the runtime spent on drawn-out, brooding shots when it could have been used to flesh out more of the supporting characters and their acquaintance with one another. As people inevitably perish and check out along the way to Montana, it’s hard to care much. There are however some stand-out scenes where Cooper allows the hardened, and impossibly stern, soldiers to demonstrate a great deal of vulnerability, as in the moment where Blocker must say a painful goodbye to his corporal (Jonathan Majors).

If one thing doesn’t disappoint in Hostiles, it is the nuanced and committed performances; Bale is a typically commanding presence at the centre of the film, convincingly portraying someone morally confused, often stubborn and sincerely mournful. If this is a middle-tier role for him, highlighted by the fact that he isn’t in the awards conversation which he always seems to be a part of, then it’s a testament to the quality of his career and ability as an actor.

Rosamund Pike and Wes Studi provide sturdy support. Pike renders Rosalie’s strife quite palpable, and the thoughtful stoicism of Yellow Hawk is a great foil to the harsh severity of Blocker. This triumvirate of performers are easily the most interesting and fascinating to explore, Pike’s Rosalie teaching Blocker the important lesson of forgiveness, while Blocker’s ability to reconcile with his former enemy allows Yellow Hawk to achieve a certain satisfaction before he passes away. Cooper might lose focus, but Hostiles works best when it hinges around these characters.

While similar criticisms to those levelled at Black Mass also apply here, such as the excess of characters, awkward structure and needlessly bleak sensibility, this does mark an improvement for Cooper. Hostiles is a far more artful and intelligent piece of cinema that considers important themes and intriguingly reassesses American ideology.

The direction may be overly dour, as opposed to exhilarating, but the quality of the performances is enough to keep you invested in this often uneventful tale, the runtime padded by less involving sub-plots and emotional crescendos that don’t quite have the desired impact. If it’s any consolation, this is exactly the kind of film fathers and grandfathers will probably love: a meaty, tough and violent drama full of pathos and anger, aspects which ultimately chain it to convention.

Hostiles is out now in UK cinemas (released January 5th). Check out the trailer:

Liam Donovan reviews George Clooney’s latest.

This review originally appeared on the author’s blog. It has been slightly modified.

In a year Donald Trump has taken his office as President of the United States and white supremacist rallies have been held in the streets of Charlottesville, Virginia, it is hardly surprising the cinematic landscape has responded to developments in politics. If Martin McDonagh’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (not out in UK cinemas until 2018) focused on the inherently racist and complacent structures which continue to exist in disgruntled Middle America, then George Clooney’s Suburbicon turns back the clock to a more idealised picture of suburban life from the 1950’s, under a glossy sheen that attempts to conceal the hatred, intolerance and anger really felt by Americans during that time. After premiering at the Venice Film Festival, Suburbicon has become a critical and commercial failure. There is however a valuable undercurrent to this much-maligned crime thriller that, lest we forget, was in fact adapted from an unfilmed Coen Brothers script.

After an African-American family move into the utopian neighbourhood of “Suburbicon”, there is uproar amongst the racist white community: many of the residents retreated to the town in an effort to avoid people of other races. Set against the backdrop of this unrest is a mystery surrounding the murder of Rose Lodge (Julianne Moore) after two criminals invaded the home she shared with mild-mannered husband Gardner (Matt Damon) and their son Nicky (Noah Jupe). As Nicky and insurance agent Bud Cooper (Oscar Isaac) soon realise, all is not as it seems, especially when Rose’s sister Maggie (also Moore) moves into the house. The emergence of tensions within the family, and the eventual downward spiral that begins to manifest itself, is designed to echo the increasingly chaotic events outside of the home, as the bitter response to the Mayers’ arrival grows into a riotous frenzy.

With a cast of this calibre, a director who – despite some misses – has given more to the industry than he’s taken away, and the kind of material that should be especially potent in the current political climate, it is hard to see how this could have gone so wrong. Suburbicon is a watchable film that features some incredibly intense sequences of wince-inducing violence but, despite some redeeming qualities, this is a fundamentally broken and confused offering from Clooney. It should be noted that the original script penned by the Coens was entirely focused on the trials and tribulations of Gardner Lodge and his family. Adapting the screenplay, alongside regular collaborator Grant Heslov, Clooney introduced the African-American family next door that becomes a particular problem throughout this movie, the horror of their circumstances repeatedly sidelined as the balancing act between concurrent storylines starts to wobble. The bones of something rather good are definitely present, but they are hidden here beneath a great deal of unfortunate flab.

Aesthetically, Clooney’s cinematographer Robert Elswit should be commended for effectively transporting the audience to this eerily sterile and pastel image of prosperous post-war America. The production design and score by Alexandre Desplat also contribute to a purposely stereotypical amalgamation of fifties tropes, and a surface-level perfection pervaded by the frightening and discriminatory attitudes of Suburbicon’s citizens. Flaws, meanwhile, pervade Clooney’s picture. Not only does the sub-plot become an afterthought on a consistent basis, only tied to the rest of the narrative by an underdeveloped friendship between Nicky Lodge and the son of the Mayers, but the borderline cartoonish depiction of racism in Suburbicon is not exactly helpful. Pushed to an almost comic degree of exaggeration, the prejudice towards this vilified family that should discomfort you is presented in such an unreal manner that there is never an opportunity to form the desired emotional reaction. This is symptomatic of the rest of the film, where the viewer is held at such a distance that an engagement with the characters and the struggle they face is denied. 

For much of the thankfully brisk runtime, Clooney and his cast seem to be working on auto-pilot, and Suburbicon is mostly offensive for being utterly mediocre. If you have seen the trailer then I’m afraid to say you have seen the film as well. We are introduced to Gardner Lodge, essentially the protagonist, so abruptly that we know next to nothing about him; what does he want, how can you summarise his personality, and what has pushed him to the edge on which we see him at the beginning of the movie? These vital questions that should characterise him are left unanswered. The relationships between members of the Lodge family are similarly stilted and poorly sketched, and watching these talented performers phone it in for nearly two hours is pretty disheartening to say the least. Every twist in the drama is curiously telegraphed a few scenes earlier, and Clooney never generates the mysteriousness or sense of anticipation which is really required to make this story work. To define it more simply, Suburbicon plays like a mundane checklist of Oscar-baiting ‘prestige’ cinema.

The persistent streak of lifelessness that can be traced throughout the feature is all the more obvious when Oscar Isaac comes along and steals the show in the first of his two scenes. The energy, momentum and entertainment sorely missing in Suburbicon is captured very quickly by Isaac’s supporting turn that, above all else, is the antithesis of this underwhelming and often boring ‘thriller’. He plays a charismatic and conniving insurance agent who investigates the claim Gardner lodges (pun definitely intended) after his wife’s death. Never is the film more gleefully silly and enjoyable than during his exchange with Julianne Moore’s Maggie, with Bud Cooper getting under her skin to the audience’s delight. The tragicomic tightrope Clooney tries to walk is, similar to the uneven structure, very unstable and usually unsuccessful, but in a short scene like this Isaac pulls off that tricky mixture of professional seriousness and macabre frolics that is mismanaged everywhere else.

The only surprise you might not expect is the perspective which the movie takes, with events regularly presented from the viewpoint of Nicky Lodge. He is also positioned at the very centre of each dramatic development, so much so that this starts to feel like his story. Experiencing first-hand both the literal and moral breakdown of his family, we are supposed to be the most concerned for his safety, with Nicky trapped in an exceedingly precarious situation. This though, once again, is at odds with the family who are facing a mob at their front door, and the ever-shifting focus of Suburbicon makes it very hard to know where we should deposit the majority of our sympathies. Somehow, this is a piece of cinema that manages to be both messy and incoherent, as well as utterly perfunctory, while the sheer monotony one is forced to contend with will preventing this one from ever becoming a guilty pleasure. 

To return to where this review began: Suburbicon had the chance to shine a light on the racist social structures and hostility of the past, before connecting it to some of the recurring problems that are rearing their heads again today. Instead, Clooney really had nothing to say about these issues and the film he produces seems lightweight because of it. Why introduce a commentary on the underlying racism of supposedly civilised and upstanding white Americans and then refuse to take it in any meaningful direction? Oscar Isaac’s short appearance is almost worth the price of admission alone, but on the whole this marks another disappointing outing for the director, even if the muddled plot and dissatisfying characters are not quite as unbearable as whatever The Monuments Men was supposed to be. For all the awards it was clearly aiming for, don’t expect anybody to remember this one in a few months’ time.

Suburbicon came out the 27th of November in the UK. Check out the trailer below: