On the Top Ten of 2018

For nearly nine years, this blog has reviewed every new film I saw at the cinema and, in 2018, online streaming services too (although this mostly, if not wholly, means Netflix, who flexed their feature film muscles in serious ways). There have been occasional mentions of older films revisited or seen for the first time, or even a TV show, but these were never considered for end of year lists.

Without fanfare, for it hardly seems necessary for the, on average 18 readers, I am ending the blog with this, the best of 2018 (although I am grateful and surprised that it is read). Not because I believe cinema will reach such low depths that nothing will be worth watching, but simply because I cannot give all the writings the time I would like, as will be evident from reading them. Additionally, I simply see far less than I would like or used to, as life continually gets in the damn way.

A top 10 post seems an adequate way to end and my (almost) consistent negative thoughts on Marvel will be reserved only for my lucky friends down the pub from here on. So, this is the top ten of 2018 a list that, as always, is hard to create simply by looking at what did not make it in.

Netflix had a great run of features this year and David Mackenzie's Outlaw King was one of the first to impress. A stripped down historical epic that focused on character not battles. It was a welcome sight to see Spike Lee back with a mainstream release and while BlacKkKlansman wasn't a return to his best form, it was a solid piece of relevant cinema that, if we were judging endings alone, would be top of the list for that powerful gut punch that brought his 70s thriller into the present day. Steffano Sollima did something unexpected and made Sicario: Day of the Saldado as tense as the first. Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse was the best of Marvel, but still a comic book film and Isle of Dogs was as intricate and lovely as Wes Anderson gets but slightly cold. Solo: A Star Wars Story and Ready Player One were as fun and nostalgic and forever watchable (for children of the 80s) as blockbusters get.

The list:

10. Private Life dir. Tamara Jenkins
9. They Shall Not Grow Old dir. Peter Jackson
8. Annihilation dir. Alex Garland
7. First Man dir. Damien Chazelle
6. Sorry to Bother You dir. Boots Riley
5. First Reformed dir. Paul Schrader
4. The Ballard of Buster Scruggs dir. Joel Coen & Ethan Coen
3. You Were Never Really Here dir. Lynne Ramsey
2. Cold War dir. Pawel Pawlikowski
1. Roma dir. Alfonso Cuarón

Many 'best of' lists this year have Roma at or near the top and maybe it seems predictable to do so here, but it is outstanding. A beautifully shot, affecting piece of work. If the list shows anything it is the changing distribution of cinema. Five of the ten were first screened online, either Netflix or iPlayer and only three were available at cinemas. An interesting year to go out on.

Bye.

On Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

We're often told that this film or that film is unlike anything we've seen before and often it isn't. When it comes to Marvel films, the opposite is true; they are close to 90% what we've seen before, mostly from the same studio, just villains and heroes are changed. The new Spider-Man film might just be the best feature Marvel have released. It's certainly unlike anything we've seen before from the juggernaut studio.

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse is the animated origin film with a twist. Proudly displaying the fingerprints of those who were also involved in 21 Jump Street (2012) and its sequel (2014) as well as The Lego Movie (2014), Spider-Verse is self-aware in a way you want a genre that has become tired and too serious to be. Just like those films just mentioned, Spider-Verse is immediately endearing because it is playful and smart and funny and, well, hard to dislike. Even if you dislike superhero films, it knows why and agrees with you. If you strip it down to its story, it's a fairly simple narrative, but plays each element well and knows how to get the most out of familiar family relationships.

What raises Spider-Verse to another level is the visual delivery (it is as close as you may have seen to a paper comic coming to life). The animation is spectacular, rendering New York with a kinetic energy. The backgrounds feel real, yet part of a superhero world and that they move in and out of focus (at first you may think you're watching a 3D film without the glasses), soon becomes part of the charm. The city here, or the way it has been animated, is as much a part of the film as Spider-Man is, which should be the case with all superhero films; they are products of their neighbourhoods/environments. The different animated styles for each of the different spider threads and the perfect voice cast are the cherries on top. Interesting things are often done with animation, especially as the technology develops, from Waltz with Bashir (2008) to Loving Vincent (2017), yet Spider-Verse still manages to feel like a new development.

A visual treat.

On The Shape of Water

Guillermo del Toro may never make another film as good as Pan's Labyrinth (2006). Many filmmakers don't even get close in the first place. The Shape of Water is a set in a world that is similar to Pan's Labyrinth in that it is set around an actual historical event and merges the real world with a dark fantasy. The monsters are real and the dangerous ones are human, not aquatic. It is a little too close to Pan's Labyrinth in what it sets out to do, although the story feels like it deserves to be told and in fact, The Shape of Water could almost be viewed as an extension of the world that del Toro established over a decade ago. In the military, scientific basement there are echoes of Hellboy (2004), as the amphibian man is a distant relative of Hellboy's Abe Sapien, whether purposeful or not. In the same way Tarantino's Vince Vega is meant to have familial connections to a character is Reservoir Dogs (1992). Its the same cinematic universe and this is where The Shape of Water falls; into del Toro's universe. Dark fairytales, which is how fairytales should be.

On Private Life

Netflix is flexing its muscles and a lot of the publicity this year has been taken up with Roma and The Ballard of Buster Scruggs, and rightly so as they’re both superb. Yet, sitting quietly on the streaming service is Private Life, a Noah Baumbach like, New York City drama about a couple in their early 40s trying for a baby. Written and directed by Tamara Jenkins, Private Life is a film that feels rooted in lived experience and, perhaps because of that, takes directions that are not predictable. Much like life. There are details that make the narrative, if not always the characters of settings, original. There are character types that will feel familiar, such as the young, educated college student who doesn’t yet know what she doesn’t know and the older relatives struggling with the knowledge they’ve outgrown a ‘scene’. Jenkins makes all this feel fresh and her mise en scene is alluring and authentic. Private Life is an excellent film.

On First Reformed

One of the finest screenwriters working, Paul Schrader returns to writing and directing with another detailed study of a broken man. Here the man is a priest struggling a crisis of faith that manifests itself as a sexual attraction and a growing anger at climate change. Ethan Hawke is outstanding as the quiet, troubled priest and his growing frustration is captured precisely by Schrader’s steady direction and quiet, rural locations. First Reformed is masterful and relevant, both in its study of a collapsing religious faith and the dangers of climate change. The performances are quiet but powerful. It is one of the year’s finest.

On Roma

Alfonso Cuaron’s Roma is a beautifully shot family drama that unfolds, slowly and quietly, but with devastating effect. Told with one of the home’s maids at the focus, Roma is not unlike the work of the great Japanese filmmaker Yasujiro Ozu, careful and considered and leaving you emotionally drained by the end. Cuaron moves away from the technical accomplishments of his last feature Gravity (2013) and, like Ozu, allows the story to unfold before us, carefully moving his camera in slow panning shots, perfectly framed long shots, mid shots and then back again to repeat. Movements are slow by cinema’s standards, but real to life. It may feel like there are many long takes, and at times there are some impressive shots, but perhaps it is more the consistency of the camera movements that make watching Roma much like watching life, natural. We observe and in the early stage of the film, feel detached. Yet the intricate detail in every scene is drawing us closer, perhaps more than we realise, to the lives of these characters. So, when the story takes its turns, whether they be pregnancy or political unrest, we are hooked, unable to look away and therefore completely vulnerable to the devastating and beautiful events of the final third.

On Sorry to Bother You

There is a line, delivered by Steven Yeun’s Squeeze in the final third of Boots Riley’s Sorry to Bother You that is revelatory, both about the film we are watching and the main issues facing the world today. In conversation with the now re-agitated Cassius Green, fresh with allegations of conspiracy and corruption, Squeeze tells him that if you come to people with a problem, but without a solution, people will learn to live with the problem. The clear message of the power of trade unions suggests this could be a veiled criticism of left or socialist movements across the world who are struggling to find a solution to populist movements advancing right that dismantle unions on the way. Or it could be a wakeup call to the audience. A quiet, but powerful reminder that a solution is coming, perhaps from the artistic left, which has, around the world, found a loud and powerful voice as politicians fall quiet. However it is read, Sorry to Bother You is loud and it is powerful and to look at its hashtag on Twitter, it is energising all who see it.

There are two main issues explored here, weaved into one very strong narrative. The first is that a growing number of companies control the means of production and distribution while lessening the powers of trade unions with the help of government, and the second is race in America. The former, the voice of the trade union, is a rare voice to hear on screens. In the UK, Brookside’s Bobby Grant gave us a strong representation of a trade union leader that reached a wide audience, but that was the 80s and soap opera now, despite focusing on the working classes, go quiet on the issue. Pride (2014) was a rare exception of a film that reached a large audience while offering positive union representations and there are others that come to mind, especially from the UK and especially Ken Loach. Yet, the truth is that unions feel a part of the past, which is why Sorry to Bother You is important. This is a film for right now and about right now. The Amazon style company, WorryFree, is buying slave labour. This just as The Guardian reveals a series of stories from inside Amazon that expose the brutal work conditions. The drink can labelled Soda or the convenience stall named, Food Shop. The lack of marketing pretension suggests the masses have been controlled, there is no need to lie to them anymore. Sorry to Bother You is not the past and not the present, but almost too perceptive to be the future. Its syndicalist message is welcome and hopefully heard. Power to the unions.

The second issue is race. The comedic hook of the film, a black man using a white man’s voice to advance, is an extension of a long struggle. From historic reports of black citizens having to stand aside to allow whites to pass, to recent reports of black job applicants changing their names to read more white and stand a better chance of being interviewed. Riley is entering into a dialogue that spans decades and while it is funny, it becomes purposely less funny as the film progresses and instead an indicator of Cassius’ growing exclusion from his community. Riley is highly aware of the imagery that is associated with racial protest in America. Armie Hammer’s Steve Lift lives in a mansion that, to Cassius becomes dangerous and labyrinthine like the Southern house in Get Out (2017) or the mansion in Teddy Perkins, an episode of Atlanta’s second series. These signs of white success trap their black visitors and in each instance these visitors have been promised something (a growing relationship, a famous jazz piano, a promotion) only to find the step up (or lift up) comes at a price. The price being white control. And, in each instance they escape, but not unchanged. The scene of Cassius, having been championed by his white boss as the savour of the company is reduced to rapping; his success, it would appear is dependent on his ‘playing’ to type. Again, this is funny, but it is also social commentary.

There is something of E. L. Doctorow’s The Book of Daniel (1971) in this film, especially when we consider Daniel’s parents, the radical father aware of all the problems, compared with the more practical mother. We find Cassius radical from the start and Detroit more pragmatic. Cassius is aware of too many problems to be happy, aware of still being fucked by both sides, a repetition of Doctorow’s book. The roles switch, but the theme of radicalism runs throughout as Detroit’s art takes a more central stage. Like Doctorow, Riley is examining the cracks in American society and their roots. The fears and prejudice may not be as explicit as they were; the racism not as verbally virulent (although Trump is working on changing this), but they exist and Riley use of practical effects to show the dismantling of the world is effective. There is a nod to Michel Gondry who is acknowledged with a pseudonymous credit as the director of a short animation, a director who specialises in the manifestation of existential crisis.

Gramsci wrote about society being ruled through force and consent. That hegemonic power was reinforced through the media (Cassius’ viral YouTube video). Sorry to Bother You explores the force and the consent and then takes aim to shatter them both. A syndicalist, counter-hegemonic piece of cinema screaming at you to wake up.

Power to the people (even the horse-people).

On Ready Player One

CGI has meant cinema can explore stories it previously could not. George Lucas once said that he had not imagined being able to make (and some wish he never had) Star Wars Episodes I, II and III before he saw Jurassic Park (1993). As it was only then that he saw the technology had caught up with his vision. The Matrix (1999) and Avatar (2009) provide other key moments in American cinema’s use of CGI. In these examples there are those that mix CGI with actual locations and those that create entire CGI worlds. Some do both in the same film. Ready Player One may be another key moment, where CGI combines with that other creator of imaginary worlds, the games industry. Unlike Avatar, which espouses technology over story, Ready Player One comes from the master of American childhood and a cult novel by Ernest Cline and therefore the, at times, relentless CGI matched with an almost impossible rate of 80s referencing is anchored by a story that is timeless and delivered with absolute skill. Ready Player One is sometimes hard to absorb. It’s big, busy and loud and so full of detail that it is hard to consume. But this world is only one part of Ready Player One, the virtual reality world. The other world, ours, this one, but in the future has gone in a direction that feels very possible and therefore a desire to escape is not only believable but understandable. All of this gives the CGI world weight. There is a strong story here about growing up, about our future and, despite its reliance on technology, on the dangers of losing ourselves to it. It may not look like it, but this is a film that balances story and technology perfectly.

On Solo: A Star Wars Story

It was announced after the disappointing box office of Solo: A Star Wars Story that Disney would slow down with their planned Star Wars output through fear of over saturation. It is a shame that this announcement is attached to Solo because despite its publicised trouble production, this spin off, much like Rouge One (2016) proves better than the continuation of the original narrative. Solo exists in an era of this world that many won't have experienced and this unfamiliar familiarity is a nice place to find ourselves. The representation of Han Solo is the same; recognisable without being an imitation. This is a view of Solo we can believe became the man we know so well. The heist genre, with its twists and turns and moral shades of grey is well referenced and the film also manages to pull off some genuine surprises. It appears that a little freedom away from characters and narratives that are so well loved, to the point of obsession, leads to stronger Star Wars films, which doesn't lead to much hope for Episode IX.

On Mowgli: Legend of the Jungle

Andy Serkis' adaptation of Kipling's The Jungle Books attempts to take the stories away from the familiar, Disney roots where bears have an incredible knowledge of musical genres outside of their environment and back to Kipling's more wild, lawless parables. Mowgli: Legend of the Jungle (moving away from the original title to avoid confusion with Favreau's 2016 Disney remake) adapts the familiar stories: Mowgli's Brothers, Kaa's Hunting and Tiger! Tiger! into one narrative. So, what is left is Disney's The Jungle Book (1967) with no songs and more aggression. Serkis makes great use of a technology that he has been at the forefront of, which is motion capture. The Indian jungle is also wonderfully rendered. Legend of the Jungle, however lacks substance as it is let down by a perfunctory script. Most of the voice actors bring life to their respective animals, although Cate Blanchett's Kaa is a misstep in direction and unfortunately, the young actor playing Mowgli lacks the ability to convey the emotions he is tasked with. It is an impressive, but forgettable film.

On The Ballard of Buster Scruggs

For a few years Netflix have struggled to repeat the quality of their TV series’ and documentaries in feature film. But, what began with Noah Baumbach’s The Meyerowitz Stories (2017) (their first good film) has snowballed into their Autumn/Winter output: Outlaw King (2018), The Ballard of Buster Scruggs and the upcoming Roma (2018), which early reviews would suggest is very good.

The Ballard of Buster Scruggs finds the Coen brothers on familiar ground, the western. Joel and Ethan Coen are certainly ‘up there’ with some of the most consistently good, often brilliant, American film makers, so it is no surprise that Buster Scruggs is good, but it is welcome to find that it is excellent and one of their finest. Unlike their other films, Buster Scruggs is not a single narrative, but instead a portmanteau of short stories that share one significant feature in common: The American west.

Each of the stories, which begin and end with an unseen reader looking through a book, are connected by a love of the landscape and an awareness of the history and mythology of the time. Therefore, we find, in each story, the familiar and generic delivered in ways which are fresh, funny, violent, fantastical and much more. There is the gold prospector, the caravan moving across states, the Native American attack, the gunslinger, the coach, the bank robber. In each of these we find invective ways of telling old stories.

This is first a film that you first fall for with your eyes. It is shot with love. Each setting, each piece of landscape, recognisable from so many other Westerns could be framed and put in a gallery. A second common theme is that of the oral tradition and here we find the Coens in more familiar territory. From Fargo (1996) to No Country for Old Men (2007), stories as a main form of communication, the notion of the hearth, is core to their narratives and in each of Buster Scruggs’ stories we find tales being told. These could be musical, as with O Brother, Where Art Thou (2000) or seemingly, at first, insignificant, but to which you must pay attention. The Coens’ films are rooted in myth and here it is the myth of the American West.

The Ballard of Buster Scruggs is masterful and demands repeat viewing.

On Widows

Widows is a curious piece of work. Curious as a choice of feature film to follow up the award winning 12 Years a Slave (2013) and curious in its mix of styles and themes. As you would expect from McQueen, every frame is carefully constructed, which is what raises the material from feeling like it was made for TV. Although this comparison is perhaps only present due to Widows’ previous adaptations. Regardless, McQueen’s shot choices are masterful. Whether it is his use of mise-en-scene to build character and narrative or his shots which are stylish because he knows how to be.

Widows, as a heist film, is also curious as the heist takes a back seat to two more prominent themes. That of female empowerment and an examination of a city and politics that borders of the sociological, similar to aspects of David Simon’s The Wire (2002-2008). Firstly, this is not Ocean’s 8 (2018), where James Bond style women glide their way through an unbelievable scenario. The widows of Widows are conflicted, angry, sad and driven by a threat of violence and relative poverty. This immediately makes for a more interesting dynamic.

Familiar to the genre, Widows is full of twists and turns, but these are muted and the feeling is that McQueen wanted them to be less impactful than the larger corruption, gerrymandering politics and crime driven politics that drives the film forward, slowly and powerfully. Widows is not a heist thriller. It is far more interesting than that.

On They Shall Not Grow Old

Peter Jackson’s restored WWI footage, a documentary that follows a traditional fictional film’s arc, is contrary to the message that is often presented in war films. Jackson has framed his story with a handful of unseen narrators, all veterans of WWI, who recount their stories of being young (often illegally young) men who enlisted; they explain their thoughts and feelings from enlisting to training, from battle to surviving. In this way, They Shall Not Grow Old follows a familiar pattern.

These narrations are placed alongside footage taken from WWI. This footage is of a ratio no longer used and using black and white film that is now, understandably due to its age, grainy. The first, approximately, 20 minutes of Jackson’s film use this footage and then, with jarring effect we see the magic done by Jackson and his team. The footage has been expanded to widescreen, cleaned up and most shockingly, coloured. Suddenly, these people come to life, but in a way that is not quite real, like ghosts that have been coloured in by someone who occasionally goes over the edges. Technically, it’s is hugely impressive and brings the often discarded black and white footage (discarded for being ‘old’) into the ‘now’ and suddenly and unignorably relevant.

Jackson’s effort here with the footage is impressive throughout and needs to be for the stories told by the veterans’ demand care be taken. Jackson’s footage is delivered to mirror what is being told and here, through the words, brought to life with the images, is where we find a story counter to what many war films tell us. Deaths are not heroic here and neither are survivors; prisoners are treated respectfully, sometimes as friends; training is not contextualised, they know little about what they are walking into; conditions are more terrible than many films suggest; there is no charging run over the top, but instead a solemn walk into, for many, death. But, most of all, this is an anti-war film, a film whose narrators instead highlight the futility, the fear, the naivety.

That is the message we should take away from They Shall Not Grow Old. Not just that these voices should be remembered, but what they say should be listened to. It is a timely message.

On Outlaw King

David MacKenzie has a long a varied career as writer/director. His last three films have seen him work in the prison drama (Starred Up, 2013), the bank robber/western genre (Hell of High Water, 2016) and now the historical epic with Outlaw King, an important story for his native Scotland.David MacKenzie has a long a varied career as writer/director. His last three films have seen him work in the prison drama (Starred Up, 2013), the bank robber/western genre (Hell of High Water, 2016) and now the historical epic with Outlaw King, an important story for his native Scotland.

Set in the 14^th Century, Outlaw King weaves a story of the personal and political together well, focusing on a specific time in Robert Bruce’s life, rather than trying to cover it all. It is a film that is all the more powerful for its thoughtfulness, both of characters and dialogue. There are the rousing speeches and the battle cries, but they come from quiet, introspective Scots, rather than the histrionic Braveheart (1995) like mould. There isn’t really a weak performance in the film. And, despite the success of Gibson’s film, Outlaw King feels its superior in every aspect.

Many of the expected genre tropes are present, and the period is recreated well, with some stunning scenery and ferocious battles, that do owe much to the model that Braveheart carved out. The environment is key here and MacKenzie is eager to show the beauty as well as the mud that almost comes off the screen. Yet, there are aesthetic flourishes that set this apart from being a by-the-numbers historical film. Some of MacKenzie’s shot choices really stand out (see Bruce at the head of a boat) and the restraint he shows in his narrative is equally impressive. This could easily have become a chest pounding, patriotic, sprawling epic. Instead, it is personal, never less than engrossing and finished on a moment of intimate happiness. 

On 22 July

The label docu-drama has been attached to the work of Paul Greengrass as far back as 1999 with his TV movie The Murder of Stephen Lawrence. 22 July is his latest film to share this label and by being a Netflix production has led to the streaming service loosening their rules over cinema distribution, a format that would benefit 22 July with its sweeping Norwegian vistas.

Docu-drama is something of an odd label, slightly paradoxical perhaps. Documentary is about representing a real life event, and it cannot just be the use of actors that demands the drama label be attached, otherwise we could say Spielberg’s Lincoln (2012) or Nolan’s Dunkirk (2017) are docu-dramas. Neither of which have been described as such. The reason Greengrass’ work is likely to attract this sobriquet is his distinctive directorial style that aims to mimic footage that is being shot ‘in the moment’ and the coldness of his approach that means finding his bias is harder. 22 July (even the title is designed to appear impartial) is no more a documentary than Dunkirk is. It just assumes the iconography of the genre.

