Maria Cunningham reviews Christopher Nolan’s latest mind-bending blockbuster.

Christopher Nolan’s Tenet, the first major blockbuster to be released since lockdown, is quite simply an incredible film. Nolan continuously manages to come out with ground-breaking pieces of cinema, and the film is in keeping with his track-record of mind-boggling, impressive films. This film is Nolan’s Bond: taking the elements of Bond that we love, and putting Nolan’s jaw-dropping, complex twists on it.

Tenet’s main theme is ‘inversion’, a temporal concept used to explain the backwards movement of objects in time. In it, John David Washington’s character (the unnamed Protagonist) attempts to investigate the strange new black-market technology of ‘inverting the entropy’ of people and objects in the hope of preventing the apocalypse, which is later revealed to be called the ‘Algorithm’ – a piece of technology that could catastrophically invert the entire world.

From the beginning, the audience is plunged into a whirlwind world of action and deceit. After a failed siege, a secret organisation known as Tenet is revealed to the Protagonist, which operates around saving the human race from the end of the world. Barbara (Clemence Posey), a scientist, explains the concept of inversion to him using reversed bullets, which shoot back into the gun from a wall with the words ‘You’re not throwing the bullet. You’re catching it” – and it is from here that we are thrust into the central narrative of the film.

The film’s heart lies in a conflict between two narrative threads. Firstly, you have the Protagonist and Neil (Robert Pattinson) – the charming and soft-spoken second to Washington’s character who comes up with brilliant and wacky plans, resembling a character from Oceans Eleven dropped in a straight-faced action film. The second thread is the abusive and loveless marriage of arms dealer Andrei Sator (Kenneth Branagh), and his wife Kat (Elizabeth Debicki), which is heartbreaking and intimate, and the possibility of their involvement in the manufacturing of the technology. 

The different acts are structured brilliantly, and evoke very different moods. The first act is relatively slow paced and mainly focuses on intimate conversations and exposition. The lighting and cinematography is relatively soft during the conversation scenes, representing the intimacy and importance of these characters and what they are revealing. Nolan structures the second act in a much more brash way – everything becomes much harsher and more complex to follow, but the the spy scenes are regardless are effortlessly and smoothly carried out.

This juxtaposes the third act, which is dark, action-paced, and deliberately confusing to follow. The lighting and visual effects are phenomenal and serve to highlight the chaos. Inverted scenes are lit with a red glow and juxtaposed with the blue lighting that dictates the forward passage of time. One of the best scenes in the film is an intense interrogation scene featuring Kat, the Protagonist and Sator. The lighting and cinematography of this scene is fantastic, with the interrogation happening both in the inverted and forward timeline, the red and blue lighting of the rooms highlighting the different timeframes – a very confusing and intense scene. It is the time inversion scenes like this that make Tenet a cinematic masterpiece, especially considering the majority of scenes were created by practical effects. The ‘time inversion’ sequences were captured in both forward and backward mobility, with practical effects and real explosions also used where necessary – including shots of buildings exploding, and then imploding due to inversion. Inverted scenes were filmed with the inverted characters separate from the others, and the footage reversed and edited back onto the rest of the footage; an old technique, but one that is incredibly effective, especially when compared and seen in a different perspective later in the film. It is this that makes the film chaotic and confusing at times, but the film merely requires a bit of patience. 

Despite all the complicated action sequences, character relationships and development are also important to this film and part of why it is enjoyable beyond the technical and philosophical complexities. A standout moment in the film is an intimate conversation between the Protagonist and Kat in a restaurant, where Kat explains how she is ‘trapped’ in her marriage, and is not allowed to see her son often. The writing is soft but fast-paced, and juxtaposed with beautifully-shot scenes of her last attempt to keep the marriage alive – a romantic moment on a yacht in Vietnam. The way the Robert Pattison and Elizabeth Debecki develop their characters throughout the film are inspiring; Neil is revealed to be a much more competent and involved character than his first disarming appearance would suggest, and Kat grows into a very strong female character, who is integral to the plot and to the plans to prevent the apocalypse. This transition is unexpected, yet welcome, as she rises from a trapped lonely woman to something much more, yet still keeps her femininity and her own motivations and character, instead of being regulated to a background character. 

This film is, at its core, an action film. The score, often deafening at times adds to the whirlwind of narrative and action that the audience gets swept into. Again, Nolan has surpassed expectations, and created a niche for himself in the spy action genre with a film that never fails to surprise, enthrall and excite, and marvel at the depth of his imagination and talent. The film’s plot has many complexities and to be fully understood should be given a second viewing, but the film is enjoyable on a personal level even without fully understanding its technicalities. It leaves you wanting more from the characters and the plot, but in a very tantalizing way that you know you’ve only seen a glimpse of this world, and that maybe this mystery is what makes the film so spectacular.

Tenet is currently showing in UK cinemas. Watch the trailer here:

Lydia De Matos reviews Kaufman’s latest experimental thriller.

A young couple is on their way to the guy’s parents’ house. They’ve only been together for six weeks. Or is it seven? They’re unsure. Nothing is certain, not even her name; it’s Lucy, or maybe Louisa, it might even be Yvonne. This is their first roadtrip together. She says they have a “real connection; a rare and intense attachment” – but the conversation is awkward, stilted. He’s excited for her to meet his parents. She hasn’t even told hers about them. He’s clearly aching for them to be perfect for one another. She’s thinking of ending things. 

Are you confused yet? If not, you will be. Charlie Kaufman’s latest feature, i’m thinking of ending things, is his least accessible yet, embracing the writer/director’s absurdist style and philosophy to an extent that only Netflix’s infamous do-whatever-you-want policy would have allowed. I don’t necessarily mean that as an insult, perhaps just more as a warning to go into this expecting something uniquely Kaufman-esque. 

The film’s emotional bedrock is uncertainty, especially in the first two acts. The film occupies itself with those uncomfortable stretches of time plagued by apprehension; waiting for someone you’re nervous to meet to finally descend the stairs, a car trip with a boyfriend you’re thinking of dumping, approaching a table full of people who are clearly waiting for you. Kaufman elongates these moments and drops us squarely into them, slowly creating an atmosphere of tense anxiety that sinks its claws into you, making it impossible to turn away. The intricately confusing wallpaper backdrop of the opening credits resembles something along the lines of what Charlotte Perkins-Gilman described in The Yellow Wallpaper, suggesting from the very outset that nothing we see is to be trusted. 

Indeed, every detail seems to shift constantly. It’s not only the young woman’s (Jessie Buckley) name that changes, but her major, the colour of her coat, how she met Jake (Jesse Plemons), how she feels about him, even her voice and face. These shifts are occasionally subtle, and occasionally glaring, challenging us to question them. The world around her changes too. Kaufman takes a very literal interpretation of eternalist philosophy; Jake’s parents (Toni Collette and David Thewlis) appear at different stages of their life almost simultaneously, and the young woman feels nostalgic for things that have not yet happened. Things characters say and do are taken wholesale from notable public figures, from the criticism of Pauline Kael to the paintings of Ralph Albert Blakelock, spoken and presented as though completely, spontaneously original. 

The film’s litany of references seems to be one only the most cultured intelligentsia-type would feel comfortable peppering in, or more accurately, the kind of person who desperately wants to be one of those cultured intelligentsia-types. The kind of person who corners you at a party, purely aesthetic cigarette in hand, starting a conversation about the essays of David Foster Wallace, but inevitably ending up talking about the crushing shame they still feel about having only gotten a participation trophy at their secondary school prizegiving. 

On the surface Kaufman seems to be making a fairly boring critique of the inauthenticity of modern times, the disconnect between our thoughts and our actions, our lack of original thought, something like that. But the further you get into the film, the more it feels like he’s deriding the kind of person who actually believes that such a critique is either pertinent or unique; the kind of person who needs to feel like the smartest in the room, a cut above the unwashed masses and their supposed disregard for “high culture”. The kind of person who oh so desperately needs their opinions to be validated that they’re incapable of connecting with the people around them. If you’ve seen anything else by Kaufman, you’ll recognise the pattern: he’s writing about himself. 

If that seems like a lot to throw at your actors, well, it is. But the whole cast handles it fantastically. Buckley in particular effortlessly attunes her performance to every deviation in tone and character no matter how minor or major. Jay Wadley’s score and ballet is brilliant, shifting from minimalistic terror to uplifting wonder with an ease that makes me question why I’d not heard of him before. 

Truthfully, i’m thinking of ending things is a difficult film. After the first viewing I found myself unable to decide whether it was a meaningful piece of art, or a wall at which everything had been thrown and few things had stuck. But I could not stop thinking about it, and desperately needed to discuss it. Once I’d had a chance to do so, and managed to formulate an interpretation that actually seemed to make sense, I found myself leaning more and more toward loving it and its wonderfully absurd, surreal terror. It may be a difficult film, but if you want to watch something that will stay with you, it is absolutely worth it.

I’m Thinking of Ending Things is now streaming on Netflix. Watch the trailer here:

Angelos Angelidis reviews the intersex-directed and starring short film.

Ponyboi is the result of a creative collaboration between co-director Sadé Clacken Joseph; writer, co-director, and lead star River Gallo; and executive producer Seven Graham. Following the story of Ponyboi, a Latinx, intersex runaway from New Jersey, the film exposes us to a life so contained physically and spiritually by societal restrictions through which non-normative bodies belong according to mainstream imaginations. Ponyboi works and lives at a laundromat, also prostituting themselves for a living. Meanwhile, the eponymous character is also caught up in a secret, coercive sexual affair with their friend’s boyfriend, who, at one point in the film, cruelly spits out to them that he decides “whether I fuck you like a bitch or like a faggot.”

But all that is swept away with the arrival of a very handsome and courteous cowboy who is almost too good to be true. In the short, it appears that the cowboy is only a figment of Ponyboi’s imagination; he encourages them to escape from the environment that restricts their self-expression. Breaking away from the abusive nature of allowing the world to determine such fundamental aspects of one’s self, like sex or gender, Ponyboi’s story can resonate with anyone who has too often caught themselves wishing for a more liberated, unbound life. Yet the film most importantly brings to the forefront the narrative of an intersex person, without making that the sentimentalist center of attention.

During this short film’s 19 minute course, time is visually bent, oscillating between dreamlike states and reality and between past and present in a style reminiscent of American New Wave films of the 1980s. Ponyboi takes us on an exquisite sensory journey exploring the reality of a character that has long been kept in darkness, unrepresented in mainstream film and television. Colour and lighting saturate the image and play with ideas of open and closed space, while editing adds a hallucinatory haze that transports the viewer straight into the mind of the protagonist. The music complements and skyrockets the cinematography — the best example of which being the establishing scene of the film, which sets the bar pretty high.

The screening was followed by an intimate Q&A with Seven, Sadé, and River, during which they opened up about trauma and about navigating the film industry as a person of colour, as a woman, or as a member of the LGBTQIIA community — especially an intersex person. Young directors like River and Sadé have continually been at the fringes of popular representation in the realm of the entertainment industry. They are claiming these spaces and helping raise the voice of thousands of people across the world through a film that pays homage to the existence, power, and perseverance of people whose identities do not fit into a binary. The fact that this film was made as a graduation project by River makes it all that more impressive.

The short is currently being extended into a feature film, so keep an eye out for this fresh art piece by following it on social media @ponyboi_film. I have a feeling that the cowboy might be more real than we are left to think (despite his dreamy looks) and I am very excited to follow Ponyboi on the rest of their journey.

Ponyboi was a part of the short film line-up at BFI Flare 2019. Check out the trailer below:

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

WARNING: Spoilers ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7/10

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

Kirese Narinesingh reviews Jordan Peele’s anticipated follow-up to Get Out. 

If Get Out was a dip in the water for Jordan Peele, he has now dived in. Stunningly showing off his skills, he seems to go even bigger than before – as if he’s aware of the traditional “sophomore slump” of directors. More likely, what we see is an artist in development, experimenting with his vast, kaleidoscopic ideas. He’s also backed by a talented cast and a genuinely fascinating story, in which he seems to allow himself even more creative and imaginative scope. Unlike Get Out, Us is solidly fixed within the horror genre, but this should not imply that the film is in any way restricted to its conventions. It’s as if Peele is putting a mirror to our faces, and our expectations of horror, and saying: “Is this what you really want?”

The plot itself is uncanny. Peele plays on the theme of doubling; the title card quickly introduces the idea of another world, another self, beneath the ostensible idyllic “real” one by reminding us that there are numerous tunnels beneath the surface of America, simply left alone and ignored. The proceeding action is similar. It is like an excavation of the hidden and the ignored socio-political problems always lurking beneath the surface. Adelaide (Lupita Nyong’o), returns with her husband (Winston Duke) and her children to the beachfront she visited as a child. It is partly told in flashbacks, recalling the memories of Adelaide confronting her doppelgänger. At the same place that haunts her memories, the family is presently affronted by their own duplicates, dressed in red and brandishing scissors, which already tells you how bizarre the rest of the movie will be.

Oddly enough the bizarre quality is what makes the film so entertaining. There is this unsettling feeling of satisfaction at watching the violence, because it is so artfully made, and (of course) the because of the musical accompaniments of “Fuck the Police” and “Good Vibrations” that mesh so well with scenes of gore. The performance of the cast is especially noteworthy – Lupita Nyong’o should never be overlooked. She glides through both roles as Adelaide and doppelgänger so seamlessly; as Adelaide, she is a traumatised, almost stiff. As her double, she is as nimble as a ballerina, with a perfectly haunting stare. Winston Duke is also impressively convincing as the stereotypical “Dad” figure, preventing the tone from being too dramatic and breaking tension with his comedic input.

The film is like a troubled image, because what Peele really does is show the cracks in the mirror. If you’re completely confused by what I mean, that’s kind of the brilliance of the movie: it says so much all at once, about society, inequality, and the psyche, that it’s almost like Peele dissected the meaning of horror and gave us something even more troubling and deeply disturbing. It is suspenseful, but interlaced with the comic – after all, true horror is absurd. Us also has a most chilling twist – but even if you read this, you probably won’t be prepared for what Peele has saved to shock us.

Jordan Peele is setting himself up to be one of the greats. He almost reminds me of Argento or Hitchcock, for his sheer potential to be brilliantly different, and his daring style that sets him apart from the mundane, by-the-book storytelling we’re so accustomed to. You can see how meticulous Peele is in his direction – it’s almost like watching a ballet. Every step is manoeuvred gracefully and deliberately, but Peele is never rigid. He’s a skilled technician experimenting with new movements that could honestly go either way – a misstep or just the right beat. And most of the time, he succeeds. I talk a lot about Peele here, but credit must go where it is due. It is one hell of a movie.

Us is currently out in cinemas. Check out the trailer below:

Diego Aparicio reviews Faith Akin’s controversial and violent thriller. 

Following The Golden Glove world premiere in Berlin, I’ve seen a few critics comparing director Fatih Akin’s latest to Lars von Trier’s The House that Jack Built due to the films’ common theme of violence against women. I am not a critic, and I have no agenda, so I’ll say honestly (and in my humble opinion) that this comparison is very superficial and suggests a lazy viewer. The similarity ends with the gore and misogyny portrayed on screen: while von Trier’s ‘construction’ oozed of egocentric and self-indulgent intentions, as if to explain himself and his oeuvre, Fatih Akin’s work seems, to me, at least a bit more nuanced.

A big reason why I appreciated The Golden Glove a great deal is the presence of what I interpret as literary metaphors, presumably stemming from Heinz Strunk’s 2016 eponymous novel. The time at which the novel was written makes me all the more eager to conclude that the film has a lot more to say about our times than what its 1970s setting might suggest. I am not a fan of violence, on-screen or otherwise, and, sadly, von Trier’s latest effort failed to convince me. But recently I’ve seen violence used as a means to a cinematic end – and not just for its shock value – much more effectively than I ever thought possible. The first time was in Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale; the second in The Golden Glove.

Throughout Akin’s film, we follow serial killer Fritz Honka (Jonas Dassler) in 1970s Hamburg. Most of the time, Honka keeps busy by overworking his liver at The Golden Glove – a pub where ex-S.S. soldiers, ex-concentration camp prostitutes, and other similarly unhappy people drink their lives away. Otherwise, Herr Honka spends his time picking up deranged, drunken homeless women at the Glove, raping them, and chopping them up into pieces to keep in his attic. Whenever the next victim asks where the stench is coming from, Herr Honka’s reply is always the same: it’s the Greek family’s fault, the one living in the flat below, always adding that disgusting garlic into everything they cook.

‘Gruesome’ doesn’t even begin to describe the horrors to which the viewer is subjected. (If we could describe everything with words, we wouldn’t need films in the first place). People walked out of the auditorium, brought their hands to their mouths and eyes, and turned their gazes away from the screen in disgust more than a few times during the screening I attended. But on behalf of those who didn’t walk out, I would like to argue that The Golden Glove is really not as pointless as some are calling it. Far from glorifying violence through the portrayal of his troubled – to put it mildly – protagonist, Akin gives us a taste of a reality unpalatable to humanity through the years: that the rottenness we so hatefully perceive around us, is very often an internalised hatred that we dare not admit.

One should not overlook the fact that this story’s characters are all victims of war:  a woman forced into prostitution during WWII; an ex-Nazi official with no purpose in life 30 years later; and Honka, whose father was arrested for being a Communist in Nazi Germany. In an early scene, we are introduced to the theory that there are three reasons for people to drink:  to celebrate the good things, to drink away the bad things, and to escape the boredom of nothing happening at all. Celebration seems to be the least likely reason for these characters’ severe alcohol dependence. These are people whose lives were forever dismantled by violence in all its unimaginable and horrific forms. It is a violence that is very much passed on and inherited, still pervasive in the lives of younger generations. No matter how we try to conceal the hateful acts of violence from the past, they inevitably slip through the cracks of the rotting attics of history, like maggots feeding off dead bodies.

Much like the characters in The Golden Glove, our own generation’s passive acceptance of violence and the inability to connect may have been inherited through postwar trauma in more ways than we realise. The fact that Fritz and Willi (Tristan Göbel) share a similar taste in eyewear and teenage girls implies a few reasons why the Honkas of the world have not yet ceased to exist. Akin does not force feed his audience this reading of the story, but there are hints supporting this reading inconspicuously scattered throughout the film:  WWII references occur more than a few times, and war becomes the common thread connecting all characters.

In The Golden Glove, men and women alike have to live with all the trauma that the war has brought upon them in a strongly divided Cold War era Germany. Honka and his brother seem to believe that women are objects made for their satisfaction. This unhealthy relationship between the sexes is perpetuated by apathy in a society whose wounds can only be numbed by alcohol.

The only glimpse of humanity we see in Honka is when he decides to stop drinking – which is also when he develops what appear to be feelings for a coworker. “I had dreamed that I’d do more in life than just clean offices,” she opens up to him. This is a cleaner who’s wasting her life away with an unemployed husband who spends her earnings on alcohol. Sympathetic as he may appear, Honka’s only verbal attempt to express feelings towards her comes when he’s once again drunk. “I love you. Now I want to fuck you,” he exclaims before violently assaulting her.

There is much power in Akin’s subtle insertions of the peaceful Greek family scenes amongst all the massacres and acts of inhumanity committed by the film’s antihero. Through this lens, see a family of refugees accused of creating the foul stench in Honka’s apartment, a situation which is likely to be a commentary on today’s increasing nationalism in various states globally. When read this way, the film appears not only to be opposed to war and toxic masculinity, but also to right-wing extremism.

The film doesn’t justify itself in any obvious way, but comparing The Golden Glove to The House that Jack Built seems unfair to say the least. Akin’s depiction of Honka’s monstrosity is ultimately unsettling for a much more profound reason: the real horror is that, in contrast to von Trier’s, this misogynist serial killer actually existed. Fritz Honka was alive in the 1970s, a product of one of the most horrific periods in recent history.

Overall, The Golden Glove was not a strong contender for the Golden Bear Award at this year’s Berlinale. Jonas Dassler’s extraordinary physical performance and Rainer Kalusmann’s commendably greasy cinematography were not enough for the jury. Still, I thought there was a case to be made in the film’s favour. Akin succeeds multiple times in drawing laughs only moments after showing a murder, and that says something very interesting about our attitude towards violence.

The Golden Glove (Der Goldene Handschuh) premiered at Berlin Film Festival on February 9th. It has yet to acquire a UK release date. Check out a clip below: 

Editor KC Wingert examines the female superhero in Marvel’s latest addition to their cinematic mythos.

I have to admit that I’m nothing more than a casual superhero movie fan. I’ve seen some, but not all, of the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s seemingly unending filmography – and most of the time I don’t know what’s going on because I skipped Thor 18 or Iron Man 26 or whatever number they’re on. I don’t hate superhero movies, but do find myself feeling frustrated when I see a franchise churn out several films a year, some of which are disappointing at best (ahem, Ant Man), knowing that no matter what quality is achieved, loyal fans will continue to show up and spend their money on this cultural phenomenon.

I am especially jaded when it comes to female superheroes in these films. Hollywood’s brand of feminism is disheartening; they just can’t seem to get it right. Too often, the so-called “strong, female lead” is a mere token; her existence in a film is largely based on her sexual difference. She is the only woman in a group of men, whom she surprises with her incredible ability to kick ass and maintain visual desirability while doing it. She is intimidating, cold, and mysterious in a sexy way. She is not represented as a particularly complex or conflicted person until a male love interest comes along to “soften” her. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I am talking about Wonder Woman).

I am tired of watching films with corny, girl power-y lines that will inevitably end up emblazoned on a t-shirt sold by some twee Etsy shop that throws in a “Notorious RBG” pin in with every order over £10. I am tired of films that wrap up the battle women have been fighting for hundreds of years neatly, with a big pink bow—a sign that all is well, sexism and gendered violence are over, and we can go back to being pretty now. I am tired of seeing female protagonists with one body type, one skin tone, one sexual preference, and one purpose—either to mother or to seduce the men around her. I am tired of watching women who cope well, who don’t cry, who don’t show any fear or hesitation. I am tired of looking at women who are only there to be looked at.

It’s safe to say I’m a hard sell when it comes to blockbusters starring women—not because I don’t want women to star in big-budget films, but because I feel like they never quite capture what it is to be a woman, really. And with all that said, I must make another really big admission:  I absolutely loved Captain Marvel.

In Marvel’s first title film for a female superhero, Brie Larson stars as Vers, a Kree Starforce member of the planet Hala. Vers has the remarkable ability to produce photon blasts with her hands—a unique power she has not yet mastered and which she cannot even remember receiving. Her memory before becoming a member of the Starforce is completely blank, except for the bits and pieces of her past life that flash by in recurring dreams.

In a Starforce mission gone wrong, Vers is kidnapped by a group of enemy Skrulls, the alien shapeshifters attempting to infiltrate other planets by disguising themselves as their inhabitants. She manages to get away in an escape pod, which crash lands in sunny Los Angeles, California. It is here that Vers remembers more about her past—and discovers that she was a U.S. Air Force pilot thought to have been dead for six years after crashing her aircraft during a top-secret equipment test in 1989.

While on Earth, Vers makes the acquaintance of Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson), a favourite for any returning Marvel fan. This is Fury in the early days of his career at SHIELD—before the eye patch, attitude, and seemingly unchecked power. (We find out, in fact, how Fury loses his eye—and it’s not as badass as you’d think). Together, Larson and Jackson have great onscreen chemistry; it’s an absolute delight to watch this odd couple escape the Skrulls and travel to find Maria Rambeau (Lashana Lynch), one of Vers’ friends from her human life. There are no faux-empowering moments between them—no “not bad for a girl” moments or “that’s my kind of woman” remarks. Fury and Vers are on a mission, and Fury doesn’t question Vers’ ability once. Unlike in many other films with a female protagonist, Vers is not someone Fury feels protective over in a paternalistic sense. Her value is not something that he expects her to prove before she can fight alongside him; in fact, in moments when they are not working together as equals, Fury looks to Vers as a leader.

Being the first woman to play a title character in a Marvel film is a high-stakes job, seeing as being the first female anything typically carries the pressure of making the entire gender look good—but it’s a job to which Brie Larson is suited, dare I say, marvellously. Larson is one of those actresses who brings a down-to-earth, relatable tone to whatever character she plays. She’s the girl who sat in front of you in biology, or the girl who played goalie on your field hockey team. She’s the girl who wasn’t loud and didn’t seek popularity, yet she seemed to be friends with everyone just the same. She is, at the same time, exceptional and ordinary. As Captain Marvel, a sort of accidental superhero, she expertly manages the bizarre duality of being both a totally average woman and an intergalactic warrior. It is this aspect of Larson’s performance which is most empowering; she tells us that any ordinary woman with a strong will can be a hero in her own right.

Another strength of Captain Marvel is that directors Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck have recreated one of the most exciting elements of the massively successful Black Panther:  they have put a black woman in a central and catalytic role in the narrative. The friendship between Maria Rambeau and Vers—whose name, we find out, was originally Carol Danvers—is a wonderful show of solidarity between two women who were once up against sexism in the U.S. Air Force and encouraged each other, instead of competing against each other, to fly in the only missions women were allowed to pilot at the time.

Before Carol’s “death,” these women took care of each other and had each other’s backs, both professionally and personally, to the point where Rambeau’s daughter Monica (Akira Akbar) refers to Danvers as “Auntie Carol”. For that reason, it only makes sense that Vers should now trust Rambeau to help her save the world, as all Marvel heroes must inevitably do—and help she does.

Rambeau is absolutely essential to the plot of the film. She helps Vers remember her life as Carol and unlock her true potential as Captain Marvel. She even outdoes Nick Fury himself in terms of helpfulness to the cause, by expertly piloting a spaceship she’s never flown before and fearlessly fighting the enemy. Next to Rambeau, the typically intimidating character Fury is practically only there for comic relief and to tie into the rest of the MCU. As a mother, a pilot, and a black woman, Rambeau is a complex and interesting hero herself, not a character boxed into the “sassy black friend” stereotype.

A film set in the mid-Nineties, Captain Marvel makes several cheeky jabs at the dismally slow-moving technology and now-defunct businesses of yesteryear (rest in peace, Blockbuster); this setting, of course, calls for a soundtrack that feels like a love letter to the female musicians of the mid-decade. (It’s worth noting, too, that Captain Marvel is the first Marvel film to be scored by a woman). From TLC to Salt ‘N’ Pepa, Elastica to Des’ree, Captain Marvel didn’t miss any of the hits or one-hit wonders that completely encapsulate the fun, laid-back vibe of its era. The film is heavily influenced by nineties grunge rock, too, in soundtrack and production design alike. Dressed in loose jeans and a flannel shirt, Captain Marvel at one point cruises down a highway on a motorcycle while Garbage’s femme grunge classic “Only Happy When it Rains” plays. Courtney and Kurt are included, of course, and No Doubt’s upbeat anthem “Just a Girl” sets the pace for one of the most crucial fight scenes in the film. The rebellious, riot grrrl-influenced soundtrack evokes a point in time when resisting the norm still felt productive and rebellion made a difference. The soundtrack isn’t just wistful reminiscence on days gone by, either; it serves a thematic purpose. These feminist grunge rockers rejected the testosterone-fueled rock scene of the early Nineties and challenged the status quo in a way that had a real affect on American culture. Captain Marvel provides a welcome escape back to a time when women’s resistance in the U.S. didn’t feel completely ineffective in the way that it sometimes does now.

Captain Marvel may not be the first female-led superhero movie, but it is, in this writer’s opinion, the most successful one. An entertaining adventure sprinkled with ironic humour, this is the film women who just want to be entertained without feeling objectified have been waiting for. For being in a film largely centred around fighting a hostile alien race, Brie Larson’s Captain Marvel is a surprisingly down-to-earth character whose wit adds richness to action-packed adventure, and whose confidence is empowering. Hopefully, Hollywood execs looking to add some feminism to their roster will see this film and understand:  Captain Marvel is how it’s done.

Captain Marvel is in theatres now. Check out the trailer below:

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

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

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

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

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

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

7/10

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

Sabastian Astley reviews the new Netflix coming of age series on teenage sexuality. 

Netflix’s Sex Education, created by Laurie Nunn, provides something many shows revolving around adolescence lack: an openness and honesty toward the sexual lives of teenagers. Between the diverse cast of characters and the pressing storylines introduced, the show certainly seems to be on its way towards teenage acclaim. But how well does it reflect the teenage zeitgeist of the modern day?

The show’s narrative threads are constructed around the overarching plot of the nerdy Otis’ (Asa Butterfield) unlikely team-up with outcast Maeve (Emma Mackley) to run an underground a sex therapy clinic at their school, all with the help of Otis’ sex therapist mother Jean (Gillian Anderson). We also follow the origin of Adam’s (Connor Swindells) bullying behaviour; Eric’s (Ncuti Gatwa) struggle to embrace his sexuality despite his religious family; Maeve’s difficulty supporting and creating a future for herself; and Jean’s difficulty of raising her son while maintaining her own identity.

Sex Education explores various themes that affect the modern teen, most notably sexual identity, societal pressures, sexual health, and relationships.  Eric and Adam’s relationship to one another showcases the complications of exploring one’s sexual identity; Adam’s sexual repression is subtly displayed through his behaviours and the way in which he treats Eric as opposed to the language he uses towards him. Societal pressures are explored through every character in the show, from Maeve’s attempts to balance her academic and home lives, to Jackson’s anxiety over the pressure his mother puts on him to swim competitively. This may be the most general of the themes throughout the entire show, but each individual character’s struggle with societal pressure feels unique. Viewers can identify and empathise with an individual character due to the broad exploration of this theme.

The issue of sexual health is explored through the sex therapy clinic’s day-to-day, including discussions of the importance of communication during sex and of asserting one’s individual preferences rather than acting according to their partner’s desires. Although the show is comedic in tone, these issues themselves are never trivialised. They are properly explored through sincere discussion with realistic resolutions that don’t feel oversimplified.

Relationships become the most complex of the themes explored, mostly revolving around the characters’ connections to their families. Maeve has a troubled relationship with her brother; Otis’ struggles to communicate with his mother about his own issues; Adam acts out as a cry for help to his parents; and Eric is disconnected from his father. The show approaches these topics with a sense of realism, and each situation plays out naturally; people let others down, and simple words exchanged can be devastating. When you watch these relationships in play, you feel a sense of familiarity, because these problems are universal and impossibly difficult to solve. Many of the relationship issues portrayed aren’t resolved. The show is sincere in its sadness, and its refusal to allow everything an ending hits incredibly close to home.

Every relationship between characters seems genuine: Butterfield and Anderson have fantastic chemistry as Jean and Otis, striking the balance between embarrassing parent and angsty teen while retaining a strong sense of parental guidance. Gatwa and Swindells portray a believable attraction between Eric and Adam, playing their characters beyond the stereotypical masculine man threatened by his own desires and the repressed, flamboyant gay man. However, Mackley gives the standout performance of the series; as Maeve, she displays a muted emotional palette to showcase the character’s difficulty in distancing herself from reality. In terms of aesthetic, the show’s timeless setting gives it a distinctive style that complements the its universality and helps to add some levity to more serious moments. The strong John Hughes influence is clear from the Americanised school setting, though the mostly ’80s soundtrack is peppered with some exceptional Ezra Furman tracks for a modern balance.

The show is not perfect of course; there are times where it suffers from generic plot points, such as the ‘will they, won’t they’ tension between Otis and Maeve. While this has been replicated many times throughout television history, such as in FRIENDS‘s iconic Ross and Rachel drama, it does allow both characters to develop individually. We see this in Maeve’s relationship to Jackson (Kedar Williams-Sterling) and in Otis’ exploration with Lily (Tanya Reynolds) and relationship with Ola (Patricia Allison). Additionally, some issues are presented briefly but lack further development beyond a mention, such as Otis’ difficulty with masturbation originating from a specific childhood memory – an exploration which only took five minutes at most.

Sex Education explores the teenage zeitgeist in a way that is unique and refreshing to see,  with an incredibly sad underlying tone once the narratives of each character are deconstructed. It’s very reminiscent of the successful, early-2000s teen drama Skins in that both series use daydream-like narratives as a device to deconstruct and develop each individual character as they face their own personal struggles in their sexuality or familial relationships.

Sex Education is available to stream on Netflix now. Check out the trailer below:

Editor KC Wingert reviews Jon S. Baird’s homage to the Hollywood comedy duo. 

One of my favourite childhood pastimes was going to my grandfather’s house and watching old Laurel and Hardy films on VHS. I’d sit on the floor with my Gramps, almost 70 years my senior, both of us belly-laughing at the top comedic duo of the Golden Age’s unique brand of humour. I practically worshipped Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy—their slapstick act and cartoonish physicality were so entertaining that, 60 years after their heyday in Hollywood, a ‘90s baby like me preferred to watch their films over Saturday morning kids’ programming. Much to my chagrin, the average movie fanatic today might not be as familiar with Laurel and Hardy as they are with Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton, their comedy contemporaries. (Fun fact: Stan Laurel and Charlie Chaplin toured together with Fred Karno’s vaudeville company before they started working in film and were roommates for much of the tour). Hope is not lost, however, for fangirls like me; with the recent release of Stan & Ollie, starring Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly, the duo is once again being recognised for their timeless genius. The Jon S. Baird-directed biopic not only captures the comedic brilliance of Laurel and Hardy, but also tells a feelgood story of love and affection between two old friends.

Stan & Ollie finds Stan Laurel (Coogan) and Oliver Hardy (Reilly) about 20 years after their run as the top comedic duo in Hollywood, reunited for a live theatre tour of the British Isles. Broke and unable to find work in film anymore, the pair hopes the tour will regain them enough career momentum to convince a major London producer to work with them on their film adaptation of the Robin Hood story. Their live performances garner great audience reactions and, after several successful press ops played in character, Stan and Ollie’s careers start to gain traction again. When their wives Ida (Nina Arianda) and Lucille (Shirley Henderson) visit them, however, old rifts begin to widen between the men.

The injection of serious conflict in the otherwise cheeky rapport between Stan and Ollie begs the question of whether their relationship is a true friendship or simply a long-lasting business partnership. The concerns their wives have for their well-being, both emotional and physical, complicate the story well. Disagreements between the duo are gut-wrenching to watch, yet, in homage to the spirit of the real Laurel and Hardy, writer Jeff Pope punctuates these emotional moments with genuinely hilarious jokes. Moreover, Ida and Lucille become a sort of comedic duo themselves with their catty quarrels and equally strong personalities—expertly portrayed by Arianda and Henderson, who nearly steal the show. Pope manages to bring humour and lightheartedness to moments of sobering conflict and emotional depth, ultimately leaving viewers chuckling just a few moments after dabbing their eyes from tears.

Outside of the delightfully told story, Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly’s performances are the ultimate strength of this film. Each actor absolutely masters the idiosyncrasies of Laurel and Hardy, from their distinctive voices to their characteristic facial expressions. Laurel and Hardy are known for their impeccable comedic timing and perfectly refined slapstick act; Coogan and Reilly clearly put in the rehearsal hours to mimic some of the duo’s most famous performances. Coogan’s perfectly measured brow-wiggling and Reilly’s harrumphing, along with extremely convincing prosthetic makeup, allow the pair to perfectly embody their subjects, to the point where an audience might genuinely forget that it is in fact watching the actors behind Alan Partridge and Dewey Cox.

Ultimately, Stan & Ollie is a masterful biopic not only because of its incredibly realistic portrayal of an iconic Hollywood duo, but also because it exemplifies the transgenerational appeal of the comedy of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. This pair brought joy and laughter to so many people during their careers, and Jon S. Baird’s latest film is proof that the brilliance of Laurel and Hardy stands the test of time. Audiences of all ages will delight in this thoughtful and heartwarming comedy—“a fine mess,” indeed.

Stan & Ollie is currently out in cinemas right now. Check out its trailer below:

Sabastian Astley reviews Black Mirror’s intense and ambitious interactive special.

Black Mirror writer and show co-creator Charlie Brooker sees off the year with a bold and innovative new episode of the horror anthology. “Bandersnatch,” directed by David Slade, takes on an interactive format, merging a “choose your own adventure” structure with a disturbing commentary on the idea of free will.

Of course, this isn’t the first time Brooker has had the idea of toying around with experimental concepts for episodes. He envisioned a “nightmare mode” for the conclusion of Season 3’s “Playtest,” with alternate, fourth wall-breaking scenes. Ultimately, it was deemed too complicated an idea to execute. Fast forward a year, and Netflix had begun to experiment with interactive episodic content in children’s shows like Puss in Boots. Brooker and producer Annabel Jones were approached with the idea to trial the concept for an adult audience through Black Mirror. However, they weren’t convinced. “We thought it was gimmicky,” said Brooker in an interview with The Independent.

In an ironic twist, later that year, the narrative concept that would come to be “Bandersnatch” was created in the Black Mirror writer’s room, leaving Brooker to realise that the only way they could do this story would be through the very experimental format they had initially rejected. And thus, “Bandersnatch” was born.

The episode itself is immersed in interesting context: the company Tuckersoft within the episode was inspired by real-life Imagine Software, a short-lived Liverpudlian company of the early 1980s. Imagine Software actually developed and advertised a real game called Bandersnatch. (It was never released, and the company consequently went bankrupt shortly after). Additionally, the influences of Phillip K. Dick, George Orwell, and even Lewis Carroll are clear through the use of alternate timelines, parallel dimensions, government conspiracies, and the simplistic idea of “falling down the rabbit hole.”

But what is “Bandersnatch” actually about?

In the episode, we follow up-and-coming game developer Stefan Butler (Fionn Whitehead) as he attempts to adapt the epic choose-your-own-adventure book Bandersnatch into a game. After being invited to demo and then release his game with Tuckersoft, a prolific video game company known for producing famed developer Colin Ritman’s (Will Poulter) games, we follow – and choose – Stefan’s development both of the game and in his own life.

Because “Bandersnatch” is a unique piece of media, being an amalgamation of both full motion video game narration style and television, many of the pros and cons of both types of media flow into one another. The interactive format itself is an incredible step for Netflix into a potential smorgasbord of content, ranging from existing properties branching out into similar experimental pieces, to the launching of new properties specifically formed around the idea of interactivity. It helps that Brooker is able to form a convincing, meta narrative that helps the choose-your-own-adventure format feel natural; if the story were different, I believe it may have felt more forced and cliche in its approach to interactivity. Dating the actual narrative to the mid-’80s also seemed to help, given the rise of the choose-your-own-adventure fad at the time. It also gave a unique kitsch to the episode that was greatly appreciated, from the vintage aspect ratios that enhance flashbacks, to the vibrant colors emphasizing drug-induced hallucination sequences.

Throughout my play-through, I found myself surprised at the breadth of options and the length of certain paths. The effort that went into writing each path is clear, especially intentionally setting out to hit a dead end and restart the episode. It’s a sign of commitment to the experimental format the episode relies on.

In terms of entertainment, it’s one of Black Mirror‘s most intriguing concepts yet. The idea of being controlled is a common one – and not only in the sci-fi genre. However, Black Mirror heightens the idea through the viewer’s ability to directly interfere with Stefan’s life themselves, to the point where Stefan directly confronts the viewer multiple times throughout. The feelings the episode generates are similar to those director Michael Haneke affects in Funny Games; you feel confronted in your complicity in the character’s torture, yet you continue to play. You want to see how awful you can make Stefan’s life, even when he screams at you to stop. It’s compelling in its cruelty.

However, there is an extent to which “Bandersnatch” can be enjoyed. Because of the choose-your-own-adventure format, the narrative doesn’t feel complete; rather, you feel as though you get lost in a sense, having to mentally backtrack through the disjointed narrative. Although fun to toy around with, the interactivity is ultimately an emotional barrier to feeling fully invested in the episode, as you are constantly aware of your involvement. The episode makes no attempts to immerse you; it instead constantly informs you of the falseness of it all, down to the ending. Additionally, as with all choose-your-own-adventure stories, there is only an illusion of multiplicity. Humans pride themselves on feeling as though they’ve completed something, and many of the endings simply don’t provide this satisfaction. In truth, “Bandersnatch” only has two true endings. All other endings are meaningless, simply a moment to entertain you before propelling you back through the timeline.

Ultimately, “Bandersnatch” is a fantastic experiment in interactive content, and Black Mirror was a great platform for directing it toward an adult audience. Brooker has a clear idea that he sets out to execute in the episode, and for the most part it works. However, when the gimmick begins to wear off, when you realize some of the paths are nothing more than dead ends, and as tantalizing as those “1 trillion story combinations” sound, you realize there are ultimately only two paths you can take, and they’ve already been decided for you.

Black Mirror: Bandersnatch is currently available for viewing on Netflix. Check out the trailer below:

Alexandra Petrache reviews the surprisingly delightful addition to the Transformers franchise.

The making of Bumblebee almost slipped by me. It did not seem as hugely  marketed as the other Transformers movies from the saga, and I walked in not knowing what to expect. An origin story meant tying together the comics and cartoons with which many fans grew up and the films that started in 2007. The director Travis Knight did that very cleverly – Bumblebee (voiced by Dylan O’Brien) leaves his home planet Cybertron in search of a safe haven, and lands on Earth. After managing to accidentally cause some damage to a military base, the Autobot stays in hiding in the form of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

Fast forward and the Volkswagen is taken home by Charlie (Hailee Steinfeld), a rebellious 18-year-old girl struggling with family issues. She quickly learns that her car is an Autobot, and in true Transformers fashion, human and shy robot become friends. Their happy time doesn’t last for long; Decepticons (voiced by Angela Basset and Justin Theroux) are trying to track down Bumbleebee’s location and force him to disclose the location of his leader, Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen). Add some US government officials, a love interest (Memo, played by Jorge Ledenborg Jr.), and some kick-ass Transformer fights, and you have a cleverly orchestrated film that manages to captivate the audience from the first second.

Bumbleebee touches on several layered themes. It’s a young girl’s coming-of-age story – in contrast with previous Transformers movies, where the cars and robots are usually reserved for boys – and Steinfeld does a good job at portraying the teen. At times it felt that Bumblebee was alluding to what it means to be an immigrant – the Autobot arrives on a foreign planet and tries to convince the locals that he means well and wishes to just be left to carry out his business.

Satisfyingly, the film was stripped down to bare emotions and action. There were no oversexualised teenage girls, no over-the-top fights or unnecessarily ridiculous plot twists. Unlike the previous Transformer movies, Bumblebee is a down-to-earth, humble film, where the main characters have more of a hero-next-door kind of vibe. The signature Michael Bay explosions are gone as well.

Comedy is also catered for. There are a couple of funny scenes where Bumblebee completely ignores or misunderstands Charlie’s instructions and ends up creating chaos, making him even more of a lovable character – who wouldn’t like a robot that can kick ass and yet be completely unable to understand how a coffee machine works, looking desperately to the dog for help?

There was nothing that I did not like. If I were to find anything, I would be nitpicking – not necessary for a film that was better than expected. One thing worth mentioning is that, although it captures the heart and mind, and shows some solid acting from both the main and supporting characters, Bumblebee is not a risky film. It does not try to “make or break”, but rather aims to put up an intelligently crafted performance. And it does it well. Special shout-out to characters like Charlie’s brother Otis (Jason Drucker), her mother Sally (Pamela Adlon), her step-father (Stephen Schneider), and Jack Burns (played by John Cena), which were all played well.

Bumblebee has the air of an underdog. As a film it seems smaller, less “bombastic” and eccentric, than the Transformers franchise. However, that makes it refreshing and well-built. It mirrors some of the action from the previous films while managing to concoct its own formula. When I left the theatre on the evening of the premiere, I was asked whether I would give it five stars. I have a slight aversion towards rating movies, but I think it worthy of a least three stars (for the picky viewers), if not four (for nostalgics like me).

Oh, pay attention to the Easter eggs, of which you will find quite a few sprinkled throughout the film.

Bumblebee is currently out in cinemas everywhere. Check out its trailer below:

Sam Hamilton reviews the newest sequel of the Rocky franchise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Editor KC Wingert critiques Disney’s video-game based animated sequel and its relationship to today’s consumerist media landscape.

Ralph Breaks the Internet, the follow-up to Disney’s 2012 animated feature Wreck-It Ralph, finds Ralph (John C. Reilly) and Vanellope (Sarah Silverman) six years later. Now best friends, the two spend their days hopping from game to game in their small arcade, but Vanellope secretly longs for something more. Ralph, in an attempt to bring some excitement to the arcade for Vanellope’s sake, accidentally sets off a chain of events that breaks the Sugar Rush game’s steering wheel, shuts down the game console, and displaces all of its characters. In order to replace the broken wheel and save Sugar Rush from permanent retirement, Ralph and Vanellope must venture into the unknown world of the internet to buy the only Sugar Rush steering wheel available in the world, which happens to be listed on ebay.

This film uniquely imagines the internet as a real, physical place where humanoid avatars represent all internet users’ data footprints; where juggernaut brands like Google and Pinterest occupy giant skyscaper-esque structures; and where pop-up ads pester people on the sidewalk like annoying street hawkers. Many of the film’s jokes are references to memes—even the film’s title refers to Kim Kardashian’s now legendary half-nude PAPER Magazine cover—that will feel outdated to someone watching in ten years. With jokes dependent on content from a rapidly changing media sphere dominating the film’s humor, writers Phil Johnston and Pamela Ribon have essentially cemented their screenplay’s eventual obsolescence. Even the bonus scenes at the end of the film are references to memes and the film’s own marketing campaign. These extratextual references may prove delightful to children eager to be in on the joke, but they only serve as marketing for various websites and apps and feel unnecessary to the story.

Clearly the intention behind this film was not to create the lasting power of a positive message, as one usually expects out of a children’s film, but rather its purpose was to create another franchise designed to milk as much money out of loyal fans as possible. The only ultimately positive messages that could be eked out of this nearly 2-hour ode to the coterie of companies that profit from invading people’s privacy are: 1) don’t read the comments on the internet, because people can be mean, and 2) don’t try to prevent your friends from following their dreams.

Moreover, Ralph Breaks the Internet acts as a tool to promote brand familiarity in children, with happy-go-lucky shout-outs to Google, Instagram, Amazon, and other internet behemoths which we now know to be engaging in less-than-ethical moneymaking practices. With a children’s film about the internet, directors Phil Johnston and Rick Moore could have created a teaching tool for parents to broach the subjects of data harvesting, identity protection, cyberbullying, and other issues their kids might encounter online. However, Disney, a media conglomerate in and of itself, seems to view Ralph Breaks the Internet as an opportunity to tout its own influence over today’s media landscape.

A large segment of the film is dedicated to Vanellope’s newfound friendship with the Disney Princesses, whose cheeky introduction in the movie’s trailer went viral among delighted feminists and Disney-philes alike. The princesses, after hearing that Vanellope is also royal, try to find out what type of princess she is by interrogating with a line of questioning—“Were you poisoned? Cursed? Kidnapped or enslaved?”—to which Vanellope responds, “Are you guys okay? Should I call the police?” When Vanellope says that people assume her problems were solved when a man showed up in her life, they exclaim, “She is a princess!” But this humorously metatextual, feminist moment shouldn’t fool anyone hoping to find radical themes within the rest of the film. This portion of the movie also includes cameos from other Disney films—from Winnie the Pooh to Zootopia—as well as from Disney-owned subsidiaries like the Marvel universe and Star Wars. In this critic’s opinion, this clearly shows how the film serves as a tool for Disney to essentially trumpet its own media empire within one of its films, with thinly-veiled product placement. Ralph Breaks the Internet therefore becomes no more than a Disney marketing campaign that will inevitably pay for itself.

Ultimately, Ralph Breaks the Internet is a blatant initiative to sell, sell, sell to those among us who aren’t able to make informed decisions about their consumption: children. The film is a 2-hour long advertisement that would leave any children’s media literacy educator aghast. While the film’s story, visuals, and performances were well-executed, it is fundamentally a tool for indoctrinating children into complacency in a media landscape that serves massive companies, not individuals.

Ralph Breaks The Internet is currently out in cinemas everywhere, check out its trailer below:

Théo Verzeroli reviews Netflix’s reboot of the iconic 90s sitcom. 

Sabrina: “I want freedom and power.”

Prudence: “He’ll never give you that. The Dark Lord. The thought of you, of any of us, having both terrifies him.”

Sabrina: “Why is that?”

Prudence: “He’s a man, isn’t he?”

After the 90’s sitcom Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Netflix takes the famous Archie Comics universe over in a teenage-horror reboot which can only extend the Halloween atmosphere: The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina.

Composed of ten episodes of around fifty minutes each, Sabrina takes place in an already-known universe: the one of Riverdale, the successful drama-thriller which started in 2017 on the CW and Netflix. Thus, the show sets itself in Greendale, a small, calm town on the other side of the river – but one which is actually a foundation of a witch world.

Sabrina (very well played by the young Kiernan Shipka of Mad Men) is a fifteen year old girl living as a half-mortal-half-witch in a mansion with aunts Hilda (Lucy Davis, Wonder Woman) and Zelda (Miranda Otto, The Lord of the Rings), and cousin Ambrose (Chance Perdomo). She has a simple life, constantly by the side of her two best friends Roz (Jaz Sinclair) and Susie (Lachlan Watson), and especially her boyfriend Harvey (Ross Lynch, Austin & Ally).

The story opens on the day before Sabrina’s sixteenth birthday. On that day she will have to make a choice between her powers and family, and her mortal friends and lover. Torn, Sabrina goes looking for answers which could help her decide – but she discovers very quickly that becoming a complete witch includes giving her soul to the Devil.  Sabrina would receive her full potential of power, but also be left as servant to the Devil, at his mercy.

The producers use this dilemma very well, pushing Sabrina to question herself on power, freedom, her true desires, and especially the distinction between good and evil. Indeed it is said from the beginning that witches get their powers from Satan, but do not want to hurt anybody, exiling themselves from the mortal world. Sabrina thus has to make an even more difficult choice: between the truth of her feelings and the morality of them.

But all these great concepts are seen through the eyes of a teenager who is only sixteen. This is essential, as it permits a cheesiness which softens the witches’ world’s darkness. Again, this is well done by the show-runners, who use the high school as a place to develop different elements. First of all, Sabrina is a modern witch: she and her friends create a society which functions to discreetly insert themes of feminism and gender-progression. This comes in tandem to the natural feminism of the supernatural world, a direct result of the fact that power is owned by women. Furthermore, high school is the way by which the villain manipulates Sabrina, taking the appearance of one of her teachers. But before anything else, school is the place where Sabrina can be who she truly is: a teenager in love. This is what forms her humanity, and her biggest strength against the Devil.

Sabrina is a complex and conflicted character, and this is reflected in her costume design. Loosely derived from Red Riding Hood, her clothes contrast with her determination and dark witch power, but also perfectly complete the show’s aesthetic – timeless but rooted in 60’s – 70’s Gothic.

In this world which seems very simplistic, the main characters evolve in a much more interesting way; so as to make us discover their true nature. Sabrina’s family is a perfect example. Aunts Zelda and Hilda are both very responsible, even though Zelda is more authoritarian than her sister. They are both strong women but can still admit their weaknesses. The High Priest (Richard Coyle) perfectly embodies the ambiguity of religious institutions. Seen as a Devil’s representative, he has his human weaknesses and can sometimes lead the dogma and its believers to mistakes. Ambrose, Sabrina’s cousin, is a new character, created by the producers in order to divorce the diabolical warlock prisoner from the original show’s black cat, whose ability to speak would have been out of place in The Chilling Adventure‘s world. Ambrose serves to initiate Sabrina to more dangerous magic and mores.

But the plot Ambrose develops is not credible enough; it could be much more detailed. And it feels the same with the three Weird Sisters: Prudence (Tati Gabrielle), Agatha (Adeline Rudolph), and Dorcas (Abigail Cowen). They vary in the same way as Ambrose, but their changes are always ambiguous and lack depth.

Regardless, this TV show is worth the detour, at least for fantasy and horror fans. It blurs the line between black and white magic and challenges our certainties of good and evil. It is resolutely part of modernity with characters equal in rights, gender, weaknesses, and power: a novelty which does teenage and fantastic worlds some good.

In order to facilitate a season’s viewing, I would say that the strongest episodes are the first, second, sixth, seventh, and final.

The first season of The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina is currently available to stream on Netflix. Check out its trailer below:

Alexandra Petrache reviews the anticipated latest instalment to J.K. Rowling’s Wizarding World franchise. 

WARNING: Contains minor spoilers.

The end of the Fantastic Beasts series’ first installation left us with an imprisoned Grindelwald (Johnny Depp), an Obscurial fragment who seems to have escaped the destruction of the Obscurus, and a couple of budding love stories. Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald picks up the action right where it was left off. The beginning is dark and gripping, showing Grindelwald escaping from prison in New York with the help of a rogue American Auror. Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne) also has a less-than-delightful meeting with his brother and an unsurprisingly confusing meeting with young Dumbledore (Jude Law). We get to catch a glimpse of the zoo of magical creatures Scamander harbours in his house – and can I just say that riding a Kelpie beats all water sports?

After Queenie (Alison Sudol) and Jacob’s (Dan Fogler) impromptu visit to London, Newt ends up in Paris looking for Tina (Katherine Waterston) and Credence (Ezra Miller) at Dumbledore’s suggestion. What happens next is a mix of magic, betrayal, loyalty, and guilt. Darker than any of the other films from the Harry Potter universe, The Crimes of Grindelwald has an adult tone. The title is intriguing, alluding to the eponymous wizard creating havoc and troubles, but in reality it feels like he somehow isn’t allowed centre stage and has to take a step back, giving way to various subplots.

The film features old and new characters in abundance – so many it is hard to keep count of them. Introducing a plethora of characters that all seem important and are mini Easter eggs for fans seem to be central to the film. J.K. Rowling, screenwriter and author of the original Harry Potter series, gets overexcited and introduces key characters to the Harry Potter universe who are quickly tossed aside to make room for new ones with every twist of the plot.Therefore, few characters have space to develop and conquer the minds and hearts of the audience. Queenie and Jacob have a likable development on their own and as a pair, and Newt and Tina share a few awkward moments. Grindelwald seems utterly delightful (albeit wearing too much powder) for such a bonafide bad guy.  He’s clever and cunning, and we hope the wizarding world can see through his carefully-constructed Nazi-esque propaganda.

The main story is slightly blemished by minor subplots that lead to a dead end, like when Leta Lestrange (Zoë Kravtiz) takes centre stage as the love interest of Theseus Scamander (Callum Turner) while focusing on the death of her brother – just for her story to end suddenly. Similarly, Credence’s unlikely companion and massive Harry Potter Easter egg Nagini (Claudia Kim) stands out as odd; she doesn’t seem to be part of any group and although potentially interesting and likeable, is not given an opportunity to shine.  

It seems that Rowling still writes film scripts as if they were novels and, as a result, they are highly lyrical but confusing and full of information. In the case of important details in Crimes of Grindelwald, if you blink, you miss it. The film is full of threads that are woven together and left unfinished, leading to the next film. (A friend described it as J.K. Rowling doing an Empire Strikes Back; I’d say it’s Empire Strikes Back meets the prequels). The Crimes of Grindelwald is also not as thrilling as the title makes it out to be, although admittedly, as someone hopelessly in love with Paris, some of the scenes stirred something sentimental inside of me. The final act of the film was, however, very good. Every line lands, complemented by an excellent score. The reveal that takes place in its final act is very theatrical and raises many questions that I bet will be answered in classic Rowling style. It’s a plot twist that at the moment seems highly improbable and needs another massive plot twist to answer the questions it raises.

Darker than its predecessor, Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald takes us deeper on an enjoyable journey into the world of Harry Potter. It’s a shame that, with its many subplots and characters that are not given enough time to develop, the film feels claustrophobic and unpolished. Maybe they should have called it Fantastic Beasts: The Plot Thickens. 

6.7/10

Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald is currently out in cinemas everywhere. Check out its trailer below:

Sabastian Astley reviews the newest series of the timey wimey sci-fi show so far. 

The 11th series of the iconic BBC show Doctor Who is unique from that of its decennial predecessors, from the change of showrunner from Steven Moffatt to Chris Chibnall to the passing of the torch from composer Murray Gold to Segun Akinola . However, the most revolutionary change comes with the hiring of actress Jodie Whittaker, the 13th incarnation and also the first-ever female Doctor. These changes alone are enough to redefine the show completely. However, with the experimental three-companion structure that adds Bradley Walsh, Tosin Cole, and Mandip Gill as series regulars, as well as the upgrade in production design with Academy Award-winning VFX house DNEG, this new series can easily be seen as a “soft reboot” of the show.

Now halfway through the season, have these changes revitalized the show?

The Woman Who Fell To Earth (Written by Chris Chibnall)

This series opener sees the Doctor crash-land into Sheffield. She meets Yaz (Gill), Ryan (Cole), and Graham (Walsh), all of whom become entangled in the monstrous warrior Tzim-Sha’s hunt. The episode culminates in Tzim-Sha’s defeat, but at the cost of the life of Ryan’s nan and Graham’s wife, Grace.

The episode’s structure itself cleverly envelops us into the Doctor’s companions’ world, and it feels as though we follow them meeting the Doctor, rather than the Doctor meeting them. This is a welcome change to the Moffatt era, where companions felt more defined to a singular idea. These companions feel real, in large part due to Chibnall’s well-structured character development featuring Ryan’s dyspraxia and Graham’s struggle in playing the role of surrogate grandfather to Ryan. During the closing sequence, Walsh’s Graham creates a powerful resonance in portraying heartbreaking grief at the loss of Grace. In addition to the improvement in writing, the improvement of the production design is clear with Tzim-Sha, from his Predator-esque body armor to his teeth-covered face. The VFX during his hatching from a strange, onion-like egg proves the brilliance DNEG has to offer the show. A small but appreciated detail was the creative rebirth of the Sonic Screwdriver, which, in turn, provides us with some character development for a more hands-on Doctor and allows for a refreshing display of intelligence that follows the screenwriting rule of “show, don’t tell.”

Because the episode focuses more on the companions, however, Whittaker’s Doctor doesn’t shine through as much as she could; rather, we see flashes of 10, 11 and 12 throughout the episode without any further definitive characteristics of 13. The defeat of Tzim-Sha through the redirection of the DNA bombs seems more in line with the actions of Capaldi’s darker Doctor rather than with the exuberant and joyful Doctor Whittaker plays throughout the rest of the episode.

Ending on an incredibly unexpected cliffhanger leaving the four suddenly trapped in outer space with moments of life left, Chibnall crafts an incredibly human series opener. This refreshes the typical Moffatt “I Am The Doctor” approach, instead adopting a “We Are The Companions” style.

The Ghost Monument (Written by Chris Chibnall)

After being rescued, the Doctor and companions must assist Angstrom (Susan Lynch) and Epzo (Shaun Dooley), the finalists of the universe’s riskiest race, and reach the Ghost Monument on the planet Desolation. Their own survival is at risk and they must succeed in order to potentially make it home.

We finally witness the new intro sequence with this episode, and it is both incredibly creative and visually striking – easily the show’s best introduction sequence since its 2005 revival. With Segun Akinola’s composition, a combination of strings and bass draws the viewer into this unknown world, and it’s clear that the show has strengthened in some ways from this reshuffle. The cinematography of the episode is astounding, a strong example being the Cerebros one-shots, a cleverly-executed sequence design that would’ve otherwise felt forgettable. The landscape shots, filmed in South Africa, truly help the planet Desolation live up to its name, with barren deserts stretching beyond the scope of the frame to make survival seem hopeless. The writing of the main cast remains consistent, with Chibnall throwing in a few classic Doctor name-drops – “You never saw him [Pythagoras] with a hangover” – and mournful moments between Graham and Ryan which hit the appropriate emotional beats. Developing the sensitive issue of grief in the middle of an epic sci-fi adventure is no easy feat, but Chibnall manages it well. In contrast to the ‘Doctor lite’ criticism of the series opener, Whittaker now truly shines with her return to the TARDIS, packing a variety of emotions that emphasise the strong Doctor/TARDIS bond that Capaldi’s Doctor seemed to lack. The production design continues its streak of magnificence, especially with the new TARDIS; there are clear influences drawn from 10’s TARDIS and a more Classic Who console at the heart.

However, Chibnall falters in his writing as Ryan’s character seems flatter than in the series opener. He asks obvious questions, and his Call of Duty scene is an incredibly over-the-top and unnecessary comedic addition that feels like a step back for the character. Epzo, Angstrom, and the main villain of this episode, Ilin (Art Malik), all seem far too one-dimensional. Ilin is a rich overlord, and Epzo and Angstorm are hardened mercenary types driven by tragedy. All three are tropes often seen in sci-fi; Chibnall puts no original spin to these roles and the story plays out exactly how we expect it to. Additionally, all three individuals are supposedly “alien”; however, judging by their outfits alone, they wouldn’t be out of place on a high street in London. These three are a disappointment following the creative approach to otherworldly beings we saw with Tzim-Sha. Because of these one-dimensional characters, the Doctor and the trio therefore seem out of place due to their depth and development. Ultimately, it feels as though we are following two completely different stories with little connection to the other.

