Sam Hamilton takes a look at the next episode in the much-loved Pixar franchise.

The fourth entry in Pixar’s flagship franchise starts and ends, like its predecessors, with Randy Newman’s score. It is nothing short of remarkable (and fitting) that Toy Story 4’s audio design meets every single beat with the appropriate note, whether gleeful, melancholic, poignant, or silent, to form an audiovisual whole that moves its audience wordlessly. Pixar’s recent track record displays a penchant for this kind of traditional moviegoing experience – Up, WALL-E, Finding Nemo, or the “When She Loved Me” sequence from Toy Story 2 place equal importance on sound and visuals. Toy Story 4 continues this trend. 

In a similar tearjerking ilk to The Red Turtle (2016), Toy Story 4 makes for delightful entertainment, managing in ninety minutes to achieve an emotional depth far beyond that of other Disney products. It is no coincidence that the ‘original story by’ credit extends to eight names; we’re exposed to a finely tuned, endlessly multifaceted narrative that seems to deepen at every turn. Without venturing into the spoiler zone, this was always expected to be the concluding chapter of the Toy Story franchise and, providing it is, we fade out on a spectacular four-film dynasty that will surely set the family film benchmark for time to come. It is the end to the fable of loyal Sheriff Woody and his shepherdess-turned-Sarah-Connor amour Bo Peep, drawing the curtain on series icons like Buzz Lightyear, Rex, and Mister Potato Head. But the celebration of female characters Bo and villain Gabby Gabby forms Toy Story 4’s narrative heartbeat, effortlessly centering their ups, downs, and evolutions. 

Once again, the story beings with a young child’s craving for a friend; in this case, a friend crafted by the hand of  kindergarten-aged Bonnie with throwaway items. Brought to life in magnificent style by Tony Hale, the wacky character Forky is horrified by his own existence to the extent of believing he is not a toy, but trash. Forky’s addition to the gang turns out to be a literal fork in the road for Woody, a now sidelined character in Bonnie’s toy entourage replaced by the ever-cool Sheriff Jessie. Feeling overtaken – even emasculated – by his lack of purpose, Woody takes it upon himself to usher Forky into the realisation that everyone loves him deeply, a theme that continues to pervade the Toy Story extended metaphor. For a series that has always been ripe with intelligent imagery, Toy Story 4 unravels into a story so loaded with subtext that it could explode at any moment – not with complication, but with sheer compositional brilliance.

However, all this talk of imagery and endings treads over the irresistible charm of the script. Negotiating an ever-growing cast of stuffed, porcelain, and human characters is a task writers Stephany Folsom and Andrew Stanton approach with ease, peppering a clockwork-like structure with countless laughs. Pitch-perfect roles for comedy duo Keegan Michael Key and Jordan Peele ignite the second act with humor before a beautifully ironic Keanu Reeves cameo steals an entire scene later on. But Toy Story 4’s euphoric highs are often punctuated by ripples of concern, fear, and/or genuine sadness that weave into one other to create a realism that exceeds previous entries. These twists and turns of sentiment occur within individual scenes but never seem conflicted. Altogether, they make the runtime sweep by in a flurry of giggling joy and profound emotion.

So if you want heartwarming, you got it. If you want references to pop culture, Pixar films, and cinema history at large, you got that too. But as for the technical stuff? Simply put, the old cat is back. John Lasseter’s first entry, back in 1995, revolutionised mainstream animation by input of computer processing. It feels entirely appropriate that Toy Story 4 should once again make Pixar the poster boy for animation everywhere. Inside Out (2015) director Josh Cooley and cinematographers Justin Lin and Jean-Claude Kalache are all over this thing, and they want you to know it. From the very first shot of a worn-tarmacked Elm Street (the one where Andy lives, not Freddy Krueger) to the outstandingly picturesque finale, this is a visual tour de force to be watched, savoured, and watched again.

By the time the sun sets on Toy Story and the lights rise in the theatre, it becomes clear that the hesitant few who suspected this fourth entry to be an unnecessary extension to a perfect trilogy, it is a happy loss. This is the ending we never knew we needed – an instant Disney classic.

Toy Story 4 is still showing in select cinemas and will be released on DVD on October the 21st. Check out the trailer below:

Sam Hamilton tackles the mega pop culture extravaganza that is the concluding chapter of the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

WARNING: Spoilers ahead.

This may be a year of epic proportions. Game of Thrones, Star Wars, Toy Story, How to Train Your Dragon and John Wick may all be vying for your attention. But it’s April, so it’s Marvel time. Thanos is back and he wants your money.

To every story there is an end, to every odyssey a denouement, to every journey a destination. Then, there is the kind of world-crushing pop culture supernova that is Avengers: Endgame, the final(?) step in Marvel Entertainment’s twenty-two-film twenty billion dollar ‘Infinity Saga’ bonanza. Endgame is the brawl to Infinity War’s brains. But that is, unfortunately, in the worst of senses. At three hours and two minutes long, it has a clearly defined three act structure: to beat its audience into submission over a nonsensical plan, to carry out this plan, and subsequently undo the events of the previous film. There is an enjoyable two hour movie in there somewhere amongst the mayhem, but it was lost in pre-production: for when the dust settles, the dots of this film just don’t join up. And while the Russo brothers, so successful last time out, try desperately to inject some humanity into this narrative apocalypse, there is around five minutes of genuinely emotionally involving content to be found, surrounded on all sides by kaleidoscopic CGI chaos and plot threads more akin to Ben 10 than “the greatest experiment in cinematic history” (as put by Marvel). Avengers: Endgame is a cinematic monster of sprawling proportions, nonsensical notions and leapfrog pacing. For all the pomp and circumstance surrounding its arrival, Endgame seems an impossible task.

Those good five minutes I mentioned are soothing to no end amongst the otherwise sparse terrain of the film, and made by their actors. Though despite their efforts, this is not a case of small moments that make the whole worthwhile. Essentially these are small moments that make the whole survivable, the only successes in a film otherwise quarantined of stirring emotions and lasting impressions. They are the prologue, in which a society is ripped apart by the decimation of its populus, a moment which really belongs to Infinity War; a brief stirring encounter between time-travelling Tony Stark and his father at the halfway mark; and, at last, the final consolation that stoic Steve Rogers was able to use Mister McGuffin time-travelling device to right the wrongs of time, and return to his darling Peggy in the 1940s to live out the life he always wanted. While the final scene is by its own nature charming, the first two belong to the contributions of their respective actors, Jeremy Renner and Robert Downey Jr., who along with Scarlett Johansson, Tilda Swinton and Mark Ruffalo belong in a better film.

The sight of Ruffalo as a big green domesticated suited-up Hulk is both disturbing and saddening – almost as saddening as what unfolds over the duration of this movie. This unfold allows us to draw at least one distinct conclusion; there is a bleak contrast in writing quality between Infinity War and Endgame. This time out, where screenwriters Stephen McFeely and Christopher Markus are not deriving from earlier Marvel Cinematic Universe films or cinema at large (although I must admit I enjoyed Chris Hemsworth’s take on The Big Lebowski’s Dude), they are producing incongruent plotlines and sentences abhorrently cringeworthy when delivered with a straight face. “We’re all about that superhero life” stood out in particular. But their main fault, and really the endgame of Endgame, is the lazy time-travelling escapade that takes us from point A to point B plotwise. McFeely and Markus persevere to make the outrageous seem feasible with their own specially concocted brand of ‘science’, purporting quantum mechanics as the key to a quantum realm (ooh, ahh) that enables “GPS time travel”. Even after their own character points out that this is all risible, the writers go ahead with it anyway, serious enough about the legitimacy of this hokum to keep hammering home the pretence, for many tens of minutes, that this is all realistic. Ultimately, due to the film’s goal of overhanging fatalism, the film suffers both from a truth that its notions are crazy and a lack of courage to adopt the bashfulness of earlier Marvel entries and admit that truth.

The interesting part is, the movie all takes itself far more seriously than most of the time-travel movies their characters openly joke about, while most of those same movies do a far more capable job of navigating the intricacies of the concept. And while I enjoyed Tony’s representation of time travel as a möbius strip, his instantaneous ’solution’ to time travel established over a cup of coffee is the most ridiculous display of ‘this guy can do anything’ since Brad Pitt’s turn in World War Z. If the film didn’t take it so seriously, neither would I. Moreover, if you consider this film Disney property, and as such a kids’ movie, you must consequently ask what said kids are taught by Endgame: rue the past, reject the current state of reality, and do everything in your power to change it. This isn’t usually something I consider when watching a movie, but it does put a smile on my face.

Another crucial facet of Marvel movies is comic relief. And while the comedy seemed to be integrated smoothly in Infinity War’s synopsis insofar as the collisions between such giant personalities create a humorous conflict – take Tony Stark and Doctor Strange or Thor and Peter Quill – in Endgame comedy is a lifeboat, where scenes are made to be funny and funny alone such that the audience doesn’t drown in the gobbledygook. Some of them work, some of them don’t. But all of them are extraneous and fail to advance to the plot. In a three hour movie, there are questions to be asked when this is the case.

CGI is Disney territory, so naturally the visual effects team showed up in Endgame. Water is wet. The sun is hot. This $400 million action movie looks good. Canadian cinematographer Trent Opaloch constricts on Infinity War’s wide colour palette to a more constant royal blue that dominates for most of the runtime. But so much of these films are created in post production that cinematography and visual effects are virtually in union. Maybe in thirty years time, when Thanos looks like PS1 Hagrid, we’ll be able to make a more complete distinction. The character introduction of Hawkeye (Renner), a little less than half way through the runtime, was seized impressively by Opaloch in a long and intricately choreographed tracking shot that left me keen for a standalone ‘Renner as Ronin’ post-apocalyptic Samurai movie. The final throw down, on the other hand, was rather more of a cookie cutter Marvel third act, albeit with a few standout moments for Chadwick Boseman’s T’Challa and Elizabeth Olsen’s Scarlet Witch.

Concluding on the ‘Infinity Saga’ today leaves behind a mixed bag of feelings. We have witnessed a new specimen of studio entertainment develop (with a runtime that makes Lord of the Rings feel like an ad break), and Endgame is its elegy. For me, it is one both good and bad. The movie itself qualifies most of the bad. The good comes from a thin closure that Endgame strains to provide in the completed (given, muddled) character arcs of its two main characters, Captain America and Iron Man – or “America’s Ass” and “America’s Uncle”. Though the means may not be satisfying the end, in a way, is. Most of all it introduces an interesting question as to what respective actors Chris Evans and Downey Jr. will go on to do next.

From a larger perspective of the MCU, and where Studio Head Kevin Feige plans to take it next, the problems arising in Endgame do not make for especially good news. This film marks a conclusive preference for abiding by the status quo rather than boldly averting it as had done Infinity War. Infinity War, in its villain, its menacing sense of dread, and in its courageous character-killing conviction, was an exception that seemed to break free of the formulaic nonchalant comedy club filmmaking that has gripped the emerging ‘superhero genre’. Alternatively, Endgame confirms that the ‘Infinity Saga’ has endured a consistent diminuendo in attention towards narrative strength over crowd pleasing, an attention which even at first was tenuous, and is now virtually extinct. To equate, for example, the reasonably humanised, conflicted, and fleshed-out characters of ‘Phase One’ (Edward Norton’s Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff and Tony Stark to name but a few) to the sugary vacuous cardboard cutouts of ‘Phase Three’ (hello Ant-Man, Spider-Man Lite and Captain Deus Ex Marvel) is like comparing The Dark Knight to Batman & Robin. The prospect of continuation should be cause for concern as to where Feige intends to take us next.

We’re all for outlandish cinema. For elaborate stories. For huge spectacle. But this movie takes all three to enormous proportions, gets lost in the second part, compromises on the first, and relies on the third to salvage what remains. Minor successes do not discount major flaws. So when a raccoon, a tree and a flying woman on fire launch themselves into battle to steal the jewellery off a big purple man and his army of six-legged man-dogs, what’s alarming is not that this entire situation is completely ridiculous, or that the filmmakers have failed to craft a comprehensive narrative justifying that ridiculousness. What’s alarming is the emerging reality that the MCU’s pedigree in modern audiences allows them to get away with anything. This film will easily surpass its box office estimates, the executives will take note, and the die for the next ten years of cinema will be cast with the element of convincing drama established as low priority.

So when I sit here and read that Feige has recently released details of the seven thousand characters that he has rights for and “intends to use”, I wonder: Maybe somewhere among their ranks is Original-Movie Man, who brings down the Studio Empire with nothing but emotionally stimulating original entertainment that is never watered down, never the same as before, never restricted by political agendas and never conforming to predetermined formula. Or maybe, instead, we’ll have a 23 Jump Street, 24 Jump Street, 25 Jump Street rollout of Thanos 2.0 v Iron Lady and Ant Man v The Beatles. Who knows. Time will tell.

Avengers: Endgame is currently out in cinemas. Check out the trailer below:

Sam Hamilton reviews Ricky Gervais’ heartfelt six-part character study. 

How far can you push a punchline? What are the boundaries of the taboo? And when has a joke gone too far? These three questions seem to form a constant thread of reaction reeling from Ricky Gervais’ every move, and with some good reason. The 57-year-old comedian has made his career dancing glibly through standup routines addressing Nazism, sexism, racism, and bigotry, wilfully incurring the wrath of many and the shock of many more. From his approach to his sentiment to his choice of subject matter, it may be easy to form an image of the man as an insensitive misanthrope. But After Life, a six-part character study on Netflix, written and directed by Gervais, provides evidence to the contrary.

We meet Tony (Gervais) grieving for his late wife, overwhelmed by impulsive anger, shouty-sweary irreverence, and a fondness for suicide-related sarcasm. Such a premise sounds like a comedy club scene gone majorly wrong – and at first, that is the way it feels. Jokes don’t land, silences lack impact, and Tony’s morbid quips take a while to leap from dark humour to the kind of guilt-trip comedy to which the comedian has always aspired. All three of these problems are made more intense by the unforgiving gravity of the subject matter, possibly leading to an audience’s premature conclusion on what this show is striving towards: cheap, disrespectful laughs. There is little space at first to allow any meaningful character development beyond exposing a deep-seated bitterness in the central character. And such an initial impression of shallowness extends to the supporting cast of Tony’s workplace at the Tambury Gazette; his brother-in-law and his institutionalised father both come across as little more than strategically placed punchbags. When Gervais’ pen then leans into the subjects of emotional abuse, drug abuse, and prostitution, one might wonder whether there can be any redeeming quality to this narrative.

In fact, surprisingly, there is. By episode four, Tony’s bravado is exposed as superficial by a crippling desire to relieve himself of his grief. His painful musings on death become recognised as shallow, feigned attempts to hide a searing loneliness. This is in part achieved by his reaction to Kerry Godliman’s quietly devastating performance as Tony’s wife, Lisa, revealed part by part in webcam recordings. Godliman’s presence is played to pitch-perfect standards even in its ephemerality, and her role in the unfolding story never feels expository or contrived. Gervais uses all this to build Tony’s angst that his wretched depression will never go away. This is not to mention the presence Tony and Lisa’s dog, who in the most desperate times remains Tony’s only tether to sanity (which may be awfully relatable to many pet-owners), as well as long, quiet, contemplative sequences where Tony wanders the streets of Tambury and the countryside surrounding it. These moments, recurring once or twice per episode, may seem docile at first but by the finale evoke a churning emptiness that resonates with the soul of this character. Witnessing moments like these is quite profound to the attentive viewer.

Moments like these come about not only through writing but also through craft. Martin Hawkins’ often washed-out, teal-heavy cinematography beautifully captures the rural simplicity of Tambury and its surroundings. The village’s solace, and the soundtrack’s mellifluous chimes, emphasise that Tony stands out like a sore thumb; he, or rather the person his grief has created, is the problem. It goes without saying that this is the biggest stylistic departure for Gervais to date, taking on a uniformly more cinematic approach in pacing and presentation.

But it is through the subtext that After Life’s heart is revealed. Beneath the droll musings is a story of prevailing optimism and the will to come to grips with life beyond death. We witness alongside Tony that the futile pursuit of happiness is tragically common amongst the people of Tambury, and he discovers through this a rekindled interest in joining in the fight. This transformation is best demonstrated by the way in which static characters, mostly used to comedic effect, eventually begin to tug on Tony’s conscience, often inadvertently but to a significant end. His father’s dementia provides an example of Tony’s fortune in being sentient. Lisa’s willingness to accept her lot is a paragon of grace against Tony’s wretched demeanour. Revelations as to the personal struggles of colleagues Matt (Tom Basden), Lenny (Tony Way), and Kath (Diane Morgan), coupled with the calming acceptance of fate by widow Anne (Dame Penelope Wilton), bring to light the value of equanimity in the face of despair and what Tony might become without it. Initially a motley crew, this ensemble gradually comes together to exemplify the bittersweet relief that Tony might find in spiritual freedom and self-satisfaction. And, as is the case with any good drama, Tony is replaceable in all these circumstances by any of us (albeit with a predisposition towards minor crime). I found the jokes to improve substantially as the show progressed, such that the best laughs were spread amongst the most dramatic moments.

Ricky Gervais is a mercurial entertainer. Tackling subjects like morbid depression could be as painful to some as it is worthwhile to others. But it appears to me that as the final credits roll, Gervais has created a character in Tony whose arc from determined delinquent to benevolent being is relatable, endearing, and tonally far more than the sum of its parts. After Life addresses the quandary of reconciling one’s own hardships with the hardships of others; of realising that each man, woman and child can be faced with their own distinctly unique and desperately difficult set of circumstances; and the idea that they are worth no less for it.

This is a quiet, careful character study, determined to use both drama and comedy to press its messages. After Life has no hero. It has no villain. It has no perceivable guide to depression of any substantive sort. But it does contain a surprise. A show which might, at first, be perceived as a comedian waltzing round a rural English town, pretending to harbour regret, grief, and depression at the expense of some mildly funny punch lines, can manifest of itself an insightful dwelling on the value of being alive.

7/10

After Life is available to stream on Netflix. Check out the trailer below: 

Sam Hamilton reviews the colourful Freddie Mercury biopic and Queen tribute.

Bryan Singer returns from the X-Men franchise to direct Bohemian Rhapsody: a big-budget, star-studded, thoroughly glamourised and oft-Americanised tale of the self-prescribed “hysterical Queen” that is Freddie Mercury. And despite first appearances, this is a film about the great performer and him alone. Yet whether it can be called a character study is debatable, since great swathes of darker material from the singer’s life are abandoned. Instead, Rhapsody opts for a more wide-release-friendly broad stroke of his wild persona. As such the plot reads like a formula Hollywood spectacle movie: rags-to-riches, abandons friends, realises wrongs, gets back together and blows-us-all-away. In many ways that is exactly what’s delivered. But in the magical sparks of Rami Malek’s virtuoso performance (as the one and only) and Newton Thomas Sigel’s sumptuous and smart cinematography, the film transcends what could have been just a Greatest Hits music video.

Malek works around a troublesome set of prosthetic teeth that belong more reasonably in parody than biopic. But he does so with great prowess: stepping skilfully into the glossy boots of a pop culture icon, never overdoing an easily overdoable character, adopting a near-flawless accent, and frequently playing down the big moments in such a way as to be at once mystifying and endearing. There is a charming and frustrating vulnerability to Malek’s Freddie that draws us in, very much like the camera, which often seems to linger in close-ups and carries our interest where the script cannot.

This is particularly the case in the film’s final third, where deepening troubles in Freddie’s personal life, and grappling tensions in his professional life, seem to evaporate just in time for the finale, leaving only a few stage nerves to stop him from acing it. A couple of vapid exchanges between band-members bury the potential for recognising a realistic conflict between them, the only memorable moments found in Roger’s (played smoothly by a charismatic Ben Hardy, the best of the entourage) sarcasm. There are many moments involving the crucial relationship between parents and son that fall short of eliciting any overwhelming response. And to add to this, scriptwriter Anthony McCarten injects a crowd-pleasing, sometimes silly, sensibility into many of the scenes where a straight approach may have been more effective – if at the expense of a few hushed giggles throughout the 2 hr 14 min runtime.

However, Rhapsody‘s chief sin is in neglecting the real weight of Mercury’s path towards recognising his homosexuality and the personal struggles that ensued – not to mention his fight with AIDS. Such an emotional tug of war is essentially muted, allowing only a handful of subtle moments to genuinely acknowledge the difficulties of hiding one’s true identity. This is where the film could have become the “epic poem” that Mercury describes Bohemian Rhapsody, the song, to be. This having been said, the gradually and tragically distancing relationship between Mercury and his “Love of My Life” Mary Austin plays out delicately, conjuring a throbbing sadness that remains one of the film’s most notable achievements. Other spellbinding moments include a captivating limo confrontation between Mercury and his managers as well as the always-priceless cameo contribution of Mike Myers, as a very distressed record label owner in Ray Foster.

Director Singer, arm in arm with longtime collaborator and cinematographer Sigel, battles any and all mundanity in the film with a vibrant colour palette and eclectic, energetic movement in and between set pieces. One particular shot of Mercury, stood tall, head rocked back at 90˚, balanced against an expressionistic array of interior decorations, played perfectly in scene; this and others reconfirm Sigel as a master of his craft in his best work since Drive (2011). Complete with an awesome (as if there could be any doubt) selection of tracks, and enchanting reenactments of some of the band’s top moments, Bohemian Rhapsody, even if it’s not the biopic Freddie deserves, warms the heart, salutes the spirit of its hero, and will endeavour to make you sing along.

7/10

Bohemian Rhapsody was released in October 2018. It is nominated for Best Picture at the 2019 Academy Awards. Check out the trailer below:

Sam Hamilton reviews the newest sequel of the Rocky franchise. 

It is heartwarming that the Rocky franchise has grown with its star, Sylvester Stallone. In Creed II, particularly, this idea comes to light, as the central themes become less about the youthful glory of looking towards the future and lean towards examining what was and what might have been. Creed II is about new beginnings – the fight to create them and the glory in achieving them. More so, the film focuses in on that which, in time, will be replaced. Where director Ryan Coogler’s first instalment of the series brought about the introduction of Adonis Creed, Steven Caple Jr.’s more subtly poignant sequel provides a triumphant realisation of the next big-budget boxing star and a satisfying swan song for Rocky Balboa.

The revelation of Balboa’s exit is no spoiler. Stallone has been vocal about his upcoming departure from the franchise, and this final performance – coupled with a script that, once again, he wrote – conjures the same mix of nostalgia and ruefulness that Balboa himself might feel watching the world move on. A shot of Rocky sat motionless, all alone in an emptying arena, brought about a resonant silence in the theatre around me and typifies the successes of this film. However, Stallone has made no attempt to write an art film, nor should he have. Rather, in a fashion not dissimilar to that of Antoine Fuqua’s The Equalizer II, he provides ample subtext through which small moments – the rain, dust, and grime, the sense that some things do die – shine through in an otherwise canonical plot. These moments serve as a testament to Caple’s direction, and in turn, Creed II packs a greater punch than its predecessors. It’s enough to make you think, not just feel.

This is highlighted in the strong character work, and not just in Rocky’s case. Both Creed, played with restraint by the returning Michael B. Jordan, and his enemy Viktor Drago are developed, explored, challenged, and motivated by the dramatically abundant difficulties in their everyday lives. Having said that, whether Viktor, as the son of the legendary, if disgraced, boxer Ivan Drago, would really have been raised on the factory grounds and lumberyards of Ukraine is uncertain. Despite this, the film’s first act is geared towards propagating a sense of dread in the audience, and Caple accomplishes this and then some. Even if Romanian actor Florian Munteanu, who plays Viktor, is no Tyson Fury, the clever manipulation of camera angles, beating musical refrains, skillful choreography, and gradual exposition of this bloodthirsty character create in him a forceful nemesis that would give classic Bond villain Oddjob a cold sweat. Viktor is presented as the Wladimir to Ivan’s Vitali – the younger and (statistically) superior family member.

Meanwhile, Creed’s life becomes complicated by the arrival of an infant daughter suffering genetic disorders, and he is forced through the inescapable challenge of facing the family who killed his father. At the heart of this, Tessa Thompson’s Bianca provides a sound and fundamental turn in the film as a moral anchor in the chaos around the central couple. Thompson also provides the vocals for two songs in the film, both standout performances. What this results in is a boxing picture with a deeply rooted focus on family dynamics. This theme emerges not in a superficial, Fast & Furious fashion but through obligatory familial responsibility, the painstaking failure of that, and the residual bitterness that may one day lead to a hope of recuperation. These are sentiments visited on all sides of the ensemble: in Adonis’ remembrance of Apollo, his deceased father; in Rocky’s attempts to redeem himself with his son; and in the conjoined struggle of the Drago family to finally have their talent realised by the country that forgot them. Moreover, the mistakes of the fathers fall upon the sons in this picture, and the real heroism seems to appear in ultimate closure and forgiveness. To say as much of a boxing picture is a testament to Creed II‘s underlying wisdom and lyrical sensibility.

Ultimately, though, it is a boxing picture. While the characters are sufficiently established, creating the emotional prerequisite for much cringing when the punches hit and the blood flows, Creed II demonstrates that the Rocky franchise has yet to reach the technical summit of boxing films. Chiefly, Caple borrows imagery from Scorsese’s Raging Bull, as seen in frequent against-the-ropes POV shots and soaring crane movements around the ring. While there are no attempts at gimmicky single-take tracking shots or flamboyance, there are some things left to be desired by the boxing sequences in general.

The visceral spectacle of a fight has to come together in the climactic match; such is a given for any action movie. In Creed II, however, the most visceral moments are in the early presentations of Drago’s might against puny challengers. When the big showdowns begin forty minutes into the film, it becomes clear that these are two actors acting, somewhat of a failure of immersion from a technical standpoint. It becomes common, too, for Caple to employ a rather unwelcomely snappy editing rhythm when the punches get going. This style, reminiscent of that of director Paul Greengrass, ensures that certain moments that should be monolithic fall short of an leaving an impact. No amount of bass, as provided by composer Ludwig Goransson, and no stylish assortment of hip-hop favourites can change this. However, your heart will get pumping in a standout third-act training montage with a soundtrack courtesy of rapper A$AP Rocky.

To watch Creed II is to witness the culmination of over forty years of polished boxers battling through obstacles with a prizefighter mentality, slurring through profound speeches, and fighting through their ordinary lives just as much as any man in shorts. Maybe Creed II isn’t better than the first Rocky, and the fight sequences are no match for those in Raging Bull. However, it closes the door elegantly on Stallone’s Rocky Balboa while notching up the required macho camaraderie of any boxing movie worth watching. Thus, Creed II affirms the Rocky franchise’s ability to entertain and justifies its long legacy.

Creed II is currently out in cinemas everywhere. Check out the trailer below:

Featured image: Malcolm X (1992), dir. Spike Lee

This Black History Month, Sam Hamilton takes a look at the timeline of African-American Cinema, and celebrates its prominent figures and iconic films. 

Roots: The Beginnings of African-American Cinema

The topic of ‘the first black filmmaker’ is too vague to ascertain any standing answer. What is more clear is the identity of black cinema’s first titan: Oscar Micheaux. Like many African-Americans of the early 20th century, he emigrated as a young boy from the still-bubbling confederacy of the South to the northern cities; Chicago, in his case. It was there that he wrote his first novel, ‘The Conquest’, which took off to considerable success, and there that the film adaptation of this novel, retitled ‘The Homesteader’ (1919), was written, directed, produced, and released by Micheaux himself. In this filmmaking debut, leading actress Evelyn Preer was acknowledged at the Oscars, if only for a ‘race picture’, and Micheaux’s name was out on the public stage – though it would be titles such as ‘Within Our Gates’ (1920), ‘Body and Soul’ (1925), ‘The House Behind the Cedars’ (1927), and ‘Murder in Harlem’ (1935) that would see him take his place in history.

And while his early work was both hailed and slated as reactionary to Hollywood’s white supremacist outlook, most notably found in ‘Birth of a Nation’, Micheaux’s contribution is undoubtedly much more than that. In boasting a directorial filmography spanning forty-eight films across thirty years, impressing on the world of film the humanity and significance of African-American culture, he marked the inception of a huge, persevering, crucial subset of American cinema and an example of perseverance in the arts that would lead the way for others to follow.

And they did. Spencer Williams’ ‘The Blood of Jesus’ (1941) stands to this day as one of the great filmic assessments of race and religion.Eartha Kitt stole the show in ‘Paris is Always Paris’ (1951) and ‘New Faces’ (1954). Director Michael Audley, who led Sidney Poitier in ‘Mark of the Hawk’ (1957), also starring Kitt, attained a public reputation, with Poitier himself going on to achieve the first black Leading Actor nomination in 1959 for ‘The Defiant Ones’ (1958). It was in the 1950s, perhaps out of political climate, that studios were taking interest in the rise of African-American cinema and the public demand for it. Zanuck and Preminger, a Hollywood power-coupling of producer and director, teamed up once again to to make ‘Carmen Jones’ (1954), giving us the first all-black Hollywood cast in addition to the first black Oscar nomination for Leading Actress in Dorothy Dandridge, just over thirty years after Micheaux’s first film hit the silver screen.

The situation was not yet wholly turned. Rarely were films about African-Americans directed, let alone produced, by individuals who themselves were black. This had been the case with ‘Carmen Jones’ and was the same in Camus’ ‘Black Orpheus’ (1959) even though it was awarded the Grand Prize (now Palme D’Or) of the Cannes Film Festival. Over the coming years, and especially in the sixties, African-American cinema had become adopted by the still predominantly white American production base. What entailed was a wide publicity of black cinema but also an outside perspective in these films that resulted in archetypal characters. In the case of ‘Porgy and Bess’ (1959) this side effect was so severe that, upon its release, it was met with protest in Washington DC.

The situation did, however, improve somewhat in conjunction with the Civil Rights Acts of ’64 and ’65, leading to a surge of African-American authority and autonomy over their own projects. Included amongst this surge was Gordon Parks, whose ‘The Learning Tree’ (1969) mirrored with delicate precision the social angst of the previous decade. And perceptions of the American mythology were altered to great effect by ‘Sergeant Rutledge’ (1960), which finally saw the folkloric American western hero be portrayed by an African-American, while Poitier returned in ‘Lilies of the Field’ (1964) to historically take home the first Leading Actor Oscar. By 1970, African-America was progressing considerably towards the forefront of the world of film and was on the brink of a huge creative cultural event in the “Blaxploitation” era.

Black Dynamite: The Explosion and Effects of “Blaxploitation”

Wendell Franklin, who had ten years before become the first African-American inductee in the Director’s Guild of America, helmed the socially topical cult hit ‘The Bus is Coming’ (1971) before publishing his memoir (aptly titled ‘Wendell Franklin’), in which he recalls the long hard slog of an early career endured before conditions improved for black directors.

It was the improvement of these conditions that saw one of the most bombastic and exciting phases in cinematic history; “Blaxploitation” cinema. In terms of success, it was a lucrative subset of the American film output, but in style it was revolutionary. New definitions for “flashy”, “stylistic” and “cool” are found in the work of directors Melvin Van Peebles, Michael Schultz and (returning with slick mega-hit ‘Shaft’ (1971)) Gordon Parks. They and their colleagues in the genre created cinematic waves that continue to ripple in the often colourful, sometimes brutal, and always cool-to-the-core modern films of John Singleton, Spike Lee, Bill Duke, Antoine Fuqua and the Hughes Brothers, not to mention Quentin Tarantino. Moreover, a beautifully authentic and delightfully deliberate imitation of the Blaxploitation era can be found in Scott Sanders’ recent and underrated ‘Black Dynamite’ (2009).

Yet in cases Blaxploitation cinema was still made via white producers and directors like Larry Cohen, Robert Hartfield-Davis and Jack Hill. However the time of ‘Porgy and Bess’-type simplification and stereotyping seemed to have passed, since these three men made great contributions to the furthering of the genre; Hill was the director of legendary Pam Grier films ‘Coffy’ (1973) and ‘Foxy Brown’ (1974). Taking great inspiration from the latter, Tarantino’s ‘Jackie Brown’ (1997) functioned both as a tribute to and a reboot of the Blaxploitation era, casting Grier herself in the starring role.

In terms of the energetic thrill ride that garnered its widespread audience, Blaxploitation cinema to some extent functioned as a more plot-centric, culturally relevant, and fundamentally American alternative to the exploding industry of Hong Kong martial arts movies that were simultaneously capturing American audiences (at the time the Bruce Lee ‘Dragon’ series and Sonny Chiba’s filmography). Among others, black actor Jim Kelly bridged the gap between the two in the effortless and eclectically cool ‘Enter the Dragon’ (1973).

From the serious, subtextually dark, and challenging ‘Across 110th Street’ (1972) and ‘Killer of Sheep’ (1978), to the more tongue-in-cheek genre films of William Crain in ‘Blacula’ (1972) and ‘Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde’ (1976), Blaxploitation as a wider subset of American cinema ranged from the political to the explosive to the absurd. The constant was radical style, content, and outrageous titles (see Van Peebles’ ‘Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song’ (1971)).

Yet one of the main features of Blaxploitation that had a profound effect on worldwide cinema was the use of mainstream-oriented music for original film soundtracks. James Brown’s soundtrack for ‘Black Caesar’ (1973) remains a prominent example to this day, with Donny Hathaway’s for ‘Come Back, Charleston Blue’ (1972) and Bobby Womack’s for ‘Across 110th Street’ also being historic examples of this trend-setting tradition, one that has that has carried over into the mainstream film circuit of today.

New Faces: The Modern World

In the mid 1980s, once the dust had settled on Blaxploitation, after Spielberg’s elegiac tribute to the harsh ways of early 20th century Southern life in ‘The Color Purple’ (1985), a young auteur raised in Brooklyn emerged onto the American scene with ‘She’s Gotta Have It’ (1986). Spike Lee followed up his competition-crushing 1986 debut with the inventive ‘Do the Right Thing’ (1989), ‘Mo Better Blues’ (1990), ‘Jungle Fever’ (1991) and ’Malcolm X’ (1992) in what should be regarded as among the finest year-by-year runs of consecutive, energetic, directorial bullseye hits in modern American cinema. What becomes more impressive is that the “little master” went from strength to strength, with a continuation of form in this year’s political powerhouse ‘BlacKkKlansman’ (2018) which took home the Grand Jury Prize at Cannes. In retrospect many including the BFI name Lee as the herald of a “New Black Wave” in 1990s African-American filmmaking. One disciple-piece of that “Wave” could be Cheryl Dunye’s ‘The Watermelon Woman’ (1996), a touchstone in late-century black LGBT cinema.

On the turn of the millennium, it was filmmakers such as Fuqua and Silverton who emerged. The momentum of black cinema at the same time increased and has continued to do so for over fifteen years until now. For in the past two years alone, some of the most talked-about and highly-rated pictures have promoted and centred on the African-American experience, shining examples being ‘Moonlight’ (2016) and ‘Get Out’ (2017). Before them, Steve McQueen lit the film world alight with the huge success and cultural impact of ‘Twelve Years a Slave’ (2013).

Besides these three great successes, there have been many more; the filmographies of Dee Rees (see ‘Mudbound’ (2017)) and Ava DuVernay (‘Middle of Nowhere’ (2012) and ‘Selma’ (2014)), Ryan Coogler (‘Fruitvale Station’ (2013) and ’Creed’ (2014)) , and F. Gary Gary (‘Straight Outta Compton’ (2015)) have together grown wider in audience and stronger and impact. All are presently held alike in the highest regard among the contemporary elite of modern-day Hollywood. The astronomical success of ‘Black Panther’ (2018), its own history deeply rooted in the mid-century Civil Rights movements, demonstrates this tenfold.

To name some names on the explicitly indie African-American would be to mention Andrew Dosunmu and Terence Nance, whose respective ‘Restless City’ (2011) and ‘An Oversimplification of Her Beauty’ (2012) both profited from DuVernay’s founding and leadership of the African-American Film Festival Releasing Movement (AFFRM), as well as her figurative leadership in this new era of black arthouse film (catalysed by Dee Rees’ ‘Pariah’ (2011), quoted as “a precursor to [Jenkins’] Moonlight” (BFI on Rees)). The AFFRM’s value as a promoter of quality cinema can not be denied, nor the value of DuVernay’s efforts understated. Meanwhile, the sometimes-sidesplitting, suddenly-serious, strangely-slapstick-yet-seriously-significant debut by Boots Riley in ‘Sorry to Bother You’ (2018) has by virtue of its own bold genius turned heads towards the prospect of a new and talented writer-director.

The successes of modern African-American cinema, alongside the now-legendary ‘Three Amigos’ (Cuarón, Iñárritu and Del Toro each enjoying great critical and commercial successes), mean that minority cinema has been dominant over the past four years of awards seasons – especially when one considers the likelihood of ‘Roma’ (2018) and ‘If Beale Street Could Talk’ (2018), among others, continuing the trend.

More specifically on the relevant topic of African-American filmmakers, we are left with three names that spring two questions. The names: Spike Lee, Barry Jenkins, and Steve McQueen. The questions: firstly, which of them could be the first African-American winner of the Best Direction Academy Award? And secondly, why does that honour remain a bragging right to be had? I have no doubt that both questions will be the subject of keen discussion as awards season progresses, but the latter is undoubtedly a confusing anomaly, even more so when you step back and take a look at the history.

Black History Month occurs every year from October 1st – October 31st. It focuses and leads a nationwide celebration of Black History, Arts and Culture throughout the UK. Look back at this year’s Black History Month here.