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.