“We’re billions of years beyond your petty obsession with gender and its associated stereotypes.” With that quote from the latest episode of Doctor Who in mind, let’s move onto the actual news itself…

Jodie Whittaker. BIFA nominated, powerhouse Northerner barnstorming actress Jodie Whittaker is the 13^th Doctor. The star of Black Mirror, St Trinian’s, and The Smoke is the new Doctor Who. She’s an actress as at home with the grit of a Jimmy McGovern serial as with the cutesy joy of something like Get Santa. She’s exactly the kind of performer capable of carrying Doctor Who and that’s no mean feat. Whittaker has already travelled back in time to play Izzy Huett in the BBC’s glistening Tess of the D’Urbervilles and fought aliens out of Brixton Joe Cornish’s Attack The Block. And in last year’s charming Adult Life Skills she lived in a shed, so she should be perfectly at home in the confines of the TARDIS.

Jodie Whittaker is an actor of extraordinary depth and range and I, for one, can’t wait to see her reunite with Chris Chibnall (Doctor Who’s incoming showrunner and former CO of Boradchurch) to deliver what promises to be a fresh, energetic and exciting new take on a decades old character.

Oh, and as for that other thing? To quote Hope Van Dyne, “It’s about damn time”.

Doctor Who returns for a Christmas Special on December 25.

Thom Hetherington reviews Matt Reeves’ conclusion to the rebooted Planet of the Apes trilogy.

The Planet of the Apes films comprise one of Hollywood’s most inventive and long-standing franchises: it will reach its 50^th birthday in 2018. At the core these films are pure sci-fi, boiling up the meat of big ideas for the audience to chew. It should come as no surprise, then – and yet it does – that War For The Planet of the Apes is a cerebral seminar in politics, war and destruction. The film opens with a brutal attack on the troupe of apes led by Caesar (Andy Serkis) and an attempt by the victorious apes to broker one last peace. But when this peace is irrevocably and brutally shattered the apes are forced to flee to safer ground whilst Caesar leaves the troupe behind to strike out upon his own path of revenge.

This is a war film in the same way that Bridge Over The River Kwaii is a war film – rather than, say, the way Saving Private Ryan is a war film. The mental toll of war takes precedence over the physical bombast of more recent war pictures. Suffering, loss, and moral ambivalence and ambiguity take top tier here. This film is, essentially, a charting of Caesar’s dark night of the soul. It is an unapologetically bleak exploration of the murky waters of war, evolutionary survival and the toll of violence. If that doesn’t sound like your average summer blockbuster then that’s because it isn’t supposed to, and the film makes this abundantly clear. If children start playing at apes in the playground, then teachers should start to intervene before they ruin their own childhoods and future happiness.

Everything about this film points to a different time of filmmaking. The pace, for one, is slowed right down (although admittedly this is a move that does occasionally leave the film feeling like its 2 hour 22 minute running time). There’s none of the quick flash-bang action of modern blockbuster filmmaking, and in fact, the film only has two real action set pieces, one of which happens mostly off-screen. Michael Giacchino’s score, too, is ripped straight from the original Planet of the Apes film, and successfully apes* Jerry Goldsmith’s atonal furies while adding the sparkle of a delicate piano over the top. Giacchino’s score is a marvel even if, at times, threatens to unbalance the film. Michael Seresin shoots the film with elegance too, showcasing wide vistas that allow the action to unfold within and using close-ups that let the audience inside the minds of these characters.

This is the first film in the rebooted franchise that rests solely upon the CGI shoulders of Andy Serkis as Caesar, as well as other ape performers Terry Notary, Karin Konoval and Michael Adamthwaite. The first two films of the rebooted franchise had the human presence of James Franco and Jason Clarke to balance the apes against, and War takes a brave leap by centering the film entirely around Caesar. It’s a gamble that pays off in spades. Andy Serkis delivers a performance at once furious, headstrong and heartbreaking. Steve Zahn, too, brings the film a little much-needed levity as an independent ape who takes on the moniker given him by his zookeepers, “Bad Ape”. Credit must go to the incredible artists at Weta Digital for rendering the apes with such breathtaking realism.

The meshing of CGI and performance in this film creates a new gold standard. Eyes that glisten, wet matted fur and tough leathery ape skin are all perfectly rendered in a way that compliments and enhances the individual performances of each actor. The characters who appear in the flesh are just as well-rounded. Woody Harrelson’s steely Colonel is a rational Darwinist and not a megalomaniacal killer. And young newcomer Amiah Miller gives the film its beating heart as young mute girl Nova (sadly one of only two female characters to have any kind of prominence in the film).

War For The Planet Of The Apes is a film that takes its time. It explores the personal and political ramifications of an opening act of war and follows them to their grimy conclusion. It besmirches its lead characters in guilt and confusion and presents them to the audience as is. The visual effects might be cutting edge but the storytelling would feel more at home amongst the films of thirty and forty years ago, rather than its immediate predecessors in this franchise.That’s no bad thing, but to go into the film expecting a fast paced adrenaline ride would be to leave oneself ill-prepared. Director Matt Reeves has crafted a spectacle of emotion that, while it contains some stunning pyrotechnics work, finds more wonder in the close up of a tortured face; a spectacle of war reflected in the whites of the eyes, not thrust thirty feet up in a column of flame. The bleak tone and slow pace of War For The Planet Of The Apes may require adjustment from the audience, but the film makes for a sobering and impressive spectacle once this is achieved.

7/10

War For The Planet Of The Apes is out now in UK cinemas. See the final international trailer below:

*Editor’s Note: Ape puns are the sole work of the named author.

With the recent conclusion of Season 10, Thom Hetherington looks back at Peter Capaldi’s tenure as the 12th Doctor… 

For a 54-year-old television show, Doctor Who certainly isn’t looking too shabby. And for the first time since its return to our screens in 2005 it’s starting to, literally, look its age. The choice of an older actor to play the Doctor was – relatively speaking – a risky choice at the time, as the show had, since its return, been predicated upon running down corridors while yelling exposition: a formula that had worked pretty darn well for the three sprightly actors who had taken the role before Capaldi. It was clear this was going to be a change of pace; perhaps a different, more cerebral take on the show. Less flirting, a tad less running and certainly no more snogging the companion.

For the most part, this approach and change of tone has served the show well. It was evident in the hiring of Ben Wheatley to direct Capaldi’s first two episodes that Doctor Who was heading into murkier waters. Wheatley brought his trademark unease to the series opener and this carried through the majority of Capaldi’s run as the Doctor. The hiring of horror director Rachel Talalay also gave the show a nastier edge and made clear showrunner Stephen Moffat’s desire to go darker. Later, the show tackled the grim idea of the dead retaining consciousness (“don’t cremate me”) in a storyline that drew complaints in the hundreds for being too dark. There were creatures lurking under the bed, cannibalistic houses and deadly eye sand. The rebooted show had been dark before, but never in such a purely thematic way.

The show’s cerebral edge was also brought to the fore during Capaldi’s tenure. Peter Harness’ standout episode “Kill The Moon” demonstrated this, showcasing a real-time ethical dilemma complete with carnivorous alien spiders. And it’s here that one must take the time to appreciate the sheer idiosyncratic brilliance of Doctor Who. There is no other television program in existence that can deliver such an amazing blend of intellectual stimulation, thrills, and a good dash of fear. That the show is also pitching for a family audience makes this achievement even more remarkable. The aforementioned “Kill The Moon”, as well as hand-under-the-bed-horror “Listen”, to name but two, work so well because they balance intellectual and physical horror. They combine a shiver down the spine with a chilled skull.

Capaldi’s tenure was also a time to explore the dark side of the character of the Doctor – his first series was built around the cornerstone of the question “Am I good man?”. The introduction of Michelle Gomez, on lip-smackingly malevolent form as Missy, created a truly ying and yang dynamic that explored the good and evil lurking within them both. The relationship with his companions too, particularly Jenna Coleman’s Clara, has showcased the dangers of the Doctor’s power. It’s a testament to Capaldi’s brilliance as the Doctor that an entire episode, “Heaven Sent”, rested solely upon his shoulders. Together with the direction of Rachel Talalay, Capaldi made walking around an empty castle one of the most captivating forty-five minutes of television that year.

The show has also, however, managed to retain its trademark optimism and belief in good, a remarkable achievement in a world of television built around shock and violence. To do good “without hope, without witness, without reward” has been an unofficial motto for Capaldi’s time in the TARDIS. Yet the real triumph has been keeping this hope without infringing upon the show’s newfound darkness. This is something that shone out in the fervent anti-war sentiments of “The Zygon Invasion” and “The Zygon Inversion”, which culminated in a show-stopping moment of grandstanding from Capaldi.

It’s certainly a truism that Capaldi’s tenure hasn’t been wall-to-wall gold. Certain episodes have, at times, felt so chock-full of ideas they stop making any sense. There have been many promising premises ruined by this confusion, most notably in muddled two-parter “The Magician’s Apprentice” and “The Witch’s Familiar”. But even those episodes, and others, were not without their delights, most notably featuring the Doctor riding in on top of a tank playing an electric guitar. Indeed, Capaldi’s tenure has been full of delightful moments; he’s verbally sparred with Santa, physically sparred with Robin Hood and even been a superhero for a little while. In its strongest moments, Capaldi’s tenure on Doctor Who has continued to prove why it’s one of the best programs on television. Upon first appearing in the TARDIS on Christmas day 2013 the Doctor hurriedly asked the question “Do you happen to know how to fly this thing?” Four years later, it’s clear that Peter Capaldi certainly did.

Doctor Who returns to BBC One for a Christmas special – the last episode to star Capaldi as the Doctor – on December 25.

Thom Hethertington reviews Colin Trevorrow’s incredibly divisive family drama…

Colin Trevorrow is one smart cookie. There: I said it. That The Book of Henry has been met with the vitriol it has makes absolutely zero sense. In fact, it makes less than zero sense. It makes minus sense. To pick a scene from Trevorrow’s own filmography, this film has been subjected to the kind of traumatic mauling that befalls Zara, the nanny in Jurassic World (a deliciously horrific scene in a film that, for what it’s worth, I think is lots of fun; smartly cynical and cleverly constructed whilst paying homage to the original). Many people seem to be using the film to mount a campaign against Trevorrow. A slew of sickening, desperate articles are calling for people to “save” Star Wars from him. No film can exist in a vacuum and it was hard not to watch The Book of Henry in bewilderment, not at its awfulness, but at the fact so many people decided to inexplicably give it such a thrashing to the face. So, taking the film as it presents itself…

The Book of Henry is an odd little duck of a film. It at once tackles child abuse, grief, loss, eleven-year-olds explaining how to get away with the perfect murder and Rube Goldberg machines, with a dash of zany indie sensibility thrown in for good measure. The film centres on eleven-year-old child genius Henry (Jaeden Leiberher) along with his mother Susan (Naomi Watts) and younger brother Peter (Jacob Tremblay). The film begins with Henry slowly uncovering the abuse inflicted on his neighbour Christina (Maddie Zeigler) at the hands of her step-father (Dean Norris), who happens to be the local police commissioner. To go any further would be to ruin The Book of Henry’s brilliantly bonkers twists and turns. What unfolds from thereon in is a film that jumps between genres at a constant rate, a film that surprises and confounds, but most crucially a film that takes the audience with it on this crazy journey.

The film isn’t tonally jarring, as many critics have suggested. Truthfully, it becomes a little distracting that the film’s somewhat whimsy tone stays so constant despite the various issues, genres, and emotional moments that it ends up tackling. It’s a testament to both Trevorrow and his cast that the film manages to retain the viewer’s sympathies throughout. And whilst the film is truly odd, in both the negative and positive senses of the word, it never shies away from its bizarreness. To suggest there is something maudlin and cynical about the film is merely to refuse to engage with it. To stand apart from it rather than take it on its own terms. It’s true that at times Greg Hurwitz’s script becomes a little button-pushing in its dialogue, but the film as a whole manages to ride this out and stay above it. And it’s a testament to Trevorrow’s storytelling that the film is incredibly moving. The film has, at times, a Spielbergian hue in the way it puts a family dynamic at the centre of a heightened reality. The film looks beautiful too: there’s a hand-drawn, oak-like feel to it, chiefly induced by the set and art design, and added to by John Schwartzman’s choice of shots (captured on film) and Michael Giacchino’s score (which is as eclectic and varied in style as the film is, going from acoustic to electronic to orchestral between tracks).

This is a film where, regardless of the bizarre circumstances they find themselves in, the characters remain tangible. The Book of Henry is not set in the same world as the one we live in, but the characters within it are still real. The way these characters react to the situations they are in fits with the tone Trevorrow has created and they feel authentic within the world of the film. The home life of Henry, Peter and Susan is a brilliantly realised topsy-turvy delight and, while it might be too kooky for some, it manages to feel more than real enough. It is a household of dysfunction but also one of love, and that’s a sentence that might just as easily be used to describe the film itself. Trevorrow’s investment in character is where this film’s true strength lies and it pulls the viewer through its more bizarre moments. The film gives them the time to breathe, to allow them all to interact with each other. The audience is left with a clear idea of how each character feels towards all the others. The minor, yet touching, relationship between Henry and Sarah Silverman’s Sheila is a particularly fine example of this.

The Book of Henry is, in retrospect, a hard film to classify and comprehend, but as a viewing experience and a story to enjoy it is very easy to fall into. It takes place in a world which is tonally and logically not like reality and while this may be hard to swallow (especially given the subject matter) if the viewer chooses to go with the film – rather than stand obstinately in its path – it is an incredibly rewarding experience. So I urge you to go and see it and let yourself be swept along.

7/10

The Book of Henry is out in UK cinemas now. See the trailer below:

Picture the scene: high-flying A-list action director Michael Bay sits astride a trebuchet, grinning madly as he hurls flaming balls of pitch, along with anything else he can get his hands on, in your direction. Medieval knights? You got it. Anthony Hopkins saying “bitchin”? Chuck it in. Plot? More than you can shake a wizard’s staff at. The kitchen sink? Not big enough. Try the bathtub.

The fifth film in the Transformers franchise amps everything up to preposterous levels of unnecessary: it’s a dizzying mix of revisionist history and alien invasion, with some sci-fi trappings and medieval romance thrown in for good measure.

Much has been made of Hasbro and Paramount’s decision to construct a writers’ room to guide the future of the Transformers franchise (featuring, it must be acknowledged, a fine smorgasbord of writing talent). It feels as though, with The Last Knight, nobody could decide whose ideas to use, so everybody got to throw one idea each into the plot blender before they turned it on and mixed them all together at high speed. The plot of this film is, however, the least of its problems. In fact, the ludicrous plot just points out the biggest disjunct in the film: its dogged refusal to have fun because it’s too busy trying to be cool.

It is, undeniably, incredibly exciting to think about Transformers fighting off Saxon hordes and kicking Hitler’s arse. And this is a film stuffed to the gills with moments exactly like this. At one point in the film Optimus Prime flies in on the top of A TRANSFORMER DRAGON WITH THREE HEADS then decapitates a mass of robots by spinning in a circle. It’s a robot dragon with three heads that used to belong to Merlin. So why on earth does this film feel like such a laborious slog? Michael Bay’s insistence that no shot can last longer than about five seconds is definitely a factor. Any time a character moment might be about to occur it isn’t allowed to settle. If anything remotely human might be about to emerge we snap to a different angle or something else comes flying past at high speed. This is a film in which every single thing looks beautiful but says nothing. Michael Bay shoots a polo match like it’s an intergalactic space battle with planets for balls. It’s hampered by its own inability to realise what the script is trying to be.

Said script, however, doesn’t fare much better. Only Hopkins’ madcap Sir Edmund Burton seems to do well, and this is merely because there is a childish delight to be taken in seeing one of the world’s finest actors repeatedly speaking like a pubescent jock (for the first five times anyway). The film’s use of profanity is about as witty as a dirty protest, yet it seems to think that it’s operating at Iannucci levels of brilliance. And, while there is something funny about hearing Optimus Prime repeatedly shout “VIVIAN”, Laura Haddock’s character, through no fault of the actor, is the worst kind of fetishised British-ness. She’s all tea and crumpets in a trademark Bay cocktail dress. It’s with this in mind that I must take a moment to praise the cast who, though their performances suffer under Bay’s editing style and eye, are certainly doing their best. Hopkins, Mark Wahlberg (returning as maverick inventor Cade Yeager) and Haddock give their all into a film that’s simply too cool for emotions. The voice cast too, stacked with some of the best actors around, seem to be trying to have fun. And special mention must go to Isabela Moner for giving a strong performance as young rogue Izzy. Hopkins fares slightly better than the other two leads simply by virtue of the fact he’s playing off his reputation as a classical actor of the highest calibre. In essence, this is a classier version of Robert De Niro’s turn in Dirty Grandpa. But this, again, points back to the film’s major issue: there’s no room for sincerity. Hopkins is a highlight because he’s self-aware in a way the film never manages to be, because he’s not conforming to the film’s po-faced view of itself.

This isn’t, however, a film without its charms. As aforementioned, the cast put in good performances and the film is visually spellbinding. The Stonehenge set climax looks like a billion dollars, all lush greens and incredible production design. And one should never, even for a second, overlook the artistry that goes into creating these films. The effects work from ILM is peerless, Johnathan Sela shoots the film with breathtaking beauty and the production design and set building is second to none. Ultimately this is a film that suffers from a dogged determination to stay tonally dark and avoid the fun it should so clearly embrace. These are bright and colourful characters that have been turned into machines of war and carnage. And it isn’t even fun war and carnage.

Michael Bay has undoubtedly created a cinematic spectacle to rival the best, but he’s completely failed to tell a story. There’s some fun to be had in this blockbuster behemoth, but you’ll have to try hard to get at it because the film is intent on keeping it from you.

4/10

Transformers: The Last Knight is out now in UK cinemas. See the final trailer below:

Thom Hetherington reviews Trey Edward Shults’ chilling post-apocalyptic drama.

The opening minutes of It Comes At Night chart a dark and diseased family coming to terms with its own brutality. An incredibly harrowing opening scene shows the cycle of human existence pushed to its literal and metaphorical extremes. And it doesn’t let up from there. This is a film that slowly curls its fingers around your throat, increasing emotional and dramatic tension until it reaches its choking conclusion.

It Comes At Night is an incredibly strong calling card for director Trey Edward Shults, who here builds on the promise of his excellent first feature Krisha. As with Krisha, It Comes At Night is ostensibly a family drama, here centred around the isolated, forest-bound homestead of Joel Edgerton’s Paul. Set in the aftermath of a suitably vague yet catastrophic virus outbreak, the film follows Paul’s day-to-day life alongside his wife Sarah (a frustratingly underused Carmen Ejogo) and their son Travis (Kelvin Harrison Jr.). When a midnight intrusion brings a fellow survivor searching for water for his family, Paul is forced to question how far he will go to protect those he loves.

Breaking with the recent trend of putting an emphasis on cinematic world building, Shults gives the audience only the bare bones of the disaster that occurred. The idea of the outbreak is merely a charred carcass upon which the flesh and meat of the film hang. Shults uses the virus as a catalyst to push his characters to the very edge of their humanity by forcing them into situations and actions that at once expand and obliterate their humanity. This is the film’s key strength: its unflinching view of its characters. They are each at once distinctly likeable and unlikeable. Shults gives space to driving feelings of lust, love and jealousy whilst simultaneously creating a world in which these emotions must be suppressed for survival; a world in which even the most sweet and innocent conversation has to be ransacked for possible betrayals, for the signs of a meticulously constructed lie.

Shults manages to keep his characters on an even keel throughout the film, never demonising or judging them. There is no villain or dark antagonist. There are only men and women forced to juggle trust, paranoia and love; people who let all three of these things force them into violence, desperation and pride. That this expert balance can be successfully struck is in part thanks to the film’s fascination with faces. Shults and cinematographer Drew Daniels avoid the typical conversational patterning of ‘shot reverse shot’, instead shooting the film’s many conversations with a constantly moving camera that loops around the speakers. The camera work is underlined by Brian McOmber’s percussive score, which pulsates and undulates around the action unfolding on screen. This is a film that refuses to settle on one point of view.

It Comes At Night is, at times frustratingly so, almost too beautiful for its grimy subject matter. Even in the film’s most gory and horrific passages, the screen glistens. This problem is, however, often circumvented by the film’s aforementioned emphasis on faces; horror is often left on the reverse of the camera, leaving the viewer with only the contorted face of the beholder and their own imagination. Whilst there are some moments of uncomfortable gore and physical horror they are glimpsed in the corner of the frame rather than flung towards the camera with gleeful delight.

Shults’ trust in his actors makes the film even more horrifying. Joel Edgerton adds shade to the sturdy patriarchs he has played in the past and delivers a quietly powerful performance. Kelvin Harrison Jr. actualizes the struggle and naivety of Edgerton’s son Travis with an understated innocence that keeps the film afloat. Unfortunately, the female characters are somewhat sidelined, despite strong performances from Riley Keough and Carmen Ejogo. Their presence is felt in the strength of their performances rather than the actions of their characters. Shults has talked about how this is a film inspired by his relationship with his father and, whilst it never turns into a testosterone-fuelled slam down or an exploration of the masculine psyche, the film is certainly more skewed towards its male characters. Shults here explores a fascination with fatherhood that runs in a complimentary parallel to Krisha’s concern with maternity.

Ultimately this is a film where true horror lies within the characters themselves: an interior force to be wrestled with rather than an exterior one to be defeated. It Comes At Night is a film best seen with as little knowledge of its plot and circumstances as possible. It would be wise also to leave any generic expectations at the door; this is a horrifying film, but not for the reasons the marketing suggests. The film’s pitch-black darkness is its biggest strength and is shot through the very veins of the film into every frame, character and line. Shults creates a film of dreadful atmosphere and experience that leaves the viewer upset, scared and exhilarated. Like the diseased within it, this is a film that oozes out a thick, infecting darkness that causes the audience to question their own decisions, codes and state of mind.

9/10

It Comes At Night is out in UK cinemas on July 7. See the final U.S. trailer below:

With the release of Wonder Woman upon us, Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington looks at the way we watch and respond to films today.

There has been a tectonic shift in the way we watch movies. And I’m not talking about the rise of 3D, the age of IMAX or even those godawful vibrating chairs that spray you with disturbing smells and jets of water. I’m talking about you. When did you get so cynical?

Audiences seem increasingly reluctant to engage with films, often before they’ve even seen them. The desire to enjoy is being trumped by the desire to get one’s money’s worth. Suspension of disbelief seems to be supremely lacking in modern cinema audiences and it’s a crying shame. The more time I spend at the pictures the more I find more that people are laughing not with films, but at them.

Indeed, cynical film watching has become a kind of cottage industry in recent years. Showings of Tommy Wiseau’s The Room regularly sell out across the globe, often frequented by the director himself. People gather not to watch the film, but to point and laugh at it. And whilst this isn’t a problem in of itself, certainly not given it has Wiseau’s full participation, it does point to a wider problem. These screenings are part of a world of YouTube videos that surgically dissect a film’s plot piece by piece, TV shows centred around mocking continuity mistakes and entire blogs and social media channels specifically targeted at strategically shit-bombing the work of numerous filmmakers, actors and writers. Namely that there seems to be an increasing desire for failure on the part of the cinema going public.

Nothing seems to delight people more than when a film bombs at the box office. When Shia LaBeouf’s recent thriller Man Down failed to sell more than one ticket in its UK opening weekend, everyone lined up to have a giggle. But at what? As Simon Brew, editor of Den of Geek, pointed out on Twitter; ‘a small distributor took a chance on a half-decent movie, and we’ll now sneer at them for trying.’ We know full well, given the box office receipts, that the dissenters hadn’t bothered to watch the film in question. The same is true of recent ‘flops’ such as Live By Night (our review), John Carter, Jupiter Ascending and Tomorrowland (a film all about cynicism bowing to wonder) and countless others. I am, admittedly, an outspoken defender of all of these films but this is partly because, and here’s the rub: they swing for the fences. And, yes, their batting average may look a bit skewed from afar but so what? When did it become so delightful to heap scorn upon derision instead of stepping back and admiring a bold creative choice and direction? To heave up a bitter cackle before stopping to think? Jupiter Ascending, for example, features a fascinating exploration of class and exploitation whilst also being incredibly beautiful and featuring Sean Bean as a half Bee man. Yes, it’s a bit silly sometimes, but it doesn’t take itself as seriously as half its critics seem to do. If people stopped laughing at its Rotten Tomatoes score and actually watched it, they might be pleasantly surprised. There are an alarming number of people who seem to be baying for cinematic blood to gorge themselves on. And it isn’t particularly pleasant.

This is reflected, too, in the number of people who seem to delight is smugly pointing out the similarities in plot between the original Star Wars and Star Wars: The Force Awakens. They are, of course, being wilfully stupid in ignoring the fact that the storytelling in these two films is entirely different. The characters, and the way that they interact with each other, in Abrams’ film are vastly different way to Lucas’ original creations. The same is true of the super intellectuals who point out the kinship of Avatar and Dances With Wolves, who seem to be vitally missing the point that one of these films is a groundbreaking piece of visually breathtaking cinema that is, crucially, set in space. If viewers can’t lose themselves in the visual majesty of a world where a six foot blue Sigourney Weaver lives, then there’s something wrong. Whilst this may all be a snag for certain viewers, it shouldn’t ruin their enjoyment entirely. Movie watching is an emotional, escapist, experience and it shouldn’t be hampered by a fixation with plot. 2001: A Space Odyssey, Stand By Me and Clerks barely have a plot between them, but we’re all happy to accept them as masterpieces in their own right. If you want to get stuffy about plot, then you will, I assure you, be much happier staying at home reading summaries on Wikipedia.

There are, of course, many contributing factors. A night out at the cinema is no longer a cheap affair, if you want to go all in with snacks and drinks then it can very quickly become more expensive than a trip to the theatre. The temptation to write a film off as absolute baloney purely from a trailer makes sense, particularly if you want to save money. And a quick glance at Rotten Tomatoes can be misleading too; there might be a five star review from someone whose opinion you deeply value, but you won’t find it by quickly glancing at the ‘fresh’ percentage. Financially too, it makes sense to laugh at a film rather than with it once you’re in the cinema watching it; at least then you’re getting some fun for your money. But as the world increasingly becomes a cynical place, shouldn’t we be trying to escape in the cinema? Or learn something? Not guffaw because we think we’re more intelligent than the filmmakers?

However you, gentle reader, cannot be entirely to blame in this large and complicated game of self-righteous finger pointing that I’m playing. It’s hard not to feel that audiences are merely becoming savvy to the rising cynicism of the film studios. It’s not uncommon now to get five sequels announced to a film that hasn’t even been released yet and cinematic universes seem to be popping up left, right and centre like dandelions, just begging to be uprooted by schadenfreude. Even within the movies themselves, we’ve seen Captain America fighting against the United States instead of for them, and Batman repeatedly smashing a bathroom sink into Superman’s face. Cynicism, it seems, is all around.

But for all this loathsome negativity and impending misery there does seem to be a turn in the tide. Most notably the recent Wonder Woman (our review), for example, feels alarmingly retro in its protagonist’s heroics; Wonder Woman fights for a cause as much as she fights against an enemy. It feels like a direct response to the cynicism in and surrounding the underrated Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. Wonder Woman is a film all about the power of love in a world that’s seriously lacking it, it’s about a humanity that needs saving not from sky portals or inter-dimensional beasties but from itself. It’s sad that it seems to be so timely. But perhaps we could take a lesson from it as viewers, to find the good in films, to will for something beautiful, not something that we’re more coldly intelligent than. George Carlin once observed that “inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist”, it’s time we each dug them up. It’s better to walk out a cinema disappointed than walk in bitter. Call me schmaltzy, but to escape into the warmth of wonder seems far more inviting than to sit and nitpick. I dare you to suspend your disbelief. After all, once those nits are picked, they’re only going to end up biting you.

Our Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington pays tribute to the acclaimed stage and screen actor, who has sadly passed away at the age of 70 this weekend.

Bollocks. It isn’t the most profound word in the English language, it isn’t the most sophisticated, and it certainly isn’t the best word to start an obituary with. But bear with me. I start this article with profanity not as a means of flippant disrespect but as the very opposite. Swearing is commonplace in film nowadays; it’s hard to find true examples of offensive language being actually that. But Tim Pigott-Smith was an actor who could easily twist his snarled lip around the most mundane of sentences and make them crackle with malice. Nowhere is this more true than in the climax of James McTeigue’s V for Vendetta when Pigott-Smith’s Mr Creedy sneers out the aforementioned single word with more quiet, powerful, effortless malice than most actors could muster in a whole career. It’s one of many incredible scenes in an entire film chock full of dynamite performances from which Pigott-Smith emerges as the standout. He makes Hugo Weaving’s masked assassin look like a pussycat. And it’s a scene that encapsulates his career as a whole both on screen and on stage. He was able to muster up characters, moods and invoke feelings from the most infinitesimal words and gestures. From the high drama of Shakespeare to the crazed colours of the Wachowskis’ Jupiter Ascending and Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, there was no world in which a Pigott-Smith character was out of place.

Tim Pigott-Smith was one of the most captivating and accomplished actors in a generation that included many greats, none of whom bested him. He oozed a charming menace, a polished sophistication and a smile that could flip into something far more sinister at the drop of a hat. He lit up Quantum of Solace with a dry, bookish charm and made impact amongst the stellar casts of many TV shows including The Hour, Strike Back and North & South. He proved an unbeatable straight man to Rowan Atkinson’s buffoonery in Johnny English, and could regularly be found keeping his head whilst all those around him lost their’s (see also Alice in Wonderland). His performance as the titular character in King Charles III garnered him outstanding reviews as well as Tony and Olivier Award nominations. It seems oddly appropriate with that in mind to say that he was truly one of Britain’s finest actors, and that he will be missed.

Tim Pigott-Smith | 1946-2017

Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington pays tribute to the acclaimed character actor, who sadly passed away at the age of 61 this weekend.

When I was nine years old, most of my friends wanted to be Michael Owen or David Beckham. When I was nine years old, I wanted to be Bill Paxton. See, when I was nine years old, Bill Paxton was Jeff Tracy. Bill Paxton was the very definition of cool. He ruled International Rescue with a Southern twang and extreme swagger. He was the ultimate Dad (who else gave their sons a spaceship each?) and the definitive badass.

Whilst for me he’ll always be Jeff Tracy; to many, Paxton will never be forgotten, or bested, for his role as Private Hudson in Aliens. He brought life to another gung-ho marine and stood tall in a cast full of peppy, unique performances. Aliens was one of Paxton’s many, many contributions to pop culture. His collaborations with James Cameron made them the De Niro and Scorsese of spectacle filmmaking. He brought weight and gravitas as Master Sergeant Farell in Edge of Tomorrow, handing Tom Cruise his bottom with a hammy delight. He dug up love stories from the bottom of the ocean in Titanic, went to space in Apollo 13, and was fabulous in the brilliantly barmy Twister. Paxton was the definitive bad guy in Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD too, brightening up the screen, being the crown jewel of the show’s best storyline. He was, and still is, the only man to be killed by the Predator, the Xenomorph and the Terminator. As a key part of pop culture, his place is absolutely undeniable.

Bill Paxton didn’t just get the good roles, he owned them. He always buzzed up the screen no matter how good the material was; whatever a film was doing around him, Paxton was always enjoyable to watch, and more often than not, the best thing in it. It’s a skill that shouldn’t be underestimated. And neither should his work. People will be quoting Private Hudson and watching Bill Paxton films until the cows come home (or spinning around in a tornado). And so they should.

 

Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington reviews the long-awaited sequel to the 2014 breakout franchise-starter.

So the old maxim goes: if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. But do make it bigger, better, ballsier, and infinitely more bombastically violent. The boogeyman is definitely back and he really really isn’t pulling any punches.

John Wick: Chapter 2 picks up where the first film ends – as the titular assassin (Keanu Reeves) singlehandedly reclaims his stolen car from a small army of Russian mobsters. This closes off his streak of vengeance and leaves John free to live a peaceful life with his adorable-if-unnamed dog. But as Ian McShane’s Winston prophetically foretells John in the first film, “You dip so much as a pinky back into this pond, you may well find something reaches out, and drags you back into its depths.” And lo, it isn’t long until Riccardo Scamarcio’s Santino D’Antonio arrives to plunge John headfirst back into the murky waters with a favour that cannot be refused.

After the success of the first film, it would be easy for the team behind John Wick to rest on their laurels and stick everything in for a quick rinse and repeat. Instead they expand the mythos and iconography of the rich world they had previously established. The action in John Wick is so exceptional, it would be enough for the director Chad Stahelski to coast on mere choreography alone. There is enough visceral momentum in the first ten minutes of Chapter 2 to leave most action movies trailing in the dirt. The action is inventive, graceful, and brutally balletic. Yet Stahelski and writer Derek Kolstad take time to explore their underground world of assassins and high councils, establishing a lore that’s fun and fascinating in equal measure, and the viewer is drawn into this dark and delectable underworld.

It helps, of course, that this is a world populated with larger than life characters ably given life by an incredibly game cast. Reeves, once again, showcases anger and the grim resignation of a man determined to convince himself that he really is only working that one last job. The supporting cast squeeze all the zest they can out of their roles. Ian McShane and Lance Reddick both shine in their respective roles as hotel manager and concierge. It seems that nobody could be having more fun than McShane is until Laurence Fishburne pops up; clearly having a ball as character best summed up as Dicken’s Fagin in a silken dressing gown. Roby Rose also stands out as a deadly mute assassin intent on wiping John Wick from the face of the earth. Even then I’m neglecting the stony-faced gravitas of Common and the allure and power of Claudia Gerini’s mobster boss. The cast does an incredible job of lending depth, individuality and ice cold coolness to thumbnail sketches. All the cast make an impact, with enough quirks and personality to ensure their characters are remembered. Even if that impact comes from the fact that they’re being played by Peter Stormare.

John Wick: Chapter 2 is a film that manages to get everything right about sequels, expanding and improving on the first film whilst remaining true to what made it unique in the first place. The film is perhaps best summed up in a scene during its latter half, in which John races through a museum filled with priceless works of art – slaughtering those who stand in his way. It is a scene accompanied by a reworking of the Presto from Vivaldi’s Summer by Tyler Bates and Joel. J Richard that can only be described as outrageous. John Wick: Chapter 2 is a film that, like those museum pieces, takes the breath away. It combines beautiful gut wrenching violence and fabulously bastardised Vivaldi with marble sculpture and artistic flair. It’s big, smart, slick fun that isn’t afraid to indulge in a little extravagance. After all, this is a film about a guy who killed three men in a bar with a pencil. “A fucking pencil.”

9/10

John Wick: Chapter 2 is out in UK cinemas tomorrow, February 17. See the trailer below:

Our Podcast Producer Thom Hetherington reviews Ben Affleck’s gangster epic.

Live By Night is a film that is by no means the sum of its parts. But the parts here constitute such an embarrassment of riches that the film still manages to be thoroughly entertaining. It’s just frustrating knowing that it could have been so much more.

Affleck’s fourth film as a writer/director finds him tackling the story of Bostonian Joe Coughlin (Affleck), a crook making a living off bank jobs and bootlegging. Unfortunately Joe’s passionate and dangerous liaisons with Sienna Miller’s Emma, the girlfriend of ruthless Irish mob boss Albert White (played by the brilliant Robert Glenister), soon land him in hot water. Following on from the collateral of this doomed affair, the film follows Coughlin’s embittered rise from bootlegger to gangster, and the people caught up in ruthlessly in his wake.

Trying to write a plot summary for Live By Night is an almost impossible task. The film takes various large leaps in time and setting and abandons and introduces characters at the drop of a hat. There’s probably a 5-hour cut of this film somewhere that’s far superior to this, surprisingly lean, 2-hour 9-minute one. Whilst credit must go to Affleck for trying to cut together a brusque film, the film feels at once choked and freed by its current running time. Live By Night plays like someone took the omnibus of an incredible three-part TV show and tried to make a two-hour film out of it. What’s incredible is that is still stands up.

This quality is in no small part due to the cast, led by Affleck himself, all of whom make as lasting an impression as the film allows (which is never enough). Elle Fanning in particular gets close to stealing the film right out from underneath everyone else’s noses, giving a powerful performance as a victim of Joe’s continued strive for power and domination. Fanning quietly demonstrates complete control of the screen, as easily goes toe to toe with heavyweights such as Chris Cooper. The problem is that the film is stuffed with so many reminders of the cost of Coughlin’s ruthless quest for dominance, many of which come straight out of his own mouth. “Joe was once a good man” is the slogan emblazoned across the marketing for Live By Night, but the problem with the film is that it never delves deeply enough into this. Affleck’s performance captures well the anguish Joe feels, but there’s never a sense that the film truly does. This is a picture at odds and ends with itself to make Joe relatable, but as a result it seriously undermines his credibility as a mobster.

And, as with the poster, this is a problem that’s writ large across the whole film. Robert Richardson shoots the film with panache, cramming in sweeping areal shots and colourful fireworks aplenty, but never quite captures the grit and grime of Coughlin’s life. Whilst the film’s visuals capture the allure and beauty of the gangster lifestyle, the script is telling a story about the misery and nastiness of it, about the sticky compromise of trying to survive. The script itself (adapted from Dennis Lehane’s novel), however, is one of the film’s strongest virtues, with Affleck attempting to marble together rich themes and poetic dialogue with the rough grime and reality of the life Joe leads, a feat he almost pulls off.

Live By Night is a film as frustrating in hindsight as it is entertaining to watch. It’s frustrating to think of how much better this film would have been as a television series. Instead we get a whole saga crammed into just over two hours, bringing with it all the pitfalls and joys that one would expect form this. Whilst the action and acting are second to none, you’re left feeling that it’s a shame the whole film doesn’t live up to these standards, a frustration heightened by the fact that is very nearly does.

6/10

Live By Night is in UK cinemas now. See the final trailer below: