Alex Dewing reviews Simon Amstell’s bittersweet comedy.

A breakup plays out on the screen.

“I love you”, says one man.

“You hesitated too long”, replies the other.

It is an opening that takes you by surprise, no more so than when the reel seems to snag. A figure, the very same who hesitated just a moment before, rises in front of it all and turning, seemingly to the audience, asks whether the scene is any good. This is Benjamin, a filmmaker riddled with anxiety surrounding the release of his second film. A vegan who, as we come to find out, struggles more than most when it comes to the world of romance. From these opening minutes alone, it is evident that much of this bittersweet story comes from director Simon Amstell’s own experiences, and the honesty of it is palpable throughout.

Benjamin is a quiet film. Between the awkward meetings and charged arguments, there are journeys on the bus; moments where Colin Morgan’s Benjamin is free to smile to himself at the prospect of a new relationship, or start from a nightmare following a strange evening at a near-strangers flat. These meandering scenes offer brief respite amidst the non-stop grins throughout the rest of the film. As a comedy cynic, I did not expect to laugh as often or as hard as I did here, despite the film’s clear standing in the ‘Laugh’ branch of the festival. Even the movie’s humour is low in scale, though high in results. Media satire plays a large role here – a cameo by Kermode and Mayo certainly leaves a cinephile audience in stitches.

Meanwhile, Benjamin pokes fun on a more personal level; for every bumbling film screening introduction, there is an equally farcical attempt at making romantic advances, or consoling a friend. Underneath it all, too, is a consistent sense that the humour comes from a place of reality. Benjamin, alongside his best friend and stand-up comic Stephen (Joel Fry), unknowingly works his way into increasingly ridiculous and stressful situations. His comic troubles aren’t at all far from the awkward plights we find ourselves in day-to-day, which makes it that much easier to empathise and laugh with (and sometimes at) him. Speaking about his comedy, Amstell said that he is “telling the truth each time. And that’s what it will always be about”- an intention that is strongly felt through the entirety of the film.

Morgan carries a charm to the emotional disarray of Benjamin. His nihilistic attitude (to settle his fretfulness, his producer lies him down cooing “we’re all going to die”), as well as his nervous ticks (more often than not Benjamin just cannot keep his mouth shut) are characteristics that are certain to dissuade some viewers. But to many, these will anchor an emotional attraction. Simply put, he’s weird. And many of us are.

“He’s probably me when I was in my late twenties…” says Amstell “…so [he’s] like a deranged lunatic.” Morgan gives a strong and intimate performance, one that leads you to ask why he stars in so few films. Moreover, his chemistry with up and comer Phénix Brossard, who plays Noah (the “skinny and well-lit” French musician that Benjamin so desperately wants to fall for) is creditable, though the latter’s character is undeniably less fleshed out than his counterpart.

It is a shame that by the final act the film turns even further inwards. Narrowing the focus solely on Benjamin’s emotional troubles and thus rendering the film a little lost. With 15 minutes to go, it’s difficult to see how the narrative can be wrapped up, especially since it’s one that seems to revel in a more character driven approach. Benjamin’s arc rounds itself off slightly too neatly and without a truly satisfying catalyst. Similarly, a subplot centring around the emotional upset of Fry’s Stephen isn’t engaged with deeply enough to be justified, though further comments on the idea of the ‘tortured artist’ that seems inherently part of the creative industry today.  

It’s good to see Amstell developing a more assured approach to his work; in only his second feature, he shows huge promise. Benjamin has a cinematic softness to it, but finds itself strongest when celebrating its realism or relishing in its comedy. As heartfelt as it is hilarious, Amstell and Morgan find a balance between the humour and emotional drama. This is a film that will divide audience reactions but deserves to be seen, if only for a good laugh. 

8/10

Benjamin has not yet acquired a release date or trailer. It premiered at the BFI London Film Festival on October 19th.

Xin Yi Wang runs through a few films from the London East Asian Film Festival, which ran from the 19th to the 29th of October.

Names such as Akira Kurosawa, Wong Kar-wai and Ang Lee might ring a few bells for cinema fans, but the truth is East Asian cinema is a vast industry unknown to most Western audiences. Of course, the lack of accessibility is a factor – Asian releases aren’t come by as easily as those from Hollywood, and language is another barrier that might diminish interest. For the second year running, the London East Asian Film Festival (LEAFF) has been a welcome presence both for education and as a method for the Western world to access the gigantic archive of East Asian cinema, screening new releases from contemporary filmmakers and retrospective films.

LEAFF was a diverse array of experiences – I’ve seen quiet auteur films right before huge multi-language blockbusters, and productions scaling from minuscule to grand. In addition to screening films, LEAFF hosted plenty of Q&As, allowing for interactions both immersive and educational. The experience opened up my knowledge, and is an exciting and engaging new film festival in London to watch out for.

Phillips-Lee Best Film Award Winner: Soul Mate

Special Jury Mentions: Dancing with Jikji and Loser’s Adventure

Major films and highlights I unfortunately missed out on so won’t be able to discuss: Anarchist from the Colony, Dancing with Jikji, Loser’s Adventure, Have A Nice Day, Walking Past the Future, One Day, The Receptionist, The Table.

Historic Trauma

Two massive productions from South Korea were screened at the Festival, both dealing with pain and trauma in Korean history. The Fortress (Grade: 7/10) opened LEAFF with its cold and violent winter. This historical epic is set in 1636, when the invading Qing Dynasty tried to coerce the Joseon into surrendering and dropping their allegiance to the Chinese Ming Dynasty. Director Hwang Dong-hyuk traps the audience with his isolated characters behind the walls of the titular fortress – and between sweeping atmospheric landscape shots and intense battle sequences, its proportions are well balanced. Watching with some knowledge of historical context, there is a larger sense of impending doom that builds up well as one anticipates the ultimate fall-out.

Its main two characters – Choi Myung-kil (Lee Byung-hun) and Kim Sang-hun (Kim Yoon-seok) shine in stand-out performances, and it’s a shame Hwang incorporates unnecessary characters to create a typical soap opera effect rather than stripping the film down to two characters of conflicting ideology. There’s much ground to explore here, as both are justified perspectives that represents the nuances of political dilemma during wartime. Though Hwang should have devoted more attention to this as the central focus of the film, the conflict as it stands still resulted in a brilliant scene of debate.

While the Fortress traps its audience, Battleship Island (Grade: 7/10) suffocates. Looking to another moment of painful national history, this time we find ourselves on Hashima Island during World War II with father and daughter (among other characters – both these films contain an ensemble cast to reflect their scope), where under Japanese occupation Koreans are treated as subhuman slaves mining coal and performing other labours. Ryoo Seung-wan makes a deep impression with his direction – with hundreds of extras in many scenes all at once, it feels like watching an experienced orchestra conductor, staging and balancing several different instruments to chilling effect. The cinematography by Lee Mo-gae is equally astounding, squeezing and smothering its audience in a thrilling presentation.

Battleship Island is a predictable blockbuster that promises thrill and emotional tugs. Though there is nothing truly subtle about this film, especially with its nationalistic stance and anti-Imperial Japanese sediment, it is highly entertaining and engaging. Its lead actors, the charismatic Hwang Jung-min as Bandmaster Lee Kang-ok and Train to Busan’s Kim Su-an as his daughter Lee So-hee are wonderful as the heart of the film. Supporting actors are also brilliant, though I would argue that Song Joong-ki’s character and story are introduced too late within the film and feel too much like an afterthought for an important character.

Ryoo, however, needs to watch his use of tone. The first half is a bizarre mix of serious torture over satirical music that comes across like a weird Coen Brothers imitation, and deeply jars with the second half, a serious war film. Battleship Island is a long and flawed feature, but it definitely stood out during the festival.

Hong Kong: Now and Then

This strand of the festival accompanies the twentieth anniversary of Hong Kong’s return to China, choosing four films from Hong Kong’s large catalogue. Three of them were from the world of cops and triads, the fourth a soft melodrama about a deep friendship. Other than Triad Election (2006), I managed to catch all the films under this strand. As I am from Hong Kong, it was personally not much of an education compared to other films watched during LEAFF, but the choice of these four films to represent Hong Kong was certainly interesting.

Triad Election and Infernal Affairs (Grade: 8/10) represent the “then” – Hong Kong is famous for its own genre of gangster films, and Infernal Affairs is undoubtedly one of the most famous examples of that genre to Western cinemagoers. Just four years after its 2002 release, Scorsese remade it into The Departed, very similar to the original. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to Infernal Affairs that I watched its Hollywood remake first, as I not only had a very strong idea of its plot and character complexities, but resorted to making constant comparisons between the two films. In my reading, a focus on critical comparison took over – what was changed? What were the different choices made in shooting a same scene?

The original is undoubtedly a marvel. Directors Andrew Lau and Alan Mak’s handle of suspense and thrill stands the test of time, keeping Infernal Affairs constantly fresh and engaging. It has a strong sense of place and culture, utilising Hong Kong’s gritty urban jungle and over-crowdedness to be a player in our protagonists’ psyches, and we find ourselves constantly on rooftops for a breath of fresh air. Though – and I am making a comparison with its remake here – certain scenes fly into a more “cheesy” territory that might not have aged well, its characters and psychological intensity truly cement the film in its status.

Tony Leung is completely mesmerizing in his role as Chan Wing-yan, living on the edge of a breakdown and constantly risking to dangerously tip over. Even so, he maintains a charisma that makes him stand out, allowing the audience to empathise and root for him as our hero. Andy Lau as Lau Kin-ming is on par with Leung. While Leung is more hot-blooded, Lau reacts with quiet intensity, anxiety lingering in his stoic expressions. Two sides of a coin, their identities and lives interlink, sometimes even crossing over to their own, real identities. Not only are they under constant pressures as undercover individuals, their identities and sense of self are constantly in crisis – could you still consider Chan a policeman, and Lau a gangster?

Representing the “Now”, the second Andy Lau flick of the strand is screened. The weakest of the films, Shockwave (Grade: 4/10) is a modern-day popcorn movie that feels more like an unsubtle propaganda film than anything else. It is open in the way it plays with emotions and predictable in its plot, and overall is a typical blockbuster – not really fresh in any sense. A plus side is Jiang Wu giving a loud and dramatic performance as the villain; he mixes up the film with energy and should be commended for his intimidating presence. Phillip Keung’s performance as Chief Inspector Kong, conversely, goes over the top – the character is quite unnecessary to begin with, and the performance frequently dips into “too much” territory.

Credit where it’s due for an adrenaline-fueled thrilling ride and an education on different types of bombs – but other than that it’s more disturbing in its unabashed praise of the police force, very weak characters, and the use of Mandarin as the language spoken in a film set and representing Hong Kong (in a film that goes out its way introducing landmarks of the city, the total absence of spoken Cantonese makes it a very uncomfortable watch). If anything, it is representative of the influence of Mainland China in Hong Kong Cinema since the late 2000s, and the need to go around censorship for box office returns while appeasing the Chinese government makes it certainly a problematic piece post-Occupy Central.

Maybe in order to examine Hong Kong cinema “now”, one does have to factor in Mainland influences. The only thing that made Soul Mate (Grade: 7.5/10) qualify to be in this strand is its director Derek Tsang, who is from Hong Kong. The winner of the Phillips-Lee Award in competition at LEAFF, it is a beautiful film about a friendship since childhood, and both an exploration in coming-of-age and a take on deep female relationships not commonly portrayed to such depth in Chinese cinema. A soft melodrama, Tsang tugs emotional strings extremely frequently, complicating character relationships in the likes of soap operas but nonetheless leaving you with a strong impression of characters Qiyue (Sandra Ma) and Ansheng (Zhou Dongyu).

It does fall into cliché grounds though – I rolled my eyes when I realised the central factor that threatens their friendship is a man. Even worse, this man isn’t as well rounded as the female protagonists, making both his character and the story arc of the love triangle boring. It is a shame, as Ma and Zhou are both excellent in their portrayals of emotion, heartbreak, support and happiness. Ansheng’s energy, personality and struggles behind her free-willed stubbornness are vivid in a tour-de-force from Zhou, and Qiyue, Ansheng’s foil, balances her wildness with restriction and nuance in Ma’s heartbreaking performance. Tsang constantly steers the film into a fresh, new take, then immediately backs into clichés of the established Chinese romance genre. Ultimately, the film is an impressive feat.

Death, Mourning, and Grief

The two other films I caught can be linked through their themes of death and grief. Blank 13 (Grade: 8.5/10) was a festival highlight – a quiet and small production from director Takumi Saito, it dives into the complexities of people, grief, and family. Set during the funeral of a deadbeat father, Saito intercuts between the now and then as son Koji (Issei Takahashi) reminiscences the past. The title sequence is placed in the middle of the film, dividing Blank 13 into two while indicating of a tonal shift. The first part is heavy, relying on Koji’s memories while showcasing his father’s abandonment of his family, and more traditional, while the second half shows another side of his father through a collection of odd acquaintances at the funeral.

People are complex – the father might have been terrible to his family, but he was kind to strangers and friends. Two sons grasp the concept differently, with Koji being more forgiving, while it is too much for his brother. Their mother (Misuzu Kanno), who the director claims the story is truly about, is an intensely inward character whose presence is barely seen but always felt. It is rooted in realism, containing real human emotions, struggles, and finding humour in awkward circumstances. Ending on an emotional high note, Saito has created a touching success that stays with you long after.

As part of the retrospective strand of Japanese Cinema, I saw Naomi Kawase’s The Mourning Forest (Grade: 6.5/10), winner of 2007 Cannes Grand Prix. Focusing on the relationship between a nurse Machiko (Machiko Ono) and an old man Shigeki (Shigeki Uda) suffering from dementia at a nursing home, Kawase reveals how two individuals in grief find comfort transcending age and gender, and their relationship blossoms into something intricately built and precious.

Machiko mourns for her child while Shigeki mourns for his wife, and though Machiko never explicitly mentions her pain they reach a mutual understanding. The pace however, is at times excruciatingly slow, and can get very disengaging as Machiko and Shigeki hike in the woods. It is a hard film to watch with certain confusing scenes, but is nevertheless beautiful in its own exploration of grief.

Closing Gala: Outrage Coda

The Closing Gala of LEAFF, Outrage Coda (Grade: 7/10) is, well, outrageous in its ride. The finale of Takeshi Kitano’s Outrage yakuza trilogy, the abundance of characters and spiderweb of relationships absolutely confused me at first as I have not watched the first two films. Even so, by the end of the film I had a clear idea of its mafia world and complications, so that is a feat by Kitano. Filled with betrayals, violence and yakuza politics, its fans are in for a treat as we follow Otomo’s spree to avenge his friend after he was crossed.

Working as both director and actor, Kitano is at the centre of it all, and his Otomo is fascinating to watch. Mainly suffering in quiet rage, Otomo unleashes hell on the Japanese yakuza, completely intimidating yet brilliant to root for at the same time. Its lack of female characters is noted – this is an extremely masculine film, not surprising at all as it plays traditionally in the gangster genre, which by itself is a masculine playground. The pacing only gets more and more intense, completing the trilogy with absolute exhilaration from start to finish, closing the festival with a boiling finale.

The London East Asia Film Festival was established in 2015 as a non-profit arts organisation to champion the growing collaboration and diversity in East Asian filmmaking.

Check out the LEAFF website here: https://www.leaff.org.uk/

Milo Garner reviews Haneke’s latest drama.

Happy End is not a title one would expect to see attached to a film by Michael Haneke. Haneke’s films are typified by their focus on violence, malaise, and various other soul-crushing ills of society; there isn’t much room for happiness. And this has not changed in Happy End. The thick irony of the title instead hints at a different, yet still unique, feature of the film – that it is a comedy. Or a comedy of sorts, black as midnight on a moonless night. These are the sort of laughs that don’t quite overwrite the sense of unease that otherwise pervades most of Happy End; in fact, they might well emphasise it.

The basis for this rare humour is familiar ground. The film opens in 9:16, the much-maligned aspect ratio of a phone in portrait, portraying a sort of Snapchat-esque live video app. We watch a woman go through her nightly routine, unsettlingly narrated via text message by the mysterious cameraperson. After this extended shot we see a hamster fed anti-depressants to obvious effect. More shocking is to find the perpetrator behind the phone to be Ève (Fantine Harduin, in a brilliantly sociopathic performance), a pre-teen who later repeats the hamster experiment on her own mother. Just as he took on VHS and its enabling of snuff film in his 1992 Benny’s Video, Haneke is now indicting social media and its ability to encourage disturbing acts for online infamy. Initially his blunt presentation of the subject might invite rejection – there’s nothing particularly profound in an old man implying new technology will lead to societal collapse (again). But only this year the torturing of a disabled man was livestreamed on Facebook, marking reality far more extreme than anything Haneke deems fit to show in this film.

Haneke’s self-referentiality doesn’t stop here. The social media theme is continued through the story of an affair between Ève’s father, Thomas (Mathieu Kassowitz) and a masochistic musician, reminiscent of The Piano Teacher. This segment seems more loaded toward dark humour than any serious meaning: the erotic messages displayed on-screen are simply funny, and stand out against the general tone of the film. But the most blatant is yet to come – after Ève’s mother is hospitalized, her father takes her to live with her stepmother (the familial connections quickly become confusing) in the home of her grandfather, Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant).

Those who know their Haneke, and many who don’t, will remember that his last film, 2012’s stunning Amour, also starred Trintignant as a character named Georges. To learn that this Georges had killed his wife some years earlier solidifies the connection even further, let alone his chilly relationship with a daughter played by Isabelle Huppert – is this the Haneke Extended Universe? These dreams are quickly snuffed by the details, with Georges’ wife named Eve rather than Anne, and his daughter Anne rather than Eva (in what must be a conscious reversal); but the very inclusion of this mild lampooning of the interconnected worlds Hollywood is trying to concoct is funny in itself. Beyond rejecting this Hollywood trend Haneke also seems to be rejecting many of the new acolytes he gained from Amour itself. That film was unusually tender for Haneke, touching rather than cutting, and genuine in tone. With Happy End he reverses this entirely, creating a harsh and ridiculous criticism of the bourgeois, the comedic element making for an even greater tonal shift. The resulting film does not come near to the utter brilliance of Amour, but I can appreciate the radical change.

The main plot of Happy End, beneath the various overlapping subplots (reflecting Code Unknown to an extent), is the plight of Georges, who wishes to join his wife and so escape his miserable existence. Euthanasia is a tricky subject, and in his renewed disruption Haneke decides to tackle it in about as insensitive a manner as possible. This is by centring the issue on an unspoken agreement between Ève and Georges – the budding sociopath will be the one to help her aging grandpa go. This is by far the strongest dynamic of the film, and results in a perfect ending, both unutterably bleak and absolutely hilarious. It’s the kind of effect most of the film is trying to achieve, but only here does it work entirely. But it’s such a punchline that much of the film before is justified by its inclusion.

Another issue the film combats is the toxicity of the European upper class, exploring the ennui and boredom they suffer, and the aimlessness and self-destructiveness that beset their every action. The Laurent family, a complex beast that Haneke leaves unnecessarily obscure, represent all he despises in that part of society. This is, again, not new territory for Haneke (think The Seventh Continent, or The White Ribbon), but it works well enough – mainly due to the ever-brilliant cinematography by Christian Berger and the sharp performances, particularly from Trintignant and Huppert. But for one of Europe’s great auteurs, it’s easy to find ‘well enough’ a little disappointing. While many of the themes of the film are sound, they don’t quite cohere – there is a lingering sense that the film is incomplete, that all but Georges’ story lack that necessary conclusion to bring the narrative together. But even as a lesser work of Haneke, Happy End is still surprisingly funny, and vicious enough to remain engaging despite its faults.

7/10

Happy End premiered on October 9th in the UK, at London Film Festival. It will be out in UK cinemas from December 1st. Watch the trailer below.

Milo Garner examines Claire Denis’ latest dramatic feature.

Michael Hanake’s Happy End seemed novel in its comedic contrast to his typically austere filmography, but he isn’t alone in this sudden change of direction. Claire Denis, French auteur extraordinaire, is director and co-writer (with acclaimed French novelist Christin Angot) of Let the Sunshine In, which might well be described as a rom-com. Far from the incestuous child rape of 2013’s Bastards, Denis’ latest concerns a wayward artist caught out of love. But, again like Hanake, Denis is remains in a thematic ballpark unmistakably hers; and though playing for a dry humour unseen in most of her work, she doesn’t settle for smiles all round.

Let the Sunshine In centres on Juliette Binoche’s Isabelle. The film opens with striking imagery of her in bed with a bulbous banker, Vincent (Xavier Beauvois). This uneven pairing is slowly explained as the narrative unfolds, with Isabelle unsure of herself – and unsure why she stays with Vincent despite his clear repugnancy, moneyed or not. One reason she offers is that by considering what a bastard he is, she is able to orgasm. But despite this seeming detachment from him emotionally, his cutting words – including the gem, ‘you are charming, but my wife is extraordinary’ – still seem to bite. As such Isabelle flows from one man to the next, her subsequent quarry a young and infuriatingly indecisive actor (Denis regular Nicolas Duvauchelle). Compared to Vincent he is far less interested in sex, and more in trying to build an emotional connexion, if one Isabelle is not necessarily aware of. A moment of the dry comedy that is infused throughout the film is the conversation the two have concerning their happiness that they have finally decided to stop talking. Denis might generally be a more visually focused director, but here there is a lot of talk – too much, as the point might be.

Other men Isabelle oscillates between include fellow artist Marc (Alex Descas, another familiar face for Denis), who is gentle but old; her ex-husband François (Laurent Grevill); and an attractive man she meets on the dancefloor (Paul Blain) who is outside of her ‘milieu’. That’s at least according to Fabrice (Bruno Podalydès), a jealous gallerist who, like many of the others, seems to have fallen for Isabelle. But therein is her problem: her inability to find any fulfilling connexion to any of these men. The question of the film, as posed by David Ehrlich in his review for IndieWire, is ‘what is one to do when they’re not in love?’ It is that flame Isabelle chases, but it’s predictably elusive. Less predictable, however, is the manner in which Denis approaches this problem. Rather than focusing on sex or the conventional pitfalls of affairs, she instead focuses on conversations between Isabelle and these men. The relationships are often elliptical or even off-screen, in the case of Vincent and François. After Fabrice questions her relationship with Paul Blain’s character, for example, she finds herself frayed and confronts her partner. We had only seen their meeting formerly, but much of their wider dynamic is portrayed in this single interaction.

This structural interest is matched by formal execution, particularly, as usual, in Agnes Godard’s camerawork. The use of colour and composition are faultless, as are some moments of motion. One such moment is a conversation between Vincent and Isabelle, captured as the camera pans and tracks between the two, so that they rarely share a frame. The rhythm of this movement means that we are often shown the reaction of a character, particularly Isabelle, rather than their lines, and so gain insight into the more important subtext to their relationship at that time. For Vincent this is a meaningless fling; Isabelle’s face doesn’t agree. This is naturally enabled by Binoche’s performance, which is typically excellent, managing both the dramatic heft of the film and its occasional comedic flourishes. For example, during a tour of Fabrice’s countryside abode – where he waxes lyrically on what it is to own the vast and pleasant lands at his disposal, and just at the moment I worry the film might be taking him seriously – Isabelle explodes in rebuttal to Fabrice’s self-aggrandizing pretensions. Gratifying and amusing. Another is the appearance of Gerard Depardieu as a kind of new-age relationship counsellor. As the credits play over the extended scene, Depardieu offers hollow advice to be ‘open’ to Isabelle, all the while subtly (or not so subtly) implying that he is her best option in love. But as abovementioned, the film is not necessarily playing for laughs, though it recognises the inherent comedy in its themes; themes Denis has formerly covered through a more serious lens (Friday Night, for example). This doesn’t, however, revoke Let the Sunshine In of its thematic power, even if it doesn’t quite reach the heights of her best.

8/10

Let the Sunshine In premiered in the UK on the 13th of October, at London Film Festival. Trailer below.

Xin Yi Wang reviews Sean Baker’s pastel-toned drama.

Laughter and screams in an intense game of catch, or quietly sitting on the pavement side by side enjoying ice cream cones with big smiles. These childhood memories capture a precious state of joyfulness that is seemingly lost to us once we grow older. Sean Baker’s The Florida Project is a beautiful portrayal of innocent times, bursting with energy that encapsulates a universal sense of childhood. A fresh, intricate piece driven by its strong characters, it is warming and heartbreaking without pulling any cliché strings.

We follow six-year-old Moonee (Brooklynn Prince) as she turns the community of Kissimmee, Florida (a city next to Orlando) into her personal playground. Living with her mother Halley (Bria Vinaite) in an extended-stay motel aptly named Magical Kingdom, Moonee’s up to small and big mischiefs with her friends over the summer, often to the headache of motel manager Bobby (Willem Dafoe).

Baker, known for his previous feature Tangerine (2015), which he shot on an iPhone 5S, returns to the traditional camera in not only the role of director, but as the writer, editor and producer. In a wonderful feat, Baker reimagines the small, run-down city bursting with colours and saturation. The purples of Magical Kingdom in particular turn the motel into a fairy-tale haven, expanding the magic of Disneyland without the extravaganza of the theme park.

One can see how the tourist attractions of Orlando influence its neighbours, as Kissimmee boasts its Orange World (The World’s Largest Orange Store, a real place) or huge gift shops with giant wizard heads. It is strangely surreal to see how elements of fairy-tale theme parks take over entire urban and suburban areas, especially juxtaposed with the reality of poverty that our characters experience. It is a hub of diversity, of all cultures and ways of life, all cast under the fantastical shadow of Disneyworld and Universal Studios. It is a perfect backdrop and low-key social commentary for a character piece centred on a child and her single mother.

Outrageous but contained within the realistic attitude of owning the world, our small protagonist draws from an infinite pool of daring and boldness. In her first major role and her second ever picture, Brooklynn Prince as Moonee is a revelation. Child acting doesn’t get better than this – she is an unbelievable whirlwind, ecstatic, brave, innocent, stubborn, fearing, and fearless. Moonee is a problem child, yes, but she is also so much more, deserving of protection and happiness, a realistic child who is reflective of who we were once. She will break your heart and reduce you to tears.

Bria Vinaite is the second revelation of the film, an unmissable breakout in her debut screen performance. Halley is a product of poverty and a lack of guidance, but she is also a full-fleshed person who Vinaite commands with confidence. Her aggression and carefreeness are spectacular and perplexing, and as Halley grows more and more unhinged Vinaite becomes exponentially more mesmerizing to watch.

The absolute heart of the film is none other than the completely raw and realistic bond and chemistry between Vinaite and Prince. Mother and daughter cling onto each other for survival, the source of each other’s happiness and purpose. It’s them against the world – the film is about Halley as much as it is about Moonee, and the explosion of charisma and personality ensues.

The balance between serious, mature themes and the innocent of childhood is masterfully designed by Baker. Though similar to Room (2015) in allowing us to mainly see the world through the eyes of the child, Baker interjects this with perspectives of adults – to good measure. He doesn’t shy away from the dangers outside fantasy, subtly setting scenes that remind us that despite Moonee’s fearlessness, she is no different than other children. As Halley grows desperate to make ends meet, the fantasy is slowly eroded by reality, but while the film builds up to darker undertones it does not abandon its original magical quality, nor give in to any conventions of melodrama.

More importantly, The Florida Project does not pass entitled judgment on our characters. Though we know Moonee is a bad influence to her friends and her mother’s lifestyle is not well-suited for child-raising, we accept this as our reality. Their subtle homelessness and nomadic lifestyle is handled very well, never defining our characters though it is the driving force behind Halley’s motivations. This neutrality is best kept by Dafoe’s Bobby, who – though he has to deal with all the different mishaps of the film – remains a guardian and protector trying his best to provide for them. Dafoe’s nuanced performance is definitely a fresh turn from the only veteran actor of the cast, taking a leave from his more sinister roles to effectively counterbalance Prince and Vinaite’s fires.

This sets the final act as a hard ethical choice. As events spiral out of control, what would be objectively better for Moonee’s wellbeing? In a manner comparable to the final thematic question of Gone Baby Gone (2007), the audience is faced with implications in the future of Moonee’s life with no easy solution. Baker makes no promises and answers nothing – ending the film with a sequence as ambiguous as it is abrupt, giving the audience the power of final choice. It is entirely up to interpretation, despite the fact that any solid conclusion would be uncomfortable to come to.

The acting is superb, especially given the majority of the cast involved are newcomers to film. The children are completely naturalistic, and aside from Prince, Valeria Cotto (who plays her friend Jancey) is also outstanding. Mela Murder, playing Ashley, is highly memorable, and Caleb Landry Jones as Bobby’s son is a welcome presence.

Though The Florida Project does not set out to articulate any sense of nostalgia, one can be immediately transported back to happier childhood days characterised by quick-but-deep, innocent friendships and life without care. Threading between fantasy and reality, it resonates deeply, transforming what might have been a bleak, dramatized story about a family living under poverty to a heartfelt sense of wonder and genuine engagement. It is definitely not to be missed.

9/10

The Florida Project had its UK premiere at London Film Festival on the 13th of October. It is out now in cinemas. Check out the trailer below: 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews Guadagnino’s seductive feature.

Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me By Your Name is a film defined less by its content, which is that of an almost rote coming-of-age romance, than by its form. The summer romance between Elio (Timothée Chalamet) and Oliver (Armie Hammer) is hardly unique, but under that Italian sun Guadagnino captures the moment inimitably. That is how Call Me By Your Name might best be described – a film of moments. Stolen glances, soft touches, a midnight tryst; these are not only captured through Mukdeeprom’s soft lens, but felt.

It’s 1983, and the setting is a non-specific idyll in North Italy. Mr. Perlman (Michael Stuhlbarg) brings his family here annually, but this year he also invites a young doctoral student. This student, Oliver, is there to aid him in his academic pursuits, but the arrangement seems rather lax. It is here he meets Elio, Perlman’s son, who exists as a type of counterpoint to Oliver in a very physical sense. Chalamet embodies the seventeen-year-old Elio, cutting a slim, even dainty figure. He is fragile in more than appearance, however, his expert touch on piano and guitar emphasising his nimble form, especially when playing the delicate melodies of Debussy. Hammer’s Oliver is, conversely, a kind of modern Adonis. Cast far older than his character to emphasise the age-gap in André Aciman’s novel, Oliver brims with confidence of a particularly American brand. Elio first mocks his cursory farewell, ‘later’, but it clearly figures into his charm. The age-gap is interesting in of itself, as it could easily fall into the trap of exploitation, or the appearance of such. Restraint, both in writing and direction, veer away from this pitfall. Oliver, though making the initial play, is subtle and reserved concerning his interest – Elio is ultimately in control of anything that may take place.

Subtle and reserved might well be bywords for Call Me By Your Name, which sees Guadagnino tone down his fairly loud style to emphasise the excellent performances at the film’s centre. The oft-mentioned ‘peach scene’ has been tempered substantially, though even then it seems a little out of place; the kind of thing that works better on the page in this instance. Rather than embracing the explicit, the film relies on its romantic tension to maintain interest. In its early sections the camera is keen to emphasise distance between the two leads, making sure to spot those glances that last a little too long, the doors left a little too ajar: the signs of an unspoken understanding. This naturally leads to a discussion on the context – in 1983 homosexuality was far from accepted, and so one might expect this film, as many others of the queer genre, to introduce the theme of intolerance around this point. However, it remains thankfully absent. The ghoul of homophobia exists only as a vague undertone, such as a reluctance to kiss in public; there is no antagonist hoping to out them to the world, no cruel parent that might split up the young lovers. This allows the film to breathe, and leaves it able to present the romance without an unnecessary creeping jeopardy.

The only conflict to feature prominently is internal, with Elio coming to terms with his sexuality and relationships. Alongside Oliver is Marzia (Esther Garrel), who is described accurately by Sight & Sound’s Paul O’Callaghan as a ‘part-time girlfriend’. Friends from childhood, the pairing probably seemed natural to Elio, as would his attempts to consummate this relationship. But there is a sense that it might be a form of compensatory posturing, such as when he brazenly declares to Oliver that he could have had sex with her the night before. Is this an assertion of heterosexuality against his internal confusion, or an attempt to gauge Oliver’s reaction? Very possibly a mix of the two. Elio’s father plays a curious role in this burgeoning romance, especially during a scene in which he discusses the shape of Greco-Roman sculpture with Oliver. ‘There’s not a straight body among them,’ he says, ‘they’re all curved.’ And in a moment of perhaps excessive blatancy, they’re ‘daring you to desire them.’ This light encouragement is, again, refreshing for the genre, and permits the audience to drop their guard.

After Elio and Oliver’s romance eventually blossoms, another feature of the film becomes particularly apparent – the soundtrack. Beyond Ryuichi Sakamoto’s graceful piano and some diegetic tunes of the 80s are a trio of songs by Sufjan Stevens, acclaimed folk singer-songwriter picked specifically by Guadagnino. After deciding there would be no narration in a traditional sense, Guadagnino thought the songs of Sufjan could be used as a form of meta-narrative – a contemporary voice to describe the emotion of a remembered past. The first song featured is a reworking of ‘Futile Devices’, a song that concerns a delicate and wordless love, and one that beautifully encapsulates the moment Elio and Oliver pass the bounds of friendship. The two other songs, ‘Visions of Gideon’ and ‘Mystery of Love’ are new compositions, and both also overlay essential moments in Elio and Oliver’s relationship, tracing the supple line between tenderness and dejection. After all, this is a romance of inevitable brevity, a moment in the sun.

8/10

Call Me By Your Name premiered on the 9th of October at London Film Festival. It’s out in UK cinemas on the 27th. Watch the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Xin Yi Wang on Yorgos Lanthimos’ latest chilling feature.

WARNING: This review may contain spoilers.

“You have beautiful hands.”

King Agamemnon kills a deer. He does not realise the deer he’s hunted down was sacred to the goddess Artemis, who rages against the king for his actions. In her fury, Artemis forces Agamemnon to sacrifice his eldest daughter, Iphigena, as punishment – a life for a life. So Iphigena dies, sacrificed for her father’s mistake.

The killing of the deer in Yorgos Lanthimos’ newest feature is both cause and effect. Surgeon Dr Steven Murphy (Colin Farrell) once carried out a failed operation that resulted in the death of a man, sparking grave consequences as he suffered the wrath of the man’s son, Martin (Barry Keoghan), who believed Murphy should claim responsibility. The sacred deer is killed and the price to be paid is to sacrifice another. In its death, the other deer becomes sacred as well, claimed by God.

Lanthimos carries his distinct style from The Lobster into The Killing of a Sacred Deer, continuing his signature deadpan black comedy in an even more extreme situation. Absurdist to the core, he introduces another dystopian world, surrounded and watched by its omnipresent Big Brother antagonist. His characters speak so matter-of-factly it’s off-putting, and as the film progresses the sharp language creates a range of effects, from ridiculous humour to downright discomfort. Clearly a master of his craft, Lanthimos confidently pushes more boundaries to a definite success.

The world inhabited by our characters is clean. The streets are clean, the language is clean, the hospitals are clean, and Murphy’s hands are clean. The interior and exterior of hospitals create a constant eerie atmosphere, looming in the background while our characters interact. The only people we really meet are our main family and Martin’s family – the other characters are all part of the medical world, not escaping the motif of cleanliness. There are barely any extras roaming down the streets either – this is thoroughly an empty and sparse landscape. Thimios Bakatakis’s photography is absolutely breath-taking, creating a subtle anxiety while intricate composition and swift camera movement visualises Lanthimos’s bleak and almost alien landscape.

In an absolutely chilling (and definitive breakthrough) performance by Barry Keoghan, he transforms from a peculiar boy to a manipulative higher power, forcing the audience to feel the presence of Martin at all times. Between this and Dunkirk, Keoghan has had a hell of a year, and rightfully so. Channelling genuine creepiness and pity, he constantly lurks and watches our main family. In great utilisation of Lanthimos’s deadpan style, his calmness is brutal and consistent – to the point he is never agitated even in situations where he seemed to be in a disadvantage. He cannot be harmed. Though we do not know how, he paralyses Murphy’s family, threatening them with death if Murphy does not comply with terms. He is God in the film. Lanthimos is not subtle about that.

So an ultimatum is received: Murphy must choose to kill one of his family members, or they all die. Which child would you pick to kill? Is this a choice parents could make? Lanthimos quietly subverts the “greatness” of parental love and the bonds of family, questioning in all his cynicism about the relationship between a parent and a child. To kill a member of the family to protect the rest– is this the greatest act of love, or the worst crime to be committed? Though his wife Anna (Nicole Kidman) is also threatened, she never seems to be a choice. We do not see Anna starting paralysis, and it is left ambiguous whether if she is also truly threatened. As a whole, Murphy was always going to choose between his two children.

Deer are innocent, but man is not. Why should children pay for the sins of their father? Why must the innocent suffer for the actions of the guilty? In both the original myth and the film, the father’s life is undoubtedly safe: that Murphy might kill himself seems to be out of the question. One of his children claims, “Father, you gave me my life, only you can take it away.” Though they are crazed words, the idea of parents having power over their children’s lives is a universal theme.

Children are forever subjugated to their fathers, but even kings must subjugate to God. This repressive hierarchy is a reality in culture and society. Sacrificing a child for God is not an unheard myth, and from the Binding of Isaac to the myth of Iphigena, fathers must fear God first before loving their children. One must not fight against this subjugation, and the one character who never accepts the fate of death is therefore our final sacrificial deer by “chance”.

It’s deeply uncomfortable how utterly powerless our characters are before Martin and death, just as man will always be feeble and weak against any higher power. In the final shot, they all look back at Martin, each with different emotions – hatred, judgment, shame, or even more. But they can only look: they cannot do anything to him. The audience holds its breath until the screen fades to back, and a collective silence falls.

Colin Farrell delivers another transformative performance in his second collaboration with Lanthimos, perfect with deadpan delivery. The actor-director combo complements each other so well it feels fully naturalistic, rising as one of the most exciting duos. Nicole Kidman is equally intense and a tour-de-force, her icy and cold eyes striking and powerful. Also another second collaboration in the film for Farrell and Kidman after The Beguiled, their chemistry is unquestionable. The children, Kim and Bob, played by Raffey Cassidy and Sunny Suljic respectively, are exceptionally fantastic as well – crawling on the floor with paralysed legs has never felt so absurd. Alicia Silverstone also stands out in a minor role.

With a track list consisting exclusively of classical music – including the likes of Bach and Schubert – the music is used in such a forceful way: it is at times grandeur and operatic, and at times screeching and screaming. It jumps on you as an accomplice to the film, always grabbing your attention, a highlight on its own.

This is not a film that lets you forget any of its imagery. It etches in your memory with all of its intensity, violence and pessimism.

Gracefully built up from the beginning, The Killing of a Sacred Deer slowly accumulates to one of the most intense shots in recent memory.

It is pure madness, and it will drag you down into a complete psychological horrorshow.

9/10

The Killing of a Sacred Deer had its UK premiere on October 12th at London Film Festival. It will be out in UK cinemas on November 3rd. Trailer below.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Calvin Law reviews the festival’s closing film.

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri differentiates itself from the rest of Martin McDonagh’s work by being arguably his least self-referential film to date – no arguments over what constitutes a shootout here. It is a dark and brooding film, taking on a difficult subject matter; and I’m glad to say it succeeds completely. Three Billboards is a film driven by anger begetting greater anger, never one-note in tone, and the palatable fury is as hilarious and poignant as it is biting and incisive. Though he skips the references, McDonagh’s familiar style remains evident in the film’s absurdist comedy, surreal dream-like sequences, and self-aware digressions on language (a hilarious argument about the correct terminology for police torture is particularly memorable).

We follow Mildred Hayes (Frances McDormand), a small-town lady with a heavy burden on her soul. Nine months after the rape and murder of her teenage daughter, with no culprits or leads in sight, Mildred decides to take the law in her own hands – so to speak. Renting three long-dilapidated billboards on the outskirts of the county, she calls out the police force for their incompetence and lack of concern regarding her daughter’s case. This puts her at odds not just with the local authorities but with the entire community of Ebbing, Missouri who revere them, especially Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson). What begins as the discontent of locals and irritation among the cops escalates between Mildred and the anti-billboards movement, led by the racist, unpredictable man-child Officer Dixon (Sam Rockwell).

As the local priest puts it, the townspeople are all with Mildred on finding the killer of her daughter, but ‘no one is with you on those billboards’. Not that Mildred cares. Like Marge Gunderson in Fargo, Mildred desires justice, and she is far less concerned for the feelings of others. One of the trickiest hurdles the film faces is to make our intentionally abrasive, cold protagonist engaging rather than off-putting. McDormand’s lifetime of collaborations with the Coen Brothers – who also have a penchant for writing difficult but sympathetic main characters – have more than prepared her for this challenge. In her juiciest role in a while, McDormand takes it by her biting wit and acidic tongue, and devours it with aplomb.

McDonagh’s script is as brilliant as you’d expect, as much a wordsmith with the Midwestern dialect as the Irish and Los Angeles tongue, and delivered perfectly by McDormand. Whether comparing the Catholic Church to street gangs, gamely chatting with a lovelorn suitor (an endearing Peter Dinklage), delivering justice to obnoxious teenagers in the most painful way, or dealing with a particularly threatening dentist, she’s a hoot. But in her heavier moments she is harrowing. The film requires her, within single scenes, to shift from drama to comedy to that fine line in between. You never feel a whiplash as this ball-busting paragon of justice morphs into a concerned motherly figure. She’s up for every challenge, every step of the way.

The rest of the cast have the equal challenge of not being overshadowed by its central performance, and acquit themselves beautifully in support of her. It helps that McDormand has always been the most generous of character actresses, and strikes up great chemistry with her onscreen son Robbie (Manchester by the Sea‘s Lucas Hedges), and Caleb Landry Jones, who gives an unexpectedly heartwarming turn as enthusiastic advertising executive Red. Dinklage, John Hawkes as Mildred’s vitriolic ex-husband, and Clarke Peters as a city cop all make the most of limited screentime. Even the likes of Kerry Condon, Samara Weaving and McDonagh regular Željko Ivanek make an impression with some memorable, hilarious moments. Of the ensemble, it’s Abbie Cornish who gets the short end of the straw in a somewhat thankless role as Willoughby’s wife, but she’s perfectly fine as well.

It’s Harrelson and Rockwell, of course, who are the stars of the supporting cast. Harrelson is a comic gem and a heartfelt presence as a man willing to do whatever it takes to find justice, equal parts annoyed and admiring of Mildred’s efforts. Rockwell is tremendous, playing up the uncouth redneck cop’s racist leanings and violent antics to darkly comical effect, and ultimately takes his character in an unexpected direction. Like McDormand, he’s giving career-best work here, and come awards season I hope both their names are in contention. As always, McDonagh allows actors to act out scenes in an almost theatrical style, while leaving enough stylistic touches to make it great cinema experience. Great musical sequences – a blend of Carter Burwell’s lovely score and Motown tunes – stick in your mind afterwards, accompanied by an unforgettable tracking shot culminating in a shocking act of violence.

The ending, without spoiling anything, seems designed to be divisive. Rather than showing and keeping the narrative going, we end on an ambiguous note. Honestly, I think it is one of the film’s most admirable choices. There are no easy answers for Mildred, and the audience is never given the expected way out, which is part of the beauty of Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. It is a strange and unusual journey we follow Mildred on, and all one can do is express the sentiments of one of her few loyal friends: ‘you go, girl’.

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri had its UK premiere at London Film Festival on October 15th. Watch the trailer below.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Calvin Law reviews John Carroll Lynch’s debut feature.

‘Realism’, a word discussed between characters in the opening scenes of Lucky, has a double meaning in this film. It is the acceptance of a situation as it is – in this case, not the fear of death, or the joy of life, but the simple acceptance of both. It is also the means with which one captures something true to reality. Lucky sums up both meanings of the word beautifully, through a fantastic turn by the late, great Harry Dean Stanton as the titular Lucky: a wisecracking old man who lives alone, and enjoys cowboy hats, crossword puzzles, and a fixed daily routine. In classic Stanton tradition he is also a heavy smoker and wonderful singer. As the film proceeds, we get more and more insight into this aged and continually ageing title character. Stanton never makes him too cuddly, doesn’t shy away from his irascibility, yet is absolutely endearing and lovable, heartbreaking and hilarious throughout. This being one of his two swansong performances of 2017 – alongside his terrific reprisal of Carl Rodd in Twin Peaks: The Return – only serves to amplify the poignancy of going through Lucky’s journey of ‘realism’. It is more than just a fitting finale to Stanton’s career; it’s up there with his last leading role in Paris, Texas (1984) as career-best work.

We’ve all been very fortunate – indeed, very lucky – to have had the privilege of Stanton onscreen for the last sixty or so years. Starting off as a bit player in a string of Oscar-winning pictures from Cool Hand Luke to In the Heat of the Night to The Godfather: Part II, he soon became a mainstay in all sorts of genre films, enlivening the screen with even the most minuscule role, and when given a bit more to do, would excel to an even greater extent. Nowhere was this more evident than in his collaborations with auteur David Lynch, where he could break your heart with a few words and glances (The Straight Story), and when given a more prominent role like the loyal private eye in Wild at Heart was simply brilliant. Lucky is another collaboration with Lynch – with two Lynches, in fact. David co-stars as Lucky’s friend Howard, in desperate search of his tortoise President Roosevelt (don’t ask which one). Respected character actor John Carroll Lynch (the chilling Arthur Leigh Allen in Zodiac) takes on first-time director duties, and he does an excellent job. Many would falter with the well-worn formula of elderly man confronted by an uncertain future, helped along his way by a quirky neighbourhood, but John Carroll Lynch does a superb job of putting his own distinctive mark on this sub-genre.

Comparisons have been made to Jim Jarmusch with Lucky, particularly to Stranger Than Paradise and Paterson, and there is indeed a ‘slice of life’ touch brought to the film. We watch Lucky go through his day-to-day routine: he keeps in shape with some morning yoga, then goes without fail to his local diner and banters with the manager Joe (Barry Shabaka Henley), then in the evening goes without fail to the local bar and banters with Howard and the couple in charge of the place (James Darren and Beth Grant). These scenes are broadly comic to begin with, and the screenplay by Logan Sparks and Drago Sumonja dropping down some juicy barbs for Lucky. Whether it’s sarcastically making puns through his crossword puzzle, or derisively mocking game show contestants on the television, Lucky is a joy to watch, a man simply content with life till a fall at home.

A medical checkup turns up nothing of concern despite his endless smoking, yet this minor accident puts his whole existence into perspective. The lifelong atheist Lucky begins coming to terms with what it means to come near the inevitable end. It is here the film takes a tonal change from broad comedy to poignant examination of morality. Remarkably, it remarkably does so without losing the humour and earnestness of its opening sequences. Though Lucky takes on some depressing topics it’s never a depressing film. Whenever a long speech is given on a heavy topic, it is delivered with grace, humour, and – above all – realism. When Lucky comes to verbal blows with a lawyer (Ron Livingston), it is subsequently resolved with a good-natured and hilarious diner scene containing just the right amount of emotional investment. When Howard makes a speech in honour of his tortoise, we are allowed to both laugh at and with him, while also sympathizing deeply with his plight. It’s a tricky balancing act the film nails to perfection.

The cinematography, painting the off-the-grid desert town in vivid detail, is only the standout among uniformly strong technical elements, and the ensemble cast as a whole is stellar (David Lynch and Tom Skeritt – in a wonderful cameo as a former marine – are highlights). The script is refreshingly free of cliche, knowing just when to stay away from the more soppy waters. But really, this is a showcase for its leading man through and through, and what a showcase. Whether it’s a gut-bustingly funny trip to an animal shelter, a recurring gag of Lucky trying to smoke indoors that culminates in a surprisingly tender moment, or an outstanding sequence where he attends a Mexican birthday party and bursts out into song, it’s a fantastic journey we take with Lucky, and a tender and fitting farewell to Mr Stanton.

9/10

Lucky premiered at London Film Festival on October 9th. Trailer below.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner examines Linklater’s latest.

Richard Linklater is famed for his varied filmography, but he is not merely a genre-hopper. His work can also be divided into two distinct parts. On one hand there would be the Before trilogy, Boyhood, and Waking Life, all of which might be described as art films. On the other, Bernie, School of Rock, and indeed, Last Flag Flying: his more commercial work. This division can be used to denigrate some of his output, with Linklater’s films often divided on the same line as ‘greater’ and ‘lesser’ – but even if mostly true, that isn’t to say the second set of films fail in their aims. Then again, you might be forgiven for thinking so in regards to Last Flag Flying. Its cinematography is grey and workmanlike – that is to say, uninteresting, despite the smooth editing that accompanies it. The synopsis sounds like a sort of typical flag-waver army-weeper, and the less said of the soundtrack the better. Despite these issues, however, the film impresses with its strongly written characters and matching performances.

Larry ‘Doc’ Sheffield (Steve Carell in another semi-serious role) tracks down an old friend, and finds him running a mostly deserted dive bar. This friend is Sal (Bryan Cranston), with whom Doc once served in Vietnam. After spending a while together, Doc has Sal drive him to the church of Reverend Richard Mueller (Laurence Fishburne), another who served with Doc thirty years prior. Shortly afterward Doc reveals his purpose – his son, a marine, has been killed in action in Baghdad, and he wishes to see him off with those he fought with. It seems the stage is set for some wartime sob-stories, but what unfolds isn’t quite as expected. Instead of acting as a vehicle for military praise, the film takes an anti-establishment route, and raises issue with the military directly. Given the 2003 setting, many of its themes are admittedly dated – it is generally accepted that the Iraq War is a Bad Thing, that the government lies, and that the military isn’t an infallible beacon of Americanism. Nonetheless, these ideas are communicated fairly well, if bluntly, and do inform the narrative enough to be justified. One fairly novel aspect is the direct comparison of the Iraq War to Vietnam, which isn’t laboured too heavily yet functions to marry the memories of the main cast to the realities of their present excellently. Of course there is only so far repeating ‘why were our young boys over there anyway?’ can really take a narrative, but luckily that’s not the main event.

That would be the three men at the centre of it all, each well-realized and thoroughly entertaining. The group has innate chemistry. First there’s Doc, typically meek and downbeat, and clearly quite easily influenced. He is a good man given a bad lot, making those few moments he does crack a smile all the more satisfying. Carell has recently had a bout of serious or semi-serious roles, and he always delivers; it’s impossible not to sympathise with his weary performance here. Beside him is Fishburne’s Mueller, once infamous in the war, now very much reformed. We might call it overcompensating, being an ordained priest and all. While his performance initially belies a sense of stiltedness, this is later justified – really he’s an expert at repressing his authentic self, which breaks through every once in a while in foul-mouthed fury. Mueller, in contrast to Doc’s good man beset with bad, is a bad man beset with good. Then comes Sal, by far the most entertaining of the three. But don’t take that to mean he’s some kind of unrealistic comic relief – he is unmistakably real, his (presumably) bad breath almost palpable through the screen. He misses his days as a marine and has done little with his time since, maintaining the rowdy humour soldiers are known for. He is brash, has problems with authority, but sees a sense of justice in total honesty. Cranston utterly hits the mark in portrayal, managing a performance both innately charismatic yet simultaneously repulsive – Sal is the Bad Friend you can’t help but stick by. These three also make up a comment on the long-term effects of war and how people cope with it – Doc found family, Mueller found God, and Sal found the bottle. A fourth spot at the table remains unfilled: the member of their unit who didn’t make it back.

These characters work their best when interacting. Their chemistry is genuine and provides the film its comedic backbone. One scene, in which the three old men decide to buy flip phones (now cleared for nostalgia, it seems), is especially effective in its portrayal of aged naivety when it comes to new technology. Their group confoundment at the idea of 500 minutes a month of talk time is both ridiculous yet humanly warm. Another in which they discuss their old ‘war stories’ (that is, their time spent in ‘Disneyland’, the makeshift brothels around military camps) is similarly strong, again evoking a sense these are real people as opposed to inserted military stereotypes. That isn’t to say they don’t sometimes reminisce about the horror of bullets whizzing over dugouts, as would be expected, but their characters are rounded otherwise. Sal, for example, seems at odds with himself, both claiming that he’s thankful the war is over for him, yet also yearning for it. Not so much for the violence and horror, but for the times when he was at his peak – proud, young, and able, though not quite noble. This is Linklater’s ultimate success with Last Flag Flying. Though it’s technically unimpressive and its narrative and themes are not quite as interesting as they could be, he has created a set of authentic characters inhabited by actors talented enough to fully realize them.

7/10

Last Flag Flying had its UK premiere at London Film Festival on the 8th of October. Trailer below.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Xin Yi Wang reviews Andy Serkis’s feature directorial debut and LFF opening film.

Jonathan Cavendish wanted to produce a movie and tell the story of his parents – his father’s battle with illness and his mother’s unconditional love and support. He became friends with William Nicholson, who wrote it into a script, and the script landed into the hands of Andy Serkis, then working on his planned debut feature, Jungle Book (2018).

Breathe does not pretend to be anything than what it is, and all the criticisms we might expect are true. It is a biographical picture, it is a personal picture for its producer, it tries to raise awareness of the illness polio, and as such it hits the predictable emotional and inspirational notes. It carries conventions of cliché and cheesiness, and sticks the landing without much breakthrough. What is surprising, though, is how much heart it contains in its two-hour run-time – leaving the viewer to walk away having warmed and with a sense of optimism.

Mostly operating within of the realm of fantasy, Breathe seems a departure for Serkis from his other works. Even so, he brings a familiar sense of magic into the grounded-in-reality, ordinary lives of Robin (Andrew Garfield) and Diana Cavendish (Claire Foy). The strong love and bond shared between our central couple is fairytale-like – especially in contrast to The Theory of Everything, another biopic easily recalled for comparison, as both contain a central couple with a husband battling a failing muscle illness and a wife in the position of support (to summarise crudely). Where The Theory of Everything is definitely the superior film and beautifully dives into the reality of a marriage falling apart, Breathe focuses on a passionate and stubborn love, pure yet containing all the intricacies of a real partnership, and does not contain the melancholy one might expect.

In a true “smiling through adversary”-meets-“keep calm and carry on” British-ness, one scene stands out as a real high point. The family decides to go on a holiday in Spain, and ends up singing and dancing around a campfire. The kindness of strangers, the strength of humanity and joy of life shine through, and the smiles are contagious. We follow this family as they go through one adversary after the other, and you can’t help but marvel at the bond they share and their positive attitude in life.

The film has a goal set out to inspire, and it is these little scenes and character moments that really achieve this, more than – for example – the main speech made by Garfield’s Robin about battling the disease. This scene brings Breathe into a very familiar cliché area, but as it is a biopic and follows true events, one can only sit back and accept its presence in the film, and watch Garfield being showered by applause.

The main issue with Breathe is its tone. Serkis seems to set out for a more comedic and light-hearted tone, but fails to balance it with the more emotional moments in the first act. What we’re ended up with is a constant shift between tones: one moment Robin is suicidal and straining his relationship with Diana, and the next Robin jokingly bets the length of his life with a friend for five pounds. The sudden transition into battling illness stands out like a sore thumb between the innocent courtship of our protagonists and Robin’s return home, which is a huge shame as it is the pivotal moment. The second act manages to find its footing and the third act reaches a much better balance, but from the trip to Germany onwards it feels like Serkis does not know what he wants the film to be. What starts out as a biopic of Cavendish’s life seemed to turn into the origin story of wheelchairs for victims of polio, then again swiftly shifts back into the personal life of Robin Cavendish. Another shame of this sudden change in focus is that it pushes Foy’s Diana and her excellent performance more to the sidelines for a good twenty minutes, reducing her character’s role at the same time.

Despite this, Garfield and Foy’s chemistry is strong, naturalistic, and easily the film’s biggest highlight. Their love is constantly challenged, but from the characters’ youth to their old age both actors maintain a perfect chemistry that superbly portrays the partnership Robin and Diana find in each other. Constantly breaking into a big smile, Garfield shows his versatility in both tragedy and comedy while balancing the physical control he needed for the role. It is a very physical performance, and though he tends to overact a bit in the more emotional scenes, he has been commended by Cavendish for his likeliness with his father. Foy embraces her role with every bit of wit and charm, maintaining a comfortable presence full of charisma and is simply perfect. Truly the heart of the film, she acts as the cornerstone between the protagonists, and her undying strength and love is another point of inspiration.

The supporting actors are also good fun – Hugh Bonneville and Stephen Mangan were pleasant in more minor roles, and Tom Hollander plays twins (as Serkis couldn’t resist using some motion capture) who provide nice comic relief.

There is no denying that Breathe is beautifully made and manage to pay a fair tribute to Robin and Diana Cavendish. There are few surprises in this film, which recycles plenty of material and concepts we’ve seen before. Ultimately, it is passable, and would be a joy to watch at home during a cosy night.

6.8/10

Breathe had its UK premiere at London Film Festival on the 4th of October. It will be out for UK general release on the 27th. Trailer below.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Editor-in-chief Sofia Kourous Vazquez reviews Eliza Hittman’s poetic feature.

Some may call 2017 a good year for queer cinema. At the February Academy Awards, Moonlight took home its Best Picture. British film God’s Own Country, currently still in cinemas, has achieved wide release and critical acclaim. Call Me By Your Name, recently premiered at London Film Festival, anticipates similar response. Now Eliza Hittman’s Beach Rats joins these releases with sensitive and understated flair. Along with its central theme of sexuality, the film is a gentle glimpse into a chapter of a coming-of-age story. Soft and uniquely set, Beach Rats throbs with quiet energy and vulnerability.

Beach Rats follows the life of Frankie (Harris Dickinson), a Brooklyn teen dealing with a terminally ill father and an increasingly confusing sexual orientation. He spends his time skylarking with friends on the boardwalk, smoking pot, and taking mirror selfies with the flash on. It’s a life of hyper-masculinity — girls, working out, cruising around looking tough — and one at odds with Frankie’s exploration of online gay chat sites. Dickinson, truly a breakout star in this role, delicately portrays a young man who knows exactly what he is but doesn’t know what to do about it.

Beach Rats is a character study above all else. The plot is fuzzy; it lopes along the seashore, browses games at the arcade, and mindlessly takes the train down to Coney Island. The viewers are silent companions to the activities of these teens, but when alone with Frankie we get an intimate understanding he lacks from anyone in his life. It’s these quieter moments that inform our observation of him in public contexts. We are taught to read subtle flickers of emotion on his face, and understand the weight of Frankie’s glances. In the local park, he notices his sister and her boyfriend holding hands on the swings. Reading past the bullying protective older brother act, we know when his eyes dwell on the interlocked fingers he is really thinking I want that.

A sense of longing oozes from the fabric of the film. Frankie certainly wants things — sex, companionship, perhaps love — but, as he often says to the men he video chats online, he’s not sure what he likes. The camera moves shyly between glimpses of muscles, arms, legs, and beads of gathering sweat on tanned skin, dealing in stolen glances and the almost overwhelming sensuality of young masculinity. The visuals are shrouded in the warm and tinted veil of Hélène Louvart‘s 16mm cinematography. Her work is light and summery, with a hint of bittersweet.

In the final portion of the film, Hittman slightly abandons the stylistically formless story-line for something more active and bold. Frankie’s bros, belonging to the strand of his life kept until this point successfully separate from his sexual experimentation, come along to one of his gay meetups, questionably passed off as an easy way to score drugs. Introducing a climax to the tension is necessary at this point, and concluding such an elusive film is an understandable challenge, but unfortunately in attempting to meet it the writing becomes inconsistent and flow is lost. The friends, who we’ve come to see as passive and aimless, gain a sudden sense of drive and unexpected threat. A glimpse of this potential earlier in the film would’ve at least slightly prepared us for their burst of homophobic energy. In fact, we lacked insight into their attitudes towards sexuality in general, something that could’ve woven Beach Rats’ two strands together into a tighter helix.

Representation of Frankie’s relationships to the women in his life leaves something to be desired; that isn’t necessarily depth but might be more screen time. Kate Hodge inhabits Donna, the boy’s mother, with naturalism and personality. Lacking is the space and time to understand the context of their relationship and family life, but the film designates itself as a conveyor through image rather than word very early on — we get to know little more than what is presented. Simone (Madeline Weinstein), Frankie’s girlfriend, is also portrayed effectively. Simone leads their affair, and is the one to step away when Frankie’s hot-and-cold, distracted persona, often verging on cruel and not made any easier by his drug use (…and the fact that he’s gay), becomes too much of a problem. Her maturity and security in life counters his state of disorientation. Thankfully, her agency just about elevates her from being merely Frankie’s foil.

Beach Rats is a good film, but it will have to fight comparison with Moonlight to be remembered. It’s beautiful, but in similar ways to Barry Jenkins’ lauded drama: it shimmers, it glistens, it’s shadowy and quiet. Strong lead acting helms its journey into an individual’s grappling with a seemingly oxymoronic existence. However, Hittman can set her film aside in its wandering, documentary style. With a unique poetic cinematic language, Beach Rats carves out its space.

7/10

Beach Rats premiered at London Film Festival on . Watch the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner considers Dee Rees’ historical drama from the LFF Headline Gala programme.

Mudbound opens with a visual metaphor that informs its entirety. Two brothers, Henry and Jamie McAllen (Jason Clarke and Garret Hedlund) are digging a grave for their father, when they come upon chains, then skeletal remains. A slave’s grave, one observes. Just under the surface of America lies its terrible legacy. It’s one some might shy away from, but it will inevitably be unearthed.

The film, set around and during the Second World War, follows two families living on a farm in Mississippi: one black, one white. The latter is headed by newlyweds Henry and Laura (Carey Mulligan), who decides to move to the farmland to fulfil a dream of his. They settle on the land and quickly assert themselves as landowners. Henry visits the black family – the Jacksons – now under his employ, and softly demands that they help him unpack. This will be a theme throughout the film – Henry’s loud knock on the door signalling a request that dare not be denied. Henry isn’t an ‘active’ racist, as it might be termed, but he has behind him the coercion of white America, and will happily stand by as his very racist father (Jonathan Banks) splutters demeaning and insulting language. He represents the typical man of his position – rarely an active aggressor but guilty all the same. Director Dee Rees realizes this power balance excellently, backed by Clarke’s subtle performance – he isn’t played as a villain, but his leanings are clear enough.

Hap (Rob Morgan) is the head of the Jacksons and, presumably due to his age, is wary of disobeying even unreasonable demands by his white employers. He attempts to guide his family towards peace with the McAllens, and for much of the first half of the film largely succeeds. Betraying its literary roots, the story has a lot of disposable subplots and characters introduced who, while developing the core players, have little to add to the essence of the film. In fact, this essence only becomes clear halfway through, after Ronsel Jackson (Jason Mitchell) and Jamie have both returned from the Second World War. On their return they are changed men. Admittedly we didn’t know them (especially Ronsel) much before the war or earlier in the film, but the rest of the narrative is theirs. Ronsel, having tasted a hint of equality overseas, is no longer willing to supplicate himself to the powers that be. This encapsulates a historical phenomenon of the time that pushed the civil rights movement, and is excellently portrayed here. Jamie has a similar experience, his life being saved by a black fighter pilot, resulting in him swearing he’ll do some good as a result.

This progresses into an authentic friendship between the two. Rather than the two immediately bonding (as soldiers might), there is a fair level of reticence, especially (and naturally) on the part of Ronsel. Overcoming the hard-set racial distrust is no easy thing, even in this context. From here on the film considers their friendship in regards to the precarious balance between the two families of the farm, and an attempt to bridge the gap is ultimately what ensures the tragedy rumbling under the surface will come to the fore. Given the quality of this second half the aimlessness of the first is only made clearer – much of the it could be cut while retaining most of the film’s emotional strength, especially given that Jamie and Ronsel feature only occasionally in early scenes.

A further issue compounding this is the editing, which is initially a little unsure. Cutting between the two families, often without direct dramatic purpose, can be jarring enough, but it gets worse when the war is introduced. While intercutting drama both sides of the Atlantic might function on paper, it’s awkwardly realized here, especially given the lack of substance in the battle scenes. Seeing characters we don’t know too well caught up in context-free ‘war stuff’ is not particularly compelling, even if some events will be revisited later on. Luckily, however, the camerawork is a step above, with some wonderful pastoral imagery. An opportunity is lost in texture, however. The narration is not short on reminding the audience that anything and everything on the farm is mud-caked, but this is not emphasised in any particular way visually. Again, the literary roots of the film rear their head.

Mudbound’s third act follows the tragic trajectory to its natural conclusion, and although predictable it functions as an effective payoff nonetheless. Unfortunately the film fails to conclude on the scene that opened it, with a ‘studio ending’ type thing tacked on the final few minutes; fortunately, it isn’t destructive enough to undo what comes before. While an imbalanced and uneven affair, Dee Rees has still managed to create an intermittently strong and accessible film, whose qualities certainly outweigh its faults.

7/10

Mudbound premiered in the UK on the 5th of October at London Film Festival. Trailer below: 

Xin Yi Wang runs through the anticipated highlight films from the 12th edition of the London-based Korean Film Festival.

In recent years, Korean Cinema has experienced a flourish in ground-breaking filmmaking and exciting features. Here are a few selections from the London Korean Film Festival’s 2017 program.

A Cycle of Romance

Both opening and closing films are studies of romance, whether that concerns the love between a man and his mistress, or a long term relationship where early sparks are replaced by realism and the ordinary. Hong Sangsoo’s third feature of the year is The Day After, starring current muse Kim Min-hee (The Handmaiden) and Kwon Hae-Hyo. An entry in competition at Cannes, The Day After is quintessentially Hong, complete with bottles of Soju and a simple story. Shot in monochrome, it did not make waves at Cannes, but is unmissable for any Hong enthusiasts. A conversation will be held on the 26th of October.

Though The Day After deals with the complexities of fidelity, Kim Dae-hwan’s The First Lap is insightful in the realism of a romance. There are no grand gestures or dramatic love triangles after years of marriage, only the mundaneness of life; you fight over petty things and make up hours later. The film follows couple Ji-young (Kim Sae-byeok) and Su-hyeon (Cho Hyun-chul) in a quiet but heartfelt journey as we take a peek into their marriage, and closes London Korean Film Festive 2017 with a genuine piece of filmmaking.

The Film Noir Collection

With more than fifty years of film noir history contained within the fourteen films selected by the festival, we delve into the world of Korean film noir in all its violence, thrill and suspense. Turbulent political history, social upheavals and a developing urban life of Korea in the 20th century provide a grandeur stage for crime and mystery, pushing film noir as an ever-evolving genre to dive into the underbelly of Korean society.

Both The Villainess (2017) and The Merciless (2017) were part of the selection at Cannes this year and will kick off the Film Noir Collection at LKFF. Both receiving standing ovation at Cannes, they are part of Korea’s best films of the year. The Villainess was praised for its kinetic thrill and crafted choreography, and The Merciless resembles the work of Tarantino in its unpredictability.

The Collection kicks off with Lee Man-hui’s little known but highly appreciated Black Hair (1964) and a newly-restored version of murder mystery The Last Witness (1980). It also focuses on the 1990s, a period when Korean film noirs flourished, with the four selections of Dead End (1993, short), The Rules of the Game (1994), Green Fish (1997) and Nowhere to Hide (1999). Green Fish is the directing debut of Korea’s highly respected director Lee Chang-dong, and Nowhere to Hide exhibits experimental editing techniques from the time. A Bittersweet Life (2005) will also be screened – a great opportunity for those to revisit or be introduced to the iconic Korean gangster film.

Cinema Now: A Look into Current Korean Cinema

Featuring new and mainstay filmmakers in Korean Cinema, this strand contains both the European Premiere of Lee Dong-eun’s debut feature, In Between Seasons (2016) and Master (2016). Screened at the Busan International Film Festival, In Between Seasons is about a mother caring for her hospitalised son, discovering his secrets in a tale of acceptance and love. Though beautifully shot, it is also criticised for its pacing. Master, a blockbuster and box office smash hit in Korea, stars prominent A-List actors about fraud investigation, and promises entertainment and thrill.

Women’s Voice: A Feminine Perspective

Four dramas and one documentary are at the centre of the exploration of feminine perspectives at the festival. The highlight is Candle Wave Feminists (2017), an extremely current documentary made as part of an activist project that shines the light on feminist protests in Korea, and their defiance against the misogyny present in Korean society. Directed by Kangyu Garam, this documentary short will have a free screening at the British Museum followed by a Q&A.

London Korean Film Festival has further strands including Indie Firepower, curated by Tony Rayns with a focus on Jung Yoon-suk’s work; and Classics Revisited, curated by Dr Mark Morris on a retrospective of director Bae Chang-ho in the 1980s. Documentaries, short films, artistic videos and animation will be featured as part of the line-up.

Screenings will be held from 26th October – 19th November at various cinemas around London, including Picturehouse Central, Regent Street Cinema, SOAS, Birkbeck’s Institute of Moving Image, National Film & Television School, and the British Museum.

Visit London Korean Film Festival’s website for more information and the complete programme line-up.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Xin Yi Wang examines Cory Finley’s film debut.

Thoroughbreds lives and breathes suspense.

A success as a highly stylish film noir, Thoroughbreds never slows down on thrill as it runs its course. Watching it feels like standing on a ledge metres above the ground; the problem is, I don’t know why I was on a ledge. Playwright Cory Finley’s debut in cinema centres on duo Amanda (Olivia Cooke) and Lily (Anya Taylor-Joy), focusing on the dark interiors of two teenage girls in sunny Connecticut suburbia but forgetting to add much to its own interior. An example of style over substance, its percussion-based score pounds the ears, screaming on full blast: “This film is suspenseful and grim!”, but its bizarre plot, awkward pace and overdone tone just dofesn’t carry enough depth to justify itself. Hence, a state of confusion.

Estranged childhood friends reunite when Amanda’s mother recruits Lily to tutor her daughter. Though Amanda’s sociopathic behaviour clashes with Lily’s lady-like demeanour, the girls bond. Lily expresses her dislike of her stepfather Mark (Paul Sparks), and a sarcastic comment about murder quickly morphs into a real plan. Somewhere along the way, they rope in small-time drug dealer Tim, played by the electrifying late Anton Yelchin.

The film wastes no effort in trying to convince or justify why Lily wants her stepfather dead. He is painted with broad strokes as a cartoonish asshole to her and her mother, but Finley doesn’t spend enough time with the character, and only establishes that he’s horrible and Lily hates him. Sure, his rowing and fitness routine is annoying; sure, he has aggression issues; sure, he is over-controlling. He comes off more as annoying than someone who would warrant a homicidal plan, and as the audience we are expected to accept that two teenage girls are plotting to kill a grown man just because.

This makes it hard to empathise with Lily, as part of her death plan is rooted in teenage selfishness and a general stuck-up rich-girl attitude. Finley might be making a point about adolescence superficiality, but that feels like over-reading the text. Despite my problems with motivation, Anya Taylor-Joy plays Lily’s strings with such sharpness and underlying conflict, portraying Lily to her full potential in an otherwise strong character. Before one can realise, Taylor-Joy transforms the formal and awkward Lily in a mesmerising performance, walking on the thin thread of a break down.

Thoroughbreds’ strength lies in its main characters and their dynamic. Olivia Cooke is unforgettable as Amanda, delivering lines with deadpan precision and a brilliant command of black comedy, illustrating Amanda as one for the books. Her aloofness and the chemistry between Cooke and Taylor-Joy easily convince the companionship the girls quickly found in each other – simple conversational scenes are thoroughly entertaining as are intense sequences gripping. Unlike Lily’s motivations, Amanda’s work fine: her primary aim is to support and aid Lily, finding a purpose in caring for her only friend. Yelchin, in a smaller role, provides much hilarity and charisma in a situation of plain strange bizarreness. Stealing scenes whenever he appears on screen, he adds a distinct energy into the film as Tim unwillingly joins the duo in their misadventures.

In a film with such strong characters, it’s a shame they’re undercut by Finley’s emphasis on creating suspense and fear. He prioritises how the characters attempt murder instead of why. It’s obvious the characters might have depth to them, yet Thoroughbreds refuses to dig a little deeper. For example, the film’s repeated fixation on horses and horse imagery goes nowhere except as a set-up to Amanda’s sociopathy and a shared childhood memory, making this seemingly important motif quite pointless.

The score stands out too much – loud and purposefully ominous, it can be played over any footage to make it seem uncomfortable and unnerving. Finley’s main technique in creating suspense is over-reliant on sound and pushes it way too close, spoiling the subtleties present in his characters. In comparison to recent releases such as Dunkirk and mother!, films which similarly use sound design in the creation of suspense and horror – to their success – Thoroughbreds overdoes it. You end up constantly hoping the soundtrack will stop making you feel anxious over a straightforward scene. Thoroughbreds‘ sharp editing is effective but carries the same problems as the score.

Nonetheless, Thoroughbreds is a mark of ambitious filmmaking that attempts to utilise what the medium of cinema can offer. It’s a pity it did not make the best of its potential.

6/10

Thoroughbreds premiered on October 9th in the UK, at the London Film Festival. Watch director Cory Finley discuss the film in the Sundance clip below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner looks at Samuel Maoz’s three part drama, denounced by Israel’s Minister of Culture.

Written and directed by Samuel Maoz, Foxtrot is a political film. Set in Tel Aviv, it tells the story of an Israeli soldier and his family, and naturally encompasses much of the controversy burning in that part of the world. But it is not a film of heroes and villains, nor one that seeks to frame the Israel-Palestine conflict in any wider context. Foxtrot is an introspective film: an inward look at Israel’s involvement in the West Bank through the eyes of one family. The head of this family is Michael Feldmann (Lior Ashkenazi), a veteran and stern authority figure. As the film opens he receives the worst of news – his son, Jonathan (Yonathan Shiray), has been killed in action. An oppressive and disorientating tone is quickly assumed, an overhead camera canting around as Michael walks across a room. Soldiers tell him to drink every hour, and he sets an alarm on his phone to do so. This serves as an interesting dramatic device, both informing the audience of time passed, and creating a momentary break (or escalation) in tension every so often. Michael is bewildered, but due to the stringent rules surrounding burial in Jewish culture there is little time to spare – he must inform his family and organise a funeral with the military within the day.

It is here that Foxtrot first veers away from what might appear to be a straight character study around loss and despair. A military rabbi visits the house and, in a scene bordering on satire, goes through the funeral procedure with clinical precision and diligent brevity. He suggests Michael could help carry his son’s coffin, but doesn’t recommend it. These funerals are so common, it would seem, that for the rabbi it is a rote task, losing both its ostensive religious meaning and any requirement for basic sympathy. While there is a swing back to the despondent tone soon after, the secret’s out – Foxtrot is not to remain the overtly serious film it began (very effectively) as, but will instead dance the line between comedy and tragedy. As this first act comes to a close Michael is told his son is in fact not dead, but that another Jonathon Feldmann had met that fate. Relief and irrationality sweep him as he demands his son return, hoping to get him home and safe, even though he isn’t necessarily at any particular risk.

Cut to that particular risk – two soldiers at an otherwise deserted outpost, totally bored. They talk for a while, and the subject turns to the eponymous dance. Then in the film’s best scene, Jonathon provides an example, breaking into brilliant dance, his rifle as partner. Far from the film that had Michael scold his hand to try and put off the horrific reality of loss, this second act is about youth and boredom, camaraderie and routine. The four soldiers stationed at this post, all young and stultified, pass the time in their way – one tinkers with equipment; one is constantly listening to loud music; Jonathon sketches. As time goes by they encounter occasional travellers at the outpost. The first they let by fairly simply – a check of their details and off they go – but with each group that passes a creeping sense of unease deepens. This is matched by the container in which the soldiers sleep, which is literally sinking into the ground. The ultimate effect is to paint a sense of innocence across the soldiers (a particular shot of them playfighting to Mahler is the best example of this) without absolving them of wrongdoing. A situation is displayed in which men who are not evil might commit evil acts. It is the system of the outposts really being indicted here: the way in which they make necessary the demeaning of Palestinian commuters to support a wider system of repression.

The tone of the film expertly reflects this darkening progression; palpable strain builds with each vehicle to pass the checkpoint. While the soldiers themselves remain much the same – bored, a little tetchy – the circumstances vary. At one point an innocent couple are made to leave their car in torrential rain; at another, after an extended segment of serious tension, a can falls out of a car. It looks to be a grenade; a soldier, not yet twenty, opens fire. Maoz has created sympathetic characters and does not wish to create antagonists in these men, so making that moment of gunfire doubly nauseating – the gunman was not malignant, but his actions are unforgivable. Or at least they should be; following this climax the brass effectively sweep the incident under the rug. As with the rabbi’s routine attitude towards funerals in the first act, this incident is no rare thing, and life goes on.

Just as the film returns to the crushing tenor it opened with, Maoz again decides to inject it again with levity. Using the illustrations in Jonathon’s notebook, the pictures come alive in a fully, and wonderfully, animated section that effectively traces his father’s past – from trading his mother’s precious bible for an erotic mag to his exploits in war. Despite the overt humour in this section, the key theme is one of guilt, first from his original sin in giving away a family heirloom, but sustained beyond this. This passes to Jonathon – the cycle continues. As is spelled out toward the end of the film, the foxtrot is endless, going round and round: forward; left; back; right. So might be this conflict Israel finds itself caught up in unless something is done. This is another example of Maoz’ subtle yet impactful approach to the problem, doing away with flags, borders, and mass destruction for a more intimate examination of a crisis. The brilliant camerawork and committed performances grant this story engaging life – the emphasis on top-down angles being particularly novel – but it is in the writing that it truly excels. For a conflict so often defined by extremes, Foxtrot manages to marry sympathy and criticism just as well as it does tragedy and comedy. That is to say, very.

8/10

Foxtrot has its UK premiere on October 11th, at London Film Festival. Check out the trailer below.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Xin Yi Wang reviews Léa Mysius’s vivid cinematic bildungsroman in anticipation of tomorrow’s UK premiere. 

Enriched with colours and saturation, Ava is as kinetic and full of energy as its images. An intensely strong directional debut from Léa Mysius, the film opens to big thematic questions about coming of age, female sexuality, and disability, but casting such a big net means it has problems creating resolution. Provocative and unsettling, the film comes with a simple premise: during a summer holiday, thirteen-year-old Ava (Noée Abita) discovers she has a disease that will slowly rob her of her sight. Along the way, she meets Juan (Juan Cano), who she becomes infatuated with.

What marks the loss of innocence? Does sex indicate maturity? It is often used in literature and art to indicate a coming of age, a rite of passage that somehow transitions a child into a young adult. Ava explores this territory in such a daring way it might be controversial to some, as our protagonist toys with her newfound sexual desires and attraction to an older man in complete frankness. The amount of nudity is perhaps meant to be uncomfortable – Abita was seventeen during filming, which is technically legal under French law, but the character is thirteen and one cannot help but feel they’re watching something close to child pornography.

Maybe that’s the point. Ava, despite her newfound sexuality and psychological complexity, is nonetheless still a child. The discomfort of teen nudity forces you to constantly regard her as a child. Her innocence shines through as she laughs and dances to a song. When forced to be a waitress, Ava blends in better with the group of children she’s serving. It is worth mentioning that, despite the seeming sexual maturity she has, Ava’s most mature action is a certain phone-call made in secret midway through the film.

In a particular sequence, she runs around topless with Juan, dressed like a tribal couple, and terrorizes beach visitors waving guns around while the soundtrack tries to convince audience that “she ain’t a child no more.” However, the costume and act of terrorising feels so much like a child’s play, down to the cutely painted stripes on the dog, that you confidently disagree with the lyrics. (It is interesting to note that these lyrics were the only English words present in the film, and perhaps achieve a different effect when playing to its French audience or other non-English-speaking cultures.) It suggests the truth to be opposite of Ava’s own mentality, that though there is a relationship between coming-of-age and sexuality, sex is definitely not a clear indication of adulthood.

Meanwhile, Mysius uses the disease of blindness to an effective but imbalanced degree. It works as the driving force and premise behind Ava’s struggles, fleshing her out as a character and not just another angsty teenage girl, but as the film progresses it takes a backseat where it should have been more forefront. In the first half, her battle with blindness is much clearer, and Mysius offers stand-out surreal sequences of nightmares and hypnotic imagery. The shift to focus more on Ava’s relationship with Juan reduces Ava to a more traditional coming-of-age film of the kind we’ve seen before. Though her struggles with blindness are not forgotten or cast aside, they play back into the third act – frustratingly, considering the potential – in a more minimal way than the set-up would suggest.

In general, the third act shows a drop in quality. The ending is suspiciously optimistic and prompts many questions about Ava’s fate. It works, but the film tries to tackle too much (including a forgettable point about fascism), and thus cannot offer a complete resolution, going into a direction that becomes literally greyer and duller than its vibrant beginnings.

Despite these issues, the film stands firm. The theme of blindness is complemented with a subtle staging of light and shadows, weaving into Ava’s experimentations and coming to terms with her sight and an impending darkness, along with motifs of blackness surrounding her. The heat of the summer and beach translate into striking shades of yellow, contrasting with the ever-blue sky that becomes melancholic once you realise that Ava is going to lose all these colours in her life. The cinematography is one to remember, and the film’s soundtrack works beautifully in to create an uneasy atmosphere throughout.

Noée Abita, a newcomer just like her director, is a delight. Standing out with a performance that etches into memory as she commands the film and character, she recalls Natalie Portman in Leon: The Professional. Abita portrays adolescence as truthfully as she could, melting into a performance that showcases an understanding of rebellion, selfishness and a strong yearning of adulthood. Her single mother Maud, played by Laure Calamy, is another highlight of the film; her great chemistry with Abita showcases a raw bond between a mother and her rebellious daughter, and you wish to see more of her. Juan Cano works well, but unfortunately is the weakest of the main cast.

As a first feature, Ava is undoubtedly memorable, but though it completes a few fantastic flips it only somewhat sticks the landing.

8/10

Ava has its UK premiere on October 5th at London Film Festival. Watch the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Calvin Law examines Michaël R. Roskam’s crime romance from LFF’s ‘Thrill’ strand.

The third collaboration between Belgian cinema heavyweights Michaël R. Roskam and Matthias Schoenaerts, Racer and the Jailbird, subverts the proverb ‘third time’s the charm’. Director and star first collaborated to create a powerful, haunting character study in the gritty, Academy Award-nominated Bullhead, and moved seamlessly to the United States with the low-key and atmospheric Brooklyn-set The Drop. By contrast, this romantic crime-drama is chock full of irreparable structural problems, and crumbles into an inconsistent tone it never recovers from.

Having said that, the film is worth watching, if only for its opening half. Roskam establishes an atmospheric slow-burn while setting up the morally ambivalent world of Brussels, and the relationship between Schoenaerts’s Gigi – a bank robber masquerading as a vehicle dealer –  and young race-car driver Bibi (Blue is the Warmest Colour star Adèle Exarchopoulos). It’s in this first narrative sequence, entitled ‘Gigi’, that the film excels. The romance between the two characters is fast and snappily handled, built up with casual flirtations and forward advances. The mood and setting of these scenes, from Bibi’s luxurious apartment to the beloved racetrack where her adrenaline-pumped driving is captured in stunning detail, are edited perfectly; the same is true of the shadier sides of Gigi’s rapport with his less than savoury friends, and the bluntly-portrayed crimes they carry out. When Gigi reveals the darker side of his life to Bibi, it’s through a casual post-coital joke; when pulled over by the police for speeding, Bibi’s reading of Gigi’s uncomfortable body language speaks more volumes than any long monologue could do.

This first act is a great short film in itself, exploring the blossoming passion between the lovers and the growing stakes and risks involving Gigi’s gang. It gives a real weight to the tensions that arise between Gigi and Bibi over the former’s dishonesty and the latter’s fragile innocence. All this culminates in some breathtaking scenes, like a steamy pre-race lovemaking session that’s beautifully lit and shot, or a mesmerizing one-shot heist sequence on the motorway. Unfortunately, the film effectively reaches its climax around the midway point, leaving it to flounder in the remaining time – and it’s a long film, running over two hours. The subplot between Bibi and her loving but concerned family goes nowhere. Another involving Albanian gangsters and a sleazy suitor to Bibi feels like something out of a Belgian Guy Ritchie movie, at odds with the style established beforehand. The film throws all nuance out of the window with the repeated use of heavy-handed symbols and motifs. Gigi’s fear of dogs, for example, contrasts his criminal dishonesty with the supposed ‘honesty of dogs’, and sets up a ridiculous later plot development. Most frustrating is the way the development of the central romance descends into cheesy soap opera melodrama. It feels like the film is trying to produce an emotional wringer, but ultimately the conclusions we reach are hollow.

Thankfully, there are several elements which keep the film engaging to an extent, even with such problematic structural flaws. On the acting front, Schoenaerts is great as always. Gigi perhaps lacks the complexity of his brilliant turn as the bullish farmer in Bullhead, or as much fun as the slimy crook in The Drop, but he’s charismatic, handles the character’s arc and growing decency very well, and nails every pivotal emotional scene. Exarchopoulos is on the whole very good, and exceptional in any scene she shares with Schoenaerts, an alluring and endearing figure we really grow to love. She’s dealt an unenviable hand in the later stages of the film, though, where her character is forced to go through some questionable developments. Everyone else is more or less just a blank face in the proceedings; it’s very much a two-man show. The technical elements are also consistently good throughout, even if the way they are used becomes less and less compelling as the film goes on.

Roskam’s daring as a director is to be applauded regardless of this humble reviewer’s opinion, but he utilized this individuality to far greater effect in his last two features. Racer and the Jailbird gets plenty of things right, but doesn’t quite stick to them throughout. It’s easy to see where this film goes wrong; look no further than Derek Cianfrance’s The Place Beyond the Pines for another crime drama which finds something truly special in its opening act, but drops the ball with misguided ambition. It has its fair share of excellent moments, but the grand sum of it is ultimately a disappointment.

Rating: 6.5/10

Racer and the Jailbird has its UK premiere on October 4th at London Film Festival. Watch the French language teaser trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Calvin Law takes a look at David Gordon Green’s drama based on a real life recovery tale.

Since his terrific performance in Nightcrawler, Jake Gyllenhaal’s career has followed an interesting trajectory. Always intriguing and unpredictable in his choice of roles and films, he’s taken it up a notch in recent years, dabbling in all sorts of genres in both leading and supporting turns. These efforts have had mixed results: his Raging Bull-esque transformation in Southpaw and depiction of a grieving misanthropist in Demolition were admirable efforts in deeply flawed films, while his problematic work in the Nocturnal Animals and his daring performance as a gratingly insane mad scientist in Okja were, for your humble reviewer, some of his least impressive performances to date.

With Stronger, Gyllenhaal delivers his most naturalistic, understated performance in quite some time. He stars as Boston Marathon bombing survivor Jeff Bauman, who lost both his legs above the knee to the 2013 terror bombings. It’s his best work since the iconic Lou Bloom of Nightcrawler. And Stronger has much to recommend it beyond an acting showcase for its leading man. Though largely sticking to the expected ‘inspirational biopic’ beats, director David Gordon Green tinkers with this formula just enough to make it stand out as a particularly affecting and sensitively-made film.

Based upon Mr Bauman’s autobiography, Gyllenhaal presents our protagonist as an irresponsible but likeable-enough Bostonian who works at Cosco, has a nice rapport with his boisterous family (including Miranda Richardson and Clancy Brown as his parents), loves his local baseball and hockey teams the Red Sox and Bruins, and is trying to prove his worth to ex-girlfriend Erin (Tatiana Maslany). This leads an eager-to-please Jeff to cheer for a competing Erin at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, where he briefly sees one of the bombers who causes the explosion that costs him his legs. As we watch his coarse but deeply caring family lash out at Jeff’s well-intentioned boss, and a guilt-stricken Erin tearfully walking along the hospital corridors, we get an unglamorous, ugly portrayal of the fallout from tragedy. The film doesn’t shy away from the brutal pain Jeff endures both physically and mentally – a scene involving the removal of bandages from his stumps, the subtle framing and camerawork focusing on Gyllenhaal’s expressive eyes, forms a particularly haunting sequence. The unfussy yet heartfelt fashion in which the film depicts these initial struggles of Jeff and his loved ones adapting to their new situation are among the highlights of the film; and screenwriter John Pollono avoids putting the audience through the emotional wringer, lacing the hardships with wisecracks from Jeff about his condition, and a heartfelt connection between Jeff and Erin.

The relationship between Jeff and Erin is one of the most essential elements of the film. Though the story course is somewhat predictable, it always feels organic and integral to the central theme of healing and rehabilitation. Maslany, someone I’m very eager to see more of based on this, is great in a role that requires she carefully tread the line between being a source of comfort and a source of motivation to get Jess out of his slump. It’s a tricky balancing act, but she succeeds completely, and enlivens any scene she’s in with her encouragement. Gyllenhaal, so effective in conveying the physical strain of his character’s struggle, is brilliant at showing how this aimless young man’s frustrations and breakthroughs weigh on him. The film handles the dynamic of a couple struggling to re-adapt new circumstances far more effectively than, say, The Theory of Everything by refusing to brush over the main character’s own flaws and self-imposed hindrances. They’re sweet and endearing as a couple, but the cracks in the relationship are equally well-developed, and you really get a feel for what both characters are going through times both good and bad.

Elsewhere, the film focuses more directly on Jeff’s process of recovering and assimilating into his new living situation. Green does his best to step away from most of the cliches of the usual story beats, but can’t quite escape from slightly hokey moments involving Jeff’s family members as comic relief characters. The pratfalls of his booze-loving, extremely loyal family are funny at times, but can become too overt and clash with the more understated humour elsewhere. Nothing against the supporting cast themselves, though, who do uniformly solid work, and Miranda Richardson gives an admirable performance as a mother struggling with her son’s condition in her own flawed but loving sort of way, even if a few of her drunk scenes are a tad overplayed. It’s telling that the film’s strongest sequences in showing Jeff’s journey towards learning to walk again are often the most underplayed scenes, by both the direction and Gyllenhaal’s performance.

Green is an interesting choice to helm this story, of an American hero who most of the time, wants very little to do with his own “heroism”, for every wave of glory and praise reminds him of the terrible day. Having helmed the very low-key character study Joe several years back, Green seems to have retained that knack for conveying character in small unique ways. There are bigger moments, of course – two appearances by Jeff at sporting events provide a well-executed contrast in his gradual arc of self-acceptance – but some of the most memorable sequences in the film are the small, intimate scenes, whether its Erin sadly looking over Jeff’s sock drawer, or Jeff holding a surprisingly poignant conversation with his rescuer Carlos (a moving Carlos Sanz).

Come awards season, look to Stronger making a strong push for the acting categories; having gotten strong notices across various family festivals, Gyllenhaal and Maslany seem to be strong contenders for Best Actor and Best Supporting Actress, with the former in particular looking primed to follow up with his first Oscar nomination since 2005’s Brokeback Mountain. Don’t expect the film to get too much attention elsewhere – though the technical elements are all very well-done, the editing in particular helping to create a vivid sense of Jeff’s mindset, and one cannot fault the subtle special effects and makeup work. But none of these stand out as much as the acting, while Green’s direction and Pollono’s script may be a bit too unassuming for the Academy’s taste. They all contribute, however, to one of the most pleasant surprises of the year so far: a film both funny and moving that manages to subvert some of the trappings of its genre, and executes well-worn story beats immaculately.

8/10

Stronger premieres nationally at London Film Festival on October 5th. It is set to hit UK cinemas on the 8th of December. Trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner considers Andrey Zvyagintsev’s painful family drama.

Loveless opens, much like Andrey Zvyagintsev’s last film – Leviathan – with a montage of wordless images. We are presented with beautiful winter trees, glistening under a cold sun, to the sound of Evgueni and Sacha Galperine’s disquieting soundtrack. Following this a longshot captures the end of a school day in Moscow and children making their way home. The camera follows one child in particular, Alexey (Matvey Novikov), tracking his movements via Zvyagintsev’s typical gliding motion. His route home is indirect, leading him to the snow-covered woods of the film’s beginning. Why this might be becomes soon apparent on his return home – his parents, Zhenya (Maryana Spivak) and Boris (Aleksey Rozin), are in the final stages of a breakup of no small acrimony. One scene highlights this, in which the two viciously harangue one another on the fate of their son, as he listens on secretly from the bathroom. The slow pan that reveals Alexey sobbing silently is one of the film’s most quietly devastating moments, and it isn’t short on those.

The main narrative takes hold after this introduction, with the sudden, if not inexplicable, disappearance of Alexey. The disappearance of children is not new for Zvyagintsev, with The Return presenting the phenomena from an inversed perspective, and Leviathan including it as a brief plot beat. But here it takes centre-stage as far as the narrative is concerned. Rather than presenting a parental reunion, however temporary, to pool resources and find their child, Zvyagintsev instead uses this heightened tension to expose the full tragedy of Boris and Zhenya’s relationship. In fact, finding the child, while carrying some dramatic heft, is not particularly important to the film’s purpose. Both Boris and Zhenya are in separate relationships – importantly it is unclear who first betrayed who – Boris with a young women he has already managed to impregnate, Zhenya with an older man of no small wealth. For Boris a divorce is deeply worrying, as his boss is heavily Christian and such an action might lead him to be fired. Zhenya worries about having to take care of the son she believes despises her. The film’s 2012 setting also lends a mildly apocalyptic tone, with mention of the doomsday theories of that time cropping up on the radio. The world at large may not end, but the world known to Boris and Zhenya surely will.

As soon as Alexey disappears, Zvyagintsev takes aim at a target he formerly took to task in Leviathan – the Russian authorities. The police are called shortly after Zhenya realizes her son is missing, and the officer tells her it’s probably a runaway, and so they won’t do anything (until, of course, it’s probably too late). Yet for those who accused Zvyagintsev for being ‘anti-Russian’ in his last film, that Zhenya must instead rely on a civilian group devoted to finding missing children surely contradicts this sentiment. It isn’t the Russian people he has issue with, though his films might often be populated by cruel Russians, but the larger structures, social or political, they find themselves part of. If anything, Loveless characterizes the Russian saying Nadezhda emirate posledney: hope dies last. That Zvyagintsev is keen on elucidating that final knell gives the film its tragic power, though even then the final shot invites a number of divergent interpretations on that note.

Through their rancorous alliance to try and discover their son, the silently-acknowledged seams in Boris and Zhenya’s become gaping chasms. The tension between them builds excellently as they’re forced to cooperate despite one another. We reach an initial climax in their visit to Zhenya’s mother, so-called by Boris ‘Stalin-in-a-skirt’ (a solid idiom). She reveals loudly she never approved of the pairing of Boris and Zhenya, and that keeping Alexey was a mistake. This argument continues between Boris and Zhenya as they drive home, Zhenya exclaiming that she should have had an abortion and that Boris had ‘ruined her life.’ It’s a moment of extremity, and one admirably responded to by Rozin, whose performance is especially good as his often-meek and reserved character is pushed into open conflict. But it is in Zhenya’s character that the more interesting complexity lies, as her loud and aggressive front clearly does not portray her true feelings all of the time. Her utter rejection of Alexey seems based on her own insecurities, and in a later, truly heart-rending scene she admits that she would never have left him – a truth hiding only a little under the surface. Zvyagintsev leaves subtle clues to this effect throughout the film’s length, granting that climatic moment its potency. But her character’s outstanding pain, that she has lost the best years of her life to a loveless existence, is a feeling not easily shaken. Nor is the sadness of Boris, a small man but not an evil one, easily cast aside. Zvyagintsev has crafted characters who are often unpleasant, but rarely unreal.

Besides these strong central themes some others don’t land so heavily. One concerns the use of social media. Several shots are devoted to selfie-culture, and the ever-happy lives we present online. The actual purpose of this sub-theme is less clear, however, with a possible explanation being to create a sense of two spheres, the real and the online. This would feed into Alexey’s narrative, as he spent most of his time online, beyond the detection of his parents, and his doings were largely unknown to them. Just as Boris’ new girlfriend presents a smiling version of herself and her mother online moments after an argument, there was perhaps a different Alexey too. But this is not explored in any depth and could easily be a thin and disposable critique on phone obsession. Another area of the film that felt out of place was its political subtext, whose nuances I, admittedly, do not have much understanding of. It can be detected only in hints, with a radio broadcast first mentioning Kremlin corruption before subtly tagging on a news report of how Jill Stein was barred from electoral debates in the USA – we’re all as bad as each other, right? The epilogue of the film jumps some years later and we hear snippets of a television show talking about war in the Donbass, following on from other mentions of Ukraine throughout. While the director has claimed there is no political message in Loveless, he has also admitted that the comparison of the quarrelling couple to the situation in Ukraine was ‘absolutely obvious’ and that he ‘could not help but use it.’ Happily these comparisons are not too heavily laboured and certainly don’t make up the core of the film, but their necessity is questionable.

What isn’t questionable, however, is the technical brilliance on show. Much like in his former films, Zvyagintsev utilizes a gliding camera that constantly reframes images, otherwise holding for particularly long shots. This presents a sense of intimacy, and coupled with the beautiful composition and cold lighting, an immersion into each frame. But it is in the script and performances that Loveless comes to life, an examination of people pushed to their limits during an inescapable tragedy.

8/10

Loveless will have its UK premiere at London Film Festival on the 8th of October. From November10th, it will be available nation-wide. Check out the trailer below:

Editor-In-Chief Sofia Kourous Vazquez runs through a few films from the docs-focused London festival, which ran from the 5th to the 10th of September.

WINNERS

Grand Jury Award: ‘Purge This Land’ (Lee Anne Schmitt)

This is a documentary that shies away from people and focuses instead on spaces. How can historical locations and spaces convey their story when paired with spoken word and sound? Schmitt tells the story of John Brown, a radical white abolitionist who came to believe violent armed conflict was the only way to achieve liberation for the oppressed peoples of the United States; indeed, the film’s title is taken from a Brown quote, in which he states ‘the crimes of this guilty land can never be purged away but with blood’. As the film travels across the US, tracing Brown’s activities and visiting scenes of other events significant to American slavery, segregation, and racial relations history, the director reflects on more recent events and her personal life — Schmitt’s partner is a black man, and her child is mixed race. The film skillfully conveys the emotional through objective facts. Its glances back at the violence, prejudice, and discrimination that occurred less than a century ago are reminders of the complex and problematic heritage of a nation, and honours the importance of remembrance and ongoing critical examination.

Emerging International Filmmaker Award: ‘Taste of Cement’ (Ziad Kalthoum)

Kalthoum bathes a construction site in Beirut in beautiful golden light as he silently documents the monotonous lives of the Syrian labourers who work here. The men have a 7pm curfew, after which they descend for rest through a hole into the gloomy foundation of the building. The primary footage of slow, repetitive, mechanical labour — the stacking of bricks, the drilling of holes, the steady ascension of the site lift that takes the workers up every morning and down at night — is interspersed with clips from Syria, for as these men lift buildings out of the ground in their host country, their towns back home are being demolished by bombs.

This is a quiet film, ruled by stillness and rhythm, but sink too deeply into viewing comfort and you’ll be jolted back to reality. Despite its beautiful images, ‘Taste of Cement’ won’t let you forget the sad irony of its subjects’ situation. It’s observational, but rather muted. You might long for more but maybe that’s the point. For these Syrian men, the past is being erased; their futures perhaps as well. The present is their only reality, and this is where the film makes its nest.

OTHER HIGHLIGHTS

‘Photon’ (Norman Leto)

‘Photon’ is Leto’s second full-length feature and he isn’t planning on quitting anytime soon, but honestly he could. He has every right to be that proud of himself. This film is the product of hard work and vision. It is designed. In it, a pleasant, authoritative, and slightly humorous narrator traces the history of the universe. We start at the Big Bang and end, well, in the future, with predictions (or warnings?!) of what’s to come. Voice aside, what establishes the film as something unique are the visuals, including fascinating and often beautiful computer animations of particles, organisms, embryonic development. You can’t tear your eyes away, and you don’t want to. Sometimes what you see is shocking. Towards the end, what you hear definitely is. You will question the meaning of your life and the course of humanity in this impressive example of avant-garde documentary. Seek out where this is showing, sit back, and let it happen.

‘Atelier de Conversation’ (Bernhard Braunstein)

A charming little package of warm and high-quality documentary film-making. Multiple times a week, a free French conversation workshop convenes at the Centre Pompidou in Paris. All sorts of characters, all of them foreigners, come along with the desire to improve their skills. Their interactions and communication, guided by an instructor, are sometimes humorous, sometimes heated, sometimes touching, and always colourful. Even when differences arise, the participants are united by the willing vulnerability that accompanies learning a new language. This is what Braunstein captures so compassionately. ‘Atelier’ is a lovely patchwork quilt of humanity to cosy yourself up with. It’s simple, and it works.

Open City Documentary Film Festival was founded in 2011 by the UCL-based film school of the same name. The 2016 edition was hosted at the university. This year, the festival was based in the Southbank Bargehouse Oxo building and ran screenings at venues across London including the ICA, Picturehouse Central, Genesis Cinema, and Regent Street Cinema.

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the BFI’s 61st London Film Festival (4-15 October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Ivan Nagar reviews Elvira Lind’s LFF Documentary Competition submission.

Bobbi Jene opens in Tel Aviv, where the celebrity contemporary dancer Bobbi Jene Smith is preparing for an upcoming performance. She moved to the city at the age of twenty-one, when Ohad Naharin offered her a place in the famous Israeli dance group Batsheva, dropping out of the Juilliard School of Performing Arts in the process. At the time Bobbi Jene was a naïve girl who had never left her country and, as she later states, jumped on this opportunity without even “thinking of the rent”. Her path wasn’t without difficulties, and Bobbi must make tough decisions and face dilemmas which director Elvira Lind captures masterfully. The camera loiters at a close distance and observes the intimate aspects of both Bobbi’s private and her professional life, sometimes drawing so close to the people around her it feels almost intrusive.

For the most part, Lind succeeds in distilling the mood of Bobbi Jene’s life. We are introduced to her boyfriend, Or, and the realities of cross-cultural romance are sketched out through the little nuances of their relationship. Lind also captures the feelings of disconnect Bobbi faces when she returns to America, to reunite with her family and try to integrate with a dance community that has “no idea that she is back”. Other sequences may prove inaccessible for some. In one instance Bobbi orgasms in a studio space by vigorously rubbing against a sandbag while a man watches from a distance on a chair. We later learn this is the basis of her solo performance in Jerusalem – the moment the film is building up to. The film also boasts a significant amount of candid nudity, which inarguably reinforces the dialogue Bobbi is trying to have about nudity itself and the blanket of self-consciousness around it. Once the viewer gets over such superficially uncomfortable moments as Bobbi shopping for a sandbag with her mother, we can see exactly what she is trying to communicate through her performance and the ways she is sharing a deeply personal experience with not just the live audience in the film but also us as viewers. As Bobbi hilariously remarks to her mother, “sometimes you need to find pleasure in what weighs you down.” One conversation she has with her mother, walking down a New York street, underlines the fundamental philosophical differences between the two and how Bobbi’s growth and evolution as a person in a different culture for nearly ten years has created a divide between the way they see things.

The first peek we get of the performance in Jerusalem is through a carefully and appropriately-chosen wide shot while Bobbi performs for a museum before they approve it. In an interview with a journalist Bobbi goes into detail about how the piece, initially conceived as a five-minute performance, has morphed into an hour-long sequence. The final performance in Jerusalem is described by Bobbi’s former mentor as an experience that would have changed his life had he seen it when he was younger. Coming from a virgin point of view in regards to contemporary dance, I am not sure how much energy from that electric performance is lost in its transition from real to reel – a lot of the dance work in the film was a completely new visual experience for me, and one that invoked many different emotions. The performances ignite a deeply emotional reaction, hard to grasp and even hard to describe, and it’s not clear if they’re intended to make the viewer feel anything specific at all.

Through Bobbi Jene, the filmmaker offers a glimpse into the world of the eponymous dancer: the realities of both her private and professional lives, the turbulence she faces in both by moving back to her country of origin, and the changes this transition causes – sometimes tangible, sometimes subliminal yet thunderous rushes of emotion. Director Elvira Lind has crafted a viewing experience that, much like the contemporary art it depicts, is as powerful as it is abstract.

Bobbi Jene will receive its UK premiere on the 6th of October, at London Film Festival. Watch the trailer below: