Category: Reviews

2016
Dir: Ethan Coen, Joel Coen

Swords and Scandals

The Coen brothers have always delighted in playing with the conventions of cinema. Their tale of small-town cops bamboozled by brutal homicide in the frozen north, Fargo (1996), was a unique twist on black crime comedy. The dusty, pedal steel songbook of O, Brother Where Art Thou? (2000) was a wry re-invention of the deep-south musical. Never have they taken aim at Hollywood as squarely as in this overtly affectionate paean to the golden age of the silver screen.

Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin) is the stressed studio exec around which events whirl. As Head of Physical Production at Capitol Pictures, he endeavours to make the grandiose ambitions of his company chiefs a reality. He has to keep egotistical actors, self-important directors and gossip-hungry press all happy. In a fantastic early scene strong enough to work as a stand-alone sketch (in which the spirits of Woody Allen or Mel Brooks might be detected), he also has to ensure the community’s religious leaders are kept sweet. His hopeless task is to secure firm guidelines on depicting the Christ from firmly opposed faiths. Because the film in current production is Hail, Caesar!, a biblical epic of the scale and evangelism epitomising fifties Hollywood. A period of unmatched opulence on screen. The backdrop: an uptight, paranoid America deep in the throes of the Cold War. Mannix’s frantic role sees him struggle to balance his work with his home life. He visits confessional daily to expunge his guilt. His problems suddenly go from bad to much worse when Baird Whitlock (George Clooney), narcissistic screen idol and the picture’s leading foot soldier, inexplicably goes missing from the set.

Meanwhile, gunslinging cowboy pin-up Hobie Doyle is being thrust into more demanding roles when studio bosses decide his career needs a makeover. Ralph Fiennes is Laurence Laurentz, the veteran British director saddled with this reluctant Yankee dumbfounded by the Queen’s English. Fiennes displays as fine a touch for comedy as he did in The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014). And Alden Ehrenreich’s Hobie is great fun, a character ridiculing shallow movie stars blessed with looks but unable to deliver a single line convincingly. Other appearances amount to little more than the briefest cameo. You might feel a little short-changed if you were looking forward to spending time in the company of Frances McDormand or Jonah Hill. Both are economically employed to say the least. Primarily, then, this is Brolin’s picture, with core comedic support coming from the captured and confused Clooney.

Watching Hail, Caesar! gives a lovely, giddy sense of being on a carousel. Spinning round and round, we come to rest on each plot strand seemingly at random. Grand set pieces are naturally woven in. A synchronised swimming routine. A song and dance number. A rousing climactic speech. All glorious motifs of cinema’s vintage years. In these scenes we sit back and enjoy the spectacle, relish being entertained as if transported back to the era the Coens are exalting. The camera melts seamlessly into the films within the film. Occasionally we are ripped out of the facade, back into the ‘reality’ of the mechanics of production. So good so meta. But never in a forced or conspicuous manner. It’s always effortless, logical, and handsome. A resounding success, despite the multiple sub-plots, is that it’s the easiest of watches.

Once the revolving action resolves, piecing the elements together with hindsight reveals that delightfully little of substance has actually happened. Yet somehow we have been hooked on every chaotic turn. Such is the absurd, self-important world Mannix inhabits. The gloriously grandiloquent, self-obsessed microcosm of movie mecca in its heyday. Hail, Caesar! might not be the most madcap caper compared to earlier Coen classics. But it is consistently entertaining, poignantly unhinged, and cheekily but honourably reverential of its subject. A multilayered love letter to the lunacy and lavishness of a lost Hollywood. What a pleasure to revisit it.

★ ★ ★ ★
 

2016
Dir: Babak Najafi

Capital Punishment

Three years after presidential bodyguard Mike Banning single-handedly saved the White House from a gargantuan terror blitz (Olympus Has Fallen, 2013), we are back in the carefree company of the man himself and his boss, his charge, but most of all his bestest buddy, THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. They are out for a run, sharing a joke. All is well. Aaron Eckhart is THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, the single greatest human achievement (obv), so he’s feeling pretty damn good. His personal security guard, the professionally fawning Gerard Butler, is looking forward to the birth of his first. Things couldn’t be better. What could possibly go wrong? Well… the British Prime Minister could die suddenly. Requiring all world leaders to gather for his funeral. In a city of such ancient historical layout it is impossible to secure. Offering a pesky terror cell a golden opportunity to wipe out all world leaders in one fell swoop and destroy multiple icons of western decadence in one of the most symbolic capitals of the free wor… Ah.

With drudging predictability this is what transpires over the next two trudging hours of London Has Fallen. The attack begins with a total lack of wit or invention. Someone just starts shooting. Like an extra caught wind of the first few pages of the script and decided an early mass mercy killing would be the greatest kindness. It’s not even clear who the terrorists are, it just appears that the entire police force has gone mental and is intent on wiping out anyone with greater authority. So no sooner have Gerard Butler and THE PREZ rolled up at St Pauls Cathedral to pay their respects, they are absconding through the quaint rat run of Ol’ London Town in Cadillac One at, considering the lunch-time traffic density, highly improbable speed.

Gerard Butler is his usual charisma void. But a vacuous aggressive lummox doing an unconvincing accent is an appropriate mascot for such dunderheaded nonsense. Morgan Freeman wades in, minimally fulfilling the ‘Add Weight to Cast’ contract. Aaron Eckhart is doing fine, he’s secured a gig playing THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. So he’s feeling pretty damn good.

Early on, endless politicians and security personnel are named and labelled, as if to prove credibility, even though all are fictional and most only feature that once. So it’s literally spelled out that the German-speaking Merkel-alike given an oh-so-symbolic white rose of peace by a young onlooker definitely is the German Chancellor. Meanwhile a slippery Berlusconi clone romances a thirty-year-old laydee (we know because she helpfully exposits that it’s her birthday) on top of Westminster Abbey. Yes, really.

[PLOT… er, ‘SPOILERS’ AHEAD!]

A visual orgy of destruction of London’s iconic landmarks is neglected in favour of a predictable and short-lived skim through a few disaster movie clichés. Some explosions near Parliament. A bridge collapses. A helicopter is downed. So we are even denied the exhilarating catharsis of seeing the capital spectacularly razed to the ground. Instead we find ourselves the uncomfortable gooseberry in a bizarre bullet-strewn bromance between Butler and The Big Boss. Once the dynamic duo has worked out where the villain’s evil lair is, they head underground and we are down in the dark with them for the interminable remainder of the running time. It’s then nothing but a tedious succession of gloomy tunnels, endless rounds of ricocheting bullets, and wise-guy wisecracks.

Butler’s highlights include, upon THE PREZ emerging from hiding in a cupboard; “I was wondering when you’d come out of the closet”, “I don’t know about you but I’m thirsty as fuck”. Followed by the downing of (nearly) a pint of water. Whattaguy. And the crowning glory “Go back to fuckhead-istan or wherever you’re from”. Speechless. I wish he had been. After recovering from such eloquence, we are simply tired and bored by the time we reach the ‘climax’, which carries no tension or jeopardy whatsoever. But thank God, Butler and THE PREZ are able to share a laugh again. All other world leaders have been horrifically slaughtered alongside countless civilians, and London’s landmarks lie in ruins. But, entirely due to Butler’s buffness, THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA is alive and well. And he’s feeling pretty damn good. And yes I did start this paragraph by saying THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA was hiding from terrorists in a cupboard.

London Has Fallen is a broken promise. A witlessly aggressive, ridiculous, boring dirge of self-worshipping USA pop-aganda. With, considering the premise and the level of violence, a disturbingly lightweight tone. Later, Butler agonises over a draft email that tenders his resignation. He hovers over the ‘delete’ and ‘send’ buttons, unable to decide. Please, Gerard Butler, save us this time. From any more. Press ‘send’.

★

2015
Dir: Tom McCarthy

Cardinal Sins

When Marty Baron took over as editor of The Boston Globe in 2001, he decided to turn his attention to a story that the paper had previously covered, but only fleetingly. One brief column piece had referred to allegations of child abuse by a Catholic priest, and the subsequent inaction of his superiors. Perhaps partially motivated by a desire to make an impact in his new position, but certainly sensing there was more to the story, he asks the Spotlight team to drop their current project and enquire further. Still active today, The Globe’s special investigation unit seeks out the hidden stories, culminating in groundbreaking, often controversial exclusives. Bound by its remit as a local paper serving the people of Boston, such scoops are not always in ready supply. Not Baron, not anyone, could have foretold the extent of what they were on the verge of uncovering here. Director and co-writer Tom McCarthy turns his cinematic torch beam onto the reporters who lifted the lid on the scandal that shamed the entire Catholic Church. Arguably, the biggest abuse scandal to have shocked the world.

The script, the plotting and the acting are all fully illuminating. There are no weak links in this fabulous ensemble play. Liev Schreiber is the sober, measured editor guided by instinct, while Michael Keaton shines as the leader who must ultimately face the most searching question of all. Rachel McAdams’ turn as the tenacious field reporter reflects the struggle to maintain objective composure in the face of sickening revelations. And Mark Ruffalo sparkles as the enthusiastic hack motivated by pure moral altruism, his best moment when his emotion overwhelms him.

Spotlight’s key strength is that it deals with the case without sensationalism. It treats it as a thoroughly engaging human drama, experienced through the domestic lives of the journalists at its heart. The disjunct between the scale of the eventual fallout and the size of the team that lit the fuse is simply staggering.

This is All The President’s Men (1976) for the digital age. The era of transparency. The era that the free expression of the Internet, then WikiLeaks, and later Snowdon ushered in. The only news capable of overshadowing the investigation is the 9/11 attack, which, for a time, waylays the paper’s fact-finding work. The downing of the twin towers highlights both the historical and the cultural context in which the revelations are unravelling. Pointedly, the Internet is referred to only once, in passing, a burgeoning medium. Its potential is just dawning. The film’s release cements a sense that the final impact of the scandal can only be properly assessed now, with hindsight. And with that perspective we see that the breaking of the story is a milestone on the path to the open information age we now live in.

Spotlight is a near perfect example of a gripping, fundamental factual drama. And an exalting tribute to the expurgating power of a democratic free press. It holds you utterly in its spell, absorbed in the extrapolating web of allegations, equally appalled at the creeping resistance that grows to mirror it. It’s hard to find words to reflect the magnitude of the abhorrence of such violations of innocence. McCarthy’s film, by unfussily depicting the details of their disclosure, is as hard-hitting as any written account could be. This was the most major betrayal of society’s trust by an institution whose very purpose should be to care for and protect it. How these horrific crimes were extricated into the harsh exposure of daylight has itself been revealed. An essential, enlightening beacon of cinema.

★ ★ ★ ★ ½

2015
Dir: Paolo Sorrentino 

Altitude Slickness

Against a sky of deep crystal blue, in the remote and heady peaks of the Swiss Alps, Michael Caine conducts a symphony of cattle, their bovine lowing and bell-chimes in harmony with the birdsong of the forest. Such a moment of preternatural surrealism is entirely in keeping with the rarefied atmosphere of Paolo Sorrentino’s handsome reverie Youth.

Retired maestro Fred Ballinger (Caine) is taking an extended holiday in this beautiful Alpine retreat, amid stars of screen, music and sport. All, naturally, are retreating from something. Ballinger spends his days taking in breathtaking vistas while strolling the mountain trails, soaking in the pool, and receiving bodily massage. He has his old friend Mick Boyle (Harvey Keitel) for company, a film director working on his latest screenplay with a retinue of wistful writers. The elderly pair reflect on their yesterdays, bemoan the deteriorations of ageing, and try to keep the intrusions of fame at bay. His assistant (Rachel Weisz) joins him after she receives devastating news and feels her own need to escape. She’s also his devoted daughter.

Events begin with Ballinger being asked to come out of retirement to perform his most famous work one last time. By royal request. A fantastically pompous Alex McQueen plays the emissary of the Crown charged with securing his agreement. Utterly dismayed, his stupefied bewilderment at someone voicing the unthinkable; saying no to Her Majesty, is a delight.

Like Ballinger, the film is distinguished yet mildly eccentric. Appropriate at this elevation, its subtly unique tone is a touch woozy, lightheaded, bordering on the unearthly. But while certain events carry a hint of the mystical, it has its other foot planted firmly, sometimes disconcertingly, in the ‘real’ world. The cameo from Paloma Faith (playing herself) is a strangely jarring diversion. One of Caine’s fellow guests is seemingly football legend Maradona. Or is it a lookalike? While Jimmy Tree, the actor portrayed by (the real) Paul Dano is entirely fictitious. Confused? Well, no, but perhaps a touch bemused, and not unpleasantly so.

Primarily though, this is a visual treat. The stunning sunlit mountainscapes provide an unfailingly gorgeous panoramic backdrop by default. Against them, Sorrentino’s elegant compositional flair is foregrounded. Every frame is artfully constructed and balanced, often with a satisfying symmetry reminiscent of Kubrick. And it’s a pleasure to eavesdrop on the warm bickering of the cantankerous central duo. Later, Jane Fonda almost upstages the two leads with a most memorable entrance. Maximising the briefest of turns, she is captivating as the belligerent and ageing screen diva Keitel professionally wants to woo.

Youth is a plaintive blend of nostalgic drama and meditative reflection, concerning the tragic consequences of the mere passing of time. It’s an aesthetically sumptuous, curiously original and mostly successful meshing of actual and imaginary. Yet, a little like the Buddhist guest striving to transcend natural laws to levitate, Sorrentino is aiming to achieve something he can’t quite reach. Set so close to the heavens, his film reaches upward to the skies, but stays awkwardly attached to its earthly moorings. While the haunting refrain of Ballinger’s signature piece stays with you, a vague sense of something lacking lingers also. Such an altitude may naturally guarantee awe-inspiring visual spectacle, but the atmosphere can feel a little thin.

★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Alejandro González Iñárritu

The Undiscovered Country

‘Visceral’ will be a popular adjective in reviews of Alejandro González Iñárritu’s latest. It pretty much resets the dial on the description. We begin among a band of 19th century frontiersmen in uncharted America. When natives attack in the opening act it is with such stunningly realised ferocity we virtually feel every axe blow, reel from every muscle-puncturing arrow. We are caught in the ambush, witnessing and sharing the disorientating panic. It is one of the most impressive fight sequences ever committed to celluloid. It sets the tone early for Iñárritu’s follow up to the highly acclaimed Birdman (2014). The Revenant could not be a more different beast.

It follows the true legend of trapper Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) who manages to escape with the precious few of his clan who flee by boat. When they continue their mission to return to the safety of their base on foot, Glass scouts ahead. Solitary and vulnerable, he disturbs a family of bears and is viciously mauled. Staggeringly, he lives. Just. Suffering horrific injury, rendered mute and immobile, his tribe are forced to continue with him borne on a stretcher. But such a fragile cargo only hampers their progress in already difficult terrain. So Glass and his son are left in the care of Fitzgerald (a grizzly Tom Hardy) and Bridger (a callow Will Poulter). They agree, for increased pay, to see him home, however long and difficult the journey. As long as he can survive it.

The core trio at the heart of the story represents the cream of contemporary Hollywood. While DiCaprio’s role entails little dialogue, it is a performance of seemingly extreme endurance, garnering extensive publicity in the run-up to Oscars season. He certainly appears to suffer for his art. As does everyone battling the elemental torture of this most punishing winter. No one can do inherent menace quite like the aptly named Hardy. His performance is brutal, primeval. And as their Captain, Domnhall Gleeson combines the inured toughness of his breed with an intelligence that justifies his superior rank.

The camera viewpoint is low, angled up at the cast, the trees, the heavens. We are down among the undergrowth, the elements. Rooted. Earthbound. Inhabiting the world at the mortal level, we are always close enough to see the physical toll it’s taking, the damage being done, every cut and blistered lip. The depiction of violence is vivid, authentic, and unprecedented. As CGI matures it sinks deeper into the fabric of film. Increasingly it is covert, integrated, subtle …and impossible to spot. The combat scenes of The Revenant exemplify the exhilaration that such a supreme blending of real and augmented makes possible.

Never has the concurrent beauty and brutality of the natural world been captured so effectively on film. You are equally in awe at the majesty of the breathtaking spectacles nature creates, and at the exceptional savagery surviving within it demands. The Revenant is an exhausting watch, but an entirely invigorating one. Gruelling, primitive, instinctive, and intense. And a simple tale of human tenacity fuelled by the powerful motivator that is revenge. Occasionally, films come along that advance the art of film-making; that push the capabilities of current technology to chart new terrain. Like the hunter-gatherers of Glass’s tribe exploiting the spoils of newly captured territory, new ground has been conquered.

★ ★ ★ ★ ½

2015
Dir: Quentin Tarantino 

‘The Thing’ from Another World

Part way through Tarantino’s eighth picture, Samuel L. Jackson orders his ragtag compadres: “Let’s slow it down. Let’s slow it waaay down.” Is Tarantino imploring today’s adrenaline-fuelled action flicks to apply the brakes? Even the relentless speed of modern life itself? Let’s slow. Things. Down. Let’s stop and smell the (blood-stained) roses.

QT’s pictures have always had a wonderfully easy, natural tempo. His characters and plots given more time to breathe. And an unhurried, relaxed pace imbues events with greater gravitas. It begins from the very first shot. The incredibly slow tracking of the opening scene demands that you must slow down. Requires that you immediately adjust to his timing. Forces you to retune to his frequency. Such pacing is a key factor in connecting his films with the classics he famously references, and in making his own work feel timeless, epic, widescreen. Never has he set such a widescreen epic in such confined quarters.

Deep winter. John “The Hangman” Ruth (Kurt Russell) is transporting his captured bounty, the fugitive Daisy Domergue (Jennifer Jason Leigh), to her appointment with the noose. A blizzard is on their tail, gaining fast. Also heading for the town of Red Rock, seeking respite from the storm, fellow bounty hunter Major Warren (Jackson) hitches a ride for himself and his corpses aboard their stagecoach. Picking up the man claiming to be the new Sheriff of the town further on, the unlikely quartet are forced to seek shelter in a remote hostelry some miles out from journey’s end. The disparate mob they encounter inside informs them that the owner is out of town. And has left them in charge…

As ever, Tarantino recycles the cinematic ingredients that have influenced him. Tempting the quintessential wild west composer Ennio Morricone out of retirement furnishes this dimly lit motion picture with an appropriately dark soundtrack. Music from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (1966) is reprised, as is his theme for the 1982 groundbreaking body horror The Thing. The central conceit of John Carpenter’s classic remake sees Kurt Russell trapped in a remote ice station, trying to figure out which of his cohorts is the imposter. Sounding familiar? Tarantino is clearly having fun, again pilfering his cinematic toy box. So too, it would seem, is Russell. Magnificently moustachioed, this most alpha of males tries to bombastically boss the band of reluctant renegades, only to trip up on the emotional vulnerability he’s overcompensating for.

Now Tarantino is on his eighth he can even include his own films in his melting pot of references. The close up on Jackson’s suspicious eyes recalls Leone’s spaghetti western masterpieces and The Bride in Kill Bill (2003-2004). Reuniting Tim Roth and Michael Madsen among a band of crooked miscreants in a claustrophobic setting will inevitably bring Reservoir Dogs (1992) to mind. You can tell Madsen is a badass just by the way he sits, while Roth is a glorious double caricature of Britishness. As the lone female of the gang, Jennifer Jason Leigh is wonderfully hopeless and depraved, latterly as blood-drenched as an homage to Carrie (1976). Despite this the violence feels toned down compared to some earlier works, a deliberately macabre, yet cartoonish brand of gore. But the picture belongs to Jackson; his commandeering presence is its heart and soul, even if his honesty is never quite assured.

As so often with Tarantino, the film’s core strength is its narrative structure. The playing with the timeline. You hang on every word, gradually accumulating the clues, trying to get the measure of the mystery, piece by piece. So by the time the final act delivers its revelations it is uncommonly satisfying.

He first strayed into the old west with 2012’s Django Unchained. The Hateful Eight sees Tarantino bed down into a genre that suits him down to the spurs, blending classic elements, including his own, remixing all through a dusty western filter. It’s hard to think of any other contemporary director who would be so at home in such wild and fertile territory. All we have to do is slow it way down and glory in it.

★ ★ ★ ½

2015
Dir: David O. Russell

Soap Queen

At a time when trailers spill an ever-increasing amount of spoilers in a competitive bid to draw audiences, Joy’s is refreshingly economic with the plot. Even reticent. We glean that it centres around a headstrong woman, her strained familial relations, and perhaps a dalliance with the business world. But precious little more. This movie is sold entirely, then, on the key personnel that bring it to us, namely Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper and writer-director David O. Russell. A reuniting of the team that delivered the huge hits Silver Linings Playbook (2012) and American Hustle (2013) carries enough weight to do so. Throw in additional players; the likes of Robert De Niro and Isabella Rossellini, and the deal is sealed. The production company presumably decided that revealing it’s a biopic of the ‘miracle mop’ inventor would be a tough sell. Unlike, in the end, her mops.

Shrewdly vague in crediting its source material, the nearest the film gets to specifying its real-life origin is the opening message “Inspired by the true stories of daring women. One in particular.” While certainly an interpretation of the perilous journey to eventual success of Joy Mangano, surrounding marketing hesitantly points out that it is semi-biographical. What is fact and what is fiction remains unclear.

