The London Film Festival has come to town! For the next two weeks, over 300 films will be screened all over central London. UCL Film & TV Society has five members who will be reviewing the festival.

A film festival may seem more appropriate for industry professionals and film journalists. However, the London Film Festival is incredibly open to the public. Most importantly, it is generous to young students with the 25 & Under scheme. You can get £5 tickets to select screenings at the festival. In addition, the BFI has committed to providing over 100 free events as part of their LFF for Free scheme, which include talks, panels, Q&As and even DJ Nights. Some can be booked in advance, but don’t be afraid to turn up and see what you can do!

Faced with an enormous catalogue, how do you even consider what to see? The curators behind LFF have kindly split the programme into strands. You can see the whole selection on the BFI’s website or pick up their hardcopy catalogues all around London.

To get you started, our LFF Blog team has put together a few recommendations and why the festival is worth checking out:

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A Marriage Story

• Good for lovers of Adam Driver’s face, people whose favourite movie is Kramer vs. Kramer, and those who crave intimate narratives on screen.
• Why?: The family drama from Noah Baumbach (Frances Ha, The Meyerowitz Stories, The Squid and the Whale) opened to rave reviews at Venice Film Festival and has garnered lots of award season buzz.

Get tickets for showings on the 6th, 7th and 11th of October

The Peanut Butter Falcon

• Recommended for when you want to laugh and leave the cinema smiling, fans of Mark Twain and frontier fables.
• Why?: The dramedy packs great performances from Shia LeBeouf and Zack Gottsagen and sets the benchmark for providing non-tokenistic representation for differently-abled folks in film.

Get tickets for showings on the 3rd and 4th of October

Circus of Books

• Recommended for documentary lovers, frequenters of Gay’s The Word, and those who want to watch weird and wonderful parents.  
• Why?: Apart from the opportunity to discover the social and cultural history of the gay community in Los Angeles and the history of pornography, the documentary has a personal touch as the director turns the camera onto her parents. 

Get tickets for showings on the 12th and 13th of October

A Pleasure, Comrades! (Prazer, Camaradas!)

• Recommended for vicariously living in the Mediterranean countryside, fans of Pride (2014), or those just want to see a cute goat or two amongst cultural and generational clashes.
• Why?: Long live the proletariat, long live the sexual revolution! Amusing misunderstandings and charming moments are abundant, based on real stories from post-Carnation Revolution rural Portugal. 

Get tickets for showings on the 3rd and 4th of October

Bombay Rose

• Recommended for Bollywood fans, dreamy romantics rooting for star-crossed lovers, those who want to see non-family-oriented animation. 
• Why?: The film is directed by Gitanjali Rao, whose animation shorts screened at Cannes Film Festival to critical acclaim. A romantic feature film set in Mumbai, the film possesses a vibrant brush-stroke painting style and immersive sound design. 

Get tickets for showings on the 12th and 13th of October

County Lines

• Recommended for fans of kitchen sink realism, Ken Loach stans, those who liked Beach Rats. Or maybe you’ve just binged Top Boy: Summerhouse and want something more introspective.
• Why?: Vulnerable boys being groomed by county lines drug trafficking gangs is a massive topical issue in Britain. 

Get tickets for a showing on the 13th of October

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Covering the festival is an immense challenge. The UCL Film Society Blog will be reviewing whatever screenings our correspondents can schedule in. What makes it worth it for those who are going? Keep an eye out for the names below. 

Alex Dewing
Not only are the films screened at LFF wide in their variety (with romance, thriller, comedies and cult classics to be) but they’re available to see at such good prices (only £5) and in some great cinemas. Little Monsters, a zombie focused horror-comedy, or zom-com as I like to call it, is definitely worth a watch and you can catch it at the BFI Southbank or Vue West End.

Emma Davis
I think the festival is great for catching movies you’re unlikely to see in regular programming in your nearest cinema, or movies before their official wide release date! I had the opportunity to watch Axone, and it is having its world premiere at the Festival. LFF is a great opportunity to see movies from countries, genres and directors you wouldn’t consider otherwise.

KC Wingert 
The LFF is a really great opportunity for students to catch a wide range of new, internationally-acclaimed films in Central London. No matter what genre you’re looking for, you’re likely to find it showing at the LFF. This year’s lineup features stunning examples of what happens when women of color are put in the director’s chair – see the quirky comedy Lucky Grandma or the harrowing human rights drama Clemency. If that weren’t enough, people who purchase tickets to some of the bigger screenings may catch the odd star in attendance; last year I saw Melissa McCarthy, Richard E. Grant, and director Michael Moore, and this year I’m on the lookout for Shia LaBeouf!

Louis Stall
I love the whole vibe of the LFF; being surrounded by other people that are also passionate about film is by itself a totally valid reason to attend. This year I got to see a preview of The Peanut Butter Falcon, I won’t spoil much but it was unbelievably wholesome and definitely worth a watch. I’d definitely recommend not sleeping on the range of documentaries and shorts at LFF this year as I’ve had the opportunity to view so and they are rather spectacular.

Maria Düster
This year, the BFI have really expanded opportunities for students and I recommend going to as much as you can. I’m excited to see independent documentaries – Coup 53, The Orphanage, Give Me Liberty – and headlining films as well, such as Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the relationship between truth and fiction in film, specifically documentary, and I’m interested to see how filmmakers are tackling that this year.

The BFI London Film Festival runs 2 – 13 October 2019. For more information, visit the festival website.

Hassan Sherif reviews Lukas Dhont’s award-winning and intimate debut feature on trans experiences. 

BFI London Film Festival’s Sutherland Trophy for Best First Feature was awarded this year to director Lukas Dhont for Girl, a stunning portrait of a transgender teen bruised by the struggles of her transition. It is steeped in melancholia, but boasts an uplifting message that powers through on account of a well-paced and intelligent script. The film’s intimate narrative style and honest performances ensured its success at Cannes Film Festival, where it received both the Camèra d’Or and the Queer Palm. Its lead, Victor Polster, as mesmerising as he is disquieting, was rightly named winner of the Un Certain Regard Jury Award for Best Performance. The film’s receipt of these successes is testament to the fact that Girl is not only a blistering new take on LGBTQ issues, but also that it masterfully and unforgivingly explores girlhood and maturity.

Polster is Lara, a fifteen-year-old who was born male but is now within the first stages of gender reassignment, preparing for surgery. Lara’s excitement at gaining a trial placement at one of Belgium’s most prestigious dance academies is undercut by the mounting mental pressure she experiences due to both internal and external sources. The factors of this oppressive unease include her frustration at the transition’s slow pace, her uncomfortable socio-sexual interactions, and her unrelenting training schedule. Polster’s physical and facial expressions are pivotal to capturing this frustration, as the script from Dhont and collaborator Angelo Tijssens deliberately limits the amount of verbal expression offered by Lara. She represses her emotions in the company of others, coming across as shy, quiet, and sweet. But Polster’s tortured eyes suggest a severe angst that speaks volumes over Lara’s restrained dialogue, rendered inescapable for both Lara and the viewer as there is a centrality to the protagonist in pretty much every frame. It is this underlying torment that builds up the tension so brilliantly throughout the film. For all the emotion welling up within Lara, she is never afforded a dramatic outburst, and ballet acts as a vent for her innate desperation. Every scene that sees her fight back tears is married to a beautiful sequence in which she explosively practises her routines, occasionally with difficulty. Dhont uses Lara’s training errors to scatter a forceful violence throughout the film; every brutal knock and every bloody strip of skin reminds us of the harsh reality that exists beyond Lara’s brief escapism.

But it is not just Polster’s breakout effort that will move viewers. Arieh Worthalter is phenomenal as Lara’s single father Mathias, a taxi driver on his own turbulent journey of finding new love while settling into a different life with his two children. His prioritisation of Lara and her baby brother Milo’s (Oliver Bodart) happiness is never once questioned, with moments of annoyance solely borne from his desperate hope for Lara to find peace. The mother figure is removed from the narrative entirely. In his post-screening interview at LFF, Dhont explained that this was part of his own mission to reduce the notion of toxic masculinity prevalent within LGBTQ films, in which the main antagonistic force that the queer character must battle is a straight male figure’s rigid intolerance. For Dhont, making the father and brother figures the film’s most accepting characters ensures that viewers do not paint such a topic in black and white. So, too, does Dhont’s conscious decision not to entirely victimize his protagonist; Girl is not a coming-of-age piece that reduces the young central figure to an emotionally immature teenager on a journey to adult liberation. Instead, it explores how Lara’s determination influences those around her for the better. The implied emotional turbulence of her past has elevated her maturity to an inspirational level, as we can see from Milo’s intimate gleams of admiration every time he is entertained by his big sister.

Girl truly is a film of intimacy, with emotional eruption a constant threat. Over five hundred actors auditioned for the role of Lara, and it is no surprise that Dhont’s extensive search for an actor with powerful emotional control and a masterful dancing technique was fruitful in its results. Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui’s emotionally-charged choreography and Valentin Hadjadj’s sweeping orchestral soundtrack intensely accentuate Lara’s exasperation throughout. The film’s success lies in its simplicity and balance, placing side-by-side gripping dance sequences with moments of harsh, gritty realism. Dhont’s stunning directorial debut is an example of how beauty prevails among discomfort and pain.

8/10

Girl won the Sutherland Trophy at the 2018 BFI London Film Festival, and will receive its general release in the UK on March 15th, 2019. In the meantime, check out its trailer below:

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.

Hassan Sherif critiques Carol Morley’s meandering and cosmo-pondering neo-noir.  

Carol Morley’s latest venture, Out of Blue, is grounded within the gritty urbane confines of New Orleans yet deals with a magnitudinous cosmic subtext. It aims to wear a viewer down with its exploration of the pessimistic thoughts that accompany deliberation over humanity’s insignificance. Unluckily for the film, it succeeds, and then some. The potential is endless when toying with astrological references, but this story of an existential crisis during a homicide investigation is often stale and unexciting, meaning that this slow film never really feels like it has begun.

This is most clearly down to the sluggish performances themselves, and not to the art direction: the dark ambience which imbues the film encapsulates well the crushingly world-weary mindsets of our protagonist (Patricia Clarkson) and the cast of characters around her. In Morley’s adaptation of Martin Amis’s 1997 novel Night Train, Clarkson is Mike Hoolihan, a veteran detective and recovering alcoholic. Her latest case concerns the murder of a brilliant young astrophysicist, Jennifer Rockwell (Mamie Gummer), noted for her disconcerting research on black holes and on our place within the universe. It also drowns Hoolihan in a dark wave of transcendental grief. Midway through the film, the identity of the culprit in this mystery is no longer the main focus; as time passes so does the detective’s sensibilities, transforming Out of Blue from a gritty whodunnit into a surreal portrayal of a deathly mid-life crisis.

As Hoolihan grows frustrated with the emotional vacancy of both Rockwell’s boyfriend (Jonathan Majors) and her sinisterly professional family, we’re left wondering just how much more powerful this production could have been with a more energised performance from its cast; Morley’s confident direction and the film-saving score from Clint Mansell are left hanging by imbalanced emotional execution from the primary actors. A poor attempt at realism means that they deliver their lines in a very resigned manner, and they almost seem distracted by how unengaging the script is. Majors tries to maximise his character’s grief, but unfortunately returns a painful few sequences of odd and unconvincing crying. Even Toby Jones looks disinterested as the dodgy Professor Ian Strammi, and these half-hearted performances cannot be resuscitated by a plot that largely goes nowhere. Although Clarkson’s overblown dreariness quickly becomes oppressive, her portrayal of a woman’s descent into broken stupor is bound to stay with the viewer. An hour and a half into the film and we think we know the monotonous rhythm of her speech, but a short, awkward drunk sequence showcases this professional woman embarrassing herself in cringe-worthy fashion. It is the first instance of cringe within the film that seems intentional, and actually adds to the portrait of a lady in distress, rather than displaying signs of weakness in a tired movie. We welcome this sudden change from the safe formula of poorly delivered one-liners and tautologous scenes that scream irrelevance.

On a more positive note, Morley’s recycling of the same locations complements her discussion of humanity’s limited time on Earth by creating a sense of claustrophobia within the large-scale setting of New Orleans. However, this quickly delves into repetitiveness, with the same three or four different environments revisited in every scene. Similarly, a flash back to Rockwell’s short monologue about how “we are all stardust” is churned out every ten or so minutes and eventually loses its impact – while starting to feel slightly self-indulgent. Morley’s script is obsessed with Schrödinger’s cat, and other such philo-psychological concepts, mentioning them so frequently that we soon feel like we are watching a badly taught lecture and as an audience, that we are not being taken seriously. For a script that repeatedly comments on how beautiful the unknown world among the stars may be, it is markedly unmagical. Thankfully, the ominous dénouement of the film is a powerful, hallucinatory, and most importantly satisfying farewell to an unnecessarily drawn out investigation, and to the portrayal of a middle-aged life locked in stasis.

4/10

Out Of Blue will be generally released in the UK on March 22nd, 2019. Check out a clip below:

Editor KC Wingert reviews Jason Reitman’s political and timely biopic on the 1987 Gary Hart scandal. 

Director Jason Reitman has a penchant for stories about people whose morality sits firmly in a grey area. Avoiding concrete heroes and villains in his films, the Juno and Up In the Air director typically focuses on stories of ordinary people, and he does so with aplomb. However, his latest film focuses on the moral ambiguity surrounding a figure who errs more toward the extraordinary than the ordinary. With a surprising foray into the political drama genre, Jason Reitman’s The Front Runner is based on the true story of the 1988 U.S. Democratic primary hopeful whose political career was ruined forever following a massive sex scandal.

This film’s frenetic energy and quick pace paint a portrait of the exciting, albeit hectic, world of the team behind the ’88 primary campaign — and of the journalists reporting on it. Its visual style is characterised by a liberal use of sweeping, meandering long takes that hardly linger on any singular character long enough for them to speak more than one line. These quick glimpses of conversation between the staffers and journalists — a group comprised of familiar faces like J.K. Simmons as campaign manager Bill Dixon — emphasize the relative importance (or lack thereof) that these individuals hold when compared to the race’s front runner himself.

Hugh Jackman plays Gary Hart, a charming senator from Colorado whose fresh, liberal platform and comparative youth make him a candidate that the nation’s young voters can get behind. By most accounts, Hart is poised to win the Democratic primary and eventually become the next President of the United States. However, when caught having an extramarital affair, Hart finds himself caught in a media firestorm that he can’t seem to brush aside, despite all efforts to refocus the press back towards his political platform. With a stoic and largely unemotional performance, Jackman successfully paints Hart as a distracted, private man focused more on his career than on his personal life. But viewers should take care not to overlook the performers behind two figures so often silenced in any public figure’s sex scandal: the Other Woman, and the Woman Scorned.

Sara Paxton plays Donna Rice, the so-called bimbo who first attracts Hart’s attention at a yacht party off the shores of Miami. The juicy details of her affair with the candidate hit the newsstands, and her life is turned upside down. With an emotional performance, Paxton presents Rice as an ordinary woman: educated, successful, and now, permanently scarred and humiliated by the hate and abuse she receives at a national level after making the mistake of sleeping with a married man. On the other side of the coin, Vera Farmiga plays Lee Hart as a powerful figure who will not be humiliated— not by her husband, and not by the reporters covering his infidelity. Stony-faced and enduring, Farmiga’s Lee is formidable but never hysterical, a loyal wife who in return demands accountability and respect from her husband. Together, Farmiga and Paxton’s masterfully complicated depictions of Lee Hart and Donna Rice humanise the two figures in this scandal who perhaps suffered the most – more, even, than the candidate forced to quit politics forever.

In the wake of the scandal, the frustrated Gary Hart draws comparisons to the likes of popular liberal politician and notorious womaniser John F. Kennedy himself. Hart’s downfall begs the question: if his politics are good, should the gritty details of a public servant’s personal life even matter? Should the type of “gotcha” journalism typical of celebrity tabloids be applied to political news coverage, too? The Front Runner poses questions whose answers are not so simple – not in the 1980s, and especially not today. With a former celebrity personality currently occupying the White House despite countless political and personal controversies, director Reitman’s latest film is timelier than ever.

The Front Runner will be released in the UK on January 11th, 2019. Check out its trailer below: 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Editor-In-Chief Xinyi Wang reviews Lee Chang-dong’s mesmerising slow-burn thriller. 

There is a disconcerting quietness that casts an uncomfortable shadow over Burning. Its colour palette is cold, its characters detached. For a film associated with fire, its only instance of true warmth came from a ray of sunlight, reflected by Seoul Tower and beamed at a specific angle, allowed to softly seep through the windows into a room. Haemi states that it happens only rarely, and that you have to be lucky to catch it. That ray of sunlight disappeared after ten seconds.

Director Lee Chang-dong instead visually dedicates the titular description with the burning of cigarettes. We watch one cigarette after the other slowly dissimulating into ashes, dragged forcefully, as if rushing to finish. A desperate act by our protagonists, Jongsu (Yoo Ah-in) and Haemi (Jeon Jong-seo, a delight in her debut role) to keep some fire in their hearts, it is a warmth that is harsh. A warmth that is lonely.

Its premise is simple: Jongsu, upon coincidence, reunites with Haemi, someone from his childhood that he barely knew. The two soon become involved, but the dynamic shifts after Haemi meets Ben (Steven Yuen) on her trip to Africa. Burning takes a turn after Ben reveals to Jongsu his peculiar hobby – burning greenhouses. The film is about Jongsu as much as it is about Haemi, and as much as it is about Ben; a three-hander told through the perspective of one. It does have more or less a similar premise to the short story it’s based on, Haruki Murakami’s ‘Burning Barns’, except dragged out as a feature length film, and riddled with complications. However, there are certain choices made that require further examination.

For a film loosely adapting Murakami, Burning manages to insert more Murakami tropes than the original contained. The Manic-Pixie Dream Girl, a frequent cliché found and criticised in the women Murakami pens, makes a reappearance in the film, but was in fact not an element in the original short story. The lost and lonely young writer reappears as well, where the “lost and lonely” part is directly added on in the adaptation. In fact, Burning scored in seven boxes on the harmless Murakami Bingo, and that is not even counting what originally existed in the book. It is hard to tell if Lee is simply paying homage to Murakami, or attempting to reimagine the 18-page ‘Barn Burning’ as a full length Murakami novel.

As such, these elements become a double-edged sword. On one hand, for example, the addition of a cat that properly plays a role in the plot is a charming decision that gave heart to the film. The Murakami formula works, and certain details might play as innocuous Easter Eggs for fans. On the other hand, Burning as pastiche runs dangerously close to parody – there is no need for the Manic-Pixie cliché to accompany the critique of how violence against women goes unnoticed, especially when directed at solitary, self-destructive women. Even more, Haemi was reconstructed as an almost by-the-books Dream Girl – special quirks include pantomime, sexual freedom, ability to doze off anywhere, spontaneous travelling, and more – which feels like a gaping flaw and disappointment in an otherwise chilling thriller, and perhaps an unconsciously misogynistic choice in an otherwise gripping critique of a patriarchal world. It can be argued that her characterisation shows her complexity, but it is undebatable that Burning takes Jongsu’s perspective, which of Haemi is a victimised sexual-romantic fantasy that remains so throughout the film. Meanwhile, the choice to reset the protagonist as a lost, quiet, disconnected young novelist (opposed to a well-off writer in his thirties) is fine, but seems to be such a go-to characterisation, and such a typical Murakami protagonist, that I wish for more in a ‘loose adaption’.

Aside from this, Burning is a triumph in slow-burn filmmaking. Hints to answers are given, but Lee manages to retain a successful ambiguity and an alluring strangeness. Its slow pacing keeps one on the edge of their seat, especially in the second half, where Jongsu becomes growingly obsessed with Ben and his greenhouse-burning hobby. The camera takes its time, breathes, and remains on our characters and their environment, refraining from melodrama – which would be an easy option given the material. Two scenes in particular – one of Haemi dancing, and the finale – are shot with delicacy, capturing the beauty of destruction and a dreamy wonder that is breathtakingly simple at the same time.

Despite my complaints of Jongsu and Haemi’s characterisations, I do appreciate how well their disgruntledness and loneliness capture a side commentary on youth unemployment and its dissociative culture. Even better is Lee’s subtle approach to the subject. Two sides of the same coin, Yoo Ah-in and Jeon Jong-seo reveal their own distinct isolation and pain, the latter stealing the show with all of the character’s quirks and eccentricity (The Manic-Pixie is up to criticism, but it does intrinsically bring out some scene-stealing acting.) They are drawn to each other because they are both lost and forgotten by the world, but due to their weakness of character that attraction is ultimately disrupted by the presence of someone who engulfs and feeds on their infatuation with destruction – the character that, pun-intended, burns into memory.

Steven Yeun’s breakout performance as Ben is by far the highlight of the film, and personally a revelation of his talents. There is always something off about Ben – he is an enigma, suspicious and perhaps sociopathic, and thus the audience is encouraged, with Jongsu, to develop an obsession over him. Yeun carries the role with grace, complexity, and a polite smile, and it is refreshing and empowering to see an Asian-American actor stretch his acting muscles outside the restrictiveness of Hollywood. Gone is the heroic Glenn from the Walking Dead – in his place stands a strange man who enjoys burning greenhouses. Yeun’s range can definitely be observed here, and his intensity bounces off the increasingly frenetic Yoo Ah-in as the film takes a turn to the intense.

Burning burns like winds in the winter, scathing the skin with an expertly-told chilling story and insight. Flaws in characterisation aside, the film is utterly visually stunning and emotionally well balanced, bringing alive not only the three characters, but also the world around them. Lee takes his time to tell the tale, resulting in a fascinating crescendo that ends with powerful ambiguity.

Cigarettes are dragged and put out, but the question of greenhouses lingers on.

8/10

Burning (버닝) will be generally released in the UK on February 1st, 2019. In the meantime, check out its trailer:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews Peter Jackson’s technically and visually experimental WW1 documentary. 

Among the unruly film conservationist community – an elusive and underloved subsection of society at the best of times – there is much discontent afoot. Peter Jackson’s latest project, a commission from the Imperial War Museum to mark the centenary of the First World War’s conclusion, has been considered by some to be an act of barbarity, an unjustifiable marring of historical record for the sake of empty titillation. This project, entitled They Shall Not Grow Old, is understandably controversial: Jackson has taken archive footage from the Western Front and not only colourized it, but dubbed it with sound and rendered it in 3D. That’s not even to mention blowing up 4:3 to 16:9, often considered a sin in its own right.

The arguments against this kind of treatment are plentiful and not without merit, especially the suggestion that in making these images more ‘realistic’, one forgets that they do not necessarily represent reality at all. Not only is much of the footage used staged or in some way manipulated – what is off-frame is often more indicative than what is on – but also an artefact of how these historical people viewed their own present. To ‘enhance’ these images with tools of modernity might, in an extreme example, not be so dissimilar to colouring in cave drawings in order to make the horses more lifelike. While yes, that much would be achieved, it would also be a total distortion of the way in which early man perceived and recorded horses – it may seem more real to us, but not in any helpful way.

This angle, while entirely valid, misses the aims of Jackson in creating this film. He is not attempting to make better the images of his forefathers, but rather to use the data contained within those images so as to construct a fantasy that might, itself, communicate an idea of the First World War. Little of what Jackson presents can be considered ‘real’ – the colours are imagined, the sounds invented, the voices guessed at – but just like any costume drama set in the Great War, that does not stop these from being authentic. By adapting the indexical record of the First World War, which even if staged or manipulated is still constructed with genuine soldiers in genuine locations, Jackson can then inject this impression of the past with his own expressive interpretation. This is not an improvement of old footage so much as an attempt to use this footage in an essentially fictional recreation of the First World War. He wishes to recreate it according to the aesthetic of direct human senses – we see in colour, we hear synchronised sound, we perceive depth. So too did the soldiers Jackson wishes to depict, and through their eyes he attempts to see. This is, of course, impossible – therein lies the art of cinema.

But does it work? In large part, I think it does. Jackson opens the film with framed and untouched (besides the unobtrusive addition of mild 3D effects) footage depicting recruitment and preparation early in the war. As this leads into the fighting – he structures the film in a simplistic, linear fashion – the various effects sweep over the screen. The impact is at first startling; the distortion inherent in the footage met with image smoothing techniques, and occasionally garish colours, initially suggests the tone of 80s video footage, almost as though we are viewing some kind of re-enactment. But as the film continues the imagery becomes more consistent, and at once more intimate. This is not to say that black-and-white footage is inherently alienating; rather that to see these young faces laughing or speaking, smiling in impossible close-ups, is to imbue them with something lost in the limitations of silent documentary of the 1910s. It feels almost wrong – especially as a student of history – to suggest such a superficial (and fictitious) adaptation of old images can change their effect in any meaningful way. Then again it is that replication of the human sensory condition, and application of modern aesthetic sensibilities, that in Jackson’s own words ‘reach[es] through the fog of time and pull[s] these men into the modern world’.

Unfortunately this fascinating gambit lies in contrast to the worn-over and school-friendly structure the rest of the film rests in (albeit understandably, given a copy will be sent to every school in the UK). Every theme is covered individually, each given a few minutes, the course of the war covered in as wide and generic a sense as possible. While the interviews that underscore the entire film are of course specific, they are rent from their direct context so as to allow them the bizarre position of ‘general anecdote’. The wheres and the whens are forgone for the general atmosphere of war. This is justifiable, but feels rote, and paradoxically impersonal. Jackson will often cut to close-ups of soldiers faces to directly humanize them, and yet these soldiers will remain anonymous, matched to voices that are not their own, intercut with battles in which they did not fight. As associative montage this might be effective, but it does seem a little at odds with Jackson’s initial purpose. This also leads to Jackson’s trouble when representing scenes of battle in a larger sense, as the exact kind of grittiness he would like to impart was never captured (or archived) on film, other than the grisly leftovers. As such he must fall back on printed images of battle, with a ballistic soundscape of artillery fire and the occasional bagpipe standing in for visual effect. A conspicuously absent feature given its core importance to understanding the experience of war, even if the descriptions on the soundtrack serve as adequate substance in lieu.

They Shall Not Grow Old is, as such, a strange contradiction of sorts. As a documentary, it is entirely uninspiring in form, and other than its brief treatment of the post-war experience it offers little novel in terms of structure. But the direct experience of witnessing these soldiers resurrected by digital technologies rebukes any loss in confidence instantly. To see these men looking so immediately real (the footage not only colourized, but stabilized, and smoothed) is startling. While the black-and-white footage untreated could hardly be described as inhuman, it has previously served as a unique sort of cage for the men of the early 20^th century. Where wars of deeper history lack such filmic record – and so are simply imagined in colour, inspired by clearly contrived elements of visual art (paintings etc.) – the nature of film is such that these monochrome images become a sort of phantom memory for those recalling these battles beyond their years. It is in much the same manner that young children often wonder if the past was in black-and-white entirely. And it is for these children especially that the film has been constructed; it aims to break this silver cage, and create a new, vivid, memory of the past. In this it undoubtedly succeeds.

7/10

They Shall Not Grow Old is currently showing at the Imperial War Museum. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel reviews Barry Jenkins’ intimate and introspective drama on race and family.

Two years after I Am Not Your Negro, novelist James Baldwin’s singular voice still echoes in the heads of those who fight for equality. The American author’s fifth novel, If Beale Street Could Talk, is the quintessential expression of his talent, bursting with spirit and rage. Director Barry Jenkins’ adaptation unequivocally does the original work justice, successfully blending artistic prowess and grounded storytelling to surpass his own previous achievement with the Academy Award-winning Moonlight.

The opening credits only offer a few words from Baldwin, revealing that Beale Street is the metaphorical birth place of every black person in America, from his own drug-addicted biological father to the legendary Louis Armstrong. No actor or actress’ name is featured, and Jenkins himself is not even mentioned, which goes to show that his auteurism is first and foremost a respectful and restrained one, letting the narrative, rather than his newly established household name, affect the audience.

If Beale Street Could Talk recounts the passionate relationship between 19-year-old Tish (KiKi Layne) and her first and only love Fonny (Stephan James), who dreams of becoming a sculptor until he is unfairly arrested for rape. After Tish finds out that she is pregnant, her mother (Regina King) proceeds to do everything in her power to exonerate her stepson; however, they cannot move beyond the restrictions of African-American life in 1950s Harlem. Baldwin’s title finds its resonance in his characters’ tragedy:  if Beale Street could talk, it would cry out Fonny’s innocence and testify for him and every other blameless black person in court. But Jenkins’ film stresses that these innocents’ sufferings are doomed to remain silenced until their country wakes up from its deep and intolerant slumber.

Stephan James tackles the role of Alonzo ‘Fonny’ Hunt, an intrepid and charismatic young man with a singular expression, channelling Andre Holland’s performance in Moonlight. James’ slight squint gives him a piercing gaze, perfectly captured by Jenkins’ trademark portrait shots in which the actors to look directly into the camera, as if they were in direct conversation with the audience. This aspect adds a certain earnestness and poetic intimacy to the film, almost blurring the frontiers between fiction and documentary and turning the characters’ story into an account of African-American life in New York City. The feature boldly and seamlessly transitions between real photographic footage, narrated by Tish, and more cinematic episodes, a creative decision which never diminishes the story’s impact but rather reinvigorates it in a Spike Lee-esque fashion.

More personal sequences depicting Tish and Fonny’s relationship are equally well executed in an even more mastered and fearless style than in Jenkins’ previous picture. The two protagonists’ lovemaking is pure and candid, punctuated with quasi-Godardian dialogue in an otherwise conventional screenplay. Tish’s bright-coloured outfits seem to indicate her lively enthusiasm and youthful inexperience, contrasting with Fonny’s plain, working class clothes; however, she endures and survives with the help of her family, showing her hateful stepmother and the world that she is up to the task. Layne’s confident portrayal of this brave and reserved 19-year-old, embracing God’s gift of a baby boy, undeniably makes her the film’s true breakout star.

The rest of the cast is comprised of more familiar faces, such as Diego Luna and Pedro Pascal, all standing as emblems of various minorities. Their incorporation into the narrative reveals how intertwined their fates are with those of Tish and Fonny, perhaps demonstrating the necessity of convergence among similar struggles. Brian Tyree Henry only has a few minutes of screen time, but he manages to fit a memorable performance in a single exceptional sequence. The Atlanta star tells the story of his arrest and prison time – for car theft, in spite of the fact that he does not know how to drive – with such intensity and dignity that it suffuses the film and lingers in the spectator’s mind. Dave Franco, however, plays the role of a Jewish landlord, a confounding miscast considering that every other actor stands out in his own unique way. Franco is hardly believable as a religious proprietor, performing as if he had walked on set without reading the script and making no effort to transform into a credible character.

The two-hour drama, despite its focus on racial injustice, never gives in to Manichean representations of society. The woman who accuses Fonny of rape and is pressured to indict him is Puerto Rican, but her own marginalized social status does not influence her allegation; she refuses, even after Fonny’s stepmother’s ceaseless efforts, to change her testimony. Jenkins follows Baldwin in indicating that the American legal system is broken, achieving the unfortunate feat of cheating both the victim and the perpetrator in such cases.

If Beale Street Could Talk’s conclusion, however, ultimately demonstrates that these characters are far from leading the miserable existences one may have portended. Although the film does not imply that the fates of African-Americans can or will ever be equal to their white compatriots, the outcome of Tish and Fonny’s story is hopeful, rooted in the deeply Christian belief that suffering and hardship will always be redeemed in the kingdom of God.

If Beale Street Could Talk will have its general UK release on February 8th, 2019. Meanwhile, check out the trailer below: 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner dives into Godard’s newest experimental video essay.

Early in The Image Book, Jean-Luc Godard splices in a sound clip regarding musician Scott Walker and his late-period reinvention, whereby the pop singer from the ’60s reemerged in the 2000s as a dark and experimental figure in music’s underground. This is then followed by a segment called ‘remakes’, in which Godard flicks through his favourite films and finds them within each other, and in the world. Does Godard see himself as another Scott Walker, famed for his old jollities, now focused on the business of the dense and the dingy? Without a doubt. Much of The Image Book follows a similar mode, effectively a sort of JLG clip show, albeit edited with abrasion in mind. Images are constantly distorted, their aspect ratios abused, their colours blown out or digitally assaulted. As much as Godard is a self-avowed cinema obsessive, he is thankfully free of any ritualistic worship of original form. He bends and tears and cuts without pause, even more in his late 80s than in his days as a burgeoning enfant terrible.

This isn’t to say his attack on form is constantly engaging or interesting. An image will sometimes shudder, or the screen will go blank, or in a trick that seems especially favoured for its repetition, the audio will spring about the cinema, elements of the mix cutting out constantly. The effect is often more frustrating than intriguing or exciting. He withholds subtitles, which I suspect is less to favour the image (as Straub-Hulliet dictated) so much as it is to restrict viewers who can speak only English. Godard has always resisted the ever-antiquated capabilities of subtitles (the walls of La Chinoise are covered in words and details that an English speaker has no chance of picking up), but in this case his resistance seems especially contrived. If the intention is to front the image, why withhold subtitles when the screen is entirely blank? I feel he reveals his hand in a moment where subtitles are provided, despite words not being spoken: the joke is very much on us.

Following Godard’s exploration of cinema-as-cinema-as-reality-as-cinema, he becomes particularly set on the Middle East. First, his concern seems political: the revolutionary fervour that has defined much of Godard’s work is perennial, and he wastes no time in criticizing not just global foreign policy, but the inadequacies of creeping and total capitalism. But more pertinent to his consideration of the ‘image’ is in his vague screeds on representation. His conclusions are largely surface level, but he hits on an interesting point when considering the violence of these representations in process against their calmness in content. Many fanciful renditions of the Middle East are not directly malicious, but to trace their creation and origin is a trail tread with blood. Godard seems aware of this, and though his argumentation might be considered nebulous at best, it might further be supposed that his narration is at least secondary in this film, the flood of imagery its guiding light.

This point can then bend back to the idea of remakes in the film’s initial segment. What is the original, and what is the copy? Do Arab representations of the self reflect better their realities, or already extant representations of their supposed realities as according to the West? And furthermore, is the contemporary Arab reality not also a product of Western influence and representation? Godard negotiates a controversial territory here, always risking partaking in the very Orientalism he critiques. When questioning the Arab ability to resist Western cultural hegemony, is he himself falling victim to the trope of the supplicatory Arab? To quote the man himself – ‘can the Arabs speak?’ The film leaves me with many questions, and for good reason – but if nothing else it provides an interesting diversion that suggests the mirror-maze of images is not only influenced by the real world, but also is itself an influence.

Together with its countless other diversions, tricks, and misdirections (the credits are totally jumbled, just for fun), The Image Book invites interpretation and dissection at every turn. But this doesn’t necessarily mean it is in any way rigorous – if constructed with some sense for progression, it prefers free association to a more structured unpacking of ideas. Godard seems caught between explicating ideas and destroying the cinema, and here finds himself somewhere between. The result can sometimes be fascinating from a formal standpoint, but it just as often falls into the needlessly abrasive or argumentatively directionless. The Image Book is provoking and occasionally amusing without a doubt, but it is also a film whose anarchic foundations seem at odds with its intellectual constructions a little too often.

5/10

The Image Book (Le livre d’image) had its UK premiere at the BFI London Film Festival. It has yet to acquire a general UK release date. Check out the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Lydia De Matos reviews Michael Moore’s outrage-filled documentary targeting the current political climate in the United States.

Michael Moore’s newest documentary may market itself as a fully loaded gun aimed at none other than the 45th President of the United States, but the reality is somewhat different. Fahrenheit 11/9 (the title a reference to Moore’s 2004 feature concerning the war on terror, Fahrenheit 9/11) is rather a full-scale exposé on the downfall and ultimate failure of American democracy in the 21st century.

For the film’s first 20 or so minutes, however, you’d be forgiven for not realising this. Moore sets his audience up with a fairly straightforward rehash of the later stages of the 2016 US election (emphasis on the word “fairly,” as, let’s face it, this is Michael Moore we’re talking about). It’s from here that we’re spun in a completely different direction, as a perhaps slightly tenuous, but overall necessary, link is made back to the director’s hometown of Flint, Michigan.

Throughout his filmography, Moore has rarely failed to return home. Whether he’s focusing on a Flint-based story such as in his 1989 debut Roger and Me, or covering more widespread issues such as gun control in 2002’s Bowling for Columbine, Flint is always featured prominently. But never has this homecoming felt more crucial. For the past four years the town has been experiencing a water crisis which has essentially poisoned the entire population, a situation which became widely mediatised earlier this year, and I’d been wondering for a while when Moore would announce that he’d be covering the subject. Watching the first segment on Flint, I thought this was it, that Moore had simply used the inherent bait that is Donald Trump to shed more light on an issue which still threatens his hometown. But you’ll soon realise that this, too, isn’t quite the case; instead, it’s merely a part of the overarching argument.

