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.