While continuing to develop many of the themes presented in the prior episode, Chibnall falters in his followup with a simplistic story that feels shallow. However, for the most part, this episode continues to show impressive production value and further develops the main cast of characters well.

Rosa (Written by Malorie Blackman & Chris Chibnall)

The crew accidentally lands in 1955 Montgomery, Alabama – the home of Rosa Parks and her iconic protest. After readings of artron energy appear, the Doctor begins an investigation. The crew uncovers a plot to prevent Rosa’s protest from occurring and must protect history itself.

“Rosa” is easily the juggernaut of this half of the series, and potentially the best episode of the entire run. The writing is incredible, and pulls no punches whatsoever. It’s likely co-writer Malorie Blackman was the driving force for this episode, building the world of the show while Chibnall maintains the main cast’s development. It feels as though the Doctor and her companions touch history rather than make it; Rosa acts fully of her own volition, with an immeasurable performance by Vinette Robinson. It’s difficult to put into words how true-to-life Robinson plays the figure, down to the smallest of gestures. She easily gives one of the best performances of a historical figure in Doctor Who history, rivaling Van Gogh to say the least. In terms of story, the narrative involves the Doctor and the trio much more and it feels as though they are a key element in driving the plot forward; this differs from the prior episode, in which they felt tacked on. The reintroduction of Time Agents through the villainous Krasko (Josh Bowman) was a terrific callback, showing Chibnall can confidently recall old characters other than the Dalek or Cyberman. Whittaker’s moments with Krasko allow for her confrontational and aggressive edge to show, displaying a brilliant mix of 10’s anger and 11’s restraint and channeling it into something entirely of her own incarnation.

Of course, the episode is not without its flaws. Krasko is very underdeveloped, a concurrent theme with Chibnall villains. “I’m a bad guy” is all we ever truly understand about him, save for a throwaway line about “you people” to Ryan about the origins for his villainous plot; this could imply anything from racially-motivated hatred to a general hatred of humanity in the Whoniverse. Additionally, Krasko’s disposal felt incredibly out of left field; Ryan’s shooting Krasko, propelling him into an unknown time while not outright killing him, is still an indirect (seemingly) murder by a companion. Yet, when Ryan tells the Doctor of this, she seems to just shrug it off. It feels incredibly out of line for a companion and a complete misunderstanding of the Doctor for her simple acceptance of the event. In relation to the companions, the episode seems to highlight the main problem of having a trio: a distinct lack of breathing room for the Doctor, undermining her character to solitary scenes between her and Krasko. Finally, the use of the song “Rise Up” by Andra Day was incredibly irritating, as it overwhelmed the ending and sucked all nuanced emotion out of the scene. (This recalls complaints about former composer Murray Gold’s music driving the emotion of the scene rather than the acting itself).

Easily the best episode of the season thus far, with an incredible approach to a sensitive topic through Vinette Robinson’s stunning portrayal, Doctor Who truly celebrates Rosa Parks as an individual.

Arachnids in the UK (Written by Chris Chibnall)

After finally returning to Sheffield, the Doctor and the trio find themselves investigating a mutant spider crisis, which seems to originate from the hotel Yaz’s mum, Najia (Shobna Gulati), works at, under the corporate capitalist Jack Robertson (Chris Noth).

This is a bad episode. Chibnall’s writing hits an incredible low point, as seen from the very opening. The awkwardly written encounter between Robertson and Frankie (Jaleh Alp) is another example of Chibnall’s plot-blocking. A far better sequence would have followed Najia’s perspective leading to the conversation in media res. Moving back to the gang momentarily, this is a clearly Yaz-centric episode, as we are introduced to her family. Her father, Hakim (Ravin J. Ganatra), is defined by one phrase: “conspiracy-obsessed.” A strong emphasis on familial development with Yaz would’ve been appreciated, but the “terrible pakora” banter is at least a nice touch, however fleeting it may be. The writing for almost everyone seems to have degraded, especially Ryan; without Graham at the character’s side, Chibnall seems unable to develop Ryan individually. His refusal to open his father’s letter until off-screen not only plot-blocks yet again, but also throws away a chance of a truly touching Ryan-centric moment showing the troublesome relationship between him and his father. Even the title “Arachnids in the UK” is a misstep in writing; the episode would’ve been better suited to “Spiders in Specific Locations,” if anything, as there are only three appearances by the titular creatures in the entire episode.

The episode’s pace is nearly nonexistent through the exposition-laden dialogue; Chibnall inverts the “show, don’t tell” idea he executed so well in the series opener. However, all of these issues are insignificant compared to one: Chris Noth’s Robertson. Possibly one of the worst Doctor Who villains ever, a cringe-inducing metaphoric depiction of Donald Trump beats you over the head with every single word of dialogue, from the gun-loving mania to the literal Fire and Fury name drop. Depictions of Trump became oversaturated two years ago, and to call this beating a dead horse would be a charitable understatement. Chibnall somehow manages to heighten the Trump metaphor to new levels of mediocre screenwriting through the blindingly obvious female empowerment sequence over the Trump-esque figure that seemed unnecessary and horribly clunky, especially with its position in the episode’s denouement. Because of this car crash of a political metaphor, the secondary villain, Jade McIntyre (Tanya Fear), seemingly gets off completely without condemnation or judgement. Her character is painfully undeveloped, a recurring theme with Chibnall’s writing by this point outside of the main cast. From ordering a pointless spider specimen to analyse its size despite having already had contact with one, to her role in the spider mutations as the negligent scientist who discarded this toxic waste along with the actual spider corpses themselves which she openly admits to, she is, if anything, more involved than Robertson and yet carries none of the guilt or blame.

There are a few, and I mean a few, positive points to say about this episode. The opening shot replicating the perspective of a spider is an appreciated cinematic touch, as is the truly spectacular and jaw-dropping time vortex sequence, which would’ve been impossible if not for the assistance of the brilliant DNEG. An honorable mention must also be made to the truly skin-crawling moment when Graham asks whether Ryan has checked the ceiling, at which point we are greeted by a monstrously large mother spider guaranteed to get hearts racing. Once more, Whittaker exceptionally channels one of the core elements of the Doctor: the loneliness that she carries with her. With every episode, her Doctor portrayal grows stronger and stronger. Another standout performance is of course Bradley Walsh’s Graham, who continues to devastate with his heartbreaking, grief-stricken portrayal, pushed even further with his all-too-brief ghostly visions of Grace.

This is easily the worst episode of the series thus far, and possibly one of the dullest of the entire revival. A horribly-structured and terribly-written attempt at a romp across Sheffield leaves little for praise other than in the performances of Whittaker and Walsh.

The Tsuranga Conundrum (Written by Chris Chibnall)

After being injured by a sonic mine, the Doctor and the trio awaken in a hospital ship, stranded four days from the TARDIS. When the ship suddenly comes under attack by an immortal creature hellbent on their destruction, they must work quickly to save themselves and the bizarre patients aboard.

Although a definite improvement in quality from the previous episode, Chibnall’s writing continues to be confusing from the outset. For example, why is the group unable to move if the mine is counting down? A simple explanation from the Doctor of the reason for their immobility would’ve sufficed. This confounding writing continues with the Doctor’s injured state upon their awakening on the Tsuranga, despite her regenerative abilities which should make it more likely for her heal faster than the others. What is the narrative purpose of her weakened physical state? Chibnall once more disappoints with his “alien” races; if the most alien thing Chibnall can conceive other than an alien warrior á la Predator is a male pregnancy, we need more individual writers. Both Astos (Brett Goldstein) and Mabli (Lois Chimimba) are “Chibnall Throwaways” – one-dimensional, simplistic characters simply designed to push the plot forward.

The introduction of General Cicero (Suzanne Packer) distracts from an already divided narrative between the Pting and the pregnant man. We cannot possibly get enough screen time to develop this triptych sufficiently, and as a result, the episode suffers greatly. The sinister and threatening tone of the episode is quickly eliminated with the team’s interaction with the Pting a mere 15 or 20 minutes into the episode. The episode could’ve benefited greatly from stronger tension-building followed by a confrontational meeting, juxtaposing the cutesy appearance of the Pting for a greater payoff. Furthermore, we don’t need to see the Pting fact file. The more we know, the less fearful we are of the creature, with the mention of a purely non-organic diet immediately placing the crew out of direct danger. Moving back to the pregnancy plot line, this is a clear shoehorn by Chibnall for some individual Ryan development, but it’s poorly executed. It would work if Ryan was scared of fatherhood himself, but in terms of a distanced father-son relationship, it misses the mark greatly.

However, it must be said that there is fantastic cinematography from the opening; the monolithic alien junkyard shows the production design has no intention of dipping in quality. Whittaker likewise shows this, bringing a vulnerability to her Doctor not often seen by other incarnations. A selfish side comes with this vulnerability, creating a surprising subversion of roles in which Astos the medical doctor becomes the voice of reason over the Doctor herself, however briefly. Her mini-monologues dedicated to imagination are a nice addition by Chibnall, giving us that unique Doctor flair without pausing the episode entirely like Moffatt’s writing often demanded. As well as this, the Pting plot line shows that Chibnall is clearly influenced by Alien, and Segun Akinola’s soundscape creates a cold and sinister atmosphere that brilliantly unsettles the viewer, furthering that Alien-esque approach. The Pting plot line rounds off with a surprisingly logical and intelligent ending through the Doctor’s removal of the Pting via an explosive snack from the ship’s system, an uncharacteristically well-written resolution from Chibnall.

‘The Tsuranga Conundrum’ is a masterclass in how to overcomplicate your episode, with Chibnall throwing too many balls in the air, which land at different moments to create a chaotic and confusing mess. There is clear potential in the simplistic Alien-influenced narrative, but it is sadly neglected. However, Whittaker’s Doctor explores emotional territory only seen in glimpses of previous incarnations.

In conclusion, Series 11 is tricky to navigate. With some serious highs and some dramatic lows, it seems difficult to predict how the series will ultimately be regarded once it has finished its run. There are some elements that have definitely benefited massively from this “soft reboot,” with the truly marvelous production design and the subtleties of Segun Akinola’s composition heightening the episodes greatly. Some elements still appear to be in a chaotic state of flux, though this may be due to the Chibnall-heavy writing this first half of the season has encountered. I fully believe Jodie Whittaker as the Doctor, and I grow excited to see what new elements she brings to her portrayal in the latter half of the season. I believe that her make-or-break would be in response to the loss of one or more of the companions – the Doctor is, after all, built on grief and loss. I’m certainly looking forward to fresh writers and seeing how the main cast is handled without Chibnall’s direct influence. However, I remain very optimistic about the second half of the series, which promises a bold portrayal of the Partition of India, depictions of gigantic companies like Amazon through “Kerblam,” and a final historical episode in the Jacobean era with James I.

Only time (and space) will tell, but I’m definitely looking forward to the rest of the ride.

Doctor Who airs every Sunday on BBC One at 6:30pm. Check out its trailer below:

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:

Milo Garner dives into the medieval in cinema and Outlaw King’s position in its genre. 

What does the medieval look like on film? While this question suggests a great variety of responses, a cursory glance at mainstream medieval cinema defies any such conclusion. The main mode, one adopted by the likes of Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven and Robin Hood, or Peter Flinth’s Arn – The Knight Templar, is that of almost docu-fiction. Considerable efforts are put into what Robert Rosenstone calls ‘reality effects’, elements of production design that replicate what we know of the past; an attempt to resurrect what has long passed. As according to this philosophy, the filmmaking itself is rarely daring, always preferring a sense of the real. ‘Sense’ being the operative word here – as much as these films seek to replicate the past visually, they often forgo such shackles in their storytelling. Kingdom of Heaven’s Balian is presented as the perfect knight, other than that he’s a philanderer (permissive now, but a mortal sin then); Robin Hood’s French invaders land on the beaches like the soldiers of D-Day; the eponymous Arn appears as the rare Christian knight utterly bereft of prejudice against his Muslim foemen. The result is a bizarre mismatch of visual acuity and narrative anachronism, the supposed conclusion being that this ‘sense’ of the medieval is of far more importance than an embodiment of the time, its norms, its vagaries.

This anachronism need not seem so contrary to the otherwise clear efforts for ‘accuracy’ (a claim that has been attached to all three of the above films by their publicists). To consider another vision of the medieval, Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal seems a useful analogue. This is a film almost defined by its anachronism – in terms of content, it features a Crusade to the Holy Land, Flagellants, the Black Death, and the persecution of witches as contemporaneous events, despite these phenomena being separated by centuries. Even more troubling might be its philosophical core, which delves to the recesses of nihilism – a 20^th century philosophy with no grounding in the god-fearing past. Yet these contradictions of historical record do not render The Seventh Seal a poorer representation of the past than the films abovementioned, but rather combine into a far more effective communication of that period and its anxieties. Through contemporary atheistic philosophizing, Bergman presents a world defined by fear and suffering, one in which the plague stalked and superstition reigned. Antonius Block almost serves as a modern man wandering through a tableau of the Middle Ages, experiencing an expressionistic collage of their struggles through a lens the audience may be more familiar with. Instead of sanitizing the past, Bergman exploits its thematic potential – the result is a story that both informs the past and present in equal measure.

But even this might seem dissatisfactory, as to use the medieval experience to contextualize the modern experience one must undoubtedly corrupt its character in a direct sense, as Bergman has clearly done. František Vláčil presents a further alternative, his Marketa Lazarová delivering a sense of the medieval far more directly. Instead of considering his subjects in a way that might relate them to an audience, Vláčil instead engages with an expressive, even avant-garde manner of filmmaking. His medieval Bohemia is non-specific in date, a vagueness permeating its whole; Vláčil sees the medieval as strange and distant, fearsome and chaotic. He envisions the encroachment of Christianity into polytheist lands, the story (adapted from Vladislav Vančura’s novel of the same name) embracing a grim brutality totally removed from even Bergman’s bleak imagination. Understanding the medieval cannot rely on the simple recreation of past events, supposes Vláčil, but must instead somehow represent something of the medieval mindset, replicate how these ancient people might perceive their own realities. A question of texture over content.

Aleksei German’s Hard to be a God seems to be an ultimate answer to this question. While technically a sci-fi picture set on a distant planet, one far less advanced than our own, the film is essentially set in an equivalent of the Middle Ages. German’s filmmaking almost entirely disposes with narrative, instead focusing on a feeling of the medieval; despite its monochromatic arthouse veneer, it feels as though it should be seen in 3D on the biggest screen possible. Every frame drips with unsettling detail, with blood and unnamed fluids, with an almost visual stench. Filth and dirt seem to envelop everything, violence and misery never far from centre-frame. In one sense Robin Hood is by far the better representation of the past – its dates are correct, its characters are largely real, it is set on Earth. But while entirely fictional in detail and content, Hard to be a God nonetheless suggests a physical texture that Scott’s film doesn’t even attempt to convey.

Outlaw King’s position in this environment isn’t entirely straightforward, but for the most part it sits squarely within the first paragraph. Its set design and period details are well realized, and while its events and characters may be morphed, they are also a recognizable reflection of reality. Its hero, Chris Pine’s Robert the Bruce, becomes much like Orlando Bloom’s Balian in Kingdom of Heaven – a gormless and hopelessly bland embodiment of the hero template, a man who we must support for his doing the right thing, and nothing more. The brutality of the Middle Ages is not shrugged off, but it is also held in visible contempt. Robert the Bruce is better than this, and he fights for this betterment. His mission to “free” Scotland from the English is never granted much context (for all its bullshit – historical and otherwise – Mel Gibson’s Braveheart at least established proper character motivations), instead leaving the viewer to simply suppose he is doing the right thing. The film leaves little room for anything else. This progression is complicated by the film’s own adherence to certain historical events, however. In his largely passive drift through the Scottish wastes, one of Robert’s sole direct actions is the stark murder of a rival claimant in a church (which carries poor connotations now, but then would be a whole other bag of beans). This action the creates a new contradiction – the brutalism of the medieval mindset meeting the romanticized hero narrative of David Mackenzie’s film.

Had Mackenzie considered this action critically it might be more permissible – perhaps Robert had no other option, or perhaps more intriguingly, his ambition for the crown outweighed the clear immorality presented before him. Or both. But instead of a more rigorous examination of the past as per Bergman, or a more expressive (and as such, detached) observation of distant savagery, Mackenzie instead decides to offer a scene of a repentant Robert and then resume the narrative of a romantic king, one who refuses to sleep with his arranged wife after marriage (an unsubstantiated anachronism), and one who will almost botch his bid for the crown in a seemingly idiotic appeal to chivalry, falling foul of a night attack by the English. This second event is particularly interesting as it is, at least in concept, accurate to history. But without prior knowledge of exactly how a medieval king might perceive the world, it seems both foolish and contradictory to his earlier behaviour; any potential for intrigue or interest in Mackenzie’s narrative is lost to the strange marriage of modern morality and historical (mis)detail that so consumed Kingdom of Heaven and its ilk.

Even beyond its conceptual strangeness, Outlaw King fails in its filmic construction. Despite being twenty minutes shorter than its Toronto cut (and a good two hours from the original assembly), it is a film beset by a constant stream of redundant or featureless scenes. It has a romantic subplot which falls out of the narrative (only to return for a saccharine beach-meet finale), a whole slew of wandering-through-Scotland shots, and a distinct lack of substantial character motivations. A few are granted surface objectives, such as Douglas the Black’s mission to reclaim his family lands, but these are so thinly detailed that they are difficult to fully invest in. This isn’t to mention the inter-character relationships, whereby only two distinct relationships can be considered in any way developed. First, Robert and Elizabeth’s, and then King Edward and his son. In fact, the dynamic between the English royals, however simple, might be the only engaging element among the film’s long slew of faces. That, along with the film’s best image – a shot of the young Edward mid-battle cry, a dead swan held by the neck in each hand. Perhaps one of the few elements that felt entirely medieval in a textural sense, reserved to demonize a villain. And I suppose this is where Outlaw King stumbles most as a medieval film – instead of presenting a king that is part of a medieval world, it presents one who seems at odds with it.

To present Outlaw King as wholly negative would, however, be disingenuous. Beyond its impressive production values, the film very much embraces a sense of spectacle that is often reserved for the medieval genre. Its first shot is very much an example of this, a swirling and intensely choreographed long-take that encompasses Robert pledging fealty to Edward, duelling his son, and then witnessing the firing of a trebuchet at a distant castle. The shot functions as a sort of microcosm of the larger film, and effectively lays out Mackenzie’s ideas with an elegance that is never resumed in the two hours or so that remain. Also well realized is the final battle, a grisly and blood-soaked engagement that manages to coax a stirring climax from a film otherwise so desperately limp. Like that first shot, it’ll probably get better play on YouTube than Netflix, but perhaps that’s for the best.

Outlaw King is currently available to stream on Netflix. It is also released limitedly in UK cinemas. 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:

Manisha Thind reviews Sinéad O’Shea’s first feature documentary on a troubled Northern Ireland community.

Bleak, grounded and revealing, Sinéad O’Shea’s first feature documentary ‘A Mother Brings her Son to be Shot’ comprehensively voices the story of the O’Donnell family. Living in a housing estate in Free Derry, Northern Ireland, paramilitary groups patrol the streets gathering intelligence and acting as the pseudo-police securing the community. “You are not entering free Derry,” a mural says. The peace process that vowed to deliver opportunities for the young generation and to stop the violence has not produced the fruits it promised. The promise is shattered within the first moments of the film with the sight of an armoured police patrol car passing; a sight more akin to the streets of Palestine than the United Kingdom. Drug abuse plagues the community. Suicide rates have doubled since the Good Friday Agreement of 1998. The young wish for ‘The Troubles’ back out of sheer boredom. Revolutionary sentiments rumble, police-dissident corruption seethes, and above it all violence dominates. The director herself proclaims this documentary as “complicated… grey [and] both funny and dark.”

In short the story stems from one event: the mother, Majella, takes her teenage son, Phillip “Philly” O’Donnell, to a “shooting appointment”. Why? To be kneecapped by Republican dissidents, “The Ra”, for distributing drugs amongst other forms of alleged antisocial behaviour. This was the lesser of two evils; the other option was to be shot in the front garden and be put into a wheelchair. “Death to dealers”, the graffiti proclaims, and that is exactly what Philly dreads to the point of insanity.

The documentary opens with one of Majella’s sons wielding carefree a crowbar, a hatchet, a saw and finally a “torture weapon” – a bolt cutter. Eleven years old, this son, Kevin Barry, is the youngest member of the O’Donnell family. Whilst light-hearted, as a result of the shockingly amusing comments that Kevin makes accompanying his showcase, this scene alludes to the pervasive and cyclical nature of violence in this particular section of the community. Later the camera pans out to reveal Kevin bestowing his expertise on colt M19s and bullets to his mother; again the audience laughs in bewilderment. Comedy, in this documentary, is born out of shock-horror.

The despondency, fear and desolation in Majella’s eyes are representative of the O’Donnell’s situation, the disposition of their community and that of the overall documentary. Through her eyes we can gauge the most honest portrait. Taking diazepam, swallowing bags of powder followed by shots of Sambuca, going six days without sleep, hallucinating, having nightmares about masked men are all things attributed to Philly. He is paranoid, suicidal and psychologically traumatised. And his mother is aware of this. A deep regret clouds Majella – her decision to take her son to be shot. She lives with the knowledge that others call her a bad mother. She knows Philly’s life is still in danger. Yet he returns home in the morning, intoxicated, the shake of his hands immediately recognisable to his mother. Majella is powerless.

This documentary isn’t a political survey of the situation in Derry in the aftermath of ‘The Troubles’ and it doesn’t concern itself with wider political questions. O’Shea herself is delicate in her handling of the political aspect of this documentary being particularly pre-cautious in the use of terminology. Nevertheless, O’Shea subtly yet strikingly alludes to the political alignments of Ireland’s republicans, with Palestine for example, in murals across the region.

During a five-year period of filming, O’Shea has hour-long conversations with the Hugh Brady. This “realist [and] fatalist” was once part of The IRA, then was jailed for sixteen years and now acts as a mediator between The Ra and those in Philly’s predicament. Despite scraping at truths, stating that expelling armed Republicans is still viewed as “informing”, he is a deceitful character to some extent. Ultimately he was expelled from a movement he was committed to after being caught with cannabis and as a result was tied to a lamppost and “painted”. Montages of footage of Brady’s IRA past stress the magnitude of his loyalties and the bias that bleeds into his dialogue. Here it is important to congratulate O’Shea and her team in the thoughtful use of archived footage throughout the documentary.

It was the question and answer session with O’Shea that shed more light on the complexities. O’Shea herself proclaims that it was impossible to determine the truths from the lies during filming. Moreover elements are left out, such as two other siblings in the O’Donnell family; they did not want to appear on camera. This leads to a deficiency in the documentary – the audience doesn’t understand the extent of organised crime in the community. Kevin Barry discloses The Ra are actually taxing the drug trade. Whilst completely plausible it cannot be confirmed; in fact Kevin Barry emerges to be a reflection of his irrational older brother. Why is it plausible? The eldest of the O’Donnell brothers, who is omitted from the documentary, was a bigger drug dealer than Philly yet wasn’t shot. Was he taxed and allowed to carry on with trading in drugs? We don’t know. This dimension alludes to a more cautious O’Shea.

Conceivably the failings of the documentary were to a greater extent a symptom of factors out of O’Shea’s control. The ending is forced to some extent due to the lack of further contact with the O’Donnells. Still, the documentary manages to end on a cyclical note – the father Philip Senior is shot in both knees after being released seven years into a thirteen-year jail-sentence. Again the audience is left wondering as to why. It is only in the plenary session with O’Shea that answers emerge. Hugh, O’Shea tells us, argued that the aforementioned early release was due to Senior passing out information about the cause to the police and then the depositions being released. Senior on the other hand maintains it was due to a brawl or accident. O’Shea then reveals Senior was scarred on his thigh and not on his knees. It is infuriating that conclusions aren’t definitively reached in this documentary and a lack of a robust, objective, outside voice adds to the irritation. Truth is lost somewhere in the estates of Creggan. O’Shea’s narrative is limited and heavily constrained; an interview with a scholar of a related field could’ve added a much needed dimension of clarity.

Although O’Shea can be praised for her patience and dedication spent on the project, this documentary would have benefited with an additional year or more of filming (if funds allowed it of course). Kevin Barry is a refreshing subject in the documentary, and perhaps its true star. As stated previously he provides much comedic relief throughout; he is astonishingly intelligent as well as witty. At fourteen he begins taking drugs outside of cannabis and exhibits anger issues, especially in school, however he is able to channel the rage and aggression into boxing. Towards the end he is shown to be an exact physical copy of Philly implying to some extent a pessimistic future for him. Possibly the greatest tragedy to befall Creggan lies in the loss of Kevin Barry’s potential. The missed focal point in the documentary is the failure of Northern Ireland’s youth to find opportunity; maybe it’s because it is too common a tragedy to register. The documentary itself ends on a doubtful note for the future of the O’Donnells. Upon the film’s release, however, Kevin Barry proceeds to become a building apprentice. If filming had continued longer the documentary could’ve ended on a more positive note – arguably more in line with to actual trajectory of the O’Donnells’ futures.

O’Shea achieves an insight into a small faction of a community still troubled by ‘The Troubles’ themselves. Original in its primary subject matter, it accomplishes by bringing attention to a significant issue within the UK which news outlets don’t pay attention to. Once an invisible community and the people in it disposable, O’Shea manages to expose their realities to some extent. Solidarity against the authority and anarchy stage themselves in the final scene of a bonfire. The peace process hasn’t solved ‘The Troubles’, the war is still not over and a community of people in “Free” Derry continue to live in a post-war prison of violence. The Union Jack burns.

A Mother Brings Her Son To Be Shot was screened at UCL on October 18th. Check out the trailer below:

Alex Dewing reviews the live Halloween special of the BBC dark comedy anthology series.

The deliciously dark duo of Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton, who over the course of twenty-three years working together have introduced viewers to the twisted League of Gentleman and the equally wicked Psychoville, enter new territory in their latest project Dead Line. If the first episode is anything to go by, the upcoming fifth season of the anthology series Inside No. 9 will continue to make audiences laugh and scream in equal measure. This episode may surprise viewers not because it was broadcast months ahead of the rest of the show, but because it is the first episode to be broadcast entirely live. As one could expect from the creators of a series that features a musical episode, a single-shot episode written in iambic pentameter, and an episode shot entirely through CCTV cameras, Shearsmith and Pemberton continue to tackle more and more audacious ideas, raising the bar both for themselves and for TV itself. Dead Line, by far the pair’s most ambitious, and perhaps most enjoyable, project to date, went off without a hitch (so to speak).

This episode follows Arthur Flitwick (Pemberton) as he seemingly communes with the dead through an old flip phone found in the local graveyard. In his performance, Pemberton invokes the old whimsy of his beloved Psychoville character Oscar Lomax. Stephanie Cole brings more farcical humour in the ditzy Moira, friend of the lost phone’s owner, while Shearsmith makes his entry as the suspiciously saintly Reverend Neil – unfortunately alongside a brief technical glitch leaving the audience without audio.

Sadly, this slight glitch was not the only one to occur on the night of the live episode:  as the transmission fell silent again a BBC apology placeholder appeared, the continuity announcer apologising for the “gremlins” in the system. A rerun of the popular episode A Quiet Night In was temporarily played as the sound issues were dealt with. The duo seems aware of how people are excited by such errors:  “I think that’s what people want to see,” Pemberton himself said to the BBC Media Centre. Few others would be as excited about the prospect of technical failings as these two. However, it is this understanding of their audience that allows them to create a brilliantly harrowing experience in spite of the issues that befell them during transmission.

By the time Dead Line finds its footing again, the audience is thoroughly engaged and it takes no time at all for the scares to start rolling in. With a variety of filming techniques – including voyeuristic CCTV footage and found footage-style scenes reminiscent of BBC’s 1992 Halloween mockumentary Ghostwatch – there is a depth to this very traditional horror narrative that compels you to carry on in spite of every fright. Dead Line’s scare tactics are scattered assuredly throughout the episode on a backdrop that is exhaustively seeped in an eerie atmosphere. It climbs and crescendos at an easy pace that only Pemberton and Shearsmith would have the confidence to attempt. 

When asked before shooting if this episode would follow in the footsteps of The Trial of Elizabeth Gadge or The Devil of Christmas as one of the few episodes taking on period settings, Pemberton said: “[Dead Line] is going to be contemporary.” This assertion is a complete understatement; Dead Line feels as if it could only exist in our world, a world in which losing a mobile phone is comparable to losing a life (and a world in which fans are quick to turn to Twitter to sympathise or scold the team for technical issues). The episode’s surprisingly simple setup permits it to instead turn meta and find its scares in the audiences’ own technological anxieties – and with such flawless execution, what scares they are! Whether you’re a fan of Pemberton and Shearsmith or if this is the first time you’ve heard of the duo, Dead Line is a piece of TV that deserves a watch. 

Inside No. 9 will return with its fifth series in 2019. Dead Line is currently available to view on BBC iPlayer. 

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:

 

Karina Tukanova reviews the dark but entertaining Marvel anti-hero spinoff. 

Warning: Mild spoilers follow.

When it comes to mainstream films, audiences and critics rarely agree. In fact, critics and ordinary cinema goers in general are often at loggerheads: the former wants carefully-crafted stories elucidating undying themes of human experiences; the latter – just a nice piece of entertainment to enjoy and ramble about with friends. The two ultimately prioritise completely different aspects of a film, and expectedly represent two different demographics.

Venom is the newest addition to the long line of superhero movies where critics and audiences disagree. The critic consensus on Rotten Tomatoes ranks the film at an unjustly 30% compared to whooping 88% from the audiences. This significant divide ultimately comes down to expectations: one wanted “a stronger attachment to Spider-Man”, but frankly Venom offers its audience a decent standalone film that doesn’t need to depend on MCU or Spidey for its storytelling.

In a special space mission, a bioengineering corporation Life Foundation discovers a comet filled with symbiotic life forms. Its CEO Carlton Drake (Riz Ahmad) discovers that the symbiotes could not survive in Earth’s environment without attaching themselves to an oxygen-breathing host. Obsessed with the idea of “higher life-form”, Drake begins human trials. Meanwhile, journalist Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy) investigates a little bit too much into said foundation and its cynical Head. His bluntness costs him his job and respect, and much loved fiancée Anne Weying (Michelle Williams). It’s all downhill from here for Brock until he is approached by Life Foundation scientist Dora Skirth (Jenny Slate), who helps him break into the lab to find evidence, eventually getting more than he bargained for as Brock himself becomes the host of a symbiote, rendering a perfect match with Venom. He then successfully escapes the facility, and this is where the fun begins.

Mind you, by this point, we are around 40 minutes into the film. The first act lingers on irrelevant details for a tad too long, setting up way too much and deciding to focus on Eddie’s personal life instead of delving into the fascinating symbiotic or parasitic relationship with Venom. However, the lengthy exposition is not valueless. It manages to pack a lot of information and provide enough context for an average viewer who might not have a clue about Venom and its comic book origins without being too distracting. Indeed, it does blend hundreds of comic books worth of content into an enjoyable and coherent enough form. In this, I argue, it beats most MCU films.

In all fairness, the Eddie-Venom dynamic is what holds the film together. Brock’s first transformation is a gem on its own. It is crackingly funny, gross, and profoundly revealing of the future relationship between the two. Due to the nature of the symbiote that emerges within its host, transforming itself in an unprecedented way, while endowing the host with enhanced physical abilities at the cost of fatally draining them out, the transformation scene could have either made or broken this film.

At first, Eddie is troubled, even tormented physically by his new companion. He sweats profusely, downs old leftovers for lunch, and is startled at a scheming voice inside his head. But once you see Venom in his full swing, you feel like he has come straight from the comic book pages (what can’t be said about his 2007 predecessor). In stunned awe, we witness the giant, toothy, long-tongued monster go onto his raving rampaging, mercilessly beheading anyone in its way. These are one of the few moments in film when you forget that you sit in a cinema and get fully absorbed into dark and gritty world of Venom.

It is a shame there was no deeper exploration of the Eddie-Venom relationship, particularly how Venom transforms from a maniacal head-eating killer to a charming (but still head-eating) anti-hero. I would have liked that. It seems that film opted out for more action scenes – that were nonetheless impressive – than thorough character development.

It goes without saying that Tom Hardy knocked it out of the park with his terrific performance. I love the man unconditionally, he added a new dimension to the character of Eddie Brock, drawing the audience into his plight. An underdog on his way to becoming a hero, a familiar trope that takes on an original flair thanks to Hardy’s charisma and thoughtful interpretation of his character. The same unfortunately could not be said about the villain. Riz Ahmad’s Drake is mediocre at best, both as a typical “evil corporate bad guy” and as Riot. He is neither intimidating enough to be convincing nor charismatic enough to be memorable. Along with similar disposable MCU villains, he is just another obstacle for the protagonist to overcome, another tool to move the plot forward. The biggest shame, however, is that their hero-villain relationship had so much more potential. The premise nonetheless is a hapless but humble low-class reporter grappling against an invincible, corrupt millionaire controlling a powerful survivalist organisation. There is so much room for exploring questions of power, morality, and the eternal “what does it mean to be good or bad?”, but Venom leaves much to be desired in this sense.

It is fair to state that Venom misses the mark because of its messy plotlines and somewhat sloppy and formulaic script, yet it does not render the film unwatchable. Coming back to my original point, the critics’ consensus doesn’t do Venom justice. Yes, it’s imperfect, but considering the production mess that it has been in since its conception, it has done a great job. More importantly, its fans enjoyed it. It was fun. Perhaps unlike critics, loyal fans of the Venom canon are more prepared to forgive its obvious flaws in return for its generous fan service. At the very least, the mid-credit scene is worth it. “There will be Carnage.”

Venom is currently released in cinemas everywhere. Take a look at 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 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:

Emma Davis reviews the first major Hollywood production over the past 20 years with an all-Asian cast.

This is the pop culture event that the Asian diaspora has been waiting for. An Asian triple threat with the director, writer, and cast being completely Asian — this has not been seen in Hollywood since The Joy Luck Club (1993). Crazy Rich Asians is a modern update of beloved Jane Austen elements such as a witty protagonist, romance with a wealthy noble, and navigating structured social norms. However, instead of Georgian Britain, the social structure is Chinese family values.

Our protagonist Rachel (Constance Wu) is invited by her boyfriend Nick (Henry Golding) to visit his family and hometown, Singapore. She then discovers that her boyfriend is the heir to a family fortune and there is a whole dynasty of wild personalities, including her boyfriend’s mother Eleanor (the legendary Michelle Yeoh), who disapproves of her. Drama ensues.

The movie leads up to a jaw-dropping wedding between Nick’s friends, Colin and Araminta. Even with scene after scene of opulence, the movie still manages to find a way to show how rich these characters are and bring a real life fairytale to an already romantic movie. This is the work of Jon M. Chu, a director whose filmography includes Justin Bieber: Never Say Never, some Step Up films and Now You See Me 2; who successfully makes this movie a visual delight. It’s a dazzling cinematic view of Singapore and that almost seem like a two hour commercial for the country’s tourist board. One of my favourite scenes takes place in a Singaporean food market, or locally known as a hawker centre – it was so immersive in the sights and sounds of Asian food culture, and the love of one’s home food, which made me immediately think of Ang Lee’s Eat Drink Man Woman.

Unfortunately, it still feels as if Singapore was more of a backdrop than a setting, as the plot is driven by the ideological clash of Western individualism and Confucian values. Little draws itself to Singapore’s culture, which could be defined by Singaporean English/’Singlish’ (present in the novel but missing in the film), the incredible community feeling of its successful public housing (replaced by illogical mansions in the world’s densest city), and diversity in the ethnic groups that live together.

On the topic of ethnic diversity, the colourism in this film is insidious. South East Asians are native to the film’s setting, but darker skinned extras are relegated to subservient roles like maids and masseuses. A particular scene ruins the fun: Rachel and her friend from college Peik-Lin drive up to the Young family’s ancestral home, secluded in the hills away from the city. They are stopped by the estate’s guards, and the Chinese women are terrified of them. These guards are Sikh and do not speak (literal “subaltern” much?). Frightening music plays as they show a close-up on this darker-skinned character’s face – I was appalled at this. Perhaps this scene was to show how exclusive and “crazy rich” Nick’s family is to have guards, but this would be a poor excuse for a film that aimed to show Asians in a positive light while feeding into rampant colourism that haunts Asian cultures. Racism in Singapore does not need to be validated like this.

The movie takes a biting satirical novel about economic standing into a cultural statement on diaspora, with its plot driven by the cultural conflict of western individualism versus the filial piety. While the novel explores many characters’ perspectives, the movie dilutes the conflict to one main clash: Rachel is very Asian in the States, but too American for her boyfriend’s Asian family. Thus, this is what makes it an Asian-American film rather than a purely Asian affair. Rachel’s mother reminds her that she is Chinese, but she uses the term 華人 (huá rén, ‘ethnically Chinese’) as opposed to 中國人 (zhōngguó rén, ‘someone from China’). Chinese identity is closely tied to a motherland, but even so, Rachel is as Chinese as she wants without a geographic home.

Demonstrated through the visually stunning character of Jon M. Chu’s direction and its incredible box office success, Crazy Rich Asians is a shining example that Asian stories are worth telling.

Crazy Rich Asians is now released on UK screens everywhere. Check out its trailer below:

Hassan Sherif takes on the Conjuring franchise’s newest supernatural horror origin story. 

The Conjuring Universe shows little sign of ending its welcomed expansion, with The Nun becoming the fifth instalment in the horror franchise that, despite fluctuating critical response, has proved to be a six-year box-office big hitter. The series’ non-linear chronology allows for a developing thread of stories, resulting so far in ‘cases’ that range over thirty-ish years, based on the files of Ed and Lorraine Warren.

The newest venture, under the direction of Corin Hardy with a story from Conjuring director James Wan, is the first not to be set in the United States or England, instead sidestepping away to 1952 Romania – specifically the Carta Monastery (which bears no resemblance to the real one). Not a surprise, since this film itself bears little resemblance to the series from which it is born. The rushed production has resulted in a cocktail of frustrating clichés and jump scares, a mile away from the paralysing suspense that elevated the original film above many horrors of recent years. Considering that the real Carta Monastery is located in Transylvania, there’s no doubt the producers took one look at the infamous location and thought they’d steal the name for typical contextual effect. This is indicative of many of The Nun’s unashamed genre clichés that plague what could have been an iconic instalment in an already memorable collection.

For instance, the demon nun herself had slapped so much terror into The Conjuring 2 that when news of her own spin-off was announced, fans braced themselves for what was promised to be an unforgettably nightmarish adventure. Instead, she is reduced to a pantomime villain-slash-showman who is incapable of pulling off anything other than silly, non-fatal pranks on our three protagonists. It feels less like a dangerous investigation ordered by the Vatican itself and more like an angry episode of Scooby-Doo.

Meanwhile, this hapless trio of priest Father Burke (Demián Bichir), young Catholic novitiate Sister Irene (Taissa Farmiga) and workman Maurice ‘Frenchie’ Theriault (Jonas Bloquet) find themselves exploring the dark happenings of the monastery following the apparent suicide of one of its sisters. In fairness to them, and to the ensemble of nuns who feature heavily in the narrative’s relatively redeeming climax, the film’s performances are by far the strongest thing about it. The dark atmosphere is largely maintained due to their visceral portrayals of fear, but it is less helped by Hardy’s exaggerated emphasis on a light versus dark motif. Whilst the opening fifteen or so minutes balance the terror of the monastery with the relief of the outside world, the constant flitting between light and dark provides a clear formula which signals to the audience when they should brace themselves for a scare, eliminating much of the suspense on offer. One in five of these jumps might perhaps result in a slight gasp, but there’s no memorable or grippingly frightening sequences, such as The Conjuring’s hand clap, or Annabelle: Creation’s hand snap.

The actors’ battles with a poor script distracts from the actual battle playing out before us. Awful one-liners reduce the leads to caricatures – particularly Frenchie, who, thanks to Gary Dauberman’s writing, carries out a weird few minutes of predatory flirting literally within two seconds of being introduced to Sister Irene, in one of the most disturbing sequences in the film. Thankfully, the natural likeability of the actors, who each give enough effort to hint at a complexity beneath their half-hearted yet melodramatic dialogue, gifts their characters a certain realism which also blessed the original Conjuring cast. All performances, even the nuns who follow a daily routine of freak out – pray – repeat, are the strong links holding together a plot threatened by an odd rhythm to the sequence of events and by a few dramatic revelations which the audience assumed were obvious from the beginning.

The predictable genre screenplay overshadows a decent atmosphere and set of performances, green-lighting a very tired portrayal of the haunting that started it all (at least so far). It’s below par, but not a disaster, if we accept that Hardy’s very average offering has produced a fun, dumb horror movie, rather than a serious effort to match the standards of the series. In short, it won’t leave you looking over your shoulder, but you won’t be asking for your money back.

The Nun is currently released in UK cinemas. Check out its trailer below:

Raphael Duhamel wraps up the 44th Deauville American Film Festival. 

THE STAND-OUTS

Thunder Road (2018), dir. Jim Cummings

The winner of the 2018 Deauville Grand Prize unequivocally deserves it and much more. Jim Cummings’ first full-length film is an exciting and electrifying creation, pulsating with life, in the image of its guilt-ridden protagonist, Jim Arnaud. Taking its name from the legendary Bruce Springsteen song, the movie strings together multiple tragicomic sequences displaying a ridiculed yet touching man, whose struggles never seem to end. Not only does Cummings give an award-worthy performance as a broken police officer, but his direction is tight and slick, stylised and genuine at the same time. Filmmaker Magazine put him on the list of the best new faces of independent cinema back in 2012, and with Thunder Road he shows no signs of slowing down.

We the Animals (2018), dir. Jeremiah Zagar

This ethereal coming-of-age tale is the epitome of a Sundance movie, with first-time narrative feature director Jeremiah Zagar putting together all of the necessary elements for an indie gem: non-professional child actors, a grainy pastel aesthetic, handheld shots, and social issues with a touch of poetry. It follows three young brothers who strive to survive in spite of their unstable family context, with an absent father and a lethargic mother, focusing especially on the youngest child, Jonah (Evan Rosado), who combats his toxically masculine environment by drawing in a notebook where he buries his darkest secrets. We the Animals is a joy to watch and a truly stunning debut for Zagar and his actors, yet it fails like many others have done before by naively resting on its laurels and relying too heavily on visual prowess to advance its story. The result is a sincere and charming piece of cinema, which lacks in vigour but compensates through its Malickian sensibility.

 

THE AVERAGE

The Tale (2018), dir. Jennifer Fox

Jennifer Fox’s dramatic retelling of her own sexual abuse experience marks the beginning of a new era for female filmmakers in the wake of the #MeToo movement, and the liberation of speech it entails. The movie excels in its nuanced representation of past and present perceptions of assault, going back and forth between present-day Jennifer (Laura Dern) and teenage Jenny (Isabelle Nélisse), accurately depicting the dangerously contrasting outlooks on consent in the 1970s and the 21^st century. The Tale’s intensity and veracity contributes much to its emotional power, but its therapeutic quality for the director is ultimately detrimental to its purely cinematic integrity. Many sequences – predominantly ones showing intercourse – seem gratuitous, due to the inevitable lack of distance between Fox’s real-life experiences and their re-enactings onscreen. It remains, nonetheless, an important symbol for the post-Weinstein industry and especially women in film.

The Kindergarten Teacher (2018), dir. Sara Colangelo

The 2018 winner of Sundance’s Directing Award has the admirable courage to tell an uneasy story of psychotic obsession between a teacher and her 5-year-old pupil. Maggie Gyllenhaal steals the show in her best role since 2014’s Frank, portraying with great subtlety this tragically talentless woman who lives vicariously through her student’s genius, but the feature itself does not live up to the actress’ performance. The Kindergarten Teacher does everything to defy conventions by leaving much to imagination, an original approach which results in an underwhelming experience, leaving the audience wanting more, especially from the child, whose part is criminally underplayed. Sara Colangelo’s film wastes its initial boldness by not fulfilling its potential, but it is still an unusual reworking of an age-old story. 

 

THE MISFIRES

Only the Brave (2017), dir. Joseph Kosinski

Joseph Kosinski’s latest movie about a group of heroic firefighters in Arizona is a puzzling combination of excellence and mediocrity. The talented Top Gun: Maverick director joins forces with a star-studded cast composed of Josh Brolin, Miles Teller, Jennifer Connelly, and a beardless Jeff Bridges, for a film whose screenplay did not deserve to be brought to life in such a flamboyant way. It is by no means terrible, but the redemption narrative which constitutes Only the Brave’s plot is appallingly conventional and tedious, and is of no interest apart from its “true story” aspect. The world might remember these firefighters for their fearless sacrifice, but certainly not for its fictionalised adaptation.

Operation Finale (2018), dir. Chris Weitz

Oscar Isaac cultivates his image of the new Hollywood sweetheart by starring as Mossad secret agent Peter Malkin, who participated in the capture of the Final Solution’s infamous architect, Adolf Eichmann (Sir Ben Kingsley). Once again, the film’s main asset is its grounding in historical truth, since it relies on an essentially bland and unoriginal script, which so predictably places Isaac’s flawed hero character at the centre of the stage. The majority of Operation Finale occurs in an Argentinian safehouse, as a group of secret agents, also consisting of Mélanie Laurent – who obviously takes on the role of Malkin’s love interest – need Eichmann’s signature for them to leave Buenos Aires by plane. In this way, it bears many similarities with Argo’s structure and storyline, but unfortunately none of its inventiveness and talent.

Deauville Film Festival ran from August 31st to September 9th at Deauville, France. It was established in 1975 to showcase the diversity of American cinema from major Hollywood productions to independent films. 

Check out their website here. 

Raphael Duhamel attends the 44th Deauville American Film Festival and reviews Jim Cummings’ remake of his 2016 short. 

Jim Cummings’ excellent remake of his own award-winning short film, Thunder Road, surprises by its innovative form and seamless transitions between comedy and drama from the start. The opening scene is by itself a tour de force, shot in only one take. While most long shots impress by their skilful camera movement and effects, the movie’s first ten minutes are excruciatingly awkward, featuring the main character’s clumsy eulogy to his mother that culminates in a silent dance routine.

During this lengthy sequence, Jim Arnaud (Jim Cummings) asks an off-screen woman many times if he should persevere and keep talking, to which she responds that he is “doing great”. As the camera pulls in on the protagonist during his speech, ultimately focusing only on him, the audience is drawn to identify with the funeral’s attendants, who are going through the same painful ordeal as them. From this initial chapter on, Thunder Road presents itself as an exercise of empathy for the spectator, who is invited to witness the embarrassing developments in Arnaud’s life, for better or mostly for worse.

The protagonist is best described as a quasi-autistic and unstable police officer. He is mostly well-intentioned, but his fiery temper and objectively bad luck get in his way in the most tragicomic manner, as if his entire existence was set to the theme of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Taking on the role of the anti-hero, he fights for the custody of his daughter Crystal (played by the impressive Kendal Farr) against his ex-wife (Jocelyn DeBoer), with the notable help of his friend and colleague Nate (Nican Robinson). Arnaud’s character is a paradoxical one, fuelled by a highly-developed sense of pride and shame. As a troubled and dyslexic individual, fighting against his bipolar tendencies and everyone against him at the same time, it seems ironically appropriate for his duty to be protecting and serving the people of Austin, Texas. His profession provides him with much-needed authority and highlights his need for a righteous and Christian life, while consequently emphasising his inability to lead such an existence. Simultaneously, it acts as a critique of the police forces’ supposed exemplarity in the United States, especially in the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement. Arnaud’s occupation is equally crucial in his search for redemption in the eyes of his dead mother, whom he neglected towards the end of her life. He attempts to compensate this late absence by being particularly attentive to his daughter, protecting her from the “slackers” threatening her good education.

Jim Cummings also orchestrates Arnaud’s demise behind the camera, with an almost mockumentary style to his direction. Most shots are inspired and well-composed, and the cinematography makes abundant use of natural lighting, which contributes to Thunder Road’s authentic tone and small-budget feel. No character ever faces the camera directly, but the situations depicted in the film only seem to be variations of what one might see in television shows such as The Office or Modern Family. However, Cummings’ humour is never heavy-handed nor slapstick, because it is always followed by a sense of dread which renders the entire comedic effect more distressing than amusing.

One notable example occurs during a poignant scene in which his daughter’s teacher, played by Jeremy Saulnier favourite Macon Blair, explains that Crystal is a disturbance in class. In a fit of rage, Arnaud blames his daughter’s behaviour on his ex-wife, picks up a desk and threatens to throw it against a wall, until Blair’s character points out that the desk is Crystal’s. The protagonist instantly calms down and sits back, while the camera shows the teacher discreetly hiding a pair of scissors in his pocket, in case of another outburst. Another film might have cut shortly after, but the scene continues for a minute or so after this event, letting the tragedy in Arnaud’s story insidiously return and outweigh the comedy. What may have acted as comic relief for the audience conversely translates into a reminder of the grim reality which constitutes the anti-hero’s life.

Cummings’ performance is a memorable one, and he carries the movie on his shoulders without flinching. Going from laughter to tears in a split-second, his portrayal of a cop on the verge of a nervous breakdown never feels forced or overdone, due to the touching subtlety and emotional generosity he provides to the part. His talent as a director undeniably complements his comedic genius, as he seems to be perfectly aware of how and when to use his incredibly diverse set of acting skills. This combination results in an honest and forceful feature epitomising the necessity and quality of American independent cinema.

Thunder Road only seems to fail in its candid and hopeful finale: in an unusually cyclical film which follows Arnaud’s ups and downs, the most tender episodes are always followed by cynical call-backs to reality. Cummings’ decision to ultimately end on a high note ignores that trend, favouring instead a deeply American and wholesome, though ephemeral, conclusion to his character’s road towards redemption.

Thunder Road will have its UK premiere at the BFI London Film Festival on October 10th. Check out its trailer:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 75th Venice International Film Festival (29 August – 8 September), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews Shinya Tsukamoto’s Edo-period samurai feature. 

In Japan, the B-movie still thrives. Cheaply (and quickly) produced films have long had a market there in a lively direct-to-DVD scene (which does not necessarily suggest low quality as in the West), and many directors of these films also work theatrically, resulting in a wide range of cinematic output. Takashi Miike is the most recognisable figure of this grouping, an incredibly prolific director whose work ranges from the low-budget exploitation Dead & Alive trilogy to a Hollywood-friendly remake of 13 Assassins. But most pertinent to Shinya Tsukamoto’s latest is his 2017 feature Blade of the Immortal, a Jidaigeki manga adaptation with an emphasis on killing, the unkillable, and gore. Killing, as the name might suggest, engages with each of these themes in its own, contrary, manner.

Most directly, the title refers to Sosuke Ikematsu’s samurai, who finds himself unable to kill, despite his great ability in the art of swordplay. This might seem a basic narrative contrivance for the film, but it has a surprising thematic depth. Killing is set deep in Japan’s Edo period, the century and a half following the Battle of Sekigahara in 1600. During this period, the Tokugawa Shogunate established a firm grip over Japan, leading to an unprecedented period of peace. For a country dominated by a military class, this left great questions over their utility and purpose. For some, such as the famous Miyamoto Musashi, this peace permitted time to master the art of swordplay in a more philosophical sense, and also permitted a development of ideas pertaining to honourable conduct amongst the warrior class. Musashi reportedly fought in six battles, but many of his admirers would have fought in none. The act of killing had become detached from the role of the warrior, and in Killing Tsukamoto evidences the impotence of a warrior class who is so unused to war.

Impotence is the word for it, too. Tsukamoto parallels Ikematsu’s inability to kill with his sexual failings. He appears to be a chronic masturbator, able to simulate sex much as he can simulate combat, but incapable of the deed itself, despite a present (and seemingly willing) participant. The film’s form does not shy away from presenting this parallel bluntly: shots of Ikematsu gripping his sword phallically abound; he has a lust for death but is incapable of performing. Rarely have sex and death been paired so obscenely, though often bedfellows.

This idea is built around a narrative that constantly teases something Tsukamoto knows he will not provide. The initial setup suggests a sort of Seven Samurai type scenario, in which one samurai seeks to build a team of experts who are then trapped in a village besieged by thugs. Ikematsu confronts these neer-do-wells, but is so frightened of the idea of killing that he all but befriends them, awkwardly laughing at their jokes, promising the villagers that they aren’t so bad. When his new master suggests he set off on the road to Edo, he suddenly falls ill – a psychosomatic case no doubt. This is an intensely revisionist vision of the ronin, one emasculated in every sense.

Said revisionism feeds through into the film’s form. Its rough handheld becomes an almost indecipherable mess of cuts during fight scenes (that isn’t an entirely good thing), and otherwise makes use of ample crossfades and jerky movement. Some of this style is dictated by necessity – the day-for-night scenes do not appear to be artistically motivated – but the overwhelming aesthetic is one similar to Miike’s low-budget formal mania: equal parts questionable and absorbing, particularly a Sanjuro style blood-explosion from near the film’s end. This is met with an excellent ambient soundtrack from Chu Ishikawa (which will sadly be his last), one that grounds the often-ridiculous content with a sense of reflective seriousness. I wouldn’t say this is a particularly reflective film overall – it has far too much fun for that – but it is undeniable that there is a tonal element of that kind lurking underneath. Also undeniable is that Killing makes for a very entertaining eighty minutes, a creaky but curious film that shows far more than it says.

6/10

Killing (斬、) had its premiere at Venice Film Festival. It has yet to acquire a UK release date. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 75th Venice International Film Festival (29 August – 8 September), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews David Oelhoffen’s newest crime thriller.

Well if it was any other man, I’d put him straight away
But when it’s your brother sometimes you look the other way

In a genre of heartbreakers, there are few country songs that seep tragedy like Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Highway Patrolman’. Two brothers who have fallen on opposite sides of the law, compelled by their natures to clash and clash, until they can clash no more. It isn’t just the friend-made-foe convention that makes it such an effectual story, but rather the moral quandaries it implies. The lines that must be crossed in the name of fraternity, the unsure grey between individual honour and wider ethical belief. It was Dante who decided that treachery served as the road to hell’s deepest circle, but the question remains: treachery to whom? The law, or kin? It is around that question Close Enemies finds its drama.

Oelhoffen’s crime thriller might not concern brothers, but it comes close enough by centering on old friends, at one point fellow criminals, one now reformed. They are linked not just by their past but their material condition – both are born of immigrant families, and both find themselves alienated for this fact. Manuel (Matthias Schoenaerts) laughs at a joke about Arabs begging on the street – the French are very giving if you are asking for money to go back home. Driss (Reda Kateb)  mentions in passing that only while working in narcotics can his face be an advantage rather than the opposite. That these themes are held at some distance is to the film’s benefit, and an example of Oelhoffen’s smart restraint – this is not a film about race in France so much as one that includes such issues in a wider context. It does not need to grandstand the facts; that they make up an organic part of the film’s environment is enough.

Another sharp decision is in the presentation of Manuel and Driss’ relationship to begin with. It is not exposited in lengthy dialogue, nor shown in flashback or prologue, nor discussed in serious detail. It only becomes evident after the film has already established its momentum, and even then only across a few lines and moments. A scene in which Driss glances over old photographs of the pair might cross this line, but I feel this is simply to ensure that everyone is on the same page. It is the sort of dynamic that can easily find itself overwrought – not so here. This extends to their shared scenes, in which the potential melodrama of suddenly invoking their old friendship is always avoided. Their bond is implicit, and feels all the more real for this fact; it does not need to be shouted or repeated.

But besides this relationship, the film is otherwise very much plot-driven. It moves at a consistent pace, never short on new revelations or developments to further it ahead. It is largely conventional in its series of betrayals and twists, but then this is a film that thrives in convention. A well-made genre picture should not be discarded for that fact – especially one so ably crafted as this. The camera is loose and active, handheld but always clear enough for the action. This is matched with the editing, which prefers extended shots to cutting in the manner of a similar Hollywood project. This permits an intimate tension at times, the diegesis trapped with its protagonist as he is stalked through the projects. Threats often appear offscreen, some never clarified; gunshots from afar are a recurring motif of this kind. Again, not an original innovation, but an effective example of a well-worn mould.

That would be an apt description for the film taken together, particularly as it reaches its pathos-soaked conclusion. All the beats are hit, but with consummate ability. It doesn’t ever threaten to be anything more than a simple police procedural, and really it doesn’t need to be. This is effective entertainment that justifies its context and content enough to carry a genuine weight and impact. Expect an American remake somewhere down the line.

6/10

Close Enemies (Frères ennemis) had its premiere at Venice Film Festival. It has yet to acquire a UK release date. Check out its trailer below:

It’s festival season! The FilmSoc blog is covering the 75th Venice International Film Festival (29 August – 8 September), diving into the myriad of films and events on offer to deliver reviews.

Milo Garner reviews Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s upcoming drama. 

“Von Donnersmarck: two features, never more.”

For a while this was one of the great tragedies of modern German cinema, the acclaimed director of The Lives of Others dropping off the cinematic map after completion of his poorly-received (though relatively successful) sophomore effort. Eight years later he returns with a grand and sweeping narrative about art, love, and Nazis. With an estimated $20 million budget, it is also amongst Germany’s most expensive productions, and that much is clear.

In approaching this three-hour behemoth, however, I detect an uneven split. There is the more substantial film, one that concerns the process of artistic creation, its meanings and origins, set around an artist living in East and West Germany during the Cold War. Then is another, a melodrama about love and eugenics in the GDR, an exaggerated and far less engaging subplot that consumes most of the film’s first half. It is in this melodrama that many of the film’s issues come to the fore, the first and most essential being its appearance. While the cinematography is technically well executed, it is the production design that must be questioned. Everything has a sheen, a brightness and cleanliness. It almost reflects the romantic cinema of the thirties and forties, obsessed with beautifying everything and everyone. Kurt (Tom Schilling) might paint all day and night in one scene, but God forbid his perfect hair might fall out of place, or his fresh face be besmirched by some blemish. And Ellie (Paula Beer) may age more than a decade by the film’s close, but let that not show on her faultless body, always caught in a warm and welcoming light. For a film so caught up with the concept of truth, it seems perhaps ironic that it presents a visual aesthetic so unreal.

This unreality follows into this subplot’s villain, too. Professor Seeband (Sebastian Koch), an ex-Nazi eugenicist, becomes the arch-evil, the father-in-law from hell. Not only is he a Nazi (the skull on his cap emphasised like in that Mitchell and Webb skit), but he’s a philanderer, prickly in attitude, and a general bastard all round. His character cannot be compelling because he is entirely contrived, and nothing about him is at all refined or rounded. It is possible for a Nazi to be human even if they are still despicable –  this kind of moral depth might have given the film something to grasp on in this extended section. Instead we are left with a ruefully predictable romance, one whose dramatic ironies veer increasingly in the direction of soap opera. It is competently, if not excellently made and always watchable. But at once, disappointing.

While the sections focused on art must still endure the rather ironic aesthetic qualities of the film, they are a little more developed in narrative, and for the better. The central idea is an artist finding his voice, caught between extremes. The first of these is in the Soviet clench of East Germany, where limitations are obvious. He is trapped in the genre of social realism, which prioritizes immediate and obvious meaning to the more indulgent habits of artists. This is art for the people, a populism of sorts, one that sees bourgeois in the abstract. Von Donnersmarck is clear to reflect this belief against Nazi rejection of degenerate art, for much the same reasoning.

Kurt then emigrates to West Germany, but here faces a foe less obvious than Soviet artistic tastes, that being a lack of substance altogether. Instead, it is necessary to produce something garish and loud, new and outspoken. A total freeform in which it is easy to lose oneself, as Kurt almost does. He must discover his own style, and what it means to have a style at all. This arc functions, but it functions as any might predict. Again, for all its artistic pretentions in content, the film’s form is deeply conventional, and perhaps loses a sense of its subject in being so. At Eternity’s Gate, while perhaps not so pristinely crafted as Never Look Away, achieves its own goal of explicating the artistic process far better in its attempt to embody it. We see as Van Gogh sees, and understand the world as he does fully. While von Donnersmarck occasionally experiments with point of view shots, this is largely a film from the objective eye. Everything is as it seems.

I am left at a crossroads with Never Look Away. It is generally engaging and always well crafted, but at once lacking in direct, evocative feeling. It hits every beat, but as the (surprisingly smooth) run-length trundles on, emotional investment always seems out of reach. The acting is generally up to standard, at least half of the music is great (with the other half being uncharacteristically bland for Max Richter), and it’s difficult to fault von Donnersmarck’s understanding of space or camera placement. But the result is spectacle that fails to move.

5/10

Never Look Away (Werk ohne Autor) had its premiere at Venice Film Festival. It has yet to acquire a UK release date. Check out its German trailer below: