On Spielberg's Godzilla

There is currently an article on the Empire website that lists the films that Spielberg had the opportunity to make, but didn’t. The list is varied, from The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 (1974), to early Harry Potter films and Christopher Nolan’s upcoming Interstellar. Whether Spielberg ever had an opportunity to direct a Godzilla film in unclear, but we now have a Spielbergesque Godzilla, directed by Gareth Edwards.

Edwards’ Monsters (2010) was a master class in film making on a budget; shot quickly and edited on a MacBook, Monsters was a confident and gripping piece of work and it earned Edwards the chance to direct the reboot of the Godzilla franchise. However, an unlimited budget seems to have moved Edwards to caution and rather than create an experimental and genre bending film, such as Monsters, he has chosen to borrow heavily from the father of summer cinema, but it is to Godzilla’s detriment.

Godzilla is a film of two halves; the first set in Tokyo and focused on a scientist trying to return to his family home that rests in a no go zone following a ‘nuclear’ accident. The second, in San Francisco, follows the young protagonist’s search for his family amongst conflicting monsters. The former very much feels like early parts of Jurassic Park (1993) and large chunks of The Lost World (1997). Close ups on lizards crawling and knowing posters blatantly reference the later monster to appear. There are also several shots of vans and planes with an ambiguous large corporation logo adorned across them, much in the same vein as Hammond’s InGen of the Jurassic series. Spielberg was never subtle and neither is this film.

The second half, with its dusty, smoky, grainy grays is pure War of the Worlds (2005). Even the story, of a man trying to find his family amongst alien destruction is the same and like Spielberg, the family remains together. Other than in mise-en-scene the film is incredibly attached to body of work that Spielberg has created. An absent father figure looms over Godzilla and combined with weak female characters and allusions to WWII, makes the intertextuality plentiful. What Edwards proves with his Godzilla is that Spielberg makes what he does look simple. It is easy to criticize Spielberg’s films; they are universally appealing and often over sentimental. But, what Spielberg does is remarkable and not easily replicated. Godzilla lacks the emotional depth that Spielberg brings to his films and ends up with a film that is all spectacle, but without the depth.

To his great credit, Edwards keeps this a human story and refuses to anthropomorphize the monsters, keeping them animalistic. He is also able to create, early on, some great dramatic cinema. There are also some moments of great composition here, which show a fantastic cinematic eye. This is close to being a very good summer film, but its lack of heart is a problem. Edwards has shown that he can combine both and hopefully, he will again. 

On The Two Faces of January

The Romans named the month of January after Janus, the god of transitions, who presided over the beginnings and endings of conflict. As Janus oversaw the beginnings and endings his divine duties were extended to doors and passageways. So, when Viggo Mortensen’s Chester Macfarland watches, through the doorway of a backstreet Greek hotel, his wife and a mysterious tour guide lightly embrace, Janus does not seem to be on his side.

It is amongst the ruins, in a country synonymous with myth that Hossein Amini’s The Two Faces of January takes place. The film is a superbly crafted slow burning thriller that always seems to threaten a major character twist, but to its credit, refrains from doing so. This is a film of quiet conflict with characters that don’t as much change, as slowly reveal more sinister sides to their personalities. The conflict between a man and wife, a man and his father and men and their country are all explored here. In these ways it is thematically reminiscent of The Talented Mr Ripley (1999), which like January, is based on a novel by Patricia Highsmith. Both films examine Americans in Europe, unwilling to accept that the transition back home is inescapable.

Here, in January, Mortensen’s Chester is running from clients he has cheated in investment; his wife, younger and susceptible, runs with him. Oscar Isaac’s Rydal runs from privilege and a father he could never settle with. These characteristics are relatable, yet dramatic enough to keep Amini’s film edgy and when this nostophobia bubbles up it is released in murderous ways that give the films its darkness. The Two Faces of January is a quiet, but potent dramatic thriller that relies on characters, storytelling and a well chosen setting to keep its audience hooked. 

On the Characteristics of Frank

What to say about Frank? Knowing nothing of the source (Chris Sievey’s comic musician/presenter Frank Sidebottom) makes Lenny Abrahamson’s Frank a curious animal to dissect. Reassuringly, for a film about a man wearing a giant fake head, Abrahamson immediately engages the audience through Domhnall Gleeson’s Jon. The film opens with Jon, an aspiring musician stuck in a rut, desperately trying to create a song about ‘life’, forcing terrible lyrics forged from whatever he sees into cheesy melodies. It’s funny, relatable and smart; it’s the start a film like this needs, as before we even meet Frank, we’re in.

The rest of the film takes us on a journey from middle Britain to the SXSW festival in Texas and with the exception of Jon the rest of the characters are at first comically crazy and later, melancholically crazy. These characters don’t really change, but we change around them and this is something impressive and really only evident after the film’s end. Jon, our way in, does change and his arc evolves organically. How we as an audience respond to these characters is a sign of sophisticated storytelling. Within the film, the characters don’t seem to care whether we engage with them or not and this unusual discourse adds to the surrealism of the film.

Ultimately, what we have here is a film about embracing life and Abrahamson forces us to judge his characters for doing just that. We judge them for being abstract thinkers, for being unusual and living outside societal rules and like Jon, when the film ends we realise our error, we feel worse than when we started, but we learnt a valuable lesson. Jon starts by trying to write about life and ends learning more about it than he imagined. Frank is a special piece of filmmaking. 

On Blue Ruin

Experiencing something just shy of the hype of Beasts of the Southern Wild (2012), Blue Ruin is another American indie with a director who writes and performs several other tasks and has received a great deal of almost universal praise. It is pleasing and, for future filmmakers, aspirational to see these low budget films break into an international market.

Blue Ruin is better than Beasts, although less experimental (even though it is a near silent piece). Writer/director Jeremy Saulnier’s skill in storytelling is clear as his camera slowly, but purposefully explores small town America. The central performance of Macon Blair is impressive; his everyman crusader proving far more believable than those immortalised by Washington and Scott. Whereas Beasts had a set vision and a clear metaphorical message, Blue Ruin walks an at times uncomfortable line between Tarantino style violence and Coenesque black comedy, never quite achieving either. Its vengeful narrative, while engaging, is also slightly aimless. However, there are plenty of good signs here and Saulnier could soon be in the same frame as Jeff Nichols.

Saulnier and Blair are both talents to look out for and Blue Ruin has moments that will stick with audiences for a long time. Worth a cinema trip.  

On a Great Start for British Film Making with Locke

There is a scene in Steven Knight’s Locke where the eponymous protagonist is asked if he has seen Samuel Beckett’s 1940s absurdist play, Waiting for Godot. It is clear he has not and the caller reminds him, he is not a theatre goer. Like Beckett’s Vladimir and Estragon Locke finds himself enthralled in a mental anguish that he cannot escape, and like the play, Knight’s Locke is so stripped down that viewers will bring to it their own interpretations and anxieties to find a meaning.

Locke is quite literally a slice of life. An almost real time real world problem unfolding over the phone as Locke drives to the birth of his child that has come about as a result of an affair. On top of this personal crisis, he must also fix a developing professional crisis regarding concrete, that has arisen as a result of his drive to the hospital. This is an experimental, gripping film with a simple narrative and it makes another mark in 2014 for British cinema that is exploring and playing with the rules of cinema.

From 12 Years a Slave at the start of the year to the more recent The Double and Starred Up, British filmmakers are telling great stories in unconventional, yet captivating styles. This may be a response to the growing domination of big budget films, the season for which seems to be growing every year. The continued success of these films (many of which are repetitive, thematically and stylistically) results in less financial input for riskier films that can’t guarantee large audiences. The inventiveness of these recent British films display a resolute response to such growing uniformity in cinemas; not just great narratives, not just challenging for audiences, but with style and experimentation too.

Locke is perhaps the most inventive, and as gripping as it is, it doesn’t manage to be quite as complete as Slave, The Double or Starred Up. This is not to detract from the skill on display and the remarkable performance from the voice actors, but mostly from Tom Hardy who disappears into this slice of life. The reference to Godot offers a brief clue as to Knight’s inspiration, but importantly not too much. It is part of Locke’s achievement that any readings differ with each viewer. More of the same, please.  

On the Uncertainty of Calvary

Calvary is an uncertain piece of cinema. Tonally and narratively the film is a faltering mix of ideas with an overall effect of self-importance that frustrates rather than impresses. The story of a priest threatened with death for crimes of paedophilia committed by the Catholic Church is a good one, but Calvary isn’t really about this. The dialogue makes reference to it, but the film isn't about it. More than anything, the film is about death and is full of clumsy death metaphors that are spoken by apparently literary characters who frustrate the protagonist who in turn takes some pleasure from revealing his congregations’ lack of literary merit. Instantly, Father Lavelle is an unlikeable character, especially as much of what he says also sounds pretentious. Combined with its unsure tone and dialogue that makes reference to a wider cinematic context we at times almost expect Father Lavelle to turn to the camera, nod and wink. Aren’t I clever, the film is telling us, I know what you, the audience, also know? In this way Calvary resembles Martin McDonagh’s Seven Psychopaths (2012), but far less successfully.

Calvary’s tone also does the film no favours. At times feeling like an episode of The League of Gentleman (1999 – 2002), at others bleakly depressing, it’s difficult to know whether this is tragedy or absurdist cinema. If it’s the latter where is the commentary on the human condition? The characters here are too tentative to be substantial. The title refers to the moment of crucifixation or a piece of art depicting this. Calvary ends with the death of a man, but there is no sacrifice here, there is no resolution to the loose paedophilia story and no one is saved by his death. If there is a message to be found in this reversal of ideas, it is indistinct.

On the Panoptical and Starred Up

David Mackenzie’s Starred Up is a fierce prison film, calling to mind Un prophete (2009), an addition to the prison genre that will become a classic of the canon. And, like Un prophete, Mackenzie’s film shows you don’t need to sacrifice style to tell a hard hitting, intelligent story.

More than being a narrative that asks the nature versus nurture question, Starred Up offers a fascinating insight into the institution, perhaps best explored through Bentham’s architectural guard, the Panopticon, a tower designed to give the impression of all round surveillance. From the moment Mackenzie’s protagonist, Eric enters the prison, the institution takes over; stand here, move there, take this off, wear this, turn right. The monotony of the quick orders, reminding Eric he is now one of many, ends with him being placed in a cell, viewed from a narrow slot in the door; to be seen without knowing or seeing back. Eric is initially wrapped within the panoptical.

Mackenzie often films the prison (which the film never leaves) with low angle shots looking up through the middle, or the opposite, offering us views of all the floors and the mesh like steel that divides them. Designed for all inmates to be observed by prison guards. After Mackenzie defines the institution he spends the rest of the film having Eric try to break it. This middle section of the film, developing the role of Eric’s father, a leader of the prison, raises the nature versus nurture question, especially as we never see Eric as a free man. Here Eric begins to uncover the immorality of the prison, seeing the institution for the flawed establishment that it is. Eric and his small group of friends (found in therapy he is initially reluctant to attend) become the pan doing the observing.

Mackenzie’s film is not a criticism of Bentham’s theory, but instead a film that offers no easy solutions on guilty and not guilty (Rupert Friend’s Oliver comes closest to such a category, but is removed before the dénouement). The idea of therapy is offered as a preferred alternative to the institutional routine, but even this Mackenzie shows to be impractical against a prison hierarchy who ‘see all’. Starred Up is not an easy watch and raises difficult questions, but deserves to be seen, by all.