We glimpse Joy’s childhood; her frolicking in the snow with her half-sister, channelling her fledgling creativity into making paper cut-out toys, and being emphatically informed by her grandmother that she will achieve great things in life. All too soon, Joy is looking back on the lost idyll of her youth from the viewpoint of motherhood, a failed marriage, and her own divorced parents, who cannot even address each other without descending into ornament smashing incivility. By this time, Joy is the central supporting joist of this particularly dysfunctional family. Not only her child, but her ex-husband, her psychologically bedridden mother and her cantankerous dad all depend on her capability to get each of them through the day. Thus her capricious home life is endlessly testing. You wonder how she has not caved under the pressure already.

In the telling, watching the tale unfold with no knowledge of its core premise is hugely to its advantage. The path of the plot feels as unpredictable as the domestic melange Joy is constantly trying to manage. Driven by desperation, her inspiration for a more user-friendly floor cleaner is an incisive culmination of her childhood creativity and her adult practicality. It’s an idea she knows in her bones has potential to, ahem, ‘clean up’. If only she could find a way to bring it to market.

Lawrence’s steely performance anchors a chaotically vibrant family drama with a bullish determination. Naturally, she wipes the floor with those who dare to cross her. Bradley Cooper shines, playing off her corporate naivety as the polished TV exec with just enough of a chink in his emotional armour to let Joy through. The newly dating De Niro and Rosselini add a fine splash of colour; him with the bulldozing tactlessness of a rueful divorcee demanding romance in his ‘third age’, her with a hardened but tacky continental glamour. Meanwhile, her mother (a fraught Virginia Madsen) is terminally plugged into the gaudy soap opera that contextualises the actual melodrama playing out before us. Subtly amplifying the sense of reality, it imbues the picture with the slightest touch of magical realism that raises Joy’s story out of the humdrum and into the mythic.

And so, that wise reticence of the trailer pays enormous dividends. So much so, a lack of foreknowledge feels fundamental to this film’s success. Follow your heart despite seemingly insurmountable odds is the picture’s joyful message. It’s hardly the most original Hollywood moral. Yet something in the telling, something in the proof that an object literally as dull as dishwater has the potential to be entirely transformative elevates Joy to something approaching a real-life fairy tale.

★ ★ ★ ½

2015
Dir: J. J. Abrams

A New Hope

And so, the time is finally upon us. Time to open what feels like the most widely anticipated Christmas present of all time. Expectation simply could not be higher for J.J. Abrams’ reinvigoration of the Star Wars universe, the most fondly regarded of all movie worlds.

It’s a full decade since Revenge Of The Sith (2005) offered its climactic setting up of 1977’s trailblazer. Until you remember that he sold the franchise for a trifling $4 billion, it’s possible to feel fleetingly sorry for George Lucas. New owners Disney roundly rejected the original creator’s story ideas for episodes seven to nine. Instead, fresh blood director Abrams is joined by another Star Wars stalwart; Lawrence Kasdan, co-screenwriter of Empire Strikes Back (1980) and Return of the Jedi (1983). After the slow-paced, ponderous groundwork laying of Lucas’s CGI-heavy and widely derided prequels, their task was always to re-establish this new (ad)venture in the used, ‘real world’ feel of the first trilogy. To restore the spirit, the excitement, the verve. The unparalleled thrill.

What we get is an orgy of homage: a fizzing, joy-filled romp through a familiar and much-loved galaxy. And a galaxy as infinitely rich as Lucas’ initial inception now offers seemingly endless delights. Constructed from the elemental building blocks of the originals, the iconography and references just keep on coming. From the awe-inspiring slow crawl of the star destroyer in the opening shot, all the recognisable motifs are updated, regenerated, renewed. BB-8 is a refined, even cuter take on R2D2, a mascot who perfectly epitomises this new incarnation: distilled, honed …speedier! Adam Driver’s Kylo Ren is superbly menacing as this instalment’s primary villain. Echoing the importance of Vader’s voice to his fearsome presence, Ren’s seething speech is genuinely unsettling. And that he might be at least a little unstable is entirely logical within the plot. It’s one example of perhaps the film’s neatest trick. Each familiar and celebrated Star Wars trope is justifiably reaffirmed by the tale Abrams and Kasdan have chosen to weave.

The greatest delight is the welcome return of a humorous touch. And crucially it’s the dry, self-aware mockery of the initial trilogy, not the misplaced and obtrusively childish ‘funnies’ of The Phantom Menace (1999) et al. And best of all, this includes the baddies. The First Order are a next generation of dark side, worshipping and vainly wanting to be acknowledged alongside the Sith of yore. They are, then, a fanatical faction, a band of radical extremists. In Kylo Ren’s unrestrained anger, and in General Hux’s (Domhnall Gleeson) overzealous address to the massed troops, we witness the extremity of their beliefs, and it carries a feint hint of the ridiculous. With clear current relevance, surprisingly it brings to mind the expert satirising of the violent fanatic’s absurdity in Chris Morris’ Four Lions (2010).

Of the new characters, Supreme Leader Snoke is the only weak link, a motion-capture creation reminiscent of Potter’s nemesis, Voldemort. With Harrison Ford passing 70, Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) is the heir to the hotshot fighter pilot hotseat. But while the film’s raison d’être is to repackage and redeliver the fundamental essentials of what made the first films so enjoyable in a contemporary form, its new stars deliberately reflect a society that has advanced light years in the intervening decades. Daisy Ridley’s Rey is a dynamic, suitably awe-struck fortune hunter, and John Boyega’s Finn is finely frenetic as the First Order fugitive. Both are excellently energized by this new surge of the force.

This is a film that fully understands the weight of expectation on its shoulders and there are wry nods to the awesome scale of the task throughout. It’s neatly reflected in the title itself. It encapsulates both the central tenet of the plot, and the uniquely huge cultural impact of this singular cinematic event. That it does cling so tightly to the formula of the originals is the only criticism possible. In a cold and dispassionate light, its symbolisms and plot conventions blatantly reheat the classic trilogy’s ingredients. But when this is what the fans so desperately wanted, can this be held against it? Lucas’ maligned prequels, by carving a template that was ultimately rejected, are therefore as much of an influence on this episode as the holy trinity of the initial three.

Abrams delivers what was newly hoped for, and then some. The result is a film that has a unique potential for impact and enjoyment. For a certain generation; for those who have the groundbreaking thrills of Star Wars etched into their DNA at the most formative age, the two hours in which The Force Awakens feel like the most entertaining movie experience currently possible.

★ ★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Steven Spielberg

Cold Comfort

Any film would be proud to claim the singular involvement of Steven Spielberg, Tom Hanks or Mark Rylance. To be able to boast all three in one venture stands Bridge Of Spies on remarkably firm foundations. The overriding emotion when greeted with this movie’s clientele is of knowing we are in good hands. Arguably, the very best. Spielberg’s association with Hanks stretches back to Saving Private Ryan in ’98. They’ve collaborated since on various big screen outings, and also as co-producers of the HBO series Band Of Brothers (2001) and The Pacific (2010). Those acclaimed TV projects dramatised the moving and harrowing experiences of surviving World War 2 veterans. This latest joint venture shifts focus forward in time to the subtler, darker, more insidious tones of the Cold War, based on true experiences of attorney Jim Donovan (Hanks) in late fifties New York. That the pair has tempted Mark Rylance to the fold is noteworthy. One of the most highly renowned actors working today, his is a reputation for often resisting grandiose Hollywood fare such as this in favour of smaller scale theatre work.

Rylance is Rudolf Abel, alleged Russian spy, trailed and seized by the FBI in the film’s pacy opening gambit. Hanks is the attorney tasked with defending him. Such a high profile case will doubtless attract the world’s media. And a figure as hated as a captured secret agent could easily face a biased hearing. So, for the credibility of U.S. justice itself, it’s crucial Abel gets a fair trial. Donovan’s supreme reputation sees him specifically chosen for the role.

And thus, Rylance and Hanks are thrown together in a series of fantastically engaging two-handers early on. The former’s stagecraft is a masterclass in subtlety; relaxed, laconic, even soporific. Donovan notes Abel’s extraordinary composure considering the accusations levelled at him. Hanks could have passed similar comment on his co-star’s differing approach to acting. The two are wonderfully contrasting and complementary. Hanks’ trademark blend of Hollywood stardom with everyman persona radiates effortlessly from the screen, while Rylance’s portrayal is restrained, diffident, covert. Spielberg’s touch is similarly understated. Felt rather than overtly showcased. Apart from one pivotal and breathtaking action sequence, the direction is sturdy, statuesque, and classy. Shots feel as attentively crafted as the ornate woodcarvings that decorate the period legal offices and courtrooms we move between.

One curious note is the amount of sniffling in the picture. Rylance is continually using a handkerchief to dab at and blow his nose, part of a convincing portrayal of an unassuming individual’s bodily traits. It works. Such a mundane and common physical detail of everyday life never usually figures amid the glossy sheen of American cinema. Yet then, as if to press the authenticity home further, when the trail leads Hanks to the snow-swept back streets of East Berlin in the second half, he catches a cold and is forever dabbing at his nose. Thus we witness both lead’s take on the portrayal of a head cold. It’s as if they’re engaged in some sort of ‘cold’ war…

This gentle thriller feels perfectly attuned to the Sunday afternoon slot. Thoroughly gripping, but holding the audience in the most comforting of grips. Though there is one nod to the convention, this is not a breathlessly paced noir, with threatening shadows chasing their quarry down dark alleyways; this is a script-led drama of political negotiation. It cannot be considered among Spielberg’s best; an interior-set dialogue piece cannot fairly be compared with the peerless thrills of his family-oriented fantasy adventures. And while it’s possibly a touch long, you really don’t mind when it’s a pleasure just to be in such easy, professional company as Hanks.

Bridge of Spies tells the patriotic story of an everyday citizen influencing American politics at the highest of levels. The tense climax is visually iconic, and followed by a thoroughly satisfying and heartening denouement. It’s hard to ignore the feeling that this is a legendary director on moderate, safe form, against a back catalogue that countlessly proves he’s capable of more impactful thrills. Those expecting such spills could be disappointed. But this is mature, late period Spielberg and compelling, significant storytelling of the highest class and authorit… Hang on, I think I’m gonna sneeze…

★ ★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Danny Boyle 

The Macintosh Man

Perhaps the single most influential person on our current digital age, a cinematic treatment of Steve Jobs’ life was sure to follow his early passing from cancer in 2011 at only fifty-six. In fact, this is already the second attempt to dispel the myths and allege a ‘true’ account of his life on film. The first out of the blocks, 2013’s Jobs starring Ashton Kutcher, suffered from poor critical reception and rejection by his Apple associates. This former poor-performing venture, and the watchful eye of those close to the man himself, only heap extra pressure on Danny Boyle’s system reboot.

A man with a fearsome reputation for ego-driven dictatorship and viewed in some quarters as the technological messiah should provide a rich standpoint from which to examine our burgeoning and rapidly expanding tech universe. Shouldn’t he? The job facing Boyle is ultimately to translate the conception and marketing of a new computer operating system into an engaging and exciting drama. It’s an ambitious program. Employing wordsmith Aaron Sorkin, the man who successfully converted the computer coded foundations of Facebook into the uniquely gripping and Oscar-winning thriller The Social Network (2010) brings on board the most appropriately qualified screenwriter to assist.

Boyle’s familiar bold panache is present, but only fleetingly, mainly when the action skips forward in time to the next of the three product launches upon which the story hangs. Ingeniously, all the action takes place backstage, in the immediate run-up to these key announcements. Thus the drama takes place behind the curtain, against the backdrop of what is actually in front of the stage, namely the expectant and adoring crowds who fill the auditoria, unable to contain their giddy excitement. In trademark Sorkin style the movie revolves wholly around speech. Every utterance is rattled off, rapid-fire, rich, every scene comprising a two or three-handed dialogue. As a result the tone is deeply theatrical, emphasised by the canny inversion-of-stage set up. Fundamental plot points (Jobs’ and Steve Wozniak’s garage-bound inception of their early prototype, Jobs later being fired from the board) play out in similarly quick-fire flashbacks, induced by a moment of heightened anger, racing through the minds of the players, fuelling their passion.

While Kutcher’s earlier portrayal was, in isolation, acclaimed, man of the moment Michael Fassbender’s dissimilarity to Jobs is problematic. We are constantly reminded that we are watching an actor at work, rather than simply accepting and investing in the character. That his personality was ‘difficult’ is depicted plainly, never sensationalised. The only themes to recur through all three acts are his denial of paternal responsibility and his refusal to acknowledge the team behind the Apple II, the computer that launched the company. Someone so driven, so convinced of his own radical vision at the expense of all others would never win friends easily. His relationship with Wozniak (Seth Rogen) slowly atrophies while Kate Winslet expertly relays the remarkable resilience of his persistently patient P.A. But the tone is never disapproving, and even ends on a note of (ambiguously presented) praise.

What remains is a story that is interesting, but little more. Despite Boyle’s flamboyant touch, this is an inevitably dry affair. It always feels too script heavy, too lacking in action to win over the mainstream audience. But as I write this in a café dotted with the white luminescence of MacBooks and iPhones, the company that Jobs founded is by far the biggest global brand, dwarfing rivals Microsoft, Google and Facebook. How its uncompromising leading light laid the groundwork for that dominance feels an important story to tell. It opens with Jobs angrily demanding that the 1984 Macintosh says “hello”, a powerfully symbolic counteraction of the inherent and alienating coldness of technology. This need to make the high-tech world welcoming, user-friendly, compensated by cuddliness in order to win human acceptance has become the defining marketing style of our online era. Earlier advertising that aligned Jobs and his company with visionaries like Einstein, Picasso and Gandhi may seem arrogant with hindsight. But we all now live in the world that perhaps only Steve Jobs foresaw. This aloof, cold-blooded picture would seem to be a fitting portrait.

★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Sam Mendes

Spectral Analysis

Nine years on, it’s possible to forget the magnitude of the shift in tone achieved by Daniel Craig’s first Bond outing, Casino Royale (2006). In the wake of the crunching realism of The Bourne Identity (2002) and its sequels, it was the most pronounced stylistic change in the franchise’s history. This was a desperately needed embracing of a hard-hitting physicality, a jettisoning of the arched eyebrows and invisible car high jinks of the out-dated and poorly received Brosnan era. Quantum of Solace (2008), conceived as a leaner, sharper follow up, but stymied by the Hollywood writer’s strike, only resulted in a baffling plot and a weak villain. To carry the weight of the brand’s fiftieth anniversary four years later, Skyfall (2012) critically needed to restore credibility. And boy, did it. Especially in the London-centric celebrations of the Olympic year, the capital-based epic succeeded majestically in delivering one of the most purely exciting adventures in the iconic spy’s canon.

With the same team reunited for Bond’s latest, including Sam Mendes in the director’s chair, expectations are high for Spectre. What we really want is Skyfall 2. Bond 24, in fact, takes a less pronounced, but just as deliberate tonal shift as Casino. With those earlier successes firmly under his belt, Craig no longer has to win over the doubters. The indulgences of Moore and Brosnan are squarely laid to rest. Fondly remembered maybe, but from a safe distance. So for the first time, this instalment needs to offer something more, something beyond the freshness of the newly cut template. What we do get is a manoeuvring towards the familiar iconography of Bond legend. Vodka Martinis, the Aston Martin, ejector seats, a boat chase down the Thames… it is so heavy with references to earlier works it occasionally comes across like a greatest hits package.

The something more that is yearned for, then, is proffered by Christoph Waltz. If the baddies that Craig has previously faced are the weak links of the new era (it being increasingly hard to draw up strong, original villains), Waltz personifies an attempt at the first truly iconic super-villain of the new regime. He is surely born to play the contemporary Bond nemesis, at once debonair, disturbingly precise, and practically unhinged. Following his early appearance in sinister silhouette, much is made of the build up to his reveal, taking our hero the majority of the running time to track him down. But once he finally does step out of the shadows, Waltz is curiously under-used. Thus the third act is the weakest, with a climax that is all too easily resolved, unable to live up to expectation after such an effective build up. Because the journey to get there is very enjoyable. Each set piece may feel slightly too familiar to be regarded ‘classic’, but the country-hopping pace, mood of underlying menace and ferocious brawls along the way all satisfy thoroughly on the big screen.

Spectre represents an attempt to weave the brilliantly hard-won brutality of Craig’s tenure back into more familiar, clearly sign-posted Bond territory. The world’s premier assassin might not be signing off each dispatched baddie with a punning quip, but we are beginning to re-taste the tongue-in-cheek humour that the previous three instalments had deftly left behind. It is an engagingly gripping global escapade that will satisfy both Bond devotees and agnostic action fans alike. But in the light of the magnificent forward strides made by Casino and Skyfall, it’s just a shame that it feels a little too much like a tentative step backward.

★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Yorgos Lanthimos

Shellfish Behaviour

From the moment Colin Farrell checks in, informing the hotel receptionist that the sheepdog at his side is “my brother …he didn’t make it”, we realise we are decidedly not in familiar movie terrain. We have already been sideswiped by an unexpectedly brutal pre-title sequence, the meaning of which we hope will become clear. If it’s the deciphering of heavily laden symbolism we are after, the following two hours of The Lobster give us plenty to get our canines into.

Farrell is told what limited facilities his single status allows him access to, asked what animal he would like to transform into should he not make it, and fitted with a chastity lock. His selection of lobster, on account of its longevity and fertility, is hailed as an insightful choice. He finds his table and chats uncomfortably with the other male diners, all intent on finding a suitable suitor from the array of equally awkward females.

At night the ‘guests’ go hunting in the woods, trapping ‘loners’ with tranquilizer darts, every catch offering the potential to extend their stay, and thereby their life as a human. For the only way to avoid conversion to beast is to successfully pair off with an appropriate other. Faced with such a dire inevitability, these ‘inmates’ (the more appropriate term) are forced to seek the most tenuous similarities, going to extreme lengths to find the ‘perfect’ mate. Ben Whishaw, for one, violently induces nosebleeds in order to share the affliction of his intended. And this dark turn is just for starters…

What follows is a mundane nightmare of stifling rigmarole, infringement of regulation, and strained propositions. All dialogue is stilted, removed, hyperreal, utterly devoid of emotion or warmth. It’s like the central tenet of unfiltered honesty mined for purely comedic purpose in Ricky Gervais’s The Invention of Lying (2009) taken to its disturbingly illogical extreme.

The wonderfully eclectic cast is as unpredictable as the jarring dystopia we find ourselves trapped in. Farrell shines as the hopeless bachelor mustering his very last iota of free will in order to challenge his fate. Ashley Jensen, on the other hand, is resigned to hers, and is piteously downtrodden and despairing. Olivia Coleman is in fine form as the hotel matriarch, imperiously stern but equally happy to turn to song to oil the wheels of engagement at the painfully stiff dance events. And in a role diametrically opposed to her Bond girl turn in Spectre (2015), concurrently in cinemas, Lea Seydoux leads the faction of loner rebels, aided by a fantastically unassuming Michael Smiley. Among their number is the headstrong Rachel Weisz, to whom Farrell is eventually drawn, an attraction that will lead them both down the darkest of pathways.

Head-spinningly odd initially, and lurking in the murky recesses between comedy and allegory, this is one grim fairy tale. Amusing, but disconcertingly so, unsettling, and often shocking, its central premise is impressively daring for a film boasting such a well-known cast. Benefitting from the restricting confines of the hotel setting, the first half strikes a uniquely original tone of surreal black comedy. When the action widens out into the woods in the second hour, the metaphors are extended, the tone darkens further, and the concept shows signs of creaking under its own portentous weight.

The Lobster examines the harmful nature of compromise by being thoroughly uncompromising. A parallel parable of modern love, set in a microcosm of bizarrely painful honesty, it asks how much we each hurt our true selves by coupling. Against the shallow backdrop of instant dating and swiped rejections on mobile apps, it’s a deep rumination on the potential self-harm of conjoining with another, and a tirade against society’s anti-singledom bias. If the contemporary world is designed for couples but we are all fundamentally alone, how much do we willingly damage ourselves to fit in?

To fully digest this bewilderingly rich morality play may take some time upon leaving the cinema and reintegrating into ‘normal’ society. But with a brilliant and subtly ambiguous final scene, The Lobster’s bleak and incendiary interrogation of social pressure will stay with you. Whether you want it to or not.

★ ★ ★ ★

2015
Dir: Ridley Scott

Low Gravity

Ridley Scott follows up the muted reaction to his biblical Exodus: Gods and Kings (2014) and the never-going-to-live-up-to-the-hype Alien (1979) prequel Prometheus (2012) with a return visit to outer space. In the light of those earlier outlandish fantasies The Martian feels, ironically, like a more down-to-earth tale.

On one of the first manned explorations of Mars (the year is unspecified), Mark Watney (Matt Damon) becomes separated from his team when a violent storm rushes in and forces the crew to abort mission and scarper. His bio-monitor shows no signs of life so they reluctantly blast off with a poignantly empty seat on board. It’s only the monitor that’s been fatally damaged though, and our stranded soul soon comes round, bruised, bothered and bewildered. Left for dead on the red planet. Marooned, in fact. Watney struggles to safety to tend his wounds, while NASA announces his death to a shocked press conference and wider world. And while Lewis (Jessica Chastain) captains her depleted crew back to Earth, her missing scientist is soon recovered and attempting to make primitive contact with mission control back home.

