On the Tarantino Universe with The Hateful Eight

It was said somewhere, by someone that the universe Tarantino creates for his characters is such a specific one that the characters within his films are the only people who would enjoy his films. This is a loose argument, but has some truth in it, in as much as his films, regardless of time and location, display an interconnectedness most easily found in his creations. You can easily imagine any character from any film showing up across any of Tarantino’s eight-film canon. And this is very much a determined move by Tarantino and one that he takes pleasure from. Madsen’s character from Reservoir Dogs (1992) is cousin to Travolta’s from Pulp Fiction (1994). There is no narrative function for this connection; it is purely a link for the fans, something fun for those that wish to look. For a time this universe was contemporary and reached its zenith with Pulp Fiction, a masterpiece of America cinema, then with Kill Bill Vol. 1 (2003) he veered off in a more fantastical direction that has, in his last three films, evolved into historical epics that take place in abstract extensions of the Tarantino universe, where Vincent Vega could stroll into Minnie’s Haberdashery of The Hateful Eight in post civil war Wyoming. Utterly inconceivable, but then so is much of Tarantino’s later work.

A who-done-it western, The Hateful Eight plays out like an Agatha Christie play where we are invited to guess the motives and find the killer. Who done it and why turns out to be not that interesting, although some of the getting there along the way is enjoyable. What The Hateful Eight is trying to say is more of a mystery. The final chapter, titled Black Man, White Hell is suggestive of a commentary on contemporary America and there is certainly some exploration of racial and sexual hierarchy with a black, Mexican and female character amongst those battling for control. Constant references to Lincoln bring a subtext of slavery too, but then all characters are irredeemable if we are to believe their back-stories, making the message hard to find. However, as has been a growing feature, these characters are increasingly cartoonish – no longer full of personality as in his early films, but crudely drawn cartoons. As the characters have become increasingly less interesting, the violence belongs more and more to animation and as in Django Unchained (2012) heads explode as everyone dies in a sea of blood. There are parts of The Hateful Eight, which are fun, but you can’t help leaving wondering what the point was.

The Hateful Eight is a stunning looking film. Tarantino’s decision to shoot in Ultra Panavision 70 is ideally suited to his landscape and interior. The very wide lens provides a real sense of the Wyoming countryside and allows the characters to move around the inside of the Haberdashery as if it were a stage. We see everyone, all the time, like a theatre and this staging is the most impressive feature of this film. The other is the use of light. Whether coming over the snow capped mountains in shades of orange and yellow or breaking through the greasy windows and gaps in the building, it is a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, at close to three hours, it is simply too long to just watch the light.

On the Magic of Star Wars The Force Awakens

The uncertain fate of Luke Skywalker hangs over Star Wars The Force Awakens; we know he is alive, but in a narrative where familial destinies are key, the impact of Darth Vader looms large over the once famed Jedi. Cyclical narratives are at play here as director J J Abrams and writer Lawrence Kasdan weave themes of nature battling nurture into episode seven of the Star Wars saga. New characters appear to take on familiar characteristics, only to be taken in new directions, further evidence of Abrams making his film, whilst remaining respectful to the original trilogy. Mid way through, when Solo and fellow resistance fighters visit Maz Kantana, she tells the aged smuggler "you need to get back in this fight". The "fight", we learn, is the oldest fight ever to take place, that between light and dark and in one of the best creations of the whole saga, Kylo Ren, we witness the struggle between light, dark, nature and nurture. The Force Awakens has genuine humanity behind the battle and Ren's heartbreaking dilemma illustrates the power of Abrams and Kasdan's storytelling ability. 

It was never a risk, passing over the adored Star Wars franchise to J J Abrams, and here he intertwines characters from the original trilogy with new ones so seamlessly it appears effortless. To please all the people all the time is an impossibility, but Abrams may have come as close as possible with The Force Awakens. It surpasses expectations, at once being everything that is loved from episodes four, five and six and still feeling fresh. Yes, it borrows heavily from A New Hope's (1977) narrative, but that fits in with the cyclical nature of good and evil that is being explored here. It feels like there has been developed consideration about how the world we left at the end of Return of the Jedi (1983) would have transformed in the thirty years since we were last there. Therefore, we find an Empire that has come back, as evil so often does, more violent, more brutal and more determined than that of Vader and the Emperor. This is made extremely clear early on when Ren orders the slaughter of innocent villagers. The rebels, calling themselves the resistance (appropriate against the Nazi influenced First Order) are being driven underground and remain plucky despite being outmanned and outgunned. This is a stand alone Star Wars film, but familiarity with the original trilogy allows for a far deeper reading. 

Not only are there thematic influences, The Force Awakens also looks like the original trilogy. The Lucas screen swipes are present and rather than the unreal worlds and polished to perfection chrome of episodes one, two and three, Abrams has kept to actual, tangible locations as much as possible. We never felt that the environment of Revenge of the Sith (2005) was anything but a computer creation, yet Jakku has the dust in the nostrils feel of Tatooine and we can almost feel the sea air of Skywalker's retreat. Where the film departs from the look of the originals, it does so only as an advantage. With advances in technology, we are able to get more out of the battles as the camera follows x-wings in their fight, sweeping through explosions or skimming across the water. It is a smooth and subtle integration of technology. 

It isn't just the aesthetics of episodes one, two and three are ignored here, gone are the senate trade agreements, the choreographed battles and the convoluted plot lines. Abrams takes us back to a simple light versus dark story with an intelligent subtext. For fans of the original trilogy The Force Awakens is the film they have been waiting for and for new audiences, Abrams is likely to have created the same magic. More than just relief at this not being more of episodes one, two or three, The Force Awakens is great cinema. That it happens to expand the Star Wars universe is even better. 

On the Success of Bond with Spectre

Like many James Bond films, Spectre is fantastical and this one feels very much rooted in the tradition of those considered to be camp. The implausibly well dressed Bond and his latest female sidekick/victim emerge from a near death experience, still in perfect attire only to decide that having sex is the best next step. For reasons like this, and many others, Spectre is entirely unbelievable, which inevitably leads to a complete lack of threat.

What is more frustrating about Spectre is that like all the Daniel Craig Bond films it has ambitions of being weighty and is seemingly unaware of its own nonsense. Skyfall (2012) was the same, but at least it looked fantastic, being photographed by Roger Deakins. Spectre has no such luck and returns to the old Bond tradition of looking flat. Spectre has allusions of being a commentary on a post-Snowden landscape, which it achieves through horribly obvious dialogue, ‘democracy is dead!’, ‘we can see everyone.’ What Snowden revealed and sacrificed deserves more respect that being whittled down to one-liners.

Yet this reveals something interesting about recent Bond films. Skyfall used the narrative trickery of The Dark Knight (2008) to provide its key threat and Spectre looks to another simplification of the surveillance state in Captain America: The Winter Solider (2014) to ground its barely hung together narrative. Going back to Casino Royale (2006) we saw Bond respond to the threat of the Bourne films by being more aggressive and quicker in editing. Now, they are responding to the superhero juggernaut. Not only borrowing narrative techniques, but also essentially turning Bond into a Captain America figure. A man with preter-human abilities, incapable of injury. 

It can in fact be argued that the success of Bond is nothing more than an excellent marketing strategy and clever casting. The acting, as much as the dialogue allows in Spectre, is good. The marketing behind this, and every Bond film, is superb. They become events that transcend the cinema, invading advertising across all genre of product and generating innumerable print articles and TV adverts. We are tricked into believing that Bond matters because of the propaganda that surrounds it. In reality these are average films. Average for the genre and less than average for what British cinema is producing on a fairly regular basis. If only Bond had fought all his natural instincts and killed his arch enemy at the end we could all be spared more of this utter nonsense.

On The Program

In 2013, Stephen Frears directed Philomena, the story of a journalist telling the story of a unique individual. Philomena was superb in all areas. Two years later, Frears has a film about a unique individual whose story a journalist is telling. Yet, The Program is not superb, it is clumsy and uncertain about the story it wants to tell.

Perhaps the story of Lance Armstrong’s huge deception is too fresh and too well known for a film to really offer any insight. Whereas the story offered in Philomena was more intimate as well as being relevant to a larger number of people. In Armstrong there is an unapologetic millionaire banned from racing his bike. The threat is simply not that high and Armstrong not that interesting on his own. That is why Frears’s choice to limit the journalist’s role is a strange one it is in these investigative scenes where The Program comes to life a little.

There is great deal of actual footage in this 100-minute film that tries to cover Armstrong’s entire professional career, making the task even harder and ultimately one that is not achieved. The found footage, presumably included to make us believe this version of events, is a waste – Armstrong admitted the deception and what the film depicts is what he admits to having occurred. This isn’t JFK (1991). Found footage is further wasted as what we want from a Lance Armstrong film is what we haven’t seen.

Ben Foster as Lance Armstrong has most of the screen time and it is a strong performance that deserves a better film in which to shine. Unfortunately, here, he doesn’t have it. The Program is a weak film from a usually reliable director.

On The Lobster

As unusual cinema goes, The Lobster is reaching the top of the scale. Like Spike Jonze’s Her (2013), The Lobster imagines a future that goes beyond online dating. Here, that future is a point where single life is illegal and should it happen you have two options: go on the run with outlaws who impose the single life, or become resident at a hotel where you have 45 days to find a partner, or get turned into an animal of your choosing. What else explains why there are so many cats and dogs?

The rest is best left to discover, as The Lobster is full of subtle treats and slapstick comedy. The social commentary is at times sharp, reasoning on the future of relationships where we reduce ourselves to hobbies and interests online. This impersonal approach is reflected in the deadpan delivery from all the actors, commenting on how they are nothing more than their shared interests, such as both being short sighted.

The Lobster can be split into two halves: what happens in the hotel and what happens outside. The first half is regularly very funny and works very nicely. The mise en scene is controlled and mirrors the story and the narrative feels like it knows where it is going. The second half is more fragmented, either losing its focus, or purposely choosing more abstract ideas that miss more than they hit. There remain some strong ideas and incisive comedy, but it takes a darker turn without coming up high again, leaving an audience wanting, especially after the levity of the hotel scenes. Sure, the subtext is always dark, but striking a balance is important.

Despite the weaker second half, there is enough ingenuity and humour in The Lobster as well as originality in what is becoming an increasing homogenous multiplex to make it worth paying for.

On Imposing Men in Sicario and Macbeth

Towards the end of Denis Villeneuve’s brilliant cartel drama Sicario, Benicio Del Toro’s assassin tells the no longer blinkered Emily Blunt, “You should move to a small town. You won’t survive here. You’re not a wolf. This is the land of wolves now.” Just as Villeneuve’s earlier Prisoners (2013) debated torture, here the drug wars become figurative of America’s growing greed and selfishness.

This is a quietly threatening film with little dialogue and low grumbling music that at times cuts off highlighting real intensity. At the heart of this intensity is Del Toro, who emerges as the film’s catalyst mid way through. The threat of his character is communicated through the manner in which Del Toro uses his physique. Whether moving lighting and quietly, or imposing his weight in close proximity, Del Toro becomes the white shark, solitary and deadly, in the ocean of fragmented cartels.

Viewed alongside Prisoners and Incendies (2010), Villeneuve has created a triptych of political thrillers and the hope is that being brought into the Bladerunner brand under another director’s ownership doesn’t stymie his individuality. Sicario is a superbly crafter thriller, powerful without shouting about it. Features that its Mexican assassin carries in bounds.

A character that proves equally as dangerous, but far easier to spot is Macbeth in Justin Kurzel’s Shakespeare adaptation. As Macbeth Michael Fassbender’s demise into mental illness, pushed further on by Cotillard’s Lady Macbeth is terrifying. As his paranoia builds, so does the danger. Unlike Del Toro’s subtle threat, Fassbender projects his threat, most clearly seen when he burns Macduff’s family in a scene uncomfortable and pivotal in his unravelling.

Kurzel’s Macbeth is beautiful and brutal and highlights how the unaccustomed Shakespeare ear adjusts to the language. Yet, the language becomes second how Macbeth communicates, as Fassbender’s performance is so full of emotion that the raw passion comes through in how he owns the frame. Whether stood in isolation or swinging a sword in the centre of the frame, Fassbender carries Macbeth from start to finish. Although it helps that he is surrounded by powerful performances that react to and inspire his obsession.

These two performances go beyond stereotypical representations of masculinity. Sicario’s female lead is about 95% gender neutral, suggesting the film would be little different should Emily Blunt’s character be male. A refreshing approach. In both Del Toro’s assassin and Fassbender’s Macbeth there is depth. They are realistically drawn portrayals of loss and rage and where one keeps it locked inside, the other cannot.

On the procedures of space abandonment in The Martian

The Martian may be the first mainstream sci-fi comedy since Mars Attacks (1996). This film, of policies, protocols and procedures takes a light-hearted look at abandonment in space. Sure, there are moments of emotion and tension, but the end is never in doubt.

The Martian becomes a strange mix of realism and fantasy. Like Soderbergh’s Contagion (2011) Scott’s The Martian offers what appears to be a realistic unravelling of the complications (political and scientific) of rescuing a man trapped on Mars. Unlike Contagion, this realism is shattered by frequent moments of comedy. Matt Damon’s stranded astronaut doesn’t suffer the mental torment of being isolated, but instead proves something of a stand up comic, entertaining Nasa and us. The disco soundtrack is a continual reminder that nothing bad will happen, removing any real sense of risk.

The acting is solid and when there is emotion or tension it is down to the cast, not the writing or the broadly drawn scientific stereotypes that painfully explain science using staplers and salt and pepper in what is reminiscent of every sci-fi film ever. The ending feels lifted from the opening of Gravity (2013), but without the stress.

A cynic might say that The Martian is a recruitment film for Nasa and a softener so that the American public don’t complain when plans to colonise Mars are suggested by a not to far away president. Why not go? It seems fun. Whatever it is, The Martian is fun, but forgettable.