Category: Reviews

2016
Dir: Clint Eastwood 

The Miracle Man

Profiling all-American heroes has become something of a motif for Clint Eastwood the director. The nationalistic patriotism of American Sniper even proved a little too uncomfortable for some in 2014. He’s on much safer ground here. Which certainly can’t be said for the pilot and passengers of US Airways Flight 1549 in January 2009. That Captain Chesley Sullenberger landed his stricken domestic flight on the Hudson River in New York made global news of course. Against a backdrop of relentlessly distressing world events, the media loves an inspiring tale of heroism. So much so that it’s gone down as the miracle on the Hudson.

The outcome being so well known forces this production to approach take-off from a more unorthodox angle. In the immediate aftermath of the landing, Sully (Tom Hanks) is struggling to come to terms with his instantaneous fame. The question of whether he actually did the right thing hangs in the black clouds above him. A question with the potential to ruin his career, his reputation, his life. Did he truly save his passengers? Or did his rash decisions needlessly endanger those in his care, when an entirely safe alternative was perfectly achievable? The National Transportation Safety Board is investigating (helmed by Breaking Bad’s Anna Gunn in imperious form), and they have compelling evidence that the aircraft could have made it back to LaGuardia airport. The airport from which it took off only seven minutes prior to colliding with a flock of geese, disabling both engines directly above the city.

So it’s the unfolding inquiry that provides the narrative flight path. Seeing the catastrophe recreated is a core draw of the film though, naturally. And we are not disappointed, as the pilot and his deputy (Aaron Eckhart), under heavy scrutiny, are forced to relive every single second of such a rapidly unfolding and intense crisis.

With Eastwood behind the camera, and Hanks the lead, the feeling of being in safe hands is deeply satisfying. Unlike the passengers, it’s a pleasure to consciously sit back and enjoy the ride. Hanks’ later period sees him at the perfect altitude to play the role. The everyman shtick that fuels his consistent appeal is uniquely suited to a man of such bravery, experience, and all-too common doubts and anxieties. It’s also a relief to see Aaron Eckhart in something well constructed, and positive spirited, after the nonsensical gun-toting anti-terror tripe that was London Has Fallen (2016), and the abomination that was I, Frankenstein (2014).

The conclusion of the investigation forming the climax does lead to a lighter tone than your average disaster flick. But something else is going on here, something bobbing just below the aquatic surface of the American psyche…

Eastwood clearly wants to immortalise Sully the hero. But the lead character’s recurring nightmares in the aftermath allow Clint to explore something deeper, and much darker. Sullenberger is traumatised by the horror he so narrowly averted. He’s endlessly woken by visions of planes ploughing into buildings in downtown Manhattan. As the world still comes to terms with the magnitude of what happened there in September 2001, this is remarkably explicit, unsettling stuff. To face up it so directly, it’s shocking to discover just how shocking it still is, a full fifteen years later. It’s still raw. The central character’s trumpeted valour, then, provides a small component of the ongoing recovery for the indelibly terrifying events of that day. For here is a man who prevented a chillingly similar (though accidental) tragedy happening again.

Sully is a gratifyingly grounded adaptation of the making of a modern-day reluctant hero, and a mainstream venting of the residual shock that still haunts ground zero. Post-credits, seeing the man himself surrounded by his grateful, adoring passengers cannot fail to lift the spirit on fact-based feel-good thermals.

★ ★ ★ ½

2016
Dir: Gareth Edwards

Death Star

[This review does not contain plot spoilers but does reveal character inclusion detail from the start]

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story is a film about the Death Star, and the biggest star in it …is dead.

Its premise realises the mythic raid to steal the plans of the colossal super-weapon that was the core threat in 1977’s initial instalment. The plans that gave to the rebellion the ‘new hope’ of its now over-emphasised subtitle.

That Peter Cushing, laid to rest in 1994, should appear from beyond the grave marks something of a movie milestone being passed. This is not some brief glimpse of his likeness to inject credence. He is a fully formed character, essential to the narrative. It sees digital animation beginning to flirt with becoming indistinguishable from live action. With increasing authenticity, such techniques have blurred the line between the fantastic and the real. Recently, The Jungle Book (2016) saw Neel Sethi the sole real-life actor with the run of Jon Favreau’s digital dreamworld. The inverse of that, this prequel sees Cushing the sole CGI’d human among the truly living.

We’ve got used to the efficacy of motion capture to imbue the impossible with realism. With the same method that saw Gollum and King Kong injected with convincing life, the film utilises an actor (Guy Henry) to play the Grand Moff Tarkin role before overlaying the original actor’s features. Permission from the late thespian’s estate has been granted, of course. But, this being the only licence required, what potential burgeons for the ability to reprise much-missed legends of the silver screen? And it does do the job. Throw in a raised eyebrow, his idiosyncratic pronunciation of “military”, and it’s a persuasive enough artifice. Just.

That it should be Cushing at the vanguard of this potential descent into the uncanny valley feels like an appropriate tribute. By the time George Lucas’ space opera went into production in the mid seventies, the Hammer stalwart personified a singular brand of genteel terror, crafted over the countless wobbly Brit horrors he was so fond of. His skeletal features, delicate delivery, his exquisite diction… he had become almost a character himself. It made him perfectly suited to play the grand dame of the evil Empire’s madhouse. Both genuinely frightening (the only one with command over Darth Vader remember), and a lovable grandad swishing about the Death Star in his slippers (…as he was to endearingly recall). Lucas was to repeat the Hammer nod by casting Cushing’s nemesis Christopher Lee (as a Count, natch) in his doomed prequels.

The film satisfyingly expands on The Force Awakens’ reboot a year ago. It channels the same freshness, again embodied by a female lead: the compellingly insubordinate Felicity Jones. In tandem, the two ventures represent Disney’s astute handling of cinema’s hard-won golden egg. With BB8 its symbolically distilled mascot, Episode 7 rebirthed the universe for a new generation, hooking in today’s kids with fresh heroes and villains. The folklore of the first trilogy provided the backdrop for their adventures. In parallel, Rogue One is targeted at the original audience, now in their forties, thrilled by a grown-up remix of the much-lauded battered aesthetic. The Imperial Forces have always provided a clear-cut (but U-certificate-friendly) fear in the night. Rogue One makes real the cruel machinations that would fuel such fascism. They are a much more sinister presence than the horror expressed by Kylo Ren’s fevered asylum of devotees.