Seeing Chastain conquer the stars is oddly cathartic, a residual effect of witnessing her character’s paternal loss to the skies in Nolan’s Interstellar (2014). Chiwetel Ejiofor, puzzling over whether rescue is even possible, is one of the few cast members to successfully convey the import of the situation. Jeff Daniels, Sean Bean and, unexpectedly, Kristen Wiig populate the upper echelons of NASA, but there is something too informal, too relaxed about their interactions. Bean, especially, seems uncomfortably out of place. Wiig is clearly staking an actorly claim beyond her comedic comfort zone. If she is wishing for a pertinent drama with gravitas she need keep searching.

Because gravity is lacking from this space epic. Scott’s quest to deliver an uplifting feel-good morality tale from an unimaginably isolating tragedy creates a curiously confused atmosphere. Once Watney has solved the singular issue of his dwindling rations he would appear to be home free, merrily counting down the days, spirits buoyed by the disco playlist his departed crew has left behind. No mention is made of how a lone human would cope with the most extreme solitude, the agoraphobia, the abandonment; concepts so eloquently tackled in the superior Moon (2009). A mission to Mars would naturally require a personality brimming with the mythical ‘right stuff’ famously demanded of astronauts, and Damon is well cast to convey such strength of character. But one yearns for a single convincing touch of darkness, of struggle, of battling the inevitable psychological demons. Fiction demands the willing suspension of disbelief of course, but here an all-pervading tone of cheerful breeziness results in an absence of impact.

Inhabiting the space where Gravity (2013) intersects with Cast Away (2000), The Martian is an enjoyable and fun far-fetched yarn. Particularly, one cannot help get tangled up in a finely gripping climax. But the lightness of tone throughout remains at odds with the uniquely momentous premise. Matt Damon is left to his own red dead redemption. We leave the cinema with a strangely inappropriate weightlessness.

★ ★ ½

2014
Dir: Alejandro González Iñárritu

Bald Ego

The central casting of Michael Keaton in Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman is an inspired choice. Immediately it hints at a playful, self-reflexive work likely to have Hollywood in its sights. Utilising the guy who made Batman flesh a quarter-century ago as an ageing thespian keen to move on from long-gone superhero glories to be taken ‘seriously’ is an unambiguous, wonderfully preloaded set-up. Peek beyond the stage curtain, however, and the frenetic Birdman has many more feathers in its cap.

Riggan Thomson (Keaton) is launching a counter attack on the critical elite that has decreed he is a spent acting irrelevance. He’s mounting a new theatre production on Broadway. But there is trouble in the wings. Haunted by the film’s title character, he’s unable to escape the fantasy hero he’s most known for. As the pressure mounts in the run-up to opening, that fantasy bleeds increasingly into reality. Throw in a questionable stage ‘accident’ that waylays a key cast member, and the meltdown ingredients are perfectly mixed for someone already doing his utmost to keep psychological crisis at bay.

Michael Keaton brilliantly inhabits the harried star making a last claw at credibility. Always in a flap, he’s continually stalked by the sneering shadow of former commercial success. And flocking around the balding, despairing Thomson is a particularly fine ensemble cast. Zach Galifianakis plays against well-established comic type as the producer trying to keep control of proceedings. When the man known for a much more manic brand of comedy is touted as the level-headed problem solver of the enterprise, the whole venture gains a barely-held-together, teetering-on-the-edge excitement in one fell swoop. Edward Norton is clearly relishing vamping it up as Mike, the cocksure and arrogant eleventh hour substitute. His narcissistic indulgences only add to the threat to topple the production from within. To balance, Naomi Watts counteracts his volatility with the serious focus of an aspiring actress. Her beady eye is trained solely on advancing her career. While Emma Stone, alienated daughter sick of her dad’s self-obsession, could be interpreted as the disdain today’s media savvy youth has for a movie industry struggling to keep up with its most vital demographic.

The film’s key strength, though, is its staging. In the style of Hitchcock’s Rope (1948) or the technically stunning Russian Ark (2002), it’s mounted as a ‘one take’ presentation. We follow Riggan and company, pinballing from wings to stage, outside to Broadway and back, in one ‘never ending’ shot. It is a logistical masterwork. Echoing Hitchcock’s early classic, the edit points are easy to spot, if you’re looking out for them, but they never detract from the momentum as we careen through the chaos. Spontaneous disarray of this degree takes meticulous direction of the finest precision.

Beyond placing Hollywood under the spotlight, Birdman spreads its wings further to prey on the fallibilities of the psyche in all dramatic arts. Confidence, fragility, infatuation, pretension, delusion, self-doubt, self-loathing …all the characters collide, fuse and spark off each other, informing a fraught contemplation of the actor’s trade. Such inward examination may raise the hackles on the necks of some, but it is a fitting expression of the very egotism under review.

Thomson is a joyously flawed antihero of comic anxiety, his alter ego a terrifying spectre of self-judgement. As ramshackle in its styling as the clattering soundtrack, their interwoven story threatens to tumble out of the sky at every turn. But uplifted by a uniquely original concoction of premise, production and players, Birdman ultimately soars to the highest of perches.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

2014
Dir: Ava DuVernay

King Power

At the heart of Ava DuVernay’s stirring Martin Luther King biopic is a central performance that has unsurprisingly dominated the critical spotlight. David Oyelowo’s portrayal rightfully deserves all acclaim. But to focus on him alone threatens to depict it as one-man show, and overlook a quality ensemble cast that cements it as one of the year’s most satisfying pictures.

‘Biopic’ is not even the appropriate label, for this is not the unexpurgated cradle-to-grave history that could be expected – which Hollywood, surprisingly, is yet to produce. Selma instead concentrates on the few short months of 1965 that saw public marches demanding equal voting rights in Alabama. As well as giving these momentous events the import they deserve, to focus on a short period in detail is arguably a more potent way of revealing the depths of King’s character than might be achieved in a necessarily truncated full life pic.

Oyelowo’s mesmerising performance understands that the only really successful way to capture the charisma of Martin Luther King is to be equally charismatic. Attempting a direct impression would always fall short. We, the viewers, are placed among his disaffected congregation, and, emphasised by that viewpoint, his speeches are just as passionately delivered, just as motivating by result.

Tom Wilkinson’s turn as Lyndon B. Johnson has been overshadowed (naturally, with considerably less screen time) but it is one of poise and complexity. He reflects the President’s need to carefully balance his sympathy for King’s cause with his entrenched position as chief of state. The dominant white hegemony he heads up is personified by Tim Roth in fantastically oily, sneering form, as unapologetic supremacist Governor Wallace.

And beyond this central trio, of British talent incidentally, is a cast of the firmest foundations. As the civil rights movement’s figurehead, King was supported by a team of tireless devotees. In parallel, Oyelowo’s performance is founded on a host of invariably solid acting turns. Carmen Ejogo plays his wife, Giovanni Ribisi is the President’s right hand man, while Oprah Winfrey, Common, and The Wire’s Wendell Pierce all feature. The result is a picture of rare heft and integrity.

The marches across the Edmund Pettus Bridge form the focal moments. King’s protesters defiantly return to the scene after the unprovoked bloodshed of the initial clash, and the film revisits the same real-life location to depict the brutality in harrowing, shocking detail. The clear and tangible goal of the demonstrators offers potential for a deeply satisfying plot conclusion. But the most moving individual storyline might be that of Cager Lee. Having lost his grandson Jimmie Lee Jackson in the first outbreak of violence he marches for his right to vote at the age of eighty-four.

He lived through a period where, from today’s perspective, it is most shocking to confront how banal, how embedded, how understood as ‘the natural order of things’ racism was. It is a double-edged illumination that we have, thanks to activists like King, advanced so far since that time. It also throws into sharp relief the repugnance of any racist behaviour we are still forced to confront to this day. On the very date I saw Selma, the news reports that a group of football fans have pushed a black commuter off a Paris metro train while chanting racist slogans. Cager Lee would have been ashamed.

★ ★ ★ ★

2014
Dir: Christopher Nolan

From Here to Paternity

The key characteristic of a Christopher Nolan film is an atmosphere of gaining momentum. From simple foundations events steadily unfold, evenly building pace towards a revelatory but equally measured crescendo. Interstellar is his latest ascendant project and promises to launch us on the most far-reaching journey yet.

In the near future, ex-NASA pilot and single parent farmer Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) scratches out a living for his young family harvesting the dying Earth’s scant resources. Farming has become the dominant industry; the most noble, altruistic calling left to those who number the planet’s final generations. It’s a desperate living blighted further by the colossal dust storms that ravage the landscape. Investigating strange gravitational patterns in the residue after one such storm lead father and daughter to a hidden NASA compound. Within, ageing astrophysicist Professor Brand (Michael Caine) tells of a newly discovered wormhole. It’s a potential gateway to numerous planets offering hope of habitation. Hope of survival for humanity. If only he had someone to helm a mission to explore it. Someone with just the ‘right stuff’ Cooper embodies…

The initial marvel of Nolan’s Escher-like puzzle box is young Murph. Mackenzie Foy’s heartfelt performance is immediately engaging. When she faces her dad’s departure, without warning we are immersed in an enormously affecting scene. An unexpectedly strong emotional punch that’s disquieting to take so early in the tale, it casts a long(ing) shadow over all subsequent events.

Cooper’s co-pilots include Brand’s daughter (an icy Anne Hathaway) and the ship’s unlikely robotic aid. TARS is an artificial intelligence that defies expectation. With no direct big screen predecessors, he’s an emblem of a science fiction that will confound. Vocal about his love for 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Nolan seems keen to create something equally awe-inspiring. But, crucially, considering the vast influence of Kubrick’s work spanning out before Interstellar, by guiding us on an alternative trajectory. TARS is symbolic of the contrast.

As the crew ventures deeper into their visually spectacular, dimension-bending journey, toward black holes and uncharted worlds, the tone remains one of dispassionate display. An objective viewpoint humbly relates events, devoid of subtext. Each element is painstakingly placed, with meticulous accuracy, layer upon layer, gradually assembling the pictorial Tower of Babel. Fundamental to this woozy sense of incremental acceleration is the soundtrack. Beautifully haunting themes repeat, build, repeat, until one feels disconcertingly, yet appropriately and pleasurably, adrift.

Nolan is at the forefront of our current cinematic age. He presents works that contemplate post 9/11 themes, reinventing the art by deconstructing it down to its core elements, and building it back up to something greater than the sum of the parts. Having established his blueprint, here he has produced another classic. It follows in the wake of the trailblazing terrorist triptych, the Dark Knight trilogy (2005 – 2012), and his journey to the centre of the subconscious, Inception (2010). In their reflected light, Interstellar’s stylistic tropes make it the first of his output to feel like we’ve landed on familiar terrain. Even if it is partially eclipsed by these earlier, fresher feeling works, the scale of this singular astronomic achievement should not be devalued.

It may recall 2001 but this is a more successfully intimate sci-fi, by examining truly universal issues, and from the furthest possible distances. Interstellar elegantly charts the volatile emotional orbits of the father-daughter bond when stretched to the widest reaches of space. Spellbinding.

★ ★ ★ ★

 

2014
Dir: Theodore Melfi

Saints Row

Bill Murray, venerated head grouch of Hollywood, finds himself in that rarefied league of the acting establishment in his later years. He can afford to recline on a hard-earned and justified reputation from a fine, often classic, back catalogue. Now he need only be distracted by those few choice scripts that perpetuate both that reputation and his trademark character: a grumpy, laconic, world-weary curmudgeon protecting a bruised heart of gold. St. Vincent certainly fits this Bill.

In the first feature length directorial outing from Theodore Melfi we meet Murray as Vincent. He’s the nightmare next door when Maggie (Melissa McCarthy) and her young son Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher) move to the neighbourhood. Their clumsy removal men destroy his obligatory picket fence in the process, forcing an initial front yard stand off. But Oliver soon ends up in Vin’s charge when school bullies steal his house keys, and his time-poor single mum reluctantly accepts a necessary childcare solution. So begins a classic ‘Odd Couple’ style relationship, between sweet young innocent and aged cantankerous gripe. The elder is at first despairing, but soon keen to initiate his unsullied charge in the ways of the world. To square up to a screen presence of the likes of Murray requires an actor of no small charisma and Lieberher measures up. As the stereotypes of bad behaviour are ticked off… gambling, fighting, drinking… we witness Oliver’s previously protected naivety skilfully chipped away with each dawning realisation of adulthood. Only the very hardest of hearts would fail to find some poignancy in the pairing at the story’s heart.

Beyond the rich contrast of the central duo is a solid, if familiar, ensemble cast. Melissa McCarthy and Chris O’Dowd appear in parallel again, as per previous comedies Bridesmaids (2011) and This Is 40 (2012). It’s as if, together, they signify the contemporary stamp of comedy validation. McCarthy continues to impress, in a role allowing her to expand beyond well-worn comic sensibilities. She portrays the struggle of a working mother embroiled in a bitter divorce suit, while O’Dowd offers benevolent solace as Oliver’s wisecracking religious teacher Brother Geraghty. It is only Naomi Watts’ Daka who feels incongruous. The character blurs the line between Vin’s paid escort and fully paid-up girlfriend. As a deliberately comedic turn, complete with caricatured Russian accent, it is pitched beyond the gentle comedy of the rest, and is conspicuous by result.

By the time we reach the finale, Vincent’s redemption is complete. A school-bound set piece makes no apology for overt sentimentality. Indeed the whole venture may be neatly contrived and emotionally manipulative, but when it is a pleasure to be manipulated in this way, one happily relents. In fact, the depiction of certain serious plot turns within the conventions of comic drama gives the film a fresh, original tone. But this is not without danger. The brisk pace of the genre occasionally skips along faster than developments warrant, and dictates a lightweight breeziness that can feel at odds with decidedly unfunny events. Maggie’s rueful legal battle with her estranged ex is smoothed over in the final act, for example. Ultimately, any odd couplings of mood are few, and greatly outweighed by an all-pervading air of appreciative gratitude. The lesson personified by the newly canonized Saint Vincent, and evangelized by Melfi’s sweet cinematic sermon, is one of giving thanks in the face of adversity. Whatever scars life has left you with, however much you have earned the reputation of world-weary grouch, always remember to cherish the blessings with which you have been administered.

★ ★ ★

2014
Dir: Yann Demange

 Trouble Shooting

Jack O’Connell is often referred to as ‘rising star’ of the Brit acting school. He certainly shone in the efficiently menacing Eden Lake (2008), and the underrated tongue-in-cheek horror fun of Tower Block (2012), to name but two. Now he is earning lead roles wherein he can deliver on earlier promise. Hot on the heels of 2013’s prison set Starred Up comes ’71, first directorial feature of Yann Demange. It takes us right to the burning heart of The Troubles in Northern Ireland, seen through the reluctant eyes of an inexperienced rookie recruit.

O’Connell is Private Hook, new soldier in training. His regiment is unexpectedly deployed to Belfast to lend support in the worsening tensions between Protestant and Catholic factions on the capital’s frontline. In the chaos following an eruption of latent violence, Hook is separated from the troops. Stranded, he finds himself in an unsettlingly domestic enemy territory formed of battle-scarred backyards and burnt out terrace blocks.

Co-produced by Warp Films, curators of the superbly disturbing Dead Man’s Shoes (2004) and Shane Meadows’ sparky This Is England (2006), this is similarly gritty fare. It may share production DNA with these earlier works, but is an even more intense offering, a realistic reproduction of the mundane and brutal hostilities of recent memory. The colour palette is relentlessly dreary, all drab browns and dull oranges, from the dirty peeling patterned wallpaper, to the sodium streetlights that prefigure the flames constantly threatening to ignite.

And when they inevitably do it is viscerally shocking. The minimal and brooding soundtrack (by the great David Holmes) rings with painful tinnitus after we are caught unawares, way too close to a pub explosion. The scene exemplifies a ground level handycam style, which achieves an almost abstract, sensuous submersion in the environment. In the harried chaos of the first act’s violence, the danger is that such immersion can threaten to become distractingly overwhelming.

O’Connell is perfectly cast as the fish-out-of-water army recruit embodying both the untrammelled muscularity of a wannabe soldier and the fresh vulnerability of youth. In line with the overriding naturalistic tone, he has surprisingly little dialogue. The pivotal plot points are often played out through silent action, and are all the more powerful for it. But while Private Hook faces a lone battle for survival this is not a one-man show. Amid a staunch supporting cast, Sam Reid portrays a Lieutenant barely maintaining calm authority in such unfamiliar terrain. And Sean Harris is dependably terrifying as the shady army captain under cover, trying to maintain control of a critical situation.

‘71 is an emotive and savage drama, necessarily bleak and forbidding, but thoroughly gripping throughout. Choosing the year of the events as the title both dates the movie as historical drama and reminds us how far we have come in the following short decades. It also forces us to confront the disturbing truth that these darkest of days are in our very recent history.

★ ★ ★ ½

2014
Dir: Richard Laxton

Gray Matters 

The imposing figure of John Ruskin towers over the Victorian era. Primary art critic, prominent thinker and prolific writer, even artist in his own right, his shadow falls over all cultural movements of the latter half of the nineteenth century. A myriad published works record his views on the art, architecture, literature and politics of the time. But what of the man himself? His critical views are well documented, but how does his own private persona stand up to scrutiny? Screenwriter Emma Thompson seems keen to ask, even if the exercise raises just as many questions as it answers.

A personal project dear to Thompson’s heart, Effie Gray seems to have had a (somehow appropriately) difficult conception, a failed plagiarism lawsuit delaying it. Her conspicuous absence at the film’s premiere only casts further doubt on her dedication following release.

Thompson may have called on a few favours when assembling the cast, for the cream of the British acting establishment is finely represented. David Suchet and Julie Walters play Ruskin’s parents, the easy warmth of their first greeting rapidly crumbling to give way to a tyrannical imperiousness. It’s all the more effective for playing against type. James Fox, Robbie Coltrane and Derek Jacobi all make brief appearances. Greg Wise (Thompson’s husband) artfully illustrates Ruskin’s barely concealed egotism. The title role itself goes to America’s Dakota Fanning who is suitably reserved and winsome, later increasingly wan.

Thompson brushes herself in as Lady Eastlake, the only person sensitive to Effie’s situation, for it is the young bride’s solitary predicament as Ruskin’s wife that is the central subject. By implication this is a mistreatment swept under the carpet of patriarchal history. As authoritative and respected as he may have been, it’s fair to say that Ruskin harboured …intimacy issues. In fact, the phrase doesn’t do justice to the extreme nature of the trait. But the cause is only hinted at rather than explored. And as their barren marriage steadily deteriorates, each nocturnal bedroom scene a shivering blue, Effie becomes drawn to the artistic elite of Ruskin’s circle, namely John Everett Millais, in the form of an alluring Tom Sturridge. Curiously, just as Emma Thompson’s mission to reveal Effie’s plight is mirrored in her casting as the sensitive, maternal Eastlake, Greg Wise suffers for the sins of his character, billed far down the cast list despite being joint lead.

Venice and the Scottish highlands offer grandiose landscapes reflecting the works of the Pre-Raphaelites that Ruskin championed. But the grand cinematography doesn’t continue when the action returns to London. Presumably this is because the area has changed beyond recognition. By way of illustration, against the idyllic backdrop of the family country pile, Julie Walters asks, “What on earth is wrong with Peckham?” By contrast, the readymade period film set of Venice shines as stunningly as ever. As the role of Effie’s Italian chaperone changes from guardian to pursuer, his intentions darkening with every turn, the potential menace of the city’s twisting walkways and canals is sketched in scenes haunted by Don’t Look Now (1973).

Effie Gray is an elegantly played out quest to reveal the painted-over truth of an enormously revered but personally heartless figure. However, as emotionally cold as the central relationship, it is ultimately unsatisfying. One leaves yearning to know more about the ramifications of Effie’s actions; actions she is forced to commit by the unspoken cruelty of one of history’s most outspoken critics.

★ ★ ½
 

2014
Dir: Phil Lord, Christopher Miller

Master Builders

Few toys attain such longevity that they feel fundamental to the very notion of childhood. Lego may even be alone in acquiring such iconic status. Launched in the late forties, the familiar design of brightly coloured plastic bricks is now embedded in the foundations of our youth. Key to its continued success, and inherent in its core design, the company adapts to changing times. They release new kits based on currently popular characters, and have a well-defined presence in the video game arena. It could be thought surprising, then, that it has taken until 2014 to release a major motion picture that capitalises on the Danish brand’s global success.

Clearly, no cheap cash-in is called for. The company heads have shown utmost care to ensure a creation as lovingly constructed as any eight-year-old’s first set at Christmas. It might even be argued that CGI capability has only now reached a standard that can do justice to the hyperreal multiverse we are entering here. For it is a journey that is nothing short of blazingly inventive. Delirious, technicolour, manic, nonsensical, surreal, brash, noisy, psychedelic, joyful… The head swirls with descriptors as busily as the screen reels from one delightfully ludicrous set-up to the next. This is a movie defiantly by, of, and for the ADHD generation: a glimpse into a psychotic parallel dimension that borders on the overwhelming, for there is little respite amid the cavalcade of mind-spinning escapades.

We follow Emmett, ordinary construction worker. He’s an anonymous, but happy and satisfied cog in the machine of the happy and satisfied Lego-verse. Indeed everyone is happy and satisfied to a suspiciously unnatural degree. Millions obediently execute their daily duties to the unrelenting strains of “everything is awesome”. And everything is er… awesome. But, of course, it isn’t. Evil Lord Business wants to end all creativity and construction for good. He plans to glue the world into frozen stasis with a fearsome super weapon, a weapon that can only be stopped by one unique sacred object. And legend has it this required “piece of resistance” will only be found by one known as “the special”…

Will Ferrell, voicing Lord Business, easily straddles the requisite histrionics of megalomaniac super-villain and the vulnerable humility demanded by the third act. Liam Neeson, as the semi-demonic Good Cop Bad Cop, memorably brings alive the piece’s most original creation. Elsewhere, numerous familiar icons are peppered throughout. Being a Warners production, Batman himself can take (near) centre-stage, his dour seriousness gleefully mocked. Superman, The Green Lantern, Gandalf, all make appearances. Even the Millennium Falcon drops out of the sky for a rip-roaring cameo. It’s an array of seminal characters that both showcases the scope of the brand and epitomizes the current cultural landscape.

A “chosen one” morality tale may have an initial ring of the familiar, arguably lacking the dynamic originality otherwise evangelized throughout. But it is so brilliantly written, and a moral so perfectly suited to the Lego ideology: Should you always follow the instructions, do what you are told, fit in? Or dare you follow your individual creative impulse and do what only you can do? It feels uncommonly gratifying. It also lays the foundations for one of the most satisfying movie twists of recent years, in any genre. Beautifully logical in hindsight, we are so caught up in the frenzied pace of proceedings, it succeeds in being unexpected, fresh and disorientating.

Inspired, genuinely funny, and with true universal appeal, The Lego Movie is ultimately the best possible advert for the toy, crucially by not feeling like one. Out of the simplest of building blocks, Lego have constructed a hyperactive modern classic.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

2012
Dir: Nick Murphy

 Murphy’s Law

Nick Murphy’s gloomy tale of police driven to desperate measures, in the wake of a local child murder, features a British acting quartet of the highest quality.

Paul Bettany is the stressed homicide cop at the centre of these grim events, aided by an assistant who also happens to be his brother (Stephen Graham). Both operate under the domineering shadow of their father (Brian Cox), a retired legend of the same police force. His spirit looms over them, beckoning them on, daring them to match his fabled heights. Physically he demands their attention too, as the brothers struggle to manage his early but increasing decline into dementia. Finally, the rock solid Mark Strong keeps his beady eye on events from within the same squad, as they begin to seep slowly beyond the boundaries of control.

Murphy previously gave us the twisting and impressive ghost yarn The Awakening (2011). While both movies share a dark and haunting bloodline, the period gothic fantasy of that earlier film is certainly the more successfully beguiling of the two.

With such a high calibre of performers at the helm, why does this venture not satisfy in the way one might naturally assume it would? The blame lies with the format. Blood feels like a British take on ‘Nordic noir’ TV, complete with a typically ravelled storyline, and characteristic evenly-paced plot points. But necessarily condensed to squeeze into standard feature length, the result is that too much is lost in the process. All the individual elements are present and correct – fine acting, sharp plotting, neat set pieces – and all are impressive in their own right. But nothing is given the space and depth that it deserves, leaving a residual sense of malnourishment. The cliffhanger revelations that would naturally come at the end of each episode if this were a televisual piece are obviously sign-posted. Forced into a cinematic frame their power is only weakened as the brisk pace negates the impact they warrant.

The credentials of the lead foursome are undeniably infallible. Mark Strong does provide a stern backbone. His ever-reliant steely resolve gives a much-needed grounding to the whole. Brian Cox effortlessly conveys a mentally deteriorating ego struggling to cling on to former ‘glories’ of a time now (thankfully) dead and buried. Lead Paul Bettany effectively portrays the determination to both see justice done and live up to the shadow of his father. But he recedes from the action in the second half, squeezed out by the run-time, just when he should dominate as the weight of the tragedy bears down. And a miscast Stephen Graham, an actor who so consistently impresses elsewhere, just doesn’t convince as Bettany’s brother.

The first act showcases eerie moments of half-lit bleakness that offer chilling promise, and the film is watchable, intriguing, and effectively paced to make for an enjoyable enough ride. But ultimately this entry into the contemporary Brit noir genre misses its target, let down by not delivering on the combined promise of the clientele involved. Ultimately this is an only partially successful transfusion to the cinema screen, one whose core life force has been thinned to the point of anaemia.

★ ★

2012
Dir: Derek Cianfrance

On the Skids

Ryan Gosling’s motorbike stunt rider Luke in The Place Beyond The Pines may bear echoes of his near silent getaway specialist in Drive (2011), but that’s the only similarity this far more epic morality tale has with the smouldering neon cool of Nicolas Winding Refn’s earlier film.

Events are kick-started when he returns to a particular New York suburb with the travelling fair in which he performs. He learns he has fathered a child the last time he was in town, with Eva Mendes’ Ro. Forced to examine his priorities he decides to quit the circus and lay claim to his rights to raise the baby. The fact that Ro (impressively downplayed by Mendes) has settled down with a new man is immaterial to him. Driven by a fierce need to prove his value as a parent he soon falls into robbery as a way of affording extravagant gifts for the kid. He hooks up with loner mechanic Robin, played by a lightly greased Ben Mendelsohn. Impressed by his riding skills, it is he who first tempts Luke into utilising his talents on the wrong side of the law. The secret is to not do it too often he warns. But once Luke has tasted success, and increasingly convinced of his two-wheeled prowess on the escape, the lure to keep going was always going to prove too strong…

Cinematically, this is not a showcase for awe-inspiring high definition gloss and grand spectacular. It’s a far grimier, grainy affair, informed by a seventies sensibility. In one scene you can virtually taste the gunmetal being forced into the mouth. Yet the breathless pacing of this first act is entirely modern and the real-time nature in which the bike chases take off and are (just about) followed genuinely raises the pulse. Thrillingly executed, handycam style, you feel every cut and swerve as Gosling’s tearaway tears away.

This is merely the beginning. The core spark of the film only ignites once Bradley Cooper’s fresh-faced young cop gets caught up in pursuit. Gosling portrays Luke’s misguided attempts to do the right thing in characteristically muted yet brutal style. His portrayal is the heart of the film, both performance and narrative-wise. Next to this, Bradley Cooper’s Avery Cross doesn’t feel quite as convincing by comparison. His remarkable good looks, eyes as blue as the pristine cop shirt on his back, distract. However as time goes on his depiction rings truer as Cross climbs the slippery pole of local politics, maturing the necessary slick and ruthless streak. A brooding, pulsing soundtrack subtly revs up the action and is as dark and oppressive as the inner workings of the police force that Avery finds himself embroiled in.

The film follows the resulting aftermath over subsequent years in three clearly defined acts, in a structure that is original and audacious. While the ramifications remain intriguing until the end, the subtly exhilarating pace of the opening movement isn’t quite sustained. Yet this is a gripping, unpredictable, and weightily involving study of the butterfly effect down the generations. The Place Beyond The Pines is a reflection on the complexities of paternal relationships, and a contemporary meditation on the oldest of adages: that the sins of the father will inevitably be visited upon the son.

★ ★ ★ ½

2013
Dir: Dror Moreh
(subtitled: Hebrew)

Blood Brothers

The Gatekeepers in question are the men who have headed up the ‘Shin Bet’. It’s an organisation you’ve probably not heard of, but as their job inhabits the shadows of counter-espionage – the prevention of terrorism in the Middle East – this is to be expected. Indeed, the very fact of a general audience’s ignorance only emphasises the covert nature of their working lives from the opening, providing a satisfying set up.

The Israel Security Agency (to give the official title) is the unit charged with monitoring, protecting and defending the state in the long history of conflict that has plagued its borders with Palestine and the Gaza strip. Here all surviving leaders of the agency readily line up to reveal how they dealt with the exceptional pressure the role exerts, the murky moral swamp that has to be headed into, and the toll it inevitably takes on the psyche. These are men grappling with the highest dilemmas and ramifications of “power, but by whose right?”

The film combines often-harrowing footage and is inventive with the photographic record. Right from the off we are faced with shocking aerial recordings of air strikes, imagery more familiar to us jaded westerners from the fantasy world of computer games. When the narrator reflects on the unavoidable issue of collateral damage and the hoped for ‘sterility’ of the ‘operation’ you realise the very real burden these men are forced to carry. These medical euphemisms of course deliberately belie the entirely unclean nature of an air-to-ground missile attack. You cannot help but wonder if the speaker is trying to convince you, the viewer, or himself. Added to this, stills are brought wildly to life, given a 3D treatment as the camera wheels within them, ironically providing the film’s most cinematic moments. An otherwise pure documentary, it would be equally successful on the small screen if not for these creative and outlandish forays.

The unasked question that patently hangs over the entire venture without ever being vocalised is that of the morals of the ‘gatekeepers’ themselves. It is almost too sensitive, too complicated, too obvious to broach. As one contemptuously grunts in rejection “when you are dealing with terrorists, forget morals.” Subject dismissed.

All, in their own ways, seem eager to be taking part. What strikes is the avuncular candidness of all. Some are jovial, some passionately animated, but none manage to fully hide their haunted nature. This detailed confessional is clearly of psychological benefit and that’s what gives the film its unique emotional punch. What suitable channels would normally exist for those carrying such burdens to offload?

The Gatekeepers is an intriguing, appalling, and astonishing study like no other. One of ordinary human minds dealing with a very real decision to leave behind normal moral boundaries and wade, knee deep, into a realm of bloodshed. As Yoram Cohen, current holder of the post admits, “We all have our moments when it gets you.”

★ ★ ★

2012
Dir: Yaron Zilberman

Harmonious Relations

Reminiscent of the type of cinematic coincidence that arguably tainted the release of both Capote (2005) and Infamous (2006) a few years back, two releases centring on the later years of an ageing musical foursome arrive in the UK within 3 months of each other. Following Dustin Hoffman’s directorial debut Quartet (2012) in January, we now have A Late Quartet, as if to acknowledge its secondary arrival. But it is this latter addition that is perhaps the more resonant piece.

Events begin when Christopher Walken’s ageing cellist is diagnosed with a debilitating illness. His playing days are numbered. The beloved, world-renowned Fugue Quartet he has played in for more than twenty-five years must find a replacement if it is to continue. But do the others even want to go on without him, their founder, their driving force, their heart? The shattering news of his imminent retreat from the stage shakes all four members to the core. It sets in motion a chain of events that inevitably brings unspoken resentments to the surface and sees tensions rise, relationships tested, and egos rising and (crest) falling.

Walken sports the same over-egged bouffant that I presumed was being employed for comic effect in Seven Psychopaths (2012) so it’s clearly a deliberate (and distractingly humorous) choice on his part. Yet his facing up to an inevitable decline, while still mourning his wife, strikes an unexpectedly humble and dignified tone. The rest of the central cast are equally strong. Catherine Keener is reserved and gracefully world-weary, the always-engaging Philip Seymour Hoffman (of the aforementioned Capote clash) is bruised, with insecurities barely restrained. Yet it is probably the lesser-known Mark Ivanir who impresses most as the uptight and egoistic first violinist. One senses his icy composure has remained utterly intact, dominating the quarter century of the outfit’s musical ascendency. Now it is being tested to breaking point by the threatened collapse of the interwoven musical and personal worlds around him.

The music itself remains centre stage throughout. It feels refreshing for a ‘mainstream’ film to give dutiful space and attention to the classical works at its centre. Visually, it’s the romantic ideal of New York being presented here, complete with a light dusting of sentimental snow. It looks suitably inviting for it, through balanced and harmoniously composed cinematography.

The house-of-cards deterioration in the relationships of the main players is sympathetically played out. Keener and Seymour Hoffman are especially in tune as the tested husband and wife, but the plot arguably takes one credulity-testing step too far in an otherwise down-to-earth and credible story arc. Nevertheless this is a satisfyingly enjoyable composition through all three movements, building to a fitting crescendo that succeeds in reminding us that music has the power to transcend all mere earthbound problems.

★ ★ ★

2012
Dir: Judd Apatow

Middle-aged Cred

This Is 40 is billed as a “sort-of” sequel to Judd Apatow’s earlier Knocked Up (2007). With no characters in common with his formative smash hit this tag line first appears to be either, at best, the introductory joke of the piece, or, at worst, a desperate studio attempt to link the two films together. In truth, it acknowledges that the link is thematic only as the (totally different) central couple now deals with the practical and existential dilemmas of early middle age that we all must face.

Paul Rudd, veteran of many comedic supporting roles, takes the lead as Pete and is as reliably likeable a presence as ever. Leslie Mann, as his wife Debbie, by contrast feels lacking in presence in the co-lead role and her comic affectations occasionally transgress the grating rather than entertaining category.

The supporting cast is liberally sprinkled with reliable comedy familiars: Apatow stalwart Jason Segel, John Lithgow, Chris O’ Dowd. Also from Bridesmaids (2011) is Melissa McCarthy, who damn near steals the film in her key scene. Each is given little more than an extended cameo and you can’t help feeling that all have been under-used, to the detriment of what could have been a more satisfying ensemble piece if conceived as such. The net result is a comedy that is pleasing, just about entertaining enough, but never lifts above the lightly amusing grade into a hilariousness that seems to be assumed, and might be expected from some previous Apatow works.

Pete and Debbie face the trials of bringing up their two daughters, managing their working lives, dealing with parents who are either too needy or too absent, and the first physical deteriorations of ageing. Indeed, every person within their familial and social network seems highly dysfunctional. It’s hard not to escape the thought that, if one only removed the comedic elements, this would be a deeply bleak character study. And yet, the essential emotion of sympathy on which to ground the comedy fails to convince because this particular groovy couple appears to want for little. Their house is grand, spacious and hip. Two gleaming cars line the drive. And they each keep a successful (and deeply fashionable of course) business afloat. Debbie runs a clothes boutique, and Pete, a record label. The running gag of Pete’s repeated attempts to resurrect the career of a non-caring Graham Parker allows for some great self-deprecating turns from the man himself. But this is Apatow world, complete with trademark lewd humour, and signified by a clearly sign-posted “coolness” that feels blatantly fabricated. Pete wears a Bob Mould t-shirt. Even his daughter bunks about the house in a Ween top. Rather than convince of the lifestyle of the characters, such tropes only feel deliberately tagged on just to appeal to the target market.

And this is the residual uncomfortable truth This Is 40 leaves you with. For those of us who have passed the milestone, it’s reasonable to expect to have put away such childish things… So it’s disheartening to learn that you are still just as much a clearly defined target market as at any nostalgically yearned-for younger age.

★ ★

2012
Dir: J A Bayona

Act of Nature

The tsunami that blighted Thailand, Indonesia, Sri Lanka and India on Boxing Day of 2004 is a natural disaster on a virtually inconceivable scale. Triggered by the third biggest earthquake ever recorded, fourteen countries saw casualties exceeding a quarter of a million. Juan Antonio Bayona is the first director to tackle this staggeringly appalling event cinematically and chooses to concentrate on one family’s story. It’s a shrewd move as perhaps the only effective way to coherently navigate the chaos of such an epic tragedy.

Based on true experiences of the Belon family (here renamed Bennett for the western market), we begin with Naomi Watts, Ewan McGregor and their three young sons excitedly arriving at a Thai holiday letting in an idyllic Palm tree-lined resort. There is very little calm before the storm. They eagerly explore their bucolic beach-house. Christmas presents are opened. And they are soon sunbathing and splashing in the pool, a paradise tarnished only by a brief reference to the work stresses the parents are aiming to escape from. Of course there is little point dwelling on this preface. Aware of the terrible events about to unfold we, the audience, are uncomfortable eavesdroppers onto conversations that are, as a result, distant, stilted …irrelevant.

Preceded by only a brief distant rumble and the sudden fleeing of birds as warning, the wave hits, in a set piece charged with communicating a terror difficult to comprehend. The realisation of these key scenes is the film’s chief success. Avoiding the overblown histrionics of a Hollywood genre piece, any CGI is underplayed, subtly weaved into an impressively pragmatic declaration of real-life horror. We are as immersed as the protagonists as the water swallows all in its path, taking us into a disturbingly abstract realm, a bewildering perspective that is key to securing our identification with the victims.

And as the family is separated by the havoc, their characters are revealed. Tom Holland, as eldest son Lucas, is the child forced to become a man the instant the tragedy strikes. He grapples with the recognition that the tables have turned and now he carries responsibility for his mother’s survival. In the immediate aftermath we follow the stricken pair’s shock, disorientation, despair, and Watts’ numb stoicism in the face of an unimagined terror is especially convincing. Ewan McGregor’s performance is largely one of steely restraint, of grim determination to keep himself together for the sake of his family. But his standout moment comes when this inevitably cracks. At last able to make (all too brief) phone contact with home he finally breaks down. The trigger of his father-in-law’s incomprehension is barely audible on the line, its British reserve powerfully incongruous against a setting awash with raw emotion.

It is an instant of intimate impact amid a series of remarkable scenes in terms of scale and accomplishment. As well as those nightmarish underwater sweeps, tracking shots within the deluged hospitals merely glimpse the extent of the tragedy in passing rather than mawkishly dwelling upon it. We are following one ordinary family’s tale of submersion in an extraordinary disaster, foisted upon them within the blink of an eye, and it is just one story within a myriad. Without requirement of gore or sensationalism, told from a pedestrian viewpoint, this is hard-hitting stuff.

It is never made clear what The Impossible of the title actually refers to. Within the realms of such an apocalyptic event, it could just as equally signify the chances of the family’s reunion or survival. Or indeed the likelihood of such a desperately cruel manifestation of nature’s indifference happening at all.

★ ★ ★ ½

2009
Dir: Duncan Jones

The Son and The Moon

Sci-fi plots based on paradoxes are often an enjoyable trip while it lasts but, once the run-time is over, and with the consideration afforded by hindsight, the holes soon start to appear and credibility crumbles to space dust. Not so in Duncan Jones’ creepy debut of lone lunar exploration.

Moon is a tightly controlled Russian doll of a film that fits together with the refined intricacy of clockwork. A calm yet disquieting science fiction, its natural pace has a clean effectiveness. The potentially discombobulating plot is actually as tight as a pressurized airlock. Set in the very near future, Sam’s (Sam Rockwell) three-year mission is as sole custodian and operative of an isolated mining station. His only companion is an artificial intelligence whose prime directive is aid, accompaniment, and guarding his charge’s mental wellbeing. A set-up of such spectacular solitude is as rich for the mining of psychological contortions as the lunar surface is with the beneficial resources Sam is tasked with returning to Earth. After a while in such a forsaken environment each of us would eventually be forced to confront our darker fallibilities. Sam faces up to the (il)logical extension of this universal truth.

Fundamental to the success is Rockwell’s performance. As the unfolding events require he display the multiple personalities within his character, the whole is entirely reliant on him. It is never less than stunningly realised, so convincing is his portrayal, so neatly are his plural personae stitched together in the cut. The cast list offers intriguing selections in the likes of Matt Berry and Benedict Wong, but all human contact is only ever via grainy video screen. Such is the remoteness of Sam’s plight. Primary support then comes from Kevin Spacey, but even his performance is voice-only, as the conciliatory, dispassionate robotic aid GERTY, inevitably echoing HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Ironically then, this is a one-man show.

Within the shabby living quarters of a lone worker’s isolation, an extraordinary situation plays out with natural, everyday credibility, refreshingly lacking the pomp and bluster that would accompany such revelations in big budget Hollywood fare. We have no reason not to go along for the ride, and without even noticing it, we are soon deep down the rabbit hole where apparent impossibilities are entirely, logically plausible. Having mentioned Kubrick’s masterpiece, Moon feels descended from such lineage. It could arguably be labelled ‘serious’, ‘proper’ even ‘old fashioned’ sci-fi, reminiscent of the era 2001 ushered in. And it is a relief to see weighty, spooky, atmospheric science fiction in an age when so many entries in the genre feel lightweight and shallow due to easy over-reliance on CGI. This is contemporary cinema that feels instantly classic. A thought-provoking and subtly disturbing tale of one man being forced to travel to the dark side of the self in quite the most literal and original way. 

The musical dimension has a gravitational pull on this work in more ways than one. Clint Mansell, former Pop Will Eat Itself frontman, now seasoned soundtrack artist (The Fountain (2006), The Wrestler (2008), lays a perfectly pitched and beautifully haunting theme over Sam’s downward (upward?) spiral. Its refrains swell to punctuate each key moment, every time offering the listener more, neatly mirroring the revelatory hooks of the plotline. The director’s choice of surname may indicate an admirable desire to escape the burdens of his own stellar musical heritage (Jones’ father is David Bowie). But ultimately, Moon is a shiningly impressive debut by someone with cosmic credentials by birthright, being the son of the original Starman.

★ ★ ★ ★ ½