22 July is perhaps his coldest film. By opening with the attacks we have no time to form any connections with the characters and while the event we witness is horrific, we aren’t drawn into it. This detachment runs throughout the film and the desire to show the aftermath of the attack from both sides is admirable, yet oddly disaffecting as there are two sides here and right and wrong are clear. Breivik is cold and his court appearance is likely taken from the footage of him actually in court. But his victims, despite their suffering feel equally distant.

The film is interesting and balances the victims, attacker and government well, while managing to place it all into wider political context that remains relevant today. It is therefore perhaps a film most admired for its script and editing.

On Peterloo

In October Wesley Morris wrote an article for The New York Times magazine titled ‘The Morality Wars’ that, amongst other things, posed a question about whether art should be impervious to criticism because it is important inasmuch as it offers a voice to those who have, historically, been without one. Morris used as his jumping off point Issa Rae’s TV show, Insecure (2016 -).

But can we ask the same thing of Mike Leigh’s Peterloo; his latest film about the massacre at St Peter’s Field in Manchester, where the upper classes and ruling monarchy were involved in the deaths of a neglected and voiceless working class? The film is generally well regarded, especially in the UK (although the right wing tabloids are, predictably and without real artist merit against the film simply because it gives the working class left a voice. The same happened with 2016’s I, Daniel Blake, a far superior film). Yet, it is possible that serious film criticism has not seen the film for the message. Peterloo is a struggle to watch. The same message is repeated over and over again, whether that of the judges representing the crown or the workers organising themselves to protest for the vote, we are constantly battered with messages in length that do nothing for narrative, but instead seem designed to educate us. As any teacher will tell you, the best intended audience will switch off after 20 minutes of being lectured at if it’s not diverse or interactive in delivery.

Peterloo’s narrative is simple; we are leading to a protest and a one sided battle. The promotional material tells us this. What the film desperately needs is character and it has none. It an attempt to show the scope of the issue Leigh gives us many voices, when all the film really needs one. One consistent, developed character and in the beginning we think we have this with the returning solider with PTSD, but he becomes nothing more than a glass eyed representation of the horror of war; his death rendered ineffectual at creating sympathy or empathy.

The large remaining cast are drawn from well-worn stereotypes that have become so ingrained in our shared cultural memories from TV like Black Adder the Third (1987) or films such as Disney’s A Christmas Carol (2009) that here they are farcical rather than effectively realistic. Issues of realism are difficult, but Leigh’s decision to have the upper judiciary classes all wobbling double chins and red cheeked or bony fingered and dressed in black is tiresome. The police chief in his black robes and mean stare feels insulting, as if the audience are unable to judge ideology or choose sides without the help of childish images. And while there are plenty of strong willed, effective working class characters there are just as many who stare blankly when issued simple instructions or show themselves unable to converse with the London metropolitan elite. There may well have been characters just like these, but Leigh must be aware of the manner in which such characters have been used before and the weight these stereotypical representations bring with them. They are tired and lazy and much like watching an episode of Black Adder without the comedy or awareness of the absurdity.

A film with an important message such as this demands and deserves to have another way in found. For the message does matter and it matters today as much as it did then, which is why the need to educate should have been matched with a desire to entertain. As Morris was exploring, is there space to show deference for a topic and a voice while still finding, in this instance a film, artistically lacking? Are we allowed to dislike Peterloo despite what it’s about? The answer should be yes, regardless of how important it is. It is, after all, a film. A representation of a historical event and it should not pose as fact, but instead present Leigh’s perspective while entertaining us so that we want to go and discover more. After Peterloo that last thing an audience will want is to read more on Peterloo.

On First Man

Death is a constant feature throughout Damien Chazelle’s stunning follow up to La La Land (2016), First Man. Whether it is the actual act of dying or the constant threat of it arriving, death is as present as a shadow. From the killing of a fly that foreshadows near catastrophe, to the frequent phone calls that bring yet more news of pilots and astronauts killed in duty.

The film begins with us locked in a cockpit of a plane that is reaching the atmosphere. We don’t travel outside, instead we stay locked on the face of the pilot, Neil Armstrong; his reactions, his fear, his claustrophobia. The creaks and groans of the machine, the spinning dials are all closely focussed on. This is his world and we are to share it as this perspective sets the tone for the rest of the space travel. Rarely does Chazelle linger on the long shots, choosing instead the mechanics and realities of (as close as can be represented) the cockpit. The only time we see, in long shot detail, a rocket taking off is as Armstrong passes a small window.

What follows this opening slimmest of survivals is the domestic. The harsh and upsetting realities of a sick child. The death of a child and the heartbreak. This picture of domesticity, beginning in Texas is reminiscent of Terrence Malik’s free flowing camera; always watching, always moving, never interfering. Chazelle captures the details, such as the empty bed, the strand of hair wrapped around a finger and so much is said with hardly anything being spoken. There is much subtlety in these early scenes; they pack the same power as the later scenes of space exploration. And the two become intertwined. The more Armstrong absorbs himself in work, the more his domestic life suffers. The stresses of his job are shown to not just affect him, but the whole family.

It is the death of his daughter that hangs over Armstrong for the duration and again, here, Chazelle finds a way to approach this with respect, while developing his protagonist. His desire to reach the moon becoming the realisation of his inability to escape the pain and daily reminders. Only when he drops his daughter’s bracelet into a lunar crater does the film even get close to melodramatic, yet by this stage his closure is welcomed.

Themes of despair and death are prominent, but this is not a dark film, for there is as much hope and optimism in both the need to achieve the near impossible and the optimism of Janet Armstrong for repairing their family. There are few films that end at exactly the right moment, but First Man, with Neil and Janet on either sides of glass, unable to hear each other, touching fingers on either side is perfect. When this image is thought about alongside the one of a recent widow lost in her driveway as her son watches through the window, we can read First Man as an allegory for the merits of struggle.

There is also the excitement of and need for Nasa to succeed resonating through First Man. We want them to reach the moon whether we agree with space travel or not. The danger is so real and the tension so heightened within the cockpit scenes that just like Gravity (2013), our heartrate increases as the threat does. Objections at space travel are present and, like much in the film, handled in a manner that communicates a lot with the slightest of touches. The black poet discussing the diminishing quality of life as the white man soars, Kurt Vonnegut wondering why tax payers’ money is being spent reaching the moon while New York City is uninhabitable are effective reminders of the wider context that not everyone wanted them to succeed, despite millions being gripped. These are minor scenes in First Man, but neither is it the main concern. There is another story to be told in the merits, ethical and actual, of space travel.

And then there is the emotional and sublime moon landing. A stunning cinematic achievement.

On Hold the Dark

Jeremy Saulnier's new film, Hold the Dark, which is available on Netflix is bigger in ambition than he previous two features, Blue Ruin (2013) and Green Room (2015), which were set, respectively, in a small town and an isolated bar. Both these films were impressive exercises in restraint; they were relatively low budget and action was constrained often to small spaces, allowing Saulnier to display great skill in creating fear, tension and shocks in closed environments. This is especially true of Green Room, but much of Blue Ruin's suspense came in the small spaces of cars, houses, basements. These two films also clocked in around 90 minutes, whereas Hold The Dark just pushes the two hour mark. Bigger in size as well as ambition.

Hold the Dark (perhaps acting as an audition for Saulnier's directing work on the upcoming True Detective Season 3), focuses on ideas of cult and ritual. It is set in the Alaskan wilderness, making a point of saying that Anchorage does not count as real Alaska and includes a backstory that involves Fallujah in Iraq. Despite the intimacy of the story, its setting is vast. The cinematography is stunning, especially in Alaska where the landscape is shown to engulf the characters, whether they travel by foot or, in a beautiful piece of photography, plane.

Hold the Dark is a curious film. It seems to want to explore ancient mythologies of the wolf, but features the animal very little and makes little of threat the film suggests they are. These mythologies involve the manner in which certain members of this small community have adopted wolf like behaviour, although why is never made clear. Yet, there is plenty of killing, much of it graphic, in the name of the wolf and their way of life. In many ways it seems to do a disservice to the animal. If it is meant to be respectful, or reverent, which is the manner in which Jeffrey Wright's character seems to hold the animal, then this is unclear.

The central mystery focuses on the disappearance of a mother who has killed her son and blamed wolves, then brought in a wolf expert (Wright) on the lie she wants him to kill the wolf responsible, yet actually he is there to find the son's body. This threads of this never add up. Wright's wolf expertise seems to rest on a book he has written about killing a female wolf, but his expertise is never displayed. He mentions the direction once and that wolves at times eat their young, but that's it. His briefly glimpsed home contains images and paintings of wolves, and why he would want to kill another is the Alaskan outback is strange; his explanation that he wants to be near his Anchorage base daughter never sits as realistic. If, as he says, he does it to help with a mother's grief, why he sticks around after she brushes up to him, naked, in a terrifying wolf mask and makes him throttle her is anyone's guess. That is the true mystery here. He has no character to work with, just a presence that Wright brings with him and this is not enough. Yes, Wright did wonders with the contemplative, almost mute Bernard in Westworld (2016 -), but that doesn't mean he can fill in the gaping holes of his character here. There seems to be no reasonable explanation of why Wright's character actually exists.

The order of events, or the motivation for them is unclear and, this maybe acceptable for the characters who are meant to be mysterious, some explanation should in the end be offered. And it is not. That the body is stolen, buried and then dug up by the father returning from war begs the question why the mother and father, both believers in killing their young son, don't do it together, rather than create this whole murder/mystery unnecessarily. Simply, there are too many questions that make this not mysterious, but confusing.

Despite all of this, Hold the Dark is oddly watchable. The assumption that all of this is leading somewhere, not necessarily towards closure, but to some understanding, encourages one to stay with it. Plus, the atmosphere created early on is eerie and unsettling, but at the same time the landscape is beautiful. These contradictions are interesting. Saulnier clearly had in his head an ambition that he was aiming for with Hold the Dark and perhaps he can explain the strange and confusing motivations or narrative order. Unfortunately, for the rest of is, the end result is disappointing. 

On the Two Halves of A Star is Born

A Star is Born is a film of two halves. That may appear redundant or reductive to say where the theme is the rise of one musician and the fall of another and it comes in at a little over two hours. But, A Star is Born really is two different experiences, while remaining one very solid and consistent narrative.

The story is simple, but powerful. A musician at the height of his fame begins his downward spiral, thanks to drink and drugs, while the undiscovered singer/songwriter he discovered (and marries) flourishes into a Grammy award winning pop star. The star that she becomes is, like all stars, born under immense pressure and here that pressure comes from her husband’s disease that has very real implications for her own career.

The first hour of the film is exceptional. Utterly compelling, from the opening shots of Cooper’s Jackson Maine walking on stage to his meeting of Gaga’s Ally, which is perfectly delivered through an unusual song choice, setting the tone for their relationship. The film captures the early exhilaration of a new relationship and a possible new career with slight, but powerful touches. It is difficult not to feel twinges of excitement as these two are revitalised by each other. It is not melodramatic, but feels real and intimate and the direction is close without intruding. The film also has important things to say about fame and celebrity. By the time Maine pulls Ally on stage to surprise her with her own song, A Star is Born has you, emotionally. Then not long after, it spends the last hour pushing you away.

The story moves in the direction it should, this is not the problem. Ally becomes the singer/songwriter she always wanted, with Jackson’s support, but his fame has come at a price and he is ill. These are the struggles we want to see these two face. The issue is that the film doesn’t know how to capture what essentially becomes a very familiar and well told story, with any freshness. The second half becomes a slog. It is as if the film didn’t know how to make marriage and fame interesting, only the anticipation of both. Everything falls flat. And the decision to make Ally’s manager become a boo/hiss pantomime villain is odd and distracting. We spend too much time of the mechanics of her industry (performances, rehearsals) and not enough seeing them as people in their own lives, which are passing each other by. There are moments towards the end that show us what the film could have been. Ally visiting Jackson in rehab and his recognition in her and how own fear of saying it, that she might be thinking of moving on is very well handled.

Part of what makes the film so magnetic to begin with and watchable in second half are the two central performances which are, even when lumbered with tired scenes, fantastic. Cooper and Gaga are nothing less than believable and if the film regains any power in its ending it is only because of these two. Impossible to hate, but difficult to love.    

On Deadpool 2

What do we want from a sequel? Should it be a development of character from where we last left them, a new direction, a different film with the same people? Or is it bigger, louder, longer? The latter exhausting the platitude, if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Deadpool 2, certainly and unashamedly embraces the latter. This is a very similar film to the first, and structurally follows many the blockbuster formula. What it essentially gives us is more of what audiences enjoyed the first time round, but sadly with slightly less edge. That its protagonist is in on the joke, with the constant breaking of the forth wall, makes it slightly more interesting, but no less repetitive. It makes money and almost guarantees a third time round, where it will be even bigger, even louder and even longer, but with a 12a rating. To make sure it is even more profitable.

On Cold War

A Polish folk music film that becomes an episodic, torturous, damaging love story that at times feels like a 50s style news reel and at other the French new wave. Cold War is exceptional. Quietly powerful, quietly unsettling and completely mesmerising.  

The film begins in Poland, at the close of the WWII as a folk music troupe is created to tour the country and the continent spreading a bucolic message of Poland. Success brings attention and soon the powerful begin to influence the routines as images of Stalin and songs of Poland’s strengths are embedded into the rural folk songs of its people’s history. There is a dangerous authority at work behind the scenes.

From Poland we go on to see Berlin and Paris, the latter shot to feel electric, with doorways and window frames offering vistas onto the perpetually moving city. Through one window, while our piano player rests, a woman moves around her apartment across the courtyard. It all feels so real. It is all shot so beautifully, the whole film is crisp black and white, a 4:3 aspect ratio enhancing the sensation of the past, yet also closing in the film’s damaged lovers. Life explodes around them, yet there is no escape for either. And they are magnetic. Film stars in the sense that one cannot look away. Their transformations are significant, but evolve organically and the episodic nature of the narrative never detracts from our attachment to these two. In fact, in enhances it as questions are left unanswered, investing us further into this world.

Cold War does so much, so well in such a short space of time. It is simply stunning filmmaking.

On Isle of Dogs

Computer animation, in its most popular realisation, exemplified by Pixar, Dreamworks Animation or Blue Sky Studios, dominates the animated film category. These films, while not looking identical, share a look and a feel which is far more similar than say Toy Story 3 (2010) does with Morph (1977 -). In fact, TV aimed at children, especially that provided on CBBC and CBeebies offers more variety in aesthetic than cinema aimed at children does. It is not that computer animated cinema such as the Pixar films or Dreamworks Animation films are bad (Zootropolis (2016) for example, is a very good film), but they are repetitive in style and mise-en-scene.

This is why Isle of Dogs, Anderson’s second feature length animation after Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009) is such a welcome addition to the canon of films that feature children, are aimed at children, but have adult friendly elements. Isle of Dogs looks like no other mainstream kids film. Anderson’s trademark symmetry and wit are there, but the look, even more so than Fantastic Mr. Fox is superbly detailed and incredibly attractive. The level of detail here is phenomenal and contributes towards a level of complete immersion in this world that feels neither of the past, present or future, but of its own time and being. You would surely benefit from repeated viewings, but conversely, one viewing is very satisfying. It is an experience that is difficult to dislike. And, for a child, who has been brought up with a repetitive animated aesthetic, Isle of Dogs will feel like a unique viewing experience, without sacrificing humour, story or characters.

There have been charges of cultural appropriation aimed at it, but it doesn’t feel manipulative or disrespectful. It is a piece of work that is lovingly created and while it does draw on stereotypical images, there is care in how they are handled. There are few filmmakers who deal with issues of childhood (whether animated or not) with such respect and sensitivity and Isle of Dogs enriches the Anderson canon further in this direction.

On Avengers Infinity War

“The trouble with movies as a business is that it's an art, and the trouble with movies as art is that it's a business.” Wise words from Charlton Heston and for a long time a way of thinking which has held true. Isn’t this why actors from Redford to Clooney have operated with the ‘one for them, one for me’ philosophy? To balance their own artistic wants with the financial greed of the studio? Sure you can have Oceans 12 (2004), but I want you to fund Syriana (2005) … Everyone’s happy. Audiences can see fun, but forgettable films, yet there is also a space for smaller, more intelligent films to find a cinema audience.

Well, the issue Heston spoke about seems to have been solved by Marvel. Not in the sense that they have managed to create films to rival Bergman or Bresson (as Ethan Hawke recently pointed out), but that they’ve changed the game and turned mainstream film into a business. Art has simply been removed from the equation.

It is not that many of the Marvel films are bad films; they are well constructed pieces of work. But it is their sheer number and repetitive formula that reveals their business mind and starkly highlights their lack of an artistic one. There is no risk. It is all reward. And this is not what art is about, it is not what film is about. If no one took risks, then the world of cinema as we know it, from day one in 1895, would looking nothing like it does today.

Marvel are not shy about this. They hold conferences that mirror AGMs, where their output for the next decade is laid out for audiences investors to see. Where is the surprise? The areas for audiences to turn for surprising, risk taking mainstream cinema are becoming smaller and smaller. It would appear that audiences have bought into a formula, which is safe and predictable and that is now the majority.

To watch Avengers Infinity War is to find these issues squarely in your face. As a narrative, it plays out like the first half of most Marvel films, just on a much bigger scale. But, it’s not the size of your CGI budget, it’s what you do with it and here they do little that is creative. Yes, the CGI is impressive, but its execution is lazy. The USP of Infinity War – that your heroes will die – is handled with such crassness that even the ardent Marvel fan must, has to be, aware that they are being used purely for financial gain. To ‘kill’ off a handful of characters for who sequels have already been announced at the yearly AGM is disrespectful of an audience in the extreme.

This is not to say that summer blockbusters have not always been about money. Of course, when Jaws (1975) was released and the phenomenon born, ways to cash-in were instantly hatched. Yet Jaws, outside of its sequels, is inventive, risky cinema, whereas Iron Man (2008), the first of the Marvel MCU canon, reveals the same formula we are witnessing 10 years later. Star Wars (1977 -) is only some exception and there is an argument to be made that Marvel for today’s youth will be what Star Wars is to the youth of the 1980s. But the level of formulaic, risk free storytelling (narrative as an investment opportunity) is new and it is depressing. As is the disregard for audiences. Star Wars, as a franchise (even since being acquired by Disney, Marvel’s home) still maintains more of a sense of risk than any Marvel film. We’re never going to see a cliff-hanger like that which closes The Empire Strikes Back (1980), and have to wait for three years, but The Last Jedi (2017) showed their willingness to take risks with story and character. A risk not taken in the Marvel world.

That Infinity War will appear on most lists for best films of the year in mainstream film publications, where films such as First Reformed, Soldado or BlackkKlansman will be absent or lower down the list is a real shame.

Just because it isn’t broke (financially), doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be fixed (artistically).

On Sicario 2: Soldado

A sequel to the 2015 Sicario directed by Denis Villenueve, when announced, did not seem like a good idea. Instead it appeared a cash-in for one the more critically acclaimed films of that year. A natural progression to Sicario was not immediately obvious and the risk of tarnishing the first was too much of a risk. Plus, Emily Blunt, so effective in the first was not on board. Yet, all of this failed to take into account two things: a direct sequel was never planned, more a continuation of that murky, violent world, and secondly, Benicio Del Toro was involved.

Del Toro was, unsurprisingly, great in the first, using his physicality more than his words, plus his association with the genre goes back so far that he brings with him an authenticity to any border cartel film. The hint from the title that his character was moving from assassin to solider should have made this a more highly anticipated film.

For Soldado is great. It does not suffer from its association with the critical acclaim of the first. Instead it builds on the corruption and threat of that world and expands it in new directions, taking Del Toro and Brolin along with it. Without knowing and surely hoping not to be this relevant, the story (script writer Taylor Sheridan) of people trafficking and children being lost in the border wars turned out to be sadly on trend as the Trump administration carried out its most despicable act to date, separating children from parents as they entered America. This is not something you would wish to be realised, but the film benefits from it, becoming a searing account of the damage done by political wrangling behind the scenes.

Like its predecessor this is an intelligent action film, not attempting to race to the bottom for box office, Soldado treats its audiences like adults. There are no easy fixes here or immediate closure. There are moral grey areas and uncertain characters to contend with. Yet director, Sollima, coming off of Netflix’s Narcos (2015 -) finds great tenderness in the violence and corruption and handles it well. The scene where Del Toro and his teenage charge come across a deaf farmer is beautifully rich, and, in other hands, easily lachrymose, a tone not befitting of this world.  

Soldado is one of those sequels where, if it had come first, would be considered the better film purely on timing. As it is, this is a powerful expansion to a dangerous world and the hope is that the third, if there is one, manages the same.

On Mission: Impossible Fallout

The Mission: Impossible films have always fallen somewhere between Bond and Bourne, despite being around before the latter. They are globetrotting films with world ending bad guys and gadgets and stunts. Yet, Hunt has more about him than Bond; he isn’t as unlikable and there is something in him which, like Bourne, feels a little improvised and therefore more interesting.

Fallout is one of the best of the series. It’s bad guys and gadgets are better than we’ve seen in Bond for a while and the stunts show what can be done when you have scope and money. Bond has lacked both recently. Cruise shows why he owns the genre and the revolving supporting cast, with a few regulars, keeps it fresh. Fallout is entertaining from beginning to end.

On Jurassic World Fallen Kingdom

There is something about dinosaurs that fascinates at all ages. Perhaps their scale and ferocity and knowing that they did exist in our world makes them a curiosity more than say a fantasy, such as werewolves or orcs. Something has to explain the constant ability of the Jurassic Park series to generate such incredible box office receipts around the world. Especially when, in this case, the film is bad. Jurassic Park (1993) remains a great film, and the rest are watchable, but Fallen Kingdom is dull. Unable to evolve and break away from what is now a tired formula, the film suffers from too much of the same and hopes by being bigger with the CGI it can hide its flaws. It cannot. And that there is clearly another to come shows how this has become all about business and not, like the 1993 film, about magic anymore.

On The Post & Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Three Billboards is a meta film, the style of which McDonagh has made his trademark. It is a self-referential world that audiences appear to enjoy, a phenomenon Barthes spoke about decades ago in Mythologies, where he explored the idea that we take pleasure from knowing what is coming next as it provides a sense of safety. An unpredictable world makes audiences feel uncomfortable, unsure about what to expect from characters, which is why First Reformed is not a summer blockbuster and every Marvel film is.

We see this meta filmmaking in Three billboards’ characters who are both a part of the diegetic world as well as commenting on it, as if they occupy the position of audience too. As an example, McDormand’s patriarch screaming to her soon to be raped daughter, “I hope you get raped.” This creates an uncertain expectation of them. One where we assume they can see their fates yet also be surprised be the outcomes. Like all McDonagh’s films they reference their own selves as well as many others in a manner which fosters inconsistency. And because of this these characters are only sporadically interesting. Capable of, at times, powerful emotion and at others, broadly drawn stereotypical gestures which feel lazy and dumbed down. We get them and we don’t and too often is the mark missed for us to buy into the narrative fully. Yet the filmmaking is competent enough for individual scenes to carry great power and the overall effect is inexact filmmaking.

The balance of comedy and tragedy is often off, rendering scenes farcical. The cereal fight/knife/cry for example - with the bimbo stereotype thrown in for good confusion. There is genuine humour in the film (and genuine tragedy) but it comes from jokes that stand alone and aren’t character driven. Funny lines that are funny anywhere. It is sub-par Coen brothers. There is full commitment with the Coens, where characters are built into a reality that is then stretched to its extremes, but maintaining always, commitment to character. 

It isn’t that Three Billboards is bad, it is just too busy distracting us with some humour that is loud and bellowed but really says nothing. A film that does the opposite of this, and therefore received less press attention, but still awards recognition, is Spielberg’s The Post.

The Post works as a prequel to All the President’s Men (1976) and ends where Pakula’s classic begins. The newsroom is the same as are some of the characters and the world of political conspiracy remains unchanged. Unlike Three Billboards, The Post establishes its world and the characters that live in it and never deviates from it, creating the suspension of disbelief that is the mainstream filmmakers goal. The Post is solid storytelling end to end, it does not miss a beat and while it may be criticised for being scared to experiment or old fashioned, when placed next to a film like Three Billboards it helps reveal the latter’s flaws in character and story.

The Post will also serve as an early addition the canon of protest films about the Trump administration, taking aim at his attacks against the fourth estate, the press. There are many lines that, while not being anachronistic to the word created, are squarely aimed at Trump. Interestingly, Three Billboards may also find itself in the same canon as it attempts to address race in a post-President Trump world.

There is nothing really wrong with The Post and the added effect of Spielberg placing it against All the President’s Men feels respectful and not cheap and a fun nod to film lovers in the audience. To create a piece of work that is critical of contemporary issues, yet a period piece that references and enriches a classic of the conspiracy genre is a sign that Spielberg remains a class above many filmmakers today.

On BlackkKlansman

Spike Lee’s BlackkKlansman ends with footage from Charlottesville, where anti-Semitic, white supremacists, echoing chants and rituals of the KKK clashed with anti-fascist protesters in the streets. Included in this footage is the devastating, but important sight of a car running into the anti-fascist protesters. An act which we know killed Heather Heyer and resulted in Donald Trump labelling both sides as bad. This is moving footage, especially when Heyer’s name appears on screen. It is even more moving when anchored by the preceding two hours.

BlackkKlansman is a protest film. A film taking broad and unsubtle swipes at the Trump administration and the racist organisations that support him, including David Duke and the resurgent KKK. Lee has never been subtle in his career, but this doesn’t mean he isn’t brilliant, or masterful. BlackkKlansman is replete with his trademark style; he is here to entertain, but also to educate and the lecture style delivery and symmetrical framing alongside the isolated faces of those listening is again, recreated powerfully, especially with the inclusion of activist and performer Harry Belafonte. Whether you’ve heard it before or not, Lee’s dialogue and the performances here are not to be overlooked. And, anyone who is a fan of Lee’s work will delight in hearing the familiar Blanchard score and struggle to suppress their enjoyment from the dolly shot towards the end, here carried off with more weight than we have seen recently.

Within his script Lee finds the space to address issues of passing, therefore addressing the responsibility we have to fighting these evils. Washington’s character talks of light skinned black people passing as white and Driver’s Jewish office, Flip, admits to passing his life as non-Jewish, a reality he can no longer ignore. Is this a challenge for us all to wake up to a very real and present evil? It’s inclusion in the film is certainly one that raises further questions. Racial passing is a sensitive topic, and whereas a novel like Philip Roth’s The Human Stain (2000) can explore it in intricate detail, Lee places it carefully into BlackkKlansman, at a quiet moment, allowing its connections to slavery and antebellum America to sit there, waiting to be explored further, drawing a line from then to now.

Lee expertly manages the humour in the film, allowing us to laugh, rightly so, at some of the KKK figures without ever forgetting their very real danger. And this is why the news footage at the end is so powerful. For two hours we’ve laughed at some of the incompetency’s of the KKK as well as been shocked by their violence and rhetoric towards black and Jewish people and moved by the historical accounts of lynching and violence against black people. Yet, the film has been rooted in the safety of the 1970s. A fact Lee is very aware of. This may be a protest film. It may be a clear criticism of the Trump ideologies, but it doesn’t look or feel like now and there runs the risk of becoming only a ‘film’. The footage at the end does not allow this to happen. It takes the preceding two hours and injects it into the zeitgeist. It warns us against viewing this as historic only. It reminds that while we may have been entertained, this is real and it is happening again.

BlackkKlansman is the work of a filmmaker who has lost none of his energy or his anger. This should not be surprising. Lee’s work may have been absent from mainstream cinemas, but it is out there and it remains relevant. His Netflix show She’s Gotta Have It (2017) was inventive and felt so much of the time that you questioned how he could have made something so quickly that felt so pertinent to questions of gender. BlackkKlansman is impressive in the same way. There may be the occasional narrative misstep, or questions of accuracy with the reality, but Lee achieves what he set out to. A ‘fuck you’ to Trump and Duke and all those that support him as well as a vital reminder of what is happening in America today.

On You Were Never Really Here

Lynne Ramsey’s forth feature is a violent, predominately aural experience with a powerful, close to silent performance by Joaquin Phoenix. The underlying theme is one of child abuse and the devastating affects this can have in later life. Phoenix’s Joe is, it is loosely hinted, a veteran of recent wars who has, indirectly caused the death of a young civilian. More vivid is the abuse Joe suffered as a child, disturbingly shown via the hands of his father, faceless but sadistic. These are the reasons for his current adult state; a hired gun who has found a niche brutally killing the abusers of children. The repeated sounds of a child counting connect Joe with Nina, a young girl he saves once from the hands of a paedophilic ring of government officials. When he comes to save her again he finds his own trauma of child abuse writ in the actions of this young girl who has herself become a violent murderer, albeit of those most deserving of death. Here, abused children become damaged adults. It is those who Joe kills (child abusers) and how he kills (with a hammer, the same tool used on him as a child) that prevents his actions from becoming unconscionable.

Although Ramsey’s film is wrought with violence that is overtly aggressive, we see very little in detail. It is the use of sound which makes this both an uncomfortable and dream like experience. Joe’s mental damage is highlighted through the layering of voices and the exaggerated background noises that intrude upon the audience and Joe’s thoughts. At other times the music is hypnotic and peaceful. It is on this latter theme that You Were Never Really Here ends. A note of hope as Nina and Joe, fresh from drinking milkshakes and a vision of suicide (another repeated image) decide it is a beautiful day.

On Annihilation

Alex Garland has been quick to express his disappointment that his latest film, Annihilation did not, in the UK, receive a cinematic release, but instead ended up on Netflix. His dissatisfaction is understandable as it is a visually impressive piece of work, but at the same time, he is working at a time when the industry is being turned upside down. Netflix are now at the table and able to compete for all titles. What has happened to Annihilation is a downside of this, but the content they produce themselves, that may not be made elsewhere, is the obvious upside.

Annihilation is haunting. Dreamlike. Hard to forget. It could be said to be within the science fiction or fantasy genre, but its approach and execution feel fresh and it would be hard to place it in either canon. Not too unlike Arrival (2016). It is a smart film, with a script that demands attention and pays it back with an ending that is unpredictable, subtle and tender, with just a hint of danger. A truly outstanding piece of work.

On Black Panther

It is not uncommon to find the villain of a piece more entertaining than the good guy. Actors have repeatedly said that villains are more fun to play as it allows them to tap into emotions and actions that would be impossible to imagine in everyday life. It is in this area where Black Panther both succeeds and fails.

The villain of the piece is Erik Killmonger, a terrible name that serves to demonise him as a reason to justify his death for justification is not found in his character. For unlike say, Batman and the Joker, the latter being more entertaining to watch, but morally corrupt and unquestionably unable to carry on, Erik is Black Panther's moral superior. He represents the struggle of black people from slavery through to the Los Angeles ghetto. He has lost his father, a man who wished to usurp the Wakanda monarchy and been punished for actions that weren't his. He has been raised by the state and fell into the army, where killing has given him life; it should be his film. Rather the film belongs to a wealthy, spoiled king in waiting who, with every disposable advantage helps others only if it helps himself. His is James Bond with a panther suit.

Of course it is good to see Marvel take their films into Africa and promote an image of heroism that has for too long dominated. But, there was a real possibility here to create a film that was radical and challenging to the American hegemony. There are scenes here which haven't been seen in the genre before, but all too many that have and Black Panther becomes the blue print that all other Marvel films fit to.

It is telling that Black Panther is absent from the film for a significant amount of time without the narrative suffering; he is a boring character. In Erik the film has created an interesting characters to try and explore the lives of young, black men in America. It is a shame that the film must ghettoise him to an extreme, and demonise his killings while serving in the army just to try and force moral corruptness on to him. And, let us not even get started on the heroism of the white, CIA agent, a member of an organisation that has sought to create instability in the continent for decades.

A missed opportunity.

Reflections on Breakfast at Tiffany's

This 1961 film directed by Blake Edwards and starring Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard feels at once incredibly modern and out of touch to contemporary eyes. The Mickey Rooney character is flagrantly racist and that his Japanese character adds little to the narrative, with his ethnicity being irrelevant makes the decision to cast the white actor even more uncomfortable. Sadly this is an issue Hollywood still struggles with. Claims of whitewashing were levelled at Matt Damon and the makers of The Great Wall (2016) and Ed Skrein resigned his role from the upcoming Hellboy for being cast in an Asian role. 

Much of Tiffany's is about identity, or the loss of it. Names become interchangeable, initialed, not given or lost entirely as the self appointed Holly Golightly searches for her place in a world that doesn't know what to do with her. As a representation of women, the character of Golightly feels free today and must have been a rarity in the 60s; she is unpredictable, constantly in flux, unwilling to accept being pigeonholed and chameleon like in her approach to survival; whether it is visiting a convict for money or preparing to be royalty in Brazil.

Yet, her happiness is rooted to a man. Perhaps even her survival. She is unwilling to be caged and therefore marriage must be on her terms. She is either unable or unwilling to secure a man who will challenge and dominate her and her story concludes by accepting the passive man, the man who has been dominated by women before and offers himself up as her second. In this we can see echoes of Emma Stone's character in La La Land (2015). A complicated character, unwilling to sacrifice any control in a relationship, instead choosing a marriage of convenience for her. 

It is undeniably a stylish film, a fun film and has something to say about gender roles in a decade that is defined by its contribution to feminist thinking. 

On Downsizing

​It is difficult to disagree with the message that Downsizing so precisely presents. One that we are slowly, but surely exhausting the earth's natural resources while contributing waste at an exponential rate. The combination of both requiring drastic solutions. This is where we find Downsizing early on, at a scientific conference where the drastic solution is being presented. There is much humour in this first third as it focuses on the process of downsizing, or getting small, and the level of detail that the writers have gone to in considering how such a procedure might be made realistic is impressive.  

As the film progresses and the humour moves aside for a closer examination of human responsibility, Downsizing explores some very interesting questions and seeks, in its detail, at times a scientific seeming script to provide answers. Regardless of the impossibility of the technology, the script, like many episodes of Black Mirror (2011 - ), feels well researched. This detail at times also bogs the film down in the actual, rather than taking more interesting or adventurous paths into the fantastical. Not that the film should attempt to be less realistic, especially after the work has been put in to root the film in a realistic base, but once it establishes its protagonist's journey, it sticks closely to this and, as a result, feels a little too long and predictable. 

Where a more interesting narrative thread may have taken the film is in the brief mention of the inevitable exploitation of the technology. The social inequality that exists in Leisure World (the premier small city) is an apt and important comment for the context of the film, but one we've seen before, even in Matt Damon's canon with 2013's Elysium. Early on, the film briefly touches on the technology being used by governments to punish, with a Vietnamese dissident becoming a character that reflects, but never really explores this. Moving further down such a path may have provided a more interesting narrative, where crime and race could have been addressed alongside the main message of environmental damage, which is set up so well at the start that it doesn't have to be addressed again.

There is a technology here that could lead to a darker tale, and a darker film that would benefit from the hands of a Charlie Brooker or José Saramago. Payne has taken the option of creating a safer, less critical film. One that is kinder on humanity than perhaps we deserve.