Against expectation, it is only Darth Vader’s re-entry into the atmosphere that disappoints. His silhouetted entrance into this Empire’s house of the long shadows deliberately references that of Cushing and Lee’s most iconic villain, Dracula (1958). And yet it feels oddly anti-climactic. While it can only be James Earl Jones voicing cinema’s most popular baddie, the advancing weakness of the 85-year-old’s speech is uncloakable. But the decision to include the ghoul Vader will delight, especially as the sabre-rattling action steps up towards the end. The end that so neatly provides the beginning. Even if his presence does feel a little cumbersomely tagged on.

Director Gareth Edwards has reflected on the double meaning of his title; both as a starship’s designation, but also signifying the first ‘rogue’ feature of the galaxy’s biggest franchise. This is, in essence, the first fan fiction to be given official blessing. Freed from Lucas’s force-grip, it’s produced entirely by those irrevocably touched by his universe. Meanwhile, the studio ensures the main cinematic behemoth continues, in streamlined, 21st century form.

Rogue One succeeds in both supplementary and stand-alone fashion. This, together with the ballsy decision to re-animate a collapsed supergiant star of countless hidden horrors, makes it one of the most intriguing and entertaining of recent blockbusters.

★ ★ ★ ★

2016
Dir: Christian Cooke 

Lone Survivor

BAFTA long-listed short Edith offers an authentic and emotive glimpse into one of the most prevalent but heart-breaking taboos of our times, loneliness in later life. Jake (Peter Mullan) might be an elderly widower but, still fit and active, he has plenty of life’s road left to travel. Nursing a solitary pint in his local, he prefers to be left to his thoughts, ruminating on adjusting to existence in the wake of his recently departed love. Armed with a brave face, surrounded by the cocoon of grief that people feel too intrusive to pierce, he’s …getting by okay.

But all is not as well as the image he’s projecting. The deceased Edith is still with him, stubborn echoes of her presence shielding him from facing up to the reality of being on his own. Shielding him from the pain in something as mundane as having to make just one cup of tea. Only garrulous pub acquaintance Shelia (Michelle Fairley), sensing that support might be needed most now, after the initial wave of sympathy has died down, tries to reach out.

We witness flashbacks to the young couple’s courtship and pivotal moments in their early relationship. We piece together that Edith’s passing has left him exposed to the residual traumas of the past, alone. They’d always been able to confront such things together. Until now.

Mullan acts with the understated precision of a master. It’s all there in his eyes. And the afflictions of a life fully lived inhabit every craggy line on his face. Stately and eloquent cinematography finds beauty in a barren backdrop. The snow on the ground covers earth that has memories, both happy and unhappy, frozen within it.

Striking an optimistic endnote, achieving a remarkable amount within just a fifteen-minute runtime, this is a subtly underplayed composition and all the more powerful for it. A personal and poignant portrait of the all-too-common burden of solitariness. Solitariness brought on by grief, which in turn makes that grief so much harder to bear. Speaking with a volume that belies its small package, it concisely articulates a philanthropic message that stays with you. The accomplished and affecting Edith has a spirit that lingers.

★ ★ ★

2016
Dir: Tom Ford 

A Night’s Tale

For the second night in a row I find myself watching Amy Adams front a drama with something profound to reflect on the human condition. Nocturnal Animals could not be a more different beast to the galaxy-class first contact psy-fi Arrival (2016). More domestic, more mundane, yes, but its message is equally incisive. With time, it’s a more hard-hitting one. Aimed squarely on a more personal level, it certainly has greater potential to disturb.

Remarkably this is the first film Tom Ford has made since A Single Man (2009) won countless plaudits seven years ago. Colin Firth excelled in a refined, austere turn as a sartorial gent struggling to cope with the death of his boyfriend. Adams’ character might be of equal reserve here, but the set-up is far more outlandish.

A most arresting title sequence cannot fail to seize your attention. Adams plays Susan, New York art dealer. A full-bodied, full-frontal performance from one of her exhibitions is startling enough to grab you by the burlesques, and a sinister hint of oncoming darkness. Afterwards, we go home with Adams and her statuesque, vacuous partner (Armie Hammer), where we find ourselves the reluctant gooseberry in a corporately cold relationship. Susan receives a manuscript in the post, her assistant naturally saving her the trouble of actually having to read the accompanying letter. An ex-boyfriend has completed his debut novel and, intriguingly, sent her the very first copy. She’s stopped in her tracks on page one by his written dedication. ‘For Susan’…

As she begins to read, we cross over into the world of the novel, witnessing its events in tandem with her. Susan envisions her ex as the lead character himself. So Jake Gyllenhaal plays both the boyfriend of her reminiscence, and the protagonist in the fiction he’s now written. His character is travelling by car at night with his wife and daughter, trying to get back to civilisation across a pitch black, deserted desert freeway. When three boozed-up yokels run them off the road for sport, lightly menacing harassment soon escalates to a shocking degree. Reading on, she’s transfixed by the tragedy unfolding before her. She confronts buried memories of her lost love, the breakdown of their relationship, and the part played by her disapproving mother (in a cracking supercilious turn from Laura Linney). We, the viewers, drift in and out of Susan ingesting the story in horror, her strained communication with her absent husband, flashbacks to her young sweetheart’s literary dreams, and the ever-worsening predicament of his book’s tragic victim.

Adams’s precise performance nails both the flush contentment of youth and the numb guardedness of mature experience. Gyllenhaal’s portrayal is similarly wide-ranging, as both the hopeful literary student and the doomed lead of his unsettlingly gravid tale. Andrea Riseborough and Michael Sheen contribute little more than cameos. Aaron Taylor Johnson, chief brute responsible for the heinous crimes of the book, doesn’t quite epitomise the rough, nihilistic threat of the outback hick. But Michael Shannon’s grizzled Sherriff is terrific. As ever, Shannon is unfailingly engaging. And when a lost-all-hope, chain-smoking, phlegm-spewing maverick cop is the warmest presence, you know you’re in especially chilly territory. Despite the blistering heat of his dusty domain.

There has been talk of Nocturnal Animals confusing audiences, and it is certainly disorientating while its layers unfold, but this is calculatingly executed. With time to slot it all back into place, its message is crystal clear, its impact boosted by forcing you to reconstruct it. This is a painful illustration of the ramifications of not following your heart. Of the flapping of the wings of the butterfly effect and the damage becoming undoable. It’s a cruel-to-be-kind warning of an inconvenient truth, with benevolent purpose. But in order to hit home, it’s a pretty discomfiting and unnerving journey. Digest, comprehend.

And take heed.

★ ★ ★ ½

2016
Dir: Denis Villeneuve 

Close Encounters of the Word Kind

The fantasy of alien invasion is an oddly comforting staple of the movies, stretching back to The Day The Earth Stood Still (1951), The War of The Worlds (1953) and Invasion of The Body Snatchers (1956). It’s a pretty neat trick if you can inject such a well-worn cosmic setup with originality. This might be Arrival’s greatest achievement. The questioning ‘Why Are They Here?’ tagline feels similarly familiar, yet proves winningly irresistible. Gratifyingly, the film gets straight down to answering it…

We are introduced to Dr Louise Banks (Amy Adams) via a montage of her nurturing her infant daughter, then caring for her through a terminal illness at a heartbreakingly young age. In the present, she’s called upon to play an instrumental part in an unfolding global emergency. Twelve gigantic objects (‘shells’) have appeared, without warning, hovering above random locations across the planet. A renowned linguistics professor, Banks is asked to head up the communications team. It’s the toughest job of all. Translating a truly extra-terrestrial language. Naturally, the military are on high alert to retaliate (or, preferably, strike first) at the very first inkling of peril. Rather than the Russian threat implied by those aforementioned cold war chillers, it’s the Chinese, current go-to movie villains, who have the itchiest trigger fingers. For now, though, Banks and her team, including sympathetic astrophysicist Jeremy Renner, tentatively enter one of the ‘ships’ with a more passive approach to that tried and tested sci-fi trope… first contact.

A down-to-earth (ahem), unembellished tone contributes to a beautifully eerie atmosphere. The gorgeously long tracking shot that finally reveals the magnitude of the spacecraft sees Chinooks swirling all around while Jóhann Jóhannsson’s ominous, minimal score characterises the otherworldly presence of these colossal discs suspended mere metres from the ground. Their verticality is a neat subversion of the expected, one of many original details that help to create a refreshing spookiness. Long drawn out bass blasts infer primeval communication, alarm, and recall the 16rpm score that grounded the spiralling subconscious layers of Christopher Nolan’s Inception (2010). His influence is tangible. To such a degree it feels like one of the first ‘post-Nolan’ films, consolidating his impact on both darkening, and raising the IQ of, the mainstream blockbuster.

Another influence, the most elephantine-in-the-room perhaps, is acknowledged up-front by the poster. Whether it’s Adams or Renner’s face staring out in wonder, the image echoes the iconic finale of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Keir Dullea forced to confront infinity head on. The viewer can only wonder what awe this film’s leads are witness to nearly a half-century later.

A military stand-off with aliens, the risk of global destruction to prove humanity’s superior might, meanwhile one lone maverick knows the truth… It’s one of cinema’s most clichéd set-ups. And yet it all feels fresh and progressive, emblemised by a female lead subverting a traditionally macho arena. Banks ploughs on through the impossible task of trying to understand the strange circles the visitors seem to be trying to communicate with. As she does so, we begin to decipher the fact that language itself is the crux of this most elegant and eloquent psy-fi. I was introduced to the Sapir-Whorf theory in the course of my education. It proposes that language goes far deeper than just being the system by which we decode our thoughts. It states that words are the very building blocks of our thinking, that language IS thought. Adams’ reference to it is a mumbled, throwaway line. Yet this fascinating premise is indeed being used as the foundation for one of the most cerebrally satisfying film fictions I can remember.

By the end we have come full circle, arriving ourselves at a most intriguing, Nolan-esque, mind-expanding conclusion. Like the very best sci-fi, Arrival leaves you pondering the biggest, most profound, yet ultimately earthbound concepts. Its immense and graceful structure hovers dangerously close to the surface of contemporary classic.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

2016
Dir: Estes Tarver 

Grief Encounter

Amazon’s first runaway feature success, Manchester by the Sea (2016), made a strong contender for the Best Picture Oscar. Meanwhile, a smaller-scale independent coincidentally shares a few parallels in plot set up. While both touch lightly on related issues, Changeover is of gentler, more tender style.

A horrific car-crash takes the lives of budding young musician Haley’s parents, an accident she survives by simple virtue of being in the back seat. She may be unscathed physically, but the mental scarring is all-consuming, overwhelming. Not only has she lost both parents; she’s witnessed the horror of the moment that claimed them. Her Uncle Chad’s life of tennis coaching is interrupted when face-from-the-past Michael drops by, bearer of both the tragic news, and newly orphaned Haley herself (Madeline Taylor). Sole remaining family member, Chad finds himself with an adopted teenage daughter. He’s still coming to terms with the break-up of his own marriage, already raising a pre-teen son on his own. In an instant, he’s reeling from the death of his brother and sister-in-law, and he has new responsibility for someone he barely knows. And after the unimaginable trauma that Haley’s gone through, she’s all but shut down.

Changeover delicately tracks the shared journeys of Haley and Chad as each fight to come to terms with the loss of parents and sibling respectively, while negotiating a new life together. Forced into a relationship neither asked for by a sickening tragedy, it’s a road that feels simply impossible at times. As two strangers carefully traverse such sensitive new terrain, each confronts unprecedented challenges, while buried secrets become painfully unearthed.

This is an affecting and altruistic portrait of the unfathomable impact of bereavement, and the real effects of post-traumatic stress. In a world where the practicalities of life demand to be satisfied regardless. A world where there is no option but to carry on. Even when you can’t. Madeline Taylor’s nuanced performance is restrained and perceptive, poignant when muted by pure shock, touching when she finds the strength to break that silence. It’s a highly accomplished first feature from writer-director Estes Tarver, also cast as Chad, in an appropriately underplayed depiction of sympathy and masculinity under pressure.

At the sweet heart of the picture is his relationship with those around him, most notably his son. Carter Godwin, endearing and impressive young actor, gives a lovely performance as his kid. The cosy life he’s got used to with Dad undergoes a sudden tectonic shift, calling for a maturity beyond his years, and it’s nicely struck. In Chad’s relationship with Haley’s counsellor (Carrie Marshall), the question of the carer’s need for care remains eloquently unspoken. But the core dynamic is between him and Haley, particularly effective when he visits her in hospital, later when he softly re-introduces her to the idea of music, her formative love and talent. The story shines a desperately needed light on the taboos of depression, anxiety and self-harm, so potentially destructive in the impressionable young. It is testament to the acting and the writing that, despite the heart-rending subject matter, this is a heartening, uplifting play of warmth and optimism.

Cathartic and compassionate, commanding a powerful message that belies the production’s size, it ardently articulates that everyone is at the mercy of mental health issues. We all have to deal with the fragility of mortality. Augmented by graceful instrumental themes throughout, it also strikes a chord on the restorative power of music, emphasised by actor Carrie Marshall’s evolving score.

Change is the only constant. Rarely, but sometimes, that change can be unbearably brutal. This film’s essential, healing and strengthening message is that, with the support of loved ones and those able to offer care, the recovering capacity to changeover is there. In all of us.

★ ★ ★ ½

2016
Dir: Tate Taylor 

Loco Motive

To those who don’t know the enormously successful book, The Girl On The Train’s tagline is enough of an engine to pull in the casual onlooker by itself. “What Did She See?”. As well as questioning what appalling crime she witnessed, it also implies the potential for killer twist in the ambiguity of her interpretation. Turns out it’s more a case of what did she do. Furthermore, what can she remember. If anything…

Every day Rachel (Emily Blunt) commutes to work by train along the banks of the Hudson River. Every day she tries (and fails) to resist her obsession with a couple of the households whose gardens draw down to one picturesque stretch of waterside rail track. But this is not just idle nosiness. Soon it’s clear she used to be deeply involved in the lives of those she’s desperately trying to glimpse. She used to live in one of those houses, married to one of the inhabitants. As we assemble her story through flashback, it also becomes clear she used to have a terrible drink problem. She’s plagued by a history of blackouts, unable to account for the numerous times she’s lost control, become violent, or woken up in a bruised state, wondering, through the pounding headache, what outrageous transgression she’s committed now.

An extrapolating web of intrigue unfolds involving her ex’s new family. And their nanny. And the nanny’s boyfriend (a gruff Luke Evans). And the counsellor the nanny runs to when said boyfriend starts getting a little bit too controlling. A counsellor who’s now being asked to provide more than just an understanding ear…

You at least get the feeling that the novel is a quality source. One, presumably, with time to develop the characters, explore the boundaries of their relationships, and ground them in something resembling real life. That is not what happens here. This congested adaptation feels too contrived, too stagey. One that leaves you with the feeling you perhaps should have opted for the original written platform.

At its heart is a reliably fine performance from Emily Blunt, as someone regretfully struggling in the grip of such a mundanely destructive addiction. But stuffing as much into the run-time as a packed commuter carriage, The Girl On The Train tries to set up, and maintain, a constant tone of knife-edge tension …for the entire length of the film. The tricks and motifs of high drama soon lose impact when stretched to such an unremitting, tedious degree. As a result it feels like a TV melodrama on a bigger budget. Over-acted. Over-wrought. Over, but not soon enough. Occasionally the camera lingers uncomfortably on the female form. It may be a clumsy attempt to offer some kind of hint or misdirection, but it just feels queasy and uneasy.

And when that twist is finally revealed (the one we’ve been expecting since before the movie even started thanks to that tagline), there is moderate satisfaction to be had. But only in the most perfunctory, equation-balancing way. Yet just when you’re enjoying the meagre gratification of having those plot strands tied up, the denouement offers the most heavy-handed symbol of redemption. A character with artistic ambition but poor talent throughout can suddenly draw like Rembrandt the minute they’ve put the whole sorry episode behind them. This is the point I wished I’d never boarded this faltering locomotion picture. It’s a squandered opportunity to power to a fulfilling destination. One without the conviction to depart from the standard gauge rails of schmaltzy potboiler. Let this blunt vehicle shunt past. Ah, the pulling power of a good tagline.

★ ★

2016
Dir: Nicolas Winding Refn

Fashion Victim

You get the feeling that Drive (2011) set Nicolas Winding Refn free. Free to navigate any cinematic route he chooses. It was his getaway vehicle to mainstream success. The inevitably difficult follow-up Only God Forgives (2013) disappointed many a Drive fan, despite the welcome return of Ryan Gosling. In both, his enigmatic presence effortlessly suited the shadowy underworld he operated in. Now the director’s latest pit stop (without Gosling at the wheel) is the notorious underbelly of L.A. fashion house modelling. A world that feels just as tailor-made for his own brand of luminescent darkness. A world in which all that glitters, most certainly, is not gold.

One of the most overtly stylised of today’s film-makers, the gloss is liberally applied from the get go. The ‘NWR’ insignia footnoting each opening title is either a self-aggrandising step too far, or a neat reference to Yves Saint Laurent’s instantly recognisable logo. Or both. Refn skirts the hem of pretentiousness throughout this, his first embrace and air-kiss of the horror genre. But a flirtation with pretension feels entirely appropriate, considering the subject matter…

Jesse (Elle Fanning) is the latest fresh meat to wash up on the west coast’s high altar of high fashion, wide-eyed and wonderstruck. But, unlike her artificially enhanced peers, she is endowed with that most elusive quality. Natural beauty. True beauty. It propels her to the top of her preening profession at bewildering speed, bewitching agents and photographers alike. She is admired, then envied, and, before too long, reviled by her competition. An innocent in the den of iniquity, her only benevolent influence is her nervous new boyfriend. He, predictably, gets dropped though, as she falls under the seductive spell of the devils of narcissism.

How fitting that the movie should have such a striking outer appearance …adorning the darkest of hearts. Pristine, streamlined, symmetry is used to great effect. A synthetic soundtrack ramps up the trademark Refn tone, a style overlapping the slick conventions of pop video, or, of course, glossy fashion advert. As for the content, it truly is a hive of scum and villainy, a cast of only the corrupt and the cruel. Every woman might be a self-obsessed vulture, but the men are far worse (Keanu Reeves relishes an over-the-top turn as her objectionable motel boss). Jesse’s naive young lover the exception that proves the rule, to a man they are all money-grabbing bullies and predatory abusers. The subtext is that this netherworld exists because of the misogynous male gaze. Its nihilism is exposed here, for us all to stare back into. And therein lies the true horror.

Something so distinctive, with such an extreme payoff, will not be to everyone’s …taste. Especially following in the slipstream of Drive’s triumph. Portraying the vacuousness of the modelling world carries the danger of imbuing the whole project with shallowness. And the plot is certainly threadbare. But, having escaped the race to chase populism, NWR is vying for something more tonal, something more artistic. That sharp aesthetic focus, the rich colour palette, the female protagonists, the electronic soundtrack: these are all classic ingredients of the ‘Giallo’ genre of horror film pioneered by Argento and Bava. The Neon Demon, then, feels proudly, referentially, like a contemporary (black-gloved) stab at Giallo. In a certain light, even the title bears the suggestion; Demons (1985) being a key work of the genre, ‘neon’ partially implying ‘new’. Is Refn covertly claiming he has conjured the new Demons? You sense he would love to.

This argon nightmare is a stylistically calculated examination of narcissistic emptiness taken to its most obscene conclusion. Its moral may have been stated before, but never through such a vicious, queasy allegory. The admonishing stare of models bearing down on us all from roadside billboards and adverts everywhere suddenly seem much more menacing in its afterburn.

★ ★ ★

2016
Dir: Whit Stillman 

Class Act

While the period drama is a singularly popular genre, boasting a fine number of British gems, the sub-genre of period comedy is severely less populated by comparison. With Jane Austen’s work providing the source for many of the most successful adaptations, an underplayed comic touch is often used as light relief against the dramatic weight of the core narrative. Love & Friendship pushes the humour very much front and centre-stage. At once, then, the tone feels refined, refreshing, and relishingly light-hearted.

Instant enjoyment is to be found in the archaic formality of the language. An unapologetically dialogue-heavy play, it’s a joy to revel in the exceptional politeness with which all are addressed. Regardless of social standing. And this is a world of grossly varying status, indeed one in which each individual’s class position is, inevitably, immediately obvious. Just as rewarding, visually, are the elaborate costumes and opulent backdrops and interiors. Whilst such accoutrements of luxury are a key draw of the period piece, here, such ostentatious finery helps the levity along by providing a ready-made sprinkling of the faintly ridiculous.

Atop this sumptuous fondant fancy sits a brilliantly judged performance from Kate Beckinsale. We are in her company for the vast majority of the runtime, and her guile is endlessly captivating, her piercingly intelligent charm unfailingly convincing. On the few occasions we leave her circle, we ‘come round’, we realise her deviousness, her calculated duplicity, as stark as daylight. Even so, we fall straight back under her spell as soon as we are returned to her. And willingly too. This canny device is the foundation of the film’s success: we entirely believe in her persuasive cunning. We’ve swallowed it, hook, line and sinker, ourselves.

As does Xavier Samuel as DeCourcy, her dashing and effortlessly attractive beau. He seems all the more alluring against a wonderfully drippy turn from Tom Bennett, the most prized jewel in this impressively bedecked comedy crown. Perfectly cast, he capitalises on his proven comic credentials from TV hits PhoneShop (2009 – 2013), and the under-rated Family Tree (2013). In all three he shines as the star idiot of the enterprise, but one whose relentlessly innocent optimism always wins out. Perfectly aware he is his peers’ intellectual inferior, his childish inability to care provides this vivacious vignette’s high points.

Typically for a literary adaptation, it’s a long list of players, and it may prove a challenge to keep up with all supporting characters for those unfamiliar with the story. But it’s a sweetly contrasting cast. The initial incongruity of Chloe Sevigny as Lady Susan’s scheming American confidante actually works all the more beside the pompous home counties bluster of Steven Fry. We are always in the central black widow’s web, though; Lady Susan has everyone in the palm of her velvet glove, Beckinsale every audience member.

This is a dandy and invigorating historical farce. A teasing revelation of scandal in the upper echelons of privilege. The manipulative machinations of a man-eater in Regency high society. Love & Friendship is a comedy of superior class.

★ ★ ★ ★

2016
Dir: Jon Favreau 

Tale of Tails

A small pack of live action upgrades of Disney’s The Jungle Book has emerged from the undergrowth, blinking nervously, on a few previous occasions. With mixed results. Any film in the shadow of one as classic, as loved as the ’67 original is surely setting itself an unattainable goal. And surely knowingly so. Perhaps for that reason, a fully animated reboot of the definitive allegory of dawning adolescence has never been attempted. At very nearly a half-century since the release of their most fondly regarded offspring, a fresh retelling of Kipling’s myth has now been set free. One that aims to blur the line between the artificial and the real.

This fearsome task falls to Jon Favreau, purveyor of such wide-appeal favourites as Elf (2003) and Iron Man (2008). Someone who’s made enormous successes of projects as varied as a cheeky Christmas caper and the bombastic smash that ignited the mammoth Marvel franchise is probably one of the few directors qualified to take on a task of such elephantine ambition.

An imaginary menagerie is brought to life in exquisite detail. Setting a tone entirely distinct from the original, the photo-realism feels as far developed from the cartoon as an accomplished adult looking back on their childhood paintings with a bittersweet fondness. The implication is that CGI has finally evolved enough to render the extraordinary detail required. The result is a curious mix of uncanny depiction of the animal kingdom and the whimsy of Kipling’s enduring fable. But does it have the heart? The exuberant Neel Sethi, the sole real-life actor with the run of this tropical dreamworld, carries the emotional core at a soberingly young age. And impressively so, with a fitting blend of naivety and burgeoning maturity. Watching him against an entirely fabricated backdrop, some compositions feel a little contrived. A painterly touch only brings the movie’s cuter ancestor to mind, though, emphasising the extent to which animated techniques have bounded forward in the intervening years. It may have nothing to do with the superhero juggernaut that Favreau helped launch, but this really is something to ‘marvel’ at.

The casting of Idris Elba as Shere Khan is spot on. Every word exudes a perfectly pitched menace, making for one of the most satisfying screen villains of recent times. Scarlett Johansson is less successful at reimagining lithping hypno-therpent Kaa. It’s one instance where this update will never measure up to its predecessor. Meanwhile Bill Murray is as gloriously lackadaisical as you would expect as Baloo, laid-back mentor gently introducing Mowgli to the uncaring harshness of the world outside the safe cocoon of a mother’s care.

The decision has obviously been taken to tiptoe around the pitfalls of conventional ‘musical’. The songs we know are used …but playfully …and only partially. Weaved in gently or wryly referenced, they too work …partially. Kaa’s ‘Trust In Me’ was always onto a loser, and is relegated to the end credits. Something as bold as Christopher Walken’s deliberately frightening take on King Louie, however, succeeds in reinventing ‘I Wanna Be Like You’ in an effectively counter-intuitive way.

The vertiginous climax, of the type demanded by family fare such as this, feels a little predictable, and disappoints. Yet the overriding emotion wins out. This is a suitably wondrous introduction to an evergreen classic. Of course it will never last in the manner of the cartoon masterpiece. But this is an update unafraid to rise up on its own two feet, stand tall, and manfully square up to the most audacious challenge.

★ ★ ★ ★

2016
Dir: Jeff Nichols

Son Light

Midnight Special’s advance poster beautifully represents the movie (other) world on offer. The unearthly glow shining out from behind the central duo promises something from the realm of science fiction. But the figure dominating the heart of the image is an ordinary guy protectively cradling his child. Jeff Nichols’ latest inventively blends the two genres: that of awe-inspiring sci-fi fantasy and touching family melodrama.

The emotional impact of childcare on the adult is a thread running through his films. An impact impossible to prepare for. Previous work Mud (2012) explored the bond between a wanted man and two young lads who stumble upon his hideout. While here, Nichols is reunited with the lead from his earlier, brooding Take Shelter (2011), in which a man goes to extraordinary lengths to protect his kin from an impending storm only he can sense is coming.

Appropriately, considering the title, many early scenes are thoroughly underlit. Even in the near pitch black of the cinema, much detail is barely discernible. It, of course, helps to keep us quite literally in the dark about what condition affects the troubled soul at the epicentre of events. But you can’t help wonder if such unremittingly low lighting might be a hindrance in the home viewing market.

As Roy, father of the afflicted progeny, Michael Shannon’s screen charisma is effortlessly captivating. The tortuous weight of responsibility he carries for his offspring radiates from the screen, despite his minimal dialogue. Jaeden Lieberher capitalises on the potential displayed in St. Vincent (2014), his innocent shoulders maturely supporting an astronomical burden. Shannon’s natural gravitas is balanced by the ambiguous fascination of Adam Driver’s national security agent. His speech inevitably recalls the phantom menace of Kylo Ren from the opposite end of the sci-fi spectrum: Star Wars: The Force Awakens (2015).

So the conceit established in the opening act is of earth-shaking significance. And yet we are dropped into the heart of a tight interpersonal drama. Joel Edgerton is efficiently devoted and determined. As Lucas, friend enlisted to help Roy and his boy flee the authorities, he keeps his consternation under wraps, relentlessly driving himself to keep on going. Keep on doing whatever is necessary. Mum Sarah (Kirsten Dunst) struggles to cope with the turmoil unfolding around her kid. But the inner core of this moving picture is the gravitational pull of the paternal relationship. The oppositional orbits of the celestial bodies of a Dad …and his sun.

We are left to make sense of the situation for ourselves, assembling its enormity piece by piece as the hunt for the renegades grows. Gripped by the bond that unites them, the chase is consistently engaging. Despite the fantastical set-up, the style is flatly matter-of-fact. And it’s this defiant tone of non-explanation that is the key to the incredible premise achieving credibility. From the beginning we crave answers. This is a film that has the courage to only partially answer them. And why should it? Its events are, ultimately, unexplainable.

By exaggerating a child’s uniqueness to a preternatural level, Midnight Special is an eloquent study of the irreversible effect of fatherhood. It thus makes a fitting companion piece with Interstellar (2014). Christopher Nolan’s space/time continuum stretched the father-daughter bond to the furthest reaches of space. Both films utilise intergalactic setups to draw intimate portraits of parenthood. Yet each is comprised of a very different constellation. This primarily emotive tale also carries echoes of Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), The Abyss (1989) and Village of The Damned (1960). All are in Midnight Special’s astral DNA. But this is a much more personal offering. By charting a prodigious, extraterrestrial tale, Nichols’ message succeeds in being distinctly heartfelt. Human. A tale of the unexpectedly affecting.

★ ★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Charlie Kaufman, Duke Johnson

The Best Neurotic Marionette Hotel

Stepping into a movie world curated by Charlie Kaufman guarantees a visit to the left field of cinema. Often to virgin territory. His is one of the few truly unique voices working in film today. Classic screenplays Being John Malkovich (1999), Adaptation (2002), and Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind (2004) each took their own distinct journeys direct to the subconscious. Sometimes through, and beyond. To self-reflexive, mind-altering deconstructions of the writer’s and the moviemaker’s art.

His latest exudes the usual air of a labour of love. A crowd-funded project, Kaufman wrote, co-produced and co-directed Anomalisa. It’s another exquisitely odd movie world, as delicately crafted as any of his former high points. Before the plane has even begun its descent, an unprecedented tone is struck. An apparently simple stop-motion style, but full of subtle detail, enriched with a hand-made authenticity. The medium might appeal to our inner child, but the message is resolutely grown up. Indeed, later ‘adult’ scenes are disconcertingly incongruous.

We are the travel companions of Michael Stone, cipher for Charlie’s trademark ‘flaws’ of self-doubt and insecurity, voiced by a cantankerous David Thewlis. Stone is, characteristically for a Kaufman leading man(nequin), a writer. An Englishman abroad, he’s in Ohio to give a presentation on his specialist subject: the suitably insincere realm of customer service. As we travel by cab, through the rain to the hotel, this peculiar parallel micro-world is expanded upon. The originality is in the exquisite realisation of the mundane detail: the hotel key card not working, the shower running too hot or too cold. Faces are brilliantly expressive, despite being so fundamentally plain. Fundamental plainness is, in fact, the crux of Kaufman’s presentation, for we soon realise that all other faces are identical. More than that, identically voiced. By the soporific, creepily over-friendly Tom Noonan. Stone inhabits a self-imposed world of production line uniformity, populated by indistinguishable clones. That is until he meets the exception that proves the rule. The anomaly. Lisa.

The animation is stunning, the lead’s banal paranoia a solid premise. But that only partially fulfils the required formula. And Stone does not make the most pleasant company along the way. Once the disturbing dead-end of his outlook is established, there is little further development. There are a few false starts: his ‘mask’ malfunctioning, a dream sequence. Each teases a trip into the surreal, to revelations we find ourselves craving, to explanations promised by the limitless potential of the animated medium. But none expand beyond the level of hint, so none satisfy.

It could almost be a hallucinatory extension of that insufferable Travelodge advert. The cameras stop rolling. The puppets gradually slide into despair as they realise they are actually imprisoned in an infinity of identical hotel rooms. The very same rooms they’ve been employed to, quite literally, sing the praises of…

Kaufman’s latest mission to externalise the internal is appropriately dream-like. An ordinary but darkly askew nightmare. Full of insights that are genuinely bleak. Frightening even. He realises that to unearth a statement from the depths of the ego demands a method beyond the norm. Only a hyperreal meta-universe can express such sociopathic frailties. Anomalisa’s high points are sheer puppetry in motion. It is two thirds of a dazzlingly brilliant film.

Stone’s potential for psychological meltdown is represented by an incomplete face staring back at him from the mirror. It’s just a shame that crucial fragments of this whole movie’s make-up feel similarly absent.

★ ★ ★

2016
Dir: Jane Gull

Tell Tale Heart

In the immediate aftermath of the shocking Brexit result, I was lucky enough to catch a micro-budget British indie at the East End Film Festival which damn near restored my reeling faith in humanity. My Feral Heart is the debut feature from Jane Gull, director of the award-winning short Sunny Boy (2011). Together with first-time screenwriter Duncan Paveling she has created an affecting film of rare, understated power. A modest but moving movie.

Luke, a devoted, unfailingly optimistic son, looks after his ailing mother as old age catches up with her. With every breakfast he prepares, every bath he runs, he returns the love given to him before nature turned the tables on the mother-son bond of safekeeping. When one day Mum finally refuses to wake up, Luke is taken into care. With no other immediate family the authorities cannot allow him to stay on his own. Luke has Down syndrome. Self-reliant, independent, stranded in a care system he is certain he doesn’t need, he refuses to play along, retreating into a defensive cocoon of silence. But, with time, his increasingly adventurous forays into the countryside around the home lead him to unexpected and transformative relationships.

Steven Brandon’s warm portrayal of the naïve but headstrong Luke is the tender foundation for an authentic drama that is naturalistic, emotive, but with a compelling hint of ambiguity. It’s a touching tale of frustration at the wider world’s perception of his condition, a perception challenged through the casting of a lead actor with Down syndrome. Together with Luke, we become gradually endeared to his primary assistant (Shana Swash) as she sensitively chips away at his defences. And Will Rastall, effervescent but rueful wide boy Pete, is a fitting foil to the leading man’s open-hearted, sometimes mischievous candour.

As the story extends out into the rural surroundings, the most eloquent scenes, somehow, are the regular close-ups of buds, shoots and flowers springing from the undergrowth. It’s an eloquence emphasised by a beautiful repeating score from the great Barrington Pheloung, and a standout song from Barking balladeer Billy Bragg. Traces of Ken Loach, Andrea Arnold and Mike Leigh will naturally be evident in such a poignant British drama from the social realist tradition. But the lightest touch of symbolism raises this profoundly assured debut above the well-worn conventions of ‘kitchen sink’ drama.

Primarily, this is an original, engaging, subtly intriguing story. My Feral Heart’s power comes from its confidence to just let the unadorned facts of the tale carry the message. It is a humble articulation of the prejudice ‘disabled’ people face in a world built for the ‘able’, a prejudice encapsulated in the word ‘dis-abled’ itself. Most importantly, its moral is proved by its very production. It is a showcase for nothing but ability. This dual impact convinces that this is a fundamentally vital film. A film embodying the most universal message. The message needed most right now. In an uncertain world clouded by division and fear of the other, every single one of us is not so different.

★ ★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Ben Wheatley

Multi Story

Robert Laing is going up in the world. He’s just moved into a stark and imposing tower block on the edge of some nameless conurbation. By profession he’s a brain doctor tutoring students in cerebral anatomy. When not slicing and dicing the mind in the name of science, he’s settling into his opulent, identikit new quarters. Halfway up this gigantic, self-contained, radically innovative housing project. Why visit the ground? Laing can play squash on the gym level. Go swimming on another. Buy anything he needs at the hypermarket on yet another, his fellow shoppers averting their eyes, shunning any interaction. It’s a hermetically sealed microcosm of urban life, status literally dictating altitude of habitation.

Previous adaptations of J.G. Ballard’s books include the emotive war epic Empire Of The Sun (1987), and the notoriously confrontational sexual subculture of Crash (1996). A treatment of his equally hard-hitting study of class and society High-Rise has been stalled in the pre-production stage since shortly after publication, a full forty years ago. Nic Roeg was the original name attached. But several false starts with various directors have all crumbled to rubble. Only now has the project come to full construction, via the design blueprint of a genuine maverick. Ben Wheatley’s singular vision brought us the hitmen-out-of-their-depth chiller Kill List (2011) and, most recently, the lysergic civil war horror A Field In England (2013). The potential offered by this Ballard fiction is just as disturbing as the fetishistic underground of Crash, just as shocking as the dark revelations of Wheatley’s black catalogue.

Young, successful, prestigious and buff, Laing (Tom Hiddleston) attracts the attention of the peculiars populating the stories adjacent to his middling floor 25. Reece Shearsmith, the frazzled, hygiene-obsessed dentist. Sienna Miller, the flirty socialite intrigued by a potential plaything, Luke Evans her bit of rough from the no-go zone of the lower floors. Chief architect of this monstrous carbuncle, Jeremy Irons, lords over all from his vantage point on the top floor. Among such a dysfunctional array of humanity, only Hiddleston and Elizabeth Moss’ pregnant single mum exude any inherent decency at all. For now.

Although it was written as a predictive satire of the near-future, Wheatley sets his realisation of Ballard’s coruscating novel in the period of its original inception: the smoke-thick, B.O. stained, fake leather, gaudily decorated world of seventies aspiration. Locked inside this ivory tower, an intoxicating whiff of emboldening yet isolating containment hangs in the air. From within the confines of this Kill Lift, glimpses of the city outskirts are hazy, the sky heavy with the apocalypse. The mood of malevolence is enhanced by another beautiful but oppressive score from Clint Mansell. Meanwhile the pop of the time is re-purposed to suit. A string quartet take on Abba’s ’S.O.S.’ soundtracks a surreal masquerade evening early on; a cracked, fragile version by Portishead crowning the collapse of order that is as sure as night following day.

This is a vicious satire of the class system that, by design, works on multiple levels. Ballard clearly had the dream of sixties social housing turning to nightmare in his sights, the ideals and excesses of the free love generation turning sour. The sturdy foundations of Wheatley and screenwriter Amy Jump’s treatment support a widening of the targets: greed, selfishness, community, capitalism, control. As we slide deeper down the lift shaft of insanity, their vision is a kaleidoscope of degenerating indulgence, warped relationships and brutal exploitation.

Extreme, hilarious, disorientating, occasionally gruesome, and with a subtle Clockwork Orange (1971) hue, High-Rise has the elevated air of the type of film that doesn’t get made any more. A retrospective period piece encapsulating the era in which it is set, yet bitingly relevant today. With the reinforcing scaffold of the law removed, the false airs and graces of ‘refined’ civility soon evaporate. Primitive behaviour lurks shockingly close below the thin facade of decency. None of us are really as sophisticated as we like to believe.

High-Rise is a chaotically radical, near-psychedelic demolition of urban acceptability from a visionary directorial mind currently residing somewhere on the outskirts of mainstream cinema. Ascendant.

★ ★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Robert Eggers

Into the Woods

It’s been noted in horror fan circles that the 17th Century is a period scarcely visited by the genre, despite being rooted in such dramatically fertile soil. Unlike the oft-depicted gas-lit Victorian terrors of Hammer and their ilk, a pre-enlightenment time of puritanism, pestilence and plague is pregnant with naturally conceived fear. Belief in spirits both benevolent and malevolent was the default mindset. A time of rustic simplicity, so much further removed from contemporary life, is arguably the more challenging to capture effectively. Three rare excursions to the era spring to mind: the dour, harrowing tirade against the fascism of enforced faith Witchfinder General (1968), Tigon’s wyrd portmanteau-ish folk-frightener The Blood On Satan’s Claw (1971), and, more recently, Ben Wheatley’s civil war psychotropic terror trip A Field In England (2013). We are spirited back there again for Universal’s latest major horror release; an atypically small, independent feeling foray into the mire. It wears its provincial intentions proudly on its homespun sleeve, its tagline ‘A New-England Folktale’.

The Witch begins with a characteristically religious family being banished from their Christian community for the father’s sin of ‘prideful conceit’. They set up home and farm out in the wilds, on the edge of a deep forest. Eldest daughter Thomasin shares the burden of bringing up her brother Caleb, two young twins, and a fresh newborn. In the blink of a rook’s beady eye, the baby is snatched from Thomasin’s care, victim of something barely-glimpsed from deep in the surrounding wilderness.

The abduction ignites a spiralling trauma of faith, planting a poisonous seed of paranoia that the family is somehow cursed. By the father’s sins? By nature itself? By something much, much worse..? Trying to maintain his abandoned flock’s sanity with the rationale of religion, Ralph Ineson’s guttural drawl is as low down as the toiled soil that is their livelihood and their punishing master. His bass-heavy vocal delivery suits this primitive picture perfectly. Kate Dickie is affectingly disturbed in the aftermath of having her offspring stolen, unable to trust even her own remaining children. Anya Taylor Joy impresses as Thomasin, daughter on the cusp of womanhood, expertly relaying a realisation that maturity is a primal power she can take in any direction she chooses.

The colour scheme is greyed out, sallow, drained of vitality. The camera gaze obsessively slow-zooms into the frame. Pulled into the trees, it beckons us into a threatening mesh of wilderness, luring us in, drawing us in. The fright factor comes primarily from the fact that children are the focus, their young brains unable to even conceive of evil’s capacity, their purity ripe for corruption. Lars Von Trier’s excruciating Antichrist (2009) is recalled. While ploughing a thoroughly different fear furrow, it too explored the dark potential of the wild when left untamed. At its culmination a fox memorably declared “chaos reigns”. This caprine tail of animal magick by Robert Eggers casts by far the more satisfying spell. Curiously, while the story is set among the British establishing their New England colonies in the United States, the film is an American production of entirely British-flavoured horror. Either way, it’s refreshing to see a genre-piece hatched from rural history, with roots stretching back to Witchfinder, in a mainstream cinema chain today.

By the time we’ve slipped inexorably down the mudslide into an intoxicating danse macabre of flying sorcery, we are fully, engrossingly bewitched. The laws of natural order seep slowly away as we creep to an eerie, unforgettable finale. The ingredients of this special view are dirt, wood, rain, spit, and blood. The formulation: the possible perversion of the mind unquestioningly imprinted with the mysticism of religion as fact. The unsettlingly seductive result is a most potent, “delicious” concoction of earthly delights. Chilling to the bone. Charming to the caw.

★ ★ ★ ★