Moore takes us through a series of segments which tackle some of the most important, and decidedly controversial, subjects surrounding the USA over the last few years. From the Parkland shooting, to teachers’ strikes, to the allegations of rape and sexual assault levied against a number of men prominent in the news media (and interestingly, as the film notes, many of whom were critical of Hillary Clinton during her campaign): Moore spares nothing and no one, even criticising the actions of former President Barack Obama.

In spite of this, the director seems to have somewhat restrained his usual style. His interviews are less guiding, with fewer witticisms; in fact, Moore spends most of the film behind the camera, rather than in front of it. No need to worry for Moore fans, though – his style hasn’t disappeared altogether. Acts of stunt journalism, such as attempting a citizen’s arrest on Michigan Governor Rick Snyder before soaking his front garden in water from Flint, serve as proof that Moore is undoubtedly still a performer. If anything, he seems to have finally found a perfect tonal balance, with enough dark comedy to create excitement, interest, and controversy, but not so much that it cheapens the gravity of the subject matter.

At the beginning of this documentary, the audience, faced with footage of the night of the 2016 election, is asked a question: “How the fuck did this happen?” We assume it references Trump, and in a way it does, albeit indirectly. This film, with a scattershot approach seemingly focused on every heartbreaking American crisis of the past few years, begins to make sense of how democracy failed the United States’ public so badly. Trump, in all his toxic glory, is simply the symbol of that failure. Flint, and Parkland, and everything else, represent the other side – the side of those who have been disenfranchised by the current system. Poisoned, unprotected, shot at, and killed, they have given up faith in their system – and who can blame them? Want to know why Michael Moore is angry again? That’s why.

Fahrenheit 11/9, convoluted though its argument is, makes the reason for Moore’s anger clear. It even offers a solution, and a simple one, too: to act, to vote, to get up and do something. It may feel like a slightly naïve message, but as this documentary indicates, there isn’t really a better option.

8/10

Fahrenheit 11/9 is currently released in UK. Check out the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Alex Dewing reviews Bill Oliver’s low-key sci-fi on the duality of life.

Not only is Duplicate Bill Oliver’s debut at LFF, but it is, more impressively, also his first feature-length film. And what a debut it is. He takes up the role of writer and director with an assured and delicate touch that sets him up as one to keep your eye on. Who better, then, to lead his low sci-fi drama than fellow up and comer Ansel Elgort? Together, these two create an inspired story that is simultaneously a spectacular piece of sci-fi cinema and a delicate exploration of family and mental health.

Brothers Jonathan and John live very different lives; the former is reserved, quietly creative, and somewhat naive, quietly turning down the advances of the new girl at his architectural firm without even realising her interests in him. Meanwhile, the latter is extroverted and assertive, a free spirit, staying up late after work in favour of sticking to his sibling’s strict routine. But still, the bothers are closer than most. So close that, in fact, Jonathan and John are one and the same. Two minds, one body. In Oliver’s world, this is merely a rare condition and one that can be dealt with – namely by splitting the two into separate consciousnesses and giving them ‘shifts’ (7am to 7pm and 7pm to 7am).

It is not however simply a Jekyll and Hyde trope. Instead, it’s given a sophisticated spin through focusing the film through the sole perspective of Jonathan. The two can only communicate through video recordings made at the end of each shift. But there is a conscious restraint from painting the two as hero and villain. There are no more antagonistic sentiments from John than ones you might find from a child towards their own sibling. Moreover, this closed narrative allows for and heightens the dramatic tension that the film greatly profits from; following Jonathan’s life as he deals with his brother’s increasingly distant and erratic behaviour, John’s absence from the screen mimics that very same absence from his sibling with wickedly suspenseful effect.

From the heights of Edgar Wright’s Baby Driver, Duplicate may seem a strange direction for Elgort to be taking. His effortless charm seems more fitting for big-budget pieces than sci-fi indies. Yet he slips into this role (or roles, I should say) with confidence and ease, striking a balance between being a normal man trying to find his place in the world and one who has been born into an impossible situation but perseveres out of his love for his family. As John descends further into desperation and despair for reasons unknown to his brother, Jonathan too falls into hopelessness, determined not to lose the one person he’s always been closest to. Elgort is transformative in his performance, bringing a subtlety to his internal battles that further highlights his skill.

Similarly, cinematographer Zach Kuperstein takes a muted approach to the visuals of the film. The cityscapes are imposing but beautiful, while the startlingly unspoiled structures feel at once familiar and yet somewhat futuristic. You are reminded at all times that Jonathan is trapped in more ways than one. With Elgort’s character consistently restrained to the edge of frame, staring out at the unknown, Duplicate is superbly composed through clean edges and sharp lines; lines which start to blur as the narrative pushes forward.

Uncertainty surrounding the films narrative direction aids the film in maintaining intrigue and suspense; what starts as a brotherly disapproval of John’s decision to start dating (breaking the final and most important rule set by the two on advice from their Doctor / surrogate mother Dr Nariman, Patricia Clarkson) slowly tumbles into more deeply-rooted obstacles that threaten their entire existence. These two sides of the story, however, is expertly counterpoised by Oliver. LFF Programmer, Michael Blyth, states that this film is “intimate in scale yet boldly ambitious in its ideas”, a statement I wholeheartedly agree with. Duality, it seems, runs through every aspect of the film.

Duplicate is an assured sci-fi tale that plays through with a quiet confidence, languorously delving into the realities of its fiction. At the same time, it perfectly portrays the deceptive nature of mental health issues, whether intentional or not. A reminder that internal struggles are exactly that – nobody can know when you’re hurting. And sometimes, you can trick yourself into believing you’re fine. Roz Kaveney said that the strength of the sci-fi genre is founded in “picking and choosing narrative tropes and developed ideas and making from them something new”, and Duplicate does exactly that. Together Oliver and Elgort have, quite simply, made something incredibly unique.

8/10

Duplicate is known as Jonathan in the United States. It has yet to acquire a UK release date. Check out the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel reviews Felix Van Groeningen’s poignant biopic on drug addition.

“Life is what happens to you, while you’re busy making other plans”

– John Lennon, “Beautiful Boy”

David Sheff had wonderful plans for his son: he would go to college, study what he loved, and have a great life. But at eighteen, Nic went to rehab for the first time. Beautiful Boy is the true story of drug addict Nic Sheff (Timothée Chalamet), adapted from his father’s memoir, here embodied by Steve Carell, and his own. The film’s real-life grounding helps it evade excessive pathos, and persists in that path by avoiding gratuitous scenes of substance abuse. Felix Van Groeningen directs this poignant tale with subtlety, making way for memorable displays from his two leads.

Steve Carell is finally given a part worthy of his dramatic talent, four years after Foxcatcher, with the compelling portrayal of a divorced and concerned father desperately trying to save his boy. Their crumbling relationship gives way to acting masterclasses from Chalamet and Carell, both carrying the film even in its weakest moments. Nic’s comings and goings between college and his father’s home punctuate the narrative, as a metaphorical manifestation of his sobriety and relapses. Maura Tierney, playing Karen Barbour – David’s new wife – endures her husband and step-son’s hardships with a challenging combination of distance and proximity, struggling to find the balance between protecting her own young children and indulging in David’s innumerable attempts to rescue his son. Just like her character, Tierney painfully finds her way between the two actors, in a supporting role which she commands yet never fully explores, due to its relative inconsequence in the plot.

Timothée Chalamet’s stunning performance transcends his own character, that of a wandering teenager whose desire to escape surpasses his will to live. His Renaissance allure enhances the feeling of dread and consternation which permeates the narrative, as if the audience was witnessing the slow and odious downfall of a Caravaggio model. Nic’s physical and mental collapse repulses precisely because of his pristine appearance, which he spoils with the help of methamphetamines (commonly known as Crystal Meth), resonating in this way with Jared Leto’s baby-faced Harry Goldfarb in Requiem for a Dream. Each and every spectator suffers for Chalamet’s character, inevitably recognising in this poor and beautiful boy the haunting spectre of Call Me by Your Name’s Elio, whose refinement here disappears and is supplanted by a sombre, self-destructive misanthropy.

Beautiful Boy is built around a series of flashbacks which throw light on the father and son’s complicated relationship, while implicitly showing how the insidious process of addiction begins. David feels baffled and powerless because he knows that he has done nothing wrong raising his child, and the audience progressively unravels the mysteries of Nic’s life searching for answers, only to face the hard truth: there is no logic in his dependence. The picture’s brilliant opening scene, focusing on an immobile Carell seated in a doctor’s office, stuck in the centre of the frame, as he strives to understand his son’s “disease”, encapsulates his inability to act and relate to him. Their interactions during Nic’s early and pre-teen years reveal nothing out of the ordinary, bordering at times on the cliché, in this way exonerating David, and to a certain extent, his ex-wife Vicki (Amy Ryan).

However, these flashbacks also impede the story’s progression, significantly lessening the emotional intensity of certain scenes. Consequently, the narrative’s pace is generally unequal, offering a captivating first act followed by dragged-out developments, with the film only picking up in its last stages. The ending provides a moving and hopeful conclusion to Beautiful Boy, but the inclusion of a drug awareness message, between the last frame and the credits, accompanied by statistics of substance abuse in the United States, seemed impersonal and redundant after the two-hour drama. Nic and David Sheff’s life story is tragic and authentic enough not to be presented alongside what appeared like a public service announcement. Nevertheless, Van Groeningen’s feature prevails as a forceful and potent account of addiction, led by two actors at the peak of their artistry.

Beautiful Boy will be generally released in the UK on January 18th, 2019. Meanwhile, check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews Mike Leigh’s vivid historical war drama on the 1819 massacre.

Peterloo opens with what many consider Britain’s greatest triumph – the battle of Waterloo. But Mike Leigh does not shoot the flag triumphant, nor Wellington on horseback, nor Wellington at all. Instead he finds a single soldier, frightened in the mud and cannon fire. He is a boy barely twenty, it would seem, bewildered and afraid, experiencing less a victory than a trauma. Leigh’s lens is, as usual for his filmography, set low. He cares little for the largesse of war and battle in favour of prioritising a man caught in its fury, unwilling and unknowing of its full context or import. He doesn’t bend or distort history for his purposes – his presentation of events is remarkably and admirably accurate – but rather presents it in such a manner that it becomes a protest incidentally, both against the way history is remembered and the state of politics in the modern day.

The climax of the film is the massacre after which it is named – the result of a cavalry charge into the then-largest public gathering in Mancunian history during the August of 1819. But before this event of brutal and needless violence is dramatized, Leigh goes to extreme lengths to contextualise and frame it, and grant it meaning further than simple outrage at clear injustice. His manner has been criticised as laboured or repetitive, but I see it rather as a thorough, full-bodied reading of events that would make Rossellini proud. The multitudes of public meetings, for example, do not differ greatly in content or direction. But they do suggest not only a tactile increase in support, but the way in which bread-and-butter issues can inflate and contort at the behest of certain charismatic individuals. We see various orators rattle against one another, from the measured pragmatism of John Knight to the near-Biblical radicalism of John Johnston. Crowds who would never otherwise give Johnston an ear are now swept up in his rhetoric; the lack of basic provision permits unnecessary extremism to take hold. It is in this basic presentation of historical fact that Leigh can comment on the present, and there is a certain elegance to his method.

This is seen again during his time spent with the women’s reform movement, in which a largely middle-class crowd get so lost in their refined prose that their working-class supporters are literally unable to understand what exactly it is they’re saying. This is especially pertinent, and Leigh’s emphasis on it is obvious; so much left-wing intellectualism supposedly for (and to be actualised by) the working classes is written beyond their means, or obfuscated needlessly through the black hole of academia. Again, history is in no way mangled by this emphasis, nor is this a case of twisting a narrative out of shape to fit a pre-existent agenda. Rather Leigh finds and presents parallels without altering their original context in any way.

But it is in the women’s reform movement we also see a good example of Leigh’s version of history, very much eschewing the top down approach that pervades even modern historical readings. While admitting great amounts of time to the notable characters of nineteenth century Manchester, Leigh never loses sight of that boy at Waterloo and his kin. This family grounds the story, and maintains a human interest that so many similar historical epics do away with in the name of scale and grandeur. This is naturally furthered by Leigh’s greatest strength – character work. Even the minor roles are granted an instant personality by his intricate method, Leigh often working for months with actors, preferring natural interaction to overly scripted dialogue. The result is often slightly caricatured, a mild exaggeration of a familiar reality, but never in a way that makes these people feel unreal or obscene, at least not among the central cast. Some are intentionally exuberant, not least the vainglorious would-be poet Reverend Etlhelson, but these characters serve to ornament the film’s selvedge with a personality that the historical genre often rejects for the sake of supposed authenticity. Such a grave and important event need not be cloaked in the prestigious guise that covers the likes of Lincoln or similar – it is through warmth and comedy that the story can engage rather than alienate, especially when so stringent with historical detail otherwise.

As such Peterloo is something so many grim-up-north films are not – vivid. Dick Pope’s bright cinematography matches the performances in its agreeable tenor, and is joined by production design that eschews a focus on mud and dirt (present though they are) for the brightness of industrial England, not least the various flags taken to St Peter’s Field on the day of the march. I find it equally vivid in its telling of history, too, though this might be a more specific interest. It evokes its period beautifully and conjures up various familiar figures with fresh vigour. Even very minor characters, such as George IV’s brief appearance, are memorable. That it can then propagate a rounded and faithful account of events without leaving any of its audience behind – as according to its own criticism – makes it a doubly attractive proposal.

This is almost certainly a film that will, at some point, be played in school, likely across an entire month owing to its gargantuan length. It is for much the same reason I imagine some might find it off putting, as much a drama as it is a lesson, concerned with fact as much as with human emotion, rather than offering the latter a significant advantage as would be usual practice. But I feel Leigh finds a perfect blend. The obsession with history that Rossellini fell into but without the ascetic tone; instead Leigh has managed to meld into this his inimitable and welcoming style. A vague exaggeration, perhaps, but a fair compromise by all accounts. Peterloo is beautifully crafted, immediately compelling, and deeply sincere – another success from one of Britain’s finest directors.

8/10

Peterloo will be released in the UK on November 2nd. Check out the trailer below: 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel reviews Robert Redford’s charming swansong. 

Forrest Tucker was a happy man. He robbed banks without hurting anyone, was sent to prison – only to escape – and went back to doing what he did best. Most people he met, may they be civilians or police officers, were struck by his smile and constant civility. David Lowery chose this unusual premise as the story for his fourth feature film, casting Robert Redford in the main role. Set in 1981 across the United States, The Old Man & the Gun is an entertaining and heart-warming picture, serving as an appropriate testimonial to one of Hollywood’s most legendary actors, in what is supposed to be his last outing.

The character of Tucker combines the attributes of the eponymous real-life thief and Redford’s own renowned anti-hero roles. Paying homage to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid from the very beginning, the feature makes multiple references to 60s and 70s cinema from this moment on while recreating the era’s style through the use of rough 16mm cinematography. Lowery’s film expertly reimagines the atmosphere of emblematic New Hollywood crime pictures, even incorporating some footage from The Chase in an aptly nostalgic montage compiling the protagonist’s – or is it Redford’s? – greatest escapes.

Facing Tucker is morose cop John Hunt, played by a moustached Casey Affleck, chasing a felon who enjoys stealing more than he takes pleasure in catching criminals. The case of the old man with a gun provides Hunt with a new goal to pursue and an exit from his existential crisis. The narrative replicates Michael Mann’s Heat in its depiction of two opposing figures on either side of the law, but transforms it into a respectful cat-and-mouse game, far from Al Pacino and Robert De Niro’s fiery relationship. The central scene in which Redford and Affleck meet is supremely amusing and courteous, in the image of their empathetic rapport, which constitutes one of the main reasons why The Old Man & the Gun is so enjoyable.

Sissy Spacek also shines as Jewel, a sympathetic widow who takes a liking to Tucker and lets herself be fooled by his mystifying manipulations. Spacek and Redford form a charming couple, and their fantastic onscreen chemistry spawns unforgettable lengthy scenes of dialogue, favoured by Lisa Zeno Churgin’s unobtrusive and smooth editing. The protagonist’s honesty, in his first encounter with Jewel, is so forthright and unexpected that it remains unclear whether she is aware of his ploys, but she certainly gives him the benefit of the doubt, beguiled by his irresistible smile and charisma. Much like the audience, she is too captivated by this mysterious personage to worry about the integrity of his occupation.

The Old Man & the Gun is, in every way, a profoundly American film. Its main and supporting cast are entirely made up of Hollywood icons, chosen as much for their acting talent than for their résumé. Spacek, Danny Glover, and Tom Waits’ characters are only referred to on a first name basis, and even Tucker’s real name is only revealed in the film’s second act, as if they were interacting with each other as their real, public self. Lowery directs his narrative with noteworthy lyricism and ingenuity, recalling at times the virtuosity of Paul Thomas Anderson’s camera movement in his equally great U.S tales, such as Boogie Nights and Inherent Vice. Tucker lives the American dream, roaming freely across the fifty states with suitcases full of money, but his non-violence and overall geniality appear to clear his name of any accusations, at least in the director’s eyes. In a Willy Loman-esque speech, the protagonist affirms that “looking sharp will take you a long way”, a statement which is undeniably legitimised by the film. The moral ambiguity of Redford’s role is far from being the story’s focus, and even Affleck’s despondent sergeant seems to find his man more likeable than hostile. At its core, The Old Man & the Gun is an endearing ode to American opportunism, symbolically closing a chapter of cinematic history with flair and panache.

The Old Man & the Gun will be generally released in the UK on December 7th. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Karina Tukanova reviews Matteo Garrone’s portrait of bathos and humanity. 

Foaming saliva, glaring teeth, clinging chains. A vicious pit bull strikes, barking with rage. The audience is taken aback by the canine’s frenzied behaviour, snatching uncomfortable half-glances at the screen. Moments later, Marcello (Marcello Fonte) coiffeurs the animal, all the while cooing “sweetie” and “good boy”. The dog is calmed, and Dogman begins its convoluted tale of human despair.

Matteo Garrone’s latest crime drama Dogman brings us the story of Marcello, a timid owner of a dog-grooming salon in a tiny suburb in Rome. He loves his young daughter Sofia and plays occasional football with his buddies. To make ends meet, Marcello is also small-time coke dealer, which explains his good terms with other members of the tight Italian community. The peaceful serenity of his life is however shaken up by the local sociopathic bully Simone (Edoardo Pesce) who feeds off Marcello’s meek and unassuming character. Despite that, Marcello desperately wants to be on Simone’s good side – an issue that makes itself clear when he saves Simone from a revenge bullet from the locals who have had enough of his destructive demeanour. Marcello goes even as far as going to a prison for a year, only to realise a tad too late that his “frenemy” has stripped him of everything.

Characteristic of the questions it is trying to explore, Dogman is built on polar opposites. One moment we witness the heart-warming relationship between the father and the daughter; the other – we tense up at the stomach-churning violence educed by cocaine-huffing and uncontrollable aggression. At the heart of it is the protagonist himself. On the one hand Marcello is a sweet and loving character, who cherishes for his daughter, loves his job, and tries to love the life around him. At the same time, it is hard to ignore his responsibility in Simone’s becoming of a maniacal coke-addicted monster that terrorises the neighbourhood, and the masochistic relationship he chooses to endure. Drawn to Simone by his brutal confidence and questionable degree of power, Marcello enables his drug addiction that clearly only has destructive consequences. Yet it is impossible not to feel for Marcello’s meagre existence characterised by his loneliness and pathological need to be liked by everyone. Behind every pathetic action he makes, there is a gulf of sadness and desperateness, a scream for help out of helplessness.

Deservingly, Fonte has bagged himself the Best Actor for the role at Cannes. Fonte inhabits and sees through his character so fully that he never lets naïve kindness fused with despair go out of his eyes. His astonishing performance brings out every nuanced contradiction of his character – it is enough to glimpse at Marcello’s face to realise the pain and turmoil behind a hesitant smile. Pesce’s portrayal of Simone is equally impressive. His character is like an untamed beast who goes on rampaging peoples’ property and lives, and Pesce executes the role perfectly, leaving you with feeling utmost animalistic horror.

Marcello is compelling in his idle loyalty to Simone, although that does rear into the audience’s frustration. Midway through the film this relationship of subjugation becomes so inconceivable, it ceases to make sense entirely, hindering the emotional realism for the sake of the plot. That’s not to say this renders Dogman completely unrealistic. Indeed, at times it becomes too real. Once Marcello seemingly transforms from a feeble dog-groomer to a man brooding on revenge, the boundaries between what is good and evil blur completely, inviting the audience to ponder on moral ambiguity of each character. During one of the most climatic scenes – when Marcello traps Simone in a dog’s cell and ruthless violence ensues – there is little left of that sweet-natured innocent champ who just wanted to keep out of trouble and enjoy his peaceful life. Yet again, he doesn’t let Simone die and even attempts to help him before the bloody fight resumes. Dogman shows how easily one can slip into bitterness and vengefulness, but still seems to reaffirm Marcello’s innocence and kind heart. I, for one, wasn’t so sure anymore. The scene leaves a bitter aftertaste about humanity itself, or rather the loss of the humane. Ironically, actual dogs in the film seem to be more humane and dignified, something that cannot be said about the people.

On a technical level, Dogman’s cinematography is a visual delight. Bathed in a predominantly grey colour palette, the long takes lingering on bleak landscapes perfectly capture and reinforce the interior worlds of the characters. These are lives of ordinary small people enveloped in their worries, with a common goal – to survive until tomorrow and live another day. The neglected setting, almost crumbling apart, reveals the subtleties of this small community intertwined with criminality and feels uncomfortably organic. There is surprisingly little incidental music, and the film does not call for one. It is the unbearable silence and passion-filled dialogue that creates the atmosphere in Dogman.

A story that examines the human condition, Dogman asks the ever-so-constant question: “What is it that makes us human?” It challenges our conceptions of innocence and evil, urging to look the answer within ourselves. A potent film that gives much to think about.

Dogman is currently released in cinemas. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Pihla Pekkarinen reviews the biopic of renown French novelist Colette.

The best historical dramas are ones that provide some lens for the present, to give us a way of looking at the past in order to be able to see the here and now. Colette shows promise in this realm as an exploration of gender and sexuality, but ultimately fails to deliver in the way it aims to do. And on the whole, it does not take an extensive vocabulary to describe the remarkably beige and bland tones of Colette.

The film is based on one of the most famous female French novelists of all time, who spent the first part of her life ghostwriting her husband’s most successful novels. Colette focuses on Colette’s (Keira Knightley) early adulthood and marriage to Willy (Dominic West), and the centre of gravity in this film is their manipulative and emotionally abusive relationship. Colette surprises though, by handling the subject with unusual nuance and grace. There are plenty of obvious moments of violence, such as when Willy locks Colette in her room, refusing to let her leave until she has finished writing the next instalment of her Claudine novels. But they are matched by moments of tenderness and kindness, resulting in a refreshing lack of villainization of Willy for the majority of the film. Colette stays in her relationship not because she is weak, or too in love, or any of the traditional cliches – she stays because Willy’s anger and abuse are merely a part of the relationship, not all of it, making them easier to brush off and excuse.

Colette indulges further into the theme of unconventional relationships through a half-hour sequence of both Willy and Colette’s parallel affairs. It is here where the film is at its most interesting, exploring the various dimensions of gender, sexuality, and monogamy without making too much fuss. But the film is too steeped in its central marriage to delve into this properly – everything Colette does relates back to Willy, making her affairs amusing but not particularly deep or thought-provoking, as they are probably meant to be. It’s nice to see Colette not really wrestle with her sexuality, simply allowing herself to exist, and the omission of the traditional ‘coming-out’ narrative is a relief. But without any audience commitment to the characters, the affair sequences do not come off as particularly heated or passionate. Rather, the adjective that comes to mind is “pleasant”.

The film loses itself in its third act with a bizarre detour by Colette into theatrical mime and dance, exposing the inherent problem biopics must grapple with: people’s lives don’t read like stories. Colette ends on a turning point in the titular character’s life, but in order to get there, we must follow her learning to mime. It could be argued that Colette’s venture into theatre is part of her exploration of her own potential, finding who she is outside of her marriage. But Colette does not present this as such; rather, it is an awkward diversion we have to sit through in order for the film to arrive at its natural conclusion. The film also throws away one of the striking moments of Colette’s life: the riot at her 1907 performance of Rêve d’Égypte following an on-stage kiss between Colette and her partner, Missy. Colette treats this moment as one of jealousy from Missy’s ex-husband, dismissing the riot as a display of drunk bravado from him and his friends. In reality, the incident nearly caused the shutting down of the Moulin Rouge theatre and prevented Colette and Missy from living together openly for the remainder of their relationship. To include such a pivotal moment of Colette’s life but only give it 30 seconds of screen time seems a careless choice, caused by either complete misunderstanding of or mere disregard for the moment’s gravity.

Colette is also largely uninteresting in its visuals. Usually, historical dramas are pretty much Production Design Central, but there is a shocking lack of creativity in the art direction of Colette. Again, it’s not that it is bad; the sets, Willy’s office in particular, are well decorated, the costumes are compelling enough, and Colette’s handwritten notebooks (prepared by a French calligraphy expert) are a nice touch. But compared to the visual triumphs of other recent period films (The Great Gatsby, The Shape of Water, The Danish Girl, etc), Colette falls a step behind. The design is, on the whole, convincing but unremarkable.

Colette has all the ingredients of the Academy Sweetheart, a crowd-pleasing historical drama. Keira Knightley and Dominic West deliver strong performances (though Knightley’s omnipresence in historical dramas injects her performance with a sense of deja-vu), and the narrative arc follows the pleasant structure we expect. The problem is, we have seen it all before. Colette is perfectly fine, but has nothing new to offer in the genre of biopics. Its explorations of gender and sexuality are surface-level at best, and no element of the film is striking enough to make it memorable. Colette is the film you see a poster of on the tube, make a mental note of and never end up seeing. My advice? Wait for it to come out on Netflix.

5/10

Colette will be generally released in the UK on January 11th, 2019. Check out its trailer below:

 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner takes a look at the upcoming anticipated remake of the 1977 Italian horror.

Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria is in some ways very much like the original. A familiar face in the cast, a quotation of Goblin’s soundtrack, references in the production design. But in a more important sense it is dissimilar, a different proposition entirely. Argento’s original is writhed in giallo style, a film that feels intermittently cheap before arresting its audience with sudden gore, or red, or blue, or some combination of colours that had never even occurred to them. A wonder of garish production design and lighting, it was never a film whose script was especially intelligent, acting more as a framework for its vibrant delights than anything more.

Guadagnino has repositioned his version considerably. Now it enters the curious realm of the prestige horror, defined not only by their substantial budgets but their supposed restraint. The ropey audio and self-conscious comedy of the 1977 Suspiria have no place here, replaced by a sense of importance and magnitude. This is not a film to scare or enthral for its own sake, as I consider much of Argento’s output to be, but a more capital-A Artistic endeavour, seeking for plaudits it will most assuredly attract (from a few, at least). The most obvious consequence comes in colour, with lurid replaced by desaturated. Set in Cold War Berlin, a grey seeps over everything; this follows narratively, with constant updates on the German Autumn then embroiling the city.

This setting serves as the film’s most interesting distraction, wherein it considers the impact of a city so wounded. In Berlin, an evil hid behind innocent walls was not an abstract concept; Nazism lurked close in memory, remnants ready to creep through the cracks. In this atmosphere of suspicion and depression, the wild ramblings of a dancer suddenly take on extra meaning, an extra disquiet. Dr. Klemperer (an unrecognisable Tilda Swinton) offers curious insight on this point, reading her diary filled with witches and covens as code. An attempt to understand some horror otherwise inconceivable, a way to process a world bent out of shape. This idea fascinated me – the suggestion that deeds so repulsive could conjure the existence of magic in the mind, if only to assure the subject that such evil could not exist amongst normal humanity. That it can exist there, and does, is a prospect far more unnerving than actual witches.

Unfortunately Suspiria only presents these ideas, but does not engage with, or even tease them narratively. We are very quickly introduced to the supernatural and its hosts, leaving Klemperer’s musings as just that, red herrings against a very real threat. But for all their twisted cruelties, the witches can never become particularly compelling villains due to both the obscurity of their aims and the willingness of their target. The mystery unravels almost in parallel, with Dakota Johnson’s Susie slipping from the picture at several intervals, and Mia Goth’s middling performance as Sara never quite suitable as a replacement. Sayombhu Mukdeeprom’s camera always maintains interest, but the narrative it captures – one far more intricate yet little more interesting than that of the 1977 film – rarely tantalises as the visuals do. The choreography and trance-like editing are left in a similar position; a film of brilliant craft, but lacking adequate direction in writing.

Never is this clearer than with Klemperer’s extended subplot, which seemingly develops from a minor investigative role to the film’s primary moment of pathos, leading to an epilogue that entirely misses the mark. It almost comes as a shock that he is a major character by the time he’s figuring closely in the central narrative; a bizarre misgiving, though perhaps understandable given his character’s distance from the film’s thematic middle. If other elements of the film were captivating in the way Argento’s film managed to be – on a purely experiential level – then these issues could be largely forgiven, but Guadagnino remains restrained until the finale is upon him, at which point the table flips so suddenly that it almost invites comedy. Not the intended effect, I would imagine, though I do appreciate a film for going absolutely nuts even if it isn’t entirely to my taste.

If to some degree flawed or misguided, Suspiria still tempts in process. Much of its imagery is impermeable, Thom Yorke’s ghostly soundtrack is forever alluring, and its ambition should be applauded. Performances, too, bar perhaps Goth and Moretz, are wonderfully realised throughout the cast, not least Tilda Swinton in her dual roles. Even if it doesn’t match the success of his last two pictures, Guadagnino again proves himself to be a force for innovation in cinema – a remarkable career lies ahead.

5/10

Suspiria will be generally released in the UK on November 16th. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

KC Wingert reviews Peter Strickland’s newest horror. 

Director Peter Strickland’s latest feature In Fabric follows a cursed dress as it passes to various unsuspecting owners, terrorizing them day and night and ultimately destroying their lives. If you’re thinking that this sounds like the kitschiest horror film plot in existence, you’re right – and that’s exactly the point. Set in the 1970s, In Fabric embraces the natural kitsch of the era’s horror with its retro cinematography, and with a synth-y score similar to the one employed in David Robert Mitchell’s 2015 horror masterpiece It Follows.

Viewers first meet Sheila (Marianne Jean-Baptiste), a quiet but likeable bank teller who spends her free time either scouring lonely hearts ads in the newspaper, or cooking for her adult son (Jaygann Ayeh) and his openly hostile and apparently nymphomaniacal girlfriend (Gwendoline Christie). In preparation for a first date with a man she met through the paper, Sheila visits a local department store which, unbeknownst to her, seems to be run by a hilariously creepy old man and his horrifying cult of evil, sentient sex mannequins. One of the saleswomen/evil mannequins encourages Sheila to try on a beautiful, one-of-a-kind red dress. It fits her perfectly. Convinced by the sales-mannequin that this dress is the solution to her problems, Sheila buys it, thus ensuring her own eventual demise – this overt critique of consumerism dominates the first half of the film.

Next, the dress finds itself in the hands of Reg (Leo Bill), a pathetically passive washing machine repairman, and his fiancée Babs. This is where the plot starts to lose itself. If viewers thought they understood the rules of this filmic world after the first half of In Fabric, they were firmly disproven in the second half, where the film’s avant-garde, disorienting style takes precedent over any semblance of a cohesive storyline. At his stag party, Reg’s “friends” bully him into getting too drunk and wearing the red dress at a crowded dance club, which an unhappy Reg does practically without protest. This seems like an opportune moment for Strickland to examine the concept of masculinity in crisis and its relationship to consumerism, but instead, viewers get a lot of confusing sequences. For example, Reg for some reason suddenly demonstrates an ability to hypnotize people with his descriptions of what is wrong with their washing machine. Just like that, the film loses any of the traction or narrative tension initially built up by Sheila’s story and leaves its audience baffled. The campy absurdity of the first half of the film quickly becomes tiresome in the second half as viewers’ natural desire for a comprehensible storyline and logical filmic world goes unmet.

Peter Strickland’s vision is fun to watch and is aesthetically exciting, but viewers expecting some kind of enthralling story or provocative allegory found in any horror classic will ultimately be disappointed by In Fabric. While the heavily stylized cinematographic style and retro score are incredibly well-done, the film’s lack of closure (or even just a clear idea of what happens) will have moviegoers leaving the theater with one thought: “Well, that was weird.”

In Fabric will premiere at the BFI London Film Festival on October 18th. It will be coming soon to Curzon cinemas. Check out a clip below:

 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews Jean-Paul Civeyrac’s tribute to cinephile culture.  

A Paris Education is a reflexive film at its core, and one that only functions through a direct and intense self-contradiction starting at its mid-way point. The first half of the film plays like a sort of Eustache-Truffaut parody, only one severely lacking in parodic elements: it’s played completely straight. We follow Etienne (Andranic Manet) as he journeys to Paris to enrol in a film studies course; he is a self-professed cinephile who quickly finds himself influenced by the elusive Mathias (Corentin Fila), posited by the narrative as a mysterious guru figure. Mathias knows cinema, and knows it better than anyone else. He constantly laments the mainstream, he obsesses over the acknowledged masters (Dreyer, Ford, Vigo, et al.), and he is quick to harshly critique the works of his friends and colleagues. His cinematic philosophy appears to centre ‘truth’ – a vagary never offered any context or precise justification – and anything lacking should be rejected entirely.

Etienne is seduced by this rhetoric – perhaps literally, if the film didn’t both explicitly suggest Mathias might be homophobic while giving Etienne a constant string of beautiful lovers. But to read this film as a romance of that kind would be a mistake. Etienne doesn’t want to be with Mathias so much as he simply wants to be him. Etienne’s love is very much for the self, one that predicts himself as a great artist, and one that suggests he is better than his idiotic classmates so concerned with analysing ‘Z-list’ gialli rather than the intellectual cinema he supposedly prefers. And for a long time the film seems to agree with Etienne and his obsessions. It plays a little like a cineaste’s Deadpool, stacking references on references, a film that only functions if you’ve seen Bresson, Naruse, Parajanov, or whoever else gets a namedrop. At one point Etienne keys the fourth movement of Mahler’s 5^th on his piano, and I thought to myself (with some exasperation) that he’s probably playing it because it’s in Death in Venice. What I expected less was for him to announce this fact loudly moments later. By this point, the film has reached a peak of cinephillic obnoxity.

But around the middle-point it changes, and drastically at that. This is most clear at a reprisal of Mahler, Etienne’s friend playing it for company. Etienne gleefully suggests that it’s from a film, and that Annabelle (his then-love interest) probably knows which one. She doesn’t respond, either in ignorance, or more likely, because she doesn’t care. Suddenly, Etienne’s world-through-cinema is not presented as a wonderful life (hello), but as a hollow kind of in-joke. That his tastes in music are determined by his favourite movies is not so impressive to those beyond his clique, that his entire life is set around the cinema is nothing to be lauded. Annabelle later locks horns with Mathias, denigrating his ‘armchair life’. She suggests that this ‘truth’ he so seeks from cinema is itself only determined by the cinema he has seen. That he is trapped in a sort of causal loop, reflections of reflections. A harsh and accurate critique of those who live behind a screen and think themselves better for it.

This second half of the film then represents the breaking of the Mathias illusion as acknowledged in the diegesis. His ear-grating monologues on true cinema ring ever falser as he fails to justify his manner of being or belief. His taste more and more resembles a textbook from the 60s than it does the mind of an independent artist; he acknowledges he is old-fashioned, but to lament that the latest Verhoeven film is unlike Vigo or Ford seems a special kind of bluntheadedness, especially as his façade begins to crumble. So too does Etienne then unravel. His egotism becomes ever more apparent – at one point he laments to his friend that those who help great artists (said friend included) are never remembered like the greats themselves. He, of course, assumes himself a would-be great in this assessment. His relationships disintegrate around him, and his dependence on Mathias becomes less that of an acolyte than a pathetic hanger-on. The punchline comes when his short film is received poorly, his application to film school is rejected, and his feature is stalled in production. He simply isn’t as good as he came to believe he was.

This leads to what the film’s core idea might be. Behind the vainglory Etienne had constructed for himself, he was once an enthusiastic – and to an extent unpretentious – cinephile. He came to Paris with a film of his own (which he promptly destroys after shallow critique from Mathias) and presumably opinions of his own. But being in the city, receiving its eponymous ‘education’, his tastes and ideas are subsumed by that of an overriding culture. Here it is Mathias, but any sort of cultural elitism might do. To parallel Annabelle’s activism with Etienne’s astaticism as the film does might be trite (and it is), but it nonetheless illustrates Civeyrac’s position adequately – a life via art is not in any degree more true than one without, and to assume that a taste for Bresson equates with a knowledge of the world or of any sort of ‘truth’ is a presumption too far. The bifurcated structure may lead to a distinctly bipolar viewing experience, and there are plenty of less successful narrative lines and thematic ideas not discussed above; but on balance, Civeyrac has achieved an unexpected example of cinematic self-critique.

6/10

A Paris Education (Mes provinciales) had its UK premiere at the BFI London Film Festival on October 10th. It has yet to acquire a UK release date. Check out its trailer below: 

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews the Coen Brothers’ experimental anthology Western.

The Coen Brothers have always been filmmakers capable of great range. While their most recognisable works typically bend towards a kind of comedy, they have also successfully dabbled in the world of serious drama: a biopic in New York’s music scene; a Cold War thriller; a classic western remake. Their latest project initially seemed to be a stretch even further – a series of short films set around the wild west, each to be released as a separate episode. This ambition later retreated to the still-curious idea of an anthology film, encompassing six shorts in a single runtime. While tonally similar, these short stories would range in subject and genre in a similar setting; a playground for writer-directors so creative as the Coens. The result, however, is bland, guileless, and suggests far too much stretched from far too little.

The first entry is the Coens at their most Looney Tunes since Raising Arizona. We open to a singing cowboy on horseback, dressed in all-white and addressing the camera directly. We learn he is the eponymous Buster Scruggs, an infamous outlaw with a taste for finery. He encounters various rival bandits on the road and guns them each down in an increasingly (and surprisingly) violent fashion, and afterwards breaks spontaneously into song. There is some value to this section – the singing in particular is an inspired choice – but it also betrays issues that will become far more apparent as the film goes on. A pointlessness to proceedings prevails; besides the most basic of moral takeaways it appears to be a skit for its own sake. There is nothing inherently wrong with that, of course, until it stops being funny.

By the second entry this creeping worry becomes more fully formed. James Franco appears as a bank robber, but is stopped by a man using pans as body armour (funny). During the lynching he is then afforded, the local law are attacked by Indians, leaving him strung up with only his less-than-still horse between him and asphyxiation (funny). Then he is rescued by a herder who turns out to be a thief, ending up at the gallows again (also funny). But besides these three events, and one or two jokes thrown in between, it’s hard not to wonder where the Coens were going with this one. What could the point be, other than the haplessly simplistic “what goes around comes around”? It isn’t tight enough to justify its purely comedic existence, and has nothing to say or show otherwise. These are at best five-minute skits, but here they are stretched to twenty.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the third part, in which Liam Neeson runs a sort of freak show with one exhibit, a limbless man. The twist? Rather than show him off as grotesque and horrible, the act involves him reading extensively from classical texts, finishing on the Declaration of Independence. It’s almost funny, and maybe would have been as a short bit in The Mitchell and Webb Show. But though the punchline has been spent, the Coens march on. We follow this man and his boy across various shows as their audiences decline, his act growing stale. It goes on and on. Neeson visits a prostitute at one point, contributing nothing but a laughless joke; still it goes on. The material here is barely amusing in concept, but made all the worse by its simple lack of longevity. There is only so much that can be done with a limbless man who knows the Bible by memory; ironically, this very limitation is what the short is actually about.

The fourth part might be the only one I can say I fully enjoyed, though even then in a relative sense. It features Tom Waits as a wild-wandering prospector, and his various experiences in searching for a vein of gold. The narrative arc (it has an arc) seems intentionally trite, with Waits’ corruption of the verdant land punished both instantly and inexplicably. The combination Waits’ screen presence and the pleasant visuals make it an easy watch, and the sense that it is actually going somewhere at all is welcome and gratifying. Had it been released as a standalone short I might be more critical, but here it becomes a sort of oasis; a short that is both well-paced and containing some internal narrative interest.

In the fifth, this idea of pace is entirely discarded. It is long and meandering, a sort of Oregon Trail romance that has no real spark or narrative drive. We follow along only because we must, as a young woman who has recently lost her brother forms a sort of professional relationship with the sheriff, which eventually (and blandly) transforms into something more (or so we are told). While the vistas are beautiful (the cinematography largely is throughout), they are little compensation for a story so lacking in substance otherwise. The scope is naturally limited by nature of form, yet any hope this might be used as some kind of excuse is dashed by the ten minutes spent on a sudden attack of Indians, one that separates the two characters that have actually been defined in any significant sense. A decent action scene, but again a misuse of time and space in an already overextended episode in an overextended anthology.

The final part is perhaps a little better than this, focused entirely on a single conversation between the various inhabitants of a carriage (something the Coens have always been capable of writing), but even this, like the rest, can’t quite escape feeling just a little futile. It begs the question of what the original idea might have amounted to – would the additional time offered by standalone episodes permit further depth and development to these ideas, or would they have been stretched even thinner to compensate? Whatever the answer is, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs remains a significant misfire for the Coens – a spent six-shooter that missed every shot.

3/10

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs will be released on Netflix on November 16th. Check out the trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Pihla Pekkarinen reviews the blood-drenching and Nicolas Cage-starring heavy metal rampage. 

“When I die, bury me deep, lay two speakers at my feet, put some headphones on my head, and rock and roll me when I’m dead.”

Before I walked into the cinema to see Mandy, I had never once seen someone walk out on a screening. But after the first half hour of this film, I had already been witness to five people just on my side of the cinema get up and leave. Mandy is far from bulk-standard. It is abrasive, unabashedly violent and therefore perhaps divisive. But if you allow yourself to succumb to its charm, in Mandy you find nothing less than a glorious, genre-bending, and delightfully gory homage to metal and hallucinogens.

Set in 1983 (the same year as Panos Cosmatos’ debut feature Beyond the Black Rainbow), Mandy is an 80’s cult thriller reimagined in the 21st century. The film is presented in two parts, split by the title card (which doesn’t appear until an hour in): the first half the murder, the second, the consequence. After his girlfriend Mandy (Andrea Riseborough) is killed by a horrifically violent cult led by Jeremiah Sands (Linus Roache), Red Miller (Nicolas Cage) goes on a rampant revenge spree against the cult members. The film idles for much of the first half, and my urge to step on the gas becomes more and more conspicuous as long takes seem to rule the earth while the minutes tick by. But what is lacking in energy in the first half is more than made up for in the second, wherein buckets of syrupy blood flow to the extent where you can practically feel the droplets hitting your face, and Cage’s brow seems permanently drenched in sweat. The adrenaline rush of the second half makes you grateful for the tranquility granted in the first, and you leave the cinema in a daze.

Throughout it’s two-hour running time, Mandy dips into the stylized worlds of a myriad of genres: thriller, slasher, horror, erotica, even animated dream sequences. And yet somehow, Cosmatos manages to maintain a golden thread throughout the feverish mania. Despite its patchworked nature, Mandy is far from messy. Cosmatos’s vision as a director is clean-cut and clear throughout, and the film comes across as a polished package, if drenched in blood and guts. Cosmatos, his cinematographer Benjamin Loeb and his editor Brett W. Bachman pack the film with texture: the trademark high grain footage, over-saturation and liberal use of the cross-dissolve give the film a layered feel. The film borrows and appropriates with a liberal hand, but with everything twisted and manipulated to fit Cosmatos’s vision, it resulted in what can only be described as a hallucination with a spreadsheet.

Among its other attributes, Mandy is also a tribute to music and metal culture. The opening credits are set to the languid tune of King Crimson’s “Starless”, a song pretty close to being the Citizen Kane of prog rock. The film contains almost no dialogue, and is instead driven by Jóhann Jóhannsson’s posthumous score, a gorgeous combination of moving melody and disturbing cacophony. Silence is also used sparingly to great effect. My favourite scene in the film comes right at the midpoint, where Nicolas Cage mourns his girlfriend by chugging a bottle of vodka and crying hysterically in his bathroom. The scene is one of only a few not set to music, and is both darkly funny and heart-wrenching as Cage delivers a convincing performance of unimaginable grief. Its naturalistic visuals and lack of music make it an obvious standout scene in the middle of Jóhannsson’s bass- and synthesizer-heavy metal-inspired score. (On a side note, other personal favourites include Cage snorting a virtual ant-hill of cocaine off of a shard of glass and Cage lighting a cigarette off of a burning decapitated head. Just so you get an idea.)

Mandy is, by no means, a perfect film. It’s self-indulgent and vaguely misogynistic, and on occasion, it even feels insecure in its own absurdism. There is a character in a camper van serving no purpose but to provide vague motivation for the mindless murder sprees of the central cult. The explanation (a highly potent form of LSD, apparently) only serves to disturb the illusion crafted by the film. Mandy exists in a very obviously nonsensical universe, and it doesn’t seem to serve any purpose for Cosmatos to prod at it. But the film’s high points far outshine its shortcomings. It is frenetic yet careful, senseless yet sensible, and pushes and pulls at all boundaries of genre. Whether you are charmed by the film’s nostalgic violence or not, one thing is inescapably clear: Mandy is the work of a visionary.

Mandy will be released in the UK on October 12th. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 62nd BFI London Film Festival (10th – 21st October), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Raphael Duhamel dives into Paul Dano’s quiet and intimate directorial debut.

Zoe Kazan and Paul Dano’s adaptation of the 1990 novel Wildlife starts off as a traditional account of a family’s failures and successes in post-war America. Jeannette (Carey Mulligan) and Jerry (Jake Gyllenhaal) have a teenage son Joe (Ed Oxenbould), who plays football at school and listens to sports events on the radio with his father in the evening. Jeannette stays at home to take care of the house and Joe’s upbringing, while Jerry earns twenty dollars a week scraping dirt off rich men’s shoes as a caddy.

From this premise onwards, the film succeeds in defying expectations and letting Mulligan’s character occupy centre stage. Far from being a stereotypical and misogynistic patriarch, her husband is surprisingly tolerant and seemingly unable to exert any kind of domination over her. When Jerry is let go from his demeaning job, he enters an existential crisis which disturbs the balance of power between the couple and the family entirely. Gyllenhaal excels in this role as a lost man with a hangdog look, whose search for purpose never ends: his departure to fight a forest fire acts as a metaphorical encapsulation of his discontent, which he can temporarily confront yet never permanently conquer. His absence facilitates Jeannette and Joe’s rise to independence, since both are now able to enjoy a newfound freedom guiding them towards self-sufficiency. Whereas Oxenbould’s character takes advantage of the situation to get a job in a photographer’s studio, his mother starts seeing a rich entrepreneur and widow, Warren Miller (Bill Camp), in the hope of a better life.

Mulligan’s performance as a strong and damaged woman is reminiscent of her superb part in Shame, in which she portrayed a gifted singer with suicidal tendencies. The fragility and temerity displayed in Steve McQueen’s masterpiece resurface in Wildlife’s central episode, during which Jeannette and Joe have dinner with Miller. After many glasses of hard liquor, the sequence culminates in a deeply disturbing seductive dance executed by the mother, who shamelessly exposes herself in front of her son. The many closeups of Mulligan’s face, smeared with crude makeup in a desperate attempt to captivate her wealthy friend, contrast with Joe’s pale complexion, forced to witness his mother’s betrayal of their family’s trust. Jeannette’s brazen adulterous adventure recalls Xavier Dolan’s Mommy, and its heart-breaking “Vivo per lei” performed by the protagonist in front of his debauched mother. This pivotal sequence marks the beginning of Joe’s emancipation and entry into adulthood, having faced both his parents’ irresponsibility and forced to understand that he must grow out of them. Ultimately, Wildlife is a tale of rebirth, revealing how from a family’s ashes a man might arise.

Indeed, the screenplay provides enough depth and compelling dialogue for two powerhouse displays by Mulligan and Gyllenhaal, but yet it chooses to concentrate on Joe, who stands out through his boyish maturity with the appearance of an adult in a child’s body. Oxenbould’s character inevitably echoes Dano’s own work as an actor, whose distinctive demeanour initially drew attention to him in motion pictures such as Little Miss Sunshine and There Will Be Blood. His experience as a successful actor undoubtedly contributed to his masterful direction, which already offers signs of incredible maturity and skill.

Diego García’s cinematography embraces a Hopper-like style of quiet suburban melancholy, punctuated with everyday life settings. Wildlife takes place in Great Falls, Montana, a northern and mountainy location bathed in cold light, complemented by the artificial bright white glare of the town’s supermarkets and schools. Characters are mostly shot in closeups, occupying the centre of the frame, as if they were portraits taken in Joe’s studio: like Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master, the film’s visual style reflects its historical setting and truly benefits from it.

Dano’s feature suffers only from excessive refinement, indulging in its own delicacy and stillness. By restraining itself to the realistic portrayal of a single family, it is short of any real emotion, in spite of every actor’s dedication. Its reserve is detrimental to the story’s progression, which lacks a truly cathartic climax, thus regrettably failing to have a significant impact on the audience, unlike its bashful ending which provides a supremely poetic sense of closure. Wildlife remains a quiet gem, not bold enough to seek out its potential, but honest and elegant at heart.

Wildlife will have its UK premiere at the BFI London Film Festival on October 13th. It will be generally released on November 9th. Check out its trailer below:

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: 

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 Takashi Miike’s impressive 100th film.

A samurai stands against a vast horde of mercenaries, his young charge their last victim. The image is a beautiful monochrome; the odds insurmountable. Nonetheless, Manji (Takuya Kimura), our hero, enters the fray filled with reckless vengeance. The ensuing ultraviolence is equal parts intense and ludicrous, combining the climatic combat of Kobayashi’s Samurai Rebellion with Kill Bill’s battle in the House of Blue Leaves. If proceedings so far leave a viewer incredulous, or seeking something of more substance, the opening credits to follow might as well be the closing. But for those who could imagine little better than this spectacle of bloody samurai action, there is much to look forward to.

The titles soon appear, now in blood-splattered colour. This is Blade of the Immortal, Taskashi Miike’s 100^th film over a 26 year career. His astonishing productivity, of course, has led to a marked contrast in quality for some of his work, from the depths of the ridiculous to the heights of the sublime, and sometimes both at once. Blade of the Immortal, while uneven, happily finds itself on the better end of the spectrum, and offers the exact kind of feudal ferocity one might hope for. This isn’t the first time Miike has strayed into samurai territory, with his recent remakes of Kudo’s 13 Assassins and Kobayashi’s Hara-Kiri stamping his mark on the genre. However, this venture has less in common in those original films of the 60s than it does with a later series of samurai films –Lone Wolf and Cub (perhaps better known in its truncated US edition as Shogun Assassin). Like Lone Wolf, Blade of the Immortal is adapted from a manga, they also both shrug off any sense of history for supernatural and anachronistic elements of plot and design. The feudal setting is more a blank canvas than a reality the stories might inhabit. In Lone Wolf this can be seen in the finale of its sixth entry, featuring skiing samurai (a sight to behold), while Blade of the Immortal is not short on platinum blonde hair or any amount of fictional (referred to in the film as ‘foreign’) weaponry.

The central conceit, however ridiculous, could easily have existed within a more ‘authentic’ world, but that would be missing the point. That conceit is essentially spelt out in the title – after his initial battle Manji is all but slain, yet before death a mystic curses him with immortality. This takes physical form as ‘bloodworms’, which heal any wound he might sustain. The story itself takes place some years after this, with the young daughter of a sensei at a particular dojo finding herself orphaned by the plight of a nefarious warrior, Anotsu (Sôta Fukushi). This outcast plans to destroy all the separate schools of martial arts so as to coalesce them into one, under him. His exact reasoning for this is somewhat vague, his main motivation being a general rejection of specific martial forms after his father was reprimanded for fighting ‘improperly’ while a student of one. Perhaps not compelling enough an argument to undertake a mission of mass murder, but this is not a film of complex reasoning. In fact its one real theme of any depth, that of vengeance, is itself a little murky. It is often made clear how many people must suffer and die for the sake of, often needless, revenge – in fact it is for this reason Manji is first cursed with immortality. Despite this, the film still revels in it, and does not offer any sort of redemption arc for the characters in that regard. It wouldn’t be unlike Miike for this to be some kind of meta-narrative targeted at the audience – this is ultimately what we want to see, and what we enjoy seeing, despite its immorality – but it still makes for a less-than-compelling thematic basis for the film.

The young daughter, Rin (Hana Sugisaki), seeks out Manji on the word of the very mystic who first cursed him. First encapsulating the reluctant hero trope, Manji eventually agrees to help Rin, and so just like Lone Wolf a man and a child find themselves on ‘The Road to Hell’ – a journey of vengeance. Yet unlike Lone Wolf, where Itto is consistently surprising in his incredible ability, Manji is not quite the swordsman he once was. In fact, in almost all of his armed encounters he is first defeated, only achieving ultimate victory through his being deathless. This is sometimes entertaining, as in a moment where he severs his own arm to free himself from a trap, but the low stakes do strip the film of some drama in earlier scenes. This isn’t a film to be taken seriously, Miike is well aware of this, but jeopardy is still necessary in some sense. Luckily the film introduces a predictable but welcome beat, a poison that weakens his bloodworms, threatening his immortality. This also introduces a moral problem – his wish for restful death against his obligation to his new ward. It isn’t explored in much detail, but allows some smouldering tension.

Less smouldering is the action, which instead periodically sets the film alight. Unlike some western-style samurai films, emulating many of their influences by backloading the action after a slow simmering build, Blade of the Immortal offers consistent conflict across its runlength. Its set pieces are engaging and impressively captured; its body count would make John Wick wince. None quite match the incredible opening, but some come close enough. There is also a lack of the terrible CGI that has haunted many modern Japanese films, including some of Miike’s own. A similar film crippled by this was Takeshi Kitano’s Zatoichi, with its awful effects sinking what is otherwise a solid comedy-action samurai flick, not so unlike Blade of the Immortal in tone. There are still some questionable moments, such as a computer-generated gravestone (a true mystery of cinema); but otherwise it isn’t distracting, especially and essentially regarding the (vast quantities of) blood.

As the film progresses various subplots and secondary characters appear, but most are not developed adequately. The reason for this is likely the source material – in adapting the extensive first arc of the manga screenwriter Tesuya Oishi had to maintain as many elements of the story as could fit in 150 minutes without disappointing its core audience, or indeed alienating newcomers. As such some inclusions appear more to be references than essential elements of the film, and fall by the wayside when the main drive of the narrative returns. This might also explain the underdeveloped themes – Hiroaki Samura’s original writing was praised for its sympathetic antagonists, especially in Anotsu. In the film this is hinted at, but is not built enough to ever take effect, though its tone perhaps suits this less ambiguous presentation. But ultimately this isn’t essential – Miike has created a piece of entertainment that overcomes these narrative shortcomings through sheer energy and visual flair. It’s exactly what one might expect from a film called Blade of the Immortal, and there’s little more that could be asked than that.

7/10

Blade of the Immortal had its UK premiere on the 8th of October 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.

Leonora Bowers takes a look at Sophie Brooks’ mumblecore romance-comedy.

The Boy Downstairs is the debut feature-length work from its writer and director, Sophie Brooks. Set in central New York, it tells the story of Diana (Zosia Mamet), an aspiring writer who returns to the city after several years in London, only to find that her seemingly perfect new flat comes with one hitch: her ex-boyfriend Ben (Matthew Shear) as a downstairs neighbour.

Despite a fairly typical premise for a romantic comedy, The Boy Downstairs manages to tell its story in a style that is both fresh and endearing. The film captures the essence of life in the artistic world of New York, and boasts an assortment of lovable characters – from Diana’s naïve and unlucky-in-love best friend Gabby (Diana Irvine), to her landlady (Dierdre O’Connell), an independent and eccentric former actress who readily dispenses advice and whatever drink the situation calls for. Diana’s kooky nature and offbeat sense of humour don’t detract from her passion as she strives to make headway as a writer, and she makes a strong and engaging lead.

While ruffled to learn she is now living in close quarters with her ex, Diana is even more disconcerted to find he is now dating Meg (Sarah Ramos), the lofty estate agent who showed her the apartment in the first place. Their values and personalities predictably do not mesh, and while it remains relatively low-key, the conflict between these two is certainly key to some of the film’s comedic high points.

Ben comes across as one of the more two-dimensional characters in the film, which is unfortunate for such a major presence. Beyond his charming gawkiness and his past relationship with Diana, not much is revealed about his life, allowing it to seem – on a narrative level – as though he only exists as Diana’s romantic interest. In fact, the whole relationship between the two of them feels somewhat lacking; at times their interactions reach disproportionate levels of uncomfortableness, and even when the conversation would be expected to flow easily, the chemistry isn’t quite there.

Nevertheless, it isn’t difficult to root for the couple. Throughout the film, the complicated nature of their past relationship and subsequent break-up is gradually revealed through flashbacks, beginning with their last meeting before cycling back through their six-month relationship and ending with their breakup. These scenes provide an effective contrast with the progression of their present lives. Diana and Ben have very different ideas about how to move forward from their situation, and the story is just as much about their resolving how to have a relationship as it is about the romance itself.

Interspersed with adorably cliché moments – a first date picnic on a boat, an interactive art exhibit, dinner at a little Italian restaurant – what makes this film unique is the way the characters are so delightfully convincing. The fairly classic plot and indie style lead to almost tangible social tension, and the breakup scene evokes very raw sadness and regret. While it may not be a rollercoaster ride, The Boy Downstairs is enjoyable and easy to watch, with enough rise and fall to keep it captivating.

The Boy Downstairs premieres on October 14th in the UK at London Film Festival.

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:

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 Matt Spicer’s hip comedy-drama.

Matt Spicer’s Ingrid Goes West wholeheartedly embraces itself as a film of our times, with the popular social media app Instagram being used as the narrative’s focal point: it is the all-consuming passion of our titular protagonist Ingrid (Aubrey Plaza). Confusing likes and hashtags for genuine affection, the mentally unstable Ingrid moves to Los Angeles and starts a friendship with ‘insta-famous’ darling Taylor Sloane (Elizabeth Olsen) that soon spirals out of control. Contrary to what the trailers have sold it as, Ingrid Goes West is not so much a goofy satire of the world of social media, as it is a surprisingly bleak dark comedy, and character study of a troubled and self-image obsessed individual.

The success of the film hinges upon its lead performance, and Plaza, fresh off a very daring performance in FX’s sci-fi series Legion, absolutely delivers. Her Ingrid is not the most approachable character to begin with, pepper spraying one of her Instagram idols for not inviting her to her wedding, and manipulating and stalking her way into Taylor’s life. It should go without saying that the Parks and Recreation alumnus absolutely nails every comedic beat of her rather odd character. The jokes involving her Instagram obsessions, from indulging in photogenic but unappetizing salads to taking snapshots of every aspect of Taylor’s daily routine, are perhaps predictable, but they’re consistently hilarious. As the film takes a darker turn, that she manages remain a consistently likable character is remarkable. Even when her goals and the means to achieve them are more than questionable, you still root and even sympathize with her.

Plaza’s superb performance is what really helps set the darkly comedic tone of the film together, but it slightly falters in other parts. Olsen’s prototypical vapid airhead, who wants everything to appear #amazing and #instabest, and her artificial sweetness is well contrasted with Ingrid’s less assured fabrications and more open emotional honesty. There could have however, been more nuance in exploring Taylor’s obsession with surface perfection, and the cracking apart of a hollow friendship. Creating a sort of All About Eve-esque conflict between the two characters that exposes the ugly imperfections of Taylor to Ingrid could have been fascinating, but the film opts to put a spanner in the works of their friendship with Taylor’s jerk kid brother and drug addict Nicky (Billy Magnussen). The growing rift is still effective and convincing, but the potential seems there for more for Spicer and David Branson Smith’s script to explore, as does the subplot involving Taylor’s husband Ezra (Wyatt Russell) and his discontent with their social media-heavy lifestyle, which never really goes anywhere interesting. The most interesting side character in fact, is Ingrid’s landlord and eventual love interest, Dan (O’Shea Jackson Jr.). His love of all things Batman sets up some of the film’s best one-liners, and Jackson’s chemistry with Plaza establishes a stangely poignant warmth a film that is otherwise, intentionally lacking in heart.

Kinetic cinematography by Bryce Fortner and rapid-fire editing are perfectly suited to the film’s tone and themes, and the 97 minute runtime ensures that it never really loses steam. The film’s ending resolution may prove divisive; Ingrid Goes West resists the urge to make any sort of moral statement on our social media-obsessed world, and may make the final act problematic for some. All in all, though it may not reach the ultimate heights of perfection, it is a solid dark comedy with a terrific lead performance by a perfectly cast Plaza, and some of the year’s funniest scenes and one-liners.

7/10

Ingrid Goes West receives its UK premiere on the 7th of October at London Film Festival. It will be released in UK cinemas on November 17th. 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.

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: